Part 14 (1/2)

'Perhaps you'll get your chance,' Dillinger said. 'You will not graduate tomorrow. You will vanish and even your stepmother and brothers will not know where you have gone.'

'I see,' Fouad said. 'And my father?'

Dillinger shook his head.

'The Academy?'

Dillinger smiled. 'Be ready to pack your things and leave immediately. I have your creds.'

'I am accepted?'

Dillinger nodded. 'This will be your probationary a.s.signment. Lucky boy.' He removed a small folding vinyl case from the desk drawer and pa.s.sed it to Fouad.

Fouad opened the case.

'Welcome to BuDark, Special Agent Al-Husam.'

Fouad weighed the case in his hands. He looked up at Dillinger. 'Am I other than FBI?'

'You're definitely Feeb-Eye. BuDark is interdepartmental. We all play ball for the time being.' He stood. 'You'll join a select team with a tight focus. Stay flexible. You'll get jerked around at first; prove your value and go with the flow. You'll likely travel to a few southwestern Asia h.e.l.lholes in the company of some reasonably excellent folks. Me, I'm stuck here. I envy you.' Dillinger waved his hand imperiously and the door opened. 'Mr. Swenson will take you across the river. Good luck.'

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Temecula, California.

Sam stood in the large kitchen unwrapping a tray of frozen lasagne. He turned on the light over the sink. The rest of the kitchen was dark. Tommy's mood swings had been exaggerated by the extreme pace they had set. Sam had been antic.i.p.ating problems, especially if something went wrong.

Lots of things had gone wrong. And Tommy had been taking them all with relative calm. The episode in the car had pa.s.sed comparatively quickly.

Sam heard a whisper of sound behind him and froze for a moment, holding his breath.

This is it.

Tommy cleared his throat.

'I can recover a third more product now, maybe half. I might be able to work double for the next few weeks and get enough product made to do almost everything we planned. That's what I'm ”thinking”, Sam.'

'Tell me more, Tommy,' Sam said.

The man-boy stepped to the center of the kitchen. Sam turned. Tommy's long fingers seemed to move on their own. They made wild shadows on the kitchen walls as they bent and stretched, as if trying to conduct part of the conversation in sign language. 'I think we can do without the extra printers, if the ones we have don't break down. I have plenty of cartridges, enough to last. That's what I ”think”.'

'Show me, Tommy.'

'Not necessary,' Tommy said, rocking from one foot to another. 'It's under control. I'm just saying, we'll have enough product, but I don't know where we'll get it packed for, you know, delivery.'

'We'll think of something,' Sam said. 'Want to grab a bite to eat?'

Tommy chuckled. He reached out and grabbed something from the air, then stuffed it into his mouth. 'There,' he said.

'Real food,' Sam persisted.

'All right,' Tommy said. 'If you ”think” I'm hungry.'

'I think we're both hungry,' Sam said. 'Lasagne would be good.'

'Lasagne is good,' Tommy said. 'I'll do some work, then we'll eat. You can wait here.'

'Let's eat first,' Sam said. 'We'll think better.'

'You're right. I've been following your diet plan. I've been pretty bright lately,' Tommy said. 'That's why I'm not so upset about the printers. I ”think” I have a way to double the output.' He marked more quotations in the air and grinned toothily.

'Great. This will take about twenty minutes. Why not set the table?'

'I will.'

'Did you wash your hands?'

Tommy grinned and went to the sink. 'Not a problem, Sam,' he said rea.s.suringly. 'I've been very careful.'

'Yeah, but you still pick your nose. I've seen you.'

Tommy began laughing. His laughter turned into a bray. 'Yeah, right. right. At least I don't At least I don't scratch my b.u.t.t scratch my b.u.t.t when I get out of a car.' when I get out of a car.'

'I never do that,' Sam said, indignant.

Tommy danced around the kitchen, plucking his pants bottom. 'Wedgy, wedgy!'

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Seattle, Was.h.i.+ngton.

William looked through the window into the surgical unit. He could not see his father, not clearly-just a lump covered with blue and green sheets, here and there a spot of what looked like ground red meat showing through, where people in full-out surgical suits, with their own air tubes trailing after them, probed with s.h.i.+ning, curved tools and murmured to each other. He could hear the whine and whir of drills and saws and pumps.

One of the surgeons looked up and gave a m.u.f.fled laugh to someone's joke. The OR head nurse had told William they had been working for three hours.

William's knees turned shaky. He sat on the chair. Special Agent Dole from the Seattle Field Office, barely older than William, slender and blond and wearing a brown pants suit, handed him a bottle of water. He drank and watched. All night agents had come in and out, clapping William on the shoulder, saying little, watching the surgery for a few minutes and grimacing as if at some weird object lesson.

Someone named Cap Benson arrived and told Agent Dole she could take a break. He had bandages on his face and around the back of his neck. 'I was with your dad, up until the last...the barn,' he said, his words m.u.f.fled by a swollen jaw. Benson sat on a plastic chair beside William. 'He's going to make it.'

William nodded. It did not look good. The OR nurse said surgery could go on for another three or four hours. They were pulling Griff's face forward and setting s.h.i.+ms. The shattered bone was being debrided and they were picking out the chips, soaking them in saline and ReViv, and arranging the best of them back on strips of mesh like mosaics. As they set and repaired Griff's shattered legs, they were also borrowing pieces of bone from his hip and femur to transplant to his skull.