Free Chimera by David Wellington Page B

can’t tell them the whole
truth. Sometimes we have to lie to them, frankly. If you do that long enough,
you forget that it’s not a good thing. People like Banks forget that’s a
regrettable necessity, not the whole of their job. I won’t make that mistake,
not if I can help it.”
    â€œThanks, cutie. Okay, I’ll take care of that.
Anything else?”
    â€œI need as much information on those people as you
can dig up. I need to know what they do for a living, where they hang out after
work, what kind of family they have.”
    â€œWant their shoe sizes? I can get those,” Angel
joked.
    â€œI somehow doubt that,” Chapel told her.
    â€œSeriously? Do you know how many people buy their
shoes online these days? People are lazy. They’ll do anything they can online
because then they don’t have to get off the couch. Look at me—I’m saving the
world and I can do it from my bathtub, if I feel like it.”
    Chapel fought down the urge to ask if she was in
the bath right at that moment. He had work to do. Focus, he thought. “Okay. Okay. The real thing I want to know is why
they’re on that list. You have any idea about that, Angel?”
    â€œI didn’t get any details you haven’t already
heard,” she told him. “Looking at this list, I don’t see any immediate
connections. Maybe something’ll come up as I get more facts on them. Let’s start
with the first name on your list—the one in Brighton Beach. Name, Bryant, Dr.
Helen. Lives on Neptune Avenue. Sounds like a fun place. Occupation: Genetic
Counselor.”
    â€œWhat’s a genetic counselor?” Chapel asked.
    â€œLet me Google her . . . ooh, she’s got a
website! I love it when they have websites. Nice-looking lady, if your taste
runs to older women. Looks like she’s an ob-gyn. She sees pregnant women and
helps them find out if their babies are healthy, and what they can do if it
turns out the babies have genetic problems. Oh my God, that must be the saddest
job in the world sometimes. Can you imagine?”
    â€œI’ve never had kids. Never got the chance,” Chapel
said.
    â€œA man of your age should have a wife, Chapel. A
wife and lots of happy little healthy babies. I’m finding all kinds of stuff
about Dr. Bryant here. Looks like she’s pretty famous in certain circles—she’s
won all kinds of awards, gotten commendations from numerous institutes, worked
for the National Institutes of Health for a long time . . . did
fieldwork in Africa during the early part of the AIDS crisis. Weird, looks like
there’s a police bulletin about her too. Let me just take a peek
. . .”
    Chapel imagined Angel crouched forward looking at
her computer screen, scanning through dozens of web pages at once. When she
didn’t come back on the line after a few seconds, he began to wonder what she’d
found. “Angel? Is everything okay?”
    â€œNo, sweetie. It’s not. At least, not for Dr.
Bryant.”
    IN TRANSIT: APRIL
12, T+8:02
    â€œGoddamn it, no!” Chapel shouted, and he
punched the instrument panel of the helicopter with his good fist. The pilot
started to protest, but the look on Chapel’s face must have warned him off. “She
can’t be dead. I can’t be too late.”
    â€œThe police are already on the scene,” Angel told
him.
    â€œDamn it,” Chapel said, but more muted this time.
He’d known how tight the time frame was, known that people had already died at
the hands of the detainees. But this was the first civilian—the others had been
military personnel. That didn’t make their deaths much easier to bear. But
they’d known what they were getting into, or at least known they were dealing
with dangerous people. Nobody had even told Dr. Bryant she was in danger.
    â€œDo you still want to go to Brooklyn?” Angel asked.
“I can change your