They arrived at the elevator together. The door opened. A Marine with a holstered nine millimeter greeted them with hard gray eyes.
Two minutes later, they stood in a small private office. Four plasma displays like a Japanese screen rose on steel stands beyond the central desk. The walls were bare and beige, insulated with close-packed, sound-absorbing foam panels.
Augustine hated enclosed spaces. He had come to hate everything he had accomplished in the last eleven years. His entire life was an enclosed space.
Browning took the only seat and laid her hands over a keyboard and trackball. Her fingers danced over the keyboard, and she palmed the trackball, sucking on her teeth as she watched the monitor. “They’re living about a hundred miles south of here,” she murmured, focusing on her task.
“I know,” Augustine said. “Spotsylvania County.”
She looked up, startled, then cocked her head to one side. “How long have you known?”
“A year and a half,” Augustine said.
“Why not just take them? Soft heart, or soft brain?”
Augustine dismissed that with a blink revealing neither opinion nor passion. He felt his face tighten. Soon his cheeks would begin to hurt like hell, a residual effect from the blast in the basement of the White House, the bomb that had killed the president, nearly killed Augustine, and taken the eye of Christopher Dicken. “I don’t see anything.”
“The network is still assembling,” Browning said. “Takes a few minutes. Little Bird is talking to Deep Eye.”
“Lovely toys,” he commented.
“They were your idea.”
“I’ve just come back from Riverside, Rachel.”
“Oh. How was it?”
“Awful beyond belief.”
“No doubt.” Browning removed a Kleenex from her small black purse and delicately blew her nose, one nostril at a time. “You sound like someone who wants to be relieved of command.”
“You’ll be the first to know, I’m sure,” Augustine said.
Rachel pointed to the monitor, snapped her fingers, and like magic, a picture formed. “Deep Eye,” she said, and they looked down upon a small patch of Virginia countryside flocked with thick green trees and pierced by a winding, two-lane road. Deep Eye’s lens zoomed in to show the roof of a house, a driveway with a single small truck, a large backyard surrounded by tall oaks.
“And…here’s Little Bird,” Browning’s voice turned husky with an almost erotic approval.
The view switched to that of a drone swooping up beside the house like a dragonfly. It hovered near a small frame window, then adjusted exposure in the morning brightness to reveal the head and shoulders of a young girl, rubbing her face with a washcloth.
“Recognize her?” Browning asked.
“The last picture we have is from four years ago,” Augustine said.
“That must be from an inexcusable lack of trying.”
“You’re right,” Augustine admitted.
The girl left the bathroom and vanished from view. Little Bird rose to hover at an altitude of fifty feet and waited for instructions from the unseen pilot, probably in the back of a remoter truck a few miles from the house.
“I think that’s Stella Nova Rafelson,” Browning mused, tapping her lower lip with a long red fingernail.
“Congratulations. You’re a voyeur,” Augustine said.
“I prefer ‘paparazzo.’”
The view on the screen veered and dropped to take in a slender female figure stepping off the front porch and onto the scattered gravel walkway. She was carrying something small and square in one hand.
“Definitely our girl,” Browning said. “Tall for her age, isn’t she?”
Stella walked with rigid determination toward the gate in the wire fence. Little Eye dropped and magnified to a three-quarter view. The resolution was remarkable. The girl paused at the gate, swung it halfway open, then glanced over her shoulder with a frown and a flash of freckles.
Dark freckles, Augustine thought. She’s nervous.
“What is she up to?” Browning asked. “Looks like she’s going for a walk. And not to school, I’m thinking.”
Augustine watched the girl amble along the dirt path beside the old asphalt road, out in the country, as if taking a morning stroll.
“Things are moving kind of fast,” Browning said. “We don’t have anyone on site. I don’t want to lose the opportunity, so I’ve alerted a stringer.”
“You mean a bounty hunter. That’s not wise.”
Browning did not react.
“I do not want this, Rachel,” Augustine said. “It’s the wrong time for this kind of publicity, and certainly for these tactics.”
“It’s not your choice, Mark,” Browning said. “I’ve been told to bring her in, and her parents as well.”
“By whom?” Augustine knew that his authority had been sliding of late, perhaps drastically since Riverside. But he had never imagined that Riverside would lead to an even more severe crackdown.
“It’s a sort of test,” Browning said.
The secretary of Health and Human Services shared authority over EMAC with the president. Forces within EMAC wanted to change that and remove HHS from the loop entirely, consolidating their power. Augustine had tried the same thing himself, years ago, in a different job.
Browning took control from the remoter truck and sent Little Bird down the road, buzzing quietly a discreet distance behind Stella Nova Rafelson. “Don’t you think Kaye Lang should have kept her maiden name when she married?”
“They never married,” Augustine said.
“Well, well. The little bastard.”
“Fuck you, Rachel,” Augustine said.
Browning looked up. Her face hardened. “And fuck you, Mark, for making me do your job.”
Mrs. Rhine stood in her living room, peering through the thick acrylic pane as if searching for the ghosts of another life. In her late thirties, she was of medium height, with stocky arms and legs but a thin torso, chin strong and pointed. She wore a bright yellow dress and a white blouse with a patchwork vest she had made herself. What they could see of her face between gauze bandages was red and puffy, and her left eye had swollen shut.
Her arms and legs were completely covered in Ace bandages. Mrs. Rhine’s body was trying to eliminate trillions of new viruses that could craftily claim they were part of her self, from her genome; but the viruses were not making her sick. Her own immune response was the principle cause of her torment.
Someone, Dicken could not remember who, had likened autoimmune disease to having one’s body run by House Republicans. A few years in Washington had eerily reinforced the aptness of this comparison.
“Christopher?” Mrs. Rhine called out hoarsely.
The lights in the inner station switched on with a click.
“It’s me,” Dicken answered, his voice sibilant within the hood.
Mrs. Rhine decorously sidestepped and curtsied, her dress swishing. Dicken saw that she had placed his flowers in a large