Infiltration Page 2

  Dr. Drummond’s brows lowered. “I’m not sure I get your meaning.”

  “Well,” I shrugged, “when you read about a serial killer, you usually learn that he came from an abusive family, or that he never bonded to his mother as a baby, or he was mentally deficient or something. You rarely hear about criminals who are bad because they enjoy hurting others. I didn’t believe that was possible until lately, but now I have to wonder.”

  “What are you wondering?”

  I blew out a breath and glanced at the clock. “My goodness! I’ve been talking for a solid hour. And I haven’t even gotten to the stuff about why I’m here.”

  The doctor checked his watch, then smiled. “Can you give me an abridged version?”

  “Sure.” I leaned forward. “Those people out in the waiting room—they’re friends, and we’ve been investigating unusual situations. Ever since I joined up with them, we’ve all seen things I can’t explain.” Because I felt completely comfortable, I told him about Sridhar and the Institute, about the disappearing House and what the professor called posthumous manifestations. I told him about the bird and fish die-offs, about the odd girl who managed to contact us through another universe, and our mad romp through Europe and a half-dozen multiverses. Finally, I told him about the green fungi, the flying orbs, and how I almost died.

  “The fungus is no longer in my body,” I said, “but yesterday I thought I heard the voices again . . . and they were loud enough to drown out everything else. I don’t know what’s happening, but at times I’m scared spitless. Being out of control—having intruders in my brain—was the most frightening experience of my life. That’s what happened yesterday, and I was so frightened that I fainted. That’s why I’m here.”

  I sat perfectly still and waited for Dr. Drummond to slap his head in disbelief or something, but he simply smoothed a wrinkle out of his pant leg and leaned toward me. “Andrea,” he asked, his blue eyes darkening with concern, “in this moment, right now, what do you want more than anything else in the world?”

  I blinked. “I want to get out of here.”

  He laughed. “Fair enough. What will you want when you’re in the car and on your way home?”

  I thought a moment. “I want . . . to feel like myself again. I want to feel bubbly and optimistic and bright . . .” I looked down and laughed. “Sounds like a line from ‘I Feel Pretty,’ doesn’t it?”

  “Pretty and witty and bright,” Dr. Drummond joked, and when I glanced at him, his eyes danced with a conspiratorial gleam.

  My heart did a flip-flop. He knew West Side Story?

  “I have a favor to ask,” he said, standing and moving behind his desk. He opened a drawer, then pulled out a slender blue notebook, the kind we had used in college for essay tests. “I’m going to give you a blank journal, and I want you to fill three pages in it every day, without fail. Write about what you’re thinking and feeling, what you’re doing, that sort of thing. Don’t worry about spelling or grammar; this isn’t for publication. It’s just for you.”

  He thumbed through the blank book as if checking to be sure the pages were clean, then came around the desk and handed it to me. “And I’d like to see you again in a few days. We’ll talk some more, and maybe you’ll discover that you’ve written something important in your wee book. If that’s so, you can tell me about it. Here’s my card. Call me if you have a problem.”

  I put the card in my pocket, then clutched the blank journal. “My wee book.” I smiled at it, clean and compact, waiting for my words. “All right, I’ll see you soon.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  The next morning, the professor received three boxes from a FedEx truck, then dragged all of them into the living room. A UPS truck pulled up five minutes later, and handed over a package addressed to Brenda.

  “What’s all that?” Brenda asked, looking at the boxes as if they were bombs that might go off at any moment.

  The professor closed the door and looked at our suddenly crowded living room. “The large boxes are from a clipping service,” he said. “This one is for you, Barnick, from a Mrs. Irene Brown.”

  “Auntie Rene!” Brenda practically vaulted over the coffee table to reach the professor, then snatched the box.

  I stared in shock—Brenda never showed that much enthusiasm—while the professor gave her a disapproving frown. “Have you been sharing our address?”

