The complaint had come in around 9:00 p.m., with reports of gunfire heard in the area around Mr. Morris’s residence. When the deputies arrived to question Mr. Morris, he admitted to having fired a shot into the woods behind his trailer because, as he said, “I seen something out there, and my dog’s gone missing.” That coupled with the location of his trailer, which was just over the mountains from Hungry Horse Reservoir as well as within a few miles of Jeffrey Wayne Tucker’s cabin, was enough to warrant further investigation. Marasco, of course, had thought differently, telling them in no uncertain terms that he thought they were wasting their time.
Just past the sweeping curve where Highway 83 headed south toward Swan Lake, the sheriff turned left onto an unmarked, gravel road. The tall, thin evergreens and the white-barked trunks of the aspens were plastered with numerous neon yellow and orange signs stating, “No trespassing” and “No hunting.” The addresses for the residences along the way consisted of wooden planks with reflective numbers nailed to trees or fence posts next to each drive. They had nearly reached the end of the road when they came to the lot for Mr. Morris.
The mobile home was in disrepair, the once-white siding riddled with dents and brown streaks of rust. A cord of firewood stacked against the left side of the place was covered with blue plastic sheeting to keep it dry, and it was held in place with an assortment of boards and rocks. A rusty, metal-pipe carousel used to dry clothes creaked as it slowly turned in the breeze.
A man about five foot nine and weighing at least 320 pounds opened the door. His dirty, stained undershirt was worn thin, and his thick, wiry black hair and beard looked as if it hadn’t been trimmed in years.
“John Morris,” the sheriff said in the deep, commanding voice of his.
“Yeah,” Morris replied. “What’d I do now?”
“In the report filed by my deputies, you claimed there was someone or something in the woods behind your place last night. We’d like to take a look around back to see if we can find any evidence of trespassing.”
“Yeah, sure. Help yourself.”
“Have you found your dog yet?” Lewis asked.
Morris looked at Lewis and appeared to frown, although it was hard to tell with the overgrown beard. “Nah, I still ain’t seen him.”
“Thanks,” Lewis said. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
They proceeded around back and began a careful examination of the area behind Morris’s trailer. They found no noticeable footprints either on the soft, damp ground or the patches of crusty snow lying in the shadows. Foot by foot, they worked their way deeper into the woods, scouring every inch of the needle-strewn carpet of wet, decaying leaves and rotting bark.
The sheriff called to them and knelt down, pointing. When he reached the sheriff’s side, Kyle was able to see the dark, blood-spattered leaves.
“Do you think he might have hit someone?” Lewis asked.
The sheriff moved forward and picked up a small clump of dark fur. The fur was matted with blood.
“Probably his own dog,” said the sheriff. The disappointment in the tone of his voice was obvious. Once again, a potential lead appeared to be gone.
Kyle sighed. “So do we keep looking?” he asked, looking farther into the woods.
The sheriff didn’t reply. He just continued to crouch there, his eyes narrowing as he looked at a tree five yards in front of him. Kyle followed his gaze. The rough bole of a tall pine stood before them, but the real item of interest was the freshly cut, eight-inch-long gash in its trunk about three feet above the ground.
As one, they moved forward, carefully scanning the ground in front of the tree. There were no footprints, but there was an abundance of dog prints. And more blood.
“I’ll call forensics,” said the sheriff.
Kyle couldn’t explain why, but like the sheriff, he felt certain that the cut in the trunk of this tree had been made by the same weapon that had severed the body parts of the previous victims. Perhaps it was just a hunch like all good agents claimed to have from time to time, but perhaps this time, it was more than that, similar to the way Sheriff Greyhawk seemed to sense things. It was as if he knew they were getting close, that somewhere there was an answer to all of the murders and the key to it all was right in front of them.
CHAPTER 61
The Hummer hit a deep rut, sending snow and frozen mud flying. The front end lurched to the left toward a drift of hard-packed snow and ice. Carrie yanked the wheel back to the right. The left front tire clipped the bottom of the mound. The truck bounced in front. It lurched again as the rear tire struck the drift, and then, miraculously, it straightened back out and continued to barrel down the road as if nothing had happened.
Carrie glanced at the Styrofoam cooler in the floorboard of the passenger seat. In spite of the rags and old Tshirts packed around them, the glass jars within clinked against each other as she made her way down the rough stretches of road.
She knew she was probably wasting her time, but after her setback that morning, she hadn’t known what else to do. A growing sense of dread had begun to bloom in her chest, threatening to overwhelm her if she didn’t keep moving. So she had gotten the water samples herself. She had filled one of the jars in front of the cabin before she had driven to the far end of the reservoir, where she had filled the other jar in the freezing river just upstream of where it fed into the lake. Allan would know of somewhere she could send them for analysis.
She had made it almost all the way back to Hungry Horse Dam when her cell phone, which was still lying in the passenger seat, beeped, indicating it was back within the service area. She had been out of range since crossing the dam earlier that morning. She slowed down to pick up the phone and looked at the display to see if she had any messages. But the message waiting display didn’t work when she was roaming. She hit the button with the icon of an envelope to retrieve her messages. The digitized voice informed her that she had one message. She frowned when she heard it had come in at 7:13 a.m. Somehow, she had missed it.
