TWO
THEY ALL STARED AT DAVID, CHRIS FEELING
like he'd just been punched in the gut. He was still
reeling from the information about the S.T.A.R.S.,
from the realization that they were on their own
and now another lab?
And he wants to take Rebecca...
David went on, his dark gaze still fixed on the
young Bravo. "I've talked to the people on my team I
believe to be trustworthy, and three of them have
agreed to go. I'm not going to lie to you—it will be
dangerous, and without the S.T.A.R.S. to back us up,
there's no guarantee we'll be able to close the lab
down. We just want to go in, collect some solid
evidence on this T-Virus, and get back out before
anyone even knows we're..."
Before he could stop himself, Chris interrupted.
"I'm going, too."
"We all go," Barry said firmly. Jill nodded, putting
her arm around Rebecca. The teen seemed flustered,
her cheeks red, and looking at her, Chris was once
again reminded of Claire. It was more than just a
physical resemblance; Rebecca had the same wit, the
same spirited blend of courage and thoughtfulness
that Chris's younger sister had. And since the Spencer
estate disaster, Chris had come to feel just as protective
of Rebecca. Too many of his friends had died
already. Joseph, Richard, Kenneth, Forest, and
Enrico—not to mention Billy Rabbitson; his body
had never been found, but Chris had no doubts that
Umbrella had killed him to keep him from talking. It
wasn't that Rebecca couldn't handle herself. . .
... but damn it, she's part of our team. No way she
goes without us.
David shook his head. "Look, this isn't a full-scale
op; five people is already stretching it. Rebecca's got
the background we need to find the data on the virus,
and she already knows what symptoms to look for."
"You've got your team right here," Chris said. "You
can take us instead, let your guys look into the cover up."
David sat back down and looked at Chris, his face
expressionless, "Tell me who's involved in Umbrella's
conspiracy to hide their research," he said.
Chris glanced at the others, then back at David,
determined not to let his confusion show. "We suspect
several people locally. Umbrella's office workers,
of course. The police commissioner, Chief Irons, a
couple of his men . . ."
David nodded. "And now that it looks like the
S.T.A.R.S. are in on this, what do you propose to
do?"
Where the hell is he going with this?
Chris sighed. "I don't know. I... we should contact
the Feds, maybe an internal affairs division to
look into the S.T.A.R.S. and the RPD."
Barry cut in "...and we'll get in touch with some of
the other S.T.A.R.S. branches. There are still good
people working out there who ain't gonna be too
happy that Umbrella's taking over."
David nodded again. "So you agree that Umbrella
has to be stopped, even though it will be dangerous?"
"Well, no shit," Chris said, scowling angrily. "We
can't just sit around and do nothing, there's no telling
what could happen if the T-Virus gets out again!"
"And what can you tell me about the classification
of the virus?" David asked quietly.
Chris opened his mouth to answer—and then
closed it, staring at David thoughtfully.
He was about to say, "You should ask Rebecca." And
he knows it.
David stood up and looked at all of them in turn as
he spoke, his voice intense and determined. "I agree,
Umbrella has to be stopped—but let's not kid ourselves.
We're talking about breaking from the
S.T.A.R.S. and going up against a multi-billion dollar
establishment on our own. Nowhere is going to be
safe, and our only chance for success is if we each do
what we can, what we're good at, to take Umbrella
down."
He fixed his cool gaze on Chris, as if he realized that
Chris was the one who had to be convinced. "You and
Jill and Barry already know what to look for here, and
you've been with the S.T.A.R.S. longer than Rebecca.
You should stay here, out of sight, see if you can ferret
out the connection between the local police and
Umbrella—and reach out to the S.T.A.R.S. members
that you think would help us."
David turned to Rebecca again. "And if you agree, I
think we should leave for Maine tonight. With the
information I have, it looks as though things have
already gotten out of hand. My team is standing by;
we could go in tomorrow at dusk."
The room was silent for a moment, the only sound
that of the ceiling fan whirring overhead. Chris still
felt angry, but couldn't find a hole in the man's logic;
he was right about their options, and whether Chris
liked it or not, the choice to go to Maine was
Rebecca's to make.
"What information do you have?" Jill asked
thoughtfully. "How did you find out about the lab?"
