Chapter One
Jill was already late for the briefing when she somehow managed to drop her
keys into her cup of coffee on the way out the door. There was a muted ting as they hit the bottom, and as she paused in mid-stride, staring in disbelief at the steaming ceramic mug, the thick stack of files she carried under her other arm slid smoothly to the floor. Paper clips and sticky notes scattered across the tan carpeting.
Ah, shit.
She checked her watch as she turned back toward the kitchen, cup in hand. Wesker had called the meeting for 1900 sharp, which meant she had about nine minutes to make the ten-minute drive, find parking and get her butt into a chair. The first full disclosure meeting since the S. T. A. R. S. had gotten the case - hell, the first real meeting since she'd made the Raccoon transfer-and she was going to be late.
Figures. Probably the first time in years I actually give a rat's ass about being on time and I fall apart at the door. . .
Muttering darkly she hurried to the sink, feeling tense and angry with herself for not getting ready earlier. It was the case, the goddamn case. She'd picked up her copies of the ME files right after breakfast and spent all day digging through the reports, searching for something that the cops had somehow missed and feeling more and more frustrated as the day slipped past and she'd failed to come up with anything new.
She dumped the mug and scooped up the warm, wet keys, wiping them against her jeans as she hurried back to the front door. She crouched down to gather the files-and stopped, staring down at the glossy color photo that had ended up on top.
Oh, girls. . .
She picked it up slowly, knowing that she didn't have time and yet unable to look away from the tiny, blood-spattered faces. She felt the knots of tension that had been building all day intensify, and for a moment it was all she could do to breathe as she stared at the crime scene photo. Becky and Priscilla McGee, ages nine and seven. She'd flipped past it earlier, telling herself that there was nothing there she needed to see. . . . . . But it isn 't true, is it? You can keep pretending, or you can admit it-everything's different now, it's been different since the day they died.
When she'd first moved to Raccoon, she'd been under a lot of stress, feeling uncertain about the transfer, not even sure if she wanted to stay with the S. T. A. R. S. She was good at the job, but had only taken it because of Dick; after the indictment, he'd started to pressure her to get into another line of work. It had taken awhile, but her father was persistent, telling her again and again that one Valentine in jail was one too many, even admitting that he was wrong to raise her the way he had. With her training and background, there weren't a whole lot of options - but the S. T. A. R. S. , at least, appreciated her skills and didn't care how she came by them. The pay was decent, there was the element of risk she'd grown to enjoy. . . In retrospect, the career change had been surprisingly easy; it made Dick happy, and gave her the opportunity to see how the other half lived.
Still, the move had been harder on her than she'd realized. For the first time since Dick had gone inside, she'd felt truly alone, and working for the law had started to seem like a joke - the daughter of Dick Valentine, working for truth, justice, and the American way. Her promotion to the Alphas, a nice little house in the suburbs - it was crazy, and she'd been giving serious thought to just blowing out of town, giving the whole thing up, and going back to what she'd been before. . . . . . until the two little girls who lived across the street had shown up on her doorstep and asked her with wide, tear-stained eyes if she was really a policeman. Their parents were at work, and they couldn't find their dog. . . . . . Becky in her green school dress, little Pris in her overalls-both of them sniffling and shy. . .
The pup had been wandering through a garden only a few blocks away, no sweat and she'd made two new friends, as easy as that. The sisters had promptly adopted Jill, showing up after school to bring her scraggly bunches of flowers, playing in her yard on weekends, singing her endless songs they'd learned from movies and cartoons. It wasn't like the girls had miraculously changed her outlook or taken away her loneliness, but somehow her thoughts of leaving had been put on a back burner, left alone for awhile. For the first time in her twenty-three years, she'd started to feel like a part of the community she lived and worked in, the change so subtle and gradual that she'd hardly noticed.
Six weeks ago, Becky and Pris had wandered away from a family picnic in Victory Park and became the first two victims of the psychopaths that had since terrorized the isolated city.
The photo trembled slightly in her hand, sparing her nothing. Becky lying on her back, staring blindly at the sky, a gaping, ragged hole in her belly. Pris was sprawled next to her, arms outstretched, chunks of flesh ripped savagely from the slender limbs. Both children had been eviscerated, dying of massive trauma before they'd bled out. If they'd screamed, no one had heard. . .
