Chimera: A Jim Chapel Mission
Chapter 8

He put the earpiece in and was not surprised to hear Angel calling his name. "Are you alone, sugar?" she asked.
"Not quite. I-"
He turned to look at Julia, but she was already storming out of the examining room. "I've got work to do," she said, and slammed the door behind her.
"I'm alone now," he told Angel.
"That's good. I like having you all to myself," she told him. "Tell me you're okay. Your vitals look all right, though you seem tired."
"It's been a long day. Wait a minute-you can tell I'm tired from the earpiece?"
"It's got a few sneaky features. It can collect biometric data. Among other things."
"And those other things-"
"Sweetie, if you ask me about classified things, you know I have to lie. And I don't ever want to lie to you."
"Fair enough. All right, Angel. What's so important you needed to cut in on me like that?"
"I'm going to put Director Hollingshead on the line, and he can tell you all about it. Director?"
"I'm here," the admiral said. "Chapel-it sounded like you took a pretty good blow to the head, there. Are you recovered?"
"I was dazed for a minute," Chapel told him. "But I'll be all right. Dr. Taggart took care of me. She also told me a few interesting things about chim-"
"Ahem," Hollingshead broke in. "No need to tell an old dog anything about digging up bones, son."
"Ah." So Hollingshead already knew about chimeras. And what Chapel was facing. It would have been nice to have some warning, but Chapel supposed some things were meant to stay secret. Apparently so secret it couldn't even be discussed over an encrypted line. "Okay, then, sir, I'll tell you all about it some other time. Maybe in person."
"You're on the trail, son, and that's all that matters. What's the status of your, ah, investigation? What's your next step?"
"There's one more name on the list with a New York address. She shouldn't be in danger now-the other three are probably hundreds of miles from here by now. Still, it won't hurt to pay her a visit and make sure she's safe. After that, it's either Chicago or Atlanta. Any thought on where I should head first?"
"Angel's looking for clues. Maybe she'll turn something up. I know you'll make the right choice, Captain Chapel. I have utter faith in you. Director Banks on the other hand . . ."
"Oh?"
"You've got some competition, let us say. Oh, nothing you can't handle-and no one you haven't met before. Someone you've seen around the Pentagon, perhaps."
Laughing Boy. Hollingshead must be talking about Laughing Boy. "He's been activated? Maybe that's good news-two of us running down leads can cover a lot more ground than one," Chapel pointed out.
"Unfortunately he's not as proactive as you've shown yourself to be," Hollingshead said, sounding contrite. "In fact, I fear he's simply bird-dogging you. After your recent success, I sent a team to pick up what was left of the . . . fellow in question. Your new shadow got there first. What he did with the remains is currently unknown."
Chapel thought about that. If Laughing Boy had taken the body of the dead detainee, it could simply mean the CIA didn't want the local authorities claiming the remains of a man who was carrying a dangerous virus. But why not let Hollingshead's people take care of it? Banks must have had his reasons. Maybe there was something about the body he didn't want anyone else to see.
Yet another mystery to add to the already enormous pile of mysteries in this operation. Chapel shrugged it off. "At least the . . . specimen is under wraps. Do you think I need to worry about our civilian friends?"
Hollingshead didn't sound sure when he answered. "No one has declared war just yet. Chalk this one up to a shot across our bows, maybe. For now we're all pulling in the same direction," he said. "Just keep your eyes open."
"Will do, sir."
"All right, then. I'll put Angel back on, and she can help you coordinate your next move."
Chapel talked to Angel briefly, arranging to have a cab waiting when he left the veterinary clinic. Then he opened the door of the examination room and headed out to the front of the office, where Julia and her receptionist were talking quietly. Julia had a balled-up tissue in her hand, and the receptionist was rubbing her back in slow circles. Apparently Julia had finally gotten a chance to start grieving for her mother.
"I'll be going now," Chapel told her. "If there's anything I can do-"
"You already have," Julia told him.
"I might have some more questions," he suggested. "But I'll give you some time, first. I'm . . . I'm so sorry."
She nodded. She wasn't even looking at him anymore. "You should get a CT scan at some point. Make sure your brain wasn't injured in that concussion."
"If I get a chance, I will," he told her.
