When the Wind Blows Page 9

  And wonder of wonders—Frannie O’Neill finally gave him a smile.

  It was almost worth the wait.

  Chapter 33

  YAHOO, MOUNTAIN DEW!”

  Max was flying again. She couldn’t resist the fluffy clouds, the high-pitched whistle of the wind, the perfect, deep blue skies over the Rockies. Who could? She drifted calmly, effortlessly, as she surveyed a lake below, the wooded slopes of surrounding ridges.

  The slate-black surface of the lake drew her closer. She could see thermal inversions rising off the water. Her teacher, her friend, Mrs. Beattie, had told her about wind currents, and how hot and cold affected flight. Max still retained all the information; that was one of her gifts.

  Her wingspan cast an elongated shadow on the dark treetops below. Max watched the shadow, raced with it. She reached out, then ahead, then back, as if she were rowing. She flew faster and faster over the curved rim of the earth.

  Mrs. Beattie, she thought. The School, her old home.

  She could remember it vividly, only mostly she didn’t want to. She couldn’t help remembering, though—especially the worst things, and there were so many of them to choose from.

  Early one morning, Mrs. Beattie had come to the small dormitory where she and Matthew slept. Mrs. Beattie had been their teacher for three years. Before Mrs. Beattie, there had been nannies, and other tutors; but they had changed all the time. None of them had showed very much love or caring. It wasn’t allowed at the School. Just science, work, discipline, testing, testing, testing.

  “Max… Matthew,” Mrs. Beattie had whispered. Max was awake instantly, even before her teacher was at her bedside.

  “We’re awake,” Matthew squawked. “We heard you coming.”

  “Of course you did, dear. Now listen to me. Don’t speak until I’ve finished.”

  It was something bad—Max could tell it was. Neither she nor Matthew said a word.

  “Sometimes bad things happen to good people,” Mrs. Beattie whispered. Besides being a teacher, she was a doctor. She administered exams, especially the ones to test intelligence—Stanford-Binet, WPPSI-R, WISC III, the Beery Tests, Act III, all the rest.

  “They’re going to put us to sleep, kill us, right? We’ve been expecting it.” Matthew couldn’t keep quiet for too long.

  “No, dear. You’re both very special. You’re miracle children. You don’t have to worry. But darlings, little Adam was put to sleep last night. I’m so sorry to have to tell you.”

  “Oh, no, not Adam! Not Adam!” Matthew moaned.

  He and Max hugged Mrs. Beattie tightly and they couldn’t stop weeping, couldn’t stop shivering. Adam was only a little baby. He had the most beautiful blue eyes, and he was so smart.

  “I have to leave now, dear. I didn’t want you to hear this from Mr. Thomas. I love you, Max. Love you, Matthew.” She hugged them close to her. “Don’t think badly of me.”

  Soon after that, Mrs. Beattie was gone, too. One day, she just never came back to the School. They never saw or heard from her again. Max was sure she had been put to sleep.

  Max suddenly realized that she was flying too fast and without looking where she was going. The memory of the School had upset her.

  She changed direction and went into a steep climb toward the sun. Its brilliance shattered her vision, a blizzard of multicolored shades. Blinded, Max kept climbing, drawing in air that grew cooler and thinner in her lungs.

  Finally, when she couldn’t stand it for a second more, she looped the loop. Then she went into a nosedive.

  She fell straight toward the shimmering blue water of the lake.

  Her wings felt glued to her sides. The air roared in her ears. Her lungs burned. She hit the water at a perfect angle.

  Splashdown!

  Unbelievable!

  God, how she loved to fly.

  Chapter 34

  HARDING THOMAS stopped for coffee and a sugar hit at the Quik Stop in Bear Bluff. “Coffee, black as my heart,” he said to the counter clerk.

  That was when he overheard the big-eyed, red-headed kids babbling to their mother near the freezer full of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.

  Thomas wasn’t really listening to the kids as he was handed his coffee, not until he heard, “She was like a big, beautiful bird, Mommy. Like a Power Ranger, ’cept she was a real girl.”

