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  "All right, Casey, I'll give you five days. Get down there, investigate, and come on back. You can leave Monday. I'll take care of the paperwork. Now go away. I'm busy."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Casey hurried away before the SAIC could change his mind. As he left the building, he remembered the way the Morrison bitch had acted. Wouldn't it be nice if he did turn up something? Then she wouldn't have an excuse to act so fucking high and mighty when he questioned her. And he wouldn't have to be all that polite in taking her down a peg, either.

  * * * *

  Pat began observing Amber more closely after her conversation with Bailey, and she was also observing how Jimmy acted when he came over to play. What she noticed most of all was how well Amber and Jimmy got along together. They never argued like they used to over what games they wanted to play or what program to watch on Saturday mornings when Pat allowed some television time. However, she saw that Jimmy had also become less talkative, just like Amber had.

  Amber still asked as many, if not more, questions than before. On a few instances, Amber listened to her answers with a peculiar little tilt to her head and with a quizzical countenance on her elfin face, as if gauging the truthfulness of the answers she got. Then that bit of behavior ceased a day or two after Pat got the idea that the tilt meant exactly what she had thought it did—Amber had been judging whether she was being told the truth or the perhaps whether or not she was being equivocal. Pat had always tried to answer Amber's questions truthfully, but she admitted to herself now that she had temporized on occasions when she thought her daughter wasn't ready or couldn't fully understand a detailed explanation.

  When Bailey called her a week after their pizza date and asked her out to dinner, Pat accepted, a little thump of excitement filling her heart. She had been thinking about calling him herself to talk about Amber if for no other reason. She wanted to see him again, too, but she hadn't wanted to appear too forward.

  "I'd like that,” she said. “But wouldn't you rather have a home cooked meal? I imagine you get tired of eating out—or do you cook?"

  "Not what you'd call real cooking. Sure, that would be nice. How's Amber getting along?"

  "Well, why don't you come as early as you can and you can see for yourself."

  "Okay. When and what time?"

  "Saturday? Any time in the afternoon."

  "I have some hospital business in the morning. How about three? Is that okay?"

  "Fine. Let me give you directions. It's..."

  "I remember your address from Amber's records. 234 Elm Lane."

  "You've got a good memory. See you then, and thanks for asking me."

  "It's you I should thank. I'd like to see Amber, too, so it works out fine."

  * * * *

  "That was Doctor Bailey, wasn't it Mom?” Amber had been sitting beside her on the couch as they both read books.

  Had she mentioned his name? No. Pat turned to face her daughter. “Yes, it was. And it's Doctor Jones, not Bailey. That's his first name. But how did you know?"

  Amber gazed up at her with her big brown eyes and smiled. “You looked the same as when you told me you had a pizza with him, and when I was in the hospital, he said for me to call him Doctor Bailey."

  "Well, okay, but how did I look, sweetheart?"

  Amber's smile died as she caught the concerned expression on her mother's face. She shrugged. “It was just a Doctor Bailey look, Mom."

  "Can you do that with other people, honey? Like Jimmy, maybe?"

  Amber didn't answer.

  Pat drew her daughter to her and hugged her tightly. “It's all right sweetheart; I think I know what you're going through. You can do it all you want with me if that's what you like, or with Doctor Jones—Doctor Bailey, I mean, so long as he says it's okay. But how about let's keeping it a secret from other people, huh?"

  "Can I do it at school?"

  Pat relaxed her grip on Amber, trying to go about the conversation exactly the right way. “It's okay, I think. But we don't want you to get into any trouble. Can you tell me exactly what it is you do?” She smiled encouragingly.

  Amber frowned, making her little girl's face appear far too serious for someone her age. “I don't ‘xactly know what I do, Mom. It's like I know how people are gonna act or what they're gonna say before they do it. I know when they're trying to fool me, too!"

  "Hmm. Tell you what, baby. Whatever it is you do, I want you to talk to me and Doctor Bailey about it, but not anyone else. Okay?"

  "Okay. But why?

  "Some people wouldn't like it, baby."

  "Well, some people don’ like me noway!"

  "Anyway."

  "Whatever. They don't like me, though."

  "Are there very many?"

  "Just some kids because I get good grades. And maybe one of the teachers at recess. Miss Larkin don't for sure. She thinks we're being treated special."

  Pat didn't correct Amber's grammar this time. The conversation was too important to worry about it. “That's normal, sweetheart. We all have some people we don't like, but if she gets mean, you let me know right away. And if you notice anyone thinking you're not acting right, you stop what you're doing right then. Okay?"

  Amber saw how serious her mother was. “Yes'm. If I can."

  "Promise?"

  "Yes'm. Except I can't help it! And some other kids do it, too!"

  Pat hugged the little girl again, trying to stay completely calm. She had been worrying about Amber so much she had forgotten that other children had ingested the nerve agent, too. “I know, baby, but try not to let anyone else find out. Maybe we can talk to Doctor Jones about it. He's coming for dinner Saturday."

  "Uh huh. Doctor Bailey likes you. He likes me, too."

