The Overseer Page 25

  Trista came up on John’s right side, standing next to him. She didn’t say anything; she simply took his hand and held it. He smiled to himself.

  Devin stepped up on the other side, not noticing the two of them holding hands. “Have you ever had to talk to the police about this kind of thing before?”

  John shook his head. “Not in a long time.”

  Across the station one of the senator’s people—tall, bald, and thin, wearing a pinstripe suit—was talking emphatically, motioning for what appeared to be the most senior police officer to come to him. The bald man flashed credentials of some kind, pointing at John and the others, continuing his conversation with the policeman. They reached some sort of agreement, nodding to one another. The bald man began walking their way.

  “Who do you suppose that is?” Devin asked.

  “I have no clue,” John replied, shaking his head.

  “Me either,” Trista added.

  The man stopped a few feet from them and smiled. “Hello,” he said courteously, “my name is Mr. Crest. I would like to speak to you in private.”

  John looked at Devin, wondering if going with this man was the right thing to do. Devin nodded.

  “Lead the way.”

  They followed Mr. Crest through the hotel to an empty back room where he motioned them to sit across from him at a long table.

  The room was small, with bare white walls and no windows. Fluorescent lights filled the room with their usual washed-out glow. Mr. Crest sat, adjusted his thick glasses, and smiled at them. “Can I get you anything?”

  They each declined in their own awkward way.

  “Are we in some kind of trouble?” John asked, saying what he assumed the other two were thinking.

  “No,” Mr. Crest said, continuing his political smile, “not at all.” He opened his wallet, removing an ID card. “As I said, my name is Mr. Crest, and I work with the OGA.”

  John looked at Devin. “OGA?”

  “Other Government Agency,” Devin said with a nod, accepting the ID card for preview before sliding it down past John to Trista.

  “What does that mean?” John asked, heart beating faster than he expected.

  Devin looked directly at Mr. Crest. “You’re CIA.”

  Crest shrugged. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because,” Devin began, clasping his fingers on the tabletop, “I was in military intelligence. OGA is almost always a codename for the CIA.”

  “Or the NSA,” Crest added, “or a dozen other agencies that want to remain anonymous but still need to be called something.”

  “But probably CIA,” Devin asserted.

  Crest smiled. “Don’t be so quick to make that statement, Mr. Bathurst. OGA can be a designation for any governmental organization, including the FDA or the Department of Transportation.”

  “I doubt you’re Department of Transportation,” Devin said humorlessly.

  “And you’re right,” Crest conceded. “But I’m not CIA, either.”

  “I guess that leaves FDA,” John interjected with a chuckle. Nobody else laughed. “Sorry, stupid joke.”

  “No.” Crest reached for his briefcase, standing as he opened it. “I’m not with the Food and Drug Administration either.” He opened a file, glanced at the contents, then closed it and set the briefcase aside. “I am with an undisclosed agency that is very interested in what you have to offer.”

  “Have to offer?” Trista asked.

  Crest clasped his hands on top of the closed folder and looked them over. “Yes,” he said with a nod. “Because of your affiliation.”

  “Affiliation with whom?” she asked.

  “The affiliation you all have,” Crest said in all seriousness. “Because you are members of the Firstborn.”

  “Uh…” John tried to think of something to say without lying outright.

  “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” Devin stated without hesitation.

  “Yes,” Crest said without blinking, “you do know what I’m talking about, Mr. Bathurst. And the OGA is very interested in having you come to work for your country.”

  Devin was silent for a moment before speaking. “What do you think you know?”

  Crest cleared his throat. “The United States government worked with the Firstborn in an official capacity for the first time during the Second World War. The organization that I work for—the OGA—has been keeping files on the Firstborn for more than sixty years.”

  “Sixty years?” Devin mused, looking at the other two, who said nothing. “So what makes you think that any of us belong to this ‘Firstborn’?”

  “One of our people,” Crest said slowly and carefully, “saw a possible future in which an attempt would be made on Senator Foster’s life.”

  “Saw a possible future?” Devin asked.

  “Yes,” Crest said candidly. “A member of the Domani, as they are called. Those who see the future. This person saw something else too.”

  Devin attempted to remain calm. “And what would that be?”

  “The involvement of members of the Firstborn.” Crest smiled. “People with courage and resolve. The kinds of people we look for at the OGA.”

  Devin gave accepting nods. “And who was this Domani you got your information from?”

  “Professor Saul Mancuso.” Crest asked, “Ring any bells?”

  A shocked laugh was all Devin could manage for a moment. “Saul? Dr. Saul Mancuso is working for you?”

  “Yes.” Crest nodded, appearing confused. “There was an incident about a year ago that caught the attention of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. He had an extremely illegal cache of weapons on his property. He cut a deal with us to get out of serious prison time.” Crest flipped through his file for a moment, puzzled. “Why? Do you know him?”

  “Know him?” John Temple laughed. “We were at his compound when everything went down.”

  Devin shot an angry look at John before turning back to Crest. “So Dr. Mancuso saw the assassination attempt coming?”

