Chimera: A Jim Chapel Mission

Eventually the helicopter came to pick him up.



IN TRANSIT: APRIL 12, T+12:22



Seen from the roof of Bellevue the sky over New York City was a deep blue-black. Up this high Chapel could even see a few stars, though most of them were lost in the haze of light that seemed to rise from the city like mist. On the western horizon a last streak of pink marked where the sun had gone down.



Out there, Chapel thought, out past that sunset there are three more of the bastards already moving toward their targets. Implacable killers moving fast, like sharks that had caught the scent of blood. And he had just thrown away the best weapon he had to find and fight them.



"Angel," he said, "please come in. Angel?"



There was no response.



"Angel," he said, "I'm sorry if I was rude."



She didn't reply.



"Sir?" the pilot asked, leaning across the crew seats of the chopper and shouting over the noise of the engine. "We need to get airborne."



Chapel nodded and climbed into his seat. A helmet waited for him there-he picked it up and started to pull it on when he realized he would have to take the hands-free unit out of his ear for it to fit.



His main connection to Angel. Well, she could reach him through the helicopter's radio if she felt like talking. He put the hands-free unit in his pocket and pulled the helmet on. Adjusting the microphone, he asked the pilot, "What are your orders?"



"Sir, I'm to take you to Newark Airport; that's just the other side of the Hudson River. There you will find a civilian jet waiting for you to take you wherever you want to go. I'm supposed to ask you where that is, sir. They need to file a flight plan before you arrive or you won't be able to take off."



Where indeed? The next names on the list, in geographical order, were in Atlanta and Chicago. He had to pick one and hope that he wasn't haring off after another distraction. If he chose the wrong one, if he wasted time on another red herring, he could be sentencing an innocent person to death. He pulled the crumpled list from his pocket.



He tapped his artificial fingers on his knee. The target in Chicago was named Eleanor Pechowski; the one in Atlanta was a Jeremy Funt.



Angel might have been able to help him. She might have told him which of them was a higher-value target for the chimeras. But Angel wasn't talking to him.



He remembered something he'd heard Teddy Roosevelt had said. In a crisis, the best thing you can do is the right thing. The second best was the wrong thing. The worst thing you could do was nothing.



He had to make a decision. He had to just pick one.



"Atlanta," he told the pilot. "I'm going to Atlanta next."



So he could start this whole crazy chase over from scratch.



"Might as well settle in, sir. This'll take a little while," the pilot told him.



Chapel nodded and looked out his window. They were already lifting off the hospital roof. The helicopter made a wide arc around a skyscraper and headed west, toward the sunset. At least he was making some progress.



It had been a long day and he felt like closing his eyes, maybe even getting a little sleep. The very first thing they taught him in the army was how to sleep wherever he might be, whenever he got the chance. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down his racing mind. Tried not to think about dead doctors and monsters that were part human and part something else.



Before he could nod off, though, he felt his phone jump in his pocket. He let it vibrate for a second, wondering who could be calling him. Maybe it was Angel, he thought. Or Hollingshead calling him to bitch him out for the way he'd treated Angel.



It was neither of them. The phone listed the number as having a 718 area code. He vaguely remembered that was the code for Brooklyn.



He only knew one person in Brooklyn. "Julia?" he said, answering the call. "Did you think of something that I needed to-"



"Chapel!" Julia said. She was shouting, but he could barely hear her over the noise of the helicopter. Only a few words got through. "Chapel, you-to come-man here-police-says he's police-don't know who else to-think he's-kill me!"



The phone beeped three times and the words CALL FAILED appeared on the screen. Chapel wasn't used to this phone-it worked differently from his old BlackBerry-but he managed to call up the recent call menu and tried to call her back. The phone beeped three times, telling him it couldn't make the connection. He tried again.



Three beeps.



Chapel could only think one thing. A second chimera was in New York-and it had decided to pick up where the first one left off. It was going to kill Julia.



"Change of plans," he told the pilot. "Take us to Brooklyn-as fast as you can!"



The pilot shook his head and looked over at Chapel. "Sir, that's not allowed. I've already put in my own flight plan, and the local authorities are very strict about civilian aircraft deviating from course over Manhattan."



