by Sam Masters
“Yeah. No injuries here. Not physical ones, anyway.”
Ghost knows what he means. There’s nothing worse than doing your best, then finding out that people still died. “Clean up there, get someone to do the IDs and inform the relatives, then meet me at the station house. We’re not done yet. Dispatch has another two incidents—both on this side of the city.”
97
Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea
Jihai backs a motorized flatbed trolley up to the front of the glass cell where the three dead dogs are still lying.
Tāo and Péng enter the antechamber, and Jihai wheels the trolley in for them and then steps back.
They close and seal the door behind them and wait for the sound of a computerized bleep before pressing the lock and entering the inner cell.
The two scientists are dressed in white biohazard suits complete with hoods, helmets, boots, and gloves. They’ve brought shovels, brushes, body bags, buckets, and morgue sprays with them, in order to clean up the mess.
First they shift the two inner partitions to one side and prop them against a far wall so they can move around more freely.
Next, Tāo photographs the dogs, both in wide shots and close-ups. There is already video footage, but Hao wants the stills for the postmortem reports and reference files that he compiles after every test series.
Péng unzips a black plastic body bag and lays it down alongside the first animal they come to. It has the number 3 sprayed in blue paint on its side. “You get the back legs, I’ll get the front, and then we lift on three.”
“Okay.” Tāo shuffles around the back and gets a grip. “Ready.”
“One. Two. Three.”
They swing the pit bull into the middle of the bag and let it drop.
Péng twists its legs around to fit inside the bag and then zips it up. “On three again—but this time onto the trolley.”
Tāo gives him the thumbs-up and they repeat the entire process with dog number 2 and a fresh bag.
“Two down, one to go.” Péng lays out the final bag and grabs the front legs while Tāo takes the back.
They give the dog what is now a well-rehearsed swing and drop it on the black plastic.
The dog suddenly lurches upward and snaps. Its strong pointed teeth sink through Péng’s boot and then find the bone of his shin.
“Fuck!” He jumps back but the dog still has a grip.
Tāo smashes a shovel down on its head but it still holds onto Péng’s leg.
The scientist falls backward and bangs his head on the door to the antechamber.
Tāo keeps on hitting the animal. He swings the shovel with all his might.
Then he gets his brain in gear and instead of wielding yet another wild blow, positions the sharp corner of the shovel into the neck wound and pushes with all his strength.
The dog releases Péng.
But Tāo isn’t taking any chances. He drives the dog all the way into the corner of the cell and leans against the shovel until he fatally widens the wound in its neck so it’s like an open hinge.
The dog goes totally limp.
He drops the shovel and rushes to Péng, who is still sprawled on the floor and in shock. “Are you all right?”
Péng nods. “The boots protected me. I’m fine. I think I was more terrified than anything.” He leans against the cell wall and gets to his feet. “It didn’t hurt me that badly, but it surprised me and knocked me clean off balance.”
They both glance across at the grotesquely beaten and wounded corpse.
A dog that came back from the dead.
They open the airlock and decide to get Péng treated before finishing the clean-up.
98
Miami-Dade Animal Services, Miami
More than three hundred dogs a day press their sad, abandoned faces to the cold cell bars of the animal shelter and hope their cutesy act results in someone adopting them.
They’ve got five days to pull it off.
After that . . .
The manager, Monique Clabbers, doesn’t want to think about it.
She wishes she could bundle them all into her truck and take them home with her. The fifty-year-old already has five dogs, and her husband Bo says that’s the limit. Not that he has a say in the matter, and after twenty years of marriage he really should know better than to mutter such foolish nonsense.
Monique already has her eye on a sixth.
He’s a cute little boxer who has that glint in his eyes that just breaks your heart and tells you he’s already part of your family and all you have to do is pick him up and snuggle him and everything will be fine.
And tonight it will.
Because once the busiest day she’s ever known comes to an end, Billy the Boxer is coming home.
