Free Containment by Kyle Kirkland Page A

in similar numbers. The optimism that Roderick had earlier tried to convey to Kraig Drennan had evaporated. A crisis was brewing.
    Roderi ck debated calling Kraig and alerting him. But what could Kraig do? There was no concrete evidence supporting any assertion Roderick could make. And any critical decision would have to be made by politicians, who would consult not with Roderick Halkin or the assistant director but with the director himself. Who would have to be convinced—and convincing—in order to persuade any major decision concerning a whole city and its thousands of residents.
    Kraig Drennan was reliable but emotional, which could lead to weakness in a crucial moment. Kraig was a worrier and an ambitious perfectionist who mercilessly burdened himself with work. The director, on the other hand...Roderick smiled without humor.
    The population of Medburg, Pennsylvania, was 83,449 persons. A few minutes ago Roderick had looked up the latest census figure.
    It would take too long to go into musician mode, alas. There was no way to speed up the meditative and neurofeedback processes necessary for Roderick to convert his personality into the violin specialist whose music he presently craved to hear—and make. It required an intensely focused state of mind that could only be achieved after hours of concentration, even with the help of all of those feedback devices. Besides, he'd promised he wouldn't, not in the middle of a case. He would have to keep his word.
    Instead he settled for playing music over his enveloping, all-point speakers. But the only pieces of music he selected were funeral dirges.
     
    Bethesda, Maryland / 6:50 p.m.
     
    "Get your taxes done?"
    Kraig Drennan frowned at the screen. The communication system displayed Chet 's face and prominent mustache; in the background was the room Chet called his study, one of many finely furnished rooms in his home along the Chesapeake. It was no surprise that Chet had called Kraig at the office to check up on him, using the expensive communication equipment that Chet had convinced the budget office he required at home as well as the office. And it was no surprise that Chet would think of something stupid to ask so that it didn't seem like he was checking up on him. When Kraig stayed late and Chet went home early, the director of the Micro-Investigation Unit looked bad. People gossiped, saying that the assistant director was doing all the work. Which, Kraig thought, was true.
    The white mustache twitched, waiting for a response. "You know it isn't too late to get a postmark, the Post Office stays open until midnight—"
    " I finished my taxes in February," said Kraig.
    " Oh." The white mustache drooped. "Well, you're on the ball, then. So, how's everything at the fort?"
    We 're under siege and I'm laundering all our white flags. "Pretty good."
    " Good. Fine."
    There was a silence that stretched beyond a comfortable length.
    "Well, then," said the white mustache, "any word about the Medburg situation?"
    Kraig was tempted to say, "What Medburg situation?" Oh so tempted! "The mouse carcasses have arrived. I've got every available technician working on the analysis. Data will start coming in tomorrow, I expect. We still don't know what killed the two homeless victims."
    " I see, I see. Well, it sounds like everything is in order, and proceeding at a sufficient pace. So, Kraig, why don't you call it a night? We'll have a meeting tomorrow morning with the lab boys and girls. Say 10 o'clock?"
    " Fine. I'll be going home in a while."
    Another period of silence. The white mustache bristled ever so slightly. "You worry too much. We have to wait and see what happens."
    " Waiting may not be such a great idea."
    The director snorted. "A calm and reasonable wait is never a bad idea. Quick and careless responses only serve to frighten people, and inconvenience them."
    " A quick response might save more people than it inconveniences."
    " You're too pessimistic. You're positively grim,