Crosscut

by Meg Gardiner

  Swayze looked quizzical. “Why are you willing to go to these lengths? This is . . .” She waved at the Glock.

  “Assault with a deadly weapon? Not yet.”

  He lifted the gun and racked the slide. It made a solid, serious noise.

  “Maybe now it is.”

  Her shoulders twitched. “Capturing Coyote won’t solve your problem. Even if he’s arrested, Evan remains at risk from South Star.”

  He didn’t move, but he felt it: lie number one, abandoned. For the first time she had just admitted that South Star was dangerous.

  “If Evan is infected, then you’re powerless to stop it,” she said. “There’s no cure. You can kill me, but you can’t change that.”

  “Then tell me how to test for it.”

  “MRI.”

  “You didn’t MRI your test subjects back at China Lake.”

  “I don’t get this. You wouldn’t shoot me just to find out if she’s going to get sick. You’d shoot me if you found out she is sick.” She eyed him critically. “You’re afraid that she’ll give it to you.”

  “No. How do you test for it?”

  “She can’t infect you. It’s only transmissible by—”

  “Blood test, genetic analysis? Tell me.”

  “It’s only transmissible by inhalation or inheritance. There’s no way she could infect you.”

  She was so focused on the Glock, she hadn’t been paying attention to anything else. He raised the tire iron in his hand.

  “I won’t break anything; I’ll just hit you where it hurts. Tell me.”

  She lifted her chin. “You don’t have the brass.”

  God, he hoped he was right about her. He swung the tire iron against her shoulder. It connected with a thud.

  Pain shone bright and loud in Swayze’s eyes. She grabbed her arm. “You son of a bitch.”

  Jesse clenched his teeth, biting down the disgust he felt at himself. “Do you get how deeply invested in this I am? Tell me.”

  “Son of a bleeding bitch. You’re safe, you imbecile. She can’t infect you.”

  His pulse was pounding. He wanted to throw up. He hit her again.

  She flinched this time, but the tire iron connected with her elbow. “Dammit!” She swung her head toward him, grimacing. “You cannot be infected. South Star only affects women.”

  He held still, tire iron in his hand, realizing what she had just said.

  “Coyote’s a woman?” he said.

  Her lips parted. Lie number two, abandoned.

  “You told Evan and Phil that Kai Torrance was a man,” he said.

  She stared at him, her lips puckering. “Kai thinks of himself that way.”

  His mouth hinged open. “And thanks to your sensitivity training, you respect the wishes of the head-fucked robo-grunt community?”

  She sneered. He sneered back.

  “Sorry, I mean sociopathic cross-dressers affected by Total Badass Syndrome.”

  She was breathing heavily, and her graying hair was falling out of the ponytail. “Now are you satisfied? Even if Evan is infected, she could not possibly transmit it to you.”

  “Can you test her?” he said.

  She looked disbelieving. “What is it with you? She could never infect you. It’s . . .” Behind the glasses, her eyebrows rose. A clearer light shone in her gaze. “She couldn’t infect you, but she could infect any children you have together.”

  If he flinched now, he would be deeply fucked. He held the tire iron ready to swing again.

  Her expression cleared. She laughed. “You want to have children, is that it? The male imperative to spread your seed triumphs over all else.”

  The pain receded from her eyes, and she gave him an analytical stare. “Yes, Evan can be tested. If she’s serum negative, you’ll be fine.”

  He wasn’t sure he believed her. He knew now that she was a deep and thorough liar. And he knew that she didn’t appreciate how serious he was.

  “After you help track Coyote down, you’ll get Evan that test.”

  “Very well.”

  “And you won’t weasel out.”

  “Fine.”

  “No, really. Because before I drove down here, I put together an e-mail. It’s queued up to be delivered to my boss tomorrow morning. It’s on the law firm’s server, so you can’t find it and delete it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It details all your work with South Star, your plans to create supersoldiers, the explosion going wrong, your desire to kill all the people in Evan’s class, your being in cahoots with Coyote, the whole thing. It includes a video of one of the China Lake victims, along with her MRI. Combine it with all the forensic evidence the China Lake police have gathered about the most recent victims, and you’ll be toast.”

