by G. M. Ford
RED TIDE
G.M. FORD
To Kathy Ann and those little white shoes.
Now and Forever.
—GMF
Contents
1 The native son is missing.” “Missing how?” “Packed his gear…
2 The last moments of Carson Moody’s life were silent. Surely…
3 When the hand grasped her elbow, she twitched at the…
4 “Give it a rest, huh?” Corso stood in the street…
5 Her new boyfriend plays the saxophone in one of those…
6 At first, he’d attributed the sound to echoes. Told himself the noise…
7 Assistant Fire Chief Ben Gardener sat down in front…
8 Meg Dougherty spoke directly into the driver’s ear. “Don’t lose…
9 Corso rested his cheek on one of the rear tires…
10 It was with great trepidation that SPD Chief Harry Dobson…
11 Dougherty chewed at her lower lip as she trudged up…
12 A bead of sweat slipped out of Corso’s hairline, slalomed down…
13 Dr. Hans Belder buried his nose in the TV monitor…
14 Fingers pulled the strings around Corso’s face tight, leaving only…
15 Stevie had the radio on. KING 980. Action News. “Jim Sexton…
16 “You see? Right here.” Colonel Hines pointed at the close-up…
17 Corso wadded the haz-mat suit into a ball and jammed…
18 A hundred feet up, the maze of skeletal oak branches churned…
19 “It’s inert,” the man said. His name was Preston Novac…
20 Detective Sergeant Charly Hart was not, by nature, a happy…
21 Shauna Collins caught sight of them the minute she turned…
22 Pitch black. Corso hurried now. Running quietly on the balls…
23 They had always known each other. That’s how it was…
24 The first thing he noticed was the red emergency light…
25 “I want to call my attorney.” “You’re starting to get repetitive…
26 He’d told her to hold all his calls, so the…
27 He gave them ten minutes to swap stories. Gutierrez and…
28 They were lined up like so many schoolboys. Standing at…
29 Along the western horizon, a dark line of clouds rolled…
30 Governor James Doss unfurrowed his brow just long enough…
31 Patricia Mitchell pointed to a spot on her front porch. “The boy…
32 “Guy never even blinked,” Corso said. “Who’s that?” Gutierrez asked…
33 The mayor was livid. “How could you hang me out…
34 The car took one final tumble and then lurched to…
35 Hans Belder flipped the plastic evidence bag containing the coaster…
36 Corso and Charly Hart came up the hall together. Other…
37 The black-visored quartet bent low as they made their…
38 When a soft tap sounded on the hotel room door…
39 Samuel made a noise like a bird. “Me too,” Paul…
40 Overhead, the banks of mercury vapor lights rained an eerie glow…
41 Charly Hart slammed the phone on the bed. “Son of…
42 Wesley shifted his weight from foot to foot. Nathan gave him…
43 “Fifteen minutes,” the foreman bawled. “Right back here in fifteen…
44 Harris pulled the spraying wand from the clips on the…
45 Corso pushed the accelerator to the floor. The SPD cruiser…
46 Charly Hart pushed the walkie-talkie button. “Chief?” he said…
47 Eight hundred fifty-seven feet at the waterline,” the captain said…
48 At first, Bobby Darling, like all the others, wondered why…
49 Having climbed over the rail without being noticed, Bobby Darling…
50 “On three…you ready?” Jim watched the officers jockey…
51 “STAND CLEAR,” the voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “STAND CLEAR…
52 On the morning of the third day, a couple of moonsuited…
53 Dr. Helen Stafford adjusted the microphone. “I think it would…
54 No dreams at all. No feeling. No moving. Just a sense…
55 First out were the dead. Or what was left of them…
56 “He’s expecting me.” The pair of marine MPs manning the front…
57 Corso opened the damp envelope. Dear Frank, If you’re reading…
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by G. M. Ford
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
“The native son is missing.”
“Missing how?”
“Packed his gear and drove off in the van.”
For thirty seconds the only sound on the line was static.
“He was always the weak link.”
“A weak link with a personal ax to grind.”
“They all have an ax to grind. That’s why they were chosen.”
“We were hoping his local knowledge would be of use.”
“It was. The house is perfect.”
“He was always a loose cannon.”
“We knew that going in.”
“Yes, we did.”
“Should we abort?”
He thought about it. “No way he goes to the authorities.”
“The authorities are not what he has in mind.”
Something in the tone served as an alert. “Is there a problem?”
“He took the rest of the accelerated material.”
A longer silence ensued.
“Could have been worse, I suppose.”
“Yeah, he could have taken the other.”
“And we’d be booking flights to the Falklands.”
A dry cough scratched the silence.
“Can you find him?”
“I put a transponder under the front seat.”
“A judicious move.”
“I’m an untrusting man.”
“Find him then…and see to it he’s not going to be a problem.”
“The others say he was getting crazy. Wanted to start things going right now. Didn’t want to wait anymore.”