"You'll want a doctor who specializes in human patients for that." She got up to unlock the front door. "I hope you'll forgive me if I say I never want our paths to cross again."
He couldn't blame her for that. "Thanks for all your help."
She shrugged. He started to walk out the door, but she stopped him by putting one hand on his artificial shoulder. He flinched, even if she didn't. He'd never gotten used to people touching him there.
"Captain," she said, "be careful. But find the rest of them, and make sure nobody else has to go through this. Grief, I mean. It sucks."
"I'll do my best," he promised her.
IN TRANSIT: APRIL 12, T+11:29
Back to work. The next name on the list was Christina Smollett. She was in New York City, too. Hopefully she was still alive.
A new cab was waiting for him in front of Julia's clinic. He climbed in, and the car rolled smoothly away before he'd even had a chance to tell the driver what address he wanted.
"All taken care of," Angel told him.
"I appreciate it." He tapped on his knee with the fingers of his artificial hand. When he'd been talking with Julia, he'd almost forgotten the time-sensitive nature of his operation. Now that he was away from her, the ticking of the clock started to bother him again. "We'll have to make this next visit quick. What can you tell me about Christina Smollett?"
Angel hummed a little tune while she worked. "Interesting," she said, after a minute.
"Anything you'd like to share?" Chapel asked.
Angel laughed. "If I understood it, I'd give you some analysis. What I'm looking at is just facts. Christina Smollett has a social security number, a date of birth-August 23, 1959-and a mailing address we already knew, 462 First Avenue, New York, where you're headed now. Beyond that? Not much. As far as I can tell she's never filed a tax form, for one thing."
"That's odd for a woman in her fifties," Chapel mused.
"Never been married, no children. No family left, either-her parents died a while back, both from natural causes and at advanced ages. No brothers or sisters. She doesn't have a bank account. She doesn't have any academic records past high school, which . . . let me check . . . she did graduate from, though not with particularly impressive grades. From there the list gets pretty monotonous. No driver's license. No history of service in the armed forces. No arrests, warrants for arrest, or so much as a parking ticket. Never been fingerprinted, and I can't find a single photograph of her taken after 1971. It's like she hasn't so much as touched the world in forty years."
"Sounds like she's been living off the grid," Chapel said.
"And you sound like you've got a theory, sweetie."
"More like a hunch," Chapel said. "I'm betting Christina Smollett works for the CIA. Probably in the National Clandestine Service. She's undercover, or at least off the books."
"They certainly don't list her on their payroll," Angel confirmed.
"Helen Bryant and William Taggart were both CIA employees. I'm pretty sure every single name on that list is or was as well. We're tracking down the people who worked on some operation in the eighties. Probably something the CIA's Directorate of Science and Technology got up to."
"Aren't they the ones who make the exploding pens and cyanide-filled false teeth?" Angel asked. "The gadget shop?"
"They do more than that. They were the ones who ran MK-ULTRA, for instance. That's exactly the shop that Drs. Bryant and Taggart would work for. And unless I'm way off, I'm willing to bet Christina Smollett worked in the directorate as well."
"Let me do some more checking, see what I turn up," Angel said.
As the cab rolled into Manhattan the traffic picked up a little, but it wasn't long before they were on First Avenue. The cabdriver rapped on the partition and glanced over his shoulder. "You want the emergency room or the main entrance?" he asked.
"What? Emergency room?" Chapel said. "No, I'm going to a private residence. A house or an apartment building."
"Oh, sorry. With that bruise on your head I figured you were checking yourself in. You sure you have the right address?"
"Definitely. 462 First Avenue," Chapel confirmed.
"Buddy," the cabbie told him, "maybe you should have them take a look at your head. That's the address for Bellevue Hospital. You know-the place where they send all the crazies."
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+11:55
Chapel reached for his wallet to pay the cabdriver, but the man waved his hand to say no. "All prepaid, and I'm not going to take advantage of a guy like you," the cabbie said, smiling broadly.
"A guy like me?" Chapel asked.
"No offense, friend, no offense meant. I have a mother in Ohio, she's like you, okay? So I understand how hard it can be."
Chapel started to reach up to touch his artificial arm, then stopped himself.