  She blanched.

  “I know you want to continue your current research. You see yourself onstage in Stockholm accepting a Nobel, and you don’t want South Star spoiling your chance at that. So this next part is up to you.”

  “What?” she said.

  “The e-mail instructs my boss to take it to FOX News, CNN, the Washington Post, and the L.A. Times. And she will.” He shifted. “I work for a firm called Sanchez Marks. Around Santa Barbara they call it the Militant Wing, because my boss is one of those old peacenik lefties who hates anything military. She’s like a Jack Russell terrier. Once she gets her teeth into you, she doesn’t let go. And this is the case that would make her career.”

  “But that would . . .”

  “Destroy you. I know.”

  She looked shocked. “You’d destroy Primacon as well.”

  “Do you see any sign that I care?”

  “We’re working on catastrophic diseases of the brain and central nervous system. For God’s sake, this research could one day lead to treatments for spinal cord injury. You’d crush that hope?”

  “And if professional ruin won’t persuade you, the e-mail also suggests that you have a treatment for the South Star agent but are withholding it until Coyote dies. It should give her an extra incentive to track you down. As soon as possible.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “You stopped thinking that several minutes ago.”

  Her eyes clouded. She seemed at a loss. Somewhere in the far recesses of the garage, tires squealed.

  “This stops now,” he said.

  “And if I do it? What will you do in return?”

  “I’ll delete the e-mail. But I have to be around to do that.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “If you manage to have Coyote eliminated, I won’t complain. If you want to call your old buddies in the government and arrange for some of their enforcers or outsourcers to take Coyote down quietly, that’s fine.”

  Her sneer stayed in place.

  “And when we find her, I’ll go in first, ahead of you,” Jesse said. “But you have to help me. Otherwise, the game is up for you. Period.”

  Swayze pressed her hands to the concrete floor. “How can I be certain you’ll keep your bargain?”

  “Yeah, I don’t trust you either. But I’ll have the e-mail. You’ll have that sore shoulder, and you can always turn me in to the cops. ‘Psycho Crip Attacks Researcher for Failing to Cure SCI.’ You could probably get a felony warrant on me.”

  She eyed him. “Fine.”

  “How do we find Coyote?”

  She stood up. “We go to Hollywood.”

  The doctor slammed the Lexus into reverse and floored it backward down the driveway, screaming. The car door was wide-open.

  “Antonia. Oh, Toni. Oh, God.”

  He hit the mailbox and it flew into the air. The car bounced into the street and across it onto the dirt. His hands floundered around the dashboard and gearshift. He closed his door, looked through the windshield, and saw Coyote standing on the front porch, observing. He screamed again.

  Coyote stepped off the porch and walked toward him. The doctor grabbed the gearshift, banged it into drive, and flew out
into the street, spinning the wheel. The car fishtailed, and he drove off one side of the road and then the other and finally screeched down the hill.

  Coyote jogged down the street behind him. He had parked the vehicle past an outcropping of rocks, a heavy pickup truck with off-road tires, hunting lights on the roof, and a bull bar on the front. He had presciently garaged it in China Lake the previous week. In ninety seconds he was belting down the road, catching up. The Lexus was heading down the hill toward U.S. 395, four miles ahead. The doctor was trying to reach help.

  He would fail. Coyote narrowed the gap, the truck eating up ground across this enormous empty sinkhole, this secret and dirty place that stretched everywhere in all directions, even up. Where the jets flew with heavy armaments and wouldn’t notice one craven doctor taking flight.

  The Lexus zagged and recovered. The doctor must have checked his rearview mirror and spotted the truck. Coyote accelerated.

  The Lexus zigged again. He saw the doctor fumbling with a cell phone. Coyote closed on him.

  28

  McCracken seemed to swell in height, girth, and purpose. “Chang, find out if those uniforms have found Klijsters’s address. And get on the phone to military records again—see if they can’t goddamn pull up a print of this Kai Torrance person and compare it. Hell, wait. I’ll call the FBI and see if they can’t tear some ass.”

