Soliano frowned. “The what?”
“Human frailty, Hector. Murphy’s Law.”
“You make a point, Mr. Miller?”
“Maybe you don’t know Murphy’s Law, not being a native speaker. That’s when everything that can go wrong does go wrong, in the worst possible way.” Hap cocked his head. “Surely y’all experienced that? You make a mistake that leads to another mistake, that leads to a real big miscalculation?”
My ears rang. Coyote scream, a cry for help. It almost had gone wrong, in the worst possible way. I nodded. Yeah, I knew Murphy’s Law.
Walter looked, suddenly, older than his years. “We take your point, Hap.”
Hap turned to Scotty. “Scotty me boy? Any miscalculations on your watch?”
“Yeah, lost track of a guy’s dose rate once. He went over the limit. Anybody doses over again, on my watch, I go back to surfing and the sharks.” Scotty glared. “That answer your question, Miller?”
“Honorably.” Hap turned to Soliano. “Hector? Miscalculations?”
“On occasion. I am human.”
“Me too! That’s why I live in utter mortal dread of screwing the pooch, so to speak.” Hap patted his T-shirt. “Homer and I know you don’t wanna screw the pooch when you’re in charge of the gents.”
“Who are the gents?” Soliano asked.
“Mr. Alpha, Mr. Beta, Mr. Gamma. The gentlemen like to play real rough.” Hap smiled. “Let me get philosophical on y’all for a minute. Ionizing radiation is by nature unstable, and people are like radionuclides. Unstable. It’s like you said, Hector, we’re human. So we jess cain’t help it—we gotta eff up, now and again. And when you put your unstable people in charge of your unstable atoms...” He rolled his eyes. “Ooops.”
It struck me that Hap had not asked about any screwups on Ballinger’s watch. Then again, I guessed we were living one right now.
CHAPTER 21
Walter and I were making space in his suite to set up our lab when someone pounded on the door.
I opened it to the sound of shrieking. The girl was inches from me. My height. Weedy. Eyes wild. I took a step back. Shrieks came again, somewhere outside.
Walter came over. The girl grabbed his hand. “Hurry, Grandfather. Trouble.”
I followed them outside and down the walkway that led from our annex.
Again, the shrieking.
I broke into a run, passing them both.
There were paths leading in four different directions, and steps going up a level and down a level. I glanced down at the pool. Nobody there. A woman in a peach uniform rushed past and I stopped her but before I could ask she said “aqui aqui” and took off. I followed.
The path rounded the hip of a building and dropped down into cascading palm gardens on a grassy hillside. I stared in some wonder at the stream bubbling down to the pond, which was carpeted in water lilies. I thought I heard a frog croak.
I hurried down.
There was a good-sized crowd under the palms—in bathing suits, shorts, sundresses, housekeeping uniforms—guests and staff shoulder-to-shoulder all pressing in on something and then, as one, heaving backward in a renewed hail of shrieks. I picked out Milt Ballinger’s bald head, twisting to have a look at the bare thonged behind of a blond woman tanned to mahogany.
I tightened my robe and wormed into the crowd.
I saw bits of green between sunburnt shoulders and Hawaiian shirts, as if these people had gathered in mass heat-stroke delusion to stare at the lawn. The hot air smelled of sweat and coconut oil. I tried to work my way through the throng but a mahogany-chested blond man—the match to Milt’s thonged woman—blocked my way. He suddenly noticed me. “Kleine fledermaus,” he said, and popped me up to the front of the crowd.
I thought I was the one with heat stroke. It followed me, I thought.
No question of mirage, this time.
The bat canted in the grass, one leathery wing dug into the thatch, the other wing half-folded. The little body was raw with sores. One translucent ear was bent and cemented to the head by a yellowish crust. The creature had left a mark of its progress, a thin black trail of feces that culminated, where it now crouched, in a red-tinged seep. Suddenly the mouth opened to reveal a bloodied tooth hanging from its gums. The bat emitted a shrill cry.
