ONE
JILL WAS ALREADY LATE FOR THE BRIEFING
when she somehow managed to drop her keys into her
cup of coffee on the way out the door. There was a
muted ting as they hit the bottom, and as she paused
in mid-stride, staring in disbelief at the steaming
ceramic mug, the thick stack of files she carried under
her other arm slid smoothly to the floor. Paper clips
and sticky notes scattered across the tan carpeting.
"Ah, shit."
She checked her watch as she turned back toward
the kitchen, cup in hand. Wesker had called the
meeting for 1900 sharp, which meant she had about
nine minutes to make the ten-minute drive, find
parking and get her butt into a chair. The first full
disclosure meeting since the S.T.A.R.S. had gotten
the case - hell, the first real meeting since she'd made
the Raccoon transfer-and she was going to be late.
Figures. Probably the first time in years I actually
give a rat's ass about being on time and I fall apart at
the door. . . .
Muttering darkly she hurried to the sink, feeling
tense and angry with herself for not getting ready
earlier. It was the case, the goddamn case. She'd
picked up her copies of the ME files right after
breakfast and spent all day digging through the reports,
searching for something that the cops had
somehow missed and feeling more and more frustrated
as the day slipped past and she'd failed to come
up with anything new.
She dumped the mug and scooped up the warm,
wet keys, wiping them against her jeans as she hurried
back to the front door. She crouched down to gather
the files-and stopped, staring down at the glossy
color photo that had ended up on top.
Oh, girls. . . .
She picked it up slowly, knowing that she didn't
have time and yet unable to look away from the tiny,
blood-spattered faces. She felt the knots of tension
that had been building all day intensify, and for a
moment it was all she could do to breathe as she
stared at the crime scene photo. Becky and Priscilla
McGee, ages nine and seven. She'd flipped past it
earlier, telling herself that there was nothing there she
needed to see. . . .
. . . But it isn 't true, is it? You can keep pretending,
or you can admit it-everything's different now, it's
been different since the day they died.
When she'd first moved to Raccoon, she'd been
under a lot of stress, feeling uncertain about the
transfer, not even sure if she wanted to stay with the
S.T.A.R.S. She was good at the job, but had only
taken it because of Dick; after the indictment, he'd
started to pressure her to get into another line of
work. It had taken awhile, but her father was persistent,
telling her again and again that one Valentine in
jail was one too many, even admitting that he was
wrong to raise her the way he had. With her training
and background, there weren't a whole lot of options
- but the S.T.A.R.S., at least, appreciated her
skills and didn't care how she came by them. The pay
was decent, there was the element of risk she'd grown
to enjoy. ... In retrospect, the career change had
been surprisingly easy; it made Dick happy, and gave
her the opportunity to see how the other half lived.
Still, the move had been harder on her than she'd
realized. For the first time since Dick had gone inside,
she'd felt truly alone, and working for the law had
started to seem like a joke - the daughter of Dick
Valentine, working for truth, justice, and the American
way. Her promotion to the Alphas, a nice little
house in the suburbs - it was crazy, and she'd been
giving serious thought to just blowing out of town,
giving the whole thing up, and going back to what
she'd been before. . . .
. . . until the two little girls who lived across the
street had shown up on her doorstep and asked her
with wide, tear-stained eyes if she was really a policeman.
Their parents were at work, and they couldn't
find their dog. . . .
. . . Becky in her green school dress, little Pris in her
overalls-both of them sniffling and shy . . .
The pup had been wandering through a garden only
a few blocks away, no sweat and she'd made two
new friends, as easy as that. The sisters had promptly
adopted Jill, showing up after school to bring her
scraggly bunches of flowers, playing in her yard on
weekends, singing her endless songs they'd learned
from movies and cartoons. It wasn't like the girls had
miraculously changed her outlook or taken away her
loneliness, but somehow her thoughts of leaving had
been put on a back burner, left alone for awhile. For
the first time in her twenty-three years, she'd started
to feel like a part of the community she lived and
worked in, the change so subtle and gradual that she'd
hardly noticed.
Six weeks ago, Becky and Pris had wandered away
from a family picnic in Victory Park and became
the first two victims of the psychopaths that had since
terrorized the isolated city.
The photo trembled slightly in her hand, sparing
her nothing. Becky lying on her back, staring blindly
at the sky, a gaping, ragged hole in her belly. Pris was
sprawled next to her, arms outstretched, chunks of
flesh ripped savagely from the slender limbs. Both
children had been eviscerated, dying of massive trauma
before they'd bled out. If they'd screamed, no one
had heard. . .
