THE FLENSE: China: (Part 2 of THE FLENSE serial) Page 9

  By the time she reached the girl, Jamie had already shed the pants and shirt Angel had given her. Being several sizes larger, they'd come off easily. Now she stood in the dirt, completely naked except for her socks. Her skin was crisscrossed with scabs, a patchwork of pink flesh and mottled bruises. Goosebumps spread over her as the chill wind blew. She spread out her arms.

  "What are you doing?" Angel shrieked. "Put those back on! Get inside the car!"

  "No!" Jamie shouted. "Look at me! What do you see? Look at me!"

  Angel stumbled to a stop. Jamie had turned so that they were now facing each other. Then she slowly turned around, not stopping until she'd done a full circuit. Apparently satisfied with the shocked look on Angel's face, she nodded once, then bent down and plucked the clothes from the ground and put them back on. Without another word, she climbed back into the car.

  After a minute or so, Angel walked back to her side, got in, and pulled out onto the road.

  "No," she muttered to herself. "There has to be some sort of explanation."

  "There is," Jamie replied. "And we'll find it at the factory."

  But Angel kept shaking her head. It didn't make any sense. It wasn't natural. And yet how could she deny what she'd just seen? The pattern of healing had been all too clear. The cuts and bruises closest to where the bone had gone into her thigh were healing faster than those further away.

  "How can that be?" she whispered.

  "There was something in that bone that infected me," Jamie said. "And whatever it is, it's helping my body heal faster. Whatever it is, they put it in those factory workers, and that's how it got inside of me. I believe that's what they're trying to hide."

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Mabry Aston lifted his considerable frame out of the back seat of the car and told his driver to stay close behind; he didn't intend to go very far into the village, certainly nowhere the car couldn't go. Then he shut the door and started to pick his way through the rubble. He wanted to see Norstrom's handiwork firsthand, up close, without a pane of glass in the way. He wanted to smell the scorched earth. He wanted to feel the charred remains crumbling beneath his feet.

  He needed to be absolutely sure.

  The phone in the pocket of his baggy slacks was a ponderous weight, bumping against his inner thigh with each step and reminding him that a call from the Ministry of Transport agent assigned to investigate the crash site was due at any moment. They'd spoken through a translator earlier that morning, when the man had offered to pick him up at the airport. Aston had declined the ride, claiming that he was already on his way after arriving in Beijing on an overnight flight. He stated that he was eager to assess the damage and determine if anything could be salvaged.

  "You understand, don't you?" he'd told the interpreter, hoping some measure of the fake contriteness in his voice managed to get through. "The company's on my back. They want a preliminary idea of the losses before the insurance adjuster comes up with his own estimate, which will undoubtedly be lowball." He'd chuckled, as if sharing some private joke. But the translation either failed, or the agent had no sense of humor, as he hadn't responded in kind.

  "Anyway," Aston went on, feeling a bit put out, "we'll try and streamline things for you guys so you won't have to be out here any longer than you need to be. In fact, I plan on having a full materials manifest for you when we liaise around noon. But it's the people we lost that deserve our attention, isn't it? God bless their souls, and thank God there were no more casualties. I'll personally visit each of their families — the conductor, brakemen, engineer, and fireman; I believe that's it. You'll find that we'll take proper care of them."

  In fact, he'd already been out to the site that morning, both the real one and the staged one. He had to reluctantly admit that Norstrom and his team had done a bang up job of making the alternate site look pretty damn authentic. Now Aston just had to convince the investigators that it really was the true crash site and hope that they didn't get some wild hairs up their asses and decide to check further up the track. Even the twenty or so miles separating the sites didn't seem near far enough for his comfort, though Norstrom, in his supremely arrogant way, told him not to worry.

  As far as convincing the agent to accept their assessments at face value, he knew he had his work cut out for him. He was a field agent, a low-paid worker who was unlikely to be accept his explanations out of hand, if only because he didn't speak the same language, a language which usually included words like dollars and prostitutes and other expensive trinkets.