  He grabbed his phone, shooing us out of his office. My parents and I followed Tommy to his desk. As he picked up the phone, a uniformed officer came rushing down the room.

  “Detective. Line two, it’s Dispatch.”

  Watching a friend do his job, when you’ve known him since childhood, is always eye-opening. All Tommy’s laid-back cool had annealed to calm focus.

  “Yes?” He listened for a moment. “Who’s responding? Okay. Hang on; I’m putting you on speaker.” Eyeing me, he hit the speaker button. “Terry? Play it back from the start.”

  The dispatcher’s voice distorted over the speaker. “One second.”

  Tommy said, “Nine-one-one call. Listen and tell me if you recognize the voice.”

  The dispatcher returned. “Okay, Detective.”

  “Nine-one-one emergency.”

  “For God’s sake, help me.”

  I looked at Tommy, alarmed.

  “He’s coming; he’s after me. Please, for the love of Christ, send somebody.”

  “Sir, slow down. I can barely understand you.”

  More than static was crackling through the speaker. It sounded as though the caller were on a cell phone in a car. From the noise of his engine, he was barreling along.

  “I’m on Eagle Pass Road, heading toward the highway. Hurry.”

  There was a squealing sound, like tires screeching.

  “He killed my wife, and he’s after me in this giant truck. Oh, my God.”

  The dispatcher asked who.

  “Coyote. He’s chasing me. Jesus, hurry.”

  My pulse leaped. I looked at Tommy. Mom and Dad crowded around the desk.

  “Sir, who is this I’m speaking to?” the dispatcher said.

  “Tully Cantwell. I’m trying to outrun him in my car. Blue Lexus.”

  “Dr. C?” Her voice spiked. “Hold on, Doctor.” Tommy looked at me. “Sound like him?”

  “Yes.”

  The dispatcher. “Dr. C. Tell me again where you are.”

  “Coming down the hill toward Three Ninety-five, south of town. God’s sake, get the Highway Patrol out here. He’s gaining on me.”

  Tommy stared at the speaker. “I know where he is. That’s way the hell out of town, but it sounds like he’s only a couple miles from the highway.” Breath. “CHP’s on the way.”

  From the look in his eyes, I knew he was picturing the narrow asphalt road, Cantwell’s car sliding onto the shoulder and skidding off on the sand, the doctor racing for U.S. 395, thinking if he could make it there he’d be okay.

  Noise sheared from the speaker. Cantwell grunted with effort. Tires squealed.

  The dispatcher again. “Dr. C, did you say that your wife is . . .”

  He sobbed. “Toni’s dead. I saw her on the floor; he was . . . clawing her, like an animal.”

  Mom hissed and put her hand over her mouth.

  “Where, sir?”

  “My house. Call Detective Chang.”

  Tommy stared hard at the speaker.

  “Coyote’s small. Wearing black. His hair, he was wearing a wig, but Toni pulled it off. He has a buzz cut, Vin Diesel thing, like he shaved his skull with a hunting knife.”

  “Is this the suspect?”

  “Yes! And his outfit is covered with . . .” He choked. “With blood.”

  Loud noise barked from the speaker, a hard, metallic thwack.

  Dad put his hands on the desk. “Jesus, Coyote’s ramming him.”

  The sound of Cantwell’s engine grew louder. He was flooring it. The horrid loud sound of metal crunching metal. We heard Cantwell over the roar. He was whimpering.

  “Dr. C? Sir, are you there?”

  “Oh, God, he’s right behind me. Right there, his grille’s in the mirror—”

  More whimpering. “Tell Detective Chang. Coyote, his eyes, they’re wrong, they’re—”

  Whump. The tires shrieked. The phone clattered, as though Cantwell had dropped it. The sound went muffled.

  The whining sound accelerated to a wail. Cantwell cried a long, anguished cry. My skin shrank and my nails pressed into my palms.