“Find him before he does something stupid.”
2
The last moments of Carson Moody’s life were silent. Surely, other conversations must have swirled about him in those final minutes. It was, after all, rush hour and the bus was full, but, as he so often did in public, Carson Moody had tuned it all out. His full lips moved as he listened to his inner voice run down the dessert column of the Alexis Hotel’s room service menu. He’d already settled on the Veal Picatta entree and was debating the wisdom of finishing with a nice crème brûlée when the gruff voice came rattling out of the overhead speaker. “Pioneer Square Station,” the bus driver rasped.
Pulled from his gastronomic ruminations, Moody reached between his legs, slipped his fingers over the handle of his briefcase and lifted it into his lap. As the bus silently slid past the white tile walls, he turned his eyes toward the window. His distracted gaze ran over the string of bodies standing in knots along the bus tunnel’s northbound concourse. He was still staring at this random assemblage of humanity when, as often happened in his pensive moments, he heard his mother’s voice reciting one of the hundreds of homilies by which he primarily remembered her. “If you’re going to Rome, you might as well see the Pope,” he heard her say and smiled. It was settled then. Definitely the crème brûlée. He stifled an inner chuckle. Couldn’t tell Wendy about it though. Oh, no. Since last May, when he’d been diagnosed with diabetes, she’d become the food police. Ever vigilant. No excuses. No…the crème brûlée was most certainly destined to remain his little secret.
Carson Moody got t
o his feet as the bus approached the center of the station. He used his free hand to smooth his overcoat. Satisfied with his appearance, he straightened his shoulders and turned his attention to the automatic doors directly across the aisle from his seat. Staring through the door’s plastic ovals, his eyes were drawn to an elderly couple in bright black and yellow ski parkas. He watched as they hurried across the floor, toward the open mouth of the elevator. The old man raised a hand and mouthed a plea at the thirty-something guy standing inside.
Moody watched as the younger man reached out and pushed a button. Quite naturally, he assumed the young fellow was holding the doors open for the couple, a misconception which perhaps explained why he went slack-jawed when the sliding doors snapped shut and the green light began to rise.
As the bus slid along, Moody was forced to turn his head and watch the unfolding scene through the bus’s dirty back window. Watch the old folks shuffle to a stop. Watch the woman bring her hands to her hips and say something to the man. And then watch the old guy shake his tousled head in disgusted disbelief.
He was still watching the pair when he caught sight of a puff of smoke. Not smoke exactly. Something thicker. More substantial. In the artificial light, it looked for a moment like his boyhood in Iowa, when the afternoon breeze rustled the late summer dandelions and filled the air with squadrons of tiny white parachutes.
Although Moody didn’t personally hear a noise, it was plain to him that whatever had launched the smoke must have made a sound of some sort. Everyone on the platform stiffened for an instant and then turned toward the spiraling cloud of white. Hands rose to throats. People pointed. Forty yards down the platform, the old man seemed to wobble on his feet. “Some damn fool with a firecracker,” Carson Moody thought to himself.
The bus hissed to a stop. Moody collected his thoughts, picked his way carefully down the trio of stairs and stepped out onto the platform. To his right, the crowd milled around, staring upward at the rapidly dissipating cloud. The elderly couple were screened from his view by an uneasy wall of humanity. Carson Moody surveyed the scene for a full minute before striding off in the opposite direction, toward the long escalator at the south end of the station and the mezzanine above.
He hadn’t walked more than thirty feet before he suddenly felt a dry patch at the back of his throat. Almost as if someone had affixed a postage stamp to his tonsils. He hawked twice and tried to swallow. When his efforts failed…when, in fact, his entire throat suddenly felt constricted and inflamed, he began to conjure more dire possibilities. Wondering first if he weren’t perhaps coming down with a cold, or worse yet…the flu…or…even…God forbid…he wondered if perhaps he hadn’t contracted this most recent strain of flu, which, if the media were to be believed, presently ravaged the country.
He gathered himself and managed another half a dozen steps toward the escalator before stopping again. The roots of his teeth had begun to throb, as if they had suddenly become loose and were about to fall from his gums. He brought a hand to his lips. Or at least that was the plan. Instead of reaching its intended destination, his hand bounced off his forehead and then flopped back to his side, like a fish dying on a riverbank.
His muscles felt rubbery and barely under control. Certain that his distress must be obvious to his fellow travelers, he turned back toward the station, only to find that no one was looking his way. That, in fact, everyone in view seemed to be suffering something quite similar to his present malady. He blinked his eyes several times, and then shook his head, but the scene remained the same.
Several people had fallen down and now writhed about on the white marble floor, legs scissoring, arms flapping as muscle contractions propelled them in smooth stone circles. Closest to him, a Hispanic woman, her face fire engine red, had dropped to one knee as she tended to her spasming daughter. Half a football field away, the black and yellow ski parkas lay silent and still. Closer, the driver of his bus sat…head thrown back…mouth agape…staring at the ceiling of his bus. A river of blood poured from the man’s mouth, down over his chin and onto his crisp blue shirt.