  “Yes,” Crest acknowledged with a nod.

  “You knew that someone was going to try to kill the senator,” John said, “and you let him come here anyway?”

  “Insisted,” Crest corrected. “We used the senator as a lightning rod to draw out potential assets.”

  “Us,” Devin said with a nod. “This was all a recruiting op,” he mused.

  “Yes,” Crest agreed. “For us the only purpose of any of this was to flush you out, give you a chance to prove yourselves, and then make the offer.”

  “And if we refuse?” John asked.

  “There’s the door,” Crest said, looking to the exit. “You’re free to go. No one will stop you. But”—he looked directly at Devin and opened his file folder—“if you’re ready to hear my offer, then I invite you to stay.”

  John stood. “I’m out,” he said definitively.

  “Are you sure?” Crest asked.

  “You used a human life as bait,” John said with a grunt, Trista standing up next to him. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” John turned toward the door. Looking back he asked, “Are you coming, Devin?”

  Devin remained seated, maintaining eye contact with Crest. “I think I’m going to hear the man out.”

  The door opened, and Hannah was shoved into the dim basement. The door slammed shut behind her and latched, locking.

  The basement smelled like mold and mildew and body odor. The place was a filthy mess. It was strangely cool—a perverse relief from the upstairs, where the Arizona heat baked the interior of the church like a furnace.

  The faces at the other end of the room watched her, trying to determine who she was and if she could be trusted. Hannah approached slowly. “Hello,” she said softly, trying not to make any sudden moves, lowering to her knees and sitting on the edge of one of the yellowed mattresses that had been thrown across the floor in a hodgepodge. “My name is Hannah Rice,” she said, as if she was talking to a fri
ghtened animal that might run at a moment’s notice. Hannah scanned the frightened faces. She guessed that fewer than half of them were over the age of sixteen, and at least two of them were young boys—maybe twelve each.

  She could feel their shared past. Their collective feeling of dirtiness and shame. Feelings of hopelessness and pain. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling a heavy tear plummet across her face. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve had to go through.”

  “Are you a new trainer?” a Hispanic girl in her twenties asked.

  “Trainer?” Hannah asked.

  “The pretty women,” an African American girl in her teens said. “They come and teach us what to say and do. They recruit new girls. Are you one of them?”

  “No,” Hannah said, shaking, feeling another tear form. “I came here to help three girls.”

  “Who?” one of them asked.

  Hannah smiled, recognizing the face. “You, Kimberly,” she said with a choked smile, hot streams of tears tumbling from each eye.

  “Me?” the girl said. Blonde hair and green eyes, a dirty face and dirty clothes. The hint of bruises on her face. Sixteen years old—a woman and a child all at the same time.

  “Yes,” Hannah said, feeling her smile strain under the flood of tears, recognizing the faces of the other two girls. “And you, Tori, and you, Nikki.” She looked them all over. “I’m here to help you all.” Hannah considered her own captivity. “If I can.”

  They all stared at her. Lost and scared.

  She didn’t know what to say to them, and they certainly weren’t used to her yet. Hannah stood and walked to the other side of the room, sitting with her back against the wall. How had she gotten herself into this? How was she going to get them all back out?

  She closed her eyes and breathed slowly, trying to clear her mind.

  “Hannah?” a young voice asked. She opened her eyes and looked up. The girl named Kimberly was standing over her. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Yeah,” Hannah said, making room for Kimberly to sit next to her. The girl ignored the invitation and sat down in front of Hannah, two feet of space between them. Hannah tried to ignore the distance and smiled as best she could. “What do you want to talk about, Kimberly?”

  The girl was reluctant for a moment, then spoke. “How did you know to look for us here? They said that no one would come looking for us.”

  “They were wrong,” Hannah said firmly.

  Kimberly looked at the basement door. “I hate this place,” she said.

  “I know,” Hannah nodded. “This must be horrible for you.”

  “It’s worse for a lot of the other girls,” Kimberly shrugged. “Olga was in an orphanage. They couldn’t keep her after she turned eighteen, so they set her up with a work program.”

  “But it turned out to be this?”

  Kimberly nodded. “One of the others has a husband and a son back in Russia. They gave her pictures of both of them and said they’d kill them if she caused any trouble.”

  Hannah tried to think of something to say that would cheer Kimberly up, something that might remind her of something other than this hideous dungeon of a place. “I spoke to your mother,” she said with a smile, “and I knew I had to find you.”

  Kimberly shook her head. “She must be so mad at me for sneaking out. I just wanted to get out and meet people.” She wiped a very wet tear from her face. “I can’t believe how stupid I was. My parents must be so angry.”

  “No,” Hannah said, reaching for Kimberly. “Your mother is just very—”

  The girl recoiled before Hannah could touch her.

  Hannah paused, taking a moment to look into the girl’s intense eyes. “Kimberly,” she asked, “did they hurt you?”

  “You want to know if they raped me?” Kimberly asked flatly, accepting the factuality of her situation.