Enough! They're gone, but you can finally do something about it!
Jill fumbled the papers back into their folder, then stepped outside into the early evening, breathing deeply. The scent of freshly cut grass was heavy in the sun-warmed air. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked happily amidst the shouts of children.
She hurried to the small, dented gray hatchback parked by the front walk, forcing herself not to look at the silent McGee house as she started the car and pulled away from the curb. Jill drove through the wide suburban streets of her neighborhood, window down, pushing the speed limit but careful to watch for kids and pets. There weren't many of either around. Since the trouble had started, more and more people were keeping their children and animals indoors, even during the day.
The little hatchback shuddered as she accelerated up the ramp to Highway 202, the warm, dry air whipping her long hair back from her face. It felt good, like waking up from a bad dream. She sped through the sun-dappled evening, the shadows of trees growing long across the road.
Whether it was fate or just the luck of the draw, her life had been touched by what was happening in Raccoon City. She couldn't keep pretending that she was just some jaded ex-thief trying to stay out of jail, trying to toe the line to make her father happy, or that what the S. T. A. R. S. were about to do was just another job. It mattered. It mattered to her that those children were dead, and that the killers were still free to kill again.
The victim files next to her fluttered slightly, the top of the folder caught by the wind; nine restless spirits, perhaps, Becky and Priscilla McGee's among them.
She rested her right hand on the ruffled sheaf, stilling the gentle movement and swore to herself that no matter what it took, she was going to find out who was responsible. Whatever she'd been before, whatever she would be in the future, she had changed. . . and wouldn't be able to rest until these murderers of the innocent had been held accountable for their actions.
Yo, Chris!
Chris turned away from the soda machine and saw Forest Speyer striding down the empty hall toward him, a wide grin on his tanned, boyish face. Forest was actually a few years older than Chris, but looked like a rebellious teenager - long hair, studded jean jacket, a tattoo of a skull smoking a cigarette on his left shoulder. He was also an excellent mechanic, and one of the best shots Chris had ever seen in action.
Hey, Forest. What's up? Chris scooped up a can of club soda from the machine's dispenser and glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of minutes before the meeting. He smiled tiredly as Forest stopped in front of him, blue eyes sparkling. Forest was carrying an armful of equipment-vest, utility belt, and shoulder pack.
Wesker gave Marini the go-ahead to start the search. Bravo team's goin' in. Even excited, Forest's Alabama twang slowed his words to a stereotypical drawl. He dropped his stuff on one of the visitors' chairs, still grinning widely.
Chris frowned. When?
Now. Soon as I warm up the 'copter. Forest pulled the kevlar vest on over his T-shirt as he spoke.
While you Alphas sit t
aking notes, we're gonna go kick some cannibal ass!
Nothing if not confident, us S. T. A. R. S. Yeah, well. . . just watch your ass, okay? I still think there's more going on here than a couple of slobbering nut jobs hanging around in the woods.
You know it. Forest pushed his hair back and grabbed his utility belt, obviously already focused on the mission. Chris thought about saying more, but decided against it. For all of his bravado, Forest was a professional; he didn't need to be told to be careful.
You sure about that, Chris? You think Billy was careful enough?
Sighing inwardly, Chris slapped Forest's shoulder lightly and headed for ops through the doorway of the small upstairs waiting room and down the hall. He was surprised that Wesker was sending the teams in separately. Although it was standard for the less experienced S. T. A. R. S. to do the initial recon, this wasn't exactly a standard operation. The number of deaths they were dealing with alone was enough to call for a more aggressive offense. The fact that there were signs of organization to the murders should have brought it to A1 status, and Wesker was still treating it like some kind of a training run.
Nobody else sees it; they didn't know Billy. . .
Chris thought again about the late-night call he'd gotten last week from his childhood friend. He hadn't heard from Billy in awhile, but knew that he'd taken a research position with Umbrella, the pharmaceutical company that was the single biggest contributor to the economic prosperity of Raccoon City. Billy had never been the type to jump at shadows, and the terrified desperation in his voice had jolted Chris awake, filling him with deep concern. Billy had babbled that his life was in danger, that they were all in danger, begged Chris to meet him at a diner at the edge of town and then never showed up. No one had heard from him since.
