The Serpent's Kiss

by Mark Terry

“I was afraid with all these attacks going on in the city that business might drop off,” she said. “But if anything, the numbers are up a little.”

  Abrams surveyed the room. There were easily fifty or sixty people in this room alone, and the casino had seven floors. His estimate was close to six hundred, which for a weekday afternoon wasn’t bad at all. “Not our usual afternoon crowd,” he said.

  “Fewer retirees,” Mobly agreed. “More shift workers. And the university’s shut down. I think a lot of city businesses closed down, too, in response to the attacks. There are more college kids here than usual.”

  “Maybe everybody feels lucky today,” he said. “What’s the news, anyway?”

  She shook her head. “Still got the feds chasing their tails. Let’s hope this ends soon.”

  Abrams nodded, satisfied. Time to move on and check out other areas. “I have a feeling it will.” He clasped his hands, looking at the gamblers feeding the machines. “Something tells me it’s just about over.”

  Mobly cocked an eyebrow and soaked in her boss’s good mood. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Yeah,” he said, heading toward the poker room. “I bet it’s just about over.”

  55

  3:17 p.m. Eastern/12:17 p.m. Pacific

  AGENT JANICE BECKWITH PACED nervously around the waiting area at the Stanford Medical Center, keeping an eye on the television set. She was an athletic woman in her forties, a former military anti-terrorism investigator who had made the move to the Department of Homeland Security. Right now she wore a gray pantsuit, but she was just as comfortable in fatigues. Her hair was short, dark, shot with gray, her angular face unadorned by makeup. She was a tough broad, a term she used to describe herself without apology.

  She had received a personal call from Secretary Johnston telling her to track down this college professor, and provided some minimal background. But when she arrived at the University, the place was in an uproar, Professor Schultz had come in to work and had a heart attack shortly after hearing news of the sarin gas bombs in Detroit.

  She had gleaned enough information to understand that Schultz had been asking for another heart attack. She’d managed to get a look at the man and his chart. He weighed 402 pounds, his blood pressure was routinely about 155/140, and the man ate anything and everything he pleased.

  Schultz was a professor of epidemiology at the Stanford Medical School, associated with U of C/Berkley, and was a consultant for some medical internet company spun off from Stanford called SKOLAR MD. He might know something about these killings going on in Detroit.

  She had a bad feeling about this, because nobody she talked to gave Schultz much chance of surviving this heart attack, his fourth.

  She was watching the news coverage on CNN like everybody else in the waiting room. The shit was definitely going down in the Motor City.

  Her Iridium phone buzzed. She checked the incoming number and frowned. “Beckwith, DHS.”

  “This is Derek Stillwater, DHS. I’m working the Detroit case. How is Dr. Schultz?”

  “I need your confirmation number.”

  Stillwater made a frustrated noise, then read off a ten-digit number. She nodded. “Do you want mine?”

  “I received your number directly from Johnston’s secretary. We’re pressed for time.”

  Beckwith had heard about Dr. Derek Stillwater, though their paths had never crossed. He was famous for his tirades, his clockwork letters of resignation, and his absolute disdain for protocol and procedures. Beckwith had come from the military herself, in her case the Navy, and she couldn’t fathom how this guy had survived a career in the Army.

  “We always are, Doctor,” she said.

  Several of the people waiting had shifted their attention from the TV to her. One guy nodded his head toward a sign stating No Cellular Phones.

  She turned her back on him. “It doesn’t look good.”

  “Can you talk to him?”

  “He’s in surgery. He has been for a couple hours. I don’t think he’s talking to anybody but God anytime soon.”

  There was silence. Then, “Okay, here’s what I need. This guy received at least one e-mail from William Harrington, a professor here at Wayne State in Detroit. Harrington’s The Serpent. He’s a professor of biochemistry and the director of the Center for Biological and Chemical Terrorism Research. This place wrote terrorism scenarios. We know that at least one e-mail was a scenario. I need you to get back to Schultz’s office and check his computer for these scenarios. Send all of them to me. Here’s my e-mail.” He read it off. She jotted it down.

  “I may need a warrant for this. I’ll—”

  ”Beckwith. Listen to me. It’s what, 12:20 or so there in California?”

  She checked her watch. “Yes.”

  “The Serpent’s going to strike again at 1:00 your time. You understand? You’ve got forty minutes to get to the office, get that information if it exists and get it to me in time for me to evacuate wherever this guy plans on striking next.”

  She hesitated, then nodded, already moving out the door. “Understood. I’m on my way.”

  56

  3:22 p.m.

  DEREK CLICKED OFF THE phone and sat with it in his hand, frowning. Jill said, “We’re working it from our end, too.”

  “That’s good, because I’m out of options.”

  Jill studied him. He seemed distracted. He was looking at the house. The fire department had done a decent job of controlling and stopping the blaze. None of the neighbors’ homes had been affected, but Harrington’s house was a mess, just a shell with a partially collapsed roof, no windows, the walls of the second floor charred and skeletal.

  She followed his gaze. “You’re lucky to have gotten out of there.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. He was staring at the house, lost in his own thoughts.