"A woman's going to die if you don't turn around right now," Chapel told the man. When the pilot didn't respond instantly, Chapel grabbed the chin strap of his helmet and dragged his head to the side to make eye contact. "Turn around," he said.



The pilot was military. He knew what a direct order sounded like.



BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+12:31



The pilot set them down on the ball field of a public park not too far from Julia's clinic. It was as close as he could get.



Chapel jumped to the ground. He took a second to get his bearings and headed for the closest exit from the park. The streets beyond were lit brightly enough, and the clinic was only two blocks away. He prayed he wasn't too late.



He'd never forgive himself if he failed to save Julia, not after he'd already failed her mother.



When he reached the clinic, he found it shut up tight for the night. An iron shutter had been pulled down over its front door and curtains obscured its windows. He was about to hammer on the door, demanding to be let in, when he heard a sudden sharp noise come from inside. A noise like a muffled gunshot.



Or one fired from a silencer.



No. Jesus no. This chimera had a gun.



Chapel looked up and saw there were no bars on the windows of the second story of the building. There was a light fixture just above the doorway that looked sturdy enough to hold his weight. He jumped up and grabbed it with his good hand, then slowly pulled himself up until he could hook one leg around it.



As a kid in Florida Chapel had climbed plenty of trees. Then in the army he'd learned to climb walls and fences. He could do this. He got a nasty twinge from his hurt leg when he put all his weight on that foot, but he managed to launch himself upward and grab the ledge of the second-story window. Desperation gave him strength as he pulled himself up so he could stand on the ledge. It was only a few inches wide, but it was enough.



He tried the window and found it opened freely. Chapel jumped through feetfirst and landed in a dark bedroom full of minimalist furniture. Thankfully there was nobody asleep in the bed. He hurried to the room's door and started to reach for the knob-then remembered his training and pressed his ear up against the door instead.



For a moment he heard nothing. Then a soft creak, as if someone had stepped on a loose stair riser. The chimera must have heard him come through the window and was coming upstairs to investigate.



The sound wasn't repeated. Chapel had no idea where the chimera was in the building. One wrong move now and he was likely to get shot. He drew his weapon and held it low, down by his thigh.



Every shred of his training told him he was in a lousy situation. There was an armed madman out there beyond the door, and Chapel had no idea of his location or if he was even alone. Opening the door would expose him to enemy fire. He glanced down at the bottom of the door and saw only darkness there-there would be no lights in the hall outside. He would be running blind, running right into what could be an ambush or a trap or who knew what. Julia could already be dead, and he might be throwing away his life for nothing-worse than that, he was jeopardizing his mission by acting like this.



He reached down and turned the doorknob.



To hell with caution, he told himself. And then he shoved the door open and threw himself into the hallway beyond, keeping low and swinging his arm up to point his pistol first one way, then the other, up and down the hall.



He saw no movement, no sign of any threat. He started to move again-



-when he heard the same creaking sound as before.



Chapel froze in place and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. A little light came in through the windows of the bedroom behind him, enough to see that there were two other doors on the hall, and that to his left it ended in a stairwell leading down. The doors were all closed. He was certain the creaking had come from the stairs.



He strained his eyes to see anything. A silhouette. A shadow. Just a few steps from the top of the stairs, something big moved in the darkness, and he heard the creaking again.



The shape held something long and narrow-like a silenced pistol.



Chapel did what you were never supposed to do in such a situation. He improvised. Launching himself forward, he ran toward the top of the stairs and then threw himself down them, aiming right for the center of the shadow's mass.



A shot rang out, a dull roar muffled by the silencer. The muzzle flash was only a dim flicker of light, but it was enough for Chapel to see that his target was a man in a suit. In midair Chapel threw out his arms to grab the man and pull them both rolling to the floor of the stair landing. He took the fall with his shoulder and spun around, weapon up and raised and ready to fire.



The long barrel of the silencer was already pointed right at his face. He'd taken his target down, but the chimera had jumped back to his feet before Chapel could even get his bearings.



"Ah, how sweet," the chimera said. "You came back for her." The chimera seemed to find this uproariously funny. He couldn't seem to stop laughing.