  “Only with Auntie Rene.” Brenda lowered her brow. “You got a problem with that?”

  “We must think of our personal security. No matter who we’re communicating with, e-mail accounts can be hacked, cell phone calls can be recorded—”

  “Auntie Rene would never hurt me,” Brenda said, tearing into the package. “The woman worries about me every time I go out of town. She’s a little overprotective, but still—” Brenda held up what looked like a seriously deformed orange hammer. Instead of a head and a prong, the top of this hammer featured two formidable steel knobs.

  Tank gaped at it. “What in the—”

  “The Life Hammer,” Brenda said, reading from a card. “Dear Brenda—I looked on a map and saw where you is and then I saw that long bridge over the ocean. Cars fall into the water every day, and I don’t want you drownin’, so I got this for you. Keep it in your purse and if your car falls in, just smack the window.

  “I’ve also enclosed a can of shark repellant, in case you go swimmin’ at the beach, and some mosquito wipes. They’re not for wiping mosquitoes, they’re for keeping them away because they carry that nasty West Nile virus. Don’t want you gettin’ sick. Love you, Auntie Rene.”

  I laughed, Tank guffawed, and even Daniel smiled. “Hoo boy,” Brenda said, chuckling to herself, “when was the last time a car went into the water around here?”

  “About the same time somebody got the West Nile virus,” the professor said. “Or was attacked by a shark.”

  I shook my head. “You guys shouldn’t laugh about things like that. I don’t think any cars have gone over the bridge lately, but about thirty years ago, a bunch of cars and a bus went into the bay. A ship hit the bridge, so it was a pretty big deal.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Brenda said, “but it was nice of Auntie Rene to think about me.”

  She set the orange hammer, shark repellent, and mosquito wipes on the coffee table, but Daniel picked them up and handed them back to her. “Keep,” he said, his eyes serious.

  She looked at him, then sighed. “Little man, what am I gonna do with you?” Still she dropped all of her aunt’s gifts into her purse. “Better?”

  Daniel nodded and went back to playing a game on his new phone.

  “Now,” the professor said, pulling one of the large boxes over to his chair. “Let’s get to work.”

  “What’s a clipping service?” Tank asked.

  The professor ripped the tape from his box, then opened it and pulled out a stack of printed pages. “Several times now we’ve had people mention an organization called The Gate, so I thought we should investigate them. Right after the event at the school I subscribed to a media monitoring service and asked for printed copies of articles that mention the group.” He smiled with satisfaction as he lifted out a second stack. “And here they are . . . three boxes filled with clippings.”

  Brenda groaned. “You expect us to read through all that?”

  “Time to change our tactics,” the professor said. “Ever since we got together we’ve been reactive, simply responding to the odd things we encountered. We were being played, rattled, used, and for what? Nothing. We have nothing to show for our efforts.”

  “We’re alive,” I pointed out. “That’s something.”

  The professor waved a hand in my direction, but charged ahead. “We are not merely reacting any longer,” he said, his voice booming in the small house. “We are going to be proactive. We are going to learn everything we can about this group. We’re going to figure out who or what The Gate is, and then we’re going to rattle their cage for a while.�
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  He pulled another stack of printed clippings and set it in front of Tank.

  Tank grinned. “You mean we’re gonna turn the tables on ’em?”

  “Exactly.” The professor set another stack in front of Brenda. “Here’s the plan. Andi and I will work on the orb while Tank and Brenda skim these clippings. You’ll find the pertinent parts highlighted, see? If the information is useful, circle the important sections and set the clipping aside. If the article isn’t helpful, toss it into an empty box.”

  Brenda lifted a stack of pages onto her lap, then scowled at McKinney. “You do know that you could do the same thing with Google, right? For free? And without killing a bunch of trees?”

  He shook his head. “I want information that would never find its way to the World Wide Web. I want facts that precede the Internet. Humor me, please, and start reading.”