  That was in contrast to the high up muckety-mucks in the Chinese government who were highly fluent in such terms. Oh, those idiots had expressed bitter outrage with the Americans for waiting four days before informing them of the crash. He'd personally tried to tell them that they had only just found out about it themselves and even went so far as to blame the port supervisor in Qinhuangdao for not reporting the missing freight when the train failed to arrive there on schedule. There had been a lot of accusations thrown about, the typical bureaucratic belligerence, all for show and serving to lay the groundwork for the ensuing financial discussions.

  On a more practical note, it gave the clean up team time to do its job. He hoped Norstrom was grateful for that, though he doubted it.

  In the end, the bribes had been sufficient enough to buy Aston the time he needed to sterilize the crash site of incriminating evidence and eliminate any witnesses. He was sure the Chinese government knew exactly what was happening, although those in positions of decision-making were happy enough to be kept in the dark as long as their pockets were well enough lined.

  But this investigation agent, a certain Wang Jingping, was a pushy little fellow. He simply wasn't high enough in the food chain to have gotten the message. For all he knew, he was there to investigate the derailing of a freight train filled with hazardous materials.

  Once again, Norstrom had assured Aston that the staged site would quickly lead the agent to the conclusion that train had jumped the rails where two sections had come misaligned. "Winter upheaval," he said. "Happens all the time. The ground freezes, swells. The rails are under a lot of tension. Then something snaps."

  The plan was that Jingping would be in and out in a couple of hours. The bodies would be collected. And Aston would assure them all that the Americans were fully prepared to clean the site up and restore it to its natural state. Further remunerations would be made. Perhaps a few dollars would slip into the agent's own pockets, small change compared to what his bosses had coming to them. That was how things were done here.

  "None of this is visible from the main road?" he called out to the man standing behind him. He didn't bother to turn around to face Norstrom, not caring to know exactly how close he was. The man moved liked a ninja, which made Aston hate him all the more.

  "We've got men ready to block the road leading here and the one leading to the crash site. The only way anyone's going to find either of these places is by air or on the back of a mule. And, frankly, all they'll see is a couple large scorched patches. They'll think lightning strikes and wildfires and never give it a second thought."

  "They can think whatever the hell they want, for all I care, as long as it's not the truth." Aston turned around and waved the driver over. "Let's go. I want that road blocked off before anyone has a chance to make a wrong turn and screw everything up."

  They both turned for their respective cars just as their phones began to ring. Aston gave Norstrom a frightened look before answering his. He watched the other man take his call, lowering his voice and turning his back so that he couldn't see him.

  Mister Wang Jingping, came the tinny voice of the translator on the line, will be there in about twenty-five minutes. We just passed Goh Li Xhia factory at Wenbai.

  "Um, good. That's good," Aston replied, still watching Norstrom. Something about the way the man's muscular shoulders stiffened did not give him the happy feeling he so desperately wanted. "We've just arrived ourselves, but we'll wait to do the
walkabout together."

  Mister Wang Jingping would like to know if the reporter is there yet.

  "Reporter? What reporter? I didn't authorize any reporter!"

  Mister Wang Jingping arranged it himself.

  Aston squeezed the phone in his meaty hand. The last thing he needed was a snooping reporter. "Fine," he said, his voice turning cold as ice. Norstrom had damn well better be right. "I welcome any opportunity for openness."

  In front of him, Norstrom pulled the phone away from his ear and pocketed the device. Then he turned and began to walk back toward Aston's car. A muscle in his cheek kept twitching, drawing Aston's eye. It was the only thing about the man that betrayed the emotions beneath his stony exterior.

  "She's alive," he said. "The American woman. My men tracked her down to a Buddhist-run hospital in Bairin Zouqi, but she got away."

  For a moment, Aston said nothing. All he could think was, This isn't happening.