Chris had run it over and over again in his mind during the sleepless nights since Billy's disappearance, trying to convince himself that there was no connection to the attacks on Raccoon and yet was unable to shake his growing certainty that there was more going on than met the eye, and that Billy had known what it was. The cops had checked out Billy's apartment and found nothing to indicate foul play. . . but Chris's instincts told him that his friend was dead, and that he'd been killed by somebody who wanted to keep him from talking.
And I seem to be the only one. Irons doesn't give a shit, and the team thinks I'm just torn up over the loss of an old friend.
He pushed the thoughts aside as he turned the corner, his boot heels sending muted echoes through the arched second floor corridor. He had to focus, to keep his mind on what he could do to find out why Billy had disappeared, but he was exhausted, running on a minimum of sleep and an almost constant anxiety that had plagued him since Billy's call. Maybe he was losing his perspective, his objectivity dulled by recent events. . .
He forced himself not to think about anything at all as he neared the S. T. A. R. S. office, determined to be clear-headed for the meeting. The buzzing fluorescents above seemed like overkill in the blazing evening light that filled the tight hallway; the Raccoon police building was a classic, if unconventional, piece of architecture, lots of inlaid tile and heavy wood, but it had too many windows designed to catch the sun.
When he'd been a kid, the building had been the Raccoon City Hall. With the population increase a decade back, it had been renovated as a library, and four years ago, turned into a police station. It seemed like there was always some kind of construction going on.
The door to the S. T. A. R. S. office stood open, the muted sounds of gruff male voices spilling out into the hall. Chris hesitated a moment, hearing Chief Irons's among them. Just call me Brian Irons was a self-centered and self-serving politician masquerading as a cop. It was no secret that he had his sweaty fingers in more than a few local pies. He'd even been implicated in the Cider district land-scam back in '94, and although nothing had been proved in court, anyone who knew him personally didn't harbor any doubt.
Chris shook his head, listening to Irons's greasy voice. Hard to believe he'd once led the Raccoon S. T. A. R. S. , even as a paper-pusher. Maybe even harder to believe that he'd probably end up as mayor someday.
Of course, it doesn't help much that he hates your guts, does it, Redfield?
Yeah, well. Chris didn't like to kiss ass, and Irons didn't know how to have any other kind of relationship. At least Irons wasn't a total incompetent, he'd had some military training. Chris pasted on a straight face and stepped into the small, cluttered office that served as the S. T. A. R. S. filing cabinet and base of operations.
Barry and Joseph were over by the rookie desk, going through a box of papers and talking quietly.
Brad Vickers, the Alpha pilot, was drinking coffee and staring at the main computer screen a few feet away, a sour expression on his mild features. Across the room Captain Wesker was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, smiling blankly at something Chief Irons was telling him. Irons's bulk was leaned against Wesker's desk, one pudgy hand brushing at his carefully groomed mustache as he spoke.
So I said, 'You're gonna print what I tell you to print, Bertolucci, and you're gonna like it, or you'll never get another quote from this office!' And he says Chris! Wesker interrupted the chief, sitting forward. Good, you're here. Looks like we can stop wasting time.
Irons scowled in his direction but Chris kept his poker face. Wesker didn't care much for Irons, either, and didn't bother trying to be any more than polite in his dealings with the man. From the glint in his eye, it was obvious that he didn't care who knew it, either.
Chris walked into the office and stood by the desk he shared with Ken Sullivan, one of the Bravo team.
Since the teams usually worked different shifts, they didn't need much room. He set the unopened can of soda on the battered desktop and looked at Wesker.
You're sending Bravo in?
The captain gazed back at him impassively, arms folded across his chest. Standard procedure, Chris.
Chris sat down, frowning. Yeah, but with what we talked about last week, I thought Irons interrupted. I gave the order, Redfield. I know you think that there's some kind of cloak and dagger going on here, but 7 don't see any reason to deviate from policy.
Sanctimonious prick. . .
Chris forced a smile, knowing it would irritate Irons. Of course, sir. No need to explain yourself on my behalf.
Irons glared at him for a moment, his piggy little eyes snapping, then apparently decided to let it drop.
