Invasive (12 page)

Pain as her ankle twists. Everything whips up past her as she falls.
Wham.
She lands hard on her side and she curls her leg inward. It takes her a few seconds to stand back up, but when she tries to put even a little bit of pressure on the foot—it's a mistake. Another sparking snap of pain. She's twisted it. Or worse.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She's miles from where she started. Miles back to the lab. Hannah guesses that she's roughly at the midpoint of her run, so going forward or going backward, it's all the same distance. All she can do is urge herself forth, gingerly limping.

When she crosses the top of the ridge, she sees Einar. He's ahead by a good ways, running back to the labs. She thinks to yell to him, but why? Instead, she keeps moving toward where she last saw him. Where did he go? With whom did he meet? Someone else might still be up here. The back of her neck goes suddenly cold.

She hears a scuffing sound. A rasp of what may be a shoe against rock. She stops. Sucks in a quick breath and holds it.

The sound of wind through palm fronds. The crash of sea against sand and rock. The warble of seabirds.

Then, another footstep. A shape ahead of her, moving through the trees—

“Will,” she says, surprised. And suspicious. “What are you doing out here?”

He gasps, clutching at his chest in his own surprise. “Oh God. Agent Stander. You scared the crap out of me.”

“It was you.”
You that Einar was meeting with.
She sees Will has come from a set of steps leading down through the dirt and the porous volcanic rock, toward the sea. “What's down there? It's Special Projects, isn't it?”

“Hannah, I can't talk about this.”

“I'll go have my own look,” she says, and starts to move around him.

As she limps past, his hand falls on her elbow. Without even thinking, Hannah darts out her other hand, catches his thumb, and bends it as far back as it will go. Will drops to one knee as if there's nowhere else to go, a susurrus of air whistling through his clenched teeth. “Leggo leggo leggo.”

She lets him go. He pulls his hand away and shakes it. Then an odd sound bubbles up out of him: A laugh. A little unhinged. “You're really something,” he says.

“I am. Now I'm going to keep walking.” She turns to head back down the path, though
walking
was an overpromise. The only verb on which she can truly deliver is
hobble
.

Will trails after. “It won't matter. You can't get there.”

It's then that Hannah sees the elevator platform ahead. It's industrial-looking—not modern, not chic—built out of heavy wood and a metal frame on a braided stainless steel cable. She instantly recognizes a RFID reader pad next to it.

“I'm guessing this won't work,” she says, holding up the borrowed band.

Will shakes his head. “No.”

“I could take yours.” She nods toward his wrist.

“You could, I'm sure.” He leans into a personal plea, and Hannah isn't sure if it's sincere—or if she's being played. “But Einar will fire me. And do understand that when I say
fire me,
I don't just mean from the work I'm doing here. I mean that he will fire me from a cannon into a rock wall. Come back to Arca with me. Talk to him about Special Projects. Let him tell you.”

“What's down there, Will? What is Special Projects?”

“It's not what you think. It's nothing concerning your investigation.”

Hannah looks one more time to the elevator—it appears to drop down over the side of the cliff. It can't be more than thirty feet down. She thinks,
I could climb it
. She's done free-climbing. But as she eases her weight, the pain in her ankle reminds her:
You're not going anywhere.
“Fine,” she says. “I'm going back.”
If Einar won't help me, I'll try to call Hollis, see if he can't grease the wheels.
That is, if they let her have the satphone again. What if they don't? Her heart stutters in her chest at the thought.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm great.”

“Your ankle—”

“Is tweaked. It'll heal.”

“I'll go with you.”

What, so you can keep an eye on me?
He's eager. Too eager. “No.”

She limps on ahead and makes him follow behind. The walk back is arduous—a misery on her ankle. The journey made all the worse because the two of them are silent the whole way.

Hannah is on the satphone, with Hollis on the other end.

“We got data on how the package got to the cabin,” Hollis says.

“The package. You mean the ants.”