  A little frustrated, she waved her hand in front of his face. “Let’s think, Stillwater. First a restaurant, then the class. What would your third option be?”

  He shrugged. “Could be anything.”

  “But it’ll be bigger.”

  “It’ll be inside,” he said. “There will be more people than there were in the last attack. My gut tells me it might be someplace public.”

  “In the city?”

  Derek frowned. “The University’s shut down. He had to know that was likely to happen. The city makes sense just because that’s been the center of the attacks so far.”

  His expression went blank again and he turned to stare at the house, now soaked and smoldering.

  Warily, Jill crouched down in front of him. “Come on, Stillwater. We’ve lived through two explosions together. What are you thinking?”

  Derek scratched his chin, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “Let’s head back into the city. I think we’re done here.”

  “The Birmingham PD wants statements.”

  Derek’s expression was wry. “I bet they do. So it would be better if we got the hell out of here before we spend the rest of the afternoon typing up reports. Save that for when this is done.”

  Jill scanned the crowd, saw that Chief D’Agosta appeared to be deep in conversation with the fire chief, and thought Stillwater might be right. If they didn’t get out of here soon, they never would. She crossed around the car, slipped behind the wheel and fired up the engine. “Hang on,” she murmured, and squeezed the car up onto the grass, around the fire truck, scattering a handful of firefighters who were putting away their gear.

  Behind her she heard D’Agosta shouting, but decided now was an excellent time to develop hearing problems.

  Derek studied the house the entire time, frowning.

  Once they were away from the scene, he leaned over, retrieved an MP3 player from his GO Pack, popped on earphones and clicked it on. He leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

  “What’re you listening to?” she asked.

  He didn’t move or open his eyes. He said, “J.S. Bach. Mas
s in B Minor.”

  She blinked, surprised.

  A moment later, she pulled onto Woodward and headed south, back into the city. Derek had not moved or said a word.

  Then, without warning he said, “Kind of strange he was willing to torch his own house.”

  She thought about that. “Not if he expected to have several million dollars in a bank somewhere.”

  Derek didn’t reply. They passed the Detroit Zoo, its water tower painted with animals. Derek, eyes still closed, finally said, “You said he didn’t say who should pay in his last phone call.”

  “That’s what Gray said. He doesn’t think The Serpent’s doing this for money.”

  Derek’s expression, eyes closed, was pensive. “Probably not,” he said.

  “Then why let his house go up in flames?” she said, almost to herself.

  The only sound was the wheels on the road and faintly, violins and a soprano singing in what Jill thought must be German. They were just crossing 8 Mile Road into the city when Derek said, “He didn’t plan on coming back.”

  “He has an escape plan,” Jill said.

  Derek opened his eyes and turned to her. “Or it’s a suicide run.”

  57

  3:27 p.m.

  FBI AGENT SIMONA TOREANNO waited in her car outside the University Health Center. The majority of the university campus had been evacuated. The exception had been the Detroit Medical Center, including Grace Hospital and Detroit Receiving, though security had been stepped up and the Detroit P.D. bomb squad was doing sweeps for explosive devices. The University Health Center, however, was as quiet as, well, she thought, as quiet as a tomb.

  A black Lincoln Towncar pulled up near her and a stocky black man in an elegant tailored gray suit approached. In a deep, mellifluous voice he said, “Are you Special Agent Toreanno?”

  “Yes. Are you Dr. Nolan Webster?”

  “Yes.”

  Agent Toreanno stepped out of her car. She realized that Webster wasn’t just stocky, but tall, as well, standing nearly six-feet-five, at least. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. Despite her instincts, she did not step back from his physical presence.

  “I will need to see identification, Doctor.”

  Webster looked briefly amused, then a grave expression crossed his face. “Yes, of course. I’d like to see yours as well.”

  They exchanged identification, then Webster waved for her to follow. “I’m not entirely sure what you need, Agent Toreanno, but I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “I need as much information about the Center for Biological and Chemical Terrorism Research as you can provide. In particular, we want the names and contact information of everybody involved.”

  “Ah, I see. And this has to do with William Harrington?”

  “And John Simmons.”

  Webster paused in his stride toward the building’s front doors, set of keys in his hand. He looked at her over his shoulder. “John died in the first attack.”

  “Yes, sir. We know that.”

  “He was my friend.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, inserted a key into the lock and opened the door for her. She stepped in before him and he followed, locking the door again after them.

  “Was William Harrington also your friend, sir?”

  Again, the over-the-shoulder glance. “We were colleagues. I didn’t know him very well.”

  Toreanno wondered if that was true, or if, given the likelihood of Harrington being a mass murderer, Dr. Webster, Dean of the Medical School, was intentionally keeping his distance.

  “That sounds like you didn’t like him, sir.”

  Webster stopped and turned to look down at her. “Agent Toreanno,” he said. “If you are asking me if I think William Harrington is this murderer calling himself The Serpent, I can’t help you. The fact is, I do not know. I hope it’s not true. I have met Dr. Harrington, and we interacted occasionally at University social events and at meetings, but our interactions were not regular or in-depth. On the surface, Dr. Harrington seemed to be an intelligent, capable man with no obvious evidence of mental illness. He was polite and collegial. As far as I know, there were never any complaints filed against him. That is all I know.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Webster seemed about to say something else, but instead turned and strode toward the elevators. Over his shoulder he said, “I have a list of all of the faculty involved with the CBCTR. You will find contact information there.”

