Far Edge of Darkness

McKee lifted his manacled wrists slightly. "This wasn't necessary." He sounded angry.

"The FBI would disagree."

For a moment McKee looked genuinely startled. Then his expression settled into hard lines of resignation. "Yeah. I guess they might, at that."

The admission was encouraging, if surprising. "Would you mind telling me why you escaped from the VA Hospital in Gainesville?"

McKee's bark of laughter startled him. "Obviously, Colonel, you've never spent any time in a nuthouse." After a moment, he shrugged. "Besides, you wouldn't believe me if I did tell you. I'm crazy, right? My word's automatically suspect."

Dan started to shift his weight, then suppressed the urge and said, "What have you been doing since then? You disappear in Florida, nobody sees a trace of you for five years, then you just show up out of nowhere half frozen to death outside my base."

For some reason Dan couldn't determine, that information shook McKee, deeply. His gaze dropped and he seemed to withdraw into his own private little world. "Five years," Dan heard him mutter. "Five years? Jeezus H. Christ..." Abruptly McKee caught his eye. "Just where am I, anyway?"

"You know damned well where you are!" Dan snapped.

"Do I?" The question was phrased softly, nearly a whisper.

McKee's eyes looked haunted.

It was Dan's turn to feel shaken.

"Look, McKee," Dan said into the silence which followed, "before I decide whether to simply ship you back to Florida, or charge you with attempted espionage, attempted sabotage, and anything else I can think of, I'll need some answers. And I will get them, either with your cooperation or without it."

McKee stared at him coldly for a moment, then his glance flicked over to Francisco's medical kit. His cheeks lost color.

"You don't need that crap," he muttered. Then he looked directly into Dan's eyes. "But you'll use it anyway. Because you're not going to believe me. Not a word. Hell, I wouldn't believe me." His steady stare became the glare of a trapped animal. "Go ahead, damn you. Ask. Then have your Gestapo Major, there, fill me full of Pentothal so you can ask me again. Damn you to hell... ."

A tremor of barely suppressed fear quavered beneath the bitter bravado in McKee's voice.

"All right, McKee," he said quietly. "Let's begin with your escape."

"I didn't."

Dan blinked. "You didn't what?"

"Escape."

"What would you call it?"

McKee laughed. The sound scraped along Dan's nerves. "I don't know. Time travel?" he suggested darkly.

Dan's blood chilled. "Go on." He noticed Francisco's quick, curious glance, but ignored it.

McKee's voice, his whole ma

McKee fell silent.

Dan frowned. If he'd been struck by lightning, he might have experienced some memory loss. But that wouldn't account for the clothes, the wristband. Time travel? He shuddered.

"Frank," he said heavily, "I'd appreciate your assistance."

Francisco hesitated, clearly on the verge of arguing. His long-time friend searched Dan's eyes for some rational explanation for his behavior, for this particular order, for everything that had been happening on this base and was happening right now, in this horrible little room. Dan couldn't hold his friend's gaze.

When Dan let his eyes slide away, Francisco said heavily, "Right."

Dan fought the urge to wipe sweat off his face. He'd expected more resistance, maybe even a full-blown confrontation. That Francisco had capitulated, probably for old times' sake and long-standing trust, hurt more than any loud, angry argument would have.

Sweat had appeared on McKee's seamed cheeks, too. It dripped down the sides of his nose. Francisco had already prepared the hypo. McKee glued his gaze to the syringe as Francisco moved toward him. McKee stumbled backwards, away from that needle and its contents, only to trip himself up in the hobbles. He crashed backwards and landed hard. He yelped and swore, then tried to roll to his feet. Both MPs jumped on him. They pi

"Hold his head—don't let him jerk away—"

Dan glanced back as Francisco eased open the coverall. McKee's struggles intensified. The surgeon exposed the fleshy muscle on McKee's upper arm. He swabbed quickly. "Hold that arm still. I don't want him to break the needle off."

One of the MPs sat on McKee's shoulder. Francisco jabbed the needle in. McKee sobbed something inarticulate. Francisco rose heavily and turned away, facing neither McKee nor Dan directly.

"Give it a few minutes," Francisco advised. His voice had roughened slightly. "We ought to put him in a chair." As he spoke, he retrieved another preprepared hypo. This time, McKee didn't offer to struggle. He just lay quietly and barely flinched when the needle slid into his flesh.

Dan looked quickly away again as tears oozed down McKee's cheeks and vanished into his beard. Dan kept his gaze averted as Francisco stepped to the door and shouted for the clerk to bring a chair. Dan wanted to hide from the look that pierced him from the man lying drugged on the floor. Francisco wouldn't look at him at all.

The chair arrived. The MPs pulled McKee off the floor and sat him down. He nearly slid off again. Francisco jumped forward and held him in place.

"Easy..."

The MPs unmanacled his wrists and ankles, then remanacled him to the chair. McKee's eyes had glazed. His expression was dull, unfocused. His head drooped.

Francisco said quietly, "I've given him something more effective than Pentothal. One of our new mixes. It's very potent stuff," he added, voice heavy with warning. "One of the compounds is a hallucinogen. If you tell him you're his Aunt Agatha, he'll ask to feed your canary."

Dan saw the MPs stifle grins. Stupid bastards. Francisco was warning them to be damned careful with this man's mental condition and they thought he was making a dumb joke. Dan's guard didn't so much as blink.

"Use his first name," Francisco added quietly. "And start with easy questions, things that aren't threatening. Things we can verify."

Dan nodded. "When can I start?"

Francisco tilted McKee's head back. The man offered no resistance as Francisco peeled back his eyelids one at a time and peered at his pupils. "Mmm. He's hanging just at the edge of consciousness, right where you want him. Go ahead."

Dan checked the file to be sure of the name, then spoke. "Logan, can you hear me?"

"Mmmph," came a mumbled, indistinct reply.

"Can you hear me? Logan?"

"Uh-huh..."

"How old are you, Logan?"

The reply was blurred. Dan repeated the question.

"Forty-three," McKee said slowly.

Dan frowned. The report had said forty-eight. He was sure it had. "Hand me that top file, would you, Frank?"

The surgeon complied. Dan riffled through a couple of sheets before finding it. There it was, birthdate and age. Logan McKee was forty-eight.

Dan frowned again, then tried once more. "Logan, I want you to think very carefully. What is your birthday?"