He turned back to Wesker. I'll expect a report when Bravo returns. Now if you'll excuse me, Captain.
Wesker nodded. Chief.
Irons stalked past Chris and out of the room. He'd been gone less than a minute before Barry started in.
Think the chief took a shit today? Maybe we all oughtta chip in for Christmas, get him some laxatives.
Joseph and Brad laughed, but Chris couldn't bring himself to join in. Irons was a joke, but his mishandling of this investigation wasn't all that funny. The S. T. A. R. S. should've been called in at the beginning instead of acting as RPD back up.
He looked back at Wesker, the man's perpetually composed expression hard to read. Wesker had taken over the Raccoon S. T. A. R. S. only a few months ago, transferred by the home office in New York, and Chris still didn't have any real insight into his character.
The new captain seemed to be everything he was reputed to be: smooth, professional, cool, but there was a kind of distance to him, a sense that he was often far removed from what was going on.
Wesker sighed and stood up. Sorry, Chris. I know you wanted things to go different, but Irons didn't put a whole lot of stock into your. . . misgivings.
Chris nodded. Wesker could make recommendations, but Irons was the only one who could upgrade a mission's status. Not your fault.
Barry walked toward them, scruffing at his short, reddish beard with one giant fist. Barry Burton was only six feet tall but built like a truck. His only pa
ssion outside of his family and his weapons collection was weight lifting, and it showed.
Don't sweat it, Chris. Marini will call us in the second he smells trouble. Irons is just pullin' your chain.
Chris nodded again, but he didn't like it. Hell, Enrico Marini and Forest Speyer were the only experienced soldiers in Bravo. Ken Sullivan was a good scout and a brilliant chemist, but in spite of his S. T. A. R. S. training, he couldn't shoot the broad side of a barn. Richard Aiken was a top-rate communications expert, but he also lacked field experience.
Rounding out Bravo team was Rebecca Chambers, who'd only been with the S. T. A. R. S. for three weeks, supposed to be some kind of medical genius. Chris had met her a couple of times and she seemed bright enough, but she was just a kid.
It's not enough. Even with all of us, it may not be enough.
He cracked open his soda but didn't drink any, wondering instead what the S. T. A. R. S. were going up against, Billy's pleading, desperate words echoing through his mind yet again.
They're going to kill me, Chris! They're going to kill everyone who knows! Meet me at Emmy's, now, I'll tell you everything. . .
Exhausted, Chris stared off into space, alone in the knowledge that the savage murders were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
Barry stood by Chris's desk for a minute, trying to think of something else to say, but Chris didn't look like he was in the mood for conversation. Barry shrugged inwardly and headed back to where Joseph was going through files. Chris was a good guy, but he took things too hard sometimes; he'd get over it as soon as it was their turn to step in.
Man, it was hot! Seemingly endless trickles of sweat rolled down his spine, gluing his T-shirt to his broad back. The air-conditioning was on the fritz as usual, and even with the door open, the tiny S. T. A. R. S. office was uncomfortably warm.
Any luck?
Joseph looked up at him from the pile of papers, a rueful smirk on his lean face. You kidding? It's like somebody hid the damn thing on purpose.
Barry sighed and scooped up a handful of files.
Maybe Jill found it. She was still here when I left last night, going through the witness reports for about the hundredth time. . .
What are you two looking for, anyway? Brad asked.
Barry and Joseph both looked over at Brad, still sitting at the computer console, headset on. He'd be monitoring Bravo's progress throughout their fly-by of the forested district, but for now he looked bored as hell.
Joseph answered him. Ah, Barry claims that there are floor plans in here somewhere on the old Spencer estate, some architectural digest that came out when the house was built He paused, then grinned at Brad. Except that I'm thinkin' that ol' Barry's gone senile on us. They say memory is the first thing to go.
Barry scowled good-naturedly. Ol' Barry could easily kick your ass into next week, little man.
Joseph looked at him mock-seriously. Yeah, but would you remember it afterwards?
Barry chuckled, shaking his head. He was only thirty-eight, but had been with the Raccoon S. T. A. R. S. for fifteen years, making him the senior member. He endured numerous old age jokes, mostly from Joseph.
