by James A Ross
From inside Joe’s truck came a high-pitched bleat of horror. The door flew open and the sound from inside rose in scale and volume. “Tom! Tom! Tom! What happened?”
“Ignored your advice,” he croaked, stumbling against the truck’s chest-high fender. Susan’s fingertips hovered near his chest as though uncertain where to press that wouldn’t hurt.
“Who did this to you?”
“Frankie Heller.” The words came out in gasps. “A dog the size of a Shetland pony, someone I didn’t get a look at and a few acres of shrapnel and broken glass.”
Susan pried his hands from his chest. Her face drained of color when she saw what was left of his palms. “They’re raw!” Her voice skidded octaves unable to find footing. “We have to get you to a hospital.”
“Need to think, first.” Susan put her hand beneath his arms and helped him into the truck. “Where’s your car?”
She started the truck and gestured to where its headlights washed over a late model BMW nose down in a ditch. “I turned off my lights so no one would see me and I ended up down there.”
Tom rested his head on the back of the seat and tried not to feel all of the places that hurt. He wheezed out a question, “What made you come here?” But her whispered answer made it no farther than the windshield, and he was too weary to ask twice.
They rode in silence along the familiar route that led to the tree lined drive and the house above the lake. She drove the truck across the terraced lawn and down to the boathouse, then lifted Tom’s arm over her shoulder and helped him climb the wooden steps to the loft. There, she eased him onto the bed and began the sanguinary task of removing his shredded clothes. He could have used a bit in his teeth for that part. Poised over impacted wounds with a pint of alcohol and an already bloody cloth, she warned, “This is going to hurt.” But he was past the point of caring.
As MadDog used to say, “If you can’t listen, you’ve got to feel.” usually with a belt in his hand.
When Susan finished cleaning and bandaging, she draped Tom in a thin, nautical-themed sheet and then, almost as an afterthought, closed the distance between their faces and slowly joined them at the lips. Hands and knees immobilized in gauze, he had to call on ancient memory to fill in the parts that might otherwise have come next.
A long minute later she drew back, tucking her legs beneath her. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“I do.”
She leaned her head to the side and waited.
“You wanted to. So you suppressed all the reasons why you shouldn’t.”
“You’ve added wisdom to looks. How seductive.”
He laughed and lifted the contrary evidence of his bandaged hands. “What we want trumps what we know better every time.”
She leaned over Tom’s naked torso and pressed her lips to the top of his head. He kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Did you find what you were looking for out there?” she murmured.
“Pieces.”
“Worth nearly getting killed for?”
Someone thought they were worth killing for.
“What did you find out?” He raised his shoulders. She reached for the bottle of alcohol. “Don’t make me use this again.”
Keep it vague and see where this mummy kissing goes? Or answer the question and stick a fork in the hope of it going anywhere? After a moment of indecision, he forced a lungful of breath past cracked lips and balanced a bandaged hand at her waist. “I think I know who killed Billy. And maybe why.”
Susan stiffened and pulled away.
“I think your friend Suliman and Dr. Hassad are the same person. That he used Billy to smuggle stuff from his Canadian lab into the U. S. and used NeuroGene to distribute it.”
“Frankie Heller told you this?”
“Dave Willow’s partner told Joe and me about the distribution part. Hassad confirmed it. I saw him this morning in his office in Montreal. He’s the same guy who was sitting across from you at Billy’s funeral-–the one you know as Suliman. I showed Billy’s photo to him and he claimed not to know the man in it. But Willow identified the same photo as the man who broke into the NeuroGene mail room and his former partner Mike Sharp identified him as the guy who delivered Hassad’s packages.”
“What packages?”
“Sharp and Hassad say it was research samples: vials, petri dishes and the like. When I asked Willow to guess what might be in them, he said that with a bio-research company as cover, he didn’t even want to think of the possibilities. That part I believe.”
“And what part don’t you?”
“Sharp says the package service was an arrangement between him and Hassad and that Willow knew nothing about it. Hassad says he dealt with them both.”
Susan shook her head. “I don’t know, Tom. I can’t imagine Dave Willow involved with anything not completely above board, or anyone trusting Billy with anything important. He’d screw it up. Or rip them off.”
“Willow’s no angel, Susan. At least not in business. And he wasn’t Mr. Niceguy when I ran into him in your driveway a few hours ago.”
She looked away. “I didn’t invite him in.”
A gust of cool air billowed the curtains at the edge of the sliding glass door. It was a moment before Tom regained his train of thought. “Billy was just the mailman, Susan. My guess is that he got started doing occasional dope deliveries for Frankie Heller. When Hassad/Suliman became involved with NeuroGene, he probably looked up his old GI Joe pal and recruited him. Billy was already in the illegal package business. It probably wasn’t too difficult to get him to carry an extra one now and then. My guess is Frankie didn’t know about Billy’s sideline with Hassad… at least not at first. He was probably mad as hell when he found out. Especially if Billy was carrying both Frankie’s and Hassad’s stuff at the same time, or in any of the cars Billy took in and out of Frankie’s junkyard.”
“That could have been what I heard them arguing about.”