“Yeah. Closest traffic cams were twenty miles out, but on one
we found a low-rent shipping courier—a local knockoff of FedEx called, hold on—” She hears the whisper of paper. “Quick-Fix Ship, Inc.”

She leans against a palm tree, pulling her leg up as high as it will go. The on-site nurse gave her an ankle support brace—simple neoprene but with a closable cuff. She holds an ice pack against it. The nurse wouldn't commit to a sprain or a strain—said it could be a mild injury, but it also could be from overuse. Tendinitis, maybe. Only a doctor would know for sure. “So what else? Where'd it come from? Who sent it?”

“We don't know who sent it. Credit card they had on file was bullshit—literally John Smith. What's interesting is everything else.”

“Tell me.”

“They told the delivery guy where to find a key to the cabin—under a rock off the west corner of the porch. They gave him an explicit time to deliver the package, and instructions to abandon delivery if anyone was present.”

She furrows her brow. “So—what? Setting a trap?”

“Sounds like it. Here's the other thing: this package came from Hawaii.”

“Kauai.”

“No. Big Island. Town called Hilo. Still, it's close to Arca.”

“Hollis, Einar's here.”

A low rumble in the back of Hollis's throat. “Well, we did suggest that one of the world's benevolent billionaire geniuses is somehow responsible for murdering one dude in a cabin with killer ants. I imagined he'd take that seriously.”

“I know.” Deep breath. “He's hiding something from me. Special Projects here on the island.”

“I'm sure he's hiding all kinds of things from you, Hannah. Guys like that don't get to
be
guys like that unless they have secrets piled up behind vault doors like so much gold.”

“I'll ask him at dinner tonight.”

“Dinner. Well. Aren't you fancy.”

“I am. The fanciest.” She winces as pain cranks her ankle and sweat drips down the bridge of her nose. “I'm so fancy I have to go and take a proper shower before I grill him about Special Projects.”

“Keep on sniffing, Hannah. We're close on this. Kick the tires, shake the reeds, and whatever other metaphors you prefer. You come home in—thirty-six hours now? Make your time count.”

T
he cafeteria is empty but for one man and a spread of food. Einar sits like a benevolent king: his arms out, palms up like he's Jesus welcoming the sinner to a meal. He stands as Hannah enters and gives her a light, almost airy embrace. “Please,” he says. “Sit.”

She does. The smell of the food is intoxicating. Einar identifies plates as his hand passes over them: moonfish sashimi, shoyu ramen with pork belly, grilled Pacific blue marlin, steamed breadfruit, tofu in something called a huli-huli sauce. Finally, his fingers (wiggling like he's playing the piano) hover over what she first believed to be simple sushi: a slice of fish over rice, wrapped in a belt of nori.

But then she realizes: that's not fish.

“Spam,” he says, with an almost childish delight. “Spam musubi is a Hawaiian treat. Sold most everywhere. Spam became popular during World War Two—”

“I want to know about Special Projects.”

His hand stays hanging in the air above the plate. The corner of his mouth fishhooks into a wry, playful grin. “Yes, I was told you went for a run today.”

“I followed you.”

“And dodged Venla. To that, I must offer—” He brings both hands together in a gentle round of applause. “I apologize if she made undue threats. If I am being honest, while she is very good at her job, she is growing overprotective.”

Because you're sleeping with her.
She can see that now. The faint,
pained look on his face. A tiny sigh of regret. That isn't why she's here, though. So she says again, “Special Projects.”

“The Cove,” he says.

“I'm sorry?”

“That is its nickname. The Cove. You saw the elevator—it goes down the side of the cliff—but did you see any buildings down there?”

She hesitates. “I didn't.”

“The building is inside the rock. Inside a small cove up against the sea.”

“A good place to do sensitive work. I want to see it.”

His face freezes for a moment. “Tomorrow morning. I shall arrange—”

“Tonight. Now, in fact.” Her heart is like a speed bag under the pummeling fists of a prizefighter. The less time she gives them to clean anything up, the better. Who knows how much time has already been wasted? What they've already been able to hide?