She’ll tell Bo it was the least she could do. More than two hundred dogs were dumped on them today. Way, way more than they can handle. And no offers of adoptions. As far as she knows, it’s the same at every other public shelter, plus all the private ones like Abandoned Dogs of the Everglades and her friend’s No Kill sanctuary over in Tampa.
When Monique came in this morning there were twenty different dogs already tied to the building. Left by people too ashamed to look her in the eye. On top of that, her ER room is full of dehydrated dogs that have been abandoned and just left to dry up in the sun.
She really doesn’t know how people can be so cruel.
Her office door swings open and front desk receptionist Marjorie Bollas is flushed as she says, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Clabbers, this young woman is looking for Chen and—”
Zoe pushes past and enters the room. “She’s going to say I’m being rude—I prefer to call it insistent.”
Monique puts down a stack of documents she was just about to file. “How can I help you?”
“A guy named Chen who works here sold dogs to a breeder over in Cutler Bay.”
“That’s impossible.” She looks toward her colleague at the door. “It’s okay, Marjorie, you can leave us.” She waits for her to go and then turns her attention back to Zoe. “We don’t sell dogs. We’re a shelter; we take in the abandoned and ill-treated. Of course we accept donations from new owners, but they’re modest and we certainly don’t deal with breeders.”
“Well, your Mr. Chen dealt with these breeders. I’ve just come from there and they named him without any prompting—why would they do that if it wasn’t true?”
Clabbers looks shocked. “I don’t know. I have no idea. Perhaps they got his name wrong.”
“Unlikely. Chen ain’t exactly as common as Smith or Jones in this neck of the woods, or even Lopez or Hernandez, for that matter. Anyway, I’d like to speak to him—get to the bottom of things.”
The face of the center manager hardens. “Who are you? Do you have some ID I can see?”
“You got a pen and paper?”
Clabbers reaches for a pad on the desk and grabs a felt-tip from a mug filled with pens and pencils.
Zoe takes them and writes on the pad. “I’m working with this lieutenant,” she says, and passes the information over. “Call him and he’ll vouch for me. I’m following up on the deaths of Astrid and Heidi Gerber, who were killed last night in their own home by their dog, a wirehaired pointer.”
Monique studies the name and number. She picks up the phone, dials, and listens.
A voice message plays in her ear. “This is Lieutenant Walton. I’m busy and can’t take your call. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you, or if it’s an emergency call the main Miami police number—” She hangs up rather than go through another sentence of numbers and who to call. “Li Chen is not here today. He’s been on holiday and should have come back a few days ago but hasn’t.”
Zoe takes out her notebook and writes down his full name. “Could you call him, so I can ask him some questi
ons?”
Monique nods. “I don’t think he’s around, because I’ve tried both his landline and cell phone.”
Zoe notes the numbers as the manager punches them into her desk phone.
“Not there.” She hangs up. “I’ll try his cell.”
“What exactly does he do for you?” Zoe asks, again noting the number.
“A little of everything.” The manager hangs up. “No luck, I’m afraid. Li is a real help to us. He does everything from helping with collections, to vaccinations, deworming, microchipping, and even the difficult stuff.” Her face turns sour. “Unfortunately; we have to put a lot of animals to sleep. Li would even help with that. What did you say he’s done?”
“Sold wirehaired pointer pups to a breeder about a year ago, maybe more. He told the kennel guy they were going to be gassed if he didn’t find a good home for them.”
She shakes her head. “I know every animal that’s been through here.” She puts a hand on the top of her computer screen. “We have records from the very first day we opened, and I can tell you we’ve never had a single wirehaired pup in. Never.”
“That’s strange.”
“Perhaps someone’s been lying to you.”
“Perhaps. I’d still like to talk to Mr. Chen. Could you give me his home address?”
She hesitates. “No. I’m not comfortable doing that. You can call again, or leave me your number and if he’s come back I’ll ask him to speak to you.”
