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 re-
ports, searching for something that the cops had
somehow missed and feeling more and more frus-
trated 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 persis-
tent, 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 op-
tions - 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 Ameri-
can 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 police-
man. 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 trau-
ma before they'd bled out. If they'd screamed, no one
had heard. . .
Enough! They're gone, but you can finally do some-
thing 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.
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