  Harding Thomas jerked to full attention when he heard that little mouthful of news. He almost dropped his coffee. Spilled some steaming java on his hiking boots.

  The kids’ mother was wandering toward the checkout counter, mesmerized by the latest issue of People magazine. Her floppy thongs slapped the worn-out tan-and-brown linoleum floor. She was about thirty-five, fat folds rolling over the top of baggy Champion shorts. The kids were cute, though, and they sure were animated.

  Thomas snatched a Snickers off a snack rack on the counter. He walked toward the checkout line, too. He stood behind the mother and her kids.

  Mama had apparently communicated to the kids to shut up in the public place. Good advice, but a little too late.

  “I overheard your kids. A flying girl from outer space,” he said with a pleasant chuckle and smile. “Just like you read about in that crazy rag, the Star.” He hooked his thumb toward one of the tabloid newspapers displayed near the counter.

  “We did see a flying girl,” the boy insisted, blew his promise immediately. “Didn’t we, Elizabeth?”

  His sister shot him a warning look, but the boy didn’t care. Thomas looked skeptical, which was no problem. He was hoping to draw them out some more, and he was unusually good with kids.

  Two mountain bikers entered the minimart just then. They were plastered in mud, carrying helmets, wearing bike shoes. Thomas hoped they wouldn’t hear anything. Fortunately, they continued to the rear of the store.

  “Bailey, Bailey,” the mother said. “What am I going to do with you?”

  She turned to Thomas, smoothing her henna-colored hair with her hand, self-conscious under his gaze. “They watched Hook on video the other night? Now what does he see? Tinkerbell flying about in the woods, right. So he says. I suppose it’s a good thing.” She smiled. “He has a truckload of imagination, and they say it leads to creativity later on.”

  The boy’s voice cracked with hurt and indignation. “I’m not making this up! We saw the girl in the woods near the blueberry bog. She said her name was Tinkerbell and she flew real high over the trees. Cross my heart.”

  Harding Thomas thought he knew the place they were talking about. He’d been through the bog a couple of times with his search team, but they hadn’t seen any trace of Max. He tossed two singles onto the counter, then said “So long,” in the general direction of the woman and her children.

  Chapter 35

  THOMAS FOLLOWED the woman and her kids in his off-white Range Rover. The family had an old, dented, and weather-beaten Isuzu pickup. The mother wasn’t in any big hurry to get home from the Quik Stop and following them couldn’t have been easier.

  As Thomas tailed the pickup, he thought about his life. Once upon a time, he’d taught science at the Air Force Academy. He’d been a captain. Dr. Peyser had contacted and recruited him for a job. He had explained his dream, and Harding Thomas understood and believed the first time he heard it. He wasn’t the only one. And he believed that the dream, the vision of the future, was worth protecting. So he followed the Ellers family from the Quik Stop.

  When the pickup pulled into a deep-rutted, weed-infested driveway, Thomas understood why the family wasn’t hurrying home. The house was a disaster.

  The off-white paint was blistering and peeling on every surface. The front porch sagged and almost looked dangerous to walk on. The grass near the house was at least a foot and a half high. The name Ellers was nearly faded off the mailbox.

  The mother and her kids were just getting out of the truck. Thomas accelerated, and pulled in behind the Isuzu. The woman looked up alarmed. So did the two kids.

  Harding Thomas hopped out of the Ra
nge Rover, threw his hands in the air, produced a big, friendly grin. He played Uncle Thomas for them. He could appear to be everybody’s friend when he needed to.

  “Hey. Hi, kids, remember me? No need for alarm. Smile, you’re on Candid Camera! I just had a thought about what the kids might have seen in the woods. Thought it might be important to you.”

  “I didn’t say I saw anything,” the older girl protested, “because I didn’t. Neither did my extraterrestrial brother. He’s a big fat storyteller, that’s all.”

  “Mister, I don’t think—” the woman started to say something.

  “They saw an eleven-year-old girl with wings,” Harding Thomas stopped her in midsentence. “I believe what the boy said. The truth is, I’ve seen the girl myself. I’d like to tell you what I know and you can do the same for me.

