But there wasn't anything that could be done.
Hours later, Kyle sat against one of the basement walls drinking tepid soykaf from a plastic cup. The cheery fast-food logo seemed to jeer at him from the side of the container. He watched as Woodhouse, another Eagle Security magician, a young woman who'd arrived with the reinforcements, and some paramedics tried to save a girl, barely out of her teens, from the terrible death that overcame most of the cocooned once they were removed. Physical death came quickly, but the mental anguish seemed to echo long past the body's final spasm.
Some, by strict medical definition, survived. One by one, mindless and still the way Mitch Truman had been, they were carried away in ambulances for extended treatment elsewhere, but no one held any hope for them.
The girl, swathed in some almost embryonic blue-white gauze shrieked and pushed against the gentle hands that tried to help her. Mucus flowed from her mouth in a great rush, down her neck and shoulders and across her exposed body. As they had done with all the others, the magicians tried to heal her, to stave off whatever biological reaction was forcing the body into collapse.
As Kyle watched, she gave one last gasp, then went limp, her body releasing whatever other fluids it contained. He could see that her body would not live. He'd become an expert at telling such things. She became quiet, and the four eased her back inside the cocoon.
Woodhouse stepped away, the muscles in his arms quivering from the exertion to which he was subjecting his body. He looked at Kyle, eyes helpless.
"There's nothing we can do," Kyle said.
Woodhouse nodded, but the other mage turned on them. "That's right. We can't do anything for them here. Let's move mem. Let's take them somewhere we can-"
"It won't work," Kyle said wearily.
The mage was angry. "We're just not set up here to help them. We need to-"
Kyle interrupted her again, this time by standing. "It's not us. It's them. They're dying even without our interfering." He pointed to a pile of cocoons in the farthest corner. Those are dead already. And we haven't touched them."
While Woodhouse was spelling Kyle in their attempts to resuscitate the insect spirit victims, Kyle sat watching as the auras of all the cocoons slowly but inevitably began to dim. They were simply dying.
The mage had turned and Kyle could tell she was using her astral senses to examine the piles he'd pointed out. "Maybe if we moved them all closer together," she said. "And left them alone. It might be our presence that's killing them."
This time it was Woodhouse who spoke up. "I think it's that we killed the females."
Kyle nodded. "That's what I think too. The two biggest ones.”
“Yes.”
"The younger mage seemed perplexed. Kyle walked toward her between the piles. "All the cocoons started showing signs of agitation once the big ones began to get hurt," he said. "I think a couple of the bodies in them died even as the mothers were being killed. The mother roaches were doing something to sustain them, feeding them energy, I don't know. With the mothers gone…"
"We've got to do something," she insisted.
“We can kill them quickly," Woodhouse said.
Kyle turned toward him. “That might be rash."
“You think so?"
Kyle sighed, thinking of his sister-in-law Ellen and Mitch Truman. He'd already casually examined all the cocoons and satisfied himself that none of the forms inside was either one of them, but many of the human bodies had already become, or were becoming, half insect. If Ellen or Mitch were one of those, they might as well be dead. "No, I don't," he said reluctantly.
"We can't make that decision," the mage said. She was as exhausted and disheveled as either one of them. Kyle didn't even know her name.
"If we don't, these people will linger for hours, maybe even days, in agony," Woodhouse said. He turned to one of the paramedics who was now resting in the spot where Kyle had been. "Axe you familiar with the Illinois euthanasia statutes?" Woodhouse asked him.
Kyle saw the man's body tense, but then his shoulders slumped with resignation. "I am," the man replied, nodding slowly.
"Do you agree that these people are beyond the point of recovery to a reasonable life and that only heroic measures could possibly save them now?"
"I do."
"Are you certified to make that decision?" Woodhouse asked, now letting his gaze run slowly over the remaining cocoons.
"I am."
"Would you please state your name for the record."
"Paul Michael Davidson, certification number RST002-1992-128-02-IL."
"And I, Sergeant Peter Walsh, Eagle Security ident number 203-272-12819 EFG, concur."
