Free Fatal Strike by Shannon McKenna Page B

fevers, infections, all way down. The prison staff is healthier, too. Less absenteeism, fewer complaints and conflicts on the job. Inmate suicide attempts are down to almost zero, for the past four months running.”
    Greaves smiled. “Finally, some good news. Thank you.”
    Lewis went on, emboldened. “This recreates the results we got on that last two prison trials, almost exactly. This form of the toxin appears to have a calming effect upon the endocrine system. It lowers stress hormone production, and it mitigates, or even reverses depression. And in an odd side note, it seems that drug use is down, too, though that is difficult to measure in a prison population. Even smoking appears to have decreased.”
    “Very good,” Greaves murmured. “Go on.”
    Lewis fumbled with his papers. “Incidence of sexual violence is down almost sixty-five percent,” he announced.
    Greaves frowned. “Only?”
    Lewis looked nonplussed. “Ah . . . it was considered a very positive statistic, considering the—”
    “Tell that to the remaining thirty-five percent. We must hold ourselves to a higher standard. This is our legacy, Lewis.”
    “Yes, sir, of course,” Lewis said hastily. “We will try—”
    “Yes, you will most certainly continue to try, if you know what is good for you. I am pleased with these results. We will move on to Phase Three next week. Any questions?”
    Dead silence met his query. Shifty eyes. He almost laughed. His staff was getting cold feet. Ridiculous, considering that they were already inoculated against the experimental organism. Which was, in any case, entirely benign, even health-promoting, as the trials had clearly demonstrated for years now. And they weren’t even releasing an airborne version of the microbe yet. That happy day would come next year, after observing the results of Phase Three.
    Greaves was a cautious man. Methodical, responsible. If this was to be done, it would be done absolutely right, in every particular.
    “Moving on.” He turned to Silva and Chrisholm. “You two. Explain how two professionals at the height of their careers managed to fumble the matter of Matilda Bennet.”
    Chrisholm’s throat bobbed. He touched livid scratches on his neck, as if he wanted to hide them. “Sir, she had a can of pepper spray—”
    “I did not ask for excuses. I asked for an explanation. A woman of seventy-three, with no professional training outside of secretarial school, and somehow she found us. By following you, Chrisholm, from the museum at Blaine. By following the sales of Lara Kirk’s sculptures to you. And then she followed you here, to our doorstep. It is pure, dumb luck that she told no one about this facility before she died. One hopes, anyway. And no thanks to you.”
    “Sir, please,” Silva pleaded. “We—”
    “If you open your mouth out of turn one more time, I will make an example of you. You would not enjoy it. Although at this point, I would.”
    Silva sputtered. “Ah . . . I . . .” He cut himself off.
    Greaves turned to Chrisholm. “I suggested that Bennet have a tragic domestic accident,” he said. “An elderly lady, living alone, multiple health problems. And look what I got. Massive news coverage. A statewide manhunt. Your skin beneath her fingernails.”
    Chrisholm leaned forward. “Sir, I promise, we—”
    He shrieked as his body rose into the air, chair flung back by his own wildly kicking legs. He hung, suspended over the long, gleaming mahogany conference table, gurgling and flailing. Plucking his throat.
    It was hardly fair, to make an example of only one of them for the sins of both but, pragmatically speaking, he could not afford to lose two highly trained staff members right now. And Silva’s talent for coercion was more useful than Chrisholm’s rather mediocre telepathic abilities. So Chrisholm it was.
    “The time for promises has passed,” Greaves said. “Silva. Open the French doors, please.”
    Silva stared openmouthed at his floating