Backwoods (3 page)

He swung his legs around, letting his feet
settle against the cold tile floor. The electricity had been
knocked out by the storm before his arrival with Santoro at the
facility and apparently remained so. The door to his room stood
partially ajar, but the only light coming through the narrow
opening was the flickering, dancing strobe of a flashlight
beam.

Andrew went to the doorway and peered
outside. “Who’s there?”

A blinding glare struck his face, the
flashlight swung to aim directly in his eyes. “Jesus!” Squinting,
Andrew shrank back from the door. He stumbled over his own feet,
then sat down hard, knocking over an empty nearby intravenous rack
in the process. It clattered noisily to the floor and less than
five seconds later, the door to his room flew open wide.

“Who are you?” he heard a man say from the
other side of that dazzling glare, his voice loud and sharp. He
heard a distinctive
CLACK
that he recognized instinctively:
the sound of a gun made as it chambered a round.

Shit.

“Don’t shoot.” Andrew drew his hand to his
face, trying to block the flashlight beam.

“Who are you?” the man asked again, more
sharply this time. “This is a restricted-access installation of the
United States Army. Identify yourself.”

“My name is Andrew Braddock.” Andrew
squinted, both hands raised now. “Don’t shoot. A woman brought me
here—Santoro. We almost crashed out on the highway.”

The blinding glare lingered a moment longer,
then fell away to pool on the floor. Andrew blinked against
residual pinpoints of light still dancing across his gaze.
“Thanks.”

“Get on your feet,” the man with the gun
said, coming slowly into clearer view as Andrew’s vision adjusted.
Tall and lean, in his early- to mid-fifties, he studied the younger
man from across the room with a decided frown, his brows furrowed
slightly. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Still not entirely convinced the guy wouldn’t
pop a round in him, judging by the fact he’d only lowered the
chrome-plated pistol in his hand a halting measure, Andrew obeyed.
He yelped in surprise when the man caught him by the arm, spun him
smartly around and shoved him face-first into the nearest wall.
Keeping Andrew pinned forcibly to the drywall with one hand, he
then proceeded to clap and pat the younger man down with the
other.

“I’m not armed,” Andrew said.

The man said nothing, as thorough and
industrious in his work as Saint Nick from the old “Night Before
Christmas” poem. His hand slapped against Andrew’s legs clear down
to his ankles, then up again. Seeming thus satisfied, he released
Andrew and stepped back. Andrew heard another quiet
clack
as
he returned the safety on his pistol and holstered it.

“Who are you?” he asked, turning warily,
keeping his hands raised.

“My name is Major Mitchell Prendick,” the man
replied “I’m the commander of this facility.”

“I heard someone screaming outside,” Andrew
said.

If this was a point of concern for the Major,
he offered no outward indication. Instead, he said, “You may not
leave this room, Mister Braddock. Is that understood?”

Puzzled, Andrew shook his head. “What, you
mean until morning?”

Without another word, Prendick turned and
walked back to the doorway.

“Wait. I need to use your phone,” Andrew
said. “A radio. Something. I’ve got to—”

His voice cut short as Prendick slammed the
door behind him. Before the residual
bang
had faded, Andrew
heard a soft but distinctive
click
from the other side.

He locked the door.

Scrambling to his feet, Andrew hurried to the
door, grabbing the handle, twisting it impotently between his
hands.
That son of a bitch,
he thought.
He locked me in
here!

“Hey!” Balling his hand into a fist, he beat
loudly against the wood. “Let me out. Hey!”

But the door remained locked and Prendick
didn’t reply. When another scream came from outside, filtering
through the walls, Andrew knew he wouldn’t get any more sleep that
night. Drawing the itchy blanket around his shoulders again, he sat
down in the dark, huddled in a corner, his knees drawn toward his
chest while he waited for the dawn.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

****

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep sitting on the
floor in the corner of the exam room. When the fluorescent fixtures
overhead flickered once, then twice, flooding the room with bright,
sudden light, and the central air vents suddenly rattled and
whistled into abrupt life, his eyes flew wide and he jerked in
start.

