by Peg Brantley
Bryce Taylor was standing outside, separate and alone, watching the house he’d raised his own family in. The number of people, the police, all would serve as a deterrent to him coming closer. He wouldn’t want to risk running into anyone in an official capacity. They might have questions he didn’t want to answer. During ten years on the heels of a killer, Bryce Taylor had done one or two things law enforcement might frown upon.
Jamie hugged herself and watched in silence. She had a few questions of her own.
Chapter Thirty
Nick parked his SUV in front of the house. The boarded-up entry gave testimony to the events he’d been told about as he’d appreciated his first cup of coffee for the morning. Jamie Taylor had not enjoyed a relaxed evening at home. He took a sip from his travel mug and looked around. The dog handler owned some acreage here, though he couldn’t tell how much. At any rate, the land appeared well tended around the house—even looked like there might have been a summer vegetable garden around back.
Nick appreciated the exterior. A lot of natural Colorado stone, wood beams and grand, vaulted windows. Whoever built this home had put a lot of pride in the construction. It didn’t just blend in with the surroundings, it became a symbiotic focal point. Respectful, integral and dynamic.
Nick rolled his shoulders, dislodging the hovering sentimentality. What am I doing here? Okay, yeah... need to make sure my case isn’t involved with what happened here last night.
At least that’s what he told himself. Actually, Jamie Taylor had gotten to him. It was that simple and that complicated. The woman exuded strength and intelligence, a certain attitude toward and engagement with life, and on top of all that, her looks could knock every other woman in contention to the mat. What wasn’t to like about that?
And she’d been wounded. Her wounds gave her the attitude she carried around like a shield. Her wounds softened her edges and made him want to dig for both answers and understanding, and protect her from questions at the same time.
Then again, throw in his own trust issues, the hours he spent on the road, the pills he seemed to need more and more of, and the fact that he was more or less set in his ways, and a new relationship didn’t stand much of a chance. Hell, any relationship doesn’t stand much of a chance. Besides, she loves dogs, and at least three of the beasts live with her.
About two weeks after his seventh birthday, his dad had taken him to visit Grandpap and Grandma and his Uncle Gage. Gage was his dad’s younger brother by about twelve years, and he was about to go away to boot camp where, if Nick’s mom and dad were right, he’d learn to be more responsible and make better choices.
In Nick’s seven-year-old eyes, Gage Grant ranked pretty close to a rock star. He was a little on the wild side, but his soulful brown eyes could plead for forgiveness regardless of what he’d done.
Uncle Gage and a buddy were going to a high school football game in a neighboring town, then out for pizza after. The adults made a lot of fuss about the older boys taking Nicky along with them, and in the end, the two teens had relented, probably because Nicky’s dad agreed to spring for the pizza.
Only they never did go for the pizza or even make it to the football game. Instead, Gage and Aaron took Nick way down some country roads where they promised him he’d have the time of his life. He’d see some action and maybe even make a dollar or two. They were going to someplace off the map, secret, unless you knew the right people. They were going to do a bit of gambling.
On dog fights.
Men were walking around, checking out the caged dogs. Sometimes they banged on the wire to get a reaction. The snarling sounded horrible and foam dripped from the dogs’ mouths, but the men seemed to like it. They made notes on little pads of paper while they smoked their cigarettes or cigars. Nick watched as money changed hands and the men made more notes. Sometimes no money changed hands, but stuff still got written on those little notepads.
Nicky liked dogs, but he’d never seen dogs like these before, snarling and baring their teeth. He became scared and wished he could go back to his grandma and grandpap’s house to see his dad. The next thing he knew, he’d lost Uncle Gage. He frantically looked around, but he didn’t see anyone he knew. The snarling and mean laughter and cigar smoke started to choke him.
Panicked, he ran, leaving the noise behind. Uncle Gage would find him soon and everything would be okay.
