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McKee muttered something too low for him to hear.
"Thought so. Would you prefer a tablet or an injection?"
McKee narrowed suspicious eyes. "Of... ?"
"A codeine derivative, to take the edge off."
McKee didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied Francisco through eyes about as friendly as a hungry Kodiak bear's. Francisco stood up, trying to appear nonchalant. It was difficult to keep his hands steady as he opened the medical kit and rummaged through it. He'd read McKee's records and had an altogether too graphic idea what kind of pain this man could inflict with his bare hands.
"I can't figure you, doc," McKee finally said. "First you fill me full of babble juice, like I'm some lab rat, and now you're worried I might be hurting? Or do you just want me doped up good for the next unscheduled little visit?"
Francisco frowned. "Next visit?"
"Come off it, Major. I wasn't born yesterday. You know damned well what I mean."
Francisco held his gaze steadily. "No, I don't. Has someone else been here? Kominsky said you'd injured a couple of MPs."
Francisco received the distinct impression McKee was evaluating risks—or maybe just trying to sort through personal paranoias. At length, McKee rubbed the back of his neck.
"Yeah, well, they got rough first. That colonel of yours was here, with the goon pulling his strings. Real nice fellow. How the hell can you stand working for him?" McKee was still rubbing his neck absently and staring into the corner.
Goon? Someone pulling Dan's strings? "What 'goon'? What are you talking about?"
McKee's glance sharpened. "Don't tell me you haven't met Mr. Silk Suit and Rolex watch?"
Francisco drew a complete blank.
Evidently it convinced McKee, because he said, "Well, I'll be dipped. Just what the hell is going on around here, anyway? Your colonel's scared shitless of this guy."
Francisco blinked a couple of times. "I knew something was wrong..."
McKee snorted. "You said a fuckin' mouthful. Look, this guy's about, oh, fortyish, Hispanic, I mean real Hispanic. You've got a Hispanic name, but you sound, I don't know, California? Nevada?"
Francisco bristled silently, but said nothing. McKee did have a reason to hate him. Insults weren't much compared to being forcibly drugged and interrogated.
McKee watched him narrowly through glittering eyes. "Hit a sore spot, huh, doc? You're a lousy spy, Valdez. Maybe you're not one of his, after all. Just following orders, like Lieutenant Calley. Look, all I meant, was, this guy talks and looks like South American drug money. Not a pampered Long Beach medical school graduate. And whoever he is, he's giving the orders on this base. Wherever the hell that is. I still don't know where I am."
Francisco thought about telling him, then thought better.
McKee caught Francisco's eye. "Huh. Nobody'll tell me anything. And let me tell you, that puts a real bad cramp in my gut. This civvie didn't even tell me his name, much less where this wonderful accommodation," he gestured at the cell, "happens to be located."
Francisco opened his mouth to ask a question, then shut it again. He wondered with a sudden chill if there were listening devices in this cell.
McKee held his gaze for a moment, then crossed his arms and looked disgusted. "Like I said," he muttered, "nobody tells me jack shit."
"McKee," Francisco finally said, "where have you been for the last five years?"
The man shivered and dropped his gaze. "You tell me, doc."
This was going nowhere. Talking to a lunatic probably hadn't been the brightest idea he'd ever formulated. Francisco rummaged for the medication he'd promised. "Let me just give you something to ease the discomfort, then I'll—"
"Doc..."
An undercurrent of darkness in McKee's voice caused Francisco to look up. He paused in the act of filling a hypo. McKee's face was utterly impassive, an oaken mask freshly cut from the tree.
"Try to give me that shit," McKee said very softly, "and I'll break your arm."
Francisco couldn't look away from McKee's eyes. Nothing cold or impassive about those eyes. If I don't put this away, right now, he's going to hurt me. Badly. Kominsky's hell and gone on the other side of a locked steel door... . Francisco realized his fingers were trembling. He wiped them against his pants leg, then put the medication away.
"I'm just trying to help," he said quietly. "A lot of things I don't understand have been happening the last few months. You're just one of them."
"Yeah? Welcome to the club. Tell you what, doc. Go ask your friend the colonel who his friend is. Maybe you'll get your answers. Then again," McKee gri
"Thanks for the warning," Francisco said dryly. "If you change your mind about the medication, get Kominsky to call me."
He closed up his kit and banged on the door. A moment later, Kominsky opened it. As Francisco left the cell, McKee called out, "Hey, doc. Have a nice life, huh? Give my regards to your boss."
Kominsky glanced curiously at Francisco, but said nothing. The security lieutenant locked McKee in again. Francisco left silently, fighting the urge to confront his friend directly. Dan Collins taking orders from a South American drug lord? Ridiculous. But where were Da
"Mother of God," Francisco whispered to the cold air outside the detention center. His breath steamed on contact, leaving a cloud of ice crystals in front of his face until a gust of wind whipped them away. "Mother of God..."
He was begi
Francisco shivered inside his parka. He couldn't make any phone calls off base, couldn't talk to his commander, had no idea whom he could safely trust. A hundred sixty-eight undocumented perso
The only bright spot Francisco could see was that Dan was under guard. That meant he wasn't collaborating of his own free will. If he could just get Dan aside for a couple of minutes...
"No way," he muttered. He started walking back toward the infirmary. "No way they'll let him near me without a guard eavesdropping."
As he slogged toward his office, Francisco realized he had absolutely no idea what to do next. The feeling left him scared all the way to his frozen California toes.
It was full dark by the time they reached Publius Bericus' villa. During the last half of their journey into the Campanian countryside, Sibyl hadn't been at all sure they would reach the villa. The road had been rocked by several earth tremors, a couple of them strong enough to be classed as major earthquakes. Xanthus had expressed doubt about continuing the journey, adding to the i
An hour later than Charlie's one-hour prediction, Bericus' house finally came into sight. The long, low villa which proved to be their destination was, as Charlie had described, situated on a rise overlooking fields, vineyards, and orchards. Rougher forest lay above the villa, creeping silently toward the summit. Bericus' home looked like the last outpost of civilization, huddled on the flank of a slumbering monster. Moonlight silvered whitewashed walls. Far below lay the sleeping town, and beyond that, an endless vista of moon-sparkled sea.