Einar taps the side of his thumb against the plate. “It would be a shame to waste all this dinner.” She's about to protest when he adds: “So, we will pack this up and have them bring it to Special Projects. We can eat there.”

The sun bleeds into the ocean as they walk.

Einar carries a flashlight—not yet necessary, the bulb still dark even as evening starts to soak the sky. He tries to get Hannah to sit in a wheelchair (they have one in nursing), but she insists on making it her own way.

“The pain,” he says. “Inside of the ankle or out?”

“Outside.”

“Good. Inversion sprain, then. Grade one, very mild. Probably go away on its own—though since you insist on agitating it . . . Maybe take it easier?”

“I will . . . try.”

She hobbles along and he keeps a measured pace. “I watched your talks,” he says suddenly. “Will encouraged me to take a look.”

“Oh. And? Your thoughts?”

“I quite liked them. I consider myself something of a futurist, too. Though, obviously, I do not remain content to merely watch the future approach. My hand is an active one, not passive. Not that I am attempting to diminish your accomplishment. The work of those who
do
is only made meaningful by those who
study
. Someone must always be there to ask if we chose our actions correctly, and the critical conversation is an essential one.”

“You seem to believe that the future will be on the side of the angels.”

“Only if we make it so. We must be active participants in creating a future. We cannot be only prophets. We can divine whatever we want in the guts of a pigeon, but unless we work to make the future we see true, then we will likely never see it made so. You say that two forces race toward the open door—”

“Evolution and ruination.”

“Angel and demon, yes. But to me it's not which one wins. It's which one we
let
win. We are the ones urging them forward. The one that makes it through wins because that is the beast we backed.”

“Insightful.”

“Is it? I'm drawing upon you for inspiration. You have framed it in ways I had not previously considered. And for that:
brava
.”

As they walk beneath palms, through the darkness of the shade, two red birds dart through the underbrush. Honeycreepers, she thinks. Chasing each other out of territory, perhaps, or for mating, or for some other birdly reason that remains unknown to man.

Einar asks, “Do you find your outlook complicated by your childhood?”

“I'm sorry?” she says, suddenly feeling off guard.

“Your parents were hard people.”

The warm air goes cold quickly as a chill slides over her. “How do you know about my parents?”

“You submitted to a background check before coming here.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You did with the FBI, and the FBI granted us access to those results.”

She stops walking. The foot belonging to her sprained ankle hovers an inch over the walking path. “That's private.”

“What I do here is private, too. Journalists around the globe would offer a tithing of blood to see what I have going on. And my competitors would cut throats just to get a peek. You are here because I trust you, and I trust you because your background check helped me to trust you.”

“Fine,” Hannah says, her voice stiff. She keeps walking. “I can appreciate that.”

“Your parents—they believe the future is on the side of the devils, don't they?” He watches her as she stumbles along. The way a hawk watches a mouse.

“They are fearful of what is to come, yes.”

“They are not doomsday cultists but . . .” He searches the air as if hoping to find the words he's missing. “What is the term?”

“Preppers. Doomsday preppers. They're survivalists.”

“Right. Yes. They believe the world will end sooner than later. Potentially in their lifetimes—or yours.”

“Correct. Some believe in a very specific end—reactor meltdown, governmental takeover, comet, famine, polar shift.”

“Hm. In what end do your parents believe?”

Hannah's not used to talking about this. She wants to shut the conversation down. “Unspecified.”

“Certainly enough signs of doom to warrant it,” Einar says. “Global warming, for one. Greatest challenge of our lifetime. And it only complicates preexisting water crises. Food crises. Wars between nations.”

“Yes.” He's right. What else is there to say?

“Was it strange?”

“Was what strange?”

“Living with them. These people. With these ideas.”

“It wasn't strange then. I grew up with it.”

“The famous question posed to the fish: ‘What temperature is the water today, fish?' And the fish answers: ‘What's water?' It was normal until it wasn't.”

“That's right.”

“You were homeschooled early.”

“How do you know that?”

