Free Triskellion 3: The Gathering by Will Peterson

changed it,” Adam said.
    The rattling of Rachel’s key had clearly alerted someone inside; they could hear steps coming towards the door. “Who is it?” A woman’s voice came from inside.
    A security chain rattled and a bolt was thrown. The apartment door opened a crack.
    “Rachel and Adam Newman,” Rachel said.
    The door opened a bit wider, and a woman’s face poked through. She was youngish, about thirty, with streaked blonde hair and a pleasant freckled face. They could hear a child in the background.
    “Yeah?” she said.
    “Hi,” Rachel said, smiling her friendliest smile.
    “Hi,” Adam said.
    “We … er … used to live here,” Rachel stammered. “We thought our dad might still be here. Do you know him? He’s called Ralph Newman.”
    The woman looked from Rachel to Adam and then at Gabriel. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of a Ralph Newman.”
    “Oh, but … don’t you rent this place from him?” Rachel asked. She peered past the woman, trying to see into the apartment. It certainly looked different. The hallway had been painted a pale yellow.
    “No. Me and my husband bought the apartment from the co-operative who own the building nearly two years ago.” She was starting to look a little suspicious. “I’ve never heard of anyone with that name living here.”
    “
We
used to live here!” Adam insisted.
    “I don’t think so,” the woman said.
    The idea that their father had sold their home was a blow that Rachel and Adam felt simultaneously. They couldn’t believe he would have done anything so heartless. They heard the child call out in the room beyond.
    “You’ll have to excuse me,” the woman said, closing the door on them.

M any blocks downtown, the director of the Hope Project looked as if he was about to murder someone. His assistant, Meredith, was sheepish as he read the printout she had just handed him.
    “Send Crow in,” he snapped. “Now.”
    Meredith, relieved that his temper was going to be vented on someone else, turned to leave. “Coffee, sir?” she asked on her way out.
    The director made no answer.
    Moments later a compact muscular man with a broken nose entered the office. He was nervous and was trying to disguise it with a grimly set jaw.
    “Sit down, Crow.”
    The man tugged at the creases in his trousers and sat down opposite the director. He rubbed a hand over his blond buzz-cut and cleared his throat.
    “How do you explain this?” The director waved the piece of paper at Crow and read the bullet points aloud: the body of a Hope operative had been found in a burnt-out house in Western Australia. He had been shot before being burned.
    “I don’t know, sir, is the truth. We picked up the message from the Australian police yesterday.”
    “Let me get this right, Crow,” the director said; “we’re one of the world’s most secretive and powerful intelligence services and now we’re letting hick Australian policemen from Woola-Woola do our investigating for us?”
    “No, sir,” Crow protested. “I thought our agent had it under control. He’d found the house and had it watched by the local operative there.”
    The director stared at the map of Australia on his desk, then he took a pen and drew a line through the circle around Perth up to the area where the dead man had been found.
    “Our agent assured me it would be easy once they’d found the house,” Crow continued. “He didn’t expect any resistance; it was just two women and two kids.”
    “Are you out of your mind, Crow? Have you forgotten what the Hope Project is about? Have you forgotten where these kids are from and what they are capable of?”
    Crow looked at the desk and ground his teeth. “No, sir.”
    “At best you are irresponsible, letting our agent go there alone. At worst, you are incompetent.”
    Crow went to speak; the director held up his hand to silence him. “I don’t want to hear any more. It was you who persuaded me that Van der Zee’s idea to let those kids