  "I've sent teams to Chifeng and a man to the American consulate in Beijing. We'll get her."

  For a brief moment, the tic flared.

  "Is that all?" Aston asked. His voice sounded suddenly too small, as if the incredible breadth of the sky above them were somehow attenuating the very air.

  "She had help. The nurse at the hospital described a white woman speaking English who came to visit her just before my men arrived. She snuck her out the back door and into a car. They're looking for them now." He paused, then added, "I warn you: I suspect this is only going to get worse before it gets better, Mister Aston."

  The heavy man's face grew redder than it already was. "How so, Mister Norstrom?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch. "How could it possibly get any worse?"

  "Apparently, the doctors removed a bone fragment embedded in the woman's leg when she was brought in several days ago. Fortunately, my men were able to recover the shard from the waste. It exhibited some unusual properties."

  Aston's eyes narrowed.

  "He's no doctor, but to his untrained eyes, it appears that the bone fragment had already started to remodel. How does a supposedly dead piece of bone do that?"

  Aston didn't reply.

  "Well?"

  "Like you said, he's untrained."

  "Even so, I just sent him to Wenbai for a closer look."

  Aston stepped forward. "You'll do no such thing!"

  "You listen to me," Norstrom said, not backing away. "What your company did to those people is none of my business. But now we've got a girl running around out there who may have been exposed to it, maybe transmitting it." He held up a hand to silence the other man's protest. "What is my business is the danger you may be putting my men into. So, you need to start telling me exactly what was going on in that place."

  Aston's face burned, partly with hatred at the man's composure, partly with anger at how this whole situation seemed to be blowing up in his face, but mostly with fear that he was going to lose more than just his job. "There is no risk to your men, I can tell you that truthfully."

  Norstrom didn't move. "I usually don't ask for details. In this business, it's better not to. But I'm going to make an exception this time. Tell me what I need to know, or else find yourself someone else to fix your mess."

  "Fine," Aston finally said. He gestured to his car. "Get in. I'll tell you what I can. And maybe then you'll understand exactly why we need to get that girl back." He stopped and turned. "And why we need her destroyed."

  Chapter Thirty Three

  They arrived at the train stop up the hill from the factory at just past noon, and Angel went ahead on foot to check below. The place appeared as deserted as before, but as she'd discovered that morning, the impression had proven wrong. Jamie assured her that, other than the villagers, there had only been a few employees to oversee the daily activities on the work floor. "A couple medical people and a foreman. Most of the time I escorted the workers between the work floor and the nurse, though I wasn't allowed inside the lab for their weekly medical checks, even though I was the only one who could interpret for them."

  "What else did you do?"

  She had shrugged. "Most of the time, it was . . . boring. I sat at my desk and played video games." She managed to look embarrassed.

  Angel returned to the car several minutes later to find Jamie lying on the seat in a fetal position and moaning.

  "Jamie?" she cried in alarm. " What's the matter? Jamie!"

  "Just a cramp," the girl panted. "I don't know. They've been coming and going for the past couple of hours, since we left the hospital. I thought it was just something from the crash, but this seems—"

  She cried out in pain and fell back onto the seat.

  "Let me see!"

  "No! Just get me down to the factory," she growled. "There isn't time!"

  "You're bleeding internally. We need to get you to a hospital."

  Jamie pushed her hands away and struggled back upright. Her face was pale and clammy, and her breaths came in hitches. But she shook her head. "It's the infection." She gestured at the road ahead. "There's a laboratory inside with a microscope, a few machines. You need to find what's inside of me."

  "I can't, Jamie! Not without—"

  "You said you were a doctor, right?"

  Angel nodded. "But without an x-ray machine, diagnostic equipment, I'm helpless. A microscope is useless for viruses and nearly as useless for identifying bacteria." She exhaled in frustration. "Assuming I can somehow, miraculously, figure it out. What then?"

  "Then you fix me! And if you can't . . . ."