  Tank took a stack of documents and went to sit by the window; Brenda stretched out on the couch. Daniel sat on the floor, tapping his phone, but his gaze kept darting around the room, leaving me to wonder what he was seeing. . . .

  “Andi?” The professor went into the dining room and pulled out a chair. Sighing, I joined him.

  From a cardboard box, the professor lifted a scale, a drill, and a tape measure. I reached for my tablet computer, then opened a scratch pad.

  “You know the routine,” McKinney said. “Weigh, measure, record. Experiment. Then let’s see what this little odd ball is made of.”

  The orb, I discovered, weighed four pounds, ten ounces—in the hour I measured it, at least. The circumference was fourteen inches exactly, and when I held it twelve inches from the floor and released it, it fell to the linoleum with a thud. “Definitely not weightless,” I typed on my tablet. “Incapable of flight, as far as I can tell.”

  The professor plugged in the electric drill, which he fitted with the smallest drill bit. He took eye protectors from his bag, which we both put on. Then, beneath that awful chandelier, the professor held the orb between his hands while I attempted to drill into it. I was unsuccessful when I held the drill at a ninety degree angle to the surface, but when I tilted the drill slightly, the bit did leave a thin scratch along the surface.

  “Not impermeable, then,” the professor said, lifting his protective eyewear to study the scratch. “A laser could make quick work of it.”

  I smiled. “Got one of those in your box?”

  “If only.”

  We left the orb. I went to the kitchen for a soft drink while the professor stood to stretch.

  “I don’t get it,” Tank called, looking up. “Most of the articles say The Gate doesn’t exist. That it’s a bogeyman invented to scare people.”

  “Scare them with what?” the professor asked. “Nuclear war? Disease?”

  “Nothing is ever spelled out,” Brenda said, “at least not in what I’m reading. People talk about the group, but no personal names are ever mentioned.”

  “But what if The Gate was hiding in plain sight?” I said. “Wouldn’t that be brilliant?”

  “Hard to know truth from rumor.” Brenda handed a document to Daniel, who dropped it in the “not useful” box. “I mean, some of the articles claim The Gate goes all the way back to medieval times; others say the old Gate is gone and new people have revived the organization.”

  “Wait a minute.” Obeying a hunch, I grabbed my laptop. I booted it, then used my cell phone to create a hot spot. Two minutes later, I was on the Internet. I typed a name, hit enter, and landed on a webpage.

  “Take a look,” I said, turning the computer so Tank and Brenda could see. “The Gate has a webpage and a Twitter account.”

  “Get out!” Brenda came over to read the text at the top of the screen. “‘Wake up, weary traveler! This war-infested, polluted world is nearly at its end. Join us as we prepare for a new society, an age of personal power and enlightenment. Join those of us who have realized secrets the ancients possessed, secrets for which others have died in order to safeguard the future.’”

  “Gobbledygook,” the professor mumbled. “If the secrets are so great, why not employ them now?”

  “No names or photos on that site,” Tank observed, studying the page. “If this organization is so cool, why won’t anyone admit being a part of it?”

  “Let me see that.” The professor stepped out of the dining room and stood between Tank and Brenda, all of them studying the website. “Hmm. Maybe I should have Googled them.”

  “According to this site, the cloud of secrecy is about to evaporate.” Brenda pointed to a textbox in the lower corner and read aloud: “‘The Gate is a powerful collective of leaders entrusted with protecting the billions of human beings on the planet. Our plan for humankind has spanned several eras and prevented humanity from engaging in acts that would have destroyed all human life. The scale of our operation requires stealth, leaving no overt proof of our work. But the time for covert operations and anonymity is nearing an end.”

  “Typical end of the world stuff.” The professor shook his head. “Fodder for the apocalypse survivalists.”

  “What are they gonna do?” Tank looked at me, eyes wide. “Don’t they realize God wins in the end?”

