by Chris Mooney
He pointed to the west side of the house. 'Water's still on, I haven't turned it off yet.'
'Get me a bucket and a scrub brush and a bottle of dish soap. Throw it out on the front lawn. Get moving.'
After 9/11, Boston police started to carry decontamination kits in their squad cars. Darby rooted around the front of the APC, searching all the console compartments, even under the seat. No decon kits — just a First-Aid box attached to the wall behind the driver's seat. She opened it. The supplies inside weren't ideal, but she'd have to make do until the proper equipment arrived. She grabbed what she needed and ran to the lawn.
She ripped open several packages of gauze pads, set them up on the grass and doused them with alcohol.
She wiped down her cell phone first, then her gloves. She threw the used pads to the side, then took off her gas mask and used the remaining pads to scrub down her face, mouth and ears until they burned. She called 911, cutting off the female dispatcher who answered.
'My name is Darby McCormick. Don't talk, just listen. Senior Corporal Gary Trent of SWAT summoned me earlier this evening to a home in Dover.' She quickly gave the woman the address and said, 'Do you have a list of area fire departments?'
'People have called about a fire, so engines are already en route to — '
'You need to warn them about a possible chemical attack. They are not to approach the bombsite unless they have gas masks with military-grade filters. Make sure whatever hazmat gear they're using has a Biosafety Level 4 rating. Now repeat back what I just said.'
'Hazmat suits,' she said, her voice cracking over the words. She was clearly in over her head. 'Masks with military filters.'
'Biosafety Level 4 rating. If they don't have that equipment, they're not to approach the bombsite under any circumstances. I have no idea what chemical agents were used. Your job is to limit the contamination as much as possible. After you call the fire departments, get on the horn to all the area hospitals. Have them seal the front and emergency-room doors to give their people time to access their hazmat gear. Tell them they're looking for victims showing signs of nausea and difficulty breathing, foaming at the mouth.'
A pause, and then the woman said, 'Are you saying there's been some sort of biological attack?'
'That's exactly what I'm saying. The hospital staff will know what to do, they've all had training.'
'Okay. Okay, I'll call them right — '
'Hold on. I also want you to make sure that you have people guarding the shooting victim — the guy the EMTs picked up from the front bushes of the Rizzo home. What's his status?'
'He's gone,' the dispatcher said.
'He died?'
'No. I mean, I don't know. The ambulance never showed up at the hospital.'
Darby glanced over her shoulders at the APC's back doors, listening to the woman's frantic tone. 'Union Hospital called and told us. They've had no contact with the ambulance in question. We sent out a patrol but haven't heard back from them. I also informed Senior Corporal Trent of the development and we haven't heard from him either — we haven't heard from anyone except residents calling about a fire and what they think was some sort of explosion.'
'What local agency do you call in case of bio-attack?'
'We, ah… I, I don't know, we haven't ever faced — '
'Where's your emergency protocol sheet?'
Darby heard shuffling of papers, things being moved.
'Where's the nearest army base?'
'We don't have one stationed here any more,' the dispatcher said.
'What about the Pease base in Portsmouth? The air force still has someone stationed there — they could mobilize one of their Air Mobility Command Units to — '
'They've been shut down. Budget cuts. And the hospitals in the area, I know for a fact they're not equipped to deal with multiple contaminated patients. Maybe two or three at a time, that's it, but if it's something as large as you're saying, we'll — '
'Boston University has a new Biological Agent Research Lab,' Darby said. 'They have people equipped to handle this, and you'll need trained people here anyway to identify the type of gas or chemicals used. They're in the South End, about an hour away. I'll make the call and brief them. Call the fire department first, then the hospitals.'
Darby hung up without giving her cell number — no need since her number had been captured on the dispatcher's computer system.