  "Oh, he does, huh? Maybe we'll wind up both having the same boyfriend!"

  Amber giggled at the idea, sounding like a perfectly normal eight-year-old girl, and Pat relaxed. She had only one more question. “Do the other kids know what they're doing, like you do?"

  Amber shrugged, open-eyed and honest. “I don't know. I think so. Some of them. Maybe. We kinda talk."

  Pat decided to leave it at that until she could talk to Bailey again.

  * * * *

  Bailey Jones was in his office, comparing his PET scans with ones he had downloaded from colleagues who had been studying mirror neurons of normal children, ones from other areas who hadn't been subjected to the chemical used by the terrorists. It had taken him some time to find enough scans of children that young so he could do a fair comparison. Looking from graph to graph where he had plotted results, it was apparent that all of his patients showed a larger area of mirror neurons than normal children. Not only that, the level of physiological activity was much greater. He had called some of “his” children back for electroencephalogram tests where he could study their brain waves, and those tests confirmed the PET scan data. He closed those files and opened his clinical notes, but instead of reading them over again, he removed his glasses and leaned back in the big office chair to think about sessions with the children, especially the young ones.

  Even though he still didn't have a large data base to go on, he had detected exactly the same phenomena as Pat had. The kids were so perceptive it was almost frightening, and he thought Amber and perhaps a couple of others were even more adept than the rest of them. The perceptiveness alone didn't worry him so much as something else he had begun to notice. A few of the children struck him as manipulative, demanding special treatment before submitting to the scans or ECGs and pushing their parents to the limit, stopping only before the parents became more greatly irritated. He overheard several conversations where rewards were being demanded for not telling “The Doctor” something they knew—and they seemed to know a lot. Two of the children had asked him what he would give them if they told something “bad” about their parents but never mentioned the subject again when they apparently perceived that such tactics wouldn't work with him.

  How would children like that turn
out when they grew up? Not good if it continued, he knew. On a hunch, he went back to the beginning and began trying to obtain the personal data files on the ones who had been admitted to his hospital in Mountain Grove. That took up some time since he had to give a justification for seeing the information. After he was reluctantly given a temporary password and had uploaded the files, he began reading them and making notes. He then began comparing the data gathered there with what he had written in his patient progress notes. He began to frown, and it only deepened as he read. He didn't like what he found.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sean Casey made no attempt to contact the other agents who had been involved in Mountain Grove. He didn't want their thoughts. If he found something worth following up, he would receive all the credit. That satisfied him. The fact that Pat Morrison was one of the Mountain Grove parents was a bonus. He wanted a return bout with her anyway, her and that snotty damned doctor. He decided to start with the doctor; he knew just the right way to take him down a notch.

  Casey paused in the men's room on the ground floor to check his appearance. His short blond hair, even features, and six feet of height had always made him feel attractive and confident in himself. The standard suit and tie worn by everyone in his department couldn't quite conceal his solid, well-muscled build. Only his eyes made him stand out from the crowd. They were a light hazel color set beneath heavy lids, a combination that made him look like a sleepy executioner. Satisfied, he went back into the lobby and took the elevator up to Doctor Jones’ third floor office where Jones had agreed to meet him, albeit reluctantly.

  The beginning of his investigation didn't officially start until Monday, but Casey arrived in Mountain Grove earlier on Friday than he had anticipated. He obtained the appointment with Doctor Jones by citing “urgent official business."

  Bailey automatically glanced at his watch when his administrative assistant announced that the FBI Special Agent had arrived. Four-thirty, the only time he had open for the week. He always reserved it for last minute business, a bulwark against being disturbed on weekends. The ploy wasn't always successful, but most of the time it was. Bailey didn't do surgery; his work was more in the diagnostic line, including the tough problems referred to him by psychologists needing assistance from a medical doctor.

  "Hello. Special Agent Casey, if I remember correctly,” Bailey said. He held out his hand, deciding that he might as well try being cordial. He didn't like the man, but agitating him wouldn't help. Bailey had already tagged him as an individual who was insecure and who sublimated this trait by exercising what power he possessed on other people. He thought there might be something else odd about the man, but hadn't talked long enough with him to even make a guess.

  Casey took Bailey's hand and shook it briefly. “That's right, Doctor Jones. Thanks for making time for me on such short notice."

  "Coffee? Something cold to drink?"

  "No, thank you. This shouldn't take too long, and I'm sure you're a busy man."

  "Fine. What can I do for you?"

  "Doctor Jones, I understand that you've initiated some special and rather expensive studies on the children who were admitted to the hospital here after the terrorist attack on the schools. Would you mind telling me why?"

  Bailey did, but he tried to divert the agent. “It's a normal six month follow up by the Neurology Department. You do know that most of the younger children were seriously ill, and that it was a nerve agent of some kind used in the attack, don't you?"

  Casey wouldn't be put off. “Certainly, I do. I was one of the initial investigative agents. Remember? We now know you didn't do PET scans on the children then. Why now?"

  "We're simply checking to see that their brains are developing and functioning normally after they were poisoned. Standard procedure."