“What the—” he gasped, disoriented and
bewildered. Then, realizing where he was, he sighed, forking his
fingers through the heavy crown of his hair. Shoving the blanket
aside, he stumbled to his feet. Not only did his muscles feel stiff
and sore, aching from his crash the night before, but now he
discovered, he’d developed uncomfortable, even painful cricks in
his hips, neck and shoulders.

Terrific,
he thought, wincing as he
tried to stretch those tight places loose once more.

He heard a soft tap at the exam room door,
then a woman’s voice, hesitant and polite called out: “Mister
Braddock?”

“I’m awake,” he said, and because his voice
sounded little more than a hoarse croak, he coughed into his fist
and tried again. “It’s okay. I’m awake.”

Opening the door more, the blonde doctor
poked her head inside. “Good morning, sunshine,” she said,
extending her hand in introduction. “We met last night.”

“Dr. Montgomery. I remember.” Andrew accepted
the shake and was surprised by the confident strength in her grip
as she folded her slim, cool fingers against his. With a glance at
the ceiling, the fluorescent lights, he said, “The power’s back
on.”

“Yeah, thank God.” She laughed. “Lightning
apparently hit the main generator during the storm but they got it
fixed. Good thing. This dump’s boring enough even with the lights
working. I can’t imagine being stuck out here without
electricity.”

“Are you with the Army?”

She laughed again. “God, no. I work for Dr.
Moore. He’s a geneticist and molecular biologist conducting
research here. This is his facility.”

“I thought it was Major What’s-His-Name’s,”
Andrew said, thinking of the tall man from the night before.

Suzette laughed. “Who? Prendick? I take it
you’ve met.”

“You could say that.” Andrew told her about
their impromptu introduction and even more off the cuff
frisking.

“Oh, jeez.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry
about that. I know he seemed a little…high strung, but really, he’s
alright. The storm just had him a little kookier than usual, that’s
all.”

“He locked me in here.”

“Really?” Suzette raised her brow. “He
probably just didn’t want you wandering around, what with the
lights out and all. Anyway, I work with Dr. Moore’s daughter. She’s
autistic. And speaking of which…” She checked her wrist watch.
“It’s about time for her breakfast.” Glancing up, she smiled coyly.
“Care to join us?”

His stomach warbled at the mention, making
him realize he’d missed supper the night before. “Thanks. That
sounds terrific.”

Like the walkie-talkie, Andrew’s iPhone had
managed to somehow survive the crash relatively unscathed. As he
and Suzette crossed the foyer together, he selected the phone
function and sifted through his contacts to find Ted McGillis’
number.

“You’re not going to get through,” Suzette
said.

He tried anyway, but only got the droning
beep-beep-beep
that meant he had no network connection, no
cellular tower within range. He tried to open his internet browser
with likewise results. Ditto for the Talkabout.

“It’s the mountains,” Suzette said. “I
haven’t been able to call in or out on my cell since I got
here.”

“How long has that been?” Andrew asked.

“Six weeks,” she replied, and he bit back a
groan.

Terrific,
he thought.
That’s just
great.

“Is there a pay phone or something I can use
instead, then?” he asked. “I need to call in to my office, try to
get hold of…” His voice faded as Suzette shook her head.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sounds like the storm
took out the relay satellite, too, from the way Prendick was
talking.”

“Any idea how long until it’s fixed?”

“Around here? Your guess is as good as
mine.”

Terrific,
he thought again.
This
just keeps getting better and better.

By night, it had been quiet and still inside
the main building, but by day, it had sprang into life, a veritable
hive of activity, with uniformed soldiers moving this way and that,
all at brisk and purposeful paces. Together they crossed the large
lobby area Andrew had seen upon his arrival.

He paused, looking out a glass door opposite
the main entrance through which Santoro had brought him the night
before. It opened out onto a small stone patio, with a wide, neatly
manicured courtyard lawn beyond. Past this, half-hidden among the
trees, he could see a building, one-story and squat, with a
featureless, white-stone façade that reminded him of a mausoleum
face. Even from his distance, he could see armed soldiers marking a
staggered perimeter around it.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Suzette followed his gaze. “Dr. Moore’s
lab.”

