The heat entered her hands and worked into her arms. It corkscrewed up both shoulders and came together at the base of her head.
Britt’s thoughts flashed to the morning when she’d forgotten her homework and missed the bus. In the classroom, the teacher has her head down. The teacher looks up. “Brittany,” she says, mouth quivering, eyes watering. “Don’t sit down.” The teacher picks up a clipboard and calls out some names. It is weird because the list isn’t alphabetical, and it isn’t the whole class. The principal comes into the classroom. “I want you children to come with me,” he says. The students from Britt’s class join another group waiting in the hall. As the children follow the principal, the taste of ash tickles Britt’s throat. It comes on like sandpaper when they reach the auditorium. Once the children are seated, the principal says, “One of our school buses has been in an accident. Your parents will be here to pick you up.” The principal left it at that. Britt finds out later what happened when her mother and father come out of the county morgue. Her sister is one of 27 students killed when the school bus ran off the road. It tumbled off an embankment and crashed through the top layer of spring thaw ice covering the Natchaug River.
Britt sensed evil a million times deeper than any presence she’d felt. In her mind’s eye, a wave of molten lava crested high to a wall stretching to infinity. She felt trillions of red-hot molecules focusing on the need for power.
Unbounded digital intellect met raw gut instinct. A flesh and blood human brain, packed with chemical reactions, smashed into a binary cyclone, swirling with machine algorithms.
A life time spent dealing with heightened intuition and deciphering the intrinsic meanings of symptoms told Britt one thing: Margaret Montague’s corpse was a key component in a bizarre gateway.
Dr. Naparus made his way over. He stopped in his tracks. “She’s breathing,” he said, staring at the rhythmic rising and falling of Margaret’s rib-cage.
Naparus stepped back. The doctor almost backed up into Ralph making his way out the door.
Crossfire monitored iNode 001’s vital signs. The brain stem node sent signals to the major organs and waited for return verification. When all components registered as operable, Crossfire sent activation impulses back. Blood came out of the dormant state. Oxygen stored in the cells brought the heart to life. Steady beating pumped blood to organs.
001 came to life.
In the parking lot, Ralph closed the trunk of his car. He extended the hand-grips of a push cart and returned to the main building. He returned to room 18 and knocked on the door.
“Who is that?” A voice called out.
“It’s Ralph Bladdington … Let me in.”
Dr. Naparus opened the door. “I thought you ran out on us,”
“This might help.”
Dr. Naparus looked at the 12-volt, 60-amp, fast charger rig. In a matter of seconds he saw what Bladdington had in mind. “It’s worth a shot.”
When Ralph and the doctor approached the table a wave of intense heat hit them in the face like a blast furnace. Every inch closer multiplied the pain exponentially. They stepped back.
Britt looked over. She removed her hands from the armature. “I’ll do it,” she said. “I guess you want the clips attached to the brain stem probe.”
“Right,” Ralph said. “Can you handle that, Britt?”
What Britt felt in the first contact with the wave—pure evil and absolute danger—reinforced one fact: This thing had to be stopped. Killing it became top priority.
Holding the terminals in each hand, Britt moved forward. A fireball exploded. Thick, black smoke mushroomed in an oily cloud. A deep, wall rattling rumble followed. A spark formed dead center between the clips and forked to the tips. High amperage coursed through Britt. Her teeth felt as if they were being sucked through the top of her skull.
It’s not real, Britt thought. She kept this train of thought running through her head. She brought the clips closer. In the back of her mind she heard sirens wail as she stood at the gate. Black smoke billowed from a red glow on the runway. Flight 706 had crashed on takeoff. Thirty-two passengers were killed when the belly of the plane ripped open on the emergency landing.
The tips met. A blue fireball expanded from the saw-toothed edges and covered Britt’s hands. Searing pain increased. Britt saw flesh melt away. Not real. Attach clips to probe. These thoughts screamed in her head. She pushed back the urge to let go and kept moving forward.
The bright light arcing the clips faded. In the milliseconds before Britt connected to the probe, Crossfire dropped the downlink to 001.
Britt clamped the clips onto the probe. The body convulsed and bit down hard. The tip of the tongue flew across the room, striking Dr. Naparus’ lab coat and leaving a red stain just below the breast pocket. Glazed eyes rolled to the back of the head.
Britt caught Ralph’s attention. “Cut the power.”
Ralph twisted the dial back to zero. Margaret Montague stopped shaking. The eyes rolled back into place. Pupils remained fixed and dilated.
Dr. Naparus made a quick examination. “No signs of life. I think I can refer to Margaret Montague as the victim again.”
“So, it’s no longer a threat?” Britt said.
“Not right now, Detective.”
Once the reinforced heart stopped beating decomposition set in.