Enough! They're gone, but you can finally do something
about it!
Jill fumbled the papers back into their folder, then
stepped outside into the early evening, breathing
deeply. The scent of freshly cut grass was heavy in the
sun-warmed air. Somewhere down the street, a dog
barked happily amidst the shouts of children.
She hurried to the small, dented gray hatchback
parked by the front walk, forcing herself not to look at
the silent McGee house as she started the car and
pulled away from the curb. Jill drove through the wide
suburban streets of her neighborhood, window down,
pushing the speed limit but careful to watch for kids
and pets. There weren't many of either around. Since
the trouble had started, more and more people were
keeping their children and animals indoors, even
during the day.
The little hatchback shuddered as she accelerated
up the ramp to Highway 202, the warm, dry air
whipping her long hair back from her face. It felt
good, like waking up from a bad dream. She sped
through the sun-dappled evening, the shadows of
trees growing long across the road.
Whether it was fate or just the luck of the draw, her
life had been touched by what was happening in
Raccoon City. She couldn't keep pretending that she
was just some jaded ex-thief trying to stay out of jail,
trying to toe the line to make her father happy, or
that what the S.T.A.R.S. were about to do was just
another job. It mattered. It mattered to her that those
children were dead, and that the killers were still free
to kill again.
The victim files next to her fluttered slightly, the top
of the folder caught by the wind; nine restless spirits,
perhaps, Becky and Priscilla McGee's among them.
She rested her right hand on the ruffled sheaf,
stilling the gentle movement and swore to herself
that no matter what it took, she was going to find out
who was responsible. Whatever she'd been before,
whatever she would be in the future, she had
changed . . . and wouldn't be able to rest until these
murderers of the innocent had been held accountable
for their actions.
"Yo, Chris!"
Chris turned away from the soda machine and saw
Forest Speyer striding down the empty hall toward
him, a wide grin on his tanned, boyish face. Forest
was actually a few years older than Chris, but looked
like a rebellious teenager - long hair, studded jean
jacket, a tattoo of a skull smoking a cigarette on his
left shoulder. He was also an excellent mechanic, and
one of the best shots Chris had ever seen in action.
"Hey, Forest. What's up?" Chris scooped up a can
of club soda from the machine's dispenser and
glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of minutes
before the meeting. He smiled tiredly as Forest
stopped in front of him, blue eyes sparkling. Forest
was carrying an armful of equipment-vest, utility
belt, and shoulder pack.
"Wesker gave Marini the go-ahead to start the
search. Bravo team's goin' in." Even excited, Forest's
Alabama twang slowed his words to a stereotypical
drawl. He dropped his stuff on one of the visitors'
chairs, still grinning widely.
Chris frowned. "When?"
"Now. Soon as I warm up the 'copter." Forest
pulled the kevlar vest on over his T-shirt as he spoke.
"While you Alphas sit taking notes, we're gonna go
kick some cannibal ass!"
Nothing if not confident, us S.T.A.R.S. "Yeah,
well. .. just watch your ass, okay? I still think there's
more going on here than a couple of slobbering nut
jobs hanging around in the woods."
"You know it." Forest pushed his hair back and
grabbed his utility belt, obviously already focused on
the mission. Chris thought about saying more, but
decided against it. For all of his bravado, Forest was a
professional; he didn't need to be told to be careful.
You sure about that, Chris? You think Billy was
careful enough?
Sighing inwardly, Chris slapped Forest's shoulder
lightly and headed for ops through the doorway of the
small upstairs waiting room and down the hall. He
was surprised that Wesker was sending the teams in
separately. Although it was standard for the less
experienced S.T.A.R.S. to do the initial recon, this
wasn't exactly a standard operation. The number of
deaths they were dealing with alone was enough to
call for a more aggressive offense. The fact that there
were signs of organization to the murders should have
brought it to A1 status, and Wesker was still treating it
like some kind of a training run.
Nobody else sees it; they didn't know Billy...
Chris thought again about the late-night call he'd
gotten last week from his childhood friend. He hadn't
heard from Billy in awhile, but knew that he'd taken a
research position with Umbrella, the pharmaceutical
company that was the single biggest contributor to the
economic prosperity of Raccoon City. Billy had never
been the type to jump at shadows, and the terrified
desperation in his voice had jolted Chris awake, filling
him with deep concern. Billy had babbled that his life
was in danger, that they were all in danger, begged
Chris to meet him at a diner at the edge of town and
then never showed up. No one had heard from him
since.