A short while later, a cooling breeze lifted the stinging sweat from Nick’s body as he walked along the back of the site near the trucks with cages in their beds. Bees buzzed around the wildflowers that lined the rutted drive that marked the edge of the fight grounds. Thirsty, he spotted a well with a spigot just inside a fence. It didn’t look like the other fences, the ones that enclosed the bad dogs, and the gate didn’t have a lock, just a latch.
Nicky lifted the piece of metal and quietly pushed open the gate, starting to feel grown up again. The house that sat back behind the well looked empty. His thirst pulled him to the spigot. He pumped it once, twice. Halfway through his third pump something snarled behind him, and he turned to see white fangs coming right at his face. Before he could scream the dog pulled him to the ground.
Nick squeezed the memory away, turned the engine off and opened his door. He’d just check on Jamie, maybe confirm that she really did keep three dogs on her property, then head into town to see what progress had been made on the identifications. He put one foot on the ground, but wild barking and flying fur made him jerk his leg back inside his SUV and slam the door. Six huge, salivating dogs were ready to take him down. One, a wild, banshee-type canine with some kind of plastic thing on its head was flinging itself around the marauding pack. The plastic cone seemed to enhance its crazed behavior. The other dogs were big and muscular, but that little one behaved like an unpredictable dart with a fiendish homing device.
He started the engine and did a three-point turn to get away from the madness as quickly as he could. Pharmacy should be open by the time I get there.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Hungry Ghosts twisted themselves around his body. They were with him all the time now. Mostly he’d made peace with them, but their presence still made his skin tingle and heat to just below a burn. Alcohol, pills, sex—nothing dispersed them. Not even killing.
He lifted the heavy Persian rug and pulled it across the slate floor to a space near the entrance. When he dropped it, a deep thwack popped the air. He thought it looked better in its normal spot between the two leather sofas, but no one would think too much about it if they were to walk in.
He stepped behind his dark wood and leather desk at the far end of the room, slid open a panel and depressed a button. A four-by-six section of the floor beneath where the rug had lain a moment ago dropped a few inches and slid open. Circular stairs provided access to what lay below.
At the bottom of the stairway, he pushed another button and what was now the ceiling slid closed. The sound of the latch slipping into place released a sense of excitement and freedom in him unlike any he experienced anywhere else.
Seven cameras allowed him to see not only the exterior of his house, but the main level as well. He would never be taken by surprise.
A closet held protective clothing, including a self-contained breathing apparatus he wouldn’t need today. Instead he slipped on a lab coat and a pair of latex gloves. Safety goggles lay on the counter. Everything gleamed. He’d installed a commercial grade positive air system to expel any harmful contaminants through specialized filters. Dust was almost nonexistent in this space. The purity of the room relaxed him. There was nothing complicated, no pretense. He didn’t have to process information other than what he discovered scientifically, and that particular methodology always came easy to him.
The tank, the focal point of the room, stood behind glass doors that were vacuum-sealed, keeping it sterile and separate.
He entered a code and the three-quarter inch glass doors parted. His weight on the special flooring caused the doors to close behind h
im. He settled the safety goggles firmly on his face, snapped the latex gloves free of any wrinkles and picked up one of several sterilized eye droppers and a slide. With his wrist, he depressed another button and a section of the top covering the tank slid open.
Holding his breath, he inserted the eyedropper to very near its end and withdrew a small bit of fluid, which he distributed to the slide. He placed the dropper in a sterilizing solution and slipped a cover on top of the prepared piece of glass.
Once he stepped back into the main part of the lab and the isolation doors sealed, he placed the slide under a microscope and removed the latex gloves. As he looked through the lens, he knew he had crossed the finish line. He’d artificially created Karenia brevis. Saxitoxin. Red Tide. The term Red Tide was being replaced by HAB, which stood for “harmful algal bloom,” but he preferred the picture the older description painted. So biblical.