  Angel's face went ice cold. She shook her head. Once more, she was beginning to wonder if the girl was mentally unstable. But then the image of her standing before her on the side of the road came back. If anything didn't make sense, it was that, and yet she'd seen it with her own eyes.

  "Just get us inside."

  "How?"

  "K-keypad," Jamie replied, and squeezed her eyes shut against another wave of pain.

  "But you can't even walk. It's at least a kilom—"

  "Just drive through the damn chain!" Jamie screamed. "It doesn't matter anymore! Just do it!"

  She's dying, Angel suddenly realized, and she knew this with a certainty she could not explain. It didn't matter what she did now. Something had happened back there at the hospital. Maybe a suture came loose. Maybe an aneurysm burst. A slow leak in her spleen widened. Something. She didn't know exactly what was wrong with the girl, but it was obvious that it was bad.

  "We need to go back, find a hospital—"

  "No time," Jamie whispered, and collapsed back onto the seat. "They did this to them. They must have some way to stop it. It's in there, I know it. In a file somewhere, a fridge. Please, Angelique, I don't want to die."

  Angel started the engine and began to drive toward the crest of the hill, and when she reached the chain barrier, she didn't stop. The motor whined as the chain tore into the grill of the car. One of the headlamps exploded in a shower of glass. The tires slipped on the rocky surface of the road, spraying pebbles and dust out behind them. Smoke began to rise from the engine. She pressed harder on the accelerator, even as a new scream rose from Jamie's throat. It peaked before fading away again, leaving in its place an angry machinegun rattle coming from beneath the hood.

  "It's not going to—!" Angel shouted, but with a sudden pop the post on Jamie's side tore free of the ground and whipped around the front of the car. It swung back and slammed through the window behind Angel. Both women screamed. But the car was already moving again, leaping down the road. As they passed the crest of the hill, the loose post was yanked back out of the car. It took the rear window with it, along with a chunk of the door frame. Angel's scream turned to a cry of desperation as she tried to regain control. They spun to one side, hit a rock and bounced. For a moment, it seemed to her that they were going to roll. She twisted the wheel around and righted the vehicle, bringing the front end around again.

  Black smoke was pouring out of the engine compartment by the time t
hey reached the flat area surrounding the building. With little time to despair over the damage to the car, Angel drove them around the other side and skidded to a stop. It wasn't worth hiding it at this point, as the damaged barrier would immediately warn anyone arriving that they were here.

  "What's the code?"

  She hurried over to assist Jamie, but the girl kicked open her door and stumbled out on her own. She wasn't quite able to stand fully upright.

  "Let me help you."

  "I got this!" She brushed Angel's hand away and staggered over to the panel and punched in her access code. There came a beep and a distinct click from inside. Angel grabbed the handle and pulled it open, bracing herself for the possibility that someone might be standing there. But the entryway was empty.

  Everything was painted the same flat gray. The walls were unadorned. The only light illuminating them came from the window behind them. Two doors, one in the right hand wall and the other straight ahead, gave access to the interior of the building. Both also required a code for entry.

  "Which way?"

  Jamie gestured weakly to the one on the right, and Angel helped her over with an arm around her waist. Once again, the girl entered her code, and again Angel was surprised when the lock disengaged.

  "The other door gives access to the work floor," Jamie explained. "This way goes to the offices."

  The door pulled away from the frame with a hiss, as if the hallway beyond were pressurized. Jamie reached over and flicked a switch, and the lights came on. To Angel, the air smelled strongly of paint and plastic, but there was an organic undertone as well, something she couldn't place.

  They made their way down the short hall and came to the end without meeting any doors. They turned left. Once again, the walls were plain, though someone had taken the opportunity to paint the upper halves in a sort of beige. It did little to brighten the mood. Instead, it just seemed to strengthen the impression Angel had of being inside a submarine. Without windows, the hallway felt claustrophobic.