Chris had run it over and over again in his mind
during the sleepless nights since Billy's disappearance,
trying to convince himself that there was no
connection to the attacks on Raccoon and yet was
unable to shake his growing certainty that there was
more going on than met the eye, and that Billy had
known what it was. The cops had checked out Billy's
apartment and found nothing to indicate foul
play ... but Chris's instincts told him that his friend
was dead, and that he'd been killed by somebody who
wanted to keep him from talking.
And I seem to be the only one. Irons doesn't give a
shit, and the team thinks I'm just torn up over the loss
of an old friend.
He pushed the thoughts aside as he turned the
corner, his boot heels sending muted echoes through
the arched second floor corridor. He had to focus, to
keep his mind on what he could do to find out why
Billy had disappeared, but he was exhausted, running
on a minimum of sleep and an almost constant
anxiety that had plagued him since Billy's call. Maybe
he was losing his perspective, his objectivity dulled by
recent events. . .
He forced himself not to think about anything at all
as he neared the S.T.A.R.S. office, determined to be
clear-headed for the meeting. The buzzing fluorescents
above seemed like overkill in the blazing evening
light that filled the tight hallway; the Raccoon
police building was a classic, if unconventional, piece
of architecture, lots of inlaid tile and heavy wood, but
it had too many windows designed to catch the sun.
When he'd been a kid, the building had been the
Raccoon City Hall. With the population increase a
decade back, it had been renovated as a library, and
four years ago, turned into a police station. It seemed
like there was always some kind of construction going
on.
The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office stood open, the
muted sounds of gruff male voices spilling out into
the hall. Chris hesitated a moment, hearing Chief
Irons's among them. "Just call me Brian" Irons was a
self-centered and self-serving politician masquerading
as a cop. It was no secret that he had his sweaty
fingers in more than a few local pies. He'd even been
implicated in the Cider district land-scam back in '94,
and although nothing had been proved in court,
anyone who knew him personally didn't harbor any
doubt.
Chris shook his head, listening to Irons's greasy
voice. Hard to believe he'd once led the Raccoon
S.T.A.R.S., even as a paper-pusher. Maybe even harder
to believe that he'd probably end up as mayor
someday.
Of course, it doesn't help much that he hates your
guts, does it, Redfield?
Yeah, well. Chris didn't like to kiss ass, and Irons
didn't know how to have any other kind of relationship.
At least Irons wasn't a total incompetent, he'd
had some military training. Chris pasted on a straight
face and stepped into the small, cluttered office that
served as the S.T.A.R.S. filing cabinet and base of
operations.
Barry and Joseph were over by the rookie desk,
going through a box of papers and talking quietly.
Brad Vickers, the Alpha pilot, was drinking coffee and
staring at the main computer screen a few feet away, a
sour expression on his mild features. Across the room
Captain Wesker was leaning back in his chair, hands
behind his head, smiling blankly at something Chief
Irons was telling him. Irons's bulk was leaned against
Wesker's desk, one pudgy hand brushing at his carefully
groomed mustache as he spoke.
"So I said, 'You're gonna print what I tell you to
print, Bertolucci, and you're gonna like it, or you'll
never get another quote from this office!' And he
says"
"Chris!" Wesker interrupted the chief, sitting forward.
"Good, you're here. Looks like we can stop
wasting time."
Irons scowled in his direction but Chris kept his
poker face. Wesker didn't care much for Irons, either,
and didn't bother trying to be any more than polite in
his dealings with the man. From the glint in his eye, it
was obvious that he didn't care who knew it, either.
Chris walked into the office and stood by the desk
he shared with Ken Sullivan, one of the Bravo team.
Since the teams usually worked different shifts, they
didn't need much room. He set the unopened can of
soda on the battered desktop and looked at Wesker.
"You're sending Bravo in?"
The captain gazed back at him impassively, arms
folded across his chest. "Standard procedure, Chris."
Chris sat down, frowning. "Yeah, but with what we
talked about last week, I thought"
Irons interrupted. "I gave the order, Redfield. I
know you think that there's some kind of cloak and
dagger going on here, but 7 don't see any reason to
deviate from policy."
Sanctimonious prick. . . .
Chris forced a smile, knowing it would irritate
Irons. "Of course, sir. No need to explain yourself on
my behalf."