“Why the guards?”

He glanced back at her and she winked. “Top
secret,” she told him, hooking her fingers into quotes again.
“Hush-hush.”

“They’d have to kill me if I found out?”

Again, she didn’t laugh. “You got it.”

CHAPTER FOUR

My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient
stair;

Set all your mind upon the steep ascent

Suzette lived with Dr. Moore and his
eight-year-old daughter Alice in a large apartment that encompassed
the entire west wing and second floor of the building. The entrance
was at the top of a steep flight of stairs, and as she led him up,
these words, this fleeting, half-forgotten stanza of poetry came to
mind. He’d learned it his freshman year of college, in an English
literature class where he’d met Lila Meyer.

“William Butler Yeats. Arguably one of the
greatest poets of this or any other century.” She’d stood in front
of the podium, looking up at the stadium-styled seating
arrangement, hundreds of students crammed into creaking,
uncomfortable wooden seats. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair had
framed her face in what would soon become a familiar tumble of
haphazard curls. She’d smiled as she’d recited
The Winding
Stair,
her mouth soft and sensuously full, her cheeks high and
elegant, her hazel eyes sharp. It had occurred to him in his
youthful naiveté that she was very beautiful.

Or into that most fecund ditch of all,

The folly that man does

Or must suffer, if he woos

A proud woman not kindred of his soul.

As he thought about Lila, that passage from
the poem recurred to him as well.

At the top of the stairs, Suzette led him
across a small lobby toward a pair of doors. There, she paused by a
key pad and punched in a quick series of numbers, unlocking
them.

The entry opened onto an expansive living
room with exposed brick and hardwood beams meant to lend a rustic
but contemporary architectural feel. The entire far wall was
floor-to-ceiling glass, towering window panes with inset doors that
opened onto a cedar plank deck, allowing a nearly panoramic view of
the forested vista below.

“Hi, Alice,” Suzette said.

A young girl sat at a coffee table nestled in
the vertex of a coffee-colored leather sectional sofa, a
spiral-bound notebook opened in front of her. She seemed completely
absorbed in whatever she was writing in the notebook, a pencil
clutched in her hand, moving furiously back and forth along the
page. If she noticed Suzette’s entrance or heard her greeting, she
offered no acknowledgement.

“This is Mister Braddock,” Suzette said,
draping her hand against Andrew’s arm by way of introduction, even
though the girl, Alice, didn’t as much as glance up from her work.
“Say good morning, Alice.”

“Good morning, Alice,” the girl mumbled,
still scribbling.

Suzette chuckled. “You’re being rude,
Alice.”

“I’m busy, Suzette,” Alice replied, still not
looking up.

Unfazed, Suzette continued to smile brightly.
“Are you ready for breakfast? How about I fix you some eggs?”

“I want the usual.”

“How about French toast? Some pancakes? You
know your father wants you to try and break some of your routines,
do new things.”

Still not even a sideways glance. “The
usual.”

Suzette sighed. “Alright, then. Suit
yourself.” To Andrew, she said, “Make yourself at home. I’ll be
right back.”

“What? Wait.” He caught her arm, wide-eyed
with sudden alarm. Flustered, he stammered, “I just…I mean, I’m not
very good with kids.”

Suzette chuckled, offering his hand a gentle
pat. “That’s okay. Neither is Alice.” With a wink and a smile, she
drew herself loose of his grasp and headed for the kitchen.

He stood in the entryway for a long moment,
feeling awkward and intrusive. Suzette had said the girl was
autistic and he struggled to remember what that meant.
Wasn’t
Forrest Gump autistic?
He wondered.
Or maybe it was Rainman.
Isn’t it the same thing as being retarded?

“Uh, hi,” he said at last.

Nothing.

“I’m Andrew.”

Still nothing.

He walked around the side of the couch,
trying to see what Alice was writing. It looked like a running
series of numbers, although the penmanship was terrible, the
crooked, wobbly chicken-scratch of a palsy-ridden old man. “What
are you working on?”