He smiles. “My background checks are thorough. I know they homeschooled you. And I know at a point you left. To stay with your aunt Susan. Mother's sister, yes?”

Hannah feels pinned underneath a glass slide, with Einar's microscope pressing down so hard against her the whole thing splits and shatters. “Yes.” If he knows all this, he must know everything.

“Why'd you leave?”

“That's not really your business.”

“We're just talking.”

“No, I'm just talking. You've got your scalpels out. And I don't feel like being dissected. I'm here because the FBI trusts me as a consultant to look into matters of peculiarity. Matters like this business with a dead man killed by genetically modified ants. Ants that contain a proprietary marker gene identical to the ones used at Arca Labs. My history isn't what's under the glass, Mr. Geirsson—”

“It's Einar, please—”

“What's under glass is you and this place and what you do here.”

He laughs and touches her arm. “Of course, Hannah. Of course. I did not mean to pry. My brother says I am like a hound on the scent of blood—I keep pursuing it past the sense of reason or social grace. I find you fascinating, is all.”

And I find you fascinating,
she thinks. A strange man with untold money and power. Possessing a charisma that is both magnetic and repulsive in equal measure, flipping back and forth effortlessly and unpredictably.

The elevator is just a platform with a metal frame around it—
A cage,
Hannah thinks. As it descends past the black wall of the cliff, she hears the surf pounding the side of the island below with merciless reiteration—a fuss and crash, fuss and crash. As the elevator moves, the sea spray mists them.

They drop toward darkness, the setting sun on the other end of the island now. Down here, the black rock and the depth of the grotto deepen the shadows. Hannah's pulse kicks in her neck as she feels the cove looming—a monster awaiting, a mouth hungry to swallow them up.

But when the elevator platform rattles and bangs to a stop, Einar steps out and flips a switch and the cove is suddenly awash in light. Strings of bulbs are driven into the rock with metal pitons. Hannah sees a steel walkway—a bridge dangling from braided cables—drawing them farther into the grotto. Beyond that is a building that looks like it's made from the same plastic as the mod-pods, though the shape is considerably different. It's a cylinder, like a long tube driven into the rock.

“Did you build this right here? Right in the cove?”

Einar smiles. “We did.” He points to a few vertical bands along each side of the cove—straight lines gouged into the rock as if by a massive blade. “That is where we anchored the 3-D printers—and the robotic arms did the rest. They could operate only during low tide, so it took considerable time and resources.”

Astounding. She almost says as much, but she is wary of feeding the man's ego. Instead, she nods and offers a stiff smile, hoping that the awe she feels remains hidden behind the mask of her face.

In the cylindrical structure is a door, and Einar walks over to it. He has no wristband, she notes for the first time, and yet the door opens for him. Just as, she realizes now, the elevator did.
Is he microchipped?
she wonders.

Inside is a whole other lab. Along the edges of the cylindrical
room are three rings of steel mesh platforms, each with a set of curving steps connecting them—and one more set of steps leading to the floor. All along the way are glass containers of arthropods. As they descend she sees tarantulas, centipedes, butterflies, even a paper wasp nest. All in different ecosystems: simulated rain forests, deserts, swamps. It's less a lab and more a zoo. Another doorway sits at the bottom of it all—down there, she thinks, is below sea level.

It's as if Einar is reading her mind. “The cylinder is designed to withstand the pressure of the ocean—both the water pressure and the push and pull of the tides. But,” he says as they reach the bottom of the room, “you'll notice those massive . . . what's the word? Shutters. Up there around the top floor, just below the door where we entered.”

She looks up and sees them—shuttered metal vents. All along the circumference of the room. “What are they?”

“If you were to push that red button there—” He points to a junction box hanging on the wall, an oddly industrial feature in this room. On it is a comically large red button. “The room floods. Below our feet is more grating, and if the need arises, we can then flush and pump the seawater back out, though it would take time to do so.”

Her middle tightens. “Why would you need to flush this room? What exactly is Special Projects?”