The woman was staring at Woodhouse, tired and angry, but powerless against the quiet despair in her senior officer's eyes.
Woodhouse looked at the other troopers and paramedics present. "Let's clear the space," he said.
Slowly, some understanding, others torn by what was occurring, gathered their gear and moved slowly up the stairs. After a moment of indecision, without further protest, the woman climbed the stairs after them.
"It won't take much," said Kyle.
Woodhouse nodded, and unsnapped the strap holding the pistol at his belt. He looked at Kyle, waiting for an offer of help, for some of the burden to be lifted, but it didn't come. Kyle only nodded slightly. He understood, but he would not kill these people.
Woodhouse returned the nod. Kyle turned and walked to the stairs. He was only halfway when the first shot rang out.
Upstairs, their work punctuated by the slow, deliberate rhythm of the shots from the basement, an Eagle Security forensics team was going over the offices and adjoining storerooms. Chief Lekas was walking toward the basement stairs as Kyle came up. Kyle shook his head and held the man back.
"Let him be." he said.
Lekas opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He'd seen the basement. He understood. The two walked slowly over to where Commander Malley's rent body lay, covered by a dull, dark-stained blanket.
From mere Kyle went on alone, passing through the offices and out into the waiting area. There, as the shots continued, he collapsed into one of the plastic chairs. Part of his mind wanted to count the shots, but he wouldn't let himself.
Only a few Eagle troopers were present, all looking from one to another as the shots continued. Kyle stood up and walked toward the front of the room, stepping through the shattered door and out into the sunshine. The late afternoon glare blinded him but he let himself stare against it for a moment.
There were dozens of police, security, and medical vehicles parked in every direction on the street. A score of uniformed Eagle troopers held the crowd back at over a block away. Eagle wasn't taking any chances on any of the general public catching even a glimpse of what was going on. 'Terrorists" was the word being circulated as a cover for the attack on the stores. The people could accept that; it happened all the time. The truth was another matter entirely.
Kyle stepped back into the doorway and slowly pulled his portaphone out of his pocket. Part of its case caught on the Eagle body armor he was wearing, but he carefully worked it free. He didn't jack into it certain he looked like drek and not wanting her to see him that way. It didn't even occur to him that his portable phone didn't transmit a picture. He was beyond such subtleties.
He flipped open its sleek black and gray case and activated the address book display. He found the number he wanted and instructed it to dial. It rang three times before she answered. She'd been laughing.
"John Mikayama's office. Elizabeth Breman speaking." Her voice was airy and almost breathless.
"Hoi," Kyle said.
She paused. "Kyle?'
"Yeah, it's me."
"Are you all right?" Sometimes, it seemed she always asked him that.
"Uh-huh," he said. "Mostly tired."
"Where are you? There's so much noise…"
"I'm on the street. Nothing to worry about."
"Sure…"
He coughed. "Look, I called to tell you to stop over at your sister's on your way home if you can."
Her voice rose excitedly. "Is she there?"
"No." He heard her exhale sharply. "At least she wasn't earlier, before lunch. You have keys, right?"
"Yes, I do. Is something wrong?"
"Truthfully," he said, "I don't know. She's not there, but her cat is. You might want to pick him up."
"Oh my god."
"I don't know if anything's wrong. She's just not there. That's all I'm saying."
"Please tell me."
"Beth, there's nothing to tell you," Kyle said, letting himself squint against the sun. "I don't know anything more than that."
"Please tell me."
He dipped his head forward away from the light.
He shouldn't have called. "You're going to be home tonight, yes?"
"Yes, I'll be home."
"Good. I'll try and stop by. Maybe help Natalie with her homework or something."
"She won't be here. She's staying at her friend Pammy's with some of the other girls from the computer club. They're finishing off a class presentation on Pammy's father's system. He's a media programmer."
“Then maybe tomorrow."
"Come by anyway. Let me know if you'll make it for dinner. If you do, I'll cook again."
He smiled. "Such treatment."
"Yeah, well," she said, "I've been practicing."
"I'll call and let you know."
"Please call, will you?"