  “Maybe they don’t believe in God.” Brenda pulled her cigarette from her back pocket, stuck it in her mouth, and squinted at the screen. “Looks like they believe in themselves more than anything else.”

  “They believe in knowledge.” The answer came easily because I’d heard the words in my head only a few days before. “They believe the key to a better life is enlightenment.”

  Tank laughed. “That’s what the devil promised Eve in the garden, you know. She ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and when she’d finished, she had new knowledge, all right. She’d been living in a perfect and good world, but that forbidden fruit gave her firsthand knowledge of evil and sin. Knowledge isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.”

  “I don’t think we can be so simplistic,” the professor said, frowning. “There are levels to man’s knowledge, and men have always wanted to better themselves, to rise above their beginnings—”

  “That’s what Satan wanted, too.” Tank’s jaw jutted forward. “He was a beautiful angel, designed to serve God, but he wanted to rise above his station and be equal with God.”

  “So you think it’s wrong for a guy to be ambitious?” Brenda asked.

  “Not necessarily. But it’s wrong for a man to be proud. Every time I get to feelin’ that I’m more special than somebody else, God lets me know that I’d be nothin’ without the gifts and grace He’s given me. I’m just a man, the professor’s just a man—”

  The professor raised a brow. “So my years of education count for nothing?”

  I closed my eyes as their words flowed over me. A vein in my temple had begun to throb, so I pressed my fingertips to the spot in a futile attempt to massage the tightness away. I did not want to hear the voices again, and even hearing about The Gate felt like opening a door to the intruders.

  “Excuse me.” I closed my laptop and stood, then moved toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Before leaving, I turned to the others. “I have a headache, so I’m going to lie down where it’s quiet.”

  At any other time, the professor would have made a crack about my inexhaustible energy, but my comment left him—left all of them—speechless. They didn’t want a repeat performance with EMTs and flashing lights, either.

  They looked at me, their eyes shining with concern, and then they let me go.

  I rode aboard a dream ship that pulled up to a dock and regurgitated passengers onto shore. I walked across the sand and into a large room that seemed to be some sort of auditorium. I could see silhouetted heads and shoulders and hear sibilant whispers in the darkness.

  I lifted my gaze and saw a lighted stage at the far end of the room. A woman in a flowing white tunic stood on the stage, and she lifted a woven basket and set it on a tree stump. Then I heard the sound of a baby’s cry. The crow
d buzzed, but since no one seemed inclined to intercede for the child, I moved down the aisle, my gaze fixed on the basket.

  Three steps led up to the stage. I mounted them slowly, wondering if someone would come rushing out from backstage to apprehend me for trespassing. The woman watched me, her eyes like large liquid pools, but she did nothing to impede my progress.

  Finally I reached the basket, where the baby’s cries had softened to a low mewling.

  A gauzy fabric covered the opening, so I pulled it away and gazed on a baby with a misshaped head. Or not exactly misshaped—the head was fluid, the skull moving beneath the skin, rearranging the mouth, nose, and eyes, of which there were three. The eyes positioned themselves into a straight line, then the lips smacked while the eyes shifted again, one eye moving to the center of the forehead. The infantile mouth curled in a smile, and the eyes—now blue—slowly blinked at me.

  The baby was me. I knew it as surely as I knew my name.

  I staggered backward, my body caught in a paralysis of horror. The woman looked at me and smiled. “She is not settled yet. Her father alone has the right to say what she will become.”

  At the mention of the child’s father, I sensed a presence and heard the deep, rattling breath of a dark creature. Compelled to turn, I looked for the source of the sound and saw horns, yellow eyes with dark slashes for pupils, and brilliant tiger teeth . . . and then I screamed.

  I woke and clutched at my blanket, then listened to the soft sounds of Brenda’s breathing until my heart rate decreased and my palms stopped perspiring. Then I closed my eyes and prayed that I would not dream again.

  CHAPTER