"When you have trouble keeping track of things, right? When maybe you have memory problems. My mom's got the Alzheimer's, she's doing all right, though."
"That's . . . good," Chapel said. "I'm glad to hear it. Thanks."
Clearly the man thought he had brain damage or something. Humiliated and still a little confused by what he was doing there, Chapel climbed out of the cab and looked up at the façade of Bellevue Hospital, which looked like any other glass-fronted building in New York except it had the name "Bellevue" written up one side. Having only seen the hospital in movies before, he would have expected some huge brick monolith with tiny barred windows from which the occasional scream could be heard.
Maybe he should check himself in. He was definitely feeling disoriented and confused. Julia had said he was recovering nicely from his concussion, though. "Angel, do you have any thoughts about what's going on, here?"
"Just one, sugar. I'm starting to understand why Christina Smollett is so far off the radar. She's been a resident here since 1979. She's a patient in the psychiatric hospital."
Chapel frowned. "How old was she when she checked in? Wait-I can do this one in my head. She was born in 1959 so she would have been nineteen or twenty. I don't see how she could possibly have done any work for the CIA before that. And I seriously doubt the CIA has any undercover operatives in there."
"You still want to go in and talk to her?" Angel asked. "I can make the arrangements."
"Yeah, I should at least see if she can give me any new leads." Though Chapel wondered what a woman who'd been living in a psychiatric hospital for over thirty years could possibly know about genetic freaks with extra eyelids or the inner workings of secret government facilities. Still, he was here. "I won't take long. Can you have a helicopter ready to pick me up when I'm done?"
"There's a helipad on the roof. It's not open to civil aviation, but I can get you in and out before anyone knows you're there. In the meantime . . . okay, you're good. You've been added to the list of approved visitors for Christina Smollett. I've listed you as being in law enforcement."
"Thanks," Chapel said, and he hurried for the entrance. There was a metal detector inside and a couple of bored-looking uniformed security guards, one of whom was reading a newspaper. The other wrote down Chapel's name on a clipboard and then waved him through to a bank of elevators.
On the way up Angel gave him directions to the correct ward. The Psychiatric Hospital was behind a series of locked doors that security guards had to open for him. The place was clean and brightly lit, but it looked old and tired all the same, the walls painted in drab institutional colors and the endless doors all the same. Following Angel's directions, he finally reached a nurses' station where a man in purple surgical scrubs waved him over. "You're here to see Kristin, right?"
"Christina Smollett," Chapel said, glad as always that he had Angel to smooth the way for him. Without her it might have taken hours to get this far.
"Christina? We have a Kristin Smollett," the nurse told him. "Huh. Ruth? Ruth!"
An older woman in a starched white uniform came to the window of the nurses' station and peered out with sharp eyes.
"Ruth," the male nurse asked, "Christina Smollett. Is that the same as Kristin?"
"Yes," Ruth told him, handing him a manila folder. "She'll be in her room this time of day. Dinner's in an hour; be sure to be done with your visit by then, sir."
"It shouldn't take that long," Chapel assured her.
The male nurse led him down a long corridor. He leafed through the folder while they walked. It looked like it was Christina Smollett's medical record.
"Funny," the nurse said. "I've been working here six years. I always thought her name was Kristin."
"She never corrected you?" Chapel asked.
"You haven't visited her before, have you?" the nurse inquired. He caught Chapel trying to read over his shoulder, and he snapped the manila folder closed.
"No," Chapel admitted.
The nurse gave him a shrewd look, but then he shrugged. "Somebody like Kristin, somebody who's been taking antipsychotic medication for a long time, it kind of . . . eats away at them. It keeps them from acting out, and it makes the disturbed thoughts go away. But it doesn't leave a whole lot else in there." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Looking at her medication history, it's like reading a book on the history of nasty pills. The stuff we give here now is okay, it's all new wonder drugs. But back in the eighties she was mainlining Thorazine, and that stuff turns you into a zombie. I'd be pretty surprised if she can even remember her name."
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+12:07
The nurse unlocked a door and gestured for Chapel to head into the room beyond. "I'll be out here when you're done, so I can check you back out."
Chapel thanked him and stepped inside.
