It’s the Makeup Girl
Carter’s long trench
coat billowed behind him as he and Bishop strode down the corridors of Evergreen Hospital. They were following the hospital CEO’s assistant, and staff knew to dart out of their way.
The agents had resisted setting up base in Reston in order to remain observers to the usually peaceful suburb, but the call they had received an hour earlier had changed all of that. Carter had taken it, and by the smile that had spread across his face, Bishop thought they were suddenly closer to solving the mystery. It didn’t matter that Carter had a family wedding this weekend or that they had just spent the past 24 hours pursuing yet another wrong turn.
This
, Carter had announced, was the real deal.
In their Suburban on the way over, they had looked over the scant details of the case. A healthy, fit, 38-year-old man had died suddenly on the grounds of the hospital. The call for help had been sounded by a family friend, who also happened to be the daughter of one of the ER doctors. Carter had cut off the beginnings of Bishop’s protests by reporting that the chief pathologist had found something very unusual about the body. As if that weren’t enough, the father had died at the exact same time his terminally ill son had gone into remission.
Video footage was transferred to the agents’ tablet as they traveled, and by the time they arrived at the hospital, a full complement of surveillance tapes was available.
Traffic had been slightly slow, and it pleased Carter that the hospital administrators would be waiting for them. He enjoyed being late for important people. It gave him a sense of power.
Bishop, on the other hand, hated tardiness. It came from his rather strict upbringing, and as they reached the boardroom doors, he mopped his brow with his handkerchief.
The CEO, a silver-haired woman named Dr. Rittman, had the handshake of an ox and offered an understanding nod about their delayed arrival. She sat next to the chief pathologist, a well-respected man who stared at the agents with quiet suspicion.
After everyone was introduced, Dr. Rittman began by stating there was urgent detail about the death of the father that needed to be discussed. The initial post-mortem of Tim Geller’s body uncovered something unusual and somewhat disturbing.
The chief pathologist got straight to the point of his concern. “I wouldn’t have entertained the notion that there was anything out of the ordinary about a father dying of a stress-induced heart attack in such circumstances. The Gellers have been through more heartache than most would perhaps endure in a lifetime. But take a look at this.”
The room was all silence as the pathologist slid photographs of the post-mortem to the agents.
Bishop wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at, and glanced up at Carter. He didn’t have long to wait before the pathologist picked up on his confusion.
“His heart, Agent Bishop. That is a close-up of Mr. Geller’s heart.”
Bishop sat back. He didn’t need to look at Carter to know that his partner had experienced the same reaction.
The red-and-black blur on the page was barely a heart — much like those of the small animals in the forest, and a little like the fish innards from Flour Mill Run.
Carter sucked in a little breath.
“What’s your explanation?” He gazed at the doctor pointedly.
She shrugged. “We don’t know. We’ve run other tests — toxicology, blood — and those will come back in due course. But I can tell you right now it’s pretty obvious what killed him.” As she said those last words, she tapped her forefinger on the boardroom table to emphasize her words.
“Please give us as clear an explanation as possible,” Bishop asked, inscrutable.
“His heart was burned from the inside out. It would have been like someone lit a blowtorch inside his heart. No living thing could withstand that and survive. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Carter adjusted his tie. Bishop could feel his partner’s nervous energy building now that they were finally on the right track.
“Was there anything unusual? Any strange activity in the hospital before this occurred?”
“No. Well … not in an obvious way. My security department has sent you the surveillance tapes. You should have them by now.”
“We have them,” Bishop confirmed.
“What’s your hunch, Dr. Rittman?” This was Carter’s usual question.
“I don’t have hunches, Agent Carter,” she responded, not unkindly. “I work with logic and theorize based on evidence, and I have told you what I know. With all due respect, I imagine the answer I will have for your remaining questions will be very much the same.” She poised her finger for tapping emphasis once more. “I. Don’t. Know.”
Silence descended over the room.
“Perhaps Mr. Singh, my chief surgeon here, might have his theories. Hardeep?” She looked across at the surgeon, who seemed transfixed by the photograph. After tearing his gaze away, he cleared his throat.
“I have seen nothing like it in all my years,” he said. “However, there are several further tests I would like to do. Although I do understand his family would like his body released as soon as possible, to respect the manner of his faith.”
“Yes, Mrs. Geller,” Dr. Rittman said sympathetically, as though that were an answer in itself.
Bishop had also heard about Mrs. Geller, the tearful, distraught widow who had been rejoicing with her son at the very moment a doctor arrived to break the devastating news about her husband. He had found the irony of it shattering. Carter had apparently not shared in the terrible poignancy of it all.
