“I got a few things for myself too,” the teenager added. “Some candy plus two cartons of cigarettes. That’s ‘cause I smoke. But you can trade ‘em for stuff, and keep the cash hidden away.”
At that point the young man knelt next to Devlin, removed a canister of wet wipes from the plastic bag, and unscrewed the lid. Then, with a surprising amount of tenderness, he went to work cleaning her feet. Once the worst of the dirt had been removed he dabbed disinfectant into the cuts and applied band aids to the open cuts.
“You don’t talk a lot, do you lady? Well, that’s okay, ‘cause I do. Too much. That’s what some people say—but that’s just them! Most folks call me ‘Nail.’ That’s ‘cause I’m tall and skinny. Like a nail…. Get it? How ‘bout you lady? What do people call you?”
Devlin’s mouth felt unnaturally dry as Nail finished working on her feet and stood. She struggled to form the necessary words. “They call me Sara.”
“Okay, Sara…. Now here’s what I want you to do. I know it’s cold, but you need to shuck those clothes, and climb into the ones I bought for you. The long johns go on first, ‘cause layers are important, followed by two pairs of socks. Then, once you’re dressed, breakfast will be served!”
Devlin looked up at the boy. Nail had short hair. And, judging from the way it looked, it had been hacked off rather than cut. He had large expressive eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and full lips. One of which had been pierced to accommodate a silver ring. Even though the rest of Nail’s body was obscured by multiple layers of clothing he still looked skinny.
An enormous feeling of gratitude rose to fill the scientist’s throat. The words were inadequate but all she could manage. “Thank you.”
Nail smiled. “You’re welcome. Now stand up, get out of those clothes, and take a sponge bath. I promise not to look.”
After a quick wipe down, Devlin slipped into some long underwear, and was pleased to discover that it fit reasonably well. The next layer consisted of insulated pants, the kind that construction workers wear, and a plaid shirt. All under a windproof Army parka. It wrapped her in so much warmth that Devlin knew she could sleep in the coat alone should that became necessary. Then came two pairs of socks. Those, when combined with some durable work boots, soon restored feeling to her toes.
And there was coffee! Delicious hot coffee, poured from a beat-up aluminum thermos, and served with three chocolate covered doughnuts. Plus cheap sleeping bags for each of them, some toiletries, and a wicked looking clasp knife that Nail said she should carry at all times.
The teenager sat on his haunches and watched as Devlin began to load her pack. “So, Sara,” Nail asked casually. “What’s going on with your back?”
The parasite was visible! Devlin felt a nearly paralyzing sense of fear. Because she knew the alien organism was not only growing but sending its horrible white tendrils down towards her spine. She forced herself to look up from what she was doing. Each word required energy that she was loathe to expend. “Nothing... I have a birth defect.”
Nail took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one loose, and put the rest away. Then, cupping his hands so as to protect the disposable lighter from a sudden breeze, he lit up. There was something sensual about the way the teenager took the smoke deep into his lungs and allowed it to trickle out of his nostrils. “Nothing, huh? Well, let me tell you something. I slept with you last night, and that ‘birth defect’ can move around. Not far. But three or four inches in any given direction and that’s pretty weird. Explain that.”
Devlin couldn’t explain that. Not anymore, so the scientist did the only thing she could, which was to change the subject. It felt as though her mouth was full of rocks, making it difficult to form words. “South,” she said earnestly. “I want to go south.”
***
Nail rocked slightly, front to back, his eyes slitted against the smoke. Either the woman couldn’t, or wouldn’t answer his question, but that was to be expected. Most of the people who populated Nail's world were not only on the run from something but reluctant to talk about it. Only difference was that whatever was riding the woman’s back was truly riding the woman’s back.
As for south, well that was a good idea come winter time, except for one thing. Hundreds of other hobos, tramps, and drifters were headed that way as well. And that would add to the danger. Of course this had to be balanced against the fact that Sara had money and he had Sara. As for the growth on her back, he could live with that, so long as she could.
