“Thanks, Kyle. We’ll look into it.” A troubling thought occurred to him. “Er, you haven’t mentioned this to Jordan, have you?”
“Not yet,” he said gloomily. Tom guessed that Kyle felt guilty about going behind Collier’s back. “Although I’ve thought about it …”
Tom silently cursed Collier’s hold over Kyle. “Let’s keep this under our hat for the time being,” he urged. “At least until we know whether there’s anything to it.” He hoped he wasn’t pushing too hard; he didn’t want to drive Kyle away again. “Can you do that, Kyle? As a favor to me?”
There was an agonizing silence on the line before Kyle finally responded. “Okay, I guess.” He gave Tom the address of the plasma center. Somebody knocked on a door in the background. “I gotta go, Dad,” he said hurriedly. “Let me know what you find out.”
“Will do,” Tom promised. “And, Kyle, thanks again. I really appreciate this.”
“Uh-huh.” Kyle sounded like he already regretted spilling the beans. “Talk to you later.”
He hung up at the other end.
The exit for the restaurant loomed before him, but Tom kept on driving. He switched off the turn signal. Lunch could wait. A hot lead took priority over a sizzling cup of coffee.
“Change of plans,” he informed Diana. “We’re due at a blood bank.”
He hit the gas.
“The walls are darker, more gray than green,” Maia specified. “The bench is lower. There’s a cobweb in the right corner of the ceiling. The toilet lid is cracked. The chair is bolted to the floor.”
Maia consulted her dream journal as she described Tyler’s cell to Marco. He sat at his home computer tweaking an image on the screen to the girl’s specifications. He was no sketch artist, but he and Maia had done this routine before. Maia had started them off by drawing a picture of the scene from her vision. Marco had then scanned the illustration into his computer, and was now using his favorite computer-imaging program to fine-tune the picture while Meghan, Collier, Tess, and the Garritys loitered in the background. There wasn’t much small talk going on.
No surprise there, Marco thought. Not a whole lot of trust in the room.
“How’s that look?” he asked Maia.
“Closer.” She stood behind him, looking over his shoulder at the computer monitor. She searched her memory for more details. “There was a brown stain on the ceiling, right over there.” She pointed at the upper left-hand corner of the screen. “It was blotchy and kind of ragged around the edges. Like a jellyfish.”
Marco manipulated his mouse. A few deft keystrokes inserted an irregular brown splotch onto the ceiling. “Like that?”
“Sort of.” She scribbled a drawing in her journal and handed the page to Marco. “But darker in the middle and lighter around the fringe.”
He adjusted the image accordingly. “Better?”
“Yes.” She nodded gravely. “That’s the place. That’s where they’re holding him.”
Marco saved the image, then contemplated the virtual prison cell. It looked pretty dismal. He gulped at the prospect of visiting the place firsthand. Why couldn’t Richard be under house arrest in Hawaii or something?
Meghan stepped forward to inspect the image. “Is that detailed enough for you?”
The way Marco’s 4400 ability worked, he needed to visualize a location before he could teleport there. He usually focused on an actual photograph as a mental trigger, but would a CGI facsimile suffice? He suddenly wished he’d spent more time testing the limits of his ability, despite NTAC’s policies to the contrary. “Maybe. I hope.”
Collier watched the exchange with interest.
Marco checked to make sure his cell phone was charged. The display screen informed him that it was a quarter after two in the afternoon. He realized there was no point in stalling.
“Okay, here goes nothing.” He rose from his seat. “Wish me luck.”
“Hold on,” Meghan said. “If you do get where you’re going, you don’t want to be recognized.”
Good point, Marco thought. They had to assume that Tyler’s cell was being monitored. He racked his brain for an appropriate disguise, then rummaged through a foot-locker over by his futon. It took him a moment or two to locate the item in question, but he soon extracted a bumpy rubber Klingon mask, left over from a Halloween party two years ago. (Last year’s party had been canceled out of respect for fifty/fifty.) Clutching the mask, as well as a pair of winter gloves, he hurried back to the computer area. Here’s hoping today is not a good day to die.