At the beginning of the year, BU had opened their brand-new 1.6 billion-dollar research lab, courtesy of funding from former president Bush's Project BioShield, created to increase the US's response to bio-terrorism. The BU lab had a Biosafety Level 4 rating, the highest security classification, as it dealt with the world's most infectious and incurable pathogens. It also had, in conjunction with the army, a specialized Crisis Response Unit that could respond to any biological attack or catastrophe on the East Coast.
The public didn't know about the unit, but police and federal law enforcement agencies did. Every Boston cop and lab technician had been given the hotline number with strict orders to programme it into their cell phones. Her temporary suspension had forced her to turn over her badge and laminated ID card that gave her access to almost every area inside the Boston police department. She'd also had to turn over her beeper but not her work cell. She found the hotline number quickly.
The man who answered the phone identified himself as Sergeant-Major Glick. Darby gave her name and then explained who she was and what had happened in New Hampshire. She told him about the number of dead SWAT and police officers and Glick asked her several in-depth questions about the symptoms.
Glick said, 'Are you showing any symptoms?'
'Not yet.'
'The person you captured, where is he right now?'
'In the back of the APC.'
'With the other dead officers,' Glick added.
'I didn't have much of a choice.'
'Understood, but you need to decontaminate him quickly.'
'I haven't found any decon kits, so I'm going to scrub him down the old-fashioned way, with soap and water.'
'Scrub yourself down while you're at it. If he tells you what gas was used, it will save us some valuable time. We may be able to treat on site. Otherwise, we'll have to wait for blood analysis.'
'He'll tell me,' she said and hung up.
After she shoved the phone in her pocket, Darby put on the gas mask and then moved to the back of the APC, sliding the tactical knife out from underneath her sleeve.
12
A quick jerk of the sharp blade and Darby cut the Flexicuffs binding the APC's door handles. She opened the doors and backed up, bringing up the shotgun.
Her prisoner, still wrapped in the net, had managed to push himself up into a sitting position. In the process he had somehow worked the gas mask back over his mouth, what little good it did him. He had already breathed in the tear gas, the chemicals coating the soft, sensitive membranes lining his lungs, throat and sinuses. His chest heaved as he hacked into the mask, trying to expel the fire.
Darby stepped inside. In the dim interior light she could see his mottled face, his bloodshot and watery eyes. They tracked her as she knelt next to the SWAT officer who had been barely conscious earlier. Now he was slumped against the floor in a puddle of vomit, a white, frothy mixture covering his lips and bubbling from his nose and mouth.
She pressed a gloved finger against the man's neck.
No pulse.
She grabbed the prisoner by the back of his collar. He didn't put up a fight or struggle, too weak and disoriented from the tear gas and the blows to his head. She lifted him easily to his feet and marched him to the opened doors. When he reached the edge, she shoved him outside.
His hands jerked up to try to cushion the fall. They got caught in the sticky webbing and he slammed sideways against the ground, the sharp, painful cry lost in his coughing fits.
Darby hopped out. She kicked him on to his stomach. When he tried to roll on to his back, she brought her h
eel down against his shoulder and kept it there, pinning him to the ground. Using her knife, she began cutting the net.
As she worked, the sharp blade slicing through the webbing, she found the source of his pain: he had fractured his wrist during the fall. It made her think of Charlie, how his bones had snapped when she'd grabbed his wrist and twisted. No doubt something like that could happen — and no doubt the force of being smashed against the side of the head with an elbow could dislodge a tooth or two. But she had knocked out several teeth. Charlie was painfully thin, covered in scars. She wondered if he had weak, malnourished bones from time spent in captivity.
Captivity, an inner voice questioned.
Yes. After his abduction, Charlie Rizzo had been forced to live somewhere, enduring daily beatings, torture, and God only knew what else.
So you're buying that he is, in fact, Charlie Rizzo.
A part of her did, she supposed. At the moment she didn't know what else to think.
Darby tucked the knife in her trouser pocket then prised the netting off the man's body, surprised at its sticky strength. She cuffed him, then helped him to his feet.
