Amanda's Story (30 page)

“So all four of these individuals had bleeding around the brain?” Greg asked, for clarification.

“That is correct,” Rucker answered succinctly.

“What would cause the bleeding around the brain?”

“Unknown. Subarachnoid hemorrhages are not uncommon in trauma situations. However, evidence of cranial trauma is conspicuously absent in all four victims.”

“None of this makes sense,” Greg commented to himself.

“Do you have any more questions, Detective?”

“No, Doctor, thank you.” The phone went dead. Rucker's findings would give Greg and his unit a little breathing room. Suzie Watts and her boyfriend would disappear from any official inquiry. Diaz would also likely disappear, leaving only Adegbite, whose cause of death was clear. The Pueblo PD had hand and finger print matches to Diaz on the knife stuck in Adegbite's back. On the surface everything could be explained. Below the surface nothing made sense.

Amanda fastened her seat belt and wrapped herself in a cloud of hostility to discourage the predictable and meaningless conversation from the man who sat next to her. She had no interest in hearing how much he hated to fly, or how much she looked like a girl he once knew (which was a lie), or any of the other dozen or so opening lines he was preparing. She nudged his attention towards the attractive flight attendant and restrained the impulse to punish him for invading her solitude. She curled into the leather seat and closed her eyes as the plane pushed back from the gate.

A week earlier, she had flown to Dallas to close out her employment with the Lieber Institute and collect her belongings, left in a hotel room a lifetime ago. By day, she dutifully attended the multiple exit interviews with the Red Cross and the Department of State, saying all the right things to allow them to close the book on this “unfortunate business,” and played her dual role of both hero and victim perfectly. By night, she slipped into the more comfortable role of predator.

She opened her eyes as they lifted off and the long, flat expanse of north Texas rolled out to the hazy horizon. She was on a plane headed to Washington, and for the life of her she couldn't say why. Ted Alam was already there, and in less than a day he would pass top secret documents to a foreign agent, or die trying to protect them. So was it a sense of patriotism that drove her? She smiled at such a lofty and selfless sentiment. No, it wasn't patriotism. She wasn't going to protect Ted either. He had made his choices.

So why did you deceive everyone and get on this plane? her conscience asked in Michael's voice.

She tried to ignore the question but it dogged her.
Personal reasons,
she finally answered. It was the best she could come up with. Her mind was in so much turmoil that she simply couldn't trust any decision she made, and was running solely on instinct.

A voyage of self-discovery
, Michael's voice mocked.
Or another oppo
r
tunity to restart the cycle of disillusionment?

Amanda was starting to burn with anger, and she wanted to lash out at something, at someone. But, like Ted Alam, she was the source of her own problems. Time had not brought her clarity, or even stability. With every life she took she became a little more desperate, a little more disillusioned, and a little more unstable. Violence and murder had become the focal point of her life, and for a time she had thought that it could sustain her, give her a sense of purpose, but all it seemed to do was hollow her out by increments. But still she defaulted to it; it was familiar, comfortable, and for the briefest moment made her feel whole again.

Cycle of disillusionment,
she repeated to herself. Even the murder of Suzie Watts and her low-life boyfriend hadn't sustained her for more than a couple of days. By the time she had reached Dallas, Amanda was already in search of another opportunity. She was able to restrain Mittens for two full days, but then her alter-ego demanded another fix, and one without a trace of moral justification. Just pure self-indulgent, wanton violence. Two nights in a row Amanda tried to satisfy Mittens's desires. The first night she choose a street corner drug-dealer out of simple convenience, and the next night she found his supplier. She allowed Mittens to be as creative as she wanted and in the end took everything from each of her victims, only to awaken the following mornings to the now all too familiar gnawing emptiness.

Amanda had to finally admit that indulging Mittens had not made her stronger. Instead, each time she lost control and surrendered herself to her alter-ego she had dug the hole a little deeper and the gnawing emptiness filled it. Mittens was nothing more than an articulate manifestation of all the base instincts and drives that lived in the dark recesses of every mind and could never be completely satiated. Each death only increased her appetite. Everyone had their own Mittens. Unfortunately, Amanda's version had been amplified to a compelling level and came with the ability to indulge even the slightest whim without consequence.

The ultimate test of restraint. Are you up to it, Amanda?
Michael asked.