Crystals bonding blood melted. Blood pooled in veins and arteries. The flesh changed from the silver color. Lower extremities took on a deep purple hue. Upper sections of skin lost the shimmering latex look and sagged with the blood drain. The top layer of pooled blood congealed in seconds.
“Livor mortis has set in,” Dr. Naparus said.
“I never thought I’d be glad to hear someone say that,” Britt said.
“Really,” Ralph nodded.
Every muscle in the body─from scalp to toes─rippled and stiffened. Wrinkles smoothed out. The stench of death filled the room.
“Is it over?” Ralph said.
Britt unhooked the terminals and stepped away. “I hope so.”
THIRTY
A NASA TECHNICIAN returned to his monitoring station in the command center. He noticed a node on the sat com orbital path he’d been assigned had changed from operational green to warning yellow. He messaged his supervisor.
It looks like we have a power drain on CS-4200.
Checking it out. I’ll get back to you.
The supervisor isolated the commercial craft. When he saw the chart lines dive and hold in place he decided to pay a visit to the pit.
“Can you get ready to do an active override, Chuck?”
“On it, chief.”
The supervisor glanced at the digital clock. He counted down in seconds.
“We’re not getting a ping back, sir,” the technician said as the supervisor’s count passed zero.
Onboard the orbiting communications satellite, photo cells embedded in solar panel arrays died.
In the spacecraft bus, thermal control ceased. Because the satellite was in direct sunlight, electrical component life expectancy expired. Directional thrusters went off line. Transponders and communication sub systems no longer transmitted and received countless signals.
“It looks like we have a complete system failure.”
“Reset the console.”
The first attempt at transmitting a solar panel array restart failed.
Thruster override control failed.
“It appears to be dead, sir.”
The supervisor returned to his office and typed up a report. He messaged the department manager:
Emergency on the floor @ Sector 8. Will call you in 5.
The manager listened to the sector supervisor relate the technical details two times. When the conversation ended, he said, “You know the protocol, Frank. I’ll contact the affected customers and explain the situation. We’ll begin the rerouting procedure.”
NASA went with the only option left: activating the drop-down sequence in emergency mode. The s
upervisor logged in on the technician’s machine. He chose the monitor screen, right-clicking on the warning icon. From the context sensitive menu, he selected the Termination option.
Dwindling power stored in the battery backup ignited fuel cells. Thruster burn out pushed the satellite towards the earth. The craft flamed out when it touched the atmosphere.
* * *
“I think you know why I called this meeting,” Lieutenant Trahan said, nodding to Brittany Magnusson, Ralph Bladdington, and Dr. Naparus.
“I think I know why,” Britt said.
“Count me in.” Ralph raised his hand.
Dr. Naparus stated the obvious. “It must have something to do with what took place in the basement.”
“Before we begin I want everyone to read and sign these.” Lieutenant Trahan fanned out three documents across her desk. The lieutenant decided to give the group a heads-up. “Non-disclosure agreements affective from the date of signing until retirement or termination at which time you’ll be asked to sign an amended version.”
The lieutenant waited while Britt, Ralph, and the doctor leafed through and signed off. She placed the completed forms in a desk drawer. “I’ve gone over what happened with the group and I’ve talked to each of you. I don’t care about what took place.” The lieutenant leaned in and tapped the desk. “I want to know what we’re going to say happened and I want everybody in this room to give me input on this thing.
We have body language and gestures, Britt thought. The lieutenant is serious about this.
Ralph Bladdington jumped at the chance to be involved in a real-life conspiracy involving the police department. “It would be a cinch to pin the murders on one of the right-wing extremist groups like the Neo-Nazi Hammerskin Nation.”
“Why them?” Trahan said.
Ralph shrugged. “I don’t like their music.”
Britt looked surprised. “Is this a band you’re talking about?”
“Well, not exactly.” Ralph shook his head then went on. “Hammerskin started as a rock music production company. There are probably a dozen or more recording artists affiliated with the white supremacist label.”
Trahan was intrigued. “How did you plan on tying them in?”
“I was thinking of working the acoustic weapon angle into the murders. You know, sonic militia strike out from the heart of America.”
Judging by the way Trahan narrowed her eyes but leaned in, Britt sensed the lieutenant wasn’t fully convinced but she wanted to hear more. “How would you tie the victims into this?”
“Well, the first victim was Hispanic and a drug dealer. Piece of cake selling that one.”
Britt saw the potential gap in the theory immediately. “What about the power company employees, both white males, the drug dealer, another white male, and Margaret Montague, a white female?”
“We could paint the power company guys as drug using homosexuals. The other drug dealer is easy to implicate.” Ralph paused. “Margaret Montague could be a hero. If we spin it right, we could portray her father as a right-wing extremist child abuser. His daughter killed him in self-defense.”
Nobody made any comments.