The crowd cried back.
I saw, at the far end of the crowd, Walter and the girl. He had a hand on her shoulder. I wanted to go over and ask if he thought it was the same bat we’d seen on the saltpan, if it gave him a shiver like it gave me, but at that moment Scotty pushed through the crowd.
“Get back, get back, raus everybody, vaya vaya, merci people, get yourselves the heck outta the way!” Scotty ran one hand through his blond hair, spiking it, and with his other hand raised his cell phone. “Jasper, get yourself into a suit now and bring a Geiger and a collection box...” He looked around. “Some kinda gardens. Next to the pool.”
The bat opened its mouth and the dangling tooth dropped like a tiny spear into the grass. A Japanese woman began taking pictures. Scotty tried to block her view and a Japanese man complained.
Soliano brushed past me, whispering to a white-haired ranger.
Passing along the cover story, I guessed. We are, officially, an EPA team monitoring the health of the local ecosystem.
“Show’s over, folks,” the ranger shouted, flapping his hands, and the gawkers reluctantly fell back.
Scotty was on the phone again, standing sentinel between the bat and the departing crowd, sparing more than a few glances for the retreating behinds.
I moved to Soliano, whose attention was fixed on the bat. “We saw a bat last night.”
He flinched.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It is just...” He touched his forehead. “I am reminded.”
“Of what?”
“A dying dog. And the heat.”
I asked, anxious to figure out Soliano, “What happened?”
He angled toward me, although his eyes never left the bat. “I was a boy in a family of wealth. Our estate was in the mountains, for the coolness. I was driven to school by a chauffeur. A small sedan, so as not to draw attention. The windows were tinted, so that no one might see inside. My family wished to avoid trouble. Once, unfortunately, trouble found us on the drive to school. A man and a dog lay in the road, blocking our way. They had been shot. Bandits. My chauffeur was fearful. He was fearful to turn around and take me home because his job was to deliver me to school. He was fearful to bring the wounded man into the car...all the blood. He was fearful to get out and move the man out of the way...bandits, he feared. He was fearful of the dog, which showed its teeth. My chauffeur could not drive around the man and the dog. The road was narrow, ditches on each side. He was fearful to drive over the man, afraid for his own mortal soul. The consequence was that we waited in the car. It grew stifling.” Sweat bloomed, now, on Soliano’s face. “At last the man appeared to have died. My chauffeur drove onward. I felt a bump. That was all.” Soliano made his gesture, hand to brow. “I looked out the back window. The man was crushed. But the dog, remarkably, lifted its head. I saw the teeth. I knew I was going to have dreams of those teeth. The sun must have lighted the teeth but I feared it was God’s doing. I thought the dog had been resurrected to exact revenge because we did not act.”
After an excruciating half-minute in the stifling vacuum, I had to say something. “You were just a kid.”
Soliano gave a curt nod.
“The chauffeur was in charge.”
Another nod.
The bat opened its eyes. They were a solid milk of cataracts.
Soliano flicked aside his khaki shirttail, reached into his waistband holster, and brought out a small pistol. He fired and the bat somersaulted backward, leaving a new trail of blood. It did not move again.
This time, I said nothing. He’d done the right thing—people had to be protected, and the creature surely needed to be put out of its misery—but I felt I was int
ruding on Soliano’s peculiar path to action.
“Hector.” Scotty was suddenly with us. “You got a lab in Vegas can do a necropsy?” He eyed the carcass. “Looks a whole lot like ARS.”
I knew those initials but Soliano had to ask.
“Acute radiation sickness,” Scotty answered.
CHAPTER 22
Roy Jardine woke up bright and early Wednesday morning.
Well, it wasn’t bright because he was deep inside the hideout, and eight A.M. wasn’t that early. But he’d deserved a good night’s sleep.
He ate his freeze-dried Eggs Ranchero with satisfaction, as if they were real eggs.