“That’s not good enough. The dog he sold to those breeders killed two women and had to be shot dead. How much time do you think you should give it before your saintly Mr. Chen turns up? Another day? Another death? Can your conscience really live with that?”
“I don’t really understand why you want to see him. Those ladies dying had nothing to do with Li, not even if he sold—or more likely gave a puppy or two away. What do you expect him to say to you?”
“That’s a good question. To be honest, I really don’t know. I’m just chasing down anyone who had any kind of connection with the dead women. Unless I ask a question, I’m not likely to get an answer, am I?”
Monique Clabbers capitulates. She rips off another page from her pad, writes on it and passes it to Zoe. “If you find Li, then please ask him to call me. We’re hugely understaffed and really need his help.”
99
Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea
Hao is troubled.
He’s concerned about why the experiment failed. And worried about the injury to Péng while the dog was in some bizarre death throe.
The chief scientist finds him showered and sitting on his metal bunk in just his slate gray boxers. He’s examining a small but angry looking puncture wound and a red graze where the pit bull’s teeth sank through the rubber lab boots and caught his anklebone.
“Are you okay?” Hao has known Péng most of his life and witnessed many cuts and bruises sustained in play with his own son.
The young man looks up from his surprisingly painful injury. “Yes, sir. I am fine.” He’s embarrassed to be caught making such a fuss. “It is nothing. The boot protected me. Just a little cut.”
“Let me see.”
Hao bends and inspects it. “There’s some swelling around the bone. Does it hurt when you walk?”
Péng gets to his feet and puts weight on it. “Only a little.”
“Good. Go see Dr. Chi, the unit medic, and have him look at it. When did you last have your booster shots?”
Péng tries to remember. “Five, maybe six months ago, sir. I have the papers in my locker.”
“You should be infection free, but it is still best you go. Never take chances with dogs; they’re a cocktail of poisons. And not just rabies.”
“I know, sir.” He’s keen to show off a little of his zoonotic knowledge. “Leptospirosis, Salmonellosis, Toxocariasis, Brucella canis. I don’t want any of them.”
“It’s unlikely you’ll have any. The test dogs will all have been screened prior to being fitted with the aggressor chips.” Hao leaves him to finish dressing and goes back to the main part of the bunker, where Jihai and Tāo are still cleaning up.
Poisons. Test Dogs. Screened.
The words jigsaw together in his mind. Things that previously made no sense now fall into place.
He’d missed something.
In all of his experimental revisions he’d overlooked one obvious factor.
“Jihai. I want all three dogs immediately for postmortem. Tāo, come with me. I want you to get an unchipped dog from the bunker pound and inject it with a chip I give you.”
The two men set about their work, and Hao heads back to his lab.
If his hunch is right, then he finally knows what’s wrong.
But it may not all be good news.
Especially for Péng.
100
Miami
Ghost is struggling. Resources were scarce to start with, now they are spread way too thinly. He sits in his car and calls Cummings. “We need extra support, sir, and we need it fast.”
“No can do, Lieutenant. I’ve got a bank raid going off downtown and a hostage situation breaking from a bungled drug bust in the east of the county. You need to do what you’ve got to do with what you’ve got. There ain’t no more coming.”
Ghost resists the temptation to correct his boss’s bad English. “That’s just not possible, sir. We need at least one more tactical unit, maybe two. Perhaps the Sheriff ’s Office—”
“Don’t even think of finishing that sentence. We manage our own affairs. You’re a Miami cop, act like one.”
“Sit—”
“And what the hell were you doing missing a conference call with representatives of the President of the United States? I’ve just had my ass chewed by the chief—”
“With all respect, sir, I’m too busy saving lives to talk to anyone, even if it is the damned President.”
“Oh, are you, Mr. Superfreakinghero?” The captain’s rage boils down the line. “Tell me, Lieutenant, were you born with no brains or did years of self-induced stupid practices simply make them disappear.”