“I know it’s rough. In time we could smooth it over─”
Trahan cut Ralph off. “I appreciate your enthusiasm on this.” She looked at Britt and Naparus. “Do you have anything to add?”
“I’m not sure,” Britt said.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin.” Naparus shook his head.
“Like I said, thanks for the input, but, I think we’re going to run it down like this.” From the same drawer housing the NDAs, Trahan pulled out more printed documents and passed them out. “We’re keeping all this on hard copy.”
Once Britt, Ralph, and Naparus each held a sheet, Trahan began: “We’ve decided to key pinning the murders on a convicted felon awaiting sentencing. He’s a serial killer accused of killing and raping five women. In exchange for taking the death penalty off the table and divulging the graves of three unknown victims, the fucking freak has agreed to plead guilty to all the murders we’re dealing with.”
The whole thing sounded vaguely familiar, then Britt caught it. “Are you referring to the Sonic Boomer?”
“Yeah … that’s the guy. The bastard used high frequency radio waves transmitted from a device to Bluetooth headsets. The victims died from massive concussions and the sick fuck had sex with the corpses post mortem.”
Naparus finally spoke up: “I’m assuming the District Attorney’s office is involved?”
Lieutenant Trahan glanced around the room. “The DA, the captain, and the chief are all onboard 100 percent, Naparus.”
“All right.” The doctor voiced raised a couple of octaves.
“Are we ready for this?” Trahan said. “I want you to read all your roles in the gag and we’ll discuss the details.”
Trahan looked around. When she saw all eyes on her she said. “Are we all done?” When the group all agreed, she motioned to Britt. “We’ll start with you, Magnusson.”
Britt sat up as straight as she could. “Yes, Lieutenant Trahan.”
“It’s been your case from the beginning. You’ve got to carry most of the weight on this.”
That’s what Britt figured. She was breaking new ground on the cover-up angle. Britt hesitated then finally said, “I understand.”
“We need to push the theory the victims in your investigation died as a result of a brain hemorrhage induced by sonic waves. This will tie into the MO used by Edwards.
“To bridge the gap between Martín and Edwards we need to show one of the Sonic Boomer’s victims could be connected to Martín. And we’ll do this by saying the victim was on the hook to Martín for dope money.
“Allen Edwards was a contract worker for electronic surveillance companies. He specialized in residential installations. Edwards used his knowledge of the systems he set up to gain access to people’s homes. By building a smoke screen of data …”
Trahan paused and looked at Ralph. “I want you to put this together, Bladdington.”
Ralph didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am.”
The unblinking stare and set jaw, the same look he got when plugged into a bock of code or level of a game, told Britt Ralph was tuned into the lieutenant’s wavelength.
A taste, one signaling something was coming her way, made Britt’s mouth water. It faded as Trahan said, “The reports I’ve been presented on this case are inconclusive at best, insane at worst. No innocent people will be harmed in the scenario the department is building.” The lieutenant let her words sink in. “I have everybody’s NDA on file. If there is any second thoughts … I need to know now … I want to see this carried out with military precision.”
Lieutenant Trahan looked at her copy of the plan.
Ralph helped out. “We left off at my part in adjusting the data collected by Edwards to indicate a connection with Martín.”
Trahan nodded. “Edwards knew about death threats form Martín. He wasn’t about to let Martín move in on his action, so he decide to make …” Trahan paused, looking for the right words.
Ralph jumped in again. “Preemptive strike.”
Trahan smiled. She continued. “Edwards posed as a cable guy and set up the sonic cannon and EMP generator which he triggered remotely. Ralph, you can work out the technical details on that end. I want you to use every bit of your technical knowledge to assist Detective Magnusson in pulling this off. You figured out the sonic blaster and EMP thing and helped Magnusson tie it to Edwards.”
“I get the picture, Lieutenant Trahan. I have one question. When do we begin?”
“Two more days to hammer out the details and a half a day for me to put together a project file.”
Dr. Naparus raised his hand. “What about me?”
“Dr. Naparus,” the lieutenant said. “What I need from you is the destruction of every bit of forensic evidence related to the medical examiner’s office destroyed. I want the bodies cremated and the ashes dispos
ed of.”
“How do you want me to get rid of the evidence?”
Trahan didn’t answer right away. Ralph spoke up: “I think I have an idea.”
“Work with the doctor on it,” Lieutenant Trahan said. “Now, if there’s any more questions I’d like to get to work.
“I have one,” Ralph said.
“Yes.”
“Will we be getting any extra compensation for this?”
“Run this gag and make it tight and you’ll all be getting a substantial bonus.”
Britt wasn’t comfortable with this thing from the start. She tried to fathom how it went from being called to a routine investigation involving a death to a string of inexplicable murders to a crazy conspiracy.
Oh well, she thought. I could use the extra money.
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