Darkness Falls (16 page)

The doorbell rang and she stood, making sure he saw the deep frown on her face before she padded down the hall.

Beamon heard the door open and then Jack Reynolds's voice, but he didn't get up from the table. Instead, he drained his beer in a vain attempt to dislodge what was left of the muffin from his dental work.

Carrie leaned into his ear as she came back into the kitchen. "That expression, the smell of cigarettes, the Twinkie crumbs, and the energy secretary at my door. I don't even have a category for that."

* * * *

The study at the back of the house wasn't that different from the one he had downtown. His furniture hadn't been delivered yet, leaving it empty of anything but stacks of boxes and a few framed pictures leaning against the wall.

"We've got problems," Reynolds said, closing the door behind him.

Beamon tested a particularly sturdy-looking box and sat down on it. "What kind of problems?"

"The Saudis have completely clammed up, but our spy satellites are telling us that the fields are shutting down just like Erin Neal said they would. That's why the gas lines keep getting longer."

Beamon nodded but didn't say anything.

"And that's not the worst of it. We have Steve Andropolous testing other reserves across the Middle East and, according to him, a lot of the fields are coming up positive for the bacteria."

"You came all the way out here to tell me that?"

"This has now officially risen to the very top of the president's agenda. He's talking to some of our allies about what we know, but we have to be careful. Everyone's jumpy as hell and we have to make sure we're protecting our interests first."

Reynolds backed away and leaned against the wall as though he needed it for support. "Jesus, Mark. Neal might actually be right. We could see a thirty-five percent drop in oil availability over the course of a year. I've got ten economists working on the problem and the only thing they agree on is the word `catastrophe.' We're talking about the entire world's economy tanking. And you know who's going to lead the way? We are. We use more energy than anyone else by far and we're heavily reliant on water-injected wells. We're trying to figure out how to mitigate the effects and to let the problem go public as slowly and evenly as we can, but I'm not sure any of it's going to make any difference."

Beamon just sat there and let Reynolds's words sink in. He could almost feel the autonomy and filters he'd been promised disintegrating. Imploding might be a better word.

"Where are you on finding these psychopaths, Mark?"

"Nowhere Jack. I just started, remember?"

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?

You had no evidence at all. I couldn't agree to a politically suicidal investigation based on a goddamn hunch!"

Beamon put his finger to his lips. Emory was asleep in her room above them. "That wasn't an accusation, Jack. I'm just saying don't come to me expecting miracles. You'll be disappointed."

"Don't fuck this up," Reynolds said loudly enough to suggest he didn't care that it was a school night. "You've had a lot of political problems in the past, but if you get this wrapped up quick and neat, I'm guessing they're all going to be forgotten."

Beamon smiled and shook his head. "Then what? The government doesn't give bonuses. And I don't want to be a congressman. No, I think this is all downside for me, Jack. No matter when I catch these guys, someone's gonna say I should have done it faster. Someone's going to have to pay for the economic disaster everyone keeps talking about. And I'm guessing it's not going to be the president."

"I want hourly reports," Reynolds said, clearly unconcerned about Beamon's problems.

"I'm not doing hourly reports, Jack. I probably won't even do daily ones."

"Have you been paying attention to what's going on, Mark? It's possible -- likely that in a few months, Iran will be all that's left of the Middle East producers. And we don't deal with them. We can't take a hit like this. Do your job and stop it before it gets out of control."

Beamon nodded noncommittally, noticing that his job had suddenly gone from catching the people responsible to ensuring that Iran didn't end up OPEC's last man standing.

The muffled sound of a doorbell drifted in and they sat in silence until there was a quiet knock on the office door.

"What?" Beamon said, glancing at his watch and confirming that it was indeed after eleven.

The door partially opened and Terry Hirst's worried face appeared in the crack. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Why the hell not? Everyone else is."

Hirst was the model for Beamon's stereotype of the Jewish New York lawyer -- which is exactly what he'd been before joining the FBI. He was barely five seven, and not fat so much as slightly swollen looking. He'd been on the fast track at the bureau until he started having heart problems and needed to slow down. Beamon had hired him less for his considerable talent than to give him a job so easy that it would be virtually impossible to cause even the mildest cardiac episode. At least that had been the plan.

Hirst nodded nervously toward Reynolds as he closed the door quietly behind him. "Okay . . . I don't want you guys to freak out. I've already got people on this."

"On what?" Beamon said.

"Well, we were going through Ronald Denizen's email --"

"Who?"

"He's a biologist on our list. He's a ways down, though. Number fifty-six. I think."

"You're saying you found something?" Beamon asked. Normally, he preferred bad news to come in the morning and not when it would cause him to lay awake all night turning it over and over in his mind, but in this case he was willing to make an exception.

"Yeah. An email speculating on how to create a bacteria that would eat through oil faster. Our people tell me that it's essentially an exact description of the structure of the bacteria found in Saudi Arabia and Alaska."

"Jesus Christ!" Reynolds said. "Tell me we have this guy."

Hirst nodded. "We're holding him with the other scientists we picked up. The thing is, though, the email wasn't from him, it was to him."

"To him?" Beamon said. "Who wrote it?" Hirst put his hands out in a gesture for calm. "I don't want --"

"Tell me who wrote it, Terry!"

He winced slightly as he spoke. "Erin Neal."

Chapter
20.

Erin Neal ascended the spiral staircase in bare feet, hardly noticing the normally pleasant sensation of cold stone against his skin. When he topped out in his tiny living room, he found Jenna lying motionless on his sofa, breathing in the soft, steady rhythm that he remembered so well. Stress had always made her retreat into sleep just as it kept him awake.