That was when Chapel realized he wasn't facing a chimera at all.



BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+12:39



"I'm just-heh-I'm going to turn on the-ha-lights," Laughing Boy said. "Okay? Nobody needs to move, I just want to. To. Heh heh heh. Get a look at you."



"Try anything and I will shoot," Chapel told him.



"Yeah, yeah. Ha ha ha."



Laughing Boy reached up and flicked a light switch. Chapel was ready for it, but still the sudden light dazzled him. He put his artificial hand up to shield his eyes. Laughing Boy had plenty of time to shoot him in the second or so it took his eyes to adjust, but the CIA freak didn't take the opportunity.



Once Chapel could see, he understood the situation a little better. The two of them were crammed into the narrow landing of the stairs, Chapel in a tight firing crouch, Laughing Boy hunched over just a little. Laughing Boy's silenced pistol was still pointed right at Chapel's face.



Chapel's sidearm was pointed straight at Laughing Boy's heart.



Laughing Boy couldn't stop giggling, perhaps at the absurdity of this situation. His whole body shook with mirth-except the arm that held his gun. The barrel of his pistol didn't so much as bob up and down.



"Where's Julia?" Chapel demanded. "Is she alive?"



Laughing Boy shrugged.



"Answer me!"



The CIA man smiled. He'd been laughing the whole time, but this was the first thing that made him smile. "Nobody gets to give orders around here. Not when we've both drawn down on each other."



Chapel gritted his teeth. He thought of something that had occurred to him before. "Do me a favor, then. Blink your eyes a couple of times."



Laughing Boy's smile turned into a mischievous grin. "Oh, clever. But no. I'm not one of them. I'm just like you."



"Bullshit," Chapel said. "We've got nothing in common."



"You'll find out."



"Enough of this. Put your weapon away or I'll shoot," Chapel demanded.



"I'm ready to die for my country," Laughing Boy said. He chuckled at the thought. "I do what I have to do."



"You're going to tell me that's why you're here? In the interest of national security?" Chapel could hardly believe it.



Laughing Boy nodded. "She was exposed to the virus. I just need to bring her in for a couple tests."



"Sure," Chapel said. "That makes sense. That's why you came with a silencer on your weapon. And why she called me to tell me you were trying to kill her."



"Oh, all right-you're cleverer than I gave you credit for, aren't you? I was going to put a bullet in her and then burn her body. But, you know, it's all details." Laughing Boy chortled so hard his concentration broke for a second.



Long enough.



Chapel shot out one leg and swept it across Laughing Boy's ankles. As he'd expected, the CIA man was fast and managed to jump back, avoiding the sweep, but that distracted him further and gave Chapel plenty of time to grab the flash suppressor on the end of the silenced pistol and shove it upward, toward the ceiling. The pistol discharged once, twice, and the stink of gunpowder filled Chapel's nose and made him want to sneeze, but he fought it back and wrestled the weapon out of Laughing Boy's hand. In a second he had his own pistol jammed up under the CIA man's chin and the silenced pistol went arcing backward, over his shoulder, to clatter on the stairs below.



"Now," Chapel said, "we start talking about who gets to give the orders."



"Told you," Laughing Boy said, his chest shaking with a case of the giggles, "I'm ready to die."



He flung himself forward before Chapel had a chance to react, pushing them both down the stairs, flying head over feet. Chapel's head spun as it struck the banister, then a riser on the way down. At the bottom he struggled to regain his feet, to spin around and find the other man. He was so disoriented it took him a second to realize he'd dropped his pistol.



Laughing Boy stood up from where he'd bent over to retrieve his own weapon. Chapel braced himself, ready to take the shots. Ready to die.



But Laughing Boy . . . laughed. Long and hard and fully, from the bottom of his chest. "Hear that?" he said. "They're never supposed to be around when you need them, right? Am I right?"



Chapel strained his ears and heard it-the sound of police sirens, coming toward them. Someone must have seen him break into the building.



"I'm going to go now," Laughing Boy said, holstering his weapon. "I hate cops, you know? So many questions, and they never believe your answers."



"It helps if you tell them the truth."



Chapel had never in his life told a joke that got such a big and heartfelt laugh.



BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+12:46



Laughing Boy disappeared into the darkness of the building. Chapel didn't bother chasing him-he knew the man would shoot him if he tried. He grabbed his own handgun off the floor and holstered it, then searched for a door leading into the clinic. By the time he found it, red and blue lights were already stabbing through the thin curtains that covered the front windows. He heard police radios squawking, and he knew in any second they would start demanding he come out with his hands visible.



Before then, he had to know what had happened here. He had to know if Julia was still alive.



The clinic was dark, and the flashing lights made it hard to see anything. He hurried forward into the reception area and nearly slipped and fell. The floor was slick with something dark. He knew what that meant instantly.



"Oh, no," he said aloud. He crept forward until he found the receptionist's desk. Blood had splattered all the files lying there, and a woman's body lay slumped, motionless, in the chair.



Biting his lip, he used his artificial hand-it didn't have any fingerprints-to gently lift her head.



It wasn't Julia. It was the receptionist, the one he'd seen comforting Julia in her grief. There were two dark holes in her face, one in her temple, one in her cheekbone just below her eye. Blood oozed from both of them as he moved her. "I'm so sorry," he said. "You had nothing to do with this, you didn't deserve . . ."



"Chapel?" he heard someone shout, from behind him.



It was muffled, distorted, but it was definitely Julia's voice.



He made his way deeper into the clinic, past the examination rooms, past a shelf loaded down with prescription dog food. "Julia?" he called. "Where are you?"



"All the way at the back," she called out. "Is he still there?"



"He's gone," Chapel called. In the dark he stumbled forward until he found a door at the back of the clinic. A heavy, reinforced steel door with a massive lock. Bending down he saw that the paint on the lock plate had been scuffed. There were three long oval spots where the paint had been blasted away.



Laughing Boy must have tried to shoot out the lock. That almost never worked-Chapel had been taught that much when he was trained by the Rangers-but it looked like Laughing Boy had failed to find any other way to get the door open.



"I'm coming out," Julia said. The lock mechanism clicked, and the door swung open. Chapel got a look inside and realized why a veterinary clinic needed such a heavy door-the closet beyond was lined with shelves stocked with pill bottles of every type and size and description.



He only had time for a quick glance before Julia rushed out at him, a scalpel in one hand. "Tell me you don't work with him! Tell me you didn't set all this up!" she demanded.



"I swear it," he said, holding up both hands.



She stared at his left hand, and he realized it must be covered with blood.



"He killed Portia," Julia said.



"I know. But he's gone now. The police frightened him off."



Julia shook her head. Then she dropped the scalpel to clatter on the floor and rushed at him, wrapping her arms around him. "Make this stop," she pleaded. "Make it stop!"



But Chapel knew that was one thing he couldn't promise.



Laughing Boy was hunting down everyone who had come into contact with the chimeras. He was killing them and burning their bodies, just in case they'd been exposed to the virus. Just because he'd been thwarted once didn't mean he wouldn't try again. He would come back for Julia, track her down wherever she went, no matter how much police protection Chapel might arrange for her.



There was only one thing he could do.



"I have a plan to keep you safe," he told her. She pressed her face against his shoulder and sobbed noisily. "I can protect you from him, and from the chimeras. But I need you to trust me."



"Seriously? That's not going to happen, Chapel!" she wailed, pounding on his good shoulder with her fist. "After everything that happened today, you think I'm just going to put my utter faith in you?"



"I need you to-"



"I'll give you a chance," she said. "Don't blow it."



BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+14:55



Dealing with the police took way too long. For a while they had Chapel in handcuffs and were ready to take Julia into protective custody. Eventually, though, a detective had come running over, waving his cell phone in the air. He huddled up with the cops for a while. Chapel had no idea what they said to one another, but when they were done they took the cuffs off and let him go.



As soon as he was free, his own phone chimed to tell him he had a new text message. It came from the number (000) 000-0000 and contained only two words:



yr welcome



Once the cops left, Chapel and Julia headed back to the public park, where the helicopter picked them up. It took them to the private section of Newark Airport, where all the corporate executives stored their G5 private jets. The plane waiting for Chapel and Julia looked the same as all the others-sleek and expensive.