His perspective flipped from first to second person with enough regularity that she began to wonder if the thoughts were even hers. Could this be her Michael communicating from a different reality? Was this another aspect of her evolution: communicating with the dead?

“Are you real?” She whispered, and waited for an answer. To have him back, even if it was just a voice in her mind, would change everything. But all she felt was silence.

Nothing more than voices of the past,
Mittens answered after a long minute.

The bored flight attendant with the painted-on smile asked Amanda and her seat-mate if they wanted something to drink. Amanda declined, but he asked for a rum and Coke and took the opportunity to surreptitiously compare Amanda's cleavage with the flight attendant's. Amanda lost. She smiled, wondering how the horny traveler would feel if he knew what the smiling stewardess was planning to add to his drink.

Ted Alam had been walking the Washington mall for nearly an hour, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible. He sidestepped the multitude of tourists who were snapping pictures of the cherry blossoms and of the distant Capitol, and kept moving. He was certain someone was watching him—either members of Lon Chang's organization or his own organization, the FBI, or both—and he refused to let them have an easy time of it. Two o'clock was late for lunch, but on a day like today, with mild temperatures and the sun warming DC for the first time in months, he had a reasonable excuse for his wanderings. Officially, he was in Washington to complete a class he had begun over a year earlier. He had worked through lunch to finish early, and then made a point of letting his proctors know that he was off to enjoy the day.

He tossed a handful of birdfeed to the very well-fed ducks that were returning in numbers to the pools. Lon Chang was late, which was typical but unnerving nonetheless. He strolled in front of a large group of elderly tourists and offered to take their picture. They thanked him, and the half dozen senior citizens slowly assembled and loudly yelled “Cheese” just before he snapped the picture. He retrieved his briefcase, which contained File: PLAX 7344963-8772, and continued his wandering. It wasn't a paper file but three CDs: the complete FBI security evaluation of the Port of Los Angeles. His earlier indiscretions had been unimportant internal memoranda regarding budgetary allocations, and if Ted hadn't been so impaired at the time he probably would have realized that the information could have been legally obtained. This file was a whole different story. It was a blueprint for terrorism.

He walked by the southwest corner for the sixth time, but still no Chang. He was the epitome of a compromised agent, an absolute textbook example of what not to do, including keeping this latest development from his superiors. He knew what he was doing was a mistake, and he had debated long and hard about how to handle his predicament, finally deciding that handling this himself was the lesser of all evils open to him. The file required a key, a deciphering program that happened to be loaded on his laptop. He would open the CD file on his laptop, proving to Chang that it was the file in question, and then pass the worthless CDs over to the Chinese national. He would then stroll back to his life.

Of course, there was almost no chance any of that would happen. Chang would certainly know that the files were encrypted and would require a program to be opened, so he would either demand the key or Alam's laptop, or—worse still—would have his own laptop loaded with a copy of the deciphering program. In which case Ted would arrest the small man and both their worlds would unravel.

Of course, that was unlikely to happen as well. Chang played the part of a low-level agent, more fool than spy, but it was just a role. He would come prepared, almost certainly with a team of well-armed and well-trained operatives whose goal would be recovery of the CDs and, if necessary, and if possible, Chang himself. Ted was armed and prepared as well, but harbored no expectation he would survive a gun battle with an unknown number of hidden agents. He would draw his weapon if Chang resisted arrest, but then drop it once the small man played his last hand by calling in his team of operatives. Ted would let Chang and his men take the CDs and his case and allow them to leave. Once at a safe distance, he would detonate the charge that occupied half of the laptop's battery compartment. With a little luck, it would do more than just take off a hand.

Ted swung around the metal bench that he assumed would be the exchange point for the seventh time and started back up Jefferson Drive. After he passed Twelfth Street a distant clock chimed the quarter hour, and out of sheer frustration he glanced back at the empty bench. Nothing. He rounded the Smithsonian and a Frisbee skidded across his path. The lawns were filled with families and sunbathers, all enjoying life, and Ted felt more isolated than ever. He stepped over the disk and kept walking.