Brad cocked an eyebrow. The Spencer place? Why would it be in a magazine?
You kids, gotta learn your history. Barry said. It was designed by the one and only George Trevor, just before he disappeared. He was that hot-shit architect who did all those weird skyscrapers in D. C. - in fact, Trevor's disappearance may have been the reason that Spencer shut the mansion down. Rumor has it that Trevor went crazy during the construction and when it was finished, he got lost and wandered the halls until he starved to death.
Brad scoffed, but suddenly looked uneasy. That's bullshit. I never heard anything like that.
Joseph winked at Barry. No, it's true. Now his tortured ghost roams the estate each night, pale and emaciated, and I've heard tell that sometimes you can hear him, calling out, 'Brad Vickers. . . bring me Brad Vickers'
Brad flushed slightly. Yeah, ha ha. You're a real comedian, Frost.
Barry shook his head, smiling, but wondered again how Brad had ever made it to Alpha. He was undoubtedly the best hacker working for S. T. A. R. S. , and a decent enough pilot, but he wasn't so hot under pressure. Joseph had taken to calling him Chickenheart Vickers when he wasn't around, and while the S. T. A. R. S. generally stuck up for one another, nobody disagreed with Joseph's assessment.
So is that why Spencer shut it down? Brad addressed this to Barry, his cheeks still red.
Barry shrugged. I doubt it. It was supposed to be some kind of guest house for Umbrella's top execs.
Trevor did disappear right about the time of compleTion, but Spencer was whacko, anyway. He decided to move Umbrella's headquarters to Europe, I forgot where exactly, and just boarded up the mansion.
Probably a couple million bucks, straight into the crapper.
Joseph sneered. Right. Like Umbrella would suffer.
True enough. Spencer may have been crazy, but he'd had enough money and business savvy to hire the right people. Umbrella was one of the biggest medical research and pharmaceutical companies on the planet. Even thirty years ago, the loss of a few million dollars probably hadn't hurt.
Anyway, Joseph went on, the Umbrella people told Irons that they'd sent someone out to check the place over, and that it was secure, no break-ins.
So why look for blueprints? Brad asked.
It was Chris who answered, startling Barry. He'd walked back to join them, his youthful face fixed with a sudden intensity that almost bordered on obsessive.
Because it's the only place in the woods that hasn't been checked over by the police, and it's practically in the middle of the crime scenes. And because you can't always trust what people say.
Brad frowned. But if Umbrella sent somebody out. . .
Whatever Chris was going to say in response was cut short by Wesker's smooth voice, rising from the front of the room.
All right, people. Since it appears that Ms. Valentine isn't planning on joining us, why don't we get this started?
Barry walked to his desk, worried about Chris for the first time since this whole thing had started. He'd recruited the younger man for the S. T. A. R. S. a few years back thanks to a chance encounter in a local gun shop. Chris had proved to be an asset to the team, bright and thoughtful as well as a top-notch marksman and able pilot.
But now. . .
Barry gazed fondly at the picture of Kathy and the girls that sat on his desk. Chris's obsession with the murders in Raccoon was understandable, particularly since his friend had disappeared. Nobody in town wanted to see another life lost. Barry had a family, and was as determined as anyone else on the team to stop the killers. But Chris's relentless suspicion had gone a little overboard. What had he meant by that, You can't always trust what people say? Either that Umbrella was lying or Chief Irons was. . .
Ridiculous. Umbrella's branch chemical plant and administrative buildings on the outskirts of town supplied three-quarters of the jobs in Raccoon City; it would be counter-productive for them to lie. Besides, Umbrella's integrity was at least as solid as any other major corporation's-maybe some industrial espionage, but medical secret-swapping was a far cry from murder. And Chief Irons, though a fat, weasely blowhard, wasn't the kind to get his hands any dirtier than they'd get accepting illegal campaign funds; the guy wanted to be mayor, for chrissake.
Barry's gaze lingered on the picture of his family a moment longer before he turned his chair around to face Wesker's desk, and he suddenly realized that he wanted Chris to be wrong. Whatever was going on in Raccoon City, that kind of vicious brutality couldn't be planned. And that meant. . .
Barry didn't know what that meant. He sighed, and waited for the meeting to begin.