Irons glared at him for a moment, his piggy little
eyes snapping, then apparently decided to let it drop.
He turned back to Wesker. "I'll expect a report when
Bravo returns. Now if you'll excuse me, Captain."
Wesker nodded. "Chief."
Irons stalked past Chris and out of the room. He'd
been gone less than a minute before Barry started in.
"Think the chief took a shit today? Maybe we all
oughtta chip in for Christmas, get him some laxatives."
Joseph and Brad laughed, but Chris couldn't bring
himself to join in. Irons was a joke, but his mishandling
of this investigation wasn't all that funny. The
S.T.A.R.S. should've been called in at the beginning
instead of acting as RPD back up.
He looked back at Wesker, the man's perpetually
composed expression hard to read. Wesker had taken
over the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. only a few months ago,
transferred by the home office in New York, and Chris
still didn't have any real insight into his character.
The new captain seemed to be everything he was
reputed to be: smooth, professional, cool, but there
was a kind of distance to him, a sense that he was
often far removed from what was going on.
Wesker sighed and stood up. "Sorry, Chris. I know
you wanted things to go different, but Irons didn't put
a whole lot of stock into your . . . misgivings."
Chris nodded. Wesker could make recommendations,
but Irons was the only one who could upgrade a
mission's status. "Not your fault."
Barry walked toward them, scruffing at his short,
reddish beard with one giant fist. Barry Burton was
only six feet tall but built like a truck. His only
passion outside of his family and his weapons collection
was weight lifting, and it showed.
"Don't sweat it, Chris. Marini will call us in the
second he smells trouble. Irons is just pullin' your
chain."
Chris nodded again, but he didn't like it. Hell,
Enrico Marini and Forest Speyer were the only experienced
soldiers in Bravo. Ken Sullivan was a good
scout and a brilliant chemist, but in spite of his
S.T.A.R.S. training, he couldn't shoot the broad side
of a barn. Richard Aiken was a top-rate communications
expert, but he also lacked field experience.
Rounding out Bravo team was Rebecca Chambers,
who'd only been with the S.T.A.R.S. for three weeks,
supposed to be some kind of medical genius. Chris
had met her a couple of times and she seemed bright
enough, but she was just a kid.
It's not enough. Even with all of us, it may not be
enough.
He cracked open his soda but didn't drink any,
wondering instead what the S.T.A.R.S. were going up
against, Billy's pleading, desperate words echoing
through his mind yet again.
"They're going to kill me, Chris! They're going to
kill everyone who knows! Meet me at Emmy's, now, I'll
tell you everything. ..."
Exhausted, Chris stared off into space, alone in the
knowledge that the savage murders were only the tip
of the proverbial iceberg.
Barry stood by Chris's desk for a minute, trying to
think of something else to say, but Chris didn't look
like he was in the mood for conversation. Barry
shrugged inwardly and headed back to where Joseph
was going through files. Chris was a good guy, but he
took things too hard sometimes; he'd get over it as
soon as it was their turn to step in.
Man, it was hot! Seemingly endless trickles of sweat
rolled down his spine, gluing his T-shirt to his broad
back. The air-conditioning was on the fritz as usual,
and even with the door open, the tiny S.T.A.R.S.
office was uncomfortably warm.
"Any luck?"
Joseph looked up at him from the pile of papers, a
rueful smirk on his lean face. "You kidding? It's like
somebody hid the damn thing on purpose."
Barry sighed and scooped up a handful of files.
"Maybe Jill found it. She was still here when I left last
night, going through the witness reports for about the
hundredth time. . ."
"What are you two looking for, anyway?" Brad
asked.
Barry and Joseph both looked over at Brad, still
sitting at the computer console, headset on. He'd be
monitoring Bravo's progress throughout their fly-by
of the forested district, but for now he looked bored as
hell.
Joseph answered him. "Ah, Barry claims that there
are floor plans in here somewhere on the old Spencer
estate, some architectural digest that came out when
the house was built" He paused, then grinned at
Brad. "Except that I'm thinkin' that ol' Barry's gone
senile on us. They say memory is the first thing to go."
Barry scowled good-naturedly. "Ol' Barry could
easily kick your ass into next week, little man."
Joseph looked at him mock-seriously. "Yeah, but
would you remember it afterwards?"
Barry chuckled, shaking his head. He was only
thirty-eight, but had been with the Raccoon
S.T.A.R.S. for fifteen years, making him the senior
member. He endured numerous old age jokes, mostly
from Joseph.