"Does it secretly turn into a robot?" Julia asked. "Or maybe it has hidden missile systems that flip up when your enemies least expect it."



Chapel grinned at her. She'd been through so much trauma that day but she was bouncing back, delaying her grief and anger and fear because there was still work to be done, still places to be.



There was something about this woman. Something in the way she kept surprising him. She had been smart enough to lock herself in the drug closet when Laughing Boy came for her. She had seen through his necessary lies.



It didn't hurt that her delicate features were perfectly framed by her mane of fiery red hair. He followed her up the stairs of the private jet and tried not to be too obvious about enjoying the view.



"It's just a way of getting from point A to point B," he said. "Normally I would take military transports. There's always a transport going from one base to another. My boss decided I needed to get to Atlanta in a hurry, though, so he swung-this-"



He stopped because as he climbed aboard he got his first look at the interior of the jet. Instantly he knew it had to be Hollingshead's personal plane.



Most of the cabin except for the cockpit had been turned into one spacious sitting area. Four leather-covered seats faced one another in the middle of the space. They were huge and looked extraordinarily comfortable. Chapel, who was running on fumes at that point, saw at once that they could convert with a button press into reclining beds.



Clearly no expense had been spared in making the plane cozy-and elegant.



The walls of the fuselage were lined in rich, red wood, polished to a nearly mirror finish. The overhead lights were designed to look like tiny chandeliers. At the back of the cabin was a massive oak desk with built-in bookshelves. Chapel took a closer look and saw the books were real. Black elastic straps held them in so they wouldn't fall out if the plane hit any turbulence.



Hidden speakers in the ceiling played classical music at a low volume. The plane smelled not like recirculated air but like leather and sandalwood.



"This is nicer than my apartment," Julia said. "Bigger, too."



A narrow door beside the desk opened and a woman in a navy uniform came out, bearing a tray with two cocktail glasses on it. "Good evening, sir, ma'am," she nodded, and brought the tray over to a mahogany coffee table that sat in the middle of the four seats. "I'm Chief Petty Officer Andrews, and I'll be looking after you tonight. Please, have a seat and buckle yourselves in. Our flight time to Atlanta will be a little over two hours, once we're in the air. Can I get you anything while you wait for takeoff? Magazines, blankets, food?"



Chapel hadn't eaten all day, not since breakfast. It was the first chance he'd had to think of it. "I could use a sandwich," he said.



"Certainly, Captain. I have a nice roast beef with cheddar in the back. I'll just put that together for you. Ma'am?"



Julia looked up at Chapel like she wanted approval to ask for something. He shrugged.



"I guess . . . I could use a salad or something," she said, eventually.



Chief Petty Officer Andrews smiled. "I have a romaine salad with goat cheese and mandarin oranges. For dressing, I have a balsamic vinaigrette, a gorgonzola, or just oil and vinegar if you prefer your dressing on the side. Do you take croutons?"



"Um . . . yes," Julia said. Her eyes were wide, as if this were the most bizarre thing she'd seen all day.



Petty Officer Andrews smiled and disappeared through her little door again.



"I made such a mistake when I went to vet school," Julia said, when she was gone. "I should have joined the navy. Is it always like this?"



Chapel smiled. "Always," he said. "In the army we ate dirt half the time, and we used rocks for pillows. In the navy they got goat cheese and mandarin oranges."



IN TRANSIT: APRIL 12, T+15:37



The salad seemed to perk Julia up, though he could see in her eyes just how tired she was. While she ate she actually smiled at Chapel and met his eye once or twice and then turned her head away with a little laugh. "It's funny how comforting having a good meal can be," she said.



"I imagine you could use a little comfort right now," Chapel told her.



She snorted in exuberant agreement. "I need to feel normal, basically. I need to feel like I'm not about to be shot. And frankly, I need a shower and a change of clothes. And a good nap in a real bed. And a drink! Definitely a drink."



"When we get to Atlanta, sure," Chapel said. "Maybe we both need that." It had been a very long day, and it wasn't over yet. "My instinct is to keep moving, to keep working. But if I don't get a little downtime, I'm going to start getting fuzzy. Then I'll start making mistakes."