“Okay,” Nail said finally. “South it is…. What have you got in mind? California? Arizona? Texas?”
“I don't know,” Sara confessed. “I don't need to do I?”
“No,” Nail replied. “You sure as hell don't.”
***
Cooper and his team had set up a temporary command post in the Henry M. Jackson federal building. It consisted of a conference room, a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture, and some networked laptops. There had been a formal after action review earlier that morning. And the long narrow table at the center of the room was littered with half empty Starbucks cups, napkins, and left over crumbs. With the exception of Cooper who had been there since 6:00 AM, and Palmer who had arrived an hour later, the room was empty for the moment.
More than twenty four hours had passed since Devlin's escape and Palmer was growing increasingly frustrated as he waited for Cooper to finish a long series of phone calls. Palmer was tired and had every right to be since he'd been up for most of the night following up on false sightings.
The last and probably most reliable report had been received the previous day. A cop in a squad car had spotted Devlin in the slightly seedy Pioneer Square area about 5:00 PM. But, after he bailed out of the cruiser to pursue her on foot, she had disappeared into a building that was home to more than a dozen shops. After searching the complex he came up empty.
So where was Devlin? Palmer wondered. Safe and sound in a flop house? Or sleeping on the streets somewhere? Not knowing was eating away at him.
Cooper flipped his phone closed and placed it on the table in front of him. “So?” Palmer inquired. “Is there any news?”
“Nope,” Cooper replied. “Not regarding Sara.” He was toying with a cigarette but knew better than to light it, having had his ass reamed by an angry GS-12 half an hour earlier. It seemed that Seattleites took their smoking bans seriously.
Palmer could tell that Cooper was disappointed. But why? For professional reasons? Or because he cared about Devlin? It was impossible to tell. “The boys and girls in blue haven't seen anything since the glimpse in Pioneer Square,” Cooper added. “But eventually she will use her cell phone. Or make a credit card purchase.”
Palmer wasn't so sure. A phone call was a possibility. But why would Sara use a credit card if she was packing five-grand? And wasn't that the purpose of withdrawing so much cash? So she could run the same way Quinton had? But Palmer knew that Cooper knew. So he kept his mouth shut.
“In the meantime,” Cooper said, as his eyes came into contact with Palmer's. “We could use your help on a related matter. If you're willing, that is.”
“And if I'm not?”
Cooper shrugged. “Then it's back to Arizona.”
“Meaning I'd be off the team?”
Cooper grinned. “Exactly.”
Palmer knew what that meant. He'd be out of the flow with no way to know what was going on. “You're an asshole.”
Cooper's grin grew even wider. “That's what they tell me.”
“So, what is the 'related matter?'”
“It's a robbery,” Cooper replied.
Palmer opened his mouth to speak but stopped when the other man raised a hand. “Hear me out. An event called the Galactic Gem and Mineral Show is underway in Portland, Oregon. Are you familiar with it?”
Palmer nodded. “I was scheduled to attend until all this stuff came up. It's a must for meteorite collectors, dealers, and rock hounds.”
“Perfect,” Cooper responded. “I figured yo
u would be familiar with it. Last night some people made use of a Dodge Ram 4 X 4 to crash through a door at the Portland Convention Center. Then they went shopping in one of the exhibition halls. Once the truck was full they left. Apparently they made off with more than a million dollars worth of loot. It's all over the news. Here's the surveillance footage that the Portland Police shared with the FBI.”
Palmer watched as Cooper thumbed a remote. The video was grainy, and in black and white, but included a number of different camera angles. The first shot showed a beefy pickup truck bashing its way through an aluminum roll-up door before skidding to a halt inside the hall.
At that point four people bailed out of the crew cab while the driver remained behind the wheel. There wasn't any audio. But Palmer could see muzzle flashes as the hooded intruders fired handguns at a target that was off-camera. “They killed one security guard,” Cooper said levelly. “And wounded another. Neither officer was armed with anything more lethal than a flashlight.”