When he first created his lab, he had left himself wide open to possibilities. He researched everything from medieval weapons of torture to psychological dismemberment, and although that concept intrigued him, the length of time it took to achieve results proved dismal. Biological threat agents held promise, so he focused on finding the right one. Saxitoxin quickly rose to the top of the list.
In nature, when the Karenia brevis algae is present in high concentrations, huge death rates occur among fish. When first discovered, tests proved the toxin from the super concentrated algae paralyzed the central nervous system of the fish and made it impossible for them to breathe. Paralytic Shellfish Poisoning in humans can happen when an unsuspecting victim ingests a shellfish that has been contaminated by the algae. Unless some kind of artificial respiration is available, it’s pretty much lights out.
Several things kept Saxitoxin at the top of his list: only 0.2 milligrams would prove fatal for the average weight human, and much less was required for children; it could be administered through food, water, or air, with air being the preferable method; there was significant potential for misdiagnosis, meaning there was less threat to him; and no vaccines, antidotes or other effective treatments existed to counter the effects, other than an artificial respirator.
Over the last several months, he’d perfected a controlled environment in which he could create the perfect storm for his algae and then distill it to a concentrated powder for airborne use. Powder was easier to transport, it maintained its potency longer, and he could better manage its delivery.
The first few test subjects had died with less than satisfactory results. Either he’d needed far more Saxitoxin, resulting in a potential mess and more risk to himself, or they’d died too quickly for him to even begin to tap into some emotion, and of course that was the point of the entire exercise.
He looked through the microscope, satisfied at the change his last minor tweak had effected in the algae. He would make one more trial run to make sure he had the right balance. Then, if all went well, he’d begin to distill Red Tide in the larger quantities his plan required.
Years of research and plans and work had culminated in the little drop of water under this lens. He thought he felt a little ripple of pleasure, but it disappeared before he could tell for sure.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Corinne Rawlings rolled up her sleeping bag and strapped it to her backpack. The remnants of a frosty Rocky Mountain morning clung to her fingers and nose. She shivered, so cold she thought she might never be warm again. Good thing Brian and I are heading home this afternoon.
They’d been lucky with the weather for their vacation, which they’d been forced to postpone twice because of their work schedules. Now it was time to get back to Boston and the grind. They would return to Colorado to celebrate New Year’s and get some quality skiing in. No outdoor camping at that time of year—just plenty of flying powder and roaring fires, hot drinks and hotter sex. At least, that’s what their tradition dictated. Corinne grinned, partly from memory and partly from anticipation.
“Hey, Bri, I’m thinking I’d like a green chili burger for lunch. Think we have time to get to the Augustine Grill in Castle Rock before we need to head to DIA?”
“I don’t see why not. We have a late flight.” Brian tamped out the remnants from their fire. “Assuming, of course, we aren’t hunted down by a deranged, plague-ridden mountain lion between here and the trailhead.”
Corrine strangled a laugh. “Thanks, my love. That’s just what I needed from you before we hike out of here.”
Last night they’d heard some odd sounds around their campsite. Stealthy, not like foraging raccoons, with which they’d had plenty of experience in Boston. Whatever it was, this creature had acted different from any wildlife Corrine had ever been exposed to. It seemed out of place somehow, as if it were lying in wait.
Corrine had come up with two alternatives: either it was a sick, rabid animal or a crafty vampire. Brian had not let up since she’d told him of her conclusion.
“Either that or Bela Lugosi is hiding behind an aspen waiting to pounce.”
Corrine laughed outright. “He’d have to be pretty skinny.” She shook last night’s sounds out of her head. Her thoughts could run amok, and she didn’t want what happened in her head to follow her all day. And besides, the Colorado morning promised a beautiful day with no scary axe-murderers anywhere on the trail.
But it was cold. The sooner they got moving, the sooner she’d warm up and she could begin discarding some of the layers she was wearing. At least the Rocky Mountain cold didn’t come close to the damp cold of the Bay State, and the sunshine here provided hope for warmth.