He dressed with satisfaction. He wore his shirt with the cowboy pockets and pearl buttons, Levi jeans, and concho-strap boots. Although he could not see himself—there was no mirror in the hideout, that would be vain—he knew he looked ace. A pity nobody was here to see him in this outfit.
Today, he dressed for himself. For the occasion: Strike Day.
He assessed his mental state. Ready? Yes. Rested? Yes.
Come to terms with the events of yesterday?
Yesterday—Tuesday at three PM precisely—he’d had his brainstorm. How to stop the geologists. And it worked. They were stopped. Their dirt map was destroyed. They were left to the mercy of the desert.
He’d retreated to Hole-in-the-Wall in relief.
And there he’d turned his efforts to the mission. He worked on the plan for hours, well into the night, but when he rechecked his work he’d been disappointed. Too many details left out. Too much left to chance. He’d berated himself. Then forgiven himself. He was exhausted. He’d been without sleep for almost two days. And he was still hurting about Jersey.
That’s when he’d let his guard down.
Somehow, in his weary soul, his bitch got mixed up with the female geologist. He saw himself holding the female over his bathroom sink at home. Cradling her. She lapped desperately at the running water. She was so thirsty. He had the knife at her throat.
He’d shaken off that vision—he flung it away!—but he couldn’t shake the vision of the female in the desert.
That was real. She was out there right at that moment. Without water, so thirsty. She would die. As he brooded, he allowed himself a tiny fantasy: himself coming to the rescue, scooping her in his arms and carrying her to a green meadow. Cupping water in his hands from a bubbling brook for her to lap up.
His fantasy turned dark. She was already dead. He was glad. He was rid of her.
And then his rational self intervened. If the geologists died in the desert, Mister FBI would bring in somebody to replace them. Snap his fingers like in a snooty restaurant. Waiter! My wine has spilled. Bring me another! And Roy Jardine would not get the opportunity to study a replacement, up close. He needed to keep these geologists. He felt he knew them. He could plan ahead, predicting what they would do.
He’d decided there was no need for the geologists to die. He could not count on them to save themselves, or get found, and so he’d saved them himself. He’d texted the message. Pretended it was from backpackers, a real smart detail. Then he’d sent another message, this one to CTC, telling them what was required of them.
His work for the night at last done, he’d gotten into his sleeping bag and slept the sleep of the just.
And now, Wednesday morning, a new day. Strike Day.
Refreshed, dressed for the occasion, he turned again to the mission plan. His desk was a crate and his tools were pencil and paper. In this humble workplace, he would launch the mission. A year in the planning, it was a good plan. He need adjust only a few details to deal with the enemy.
Fresh start. He crumpled last night’s pages and flung them away.
He drew up his new timetable. The mission had two stages. He could choose the timing of Stage One. In fact, he had just chosen. Today.
But Stage Two—the consummation, the grand finale—was harder to schedule. That depended upon forces beyond his control: the trigger event. He could only estimate when that would happen. That’s why, in his email to CTC, he’d given the deadline of Friday noon. That gave him over two days. That should be enough.
He worked a good four hours adjusting the details. Travel times. Setup times. Tools needed. And then he went over everything again.
When he finished, he collected his tools and packed his pack. He added three water bottles and more freeze-dried junk because the Stage One strike would take many hours. And then, regretfully, he changed his clothes. The jeans were fine but he needed hiking boots, not high-heeled cowboy boots. He replaced the cowboy shirt with a stained green T-shirt and tucked his ponytail under the Budweiser ball cap.
Incognito, he went outside.
Cloudless sky, hot as an oven. He didn’t care. It was a good day because it was Strike Day.
He set off, hiking full of joy. He arrived at the site at one thirty-five PM, ten minutes ahead of schedule.
He waited, incognito, watching for vehicles. Watching for other hikers.
Too hot. There was nobody around.