  Hannah lost her air as she watched the girl speak so casually about something so terrible. “Yes,” Hannah said with a nod.

  “No,” Kimberly said, “they left Tori and Nikki and me alone. They said that we were going to be sent to another country— and that they would do it there.” Kimberly looked at a door at the other end of the basement. “But they take the other girls into that room. The new girls scream and cry, but the ones who have been here longer know there’s no point.” Kimberly was quiet for another moment. “It scares me to think about what it’s going to be like when it happens to me.”

  “No,” Hannah said, looking Kimberly in the eye, “it’s not going to happen to you. I’m not going to let it happen to you. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

  Devin watched as Crest took a piece of paper from the file in front of him. “I had a chance to pull this up before I brought you in here.” Crest looked over the sheet. “Have you by any chance been in the area of Ohio in the past few days?”

  “It’s possible,” Devin replied, dodging the question.

  “Well, it appears that a partial fingerprint was lifted from a Ka-Bar combat knife embedded in a man’s chest.”

  “And?” Devin remained cool.

  “That partial matches your fingerprint, which is on record from your days with the armed forces. The place where the body was found was covered in your fingerprints, despite the fact it appears someone tried to wipe them away.”

  “I see,” Devin said acceptingly, trying not to say or do anything rash.

  “And then there was a double homicide in the suburbs of Las Vegas last night. A known criminal by the name of Anthony Scarza and his associate George ‘Scud’ Pryor.”

  Devin continued his nonchalance. “So?”

  “Again,” Crest continued, “your fingerprints were found.”

  “You said Scarza was a criminal,” Devin replied. “I’m certain there were other prints in the house. Prints of people with criminal records.”

  Crest shrugged. “I can’t speak to that. But your fingerprints were there, as well as on a murder weapon in Ohio. That makes you a suspect in an investigation that could seriously damage your career.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Speaking of your career,” Crest continued, eyeing another document. “It appears that your employer, Domani Financial— who curiously shares the same name as the forward-seeing order of the Firstborn to which you also belong—is being investigated by the Securities and Exchange Commission and the Internal Revenue Service.” Crest leaned back, pushing the file away from him. “So it looks like you’re going to need a new job, Mr. Bathurst,” he said coyly. “One that can make you friends. The kind that can make charges like murder and obstruction of justice”—he gave a dismissive gesture—“go away.”

  John stood in the hall with Trista, watching her face in profile. They had stepped out of the meeting with Crest but had been told to stay in the hall and not go too far. Two security guards stood across the hall from them, giving them their space.

  It had been a strange and emotional day so far. The kind that brought a person’s perspective and priorities into an unusually sharp focus. The kind of thing that made a person think about who they wanted to spend the rest of their life with…

  “Trista?” John said. She looked at him with dazzling eyes.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Her cell phone rang. “Just a second,” she raised a finger, checking the caller ID. She frowned. “It’s Clay Goldstein.” She turned to John. “I should take this.”

  He nodded. “Yeah,” he said with an accepting smile, “you probably should.”

  “I’ll just be a second,” she said, opening the phone. Trista said hello and turned away, delving into conversation with Clay Goldstein.

  John stood alone for a moment, looking the other direction, and saw someone else.

  “Angelo?” he said, confused.

  He stood alone and still in the hall, ten feet from John. “Mr. Temple,” Angelo replied with a nod.

  John approached Angelo, watching the security guard follow a
t a distance. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “She’s a remarkable woman,” Angelo said, glancing past John toward Trista.

  John turned, watching her talk on the phone, and smiled. “Yeah. She really is.” John looked back. “I love her.”

  “Sadly,” Angelo said, “she thinks she loves you too.”

  “What?” John stammered. “Really? Why is that sad?”

  “Because it’s her willingness to cross lines,” Angelo said, “her willingness to accept others who are not like her, including people like you. That’s what makes her dangerous. That’s why the Thresher wants her dead.”

  “What are you saying?” John asked.

  “I’m saying that you’re endangering her by letting her cross that line.”

  John was incredulous. “What?”

  Angelo nodded, continuing. “She turned down the man in Belize because she’s still in love with you. She came back to see if she still felt the same way.”

  John stood there for a moment, letting it all sink in—the thought that she reciprocated feelings for him. “I’m willing to cross those lines too. Why doesn’t the Thresher want me?”

  “Because you’re weak.”

  “Weak?” John asked.

  “Yes,” Angelo said with a nod. “You don’t even have the strength to walk away from her to protect her.”

  “I’m going to get her hurt,” John said, remembering the way she had nearly died in the monorail station. “Aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” Angelo agreed, “and if you love her you’ll do everything in your power to put distance between yourself and her— because if you don’t, you’ll get her killed.”

  John could feel his heart sink. Angelo believed what he was saying, and John couldn’t help but see it too. The crazy wanderer was right.

  “But,” Angelo continued, “none of that is going to matter once the reckoning comes.”

  “The what?”

  “The end of the Firstborn,” Angelo said without hesitation.

  “The end? Do you mean destruction?”