Carter sat forward in his seat and directed his speech to Dr. Rittman.
“OK, this is what we need. I want the hospital to issue the following statement to the media: that Mr. Geller died from a suspected grief-induced heart attack. I can assure you, Mr. Singh, that any test you or I carry out will not establish any more than we already know. The FBI has everything it needs now, and we will sign any documentation required to release the body immediately. For Mrs. Geller’s sake, do not detain her husband’s body for a second longer.”
Bishop flinched, but he knew better than to undermine Carter in this situation. If it were up to him, he would run the post-mortem until there was nothing left to discover. But if Carter didn’t consult with him, it must be because he believed in what he was doing. This time he would let it go.
This time.
The CEO seemed surprised at the FBI agent’s directive, and it threw her usually cool demeanor.
“Very well.”
“Many thanks for your time, Dr. Rittman, Mr. Singh. I appreciate your busy schedules. May we have the room now?” he added plainly.
After hands were shaken and the highest-ranking staff at Evergreen Hospital had been ejected from their own boardroom, the head of hospital security was shown in.
Getting straight down to business, the agents opened their tablets.
“We need the last few moments when Tim Geller was alive on the bench where he was found,” Carter requested.
Bishop’s heart was in his throat as the man pulled up the footage.
The agents watched as the grainy video began to play. Tim Geller and a tall, skinny, dark-haired teenager arrived somewhat cautiously at the bench. The teenager looked all around her, and then they sat down.
They appeared to be talking when the teenager hugged him.
“Who is this? A family member?”
“No. That’s … the family friend. She knows Ethan. She was the one who called for help.”
“A family friend,” Carter repeated, a little like an automaton.
The footage continued, though the way the pair was hugging, it felt as though the motion had stopped, and Bishop had to check that he hadn’t paused the player. He hadn’t, but Carter pressed Pause anyway.
“We can take it from here. Thank you,” he said assertively to the security chief, who apparently wasn’t expecting to be dismissed so quickly.
The agents waited until he had left the room before glancing at each other.
“She looks familiar.”
“Let’s see,” Carter replied. He played the video.
The hug continued until the dark-haired girl broke away suddenly. She seemed to be looking at the man, and he said something to her. The agents watched her hug him again.
That was the moment Mr. Geller’s body went limp.
“Did you see that?” Bishop asked, panicked.
“What?” Carter asked.
Bishop rewound the video to the previous point and played it again. He zoomed in on the footage.
Sure enough, just after the second hug, Mr. Geller’s body slumped. Life had left him at that exact second.
“My God,” Bishop whispered.
Carter stared at the screen as the footage continued. The later footage captured the dark-haired teenager looking down at her smartphone, looking back at Mr. Geller and then reacting to what she was seeing — a dead man. Only then did she grab him by the shoulders and call his name, which caught the attention of a woman passing by. About a minute later, the paramedics rushed into view.
Carter stopped the video.
“Who is that girl?”
“The doctor’s daughter.”
“She definitely looks familiar.”
“I know.” Bishop scrolled frantically through his smartphone until he found the page he had been looking for in his Internet history.
“Remember her?” he asked. “The makeup girl?”
He showed a picture of Nicole and Amy from
AmesAndNix.com
. Carter glanced at him, remembering the manner of their conversation and how he had been dismissed.
“Rule nobody out, right?” Carter said.
Bishop ignored the jibe. He hated when Carter was right.
The agents watched the video again. Each viewing seemed to intensify their determination to solve the case.
“What’s he saying there?” Bishop stopped the video at the point where Mr. Geller whispered something to the girl. Even repeated viewings didn’t help, though, as it was impossible to lip-read the grainy video footage.
“How about, ‘Please don’t kill me?’”
“No … It’s just two words,” Bishop asserted, ignoring Carter’s painful attempt at humor. “Let’s send all the surveillance back to P.R.E.S.S. Every second of today needs to be scrutinized before we make a move.”
“We’re bringing her in though, right?” Carter responded, seemingly horrified that this wasn’t being considered.
“On what grounds?” his partner fired back. “She hugged a man and didn’t realize he was dead? She’s an American-born teenager with no criminal record, no sign of foul play, no weapon. There’s just no evidence of any wrongdoing. ”
“Are you telling me you don’t think she’s our lead?”
“I’m urging caution. We already have twenty-four hours of backed-up paperwork after the situation with the Arlington satellite dish. We can’t afford another misstep this week.”
That silenced Carter. As much he hated to admit it, Bishop was right on this.