David reached down to a battered briefcase
propped next to his chair and dug through it, pulling
out a file folder. "An interesting story in itself, if a
strange one. I was hoping that one of you might be
able to decipher some of this..."
He laid out three sheets of paper on the coffee table
as he spoke, what looked like photocopies of newspaper
clippings, and a simple diagram. "Shortly after I
talked to the home office, I received a visit from a
stranger, a man who claimed to be a friend of the
S.T.A.R.S.... he told me his name was Trent, and
gave me these."
"Trent!" Jill broke in excitedly. She turned to
Chris, her eyes wide, and Chris felt his heart skip a
beat. He'd almost forgotten about their mysterious
benefactor.
The guy who told Jill to watch out for traitors, who
told Brad where to pick us up. . . .
David stared at Jill, his expression puzzled. "You
know him?"
"Just before we went in to rescue the Bravos, a man
named Trent gave me some information about the
Spencer estate, and warned me about Wesker," Jill
said. "He was quite a piece of work, real shady—he
didn't give anything away, you know? But he knew
what was going on with Umbrella, and what he did
tell me all panned out."
Barry nodded. "And Brad Vickers said that Trent
called in the estate's coordinates right after Wesker
activated the triggering system. If he hadn't radioed,
we woulda blown up with the rest of the mansion."
Chris suddenly realized that he had a serious headache
brewing as they all gathered around Barry's
coffee table, staring down at the papers. The
S.T.A.R.S. were working for Umbrella, there was
another T-Virus facility operating in Maine—and
now Trent again, popping up like some cryptic fairy
godmother, his motives impossible to guess at. It was
like some kind of a game, the stakes all or nothing as
they struggled to get to the bottom of Umbrella's
conspiracy.
And we have no choice but to play—but whose game
are we playing? And what do we risk losing if we fail?
Chris shot an unhappy glance at Rebecca, thinking
again of his kid sister and wishing, not for the first
time, that they'd never heard of Umbrella.
David watched them study the information that
Trent had given him, somehow not surprised that the
enigmatic stranger had contacted the S.T.A.R.S. before.
The man had been a professional, though at
what, precisely, David couldn't imagine.
Why would he want to help us fight Umbrella?
What's in it for him?
David thought back to the brief encounter he'd had
only five days ago, searching his memory for some
additional clues, something he'd missed. He'd arrived
home late from work, and it had been raining ...
... pouring, a thundering summer storm that beat
at the windows and masked the sound of his gentle
knocking...
The Exeter S.T.A.R.S. had enjoyed an easy summer,
more paperwork than action. The Bravos had
taken off for a criminal profiling seminar in New
Hampshire, and David had been entertaining
thoughts of packing a bag and attending the final
days—until he'd received Barry's call, followed by his
first hint from the home office that something was
wrong.
He'd spent the next day calling a few of his branch
contacts with discreet questions and digging through
files on Umbrella, not making it home until almost
midnight. The driving rain had ushered him into his
cold, dark house, the atmosphere matching his mood
perfectly. He'd poured a scotch and collapsed on the
couch, his head spinning from the implications of
what he'd learned—that either his old friend Barry
was lying or that the AD for the S.T.A.R.S. was.
The rapping at his door was so soft that he missed it
at first, the steady rain hammering on the roof covering
the sound. Then it grew louder.
Frowning, David looked at his watch and walked
slowly to the door, wondering who the hell came
calling in the middle of the night. He lived alone and
had no family; it had to be work, or maybe someone
with car trouble...
He cracked the door open—and saw a man in a
black trench coat standing on his porch, streams of
water running down his lined face.
The stranger smiled, an open, friendly expression,
his eyes glittering bright with humor. "David Trapp?"
David took in the man at a glance. Tall and thin,
maybe a few years past David's age, say forty-two or
forty-three. His dark hair was plastered to his skull by
the rain, and he held a large manila envelope in one
gloved hand.
"Yes?"
The man grinned wider. "My name is Trent, and
this is for you."
He held out the damp envelope and David glanced
at it warily, not sure if he should take it. Mr. Trent
didn't seem dangerous, or at least not threatening,
but he was still a stranger, and David preferred to
know the people he accepted gifts from.
"Do I know you?" David asked.
Trent shook his head, his smile unwavering. "No.