Meghan eyed the Klingon mask, with its bristling fake fur and prosthetic ridges, with bemusement. “You do know this is a reconnaissance mission and not a Star Trek convention, right?”
Jed Blue cracked a rare smile. Jed Red chucked to himself. Collier sighed.
Tess, a refugee from the 1950s, looked like she didn’t know what a Klingon was. “Star Track?”
“Hey, sometimes you’ve got to make do with what you’ve got,” Marco said. He tugged the disguise over his head and glasses. The interior of the mask smelled of old sweat and rubber. His own breathing echoed in his ears. He slipped on the gloves to avoid leaving any incriminating fingerprints. “Okay, I think I’m ready now.”
“Wait!” Maia rushed forward and impulsively gave him a hug. They had been close ever since Marco had dated Diana a few years back. “Please be careful.”
He was touched by the girl’s reaction. “Don’t worry,” he promised. “I won’t be gone long.”
Knock on wood.
Disengaging himself from the girl’s embrace, he faced the computer screen. The rest of the world faded away as he concentrated on the bleak-looking prison cell Maia had described. He felt a familiar tingling at the back of his brain. The image rushed toward him like a 3-D movie …
In an instant, he found himself someplace else. Plastered concrete walls surrounded him. The temperature dropped dramatically. An ugly brown water stain defaced the ceiling. A cobweb hung in one corner. Richard Tyler lay shivering upon a hard concrete bench.
And here we are, Marco thought. The claustrophobic cell was just as daunting as he’d feared. An imposing steel door trapped him inside the cell with Tyler. Goose bumps broke out across his skin, and not just because of the chilly temperature. This was no place he wanted to be.
But where exactly was he?
He consulted his phone. The high-tech gizmo, which he had blown one’s week paycheck on a while back, also contained a built-in GPS unit that, in theory, could pinpoint his location anywhere on Earth. Pushing the controls in the right sequence activated the PlaceFinder, which quickly gave him the exact coordinates in degrees, minutes, and seconds:
39.967814, -75.172595.
He quickly interpreted the digital readout. Pennsylvania, it looked like. Maybe somewhere in the area of Philadelphia?
At least it’s not Guantánamo or Syria, he thought.
He could look up the exact location once he got back to Seattle, which couldn’t be soon enough. There was no need to linger in the cell now that he had determined its location. It was only a matter of time before his presence here was detected and he had no desire to take up permanent residence in a cell like this one. He took a second, though, to check on the jail’s current occupant.
Exhausted from his ordeals, Richard Tyler slept fitfully upon the uncomfortable-looking bench. Uneasy dreams troubled his slumber. He grimaced and thrashed atop the bench. “No,” he murmured. “Not again …”
Poor guy, Marco thought. He wished he could ’port Tyler away with him, but that was beyond his abilities, at least for the present. So far, he had only been able to transport himself from place to place. Which was going to make getting Tyler out of this hellhole tricky.
A blaring alarm gave him a start. Sounds like the jig is up, he realized. Poking the buttons on his phone, he called up a photo of his apartment from the device’s memory. “Time to get out of here,” he muttered. “ASAP.”
The ear-piercing siren roused
Tyler, who sat up in alarm. His groggy eyes widened at the sight of the bumpy-headed alien in his cell. He blinked in confusion.
Marco wished he could explain, but who knew who might be listening? Unable to resist a sudden temptation, he threw out his arm in a Klingon salute.
“Qapla’!”
He vanished into the photo on his phone.
His sudden reappearance in his apartment provoked gasps from his fellow conspirators. Tess stepped back warily. Maia sighed in relief. Collier looked suitably impressed.
“You have an extraordinary ability,” he observed.
Marco could practically see the wheels turning in Collier’s Machiavellian brain. “Well, don’t get used to having it at your disposal,” he stated, making it clear that he wasn’t planning on switching sides. “NTAC pays my salary, not you.”
“A pity,” Collier replied. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider someday.”
“Don’t count on it,” Marco said. Joining a religious cult was nowhere on his agenda.