Bishop softened his tone a little. “For what it’s worth, yes, I think she’s our girl. But we don’t have a clue what she did and why she did it. Did she even know Tim Geller was dead when she checked her phone? Can’t say. How, why, what, where — we make a start on those until we have grounds to bring her in. Then we throw the book at her.”
“Fine,” Carter responded. “But I want her watched. Ensure she doesn’t get a chance to strike again. Most importantly,
we must not lose track of her
. Understand?”
“We’ll tail her.”
“Whatever it takes. Let’s get back to D.C.”
Carter and Bishop gathered their belongings.
As Bishop left, he had a different kind of determination in his stride. He felt he and Carter were in more familiar territory now. The homestretch. He could feel it in his bones. There would be an answer — probably a scientific one at that.
“Are you coming?”
Carter pulled out his smartphone and motioned for Bishop to go on without him. “Give me a minute.”
“OK, see you back at the car.”
Carter waited until his partner had completely left the boardroom. There was a very interested party who had been waiting to learn the truth behind these mysterious deaths. The less Bishop knew about it, the better.
Carter tapped out a quick text and then pocketed his smartphone.
Just saw the body. You were right about her. You were right about everything. She’s the real deal.
Hiding in Plain Sight
Ben refreshed his
email inbox and waited impatiently.
Nothing.
This was getting way too tense, even for him. He suspected that, as in sports, he wasn’t built for the adrenaline peaks and troughs of this kind of cutting-edge research.
Hours of inquiries, dead ends and sifting through pages of Yale alumni online had yielded nothing. Ben had been about to book a ticket to New Haven, Connecticut, when he’d discovered a solution lay a little closer to home.
Over a rare evening meal around the dinner table (the occasion was meeting their mom’s new boyfriend), his older sister had casually dropped into conversation that her boyfriend had an offer from Yale. He was hoping to go to the same college as his father. When Ben and his sister were stacking the dishes together and generally moaning about the rather pathetic lovesick state of their mom, Ben had seized his opportunity. He’d bribed his sister with a month’s worth of chores to try to get some kind of intranet address or passcode for a Yale student account. A few days later, she had retrieved it for him. He didn’t ask about her methods.
Hours later, Ben had successfully gotten the email address of one Professor Anthony DuBois. He recognized him from a photograph and then subsequently confirmed his identity via Wikipedia as the man from Barnard’s disastrous lecture.
Ben had spent less time crafting his latest history dissertation than it took to write that particular email. He looked through it again now in his sent items folder. Hopefully he hadn’t written some embarrassingly desperate and geeky-sounding missive. Scanning through, he was pleased with his polite but direct inquiry about Professor DuBois’ connection to Professor Jim Barnard. He’d taken the trouble to look into Professor DuBois’ career and he’d explained that he was doing research for a school project but ran into a dead end. He couldn’t find any traces of Professor Barnard on the Internet.
It had been two days since sending that message and still no reply.
He turned and surveyed his operations room. He’d all but discredited the leads on his wall, and the Fountain of Youth dominated his inquiries now. But he knew there was more, and he was hungry for further proof.
His email account beeped, and he excitedly scrolled through his inbox. His thrill proved premature: just an email about math club and a flyer for the cult sci-fi T-shirts he sometimes bought. Nothing else.
He sighed and flicked back to the WBN channel page that was now bookmarked on his laptop.
The WBN anchorwoman’s expression turned very grave as the placard behind her read “tragic twist to family joy.”
Ben turned up the sound.
“Tragedy struck today at Reston Evergreen Hospital when a father died moments before the miraculous remission of his son from his terminal illness. Our special correspondent is there for us now. Lynn, tell us what you know.”
The screen split in two, and Lynn Meyers appeared, offering a similarly deadpan expression.
“Yes, Trisha. It seems that only minutes after 8-year-old Ethan Geller was pronounced in remission from a potentially fatal bone cancer, his father, 38-year-old accountant Tim Geller, suffered a fatal heart attack while he was thought to be taking some air outside the hospital. I understand that the doctors here are saying this is sadly common among parents of sick children. As you might be able to see behind me, flowers and tributes from family and friends are beginning to arrive on the bench where Tim Geller was discovered. One card left by his wife, Cindy Geller, simply reads, ‘Watch over us, like you always did. Forever our guiding star.’”
Lynn paused for dramatic effect and then drew in a breath, adding, “A poignant reminder of the fragility of life and a bittersweet time for the Geller family tonight. Back to you in the studio.”
Ben sighed a little at the sight of the mounds of floral tributes and cards, then clicked over to
AmesAndNix.com
. No news there either, apart from a thousand followers and pages upon pages of unanswered posts.