The room was small but not cramped, pleasant without exactly being comfortable. There was a bed and a dresser inside, and one window that looked like it couldn't be opened. Christina Smollett was sitting on the bed. She might have been fifty or seventy. Her hair was long and gray, and it looked like it had been carefully brushed on one side and left tangled and knotted on the other. She wore a sweat suit, and she was staring at the one piece of ornamentation in the entire room, a picture taped to the wall. The picture was of Tom Selleck, a twinkle in his eye and a cocky grin half hidden behind his famous mustache.
She didn't move at all when Chapel came in. She didn't seem aware of his presence. He walked over in front of her, not wanting to block her view of the picture but needing to get her attention. "Ms. Smollett?" he asked. "Christina?"
She blinked when he said her name, but didn't move her head. Her lips were curled in a simple smile. "He always looks so nice, in his shows," she said. "Like he would be friendly if you met him."
She sighed happily.
Chapel took a deep breath. "Christina, my name is Chapel. I need to ask you some questions. I need to know if you've ever met a Dr. Helen Bryant or a Dr. William Taggart."
She stuck out her lower lip and shook her head in the negative. "I know lots of doctors, though, and they don't always tell me their names. I've known a whole bunch of doctors. Doctors like me. They say I'm a perfect patient."
"I'm sure you are," Chapel told her. "How about Franklin Hayes? He's a judge. Have you ever met a judge?"
"Oh, no. There would have been a judge at my commitment hearing. But they didn't take me to that. Mommy said they didn't want to upset me. I used to be very easy to upset." She looked back at the picture on the wall. "Do you think he would be nice, if you met him in person?"
"Tom Selleck?"
"Is that his name? I . . . I have trouble with names sometimes. I'm sorry. I'm being a terrible hostess. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? If you're hungry, I could probably make something."
Chapel glanced around the room by reflex, but of course there was no coffeemaker in the room, much less any kind of kitchen facilities.
This was going nowhere. Christina Smollett's mind was mush, to be callous about it. She wasn't there. He took the kill list from his pocket and ran down the rest of the names, but she just shook her head at the sound of each one.
What on earth did this woman have to do with chimeras and kill lists and CIA secret projects? He couldn't see any connection at all. More to the point, why would the detainees-the chimeras, as he was coming to think of them-want to kill this woman in the first place? She was no danger to them or anybody else.
If she had ever known a secret, a secret that could damage national security, it was long gone.
"You're very handsome," she said, and looked down at her hands. A blush spread across her cheeks. "I don't see a lot of white people in here. Most of the nurses are Spanish or Negroes."
" . . . okay," Chapel said. "Christina, it was nice meeting you, but I think I should go now. Be . . . well." He couldn't think of anything else to say, and for once Angel was no help. "Be safe."
"You look nice. Nice and handsome. That's a very good combination in a gentleman caller. I don't get as many gentleman callers as I did when I was younger," she told him. "Will you come again, Mr. Selleck? Please tell me you'll come and see me again sometime. I'd like that very much."
Chapel stood up and walked over to the door. "Perhaps, Christina. I'm, uh, very busy with work right now, and-"
"You know what they say, a young lady with no social connections is at high risk of recidivism." It sounded like something a doctor might have said to her once. "I could backslide. I could lose all the wonderful progress I've made if I don't get to see people sometimes. If I don't get to talk to people, get social stimulation, if I-"
She stopped talking then.
Her face went white and her eyes very wide.
Chapel looked down and saw she had grabbed his arm. His left arm. Her fingers squeezed at the silicone that was wrapped around the motors there.
She grabbed the fingers of his artificial hand and brought them up to her face to look at them more closely. And then she started to scream. Piercing, hysterical cries of utter terror.
"You're not real! You're a robot! You're a robot!"
Chapel pressed up against the wall to one side of the door as Christina ran around the room, grabbing the blankets off her bed, tearing the picture of Tom Selleck off the wall. She held them close to her like armor, like they could protect her.
"He's a robot," she shrieked as the nurse came into the room. "He's not real! Don't let him touch me. Don't let him put that thing inside me! Don't let him touch me!"
The nurse stared at Chapel as he took Christina's shoulders and tried to calm her down.