  They rode up to Webster’s office on the top floor. It was large, with a view of downtown only partially blocked by the Medical Center. His furniture was blond oak, modern, his diplomas and other accomplishments framed on his walls. Webster crossed to a large filing cabinet, unlocked it, and thumbed through several files until he found what he was looking for. “I’ll copy this for you,” he said. “It’ll take a few minutes to warm up the Xerox.”

  When he returned with the warm copy, she studied it. There were nine names on the list. Two of them, John Simmons and Brad Beales, had died at the Boulevard Café. Subtract William Harrington and she was down to six.

  “Thank you, Doctor. Now, I’d like access to John Simmons’ office.” And hope like hell it wasn’t booby-trapped, she thought.

  58

  3:37 p.m.

  THE SERPENT PULLED THE car into the parking garage of the Greektown Casino and drove to the top floor where there were the most open spots and the fewest cars parked. He circled twice, studying again the security cameras and what he perceived to be the blind spots. He especially liked one dark area in the center, blocked by a support column. It was available, which seemed especially fortuitous. The gods were indeed smiling on him today.

  That thought amused him. By birth, he was divine, a child of a god. Soon, he would be recognized for who and what he really was. Soon.

  On the radio played WDET, the local National Public Radio station. They had shut off all music programming and were covering The Serpent. He felt thrilled by that. The focus of so much attention. So much fear.

  It felt powerful.

  For a moment, or maybe it was longer, The Serpent lost track of everything, of the mission, of the tasks ahead, the challenges, and reveled in the destruction he had caused.

  Suddenly jolting back to the present, The Serpent studied the clock radio, trying to figure out how much time had passed. Five minutes? Ten?

  It was now 3:47. Had he been sitting here in the car all this time? For a moment panic gripped at his heart. What was happening to him? Was he blacking out?

  Shaking his head, he scanned around the structure, looking for any witnesses. It was nothing. Just the stress of the day. It was tiring, being a god of chaos.

  A smile played at his lips. The Serpent. He was already famous. And by the end of the day, everybody in the world would know The Serpent. And The Serpent would be the head of Aleph. Today he would show the followers and the hidden the way to salvation. It would be like a second coming.

  When he saw no one, he set about preparing for the next phase of his operation.

  59

  3:48 p.m. Eastern/12:48 p.m. Pacific

  THE PROFESSOR AT STANFORD was being a dick, thought Agent Janice Beckwith. He was a near stereotype of the arrogant college professor, with a thick beard, brown hair swept off his forehead and worn a little long. He had an attitude that left arrogant in the dust, well on its way to megalomania. He wore college professor clothes, as well, khaki slacks, a white button-down shirt, a brown corduroy sport coat with patches on the sleeve. But even more than that was his posture, which was so upright he practically leaned backward, the better to peer down his nose at her. This was a guy who took himself entirely too seriously.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you want. And you said you were with the FBI?”

  “Department of Homeland Security,” Agent Beckwith said, pleasantly enough. “And I felt I was very clear. I need access to Professor Schultz’s office.” />
  Dr. Jameson Lloyd, the bearded professor, shot her a knowing look. “And you have a search warrant?”

  “I don’t need one,” she said. “You, as an educated man, are certainly aware of the provisions under Statute 831C-3 of the U.S. Patriot Act allowing for non-warranted searches under two provisions, the first being, and I quote, ‘instances of imminent national security.’ The second provision is known as the ‘hot-pursuit proviso.’”

  Dr. Lloyd blinked. “I see...”

  Agent Beckwith met his gaze unflinchingly. “You are familiar with these statutes, correct?”

  “Of course,” Lloyd said. “Of course. Yes. Well, then, yes, let me find someone to take you to Dr. Schultz’s office.”

  “I’ve been there. I can find the way. Thank you very much.”

  “Of course. Please proceed.”

  She shouldered past him, not letting a smile mar her face. Dr. Lloyd wasn’t much of a poker player, but Beckwith was. She had just bluffed him, not the first time she had used the fictional Statute 831C-3 in convince people to give her permission to do what she pleased.

  She found Schultz’s office, which was unlocked. She pushed her way into a large, rectangular room piled with loose papers, books, folders and technical journals. It was as if somebody had taken the contents of a Dumpster and shaken it out over the room. Yet, it wasn’t like the office had been ransacked. There was a sort of organized feel to the mess. She didn’t doubt that Schultz knew exactly where everything was, that he had some sort of system for organizing things.

  She was thankful she didn’t have to find what she was looking for among the papers. Beckwith glanced at her watch. It was 12:52 P.M. Pacific Standard Time. The Serpent was going to strike in eight minutes.

  Without wasting another second she settled into Schultz’s old, battered desk chair and punched on his computer. From her briefcase she withdrew her tablet computer, a computer disk and a flash disk. Sure enough, it was as she suspected: Schultz had password protected his computer.