Knife in hand again, she cut the straps for the man's tactical vest, the same model as the ones used by NH SWAT.
The people entering the house were dressed as SWAT officers; they must have grabbed the vests and gas masks from the back of the APC, after the men had been poisoned.
That meant a plan had been put in place before her arrival. They had been near by, watching.
But why grab Mark Rizzo? Why not just kill him like Judith Rizzo and the twins, whose remains were now shredded into unrecognizable bits and scattered across the woods? Why did these people need the father?
Darby ripped the gas mask off the man's face. The fresh air would help clear the burning from his lungs, nose and throat. But not his eyes; she'd have to rinse them with water.
'Where has Mark Rizzo been taken?'
The man didn't answer, too busy hacking, but she felt him stiffen underneath her grip. His clothing was entirely black. Black trousers and boots; and the strange fabric of a heavy black long-sleeved shirt that resembled the one Charlie had worn. She wondered if his body had the same severe scarring as Charlie's.
The man's head certainly did. He was bald, and on the back of his head and neck she saw scars in all shapes and sizes. And a tattoo: words and letters written in the centre of his neck, the light blue ink so faint she couldn't read it. She needed light.
She grabbed him by the collar and pressed the tip of the blade against the back of his neck.
'We're going for a walk. Try anything and I swear to Christ I'll sever your spine and you'll spend the rest of your life as a quadriplegic, pissing and shitting into diapers.'
She gave him a shove and started walking. The elderly homeowner had placed a big white plastic bucket on the front steps. All the inside house lights had been turned on, and she caught shadows whisking behind the curtains. When she reached the bucket, she turned the man around to get a better look at the tattoo in the light.
Two rows of tiny letters and numbers: ET IN ARCADIA EGO III–XI–XXIV
Roman numerals. Latin words.
Darby picked up the bucket, finding a scrub brush and a bottle of Palmolive inside. The bucket had a big metal handle for easy carrying. She draped it around her arm and pushed her prisoner to the side of the house, finding the hose neatly draped over a holder. The window above it threw a square of light on a lawn covered with autumn leaves.
She dropped the bucket. Withdrawing the knife from his neck, she tossed him over her leg and pushed him face first against the grass near the hose. He screamed, blowing leaves away from his mouth. She dug a knee into the small of his back, pinning him against the ground, and reached for the tap. Over the sound of running water, she heard footsteps moving towards the lighted windows above her.
After she filled the bucket with soap and water, Darby rolled the man over. His bloodshot, weeping eyes kept trying to blink away the burning. She flushed them with running water, and for the first time got a good, clear look at the man's face, with its network of scars both deep and faint, his egg-white skin so pale it almost seemed translucent, as though it had never been exposed to the sun.
She took the brush with its hard bristles full of suds and water and began to scrub down his face, head and neck. He kept twisting underneath her, hacking and coughing up the soapy water running down his throat and nose. By the time she had finished, his skin was red and raw, and his hacking had subsided to deep, body-racking coughs.
She dropped the brush, picked up the knife and sliced the shirt right down the middle. When she pushed back the fabric, she discovered the same thick, latticed scars that had covered Charlie's emaciated chest. As if scoops of flesh had been carved out. This man had a little bit more weight on him but not much. She could see his ribcage bulging against the ragged, scrawny flesh as she scrubbed him down with the brush.
Then the scar pattern hit her.
'Who whipped you?'
He moaned an answer she couldn't understand.
'Say it again.'
He started coughing. She cut off the rest of the shirt and tossed the pieces to the side. Darby rolled him over so that she could see his back.
Dear God Jesus.
13
Positioned in the centre of the man's back, between his shoulder blades and sitting directly on top of his spine, was a black rectangular device the size of a matchbook. The device had grooved edges, and someone had sewn it into the man's skin. No redness or infection.
A small green light blinked steadily.
'What is this?' Darby asked, tapping the device with her finger.