  “May I come in for a few minutes? I promise, this is vitally important. Your children are telling the truth, strange as it sounds.”

  Harding Thomas produced his wallet, and a card that identified him as a lawyer with the Justice Department. Thomas wasn’t with Justice, but the business card worked like a charm.

  The Ellers family had to be questioned, and then, unfortunately, they had to disappear.

  They had seen Tinkerbell.

  They went inside and Harding Thomas tried to make the question and answer period as nonthreatening as possible.

  “I know this is weird, and a little scary, kids,” he told them. “I’m a little shook up myself.”

  “Would you like coffee, sir?” the woman asked him. He wasn’t sure how well the fake ID had worked with the kids, but it had certainly gone over with her.

  “It’s Thomas,” he said, “and coffee would be great. I just had a cup, but I could sure use another under the circumstances.”

  The mother went off to make coffee—probably instant, but at least she was out of the way for the moment.

  “You can call me Uncle Tommy,” he said to the two wide-eyed kids.

  “We didn’t see anything,” the girl continued to insist. “My brother belongs in a loony bin.”

  “We saw the girl with wings. We saw her fly!” the boy thrust out his chin and proclaimed.

  “No, we didn’t.” His sister stared him down.

  Harding Thomas brought his fist down on the living room coffee table.

  “Yeah, you did! You saw the girl, and you saw her fly. Now tell me everything else—or I’m going to hurt you and your mama. You look in my eyes, and know what I’m saying is the truth.”

  The two children looked—and they knew, and they told what they knew about the girl with wings.

  Chapter 36

  KIT MADE THE FORTY-MILE DRIVE from Bear Bluff to Boulder. He was definitely starting to feel like an agent again, to feel like the Tom Brennan of old.

  He parked the black Jeep on a congested side street a few blocks from Boulder Community Hospital. As he walked there he saw evidence of the city’s celebrated mix of sixties hippies, “granolas” from the seventies and eighties, Gen-Xers, and plenty of relatively normal-looking, Rocky Mountain high natives, too.

  Mostly, though, he was looking over his shoulder, afraid that he might be followed, that someone had already spotted him.

  He needed to talk to a Dr. John Brownhill at the hospital’s in vitro clinic. Dr. Brownhill had past associations with two of the murdered doctors in San Francisco and Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was all recorded in Kit’s earlier reports at the FBI.

  As he sat in the waiting room, he couldn’t help noticing how user-friendly the clinic was. The walls were painted a soft yellow and there were fresh-cut flowers on the magazine tables. That was good for the mothers-to-be, and it was good for him, too. He needed to relax some if he could.

  “The doctor will see you, Mr. Harrison,” said a tall black receptionist who was sunny and pleasant. Everyone he saw at the clinic seemed that way, soothing and helpful.

  “The doctor’s office is just down the hall, first door on the right. You can’t miss it.”

  He walked purposefully down a plush beige-carpeted hallway to Dr. Brownhill’s office. He took a quick, deep breath before he turned inside. Here we go.

  Dr. Brownhill was impressive to meet. Silver streaks were beginning to show in his long, reddish-brown hair. His complexion was ruddy. He looked to be in excellent physical shape. He had a toothy, Andy Hardy smile that was disarming. It seemed to Kit that he’d have a wonderfully reassuring bedside manner.

  “I’m a little curious, Mr. Harrison. You’re here alone. Is this visit about your wife? Or perhaps a girlfriend?”

  Kit still wasn’t quite sure how he should play the tricky interview. There were a lot of ways to go.

  “I’m a senior agent with the FBI,” he said in a self-important tone he rarely used in the field. “I’m in Colorado as part of a murder investigation.”

  It was a subtle thing, lasting only an instant, but he caught a slight tic under John Brownhill’s right eye. “I don’t understand,” the doctor said. “A murder investigation?”

  Kit’s face betrayed nothing. “You came here from San Francisco? You were at University Hospital there. Another in vitro clinic.”

  Brownhill nodded. “Five years ago, and I’ve never regretted the move. I can’t imagine why the FBI would want to talk to me, though. Murder investigation? I help couples have babies they otherwise wouldn’t be able to have.”