But I know you, Mr. Trapp. And I also know what
you're about to go up against. Believe me, you're
going to need all the help you can get."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Perhaps
you have me confused with someone else."
Trent's smile faded as he extended the envelope, his
dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Mr. Trapp, it's raining.
And this is for you."
Confused and not a little irritated, David opened
the door wider to accept the envelope. As soon as he
grasped it, Trent turned and started to walk away.
"Hold on a moment."
Trent ignored him, disappearing into the raindrenched
shadows around the side of the house.
David stood in the doorway uncertainly, holding
the damp paper and staring into the pouring darkness
for another minute before going back inside. Once
he'd studied the contents, he wished he'd gone after
Trent, but by then, of course, it was too late.
Too late and only too obvious what he'd meant. He
knew about Umbrella and the S.T.A.R.S., but who
does he work for? And why did he choose to contact
me?
Jill and Rebecca were studying the map while Barry
and Chris worked through the copied newspaper
articles. There were four of them, all recent, all
centered around the tiny coastal town of Caliban
Cove, Maine. Three of them concerned the disappearances
of local fishermen, all presumed dead. The
fourth was a rather humorous piece about the
"ghosts" that haunted the cove; it seemed that several
townspeople had heard strange sounds floating across
the waters late at night, described as "the cries of the
damned." The writer of the article had laughingly
suggested that the witnesses to the phenomena should
probably stop drinking their mouthwash before bed.
Funny. Unless you know what we know about Umbrella.
The map was of the stretch of coast just south of the
small town, an aerial sketch of the cove itself. David
had uncovered a few facts about the area on a visit to
Exeter's library, uncomfortable using the S.T.A.R.S.
computer after Barry's call. The rather isolated
stretch had been privately owned for several years,
bought up by an anonymous group. There was a
defunct lighthouse on the northern rim of the inlet,
sitting atop a cliff that was supposedly riddled with
sea caves.
Trent's map showed several structures behind and
below the lighthouse, leading down to a small pier on
the southern tip of the open crescent. There was a
notched border that ran the length of the cove on the
inland side, presumably a fence. CALIBAN COVE was
written across the top in bold letters. In smaller type
just beneath were the words UMB. RESEARCH AND
TESTING.
The third piece of paper that Trent had given him
was the one that David didn't understand; there was a
short list of names at the top, seven in all:
LYLE AMMON, ALAN KINNESON, TOM ATHENS, LOUIS
THURMAN, NICOLAS GRIFFITH, WILLIAM BIRKIN, TIFFANY
CHIN.
Just under it was a somewhat poetic list of sorts, set
into the center of the page in curling font.
Jill had picked it up again and was reading it
carefully. She looked up at David, a half-smile on her
face.
"No question that we've got the same Trent here.
The guy's into riddles."
"Any idea what it means?" David asked.
Jill sighed heavily. "Well, one of the names here
was in the material that Trent gave me—William
Birkin. We figured out that at least some of the others
were researchers at the Spencer facility, so I'm willing
to bet these people also work for Umbrella. Birkin
may not have been at the estate when it was destroyed.
I don't recognize any of the others."
David nodded. "I checked all of them with the
S.T.A.R.S. database and came up blank. The rest,
though . . . Is it a riddle of some sort?"
Jill glanced back at the paper, frowning as she read
it to herself again:
Ammon's message received/blue series/enter answer for
key/letters and numbers reverse/time rainbow/don't count/
blue to access.
Rebecca took the paper from her as Jill looked back
at David thoughtfully. "A lot of what Trent gave me
seemed like pretty random stuff, but some of it related
to the Spencer mansion's secrets; the whole place was
rigged with puzzle locks and traps. Maybe this is the
same deal. It relates to something you'll find."
"Oh, shit."
They all turned to Rebecca who was staring at the
top of the page, her face drained of color. She looked
at David with an expression of anxious despair.
"Nicolas Griffith is on this list."
David nodded. "You know who he is?"
She looked around at all of them, her young face
openly distressed. "Yeah, except I thought he was
dead. He was one of the greats, one of the most
brilliant men ever to work in the biosciences."
She turned back to David, her gaze heavy with
dread. "If he's with Umbrella, we've got a lot more to
worry about than the T-Virus getting out. He's a
genius in the field of molecular virology and if the
stories are true, he's also totally insane."