He turned his head to the side and moaned. Soapsuds bubbled from the corners of his mouth. Or was it the poison? If it had entered his system, he'd go into respiratory distress at any moment. She'd have only a few minutes to question him before he died.
She grabbed the tactical knife. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted shadows crowding the window.
She didn't want witnesses, so she stood up, grasping the man under the armpits, feeling his wet, soapy body shivering in the cold as she pulled him to his feet. His legs wobbled, about to tip over. Grabbing his belt and the cuffs wrapped around his wrists, she pushed him past the side of the house and into the backyard. Then she marched him into the pitch-black woods where they'd have privacy.
Their heavy footsteps snapped the dry branches lining the ground. In between coughs she could hear him fighting to breathe.
A moment later she found a suitable tree well away from the home's back windows. She cut through the cuffs and kicked his legs out from underneath him, pushing him into a sitting position. He didn't try to run or fight, just sat there slumped back against the tree. She pulled his arms behind the tree trunk and bound his wrists with a fresh pair of Flexicuffs.
Darby wanted a record of this conversation. She didn't have her digital recorder and didn't want to rely on memory. Her iPhone had a recording application, but it could store only about a minute or so of conversation, and that -
Darby stood, tucking the knife in her belt, and grabbed her iPhone. The colour screen came to life, parting some of the darkness as she moved around the tree dialling her home number. In the distance she heard what sounded like a helicopter engine — probably a news copter wanting to capture all the chaos and carnage.
'Question and answer time,' she said after hearing the beep of her answering machine on the other end of the line. 'Let's start first with that device attached to your back. What is it? What does it do?'
The phone's screen had gone dark. She held it close to the man's mouth. He tried to speak over the moaning but she couldn't make out the words.
She knelt next to him. 'Is it some sort of GPS device?'
A cough and then he moaned a word that, oddly, sounded like 'quiche'.
'GPS,' she said. 'Global Positioning System?'
Again the moan, followed by the slurred q
uiche-sounding word.
'Do you speak English?'
'Aaaa-ho… na… ah-nah-ho.'
He spoke like a man who'd had his jaw broken.
Darby placed the phone on his lap, grabbed the flashlight from her belt and turned it on, shining the narrow beam in his face.
The man's bright blue eyes were wild, feral-looking. The sides of his egg-white, veiny face were bloody and swollen from the blows, but his jaw appeared to be working fine. He coughed, spitting out blood mixed with the soapsuds or possibly poison, and when he tried to speak, letting out that deep, moaning sound, Darby discovered why she couldn't understand him. His tongue had been cut out.
14
Darby recoiled not so much in fear as in shock. Her head snapped back, as though this… thing might eat her.
She started to tumble backwards until her gloved hand found the leafy ground. She didn't fall but realized she had dropped her flashlight. She found it quickly, snatched it up and pointed the bright, narrow beam into the… what? Not a man's face. This… creature sitting less than a foot from her had human eyes, a human mouth and lips (but no tongue because someone had removed it along with his teeth, he doesn't have any teeth either) yet whatever had made him a man had died long ago. Now he was thrashing from side to side, howling, his eyes clamped shut and jerking his face away from the light. Then his scarred body started jerking. Convulsing.
He's infected.
The thing vomited, spraying her mask.
Darby fell this time, deliberately letting go of the flashlight. She wiped at her mask as she stumbled back to her feet and started running, the vomit, hot and wet, clinging to her scalp and skin. Not looking back, she sprinted out of the woods, feeling the vomit sliding across the edges of the mask protecting her eyes, nose and mouth. She pressed the mask firmly against her face to keep the seal tight. He's infected and now whatever's killing him is lying on my skin.
She reached the side of the house and clutched the hose's spray nozzle. She kept the mask pressed against her face as she lay on the ground and started spraying cold water over her face and hair. She could see the black sky, the dark outlines of the tall pines, and over the jet spray drumming against her mask she heard the man's ungodly howls coming from the woods.