  "But you have no base line for comparison, so what can a PET scan tell you?” Casey had familiarized himself with all the knowledge he could absorb about normal hospital and outpatient protocols in the short time he had before arriving in Mountain Grove.

  Bailey was perturbed. Damn the man! What was he after? “We know what a normal scan looks like, Special Agent Casey, so we don't really need a base line. It was a matter of funding more than anything else when we didn't do them before. Also, the Chief of Neurology didn't see the need for PET scans originally after it was determined the children didn't have encephalitis. Now, let me ask you a question. Why should this be a matter for the FBI? As I remember, you caught all the perpetuators, and it's now obvious that the chemical agent they were using did no permanent physical damage.” He adjusted the lapels of the long lab coat he had donned before meeting Casey. Sometimes it impressed people, but Casey obviously wasn't one of them, which he proved by his reply.

  "Doctor, I've been given the task of determining whether the chemical agent was designed to cause a delayed reaction. Perhaps that's what the terrorists intended all along. I'd like copies of the medical records of all the children you've been testing. When can you have them ready?” Casey had found that speaking as if there was no question that his requests would be granted was often enough to accomplish the mission.

  Bailey didn't even need to think about it. “I'm sorry. Doctors don't release confidential patient information. You should know that, Special Agent Casey."

  Casey stood up, face impassive but clearly not dissuaded. “I believe I can request the records under the anti-terrorist statutes. I intend to do so."

  So much for cordiality, Bailey thought. “You can request them,” he said, “but that doesn't automatically grant you access. There's a procedure you have to go through, and I'll certainly contest it in court unless you come up with a better reason than you have so far."

  Casey stood up, gave a barely perceptible nod, and departed without another word. Goddamned Doctors! Always act like they're fucking gods, he thought. Well, not this time. Jones was concealing, and he intended to find out what.

  * * * *

  "Oh, hi Bailey!” Pat said as soon Bailey told her who it was—though she would have known anyway from the sound of his voice.

  "Is something wrong, Pat? You sound like you're out of breath."

  "No, why—oh, sorry. I'm just breathing hard. Amber and I were playing catch. I try to get in a little exercise with her after school when I can."

  "Good idea. In the meantime, do you remember that FBI agent you raked over the coals?"

  "I remember. I guess I was a bit sharp with him, but I didn't think I was that bad. What about him?"

  "You weren't that bad; he's just insecure and takes it out others. The reason I mentioned him is that he's back in town, and I suspect he'll be around to see you again—probably without calling in advance."

  Pat was silent for a moment, running the episode in Bailey's office over in her mind. “What's he after, Bailey?"

  It was his turn to become silent for a moment. “Pat, I'm not really sure, but be very careful when you talk to him."

  "Do I have to talk to him at all?"

  "Probably. There's all kinds of obscure language in the revised Patriot Act he can use to gain access. He asked for the medical records of all the children who were admitted to the hospital after the attack, and I refused. If he wants them, he's going to have to go to court."

  "Good for you!"

  "I don't know if it is or not. It may just make him even more suspicious. Anyhow, I just wanted to give you a heads up in case he dropped by before tomorrow."

  "Well, thanks. I appreciate it, and I'll warn Amber, too."

  "Do that, but better still, tell him she has a whole lot of homework to do and can't talk more than a few minutes. That's if he wants to see her. He may not; I think he'll concentrate on the parents."

  "Okay. Come on over earlier than three if you get a chance. We'll be here."

  "Thanks, I may."

  Pat put the phone back in its cradle and began deliberating silently about how to prepare Amber for the probable visit by the FBI agent. One thing for certain, she knew she
couldn't fool Amber with palliatives!

  * * * *

  Casey had better luck at the Mountain Grove primary school. He bypassed the teachers and went directly to the principal. He had also learned from Doctor Jones that in this little burg he probably should use something other than a direct request when approaching authorities for personal records, especially those of children.

  "Mrs. Schaffer, I've been empowered by the FBI to ask for certain data in relation to the terrorist attack that I'm sure you remember. We've begun to suspect that the chemical the terrorists contaminated the pudding with may have been intended to cause a somewhat delayed effect on the younger children. I don't need individual records, but it would be very helpful to our investigation if you could provide a record of achievement of these children both before and since. Just their grades, mind you, nothing else for the time being.” He smiled winningly, as he was capable of doing when he thought it was warranted.

  The principal was more than willing since she both remembered Casey from the investigation and wasn't being asked to provide names to go with the grades. She was also thrilled to be a part of an FBI investigation. She smiled back.

  "Well, I can do that for you. We have all of them on the computer, and they've already been categorized through the last reporting period. Just a moment."

  The principal called in one of her assistants and asked for the data to be downloaded into a disposable drive before turning back to the FBI Agent.

  "Is there anything else we can do for you? That was such a horrible experience, especially for the children."

  "Yes, it certainly was,” Casey agreed. “And yes, there are a couple of other things, Mrs. Schaffer. First, I'd like this kept secret, if you will. This is an ongoing investigation, after all. I'll keep you posted, of course."