“Carrie!” came Charlie’s unmistakable, high-pitched voice. He always sounded that way when he got excited, just like a little kid. “I’ve found it!” he practically squealed with delight. “I know you told me not to do it, but I couldn’t help it. And it was worth it, ’cause I found it and you’re not going to believe it. Call me as soon as you get this. I have to talk to you ASAP. Call me!”
“Charlie,” Carrie growled at the phone. She hated it when he left her messages like that. She had told him time and time again to just leave the info on her voice mail, but he never did, preferring instead to build the suspense before giving her the information himself.
She punched in the two-digit speed-dial number for the office in Denver. When Sandy answered, she told Carrie that Charlie hadn’t come in all day.
“He told us he was doing research for you,” Sandy said. “Did you try his cell phone?”
“Not yet, but I will. Thanks.” Carrie hung up and called Charlie’s cell. After five rings, his voice mail picked up. The greeting was a digitized sample of the Three Stooges singing, “Hello … hello … hello,” followed by Charlie imitating Curly Neale saying, “Nyello, leave a message.”
“Charlie, it’s Carrie. I’ve been out of range all day, and I just now got your message. Call me back as soon as you get this. And if you get my voice mail again, just tell me what the hell you found. This is important. I don’t have time to fool around.” In frustration, she tossed the phone back onto the seat. Carrie knew Charlie well enough to know that he had probably been up all night again, for the second night in a row. He had probably hit the wall and crashed out about midafternoon. It was now a little after 5:30, which meant he probably wouldn’t come to again until around midnight.
Then she remembered her laptop at the motel room. Hopefully, Charlie had thought to send her an e-mail before he had hit the sack. Heedless of the rugged road, she stepped on the gas.
CHAPTER 62
The driv
e along Highway 2 heading into Kalispell was a scenic one. The afternoon sun spilled through the snow-dappled evergreens along the side of the road, the frozen flakes sparkling in a dazzling kaleidoscope of light and color. The natural splendor, however, was lost on Nathaniel Brockemeyer, whose sole focus was on the twin ribbons of gray slush in front of him. He made sure to stay under the speed limit, carefully watching the road signs for directions. Every car that passed him on either side on the road was watched warily until it was safely out of range. He couldn’t afford to get a speeding ticket or be involved in an accident. Even though the Xterra he drove was a rental and he was traveling under an alias, any documentation of or, more importantly, any witnesses to his visit were to be avoided at all costs.
On the outskirts of town, Nathan pulled to at a stop at the light. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pink FedEx receipt. The address read:
Carrie Daniels
c/o Mountain View Motel
640 E. Idaho
Kalispell, MT 59901
There was no unit number on the receipt. Apparently, whatever had been delivered had been sent to the main office for her to pick up.
He only had a disposable phone without any GPS, so using the paper map that came with the rental, Nathan made his way through town until he came to the motel. Across the street on one side was a McDonald’s, which wouldn’t work, because it had too much traffic for his purposes. On the other corner, however, was an old drive-in burger joint that had gone out of business and had been turned into an unofficial used car lot for the local residents. Two cars were parked there, handmade signs and shoe polish on the windshields that announced, “For sale,” along with the phone numbers. He pulled into the lot next to the two cars and carefully positioned the Xterra so that he could keep watch on the motel across the street without being suspicious.
Nathan shut off the truck, and without taking his eyes off the motel, he pulled off the glove on his right hand. He reached inside his jacket pocket and removed the photograph of Carrie Daniels. He had studied it intently on the plane from Denver to Kalispell, looking at it for long moments until her face was forever imprinted in his memory. He should have destroyed it before now, but something had prevented him.
The photo was a typical headshot printed from the Denver Inquirer’s website, but something about her smile and the look in her eyes struck Nathan. She was beautiful, and he wanted her. On his last assignment, he had been forced to keep his desires under control, but this time, the situation was set up perfectly for him—the girl, alone in her motel room. He thought of the possibilities, the images playing through his head until he shuddered with desire. He could hardly wait for the opportunity to explore each and every nuance of his hunger.
Fortunately, that time would come sooner rather than later. And he would take his time with her. He would be much more deliberate than he had been in the past, allowing himself to savor each and every exquisite moment until her very last breath. He stroked her photograph with his thumb, becoming hard in anticipation of how he would use her.
He placed the photo on the dash where he could see both it and the motel, and then reached into his jacket pocket again, this time removing a Plen-T-Pak of cinnamon-flavored gum. After he unwrapped a stick, he thrust it in his mouth, savoring the hot, sweet flavor as he settled in to wait.
CHAPTER 63
It was late afternoon by the time Carrie made it back to the motel. The Hummer was so big it practically took up two parking places, but it was the off-season, so the lot was virtually empty. After she parked, she went around to the passenger side and took the cooler out of the floorboard before she hurried into her room.