“I don’t have all the pieces yet. But I think Frankie may have seen Billy’s sideline as something that exposed the bread and butter business he had going through his garage, and that when he couldn’t get Billy to stop, he got pissed and killed him. Or Hassad found out the same thing and had the same problem. His little vial-in-pocket operation could have gone undetected forever, but not if it got connected to a regular commercial dope run. In any event. Hassad learned the game was busted when I showed up today and started asking questions. I think he may have come across the border tonight to clean up his tracks.”
“What do you mean?”
Tom looked at her closely. “What did you see at the junkyard after you climbed out of the ditch?”
“Nothing.”
He tried to catch her eye, but she turned her head and spoke to the wall. “I passed a car before I got there.” Her voice was a whisper. “I thought at first it might be you. Then, like I said, I turned off the headlights and tried to coast down the gravel drive and instead slid into that ditch. A few minutes later, you came shuffling out of the woods looking like Lon Chaney’s ghost.”
“Did you notice anything about the car that passed you, or anyone in it?”
She looked up and away. “Dark sedan. I didn’t see the driver. Are you sure about all this, Tom? About any of it?”
He looked at her eyes. “Frankie’s dead, Susan. Whoever was in that car killed him. My guess is Hassad/Suliman.”
“Guess? You mean you’re making this up?”
He held out his bandaged hands. “I’m not making these up. Or Frankie being dead. The person in that car you passed killed him and tried to kill me. The only guess is who it was. Hassad fits.”
Her voice was quiet, almost a prayer. “What are you going to do?”
“Tell Super Trooper. Someone who knows what he’s doing needs to take it from here. Joe or someone else.”
Her hand reached for Tom’s thigh. “Are you sure that’s the right thing to do, Tom?”
His heart leapt and his throat
contracted. “I’m way out over my skis, Susan. Confronting Hassad without a plan for what he might do next was amateurish. So was walking into Frankie Heller’s junkyard. Another mistake like that…” He looked at her pale hand on his paler thigh. “And we don’t get to finish this.” The throb in his ears was deafening.
“But what about NeuroGene and the people who work there?” It wasn’t a question, it was a plea. “I can’t stay here either, if what you say about my brother is true and gets out.”
“There’s a killer on the loose, Susan.”
“And my parents? Am I the only one who doesn’t believe that cockamamie story that they crashed and drowned trying to race a forty-foot boat through Wilson Cove in the dark? My father?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that maybe Frankie and my brother were both killers. And that whatever happened to them, good riddance.”
From somewhere across the water came a murmur of voices: early morning fishermen… late night lovers? “It’s not that easy, Susan. Whoever killed Frankie isn’t finished. I barely got away. Do you think he’ll leave it at that?”
Susan pulled her hand away. Tom felt suddenly cold. “NeuroGene is doing important science, Tom. We’re close to some real breakthroughs. The company won’t survive a scandal like this. If you call your testosterone-fueled brother, all that meaningful work and the people who do it are finished. What purpose will that serve?”
Tom looked toward the light that was beginning to whiten the boathouse windows. He and Susan were talking past each other now, no longer connected. It was a familiar feeling. “There’s a cell phone in the glove compartment of the truck.” His voice flagged with exhaustion.
“Don’t Tom. No good will come of it.”
“I know that, Susan. But worse will come if I don’t.” When she didn’t respond, he prompted, “Would you bring the phone, please?”
* * *
Tom needed Susan’s help to dial the hospital, and when she reluctantly gave it, he let the phone ring until the sound eventually roused a night nurse. “I’m sorry,” he said, to the woman who finally answered, “I know it’s late, but I need to talk to my brother, Sheriff Morgan. He’s in room 318.”
“He was, dear,” said the nurse. “He’s gone now.”
“You released him? He’s better?”
“I don’t believe so, dear. It says here on his chart ‘left against medical advice.”
“When did he go?”
“It must have been before 11:00 pm. That’s when I come on. There’s a note here asking any relative who might call to contact a Dr. Dyer. “He’s not one of ours,” she added yawning and then gave Tom the number.
He handed the phone to Susan and recited the number. She dialed it and put the phone back in his hand. The voice that came on sounded as tired as Tom felt. “Dyer.”
“Tom Morgan. You left a message at the hospital for any relative of a patient who checked out a few hours ago.”
“Thank god. Are you the brother?”
“That’s right. Who are you?”
“Bill Dyer. A toxologist with the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry. We’re part of the Center for Disease Control.”
“Is Joe with you?”
“I wish he were. I was hoping that you could help us find him.”
Whatever reserves Tom had started with that morning were long gone, and this was a draft on an empty well. “Have you tried his office, his home or our mother’s apartment?”
“Repeatedly. Frankly I’m astonished your brother made it to the parking lot, given how sick he is.”
“He could still be there then.”
“We checked the area thoroughly. Wherever he is, your brother’s a sick man. He needs to get back to the hospital fast.”
“He can’t have gone far,” said Tom. “He could hardly lift his head off the pillow when I left him this morning.”
“He wasn’t much better when he bolted around 10:00 pm, according to the nurse on duty. But she couldn’t get him to stay or anyone to stop him from leaving.”