"Yes," he said. "Bye."
"Bye."
He disconnected and folded the phone shut, slipping it back into his pocket.
Back inside, Kyle walked slowly through the rooms. The gunfire had stopped, but there was no sign of Woodhouse. A few officers were making their way carefully down the stairs. Then Woodhouse came up, blank-faced. He looked at Kyle and walked toward the rear door. Kyle let him go.
The detectives were searching every corner, examining every scrap of paper or file they could find. Kyle watched them and listened. The papers said nothing. The files were innocuous, revealing nothing. There was information on bill payment, and one of the detectives thought they might be able to find out more by tracing the bank accounts. Kyle doubted it. This had been a Universal Brotherhood storefront, apparently keeping up some level of operation despite the official government shutdown months ago. There would no traces to anything.
Kyle shuddered and wondered if all the Universal Brotherhood sites had been like this. Was this what had prompted the government crackdown? Was this the drek Strevich had tried to warn him away from? Part of him wished he'd listened.
After speaking briefly with Chief Lekas, he walked back outside to return the body armor to the officer watching over the command van. They arranged for a police car to drive him back to his hotel.
Ignoring the odd, almost frightened looks of hotel security and other patrons, Kyle went up to his suite, stripped off his clothing and foci, and sat in the shower under the water running as hot as he could stand for as long as he dared. He didn't even think that Linda Hayward might come back. He thought about sleeping, but knew he couldn't do that yet.
He used his shaving gel to remove the day's growth of stubble on his face, then put on a pair of jeans and the old pullover sweatshirt he reserved for the rare times he bothered to jog. He almost walked out without his foci, but remembered them at the last minute.
Kyle couldn't remember where his car was, and checked with the hotel valet. No, they told him, it wasn't there. They called him a cab instead.
Two and half hours later, when Elizabeth Breman finally came home carrying her sister's cat Grendel in her arms, she found Kyle sitting on the front porch in the same FBI pullover he'd been wearing on the day she'd first met him. He was fast asleep. She took the cat inside and then came back. After a moment's thought, she led Kyle half-awake up the stairs to the second floor and the master bedroom. He didn't notice as she gently pulled off his shoes, followed by his pants and sweatshirt. He didn't even notice when she removed his foci and placed them carefully on the nightstand, just within reach, and then draped a blanket over him. He didn't even notice when she leaned in and kissed him softly on the temple, next to the long, dark scratch that only now seemed to be closing over. He was fast asleep, safe among the fluffy quilts and pillows that smelled faintly of flowers and leaves.
When a chill breeze slipping in through the partially open; bedroom window woke him sometime in the middle of the night, she was curled against him, her new short haircut pushed askew by his shoulder. Though covered by the blanket, she seemed cold, wearing only one of the long nightshirts she favored. As he pulled her closer, she opened her eyes. She said nothing for a long moment, then clung to him and he felt her body begin to shudder as she choked backed the tears she'd never wanted him to see.
She was cold, and he held her tighter against both the night and the sadness. His own emotions of the last days came rushing up on him, and he felt her sadness, almost undeniable, flow over him. But then she moved against him, and suddenly in the near darkness their lips met, carefully, and he tasted them washed in her tears.
They turned slightly and sat up, her legs spreading around him, nightshirt pushed high up on her hips. She gasped, and he wanted the feel of all of her body beneath his hands, the smell of her hair, the brush of her warming skin, and the rush of their mingled breath as he entered her roughly. He wanted it all. Then. Now. Immediately. But as she closed her eyes and arced her body away from him, he pulled her shirt off slowly, forcing himself to linger over every curve, every revealed shadow.
Calmly, slowly, he turned them both, letting her lie on her back. He lowered himself to where their bodies nearly touched and kissed her gently high on the forehead. He moved down from there, against the soft curve of her ear, across the strong line of her jaw, beneath her chin, and lower, below her breasts, and then carefully around and back up again to their hard, dark tips. And he did this slowly, deliberately, thinking only of her and her body. Every inch. Ignoring everything else. Forgetting everything else. For as could.