Palmer, who was familiar with the level of security at such events nodded. By walking the floor all night the guards were supposed to prevent pilferage by hotel guests, hotel staff, and the exhibitors themselves. In the case of a serious problem they were supposed to dial 911.
The video continued to roll, and as the truck crept forward, Palmer saw the thieves snatch things off display tables and throw them willy nilly into the back of the pickup. He couldn't see the details but knew from experience that the take was sure to include small meteorites, pieces of meteorites, mineral samples, fossils, and hand crafted jewelry.
Did that mean the thieves were greedy? And wanted to take as much as possible? Or were they ignorant regarding the items they were stealing, and planned to sort the loot out later? There was no way to know.
Eventually, after about three minutes of frantic activity, the loaders jumped back into the cab. Tables flew and rock samples skidded across the floor as the pickup turned and accelerated towards the door. Seconds later it was gone.
“The police and a medic unit arrived about five minutes after that,” Cooper said as he brought the playback to an end. “They put out an APB once they had a description on the truck but no luck so far. The plates were stolen. But, did you notice anything different about the thieves?”
“Yes,” Palmer responded. “I couldn't see the driver. But at least one of the loaders had a hump.”
“Bingo,” Cooper replied. “Put that together with the meteorite-mineral aspect of the robbery and you can see why we're interested.”
“They could be everyday thieves.”
“Yes, they could. And that's where you come in. The Portland Police don't know about the parasite angle—nor do they share your expertise regarding meteorites. So we would like you to go down and nose around.”
“There is a pretty extensive black market for the kind of things they stole,” Palmer put in. “So, if the thieves turn to the right people, they might be able to sell the entire truckload all at once. They would receive only pennies on the dollar. But it could still amount to thousands of tax-free dollars.”
“Or they don't give a shit about money,” Cooper countered grimly. “Because they're looking for spores.”
“True,” Palmer agreed. “But one host? With a group of other people?”
Cooper shrugged. “Mrs. Harris wasn't a host. But her adopted daughter was.”
“Point taken,” Paler replied. “I'll check it out.”
“If you come up with a lead, call me,” Cooper said.
“Understood.”
“And Parker...”
“Yeah?”
“Don't play cop. Remember what happened in New York.”
“What about Sara?”
Cooper's eyes were opaque. “We will continue to do everything in our power to find her.”
Palmer stood. “You'll call me if something breaks?”
Cooper nodded. “Yeah. I'll call you.”
***
Palmer left. Once he was gone Cooper stood and made his way over to a window. It was a sunny day. Tiny people were visible on the street below. Most of them were innocent citizens. But with each passing day more and more of them were the equivalent of plague rats. And in most cases, the best way to handle a plague rat was to kill it. Did the government consider Sara to be an innocent citizen? Or was she classified as a rat?
Chapter Twelve
Seattle, Washington
It was cold. But not cold enough to snow. Nail called the sleety mixture “snain.” Whatever it was fell out of a lead gray sky to cover the rail yard with a layer of semi-liquid misery. But there wasn’t much Devlin could do about the situation except crouch under the bridge and wait for Nail's return. Because even though trains were coming and going it was impossible to know where they were headed. Not unless one could retrieve the information from a schedule that had been tossed into a garbage can, read the bill of lading on one of the outbound cargo containers, or chat up an engineer.
Fortunately the railroad men were a superstitious lot. Many of them believed that it was good luck to have a hobo on each train. So Nail had gone out to strike up a conversation and score the perfect ride.
Hours passed. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Devlin saw her companion appear from the south. He paused to look around before crossing four sets of tracks and tackling the concrete slope. Nail’s breath fogged the air as he topped the rise and Devlin could feel the tension around the drifter as he squatted next to her. “I have good news and bad news,” he announced portentously.
