-5-

Elise put the pay phone receiver down and walked casually back to the SUV parked at the side of the old station. She rooted around in the glove compartment and came up with a thick permanent marker. In back and front she performed some simple alterations to the license plates – a K became an R, a C became a G, a 4 became a 9. It might foil a computerized webcam-image search.

She drove through a fast-food place, a one-off frosty-freeze that didn’t have any security cameras as far as she could see. A couple thousand more calories went into her gullet, helping to rebuild her torn flesh.

Driving away, she wended slowly southward toward the rendezvous, thinking, trying to formulate a plan. I have to find a way to give it to him, she thought. It will improve his mental state, the PTSD his file talked about, and fix his lingering injuries. The trick will be passing it without him freaking out.

Then the two of us will have it instead of just me.

Thoughts of the treatment filled her mind. With her two female chimps, Bobo and Mandy, as soon as they both had the same strain they became inseparable, like littermates, though they were unrelated. She wondered whether it would work the same way – did the virus somehow connect people in proportional proximity? That is, were those who passed it directly more likely to form bonds with the recipient? If so, did she want to be bonded to Daniel Markis? Or him to her?

But what choice do I have? Needs must when the Devil drives. She laughed at herself. Or the Eden.

Arriving at the Iron Saddle early, she parked on the side and went in. Out of place in her business casual, most of the looks she drew were nevertheless appreciative, not hostile – except for a few of the biker chicks. One slugged her man in the gut for looking and he laughed, spinning her around and slapping her on the butt.

Taking a seat at the bar, she shot a pleading look at the leather-clad bearded bartender. He had kind eyes.

Coming over promptly but politely, leaning in close he said, “You all right?” He spoke just loud enough to hear over the hubbub.

“Maybe. Not really my crowd, but I’m meeting a friend. Give me a diet Coke and keep these hound dogs off, will you?” Already she could see them lining up to make their passes.

He nodded, said “Play along, then.” As soon as he saw she understood, he pecked her on the lips and winked.

Her face tickled with the brush of his beard. This should keep them off me for a while. How quickly I play the whore…I almost wish I really could. Haven’t been with a man in years. The smell of him excited her in spite of herself and she shrugged away, blinking. Damn. They’re right about that near-death arousal. But I’ll do just about anything right now to get away from the Company. Even kiss a few frogs in search of my prince. “Having a good night, sweetie?” she asked loudly.

The bartender nodded, “Yeah, pretty good.” He shot a couple of bikers a glare and they backed off. Then he smiled knowingly at her and went back to his bartending. Probably he thought he’d just gone to the head of the pass line.

She thanked him with her eyes, then checked her watch. Five till. Looked around, hoping Daniel would show up early. Hoping they’d have a chance, make a chance, to get away. It was a fantasy, to escape with her chosen white knight.

She’d subtly steered Jenkins toward Daniel Markis. Unlike all the other spec-ops files they’d looked at, Markis wasn’t a killer by trade, but instead a healer, a combat lifesaver. Hopefully that will make him different. Maybe just different enough.

Checking her watch again, she turned to look out the front window. Neon beer and motorcycle brand names obscured her view but the big man in the dark suit was clear enough, as was his weapon.

He burst through the front door, high-tech blunderbuss in hand, but by that time she was off the bar stool and scurrying for the back door. Chaos erupted behind her.

***

Daniel passed the Marine Corps museum in the early dark, the blazing spire on the roof reminiscent of the flag-raising on Iwo Jima. His grandfather had been there; Gunnery Sergeant Donald James Markis, USMC. He suppressed a strong impulse to turn into the parking lot, to put off this rendezvous for as long as he could. Driving south on US-1 through the cold quiet in his familiar musty van, time seemed suspended for a little while.

He wished he had a cigarette. Since he didn’t, he tortured himself with imagination by thinking of the last time he’d smoked one: with Gramps as he was dying of emphysema in hospice. Daniel had helped him out of the oxygen rig and onto the balcony, to suck down one last forbidden coffin nail before they said good night.

I should have said goodbye. And this healing thing could have saved him. Eyes tearing, he squeezed them with thumb and forefinger. Goodbye, Gramps. Maybe I’ll see you soon.

Realizing he hardly cared at this point, he didn’t think he had much to live for. With his messed up brain and his messed up life, he barely held onto his job, trying desperately to keep up with even the light workload they gave him. Hanging out with the other retired disabled veterans, their green and maroon and black berets and tabs and coins set in their sterile cubes and offices, they were all just marking time, milking their security clearances for a few more bucks. Staring at his own beret perched on the shelf above his computer screen, the Pararescue flash with its guardian angel, cradling the world in her arms, a symbol of what he was and never would be again. Reminiscing war stories. Trying to keep his hand in.

Trying to starve the serpent.

Trying to look himself in the mirror every morning, knowing he was useless. They wouldn’t let him put his hands on a patient, wouldn’t let him practice his medical craft. He couldn’t even drive an ambulance, much less work trauma, for fear of his PTSD. Just push papers. Be a consultant.

A man who can’t do his job isn’t a man.

But he had done the job today. He had taken a shooter down like the pro he used to be, and if Elise had been human – normal? – he could have patched her up too, if he hadn’t killed her. Only he hadn’t killed her, he’d killed the suit, and Daniel couldn’t patch him up from dead.

His stomach clenched. No excuse for that murder. He’d crossed the line from watchdog to wolf, and bitten the hand that fed him, no matter how much that hand stank. He’d murdered a duly appointed representative of the United States government.

They never forget that. They will never let me rest.

He could imagine what his father would say. Come on, Dan, pull your head out. You have a vehicle, you have an ally, you have a mission – and you have resources as yet untapped. Stick and rudder, boy. Take control and fly.

Now all he needed was to care. That was the hard part.

The Iron Saddle came up on his right, a big parking lot filled with bikes surrounding a faux-Western building with an enormous roof extension to the front, providing a covered space. Even tonight, temperature in the forties and a bit of a breeze, there were ten or twenty bikers and their old ladies outside, under the roof or sitting on the bikes, knocking back a few. Most of them would be inside, though it shouldn’t be too busy on a Wednesday night.

Steering the van sharply to the right, he drove around the building, parking nose-out in the left rear corner under a hanging tree limb. Easy to see out of, hard to be seen. Sitting there for a moment, he checked the dive watch on his wrist. 300M, it said to him, and 18:56. Four minutes to seven. Close enough, and better to be early than late.

Using the time to settle his pistol in a belly holster and thread the magazine holder onto his belt, he then got out, crossed the parking lot warily toward the back door. Ritalin still sang in his veins, though he knew it wouldn’t last.