Carson Moody coughed heavily. He felt something thick and warm in his mouth…thought to reach for it and then changed his mind, instead turning and lurching toward the escalator, staggering toward the silver salvation and the light at the top of the stairs.
As he moved forward, he felt as if liquid were shifting in his innards, almost as if he had a bucket of water in his chest, slopping back and forth as he made his unsteady way, shuffling his feet in the last yards before grabbing the moving handrail, allowing the black plastic to jerk him forward onto the escalator, where he wobbled but kept his feet as the soundless machinery carried him upward, above the level of the platform, where his backward glance caught no movement at all, only stillness, dotted here and there with uneven patches of red. He turned away. Looked upward.
He was trying to feel the light on his face and wondering about the red patches when the shifting ocean in his chest dragged him to his knees. His trembling fingers lost their grip on the briefcase, which tumbled end-over-end down the moving stairs toward the mother and child, still and silent in the quavering red spotlight.
He forced his gaze upward again. Out over the expanse of the bus tunnel. Nothing moved but his eyes, which, for unknown reasons, proved incapable of coming to rest on any single scene, but instead rolled relentlessly from body to body, rolled along the walls and over the ceiling to the pair of buses standing idle on the tracks, rolling from one abhorrent picture to another as if, by constant movement, his brain could avoid processing the details of the carnage.
His arm gave way. He felt the ribbed metal of the stair against his cheek, felt the machinery in its guts as it carried him upward toward the bright light at the top of the stairs. He willed himself to reach out for the glow, but was unable to summon the strength. He felt a need to say something but his mouth was full of soup.
He lay with his body wedged across the electric treads at such an ungainly angle that the escalator was unable to push him off onto the floor when he reached the top. Instead, he found himself paralyzed, his unmoving form undulating above the steel steps as they sank in upon themselves and disappeared beneath his body, leaving only a series of bright clicks to drum his passing, as each succeeding stair clipped the underside of his jaw and clicked his teeth together…over and over…click after click after click…like the rhythmic rolling of bones. He closed his eyes, took a final shuddering breath and, with a sound not unlike a child’s rattle, died there on the moving metal stairway.
3
When the hand grasped her elbow, she twitched at the touch, caught her breath and aimed an icy stare down at her arm. She’d seen him many times before but could never recall his name. Always at some artsy-fartsy social function or other. Invariably, he came over to chat, like they were long-lost friends or something. Worse yet, he not only recalled her name but also remembered whatever it was they’d talked about the last time, almost like the previous season’s inanities were part of an ongoing dialogue to which they alone were privy. A wave of musky fragrance arrived a moment later, as if his cologne had followed him across the room like a stray cat. He gave her elbow a second little squeeze and treated her to a baby grand worth of teeth. “It’s fabu, darling. Absolutely fabu.” He slid the hand up to her shoulder and began to gently knead her flesh.
“I told you so,” he said knowingly. “Remember…I told you so.”
She didn’t remember and had no idea what he was talking about.
He was late-forty-something and quite obviously had spent more time primping for the evening’s events than she had. Perfect gray suit and hair. Custom-made shirt. Cufflinks no less. Probably had his tootsies pedicured inside the tasseled Bally loafers. Very slick. Very money. Very annoying.
Meg Dougherty mustered a tight smile. “Thanks,” she said. For the umpteenth time in the past hour, a sigh escaped from her chest. She caught herself. Made a rueful face. “I guess I’m a little nervous,” s
he offered.
He reproached her with a scoff. “Don’t be silly. You’re the star, my dear.” He wagged a reminding finger. “As I predicted,” he intoned. Having made his point, he used the finger to point along the length of the nearest wall. “Look at all the red dots. Looks like the show’s got measles or something.” He flashed another toothy grimace and laughed at his own little joke.
He was referring to the little red stickers used by the Cecil Taylor Gallery to denote items which had been sold. Whats his name was right. Fully two-thirds of her photographs were sporting little red dots in the lower right-hand corners. For some reason, the sight failed to cheer her.
She threw a glance over the man’s shoulder. To the far side of the room where Corso stood alone…looking her way. He could sense her discomfort, and found it amusing…caught in the act, he swallowed a smile and looked down into his wineglass.
She heard her name being called. “Meg. Meg,” the insistent voice repeated. She peered out over the sea of heads. There was no mistaking Cecil Taylor, resplendent in a gold brocade caftan, winding his way through the crowd with a flourish denied all but the most unrepentant drag queens. As he moved, his pear-shaped body seemed to take on a life of its own, rippling and rolling this way and that beneath the flowing folds of fabric, coming fully to rest a second or two after his feet slid to a stop at her side. He smelled of cognac and baby powder.