Brad cocked an eyebrow. "The Spencer place? Why
would it be in a magazine?"
"You kids, gotta learn your history." Barry said. "It
was designed by the one and only George Trevor, just
before he disappeared. He was that hot-shit architect
who did all those weird skyscrapers in D.C. - in fact,
Trevor's disappearance may have been the reason that
Spencer shut the mansion down. Rumor has it that
Trevor went crazy during the construction and when
it was finished, he got lost and wandered the halls
until he starved to death."
Brad scoffed, but suddenly looked uneasy. "That's
bullshit. I never heard anything like that."
Joseph winked at Barry. "No, it's true. Now his
tortured ghost roams the estate each night, pale and
emaciated, and I've heard tell that sometimes you can
hear him, calling out, 'Brad Vickers . . . bring me
Brad Vickers'"
Brad flushed slightly. "Yeah, ha ha. You're a real
comedian, Frost."
Barry shook his head, smiling, but wondered again
how Brad had ever made it to Alpha. He was undoubtedly
the best hacker working for S.T.A.R.S.,
and a decent enough pilot, but he wasn't so hot under
pressure. Joseph had taken to calling him "Chickenheart
Vickers" when he wasn't around, and while the
S.T.A.R.S. generally stuck up for one another, nobody
disagreed with Joseph's assessment.
"So is that why Spencer shut it down?" Brad
addressed this to Barry, his cheeks still red.
Barry shrugged. "I doubt it. It was supposed to be
some kind of guest house for Umbrella's top execs.
Trevor did disappear right about the time of comple-
Tion, but Spencer was whacko, anyway. He decided
to move Umbrella's headquarters to Europe, I forgot
where exactly, and just boarded up the mansion.
Probably a couple million bucks, straight into the
crapper."
Joseph sneered. "Right. Like Umbrella would
suffer."
True enough. Spencer may have been crazy, but
he'd had enough money and business savvy to hire
the right people. Umbrella was one of the biggest
medical research and pharmaceutical companies on
the planet. Even thirty years ago, the loss of a few
million dollars probably hadn't hurt.
"Anyway," Joseph went on, "the Umbrella people
told Irons that they'd sent someone out to check the
place over, and that it was secure, no break-ins."
"So why look for blueprints?" Brad asked.
It was Chris who answered, startling Barry. He'd
walked back to join them, his youthful face fixed with
a sudden intensity that almost bordered on obsessive.
"Because it's the only place in the woods that hasn't
been checked over by the police, and it's practically in
the middle of the crime scenes. And because you can't
always trust what people say."
Brad frowned. "But if Umbrella sent somebody
out. . ."
Whatever Chris was going to say in response was
cut short by Wesker's smooth voice, rising from the
front of the room.
"All right, people. Since it appears that Ms. Valentine
isn't planning on joining us, why don't we get this
started?"
Barry walked to his desk, worried about Chris for
the first time since this whole thing had started. He'd
recruited the younger man for the S.T.A.R.S. a few
years back thanks to a chance encounter in a local gun
shop. Chris had proved to be an asset to the team,
bright and thoughtful as well as a top-notch marksman
and able pilot.
But now . . .
Barry gazed fondly at the picture of Kathy and the
girls that sat on his desk. Chris's obsession with the
murders in Raccoon was understandable, particularly
since his friend had disappeared. Nobody in town
wanted to see another life lost. Barry had a family,
and was as determined as anyone else on the team to
stop the killers. But Chris's relentless suspicion had
gone a little overboard. What had he meant by that,
"You can't always trust what people say"? Either that
Umbrella was lying or Chief Irons was. . .
Ridiculous. Umbrella's branch chemical plant and
administrative buildings on the outskirts of town
supplied three-quarters of the jobs in Raccoon City; it
would be counter-productive for them to lie. Besides,
Umbrella's integrity was at least as solid as any other
major corporation's-maybe some industrial espionage,
but medical secret-swapping was a far cry from
murder. And Chief Irons, though a fat, weasely blowhard,
wasn't the kind to get his hands any dirtier than
they'd get accepting illegal campaign funds; the guy
wanted to be mayor, for chrissake.
Barry's gaze lingered on the picture of his family a
moment longer before he turned his chair around to
face Wesker's desk, and he suddenly realized that he
wanted Chris to be wrong. Whatever was going on in
Raccoon City, that kind of vicious brutality couldn't
be planned. And that meant. . .
Barry didn't know what that meant. He sighed, and
waited for the meeting to begin.
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