Chapter Four

“2012 Ronald Reagan Drive”, greeted Dane’s eyes as he approached the parking structure. Every morning for seven years, the backlit, black lettering adorning a clean beige wall, greeted him. White lettering carefully traced upon a solid black banner; painted on the wall above the address, read “Federal Bureau Of Investigation – Cincinnati Field Office”. For Dane, it was breathtaking. Every morning he felt a sense of pride as he passed this wall. Every morning, he felt it announcing his arrival; like a king being proclaimed on his throne. It felt honorable, majestic even; and was the perfect start of every work day.

Dane was proud of his job. Many applied every year, and many were rejected. Dane had been accepted easily. His background investigation had taken all of six months. His approval- overnight. The smoothness of his process made him question his own capability; at first. Rumors began. He could hear people insinuating “affirmative action” had been responsible for his hire. He was Latino. Yet, he had never used his heritage to stand above anyone else. He worked hard. He focused. He aimed for success and accepted nothing less; of himself nor the people around him. 

Dane was a workaholic with a hero complex. Solutions, perfection, no mistakes – it made him a capable SAC. In seven years though, he still felt he hadn’t proven his value to the FBI. At times he felt anonymous; unnoticed. He believed he was given low grade cases because he wasn’t expected to succeed. That would change with this case. He KNEW he had a national case; possibly international. Who knew how deep this would expand. He was ready for the work. He just needed to convince his A.D.D. that a true problem existed. Could he do that?

Dane's eyes shifted to a pale blue, neon seal. It hung high upon the wall in front of him. It read, “Department of Justice - Federal Bureau of Investigation”. Thirteen bright stars circled a shield and two olive branches, depicting safety and freedom; justice for all. Dane paused; looking at it for a moment. He took the same deep breath he had taken for seven years; squared his shoulders, and prepared to proudly walk through the door.

                      *** *** *** *** ***

Faidh forced herself flat against the mattress. She took shallow, barely noticeable breaths. She forced her eyes to remain shut. Her oddly humane abductor had left the room only moments ago. She didn't know if she was being watched on camera, but made the assumption she was. A small dreary light hung in the corner above her. As it came on, Faidh could feel it against her eyelids. Did she dare peek out? Did she dare glance at the world surrounding her? Would he let her go if she accidentally found a clue to her whereabouts; worse, his identity? She trembled at the thought. She dared not open her eyes.

"One hour," the voice boomed against her, "not a minute more. Eat," it instructed her, "there's fresh fruit and broth on the tray beside you. If you can't eat," he suggested, "at least drink some broth and juice. You'll want to stay hydrated," he compassionately explained, "it helps with stress."

Faidh felt mothered; protected almost; cared for. Strangely, it brought a sense of calm. She carefully opened her eyes. The room around her was cleaner than she had anticipated. The walls were a crisp white. The bedside tray beside her was a rolling table recycled from a hospital. The tray itself was narrow and long; stretching half way across the mattress. It's height was perfectly adjusted to make it easier for her to reach. A plastic spoon sat neatly upon it, on a folded paper towel. A small bowl containing an orange, a green apple, and a banana sat next to it. A steamy cup of yellowish broth sat next to that. A clear plastic cup, containing apple juice, sat above the bowl. A small container of vanilla pudding hid to the back of the tray, next to a small bottle of water.

Faidh eyed the food and juice. She didn't feel hungry, but she didn't want to grow weak either. She didn't know how long she had been in this room; days; a week? She spotted a small bar of soap, and a folded white washcloth, sitting neatly beside a metal wash basin filled with water. "Maybe if I wash my face," she thought, " maybe I'll feel better; more like myself? Maybe then I'll feel like eating something?" 

The water in the basin was warm. It felt good against her face. She rinsed and wrung her washcloth several times, simply to experience the warmth against her skin and eyelids. She breathed in as deeply as she could; taking the warmth deep into her lungs. She felt calm; able to think clearly for the first time. Was anybody looking for her? If they were, how much time should she reasonably allow before they found her? "What difference did that make," she chided herself, "when there's no way to gauge time?" 

Lost in thought, Faidh picked up an apple and bit into it. She was hungrier than she had imagined. It took her no time to finish it, core and all. She followed that with the warm broth. Was it chicken maybe, or vegetable? She didn't know. She only knew she welcomed the warmth. She could feel every sip, passing her throat, into her chest, and to the bottom of her belly. It relaxed her even further. Her eyelids began to droop. To her surprise, Faidh suddenly found it very difficult to keep her eyes open. All thought left her, as she curled into a peaceful ball and drifted quickly to sleep.

Heath had been watching Faidh on the screen in front of him. Was she the one? Did she have the sequence he was looking for? Would she be the one to live through the splicing? He silently prayed he had found "the right" girl. How he had searched! Fifteen years had passed since he began searching for his "Eve". Every death, every disappointment reminded him of his own imperfections. He had failed. Time and again his efforts to save the human race had failed. 

THIS had to be the success! He could feel it. This girl was so special. He had watched her for months. He knew EVERYTHING about her. She HAD to be his "Eve".

Heath rose from the weathered, leather office chair he had been seated in. He picked up a needle and tourniquet kit and headed into her room. The one hundred and fifty milligrams of Demerol he had put into her food would keep her out for a few hours. He had work to do. It was easier if he didn't have to restrain her as he drew her blood; took hair and skin samples, and got the cheek swabs he'd need for DNA sequencing. He began to hum to himself as he carefully inserted the needle into her arm. "Lean on me, when you're not strong, and I'll be your friend. I'll help you carry on…"