Corinne shivered again, not entirely from the cold this time, then smiled. Everyone knows vampires can’t do sunlight.
Brian made a last check to confirm the fire truly was out of commission, took a quick look around their campsite to make sure they weren’t leaving more of a footprint than necessary, and they were off. Brian whistled a special down-up-down tune, and Shelby, their seven-year-old beagle, bounded between them to begin the three-mile hike back to their rental car.
Shelby went with them everywhere, and she enjoyed the status of an internationally travelled dog. They had started her on airplanes as a puppy, and because they took several trips a year, Shelby took it all in stride. Neither Corrine nor Brian could imagine a vacation without their dog.
Since this trip had been delayed, the vacationing kids were back in school and they’d had the entire area to themselves for the last four days. They had enjoyed not having to share their space with anyone, but Corrine looked forward to getting back to their friends and their active social life. But she loved the smell of a mountain morning. There was a purity about the natural scents in rested air, before the sun brought out all of the manmade bits. They’d be home in Boston soon enough and she’d have to work hard to remember this moment.
They hiked uphill about a hundred yards before the steady drop down to the trailhead. No other hikers were in sight, and they allowed Shelby to run off-leash, enjoying her last few minutes of freedom. The beagle didn’t always stay on the trail, especially if an interesting scent beckoned, but she didn’t wander too far. Corrine never worried.
Brian led the way, stopping at the difficult spots to make sure Corrine could navigate them with her backpack and bedroll. Every once in a while, Shelby offered a bark of unabashed pleasure.
The trail leveled off and the couple stopped to catch their breath. Gear dropped to the ground almost as fast as their butts dropped to the sun-warmed rocks. Brian stripped off his jacket and sweater to stuff them in his backpack, but Corrine chose to keep her jacket a little closer, and tied it around her waist.
“You are beautiful when your face is just a little dirty.” Brian leaned over and kissed her.
“If you mention anything about my earthy aroma, you’re going to have a hard time walking the rest of the way to our car.”
The faint sound of bees caught their attention, but they couldn’t quite tell where it originated. Brian stood and pivoted, his hands out
stretched in a radar pose, as if he could pick up the direction by some sort of skin sensors, a quizzical look on his face. Corrine stayed on the rock, ready to gather up her gear in case they needed to make a quick run. A swarm of bees did not happen to be part of the Rocky Mountain experience she wanted to take with her.
Brian said, “Would you look at that....”
She looked in the direction he was facing and blinked. A plane, like the ones those hobbyists fly in competitions, only larger, was flying down the trail in their direction. She looked around for the guy with the controls, but she couldn’t see anyone.
The couple held hands and watched as the model plane came closer, the sound of its electronic engine acting as a swinging pendulum, lulling them.
Cold returned to Corrine, this time running fingers up her spine and around the back of her neck. She squeezed Brian’s hand at the same time he squeezed hers. Her mouth went dry. The fear of last night punched her stomach, fresh and large. Brian turned to look at her and she expected to see her panic reflected in his face, but he was smiling like a kid at the fair.
“No. Brian. There’s something wrong. We need to ru—”
The plane flew directly overhead. A popping sound reached them as it banked upward, sunlight glinting off its wings. A gentle mist fell over them before settling to the ground.
She stood. “Brian, we—”
Corrine would never forget the look in his eyes as Brian grabbed her and pulled her behind him as he raced down the trail. The kid at the fair had disappeared, replaced by a man determined to protect the woman he loved. From what, neither of them knew.
She felt like dust had gotten in her eyes, in her lungs. But there hadn’t been any dust or dirt in the air. It was getting hard to breathe.
Brian tripped and struggled to stand, but he didn’t let go of her hand. He regained his balance and they jumped and lurched along the trail. They didn’t talk or scream. They saved their breath to propel themselves onward.