  Kit peered into the doctor’s eyes, measuring him. “Did you know Dr. James Kim while you were working in San Francisco?”

  “Yes, I knew James Kim. Not very well, I’m afraid. We were both in California around the same time. Please tell me what this is about. I have pregnant women waiting out there to see me.”

  Kit nodded sympathetically. “I interviewed Dr. Kim in May. He was involved with illegal experiments in the Bay area. He told me that a doctor by the name of Anthony Peyser was hiding out here in Colorado. He said that both he and you had worked with Dr. Peyser.”

  Dr. Brownhill shook his head. “Now wait a minute. That’s simply not true. Yes, Dr. Peyser was accused of unethical practices in the lab he supervised at Berkeley. But I had nothing to do with the lab or with the experiments. I’ve never been accused of any wrongdoing, and I’m certainly not in hiding.”

  Kit lowered his voice. “Do you know that James Kim is dead? He was murdered a week ago in California. That’s part of the reason I’m here.”

  John Brownhill seemed genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry to hear about Dr. Kim. I still don’t see how I can help you, though. I have no idea what happened to Dr. Peyser.”

  Dr. Brownhill tried to get up and leave. Kit held up a hand. “I have one other subject. It’s important, doctor. Would you tell me about Dr. David Mekin? You worked with Dr. Mekin here as well as in San Francisco. I understand that the two of you were friends. David Mekin was murdered. Is that a coincidence, too?”

  Dr. Brownhill rose from the chair at his desk. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I have patients to see. David Mekin was a friend and I don’t care to revisit his death again.”

  Kit took his time getting to his feet. He left the in vitro clinic. He thought that he’d accomplished what he needed to do.

  He had gotten a doctor there uncomfortable, gotten him to hedge and probably lie. He had rattled some cages, and that was a good start.

  Chapter 37

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN across the foothills east of the Rockies. The sky was a dense midnight blue and covered with gleaming stars. The security team crouched at the edge of the clearing near the summer house.

  They wore night goggles and looked like a police or army strike force about to move into serious action.

  They had the girl. They’d spotted her not too far from the blueberry bog.

  The house was a perfectly yuppified weekend place, a modern A-frame with enormous windows looking out on the mountains. Nouveau riche folks from southern California owned it and only stayed there on weekends.

  Harding Thomas t
ook in all the details. It was just after ten and the place was mostly dark. Except for the grayish-blue light in one downstairs room. Then a brighter, almost white light.

  A television set was on, and she loved TV. She called the TV at the School her “mom and pop,”

  “the baby-sitter,” and her “pal.”

  “Let’s get her now,” Thomas whispered to the others. She’s eleven, but she’s strong,” he warned. “She’s stronger than most men. She has a designer chest and shoulders.”

  “What is she, supergirl?” one of the others asked.

  “That’s about right,” Harding Thomas told the man. “You’ll see if you screw up. Just don’t think of her as an eleven-year-old girl.”

  The steps to the first level of the deck were tight and practically new and they squeaked. Harding Thomas stepped around pots of geraniums stacked on the landing. There were three pairs of discarded in-line skates, Roces Barcelonas.

  The hunters adjusted their night goggles. They climbed the next flight of stairs in a hurry, making more squeaking noises. They brushed past metal deck furniture, moving even faster now. It was the same team that had taken out Dr. Frank McDonough in his swimming pool.

  Light through the picture window continued to glow and flicker. It was definitely light from a TV. Thomas peered inside, saw a family room laid out before him.

  Halogen lamps, all of them off. A telescope on a tripod. A DUB video player. Custom armchairs upholstered in burlap coffee bean bags that read “Product of Guatemala, 50-lbs” and “Product of Yemen, 50-lbs.”

  An overstuffed sofa sat right under the window. Max was lying on it. She was asleep, curled up in her own wings.

  “Thank God,” Harding Thomas whispered under his breath.

  Chapter 38

  MAX HEARD the squeak, squeak, squeak. The noise was coming from outside on the deck. She pictured everything that was supposed to be out there.