  “He’s close,” Tommy said. “The highway’s gotta be right there. He just has to get across the tracks and down to the bottom of the hill.” Though Cantwell couldn’t hear him, he leaned toward the phone. “Hang on, Doc; the Highway Patrol’s on its way.”

  Distantly, Cantwell regained his voice. “He’s falling back. I’m outrunning him.”

  But we heard the deep growl of the truck, approaching fast. Cantwell wasn’t outrunning it at all. Coyote was taking a hard run at him. Mom grabbed my hand. The noise of the two engines blended into an almighty howl, and though I turned away, I still heard Cantwell scream.

  The pickup rolled through smoggy sunshine, east through Hollywood. Jesse ran a red light, the third one, keeping the truck moving so Swayze wouldn’t be tempted to jump out.

  Swayze watched the surroundings with the alertness of a hungry owl. “Kai was a street kid from Hollywood before enlisting in the army. Her mother was a drug addict. They lived in this awful apartment off of Franklin Avenue.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One time she disappeared from China Lake. We found her on the roof at this place. Her mother was dead, but she went back there anyway, treated the apartment almost like a nest. She might again.”

  Jesse kept her in his peripheral vision. She was acting out of pure self-interest. Her only hope of staying out of trouble was to keep Coyote from falling into the hands of the police, and she would use him to that end.

  “You didn’t tell the FBI about this apartment?” he said.

  Her expression said, Don’t be an imbecile.

  “Why haven’t you gone to this place before?” he said.

  “I’ve driven by the building. But I can’t knock on the door. I’m a familiar face.” She looked at him. “You can knock on the door, though.”

  “I’m a familiar face to Coyote too.” He glanced at her. “You think she’d kill you?”

  “In a second. Kai’s becoming psychotic. From the evidence I can glean, we’re talking about total insomnia, REM dreams erupting into the waking world, lack of pain destroying her conscience and her ability to restrain herself. She has no off switch.”

  “So she’ll want to kill me too.”

  “I presume that gun is loaded.”

  He turned onto Vine, heading toward the hills. “Who outsourced this cleansing operation to her?”

  Swayze checked her fingernails.

  “Are you her project manager?”

  She picked at a cuticle.

  “Why has she gone on this r
ampage?” he said.

  “She was at the lab the day of the explosion. She saw the four kids come out onto the hillside. She ran back to the lab to stop the detonation, but it was too late. She was exposed to unheard-of concentrations of the vaccine, in a wholly uncontrolled manner.”

  “So was Evan’s class.”

  “No. They got less of it. And Kai had already been vaccinated. The effects were different on her.”

  He kept the truck rolling around the corner onto Franklin. “Does she blame those four kids?”

  “That’s a logical assumption.”

  He felt hot. “She’s saving them for last, isn’t she? She has something special planned for them.”

  “I imagine so.” She crammed some loose strands of hair back into her ponytail. “South Star could become a viciously dangerous new disease vector. No matter what you think about me, you must understand that it needs to be stopped. I want to do what I can to assist that.”

  Traffic gleamed along. He checked the speedometer.

  She glanced at him appraisingly. “And you . . . has Evan agreed to attempt a pregnancy, is that it? Are you planning IVF?”

  He watched traffic.

  “Not that I object. Presuming that Evan is clean of infection, I think you two should have a litter of children.”

  His nerves slithered at her tone. She cut her eyes at him.

  “I’ve seen your physical and psychological profile from the U.S. Olympic training camp at Colorado Springs. You would have been a gold medalist.”

  Mouth open, he turned to her. “You did what?”

  “Your psych profile shows intense competitiveness and dedication. You earned your spot on the U.S. national team despite several disadvantages. Your mother smokes and she’s an alcoholic. You worked to earn a swimming scholarship to the University of California so you could get away from the house and make something of yourself.”

  “How the hell did you—”

  “Though I must say, today you’ve surprised me with your ruthlessness.” She rubbed her arm. “And Evan—well, look at her. She’s one of the prime exemplars of her class.” A thoughtful expression on her face. “It should be a brilliant combination.”

  The slithering sensation increased. “What’s your point?”

  “You should consider it. Seriously.”