“Stop trying to poach my people,” Meghan warned Jordan, “or I’ll come to my senses about helping you.” She brushed past Collier to join Marco by his desk. Crossing her arms, she waited for his report. “Well, did you find Tyler?”
“You bet.” He hastily entered the coordinates from the GPS system into his computer. Within seconds, it spit out the precise location of the mysterious prison. “Eastern State Penitentiary. Philadelphia.”
“Oh,” Tess said. She lurked off to one side, avoiding both Collier and the NTAC personnel. “I’ve heard of that. It’s a historic landmark, dating back to the nineteenth century. They turned it into a museum years ago. Al Capone spent time there. It’s supposed to be haunted.”
Everyone looked at her in surprise.
She shrugged. “Kevin likes the History Channel.”
“She’s right,” Marco confirmed. A quick search on the Internet turned up plenty of sites on the old prison, which was indeed located in downtown Philly, not far from Town Hall and the city’s celebrated art museum. “It was closed for renovations right after fifty/fifty. No word on when it’s supposed to reopen.”
“Renovations my foot,” Jed Red grumbled. “Must have been turned over to Haspelcorp for their own private Gitmo.”
Jed Blue shook his head in disgust. “Smack-dab in the middle of the City of Brotherly Love.”
“Look at the bright side,” Marco pointed out. “At least Tyler’s still in the U.S.”
“Ryland probably had no choice there.” Meghan shifted in the easy chair. “Ever since the outbreak, most foreign countries are refusing to allow positives on their soil. Ryland would have a hard time shipping a p-positive prisoner overseas even if he wanted to.”
“Which he might not,” Collier added. “I doubt that the U.S. government wants a powerful 4400 falling into the hands of a foreign power. Sadly, promicin has added a whole new dimension to the arms race.”
And whose fault is that? Marco thought, but held his tongue. To be fair, Ryland and Haspelcorp were exploring the military possibilities of promicin long before Collier offered the shot to the general public.
Meghan was already working out the logistics involved. “In any event, Philly is still at least six hours away by plane. And it’s not going to be easy getting out of Seattle without being noticed. The air force is still enforcing a no-fly zone over Promise City.”
Collier chuckled. “I may be able to help you out there.”
FIFTEEN
THE PACIFIC PLASMA Collection Center had seen better days.
The storefront windows had been boarded up. An out-of-business sign had been posted inside the front entrance. Graffiti had been spray-painted on the walls and windows. “JORDAN COLLIER IS GOD!” read bright orange letters. “PROMICIN = DEATH!” somebody else had rebutted. Cigarette butts and broken glass littered the sidewalk in front of the defunct establishment. A wino dozed on the stoop. If the Global Outreach Committee really owned the property, they didn’t seem to have done much with it yet.
“Nice neighborhood,” Tom said sarcastically. They had driven straight here from Bellingham. Diana had phoned NTAC on the way to update them on the investigation; unable to reach either Meghan or Marco, she had left a message with Abby instead.
“If you like fixer-uppers,” Diana remarked, glancing around. The Skid Row plasma center was located on a street corner in an economically depressed part of town that had not yet benefited from the 4400’s ambitious brand of urban renewal. Across the street was the burnt-out husk of a liquor store destroyed during the rioting two months ago. Around the corner was an abandoned Scientology recruiting station; apparently, L. Ron Hubbard had not been able to compete with Jordan Collier in Promise City. An X-rated bookshop, a little farther up the road, seemed to be the only operation still in business. A gray sky threatened to drizzle at any moment.
Welcome to Promise City, Diana thought.
Their voices roused the wino, who looked up at them with bleary, bloodshot eyes. Broken veins defaced his swollen red nose. A shaggy gray beard kept his grizzled features warm. His tattered wool peacoat would have been turned down by Goodwill. A nauseating stench emanated from his presence. He furtively tucked an empty bottle of Thunderbird behind his back before extending a grimy paw. “Spare some change?”
Diana figured it couldn’t hurt to slip him a five. Perhaps he’d seen something between his drunken stupors?
“God bless you.” He staggered to his feet. His breath reeked of alcohol, but he seemed more or less sober. “City needs more people like you.”
“You here often?” Tom asked.
