Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(20)

He turned to Anabel. “Do you continue to lose contact when she ranges?”

“Her ability to shield seems to be growing,” Anabel admitted. “I hang onto her for a while, but I always lose her at some point.”

“Odd,” Greaves mused. “I had no problem at all monitoring her on the day that she first-dosed. It seems your abilities as a telepath are dwindling. As your other abilities seem to have done, as well.”

She turned mottled red at his reference to her neglected talent for sexual magnetism. “My talent is as strong as ever, but it’s like I told you, sir. Her shield is impenetrable. If she gets behind it, I get nothing, and neither do the other telepaths. I don’t understand how she—”

“There is a great deal that you don’t understand, Anabel.”

“Sir, I—”

“Shut up. I’m done with you for now. Levine, Houghman, Chrisholm, Mehalis. Have any of you had better luck penetrating this momentous shield?”

The other four telepaths on his staff exchanged nervous glances, and shook their heads. Greaves ground his teeth. Lily-livered idiots, all of them. Anabel was the strongest of the lot, and even she was falling short. He was so sick of hand-holding, micromanaging.

“Very well,” he said, through his teeth. “Let’s discuss the telepathic surveillance project, then. How is that proceeding?”

“Fine, sir,” Levine said. “We take six-hour shifts, as you directed. We haven’t detected anyone yet, except in the staged test runs.”

“Sir,” Silva piped up. “I wanted to speak to you about that. It strikes me as a poor use of resources, considering their limited range. They can’t detect anyone beyond, say, forty meters, and—”

“It is an exercise, Silva,” Greaves explained patiently. “One does not extend one’s range unless one is forced to push oneself. Are you familiar with the concept of pushing yourself? Because I am beginning to wonder.”

“Of course, sir, but I think that using just the infrared and motion detectors rather than staff who could be concentrating on complex—”

“I ask you to trust me on this, Silva,” Greaves suggested gently.

Silva subsided. An intelligent decision on his part.

“Continue with the rotations,” Greaves directed. “Has anyone noticed any increase in range?”

He looked around, tapping his fingers. No one would meet his eyes. Disappointing, but at least they had better sense than to lie to him. “Very well,” he said crisply. “Moving on.” He flipped through the brief that laid out the research team’s latest results and projections.

“Lewis.” He addressed the team’s head researcher. “You released the aerosolized toxin into the air ducts of the correctional facility for men in Chikala, Utah, six months ago. Summarize what you have observed since then.”

Lewis consulted his notes. “Put briefly, there was no perceivable change in the first two months, but in the third month, incidence of violence went down fourteen percent. By the fourth month, it was down thirty-three percent. Fifth month, fifty-seven percent. The sixth month, sixty-eight percent. There were sixty percent fewer visits to the infirmary this past month, and it appears the inmates’ overall general health has improved, as well. Colds, fevers, infections, all way down. The prison staff is healthier, too. Less absenteeism, fewer complaints and conflicts on the job. Inmate suicide attempts are down to almost zero, for the past four months running.”

Greaves smiled. “Finally, some good news. Thank you.”

Lewis went on, emboldened. “This recreates the results we got on that last two prison trials, almost exactly. This form of the toxin appears to have a calming effect upon the endocrine system. It lowers stress hormone production, and it mitigates, or even reverses depression. And in an odd side note, it seems that drug use is down, too, though that is difficult to measure in a prison population. Even smoking appears to have decreased.”

“Very good,” Greaves murmured. “Go on.”

Lewis fumbled with his papers. “Incidence of sexual violence is down almost sixty-five percent,” he announced.

Greaves frowned. “Only?”

Lewis looked nonplussed. “Ah . . . it was considered a very positive statistic, considering the—”

“Tell that to the remaining thirty-five percent. We must hold ourselves to a higher standard. This is our legacy, Lewis.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Lewis said hastily. “We will try—”

“Yes, you will most certainly continue to try, if you know what is good for you. I am pleased with these results. We will move on to Phase Three next week. Any questions?”

Dead silence met his query. Shifty eyes. He almost laughed. His staff was getting cold feet. Ridiculous, considering that they were already inoculated against the experimental organism. Which was, in any case, entirely benign, even health-promoting, as the trials had clearly demonstrated for years now. And they weren’t even releasing an airborne version of the microbe yet. That happy day would come next year, after observing the results of Phase Three.

Greaves was a cautious man. Methodical, responsible. If this was to be done, it would be done absolutely right, in every particular.

“Moving on.” He turned to Silva and Chrisholm. “You two. Explain how two professionals at the height of their careers managed to fumble the matter of Matilda Bennet.”