9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “I’m not sure yet. But I hope to know more tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  After we said our goodbyes, with Bull enduring another warm hug from my lovely wife, Beth and I returned to the porch, sitting in silence for a minute or more.

  “You’re thinking Rodney’s meteor made his cattle sick,” Beth said presently.

  “It does seem like a pretty big coincidence,” I said. “He’s been moving that meteor all around his farm for more than a week. There would’ve been lots of opportunities for contamination of feed or water.”

  “And if the meteor really is a biologic package from North Korea . . .” Beth said.

  We shared a concerned look. We both knew what needed to be done.

  “I’ve gotta call Costa,” I said. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

  * * *

  Agent Costa was inclined to take the matter of the sick cows at Holton’s farm seriously. Costa told me he needed to make a couple calls and would get back to me shortly. In the meantime, I should sit tight.

  If I was the sort of person who was able to sit tight, my retirement would have followed an entirely different course. I may not have known the absolute best spot to be right now. But I did know at least one spot where there would be more action than 1011 Jefferson Avenue – Rodney Holton’s farm.

  I checked my Beretta to be sure everything was in working order – I knew it would be, but it never hurts to be sure – then tucked it inside my belt.

  Beth was in the kitchen fiddling on her computer.

  “I’m going out to Holton’s,” I said. “I want to see what’s up with Rodney’s cows.”

  Beth looked up from her laptop. “Do you think that’s wise?” she asked. “I mean . . . hello . . . does biologic weapon mean anything to you?”

  “I thought you might be concerned,” I said. “But listen, Rodney’s been out there moving that thing around all week, and he looked healthy as a horse this morning. And the meteor’s gone, along with whatever biologic might have been in or on it. Besides, if I were going to catch something from Rodney or his cattle, I’d have gotten it from my exposure this morning. We huffed and puffed in each other’s faces for about ten minutes while we shoved that diseased steer around knee deep in cow crap.

  “If I were going to catch whatever this is, I’d have it already.”

  Beth considered.

  “You know what I’ve been researching while you were on the phone?” she asked presently.

  “How to pretend to be a lawnmower?” I smiled.

  “Ha. Ha. Ha.” Beth wasn’t amused. “No. I was researching anthrax. That fluffy, white powder that is such a favorite of terrorists worldwide.”

  I was impressed with Beth’s alacrity in attacking the biologic weapon issue.

  “Okay,” I said. “So what did you find out?”

  “The bad news is that anthrax – particularly, weaponized anthrax – is usually fatal to humans. The same disease can infect both people and animals. You can catch it by breathing it in, by getting it in an open wound, or by consuming it.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I just had lunch. I won’t be snacking before dinner.”

  Once again, I failed to amuse.

  “The good news is that you can’t catch anthrax from another person who has it. You have to come into contact with the anthrax spores directly. So you can’t get it from Rodney unless the two of you are exchanging bodily fluids.”

  I started to say something, but Beth halted me with an open-handed stop sign.

  “More news,” Beth said. “Maybe good, maybe bad. The symptoms Bull described don’t fit animal anthrax. Usually the first sign of anthrax in cattle is that they die unexpectedly. Lameness and drooling don’t fit. So it seems likely that Rodney’s cattle don’t have anthrax. Maybe the biologic is something else. Small pox? Ricin?”

  Discussing all the possible ways I might die from a trip to Rodney’s farm wasn’t going to get me closer to my destination.

  “Beth,” I said. “There’s always a certain level of risk in dealing with terrorists like the North Korean regime. I don’t take unnecessary risks. You know that.”

  Beth started to speak, but it was my turn to hold up the stop sign.

  “And don’t tell me you’