“Do you know what’s wrong with him? The doctors were waiting on some tests when I left.”
There was a moment of silence on the end of the line.
“Spit it out, Doc. If the CDC is involved, I’m guessing it can’t be good. Just tell me.”
Dyer cleared his throat and then spoke as if from a script. “Subject tested positive for exposure to a Class 3 bio-toxin.”
Shit.
“And your government would really like to know where and how he was exposed.”
Tom took a deep breath. “One of the doctors said he thought it might be something Joe ate or got in a cut.”
“Judging from his symptoms, it’s both. That, and the fact that he’s not dead. If he’d inhaled it, he would be.”
“A Class three …?”
“Bio-toxin. Abrin.”
“Never heard of it. Should I?”
“Think anthrax and multiply it by a factor of ten.”
Shit, again. Tom felt his body flush with adrenaline and respond with only deeper fatigue.
“Did your brother ever mention the word abrin or refer to it in any way?”
“No.” Tom struggled to steady his voice. “How bad is he?”
“We don’t have a lot of data on human toxicity. But when it’s inhaled, abrin is deadly even in microscopic amounts. Your brother’s exposure must have been gastric or cutaneous. It’s treatable, but only if we get him back to a hospital fast.”
“I’ll find him.”
“Please. We need him as much as he needs us. He’s our link to the contagion.”
“How did the CDC get onto this?”
“We were contacted by the lab that examined some samples from an autopsy done at your local hospital last week. I was sent here to follow-up. When I learned that the policeman who had handled the body and inventoried the dead man’s residence was in the ICU with unexplained vomiting and fever, I did a field test. It registered positive for abrin exposure.”
Tom’s breath pounded the phone’s mouthpiece.
“Mr. Morgan, we need to find the source of your brother’s contamination before other people become exposed.”
Tom forced himself to breathe. “Was this autopsy you looked into done on a man named Pearce?” He kept his voice slow and deliberate.
“Yes, did you know him? Can you tell us anything about him?”
“A lot. As soon as I find my brother.”
* * *
While Tom was speaking with the CDC doctor, Susan paced the uncarpeted floor. When he finished, he told her the part he assumed she had not overheard. “A-brin!” He stressed each syllable hard. “Does that mean anything to you?”
She shook her head.
“The CDC guy said to think ‘anthrax’ and multiply it by ten.”
“Oh, Tom!”
“Tell me NeuroGene is not fooling around with stuff like anthrax.”
“We’re not.” She met his eye, but did not stop pacing.
“Sit down.” His voice was hard.
She continued to pace.
“You recognized the man in that college brochure, didn’t you? And you saw something at Frankie’s that you’re not telling me.” Tom spit out the words until they were almost a shout. “I need to know what you’re holding back, Susan.”
Her face turned toward the light that was beginning to spread over the glassy lake. “I told you everything I know.”
Emotions careened like bumper cars in his chest. “I’m tired, Susan. I’m hurting and I have to find Joe. You can tell me now, or you can go to hell… or jail, or both.”
Her face remained a mask.
He looked around for something to replace the sheet that was all that covered him now. Then he shuffled to Billy’s closet and pushed through half a dozen hangars of clothes two sizes too small. In the end he kept the sheet wrapped around his waist, sparing his abraded limbs the challenge of squeezing back into the soiled and s
hredded clothes that lay in a heap by the bed. He could feel Susan’s eyes on his back.
Unbending legs carried him to the stairs. Bandaged hands shared the weight of his torso with the boathouse wall and helped him maneuver the steps. At the bottom, clear water rippled at the back of the boat slip and shafts of morning sunlight made prism bars across the lakeside opening. Pausing at the foot of the steps to ease the throbbing in his knees, he took a long last look at the locale which seemed now to be little more than center ring in a circus that should have left town long ago.
Dr. Pearce’s Chris Craft hung in canvas straps over the water, mist curling beneath its hull and pale light glinting off its varnished mahogany side. Nests of barn swallows lined the beam above it. Rippling sunlight played along the spine of a cedar canoe that lay overturned nearby against the boathouse wall. Beneath it, a large black crow pecked greedily at a stick-like something covered with blood. The bird looked at Tom and pushed its prize farther under the boat. Tom hobbled over to the canoe and lowered himself gently toward the sound of buzzing flies. The crow squawked angrily and held its ground.
“Get!” he yelled.
The crow squawked twice and flew off. Tom swept his bandaged hand beneath the boat and returned with the severed leg of a large, white-feathered bird.
CHAPTER 23
Bonnie helped Tom into a change of clothes, asking a few listless questions about his bloody bandages and his story of getting into a scrap with a dog. She had her own troubles. Joe hadn’t come home. She knew where he was, but he’d made her promise not to tell the CDC toxologist who’d been calling every hour since last night. Joe said that the CDC always exaggerates and that he couldn’t stay in the hospital any longer with a killer on the loose. Not if he wanted to keep his job. “What am I supposed to say when Mary calls?” Bonnie demanded. “Her son may be dying, but he won’t leave the office? I’m angry, Tom. No, I’m frightened. And I can’t keep doing this. I won’t keep doing it.”