This level of inactivity from the girls was unheard of. He’d known Nicole to lose interest in the show, but not Amy. He knew Amy was sick with food poisoning, but she’d never been ill enough to avoid responding to posts from her adoring fans. This was downright odd for her.
He was about to click back to his catalog of WBN YouTube videos to look for further clues when he saw it.
There it was, in black and white on his screen: the email he had been waiting for.
“Re: Professor Barnard and the Fountain of Youth, from Professor DuBois”
Despite his earlier excitement, Ben simply stared at his laptop screen for a few moments, hardly believing his eyes and feeling as though he was on the cusp of something extraordinary.
A few clicks of his trackpad, and the email appeared in front of him. From one glance, Ben knew he wasn’t being brushed off.
Dear Ben,
Thank you for your email, which somehow managed to land in my spam filter, so many apologies for the delay in reply.
It’s been a while since I heard the name of my venerable colleague Jim Barnard, so it was with great delight that I received your email. How heartening that you are basing your school project on his life’s work. Naturally I will help in any way I can.
I have attached scans of his last paper as well as a link to a video that might be of some use. I hope it will provide you with what you need. I would be interested to know your thoughts on it and of course would be happy to answer any further questions you might have.
Yours,
Professor A. DuBois
“YES!” Ben pumped his fist in the air. Unable to believe his luck, he bounced around in his seat for a few moments, ecstatic at the thought of a new contact and perhaps a companion in his quest.
He clicked open the PDF attachment. It was entitled, very simply, “The Fifth Element.” He resolved to read it later, as the YouTube video demanded his attention first. It had a private-viewing invitation to it, which is why Ben hadn’t been able to find it before. This was even better than he’d hoped — at last he would get to see more of Professor Barnard.
He clicked on the invitation, and the YouTube video buffered. This time, as the video began to play, the man himself was looking directly into the camera. He seemed tired — perhaps troubled as a result of the furor caused by his previous lecture. Ben wondered whether this video had been filmed later, but despite its similar grainy footage and mono sound, there was no way he could tell for sure.
As the professor began to speak, Ben shivered, honored to have even the illusion of the great man speaking to him.
Behind the professor stood a flip chart with an equation on it.
“Energy. We all have learned in high school physics about the law of
conservation of energy
, which states that the total amount of energy in an isolated system remains constant over time. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. In other words:
We don’t make energy; we just move it around and change its form
.”
With sparkling eyes, the professor sat back in his chair.
“What if life itself works the same way?”
Ben was all ears.
“Many believe we all have a spirit — a soul, if you will. This is a universal concept across all cultures and major religions throughout the world. Now souls and spirits are not something we can measure. But consider this: In ancient times, they couldn’t measure energy either, and nevertheless energy existed. Who’s to say that life spirits do not exist just because they can’t be measured
at this present time
? Science and religion have now merged to become one. My research will prove the
conservation of life
to be a newly proposed law of physics. This law states that there is a fixed amount of life in this world. In order for something to live, something else must die. All life forms are included — from the tiniest insect to fish, animals, trees, plants and people. If you think of it, today’s news is often filled with random, everyday tragedies — fires, car accidents, pandemics, wars and disease. But what if everything isn’t quite as it seemed? What if those tragedies weren’t random at all? As beings, we need other life to survive. Our very existence in fact depends on trading life for life. Plants feed animals. Animals feed animals. Plants and animals feed people. Like energy, life is getting exchanged all the time.”
Ben thought to himself what a radical idea Professor Barnard was proposing. No wonder he was universally shunned — his theory would completely change people’s understanding of the laws of nature, physics and religion itself.
“That’s where the Balancers come in,” Professor Barnard continued. “Balancers are people with the skill to transfer life at will. They can move life between the living. They can save or destroy, heal or wound.”
Ben took a breath and paused the video. The way Professor Barnard said it, it all made so much sense. Ben’s mind was racing, his synapses fusing thoughts and theories together.
Then he had a further thought.
Ben clicked back to the WBN website and clicked on the image of the flowers outside Evergreen Hospital. A father dies and his son’s health improves? Could this be the result of a Balancer?
Even without looking into it in detail, Ben felt confident that Barnard’s theory was true. He just knew it.
He was also willing to bet Nicole had something to do with all of this.
If only he could persuade her to trust him, he could show her all of this. Truth was, she’d need all the friends she could get, because if Barnard was right and others found out about her, Nicole could be in real danger. There were powerful people who would surely stop at nothing to have somebody like Nicole at their side.
She was in way over her head.