“Sir—”
“Don’t sir me. I told you before, I don’t give a flying fuck about these dogs.”
“I need a copter, extra men, and more weapons on the ground.”
“Jeez, you never give up do you?”
“I try not to. We’re getting fresh incidents every couple of hours—”
“Then get off the phone. I’ll see what I can do. You try my patience, Ghost, you really do. And when you’ve wrapped up out there, get your ass into my office so I can show you how mad I really am at you missing that presidential call.”
101
Charles Hadley Park, Miami
The address Zoe has been given for Li Chen is less than three miles from the animal shelter where he works.
She pulls the Nissan to a halt in a secluded back street beneath the cover of overhanging pines. After a final check of the number, she walks up to a neat detached house in the corner, with a short driveway and a patch of lawn that’s not been cut for a week or two.
Zoe rings the bell and listens for movements inside. The fact that there’s no car on the driveway has already given her the feeling that no one is at home. She rings again. This time she leaves her finger on the buzzer so it would drive anyone inside crazy and have them running to the door within seconds.
Nothing.
She turns and looks at the street. There are a lot of cars in driveways; someone is bound to have seen her. She goes next door and rings the bell.
A white-haired old lady with big black glasses cracks the door open with a chain still on. “Yes!” she shouts. “What do you want?” She touches her ear to adjust her hearing aid.
“I’m looking for Li Chen.”
“Don’t
shout. Goodness.” She adjusts the aid again.
“I’ve rung his bell,” continues Zoe, “but there’s no answer.”
“They’ve gone away. Been away more than a week now.”
“They?”
“He and his wife. They’ve gone on vacation.”
“Any idea when they’ll return?”
“Eh?” She touches her ear again. “Damned batteries.”
“When will the Chens be back?”
“What did you say?”
Zoe shakes her head. “Never mind. Thank you.” She smiles and walks away. Goes straight back to the Chens’ house, down the side and around the back. The drapes are closed even though the yard is shaded. That strikes her as odd, maybe the act of someone wanting to hide something.
A misspent youth with her brother Danny and years of martial arts suddenly becomes useful. Nothing subtle. No picking locks. No jimmying window frames, just a well-placed dropkick near the door handle. At first the wood holds. Enough to tell Zoe it’s bolted top and bottom as well as locked in the middle. The second and third kicks are more forceful. The locks still hold but the wood doesn’t and the door bangs open with the timbers in splinters.
As she steps over the mess, she knows she’s crossing a line. Breaking and entering is probably a step too far for even Ghost to be able to smooth over. But this isn’t about him or pursuing a line of inquiry that he’s plainly too busy to pursue. It’s about Astrid, Heidi, and what caused a pet so obedient it won countless awards to turn on them. She’s sure the answer lies somewhere down the link from the dog to the breeders to the shelter to Chen.
Zoe shuts what’s left of the door and slides a wooden kitchen table back against it. If someone comes, she wants at least a warning. The kitchen is bare. She flips open the cupboards.
Cans. Packets. Jars. Sauces.
Nothing untoward but she takes pictures anyway.
She pulls open drawers.
Dish cloths. Cutlery. Fast food menus. Leaflets of local attractions. Again pretty uninteresting, but she still snaps them before heading upstairs.
At the top she sees four doors. A quick look reveals a small bathroom and what she assumes are three bedrooms. The first one she tries is completely empty. No bed, desk, carpets, or drapes. The second has a single bed in it. The cover is back. It’s unmade. The mattress is memory foam like hers at Jude’s. She can just make out where the occupant slept. She runs her hand over the impression. He—she assumes—was medium-sized. No taller than her. The pillow has a dent in it. She lifts it to eye level. Sees several short black head hairs. Where the pillow was, there’s another indent in the mattress. Shallower than the body shape. Barely there. Her fingers trace it. It’s less than a foot long. Thin at one end, fatter at the other.