Rebecca looked back at the list, her stomach a
leaden knot.
Dr. Griffith, still alive . . . and involved with Umbrella.
Could today possibly get any worse?
"What can you tell us about him?" David asked.
Rebecca's mouth felt dry. She reached for her glass
of water and drained it before looking at David.
"How much do you know about the study of
viruses?" she asked.
He smiled a little. "Nothing. That's why I'm here."
Rebecca nodded, trying to think of where to start.
"Okay. Viruses are classified by their replication
strategy and by the type of nucleic acid in the
virion—that's the specialized element in a virus that
allows it to transfer its genome to another living cell.
A genome is a single, simple set of chromosomes.
According to the Baltimore Classification, there are
seven distinct types of viruses, and each group infects
certain organisms in a certain way.
In the early sixties, a young scientist at a private
university in California challenged the theory, insisting
that there was an eighth group—one based loosely
on dsDNA and ssDNA viruses—that could infect
everything it contacted. It was Dr. Griffith. He published
several papers, and while it turned out that he
was wrong, his reasoning was brilliant. I know, I read
them. The scientific community scoffed at his theory,
but his research on virus-specified inclusion bodies in
the cytoplasm without a linear genome ..."
Rebecca trailed off, noticing the blank expressions
on their faces. "Sorry. Anyway, Griffith stopped trying
to prove the theory, but a lot of people were
interested to see what he'd come up with next."
Jill interrupted, frowning. "Where did you learn all
this?"
"In school. One of my professors was kind of a
science-history buff. His specialty was defunct theories
.. . and scandals."
"So what happened?" David asked.
"The next time anyone heard from Griffith, it was
because he'd gotten kicked out of the university. Dr.
Vachss—that was my prof—told us that Griffith was
officially fired for using drugs, methamphetamines,
but the rumor was that he'd been experimenting with
drug-induced behavior modification on a couple of
his students. Neither of them would talk, but one of
them ended up in an asylum and the other eventually
committed suicide. Nothing was ever proved, but
after that, no one would hire him and as far as the
facts go, that's the last anyone heard of Nicolas
Griffith."
"But there's more to the story?" David asked.
Rebecca nodded slowly. "In the mid-eighties, a
private lab in Washington was broken into by cops
and the bodies of three men were found, all dead of a
filovirus infection—it was Marburg, one of the most
lethal viruses there is. They'd been dead for weeks;
neighbors had complained because of the smell. The
papers the police found in the lab suggested that all
three men were research assistants to a Dr. Nicolas
Dunne, and that they had allowed themselves to be
deliberately infected with what they understood to be
a harmless cold virus. Dr. Dunne was going to see if
he could cure it."
She stood up, crossing her arms tightly. The agony
those men must have endured; she'd seen pictures of
Marburg victims.
From the initial headache to extreme amplification
in a matter of days. Fever, clotting, shock, brain
damage, massive hemorrhaging from every orifice,
they would've died in pools of their own blood.
"And your professor thought it was Griffith?" Jill
asked softly.
Rebecca forced the images away and turned to Jill,
finishing the story the way Dr. Vachss had. "Griffith's
mother—her maiden name was Dunne."
Barry let out a low whistle, as Jill and Chris
exchanged a worried look. David was studying her
intently, his gaze cool and unreadable. All the same,
she thought she knew what was going through his
mind.
He's wondering if this changes things. If I'll go with
him to see this Caliban Cove facility, now that I know
it's being run by people like Griffith.
Rebecca looked away from David's intense scrutiny
and saw that the rest of her team was watching her,
their faces tight with concern. Since that terrible night
at the Spencer estate, they'd become like a family to
her. She didn't want to leave, to risk never seeing
them again. . .
. . . but David's right. Without the support of the
S. T.A.R.S., nowhere will be safe for any of us. And this
would be my chance to contribute, to do what I'm good
at . . .
She wanted to believe that it was the only reason,
that she'd be going to fight the good fight, but she
couldn't help the tiny shiver of excitement that ran
through her at the thought of getting her hands on the
T-Virus. It would be a golden opportunity to study
the mutagen before anyone else, to categorize the
effects and pick apart the virion right down to its
smallest capsid.
Rebecca took a deep breath and blew it out, her
decision made.
"I'll do it," she said. "When do we go?"
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