“Used to donate twice a week,” the man confessed, “back before everyone got sick.” He regarded the agents hopefully. “You know when this place is going to reopen? Damn unfair that I can’t sell my own blood anymore. I never took one of those stinking shots …”
“What makes you think it’s going to reopen?” Diana asked. “You seen any activity lately?”
The wino nodded. “They unloaded lots of crates and equipment the other night. ’Round midnight when I was trying to get a good night’s sleep.”
And when nobody else was looking, Diana thought. She produced a photo of Bernard Grayson, lifted from his driver’s license. “You seen this man around here?”
The wino squinted at the photo. “Yeah, I think so. Looks kind of familiar.” He handed the picture back to Diana. “He the new guy in charge?”
“Maybe.” Tom passed the guy another five. “Go get yourself something to eat.”
The man’s eyes lit up at his unexpected windfall. “Talk about my lucky day! You’re good people, both of you.” Slipping the bills into his pocket, he hurried off in search of sustenance, or so Diana hoped. Chances were, though, the money was going to buy some more Thunderbird and not a Big Mac.
He left the empty bottle behind.
The agents waited until the helpful vagrant was out of earshot before conferring. Diana put her photo of Grayson away. “Well, what do you think?”
“Sounds like probable cause to me,” Tom said. He considered the boarded-up storefront. “Front door or back?”
Diana tried to peer through the slats, but all she saw was darkness. There didn’t seem to be any lights on inside, let alone anyone moving about. She hoped this wasn’t another dead end. “The back. Less conspicuous.”
A narrow alley ran behind the building. A loading dock jutted out from the wall. Greasy puddles filled the potholes. Rats scurried behind a rusty metal Dumpster. Discarded bandages, left behind by the plasma center’s former clientele, were still wedged in the pavement. The alley reeked of urine and rotting garbage.
It was a long way from the tasteful decor of Grayson’s funeral home.
Ascending to the loading dock, Tom quietly tried the door, which didn’t budge. Diana considered knocking first, but decided against it. If Bernard Grayson was hiding out inside, they wanted to catch him by surprise.
Tom got into position to force his way in.
> “Wait,” Diana said. “Have you taken any U-Pills today?”
He shook his head. “You think I should?”
“Might not be a bad idea.” She was immune to promicin, thanks to playing guinea pig for Kevin Burkhoff a few years back, but Tom was not. “If Grayson and company have managed to duplicate Danny’s ability, and can generate an airborne version of promicin, we could be entering a hot zone.”
He didn’t argue the point. “Guess it couldn’t hurt to play it safe.” He extracted an emergency packet of pills from his pocket and gulped them down. “Okay, let’s find out what’s going on here.”
Diana stood by while her brawnier partner applied himself. Grunting, Tom slammed his shoulder against the door, which refused to budge. “That’s more solid than it looks,” he commented, wincing. He drew his Glock instead. “I think we need a little more firepower.”
“If you say so.” She covered her ears.
Their sidearms were capable of firing either conventional rounds or tranquilizer darts. There was no question what kind of ammo he was using as he discharged his weapon. A gunshot echoed loudly in the alley, and ten millimeters of lead blew the lock apart.
Diana wondered if anyone would report the gunshot. In this neighborhood, probably not.
“Watch yourself,” he said as he kicked the door open. Neither of them wanted another close call like they’d had at the funeral home. Diana still had a bump on her head where that crazy morgue technician had coldcocked her. Guns drawn, they cautiously entered the rear of the building.
“NTAC!” she called out. The initials were stenciled on the backs of their heavy blue jackets. “Anyone here, please identify yourselves!”
Nobody responded. Shadows shrouded the interior.
Questing fingers found a light switch to the right of the door. Fluorescent lights hummed to life overhead, revealing what appeared to be some sort of storage area. Wooden crates and cardboard boxes waited to be unloaded. Bags of saline were stacked upon a shelf. A mop and broom were propped up in the corner. A stainless-steel door guarded what looked like a walk-in refrigerator. Probably where they used to store the collected plasma, Diana guessed. Wonder what they’re keeping on ice now?