He took the booties out of his pocket. He knew, now, how the geologists could track dirt. He probably had dirt from the hideout in his boots, and he knew what happened with dirty footwear. Every day when he came home from work at the dump, he had dump dirt on his shoes, and he’d have to stamp his shoes on the porch to clean them, and then he’d sweep up the dislodged dirt, and then he’d take off his shoes before going into the house because he could never get them clean enough and he hated, just hated, tracking in dirt. Now, of course, stamping his feet wasn’t enough. She would put her nosy nose right to his bootprints and find something. He smiled. Not this time, he told her. He pulled on his booties, covering his dirty hiking boots.
He hiked up the ridge to the gate.
He unlocked the gate. His was a duplicate key, made to fit the Park Service lock. He went inside, shutting the gate behind him, reminding himself to leave it unlocked when he left. He moved deeper inside and then unslung his pack and got out the flashlight.
Dark in here. Of course he knew his way. He’d been here before, two weeks ago, setting up Stage One of the mission. At that point, of course, he had no idea things would go critical. But it really did not matter because the details still worked. The name of the operation still fit: The Trial. He had one adjustment to make, and that’s why he was here again now. It was a brilliant adjustment. It would put the enemy on the run.
He took out the rest of his gear.
As he dressed out, he thought about the female. No fantasies now. His thoughts hardened. The geologists had suffered. Not just physically—the mental was more important. The geologists were good. And now they were wounded. In their predictable brains there had been planted an invader. Fear.
He finished dressing out and started down the tunnel.
~ ~ ~
An hour later he was up at the observation post.
When he’d settled in, he got out his laptop and sent another message. Telling them it was time. Telling them where to come. An invitation. He liked putting it that way. So polite. Of course, they would not refuse. They would come. And then The Trial would commence.
CHAPTER 23
I said, “We’re going to have to go back up the canyons.”
Walter had his nose in the Munsell color charts, ranking the hue of layer five. His tongue was anchored between his teeth. He was showered, shaved, dressed, and looking little worse for the wear.
I was showered and dressed.
Walter put up a hand: let me finish. Color is subjective. Most soils are adulterated with gray, so the question is: is layer five’s gray a departure from the neutral, or not?
I waited. It matters. Color is a signpost of source. I hoped he’d find a lead. I sure had nothing new. In the four hours since Soliano had shot the bat, we’d struggled to reassemble our map. While Walter set up our lab, I’d been choppered to the talc mine to take new samples. When I returned, we began anew the task of creating definable layers out
of the odds and ends of fender soils. After two hard hours, the only new thing I had was a craving for ham-and-tomato sandwiches. I said, finally, “Anything?”
“Same thing I found yesterday.”
“It’s a start.”
“A restart. We’ve lost a full day.” Walter closed his chart and swiveled to face me. “As to the canyons, Hector’s offered an escort.”
We’d lost more than a day. We’d lost our freedom in the field. I curled my hands, where the cut palm stung. I focused on Walter’s hands, which rested on his thighs. Old hands, marked by the years and the sun and the rocks in the field. Blunt-fingered corded hands, still strong. Hap should draw those hands. There was a thin white scar on his right pointer, courtesy of his pocket knife. I had my own knife scar—right thumb, from peeling crystals of mica. And now of course I had a fresh palm wound, although I couldn’t blame that on normal wear and tear. I regarded our four hands. Not a Glock callus in sight. We were sitting ducks. I said, “Good idea.”
We worked another half-hour and then there came a knock at the door.
“Will you get that?” Walter said, nose in his soils. “It may be Pria.”
“Who’s Pria?”
“Our girl. She appears to spend her free time around here.”
I rose. “You know her name.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
There was another knock—pounding this time—and I thought, not only do we require babysitting, we’re becoming babysitters, and I reached the door and opened it before she could pound again. But it wasn’t Pria, it was Hap.
He said, “We got mail.”
~ ~ ~
We left the Inn by convoy.
Walter and I rode with Soliano and Hap and Ballinger in a green Jeep Soliano had appropriated from the Park Service. RERT vans tailed us.
The Forensic Geology Box Set Page 30