The moon had cleared the mountains and its light streamed through the windows, making her look like the ghost she'd been to him for so long. He stopped and stared down at her, feeling the breath constrict in his chest. Of all the emotions he could have predicted he'd feel at a moment like this, he would never have guessed the overriding one would be disorientation. Maybe that was how the mind dealt with being barraged simultaneously with anger, relief, sadness, fear. And, of course, love.

She stirred, as though she knew he was looking down at her, and the sheet began to slip slowly from her leg. He turned and walked into the kitchen before it slid too far.

The burst of light from the refrigerator blinded him as he fished out a beer and popped it open. The darkness descended again when he nudged the door shut -- a more appropriate setting to contemplate the gigantic blank that now represented his future. Of course, it was easy to superimpose Jenna's image on it and pretend she belonged there, but for some reason, everything else seemed to be swallowed by the emptiness of that canvas.

He heard movement in the living room and looked over at the closed kitchen door. Maybe she'd changed and couldn't sleep either. Maybe she'd want to talk -- or to throw herself into his arms and pretend for a few hours that none of this had ever happened.

He pushed the door partially open and saw her dim outline standing next to the sofa. Before he could say anything, though, she turned and her silhouette bulged unnaturally.

There was someone behind her.

"Erin! Come out! I have Jenna."

He pulled back, letting the door slowly close until there was only a thin crack to see through.

"Erin! Come out now!"

To him, Jonas Metzger had never been anything but another object Michael Teague used to adorn his inflated opinion of himself. What would all the expensive cars, private jets, and tailored clothing be without a creepy bodyguard? They'd stared each other down a few times, but unfortunately, nothing had ever come of it. And now he was here to finish what they had never quite had the opportunity to start.

Jonas pulled back and the moonlight once again fell on Jenna's face. She was trying to speak, but the son of a bitch was choking her. Erin's jaw tightened and he reached out to throw the door open, but then withdrew when he saw the gun pressed against the side of her head.

"Come out!" Jonas shouted at the empty loft above him. When there was no response, he started edging toward the hallway that led to the bathroom. His path took him within a few feet of the kitchen door, but with his chest pressed against Jenna's back and the barrel of the gun still against her temple, there was nothing Erin could do.

Jenna grabbed the German's arm and managed to loosen his grip on her neck enough to speak. "He's gone, Jonas."

The strangled quality of her voice caused Erin's stomach to clench. A few years ago, he would have lunged through the door, completely blinded by rage. But he'd learned to control that part of him. To a point.

"He went to the police," she continued. "Don't get yourself in more trouble than you're already in. We --"

He tightened his arm around her throat again, silencing her as he moved cautiously down the hall. When they faded into shadow, Erin looked behind him. There was a block of knives on the counter, but that wasn't terribly comforting when faced with a gun. His gaze wandered to the refrigerator, the microwave, and finally stopped on the stove. It was a long shot but nothing else was coming to mind.

He turned on all the burners without lighting them, holding his breath as the gas began to fill the room. Selecting the most deadly looking knife from the block, he shoved the rest in a drawer and went back to the kitchen door to peek out. Jonas had been forced to turn a light on in the hallway and was most of the way down it, still using Jenna as a shield. Erin waited until Jonas sprang through the bathroom door before moving silently across the living room and hiding behind the couch.

"Erin!" Jonas shouted. "Don't you care? Don't you care what I can do to her?"

There was a dull crack and a shout from Jenna. Erin jumped from his crouched position, the knife clenched in his hand.

No. If he let his temper take over, they were both dead. Jonas knew that and was using it.

"I think she's hurt," the German said. "She's bleeding very bad, Erin. You better come and help her."

When they appeared again a few moments later, Jonas's arm was still around Jenna's throat, but instead of silencing her, it was supporting the weight that her wobbly legs no longer could. Erin remained completely motionless when Jonas kicked open the door to the kitchen and then paused when he smelled the gas.

"Are you in here?" he said, starting forward again with the gun partially obscured in Jenna's hair. "Are you wanting to blow up your woman?"

The door swung shut behind them and Erin ran across the room, ending up with his back pressed against the wall next to the jamb. A few deep breaths and he slipped inside.

The gun was now aimed at Erin, but he ignored it and concentrated instead on the blood that had flowed across Jenna's face and down the T-shirt he'd given her to sleep in. In the moonlight streaming through the window, the stains looked black.

She appeared not to realize that he was standing in front of her as she struggled to regain her equilibrium, pulling weakly at Jonas's forearm.

"I knew you would come," the German said. "She was taken from you for so long. How can you lose her again?"

Still holding his breath, Erin pointed at the gun and then indicated around them at the gas-filled room.

Jonas's teeth glowed white as a smile spread across his face. "Of course you are very smart. The great Erin Neal, yes? The great environmentalist who tells the world to do whatever they want. To destroy whatever they want."

He released Jenna and she sank to the ground, pausing briefly on all fours before she collapsed onto her stomach. Jonas stuffed his gun in the back of his pants and slid a switchblade from his pocket. His smile broadened as he charged.

Erin feinted left, then went right, slamming against the counter and narrowly avoiding a slash that wasn't as well-timed as Jonas had expected. His reflexes and balance were just a bit off from the gas.

Erin let the German's momentum carry him and instead of launching forward like he normally would, backed away. It wasn't his kind of fighting -- the strategy of taking a few shots and going for the knockout wasn't as effective when the shots were coming from a knife.