"I have an artificial arm," Chapel tried to explain. "A prosthetic. She grabbed it and-and-"
"Just go. Get out-Ruth can check you out," the nurse said. He turned to Christina and tried to shush her, his hands stroking her arms.
"You're not real! You're a machine man!" she shouted.
Chapel hurried out into the hall and down toward the nurses' station, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Christina wasn't running after him. At the station the nurse named Ruth leaned out through her window. She looked at him, then down the hall toward Christina's room.
"I, uh," Chapel said. "I seem to have-"
"This is a psychiatric hospital, sir," Ruth told him. "It happens. It's best if you just leave now."
"Not a problem," Chapel said. He signed the form she put in front of him and headed for the locked doors that led off the ward.
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+12:16
Julia's receptionist was taking advantage of this very weird day to catch up on her filing. Portia Artiz loved her job, but she didn't know what to make of any of the things that had happened so far. The morning had been perfectly normal, a parade of dogs and cats coming through the front room, phone calls and forms to be filled out. Then Julia had said she was going to her mom's place for lunch and everything had just gone weird.
First Julia had called to tell Portia to cancel all her appointments, but she wouldn't explain why. She'd been crying on the phone and Portia begged her to say why, but Julia had a way of not letting anybody in. Portia blamed that on her mother, who everybody said was such a saint but the couple of times Portia met her she'd been a real frosty bitch.
Oh, man, she shouldn't even think things like that. Julia's mom was dead, attacked by some weirdo looking for drugs. The very thought made Portia's skin crawl. They got junkies in the office all the time, looking to score from the supply of animal tranquilizers they kept in a closet at the back of the office. Most of them were scrawny little guys, no threat to anybody but themselves. They were more annoying than dangerous-they came up with the craziest stories about why their pets needed the drugs really bad, right away, and they just didn't give up. Half of Portia's job was getting rid of them, threatening to call the police if they didn't leave. What if one of those guys was as jacked up and dangerous as the one who got Julia's mom, though? Portia shivered as she bent over the filing cabinet.
Someone rapped on the glass door behind her, and Portia jumped right into the air. She gave out a little squeak and turned to see a man standing at the door, a big guy with a smile on his face. Probably another junkie, she thought, until he held up a police badge and pressed it against the glass.
He started laughing and Portia realized she must look hilarious, jumping straight in the air like that. He chuckled wildly and she couldn't help herself, she had to join in. She giggled behind her hand and shook her head as she opened the door. "You scared me half to death," she said, still laughing. "What can I do for you? If this is about that guy who came back here earlier, the one with the concussion-" she started.
"Nope," the man said, and then he grabbed her by the throat and squeezed, hard. Portia's vision started to dim as she struggled for breath. "Not him. I'm here for your boss."
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+12:17
While Chapel waited on the roof of Bellevue for his helicopter he spoke to Angel, trying to figure out why someone like Christina Smollett would be a target for the chimeras.
"She's definitely not CIA," Angel said.
"Definitely. But then why is she on the list?" He crumpled the list in his hand. "Maybe this is all a snipe hunt. Maybe the list is meant to send me down the wrong path. Maybe I'm wasting my time chasing phantoms just so the CIA can have a good laugh at my expense, and-"
"No. The list is real. The names are all there for a reason," Angel said, and any trace of flirtation or sultriness was gone from her voice. "Every one of those people is marked for death, including Christina Smollett."
Chapel looked up at the sky as if he would see Angel floating there.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
"You know things you aren't telling me," he said.
"Now, sugar," she said, her voice softening again. "You already knew that. Don't be silly, there are all kinds of secrets that I can't-"
"In fact, you knew all about Christina Smollett before I came here on this fool's errand," he said, very carefully.
"How could I know that?"
"Because you called here, back when I asked you to let the targets know they were in danger. You knew she was a patient in Bellevue, you must have-because you talked to somebody here. Her doctors, the security guards-somebody."
"I . . . spoke to them. Yes."
"You didn't mention that before I got here. You let it be a little surprise for me. We're not exactly on the same team, are we, Angel?" he asked. "I'm trying to save lives here. I'm trying to stop a bunch of killers. And you're not on board for that. Not fully. You have another agenda you're working here, and it's not about keeping these people alive."
He waited for her reply. For her to try to smooth things over, to explain things away. But she didn't say anything.