“The good news is that a yard worker told me about a three-loco hotshot that’s headed south in about fifteen minutes. The bad news is that two out of the three hobos we had the run in with are looking for us. It seems one of them went to the hospital with second degree burns. So even if we can’t catch a ride south, we need to catch a ride somewhere, or run the risk of getting stomped real bad. So, grab your stuff and let's get out of here.”
Ten-minutes later the two of them were down on the tracks hurrying south. “I saw some bulls in the yard north of here,” Nail warned. “And they’re coming this way. But, if we can get out ahead of them, we’ll be in the clear.”
The cold “snain” stung Devlin’s cheeks, and made her grateful for the parka, as Nail led her along a string of tankers. They had just passed a flat car loaded with tractors when a distant shout was heard. “Come on!” Nail shouted. “We’re almost there.”
Up ahead a long line of multi-colored box cars was starting to move. They groaned loudly as three 4,500 hp diesel engines began to drag them off a siding. The train wasn’t traveling very fast yet. No more than three-mph. It wasn't easy to catch up, not given the packs on their backs, and the slush on the ground. Most of the boxcars were closed. But Nail spotted one that was open and pointed at it. “That’s the one we want!” he shouted. “Work your pack free, and once we pull alongside, throw it in.”
The task didn’t seem possible at first. But Devlin felt a sudden burst of energy and it wasn't long before she gained on the boxcar. It was difficult to run and remove the pack at the same time but she managed. Finally, as the parasitologist drew abreast of the opening, she heard Nail shout. “Throw it!”
So Devlin threw it. And realized what that meant. Now she had to climb aboard or lose all of her newly acquired gear.
“Good,” Nail exclaimed, as he tossed his gear aboard as well. “Now grab the door latch, throw one leg up over the edge, and roll inside.”
Devlin’s breath came in short puffs as the train picked up speed and her legs pumped like pistons. Nail made the process sound easy. Like boarding a bus. But the boxcar was moving, the latch bar was coated with ice, and there would be no second chance if Devlin missed. “Now,” Nail insisted. “Go for it now!”
So Devlin threw herself up, caught hold of the bar, and felt her boots leave the ground. Then her body was suddenly horizontal, as she battled to bring her right leg up onto the cargo deck, and eventually did so.
&
nbsp; Then she was inside, rolling away from the open door, as Nail grabbed onto the lever. Moments later he was inside the boxcar too, laughing out loud, as the train cleared the yard.
And that’s where the two of them were. Laying side-by-side and laughing as two men emerged from the darkness at the south end of the car. “Well, well,” the man wearing the cowboy hat said ominously, as he pointed the snub nosed revolver at the couple. “Look at what we have here. The pretty slut, who likes to carry lots of money—and the skinny piece of shit who likes to play with gasoline. It looks like we hit the jackpot.”
“It sure does,” the other man agreed. “Which one of us gets to screw the bitch first?”
“That would be me,” Cowboy responded possessively. “Because I don’t like sloppy seconds—and I have the gun.”
***
Portland, Oregon
Palmer liked Portland and always had. Unlike so many large cities the downtown area had clear boundaries. Plus it was not only walkable but home to some very good restaurants. So staying there was normally a treat.
But as Palmer pulled into the underground parking lot at the Oregon Convention Center he couldn't escape a persistent concern regarding Sara's well being. There had been no further sightings of her in spite of the all points bulletin that had gone out. And he didn't want her to wind up the way Quinton had. Wandering all alone according to the whims of a parasite.
Palmer made his way onto a crowded elevator and rode it up to the main floor. As he got off and made his way toward the lobby the familiar feel of the show began to close in around him. Many of the same dealers and collectors attended every year. So people knew each other. And, having been being a regular for a long time, he was a member of the extended family.
So it wasn't long before people began to call out his name and come over to greet him. And while they didn't know the actual cause of Quinton's death they knew the two men had been close. So there were numerous expressions of sympathy as Palmer made his way to check-in. “Sorry to hear about the ambassador, Alex....”
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