Inside, she sat the cooler on the dresser next to the TV. She sat at the small table beneath the window, pulled open her laptop and turned it on. Next to it was a portable printer—which Charlie had been thoughtful enough to send along with the laptop—a sheaf of blank paper, and the pile of her collected notes. She drummed her nails on the table as she waited for the machine to boot up. Surely, Charlie had thought to e-mail her the information.
Once the desktop came up, she double-clicked on the icon for Internet access. Her heart was pounding as she pulled up her e-mail. There were two messages from Charlie.
She retrieved the first one. As he often did when he was talking to her, Charlie went on to explain in minute detail—none of which Carrie understood—how he had managed to hack into GenTech’s system. She skimmed on down through the text:
Carrie,
You aren’t going to believe this. But I think I found it. GenTech has an old Unix server tied onto their intranet.
There was so much data it took a while for me to figure out what I was looking at. But now, I’m certain that these guys have been experimenting with genetic manipulation to create some sort of new species. But not like Dolly, the sheep, or anything like that—more like a monster of some sort. And a mean-looking mother at that! There are digitized sketches of this thing with wings and claws and big-ass teeth. And there are hundreds of photos of these gross-looking things—you can hardly tell what they are—with a bunch of scientific gibberish superimposed over them. It looks like something straight out of Alien or The X-Files. I’ve attached some of the files, but there’s just too much of it to send via e-mail. I’ll copy it to a flash drive and FedEx it to you.
You may think I’m crazy, but I know this is it. There was just too much security around that thing for it not to be it. Let me know if you need anything else.
Can you say “Pulitzer?”
Charlie
For long moments, Carrie just sat there staring at the screen. Could that be it? It seemed so ridiculous. The idea that it might have been some chemical or biological agent that caused hallucinations and murderous rampages in people had seemed somewhat plausible, if far-fetched. But this just seemed too unbelievable. Charlie was right. It was like something out of The X-Files.
She had heard of recombinant DNA applications in plants and animals used to create hardier strains of corn that were resistant to pests, and there were those cows that produced more milk than normal. She had even heard stories of human ears being grown on the backs of mice and predictions that within a few years, kidneys and livers might be grown in pigs to be harvested for organ transplants. She knew genetic engineering was making things possible that had been thought to be inconceivable just a few years ago, but how was it possible to create a completely new species like Charlie was talking about? And even if it was possible, why intentionally create a monster? All of the developments she had heard of had positive applications. But where was the market for this? The idea that a company would spend millions, perhaps even billions on research to create a monster fit for nothing more than the lead role in a horror film seemed preposterous.
But then she opened the attached file.
And she believed.
The photographs were unlike anything she had ever seen. There were gruesome, hideous, malformed things on stainless steel examination tables, some still whole, others split open and dissected like frogs in a high-school biology class, its insides held open with clamps and pins. Overlaid on many of them was white text and arrows pointing to specific areas with explanations of the results of “X” gene on the growth of the subject or “Y” gene on the cranial development. There were dozens on them, each one more graphic and disturbing in its own way. Carrie’s stomach turned at the sight of them. If she had eaten recently, it might have wound up on the screen of her laptop.
Finally, she had to stop looking. She had to get this information to Kyle as soon as possible. But she didn’t know his e-mail address, and she knew if she tried to explain it to him, she would sound like some loony conspiracy theorist. She printed out Charlie’s e-mail and then began printing out the first of the digital pictures. With only the portable printer, the print quality of the photos was poor and grainy, but she hoped it was good enough to back up her story and get the FBI moving without having to wait for the flash drive to a
rrive.
Printing out the photos was incredibly slow. The third one was only halfway done when she got tired of waiting and opened the other e-mail from Charlie. The text simply said, “More information.” Another file was attached. She clicked on it to open it.
The progress bar appeared, and the hard drive hummed as the file was downloaded. Once complete, the progress window disappeared. The LED indicators at the top of the keyboard blinked in a dizzying display, and the hard drive growled as a new program started.
The printer froze and began beeping incessantly. She tried to click on the printer icon to see what the problem was, but the screen of her laptop had frozen up as well.
The hard drive continued grinding away.
She hit CTRL-ALT-DEL to bring up the task manager, but nothing happened. She tried it again. Still nothing.
Shit. The damn thing was locked up. The data file she was trying to open must have been too big and crashed the system. Frustrated, she hit the reset button. Nothing. Except the lights continued to blink crazily and the hard drive kept on grinding. She hit the button again and again, but nothing changed. She didn’t know what else to do to get the damn thing to stop, so she unplugged it and pulled out the battery. The system died instantly. All the LEDs went out, and the screen went blank. The hard drive stopped. The cooling fan wound down with a fading whirr.
She snapped the battery back into place, plugged in the AC adapter, and then hit the power button. The LEDs blinked, and the system beeped at her as the fan started up again. The screen blinked and then went blank except for a line of text across the top that read, “No bootable media present. Insert boot disk to begin.”
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