“Dude, a little help?” a longhaired twenty-something yelled. Ted glanced over; immersed in troubles of his own making, he didn't realize that he had violated Frisbee etiquette. “Toss it, man …” The young man was dressed in a torn tie-dye shirt, cut-off jeans over pasty white spindly legs; a leather thong gathered his dirty black hair into a ponytail. He stood facing Ted with an expectant look, fifty years out of time. Ted flicked the disk back to the ersatz hippie, who caught it with one finger. “Seventh and Madison, just in front of the pool. Go now,” he said quickly and then turned and jogged back to the center of the field, throwing the Frisbee to another pretend-hippie with practiced expertise.

For a moment, Ted wasn't certain he had heard what he thought he heard, and he remained rooted in place. The pair continued to toss the disk, yelling with each athletic catch, and after several more throws their game began to drift towards Madison Avenue and a small fountain inside a reflecting pool. Ted paralleled their progress and turned left on Seventh. Another group of tourists, all with headphones in place, stood facing the Capitol while their bored tour guide droned on in German. Ted skirted the group and found Mr. Chang propped against a tree, playing Angry Birds on a tablet.

“I am completely addicted to this game,” he said as a surviving pig laughed at him. “But I can't seem to clear this level.” His English was perfect, much better than Ted had remembered, and he shook the tablet in phony frustration. “You passed me three times and never even noticed.” He finally turned from the game and faced Ted. “Or anyone else.” His threat hung in the air.

“I just want to get through this as quickly as possible.” Ted crouched down, slid the laptop out of his briefcase, loaded the first of the three CDs, and then handed the computer to Chang.

“Perfect. Is this everything?” Chang asked, immersed in the program.

“Here,” Ted said tersely and handed the Asian two more CDs. Chang closed the program, swapped discs, and when that disc opened immediately, repeated the process with the third CD.

“Excellent,” he said, closing the computer screen after pocketing the three discs. “Of course these files are encryp …” Without warning, Ted jumped to his feet. Chang dropped the laptop into the grass and was on his feet only an instant after Ted.

A light brighter than the noonday sun suddenly filled Chang's mind. A moment later it resolved into the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Her beauty was so overpowering that it made his head throb; he felt lighter than air and was certain that his feet had left the ground. He steadied himself against the smooth bark of the tree, and from her brilliance floated the most beautiful voice he could imagine. A mixture of music and soft caresses, it spoke in a language that no simple human mind could ever understand. Ted's rough and ugly voice interrupted its perfect harmony, and abruptly the spell snapped. A lovely young blonde woman wearing a yellow sundress approached them. Alam spoke again, and Chang's mind cleared enough to recognize the name “Amanda.”

“What are you doing here?” Ted asked, and Chang wondered why Ted was so upset with the arrival of this exquisite creature.

“I can't let you do this, Ted,” she said, and Chang struggled to understand what they were talking about. He felt drunk, and his mind slowly translated the English words to Korean. Alam was worse than a fool. He was an American fool. He saw an Asian face and immediately accepted that Chang was from China. It amazed and shamed him that such a narrow-minded, egotistical society was responsible for his proud country's survival. Still, they had brought with them the wonderful concepts of free markets and unrestrained capitalism.

“What's going on here, Ted?” Chang said, a little thickly, trying to shake off this woman's narcotic effect. He looked past Ted and found one of his four colleagues across the street, alert to the fact that things were not going to plan. Chang was running point for the five-man team that had worked the American agent for more than a year. A great deal of money and effort had been expended in maneuvering Ted to this very spot, and now this woman's unexpected appearance threatened their investment. “Who are you?” He took a step forward and had a clear view of Amanda.

“He's not who you think he is,” she answered, ignoring Chang's question. “Ted, you don't have much time …”

Chang reached for the gun beneath his jacket, but his mind exploded into an infinity of stars, and the wondrous voice filled the spaces between. He was on his knees, then on his back, and finally on his stomach as the beautiful angel transformed into a hideous and vengeful demon. An invisible hand forced his face into the dirt and he watched Ted scoop up the laptop and the precious discs. He could hear them talk, but their words held no meaning. He heard his name, his real name, and the astonishment made him struggle. He tried to move, but the invisible hand only pushed harder; he was breathing dirt now, and his body was being crushed by the unseen force. He began to panic, and images raced through his mind. His parents, their Seoul apartment, school, university, induction into the Army, and then an alien but crystal-clear memory of a small blonde baby. A tall, muscular American with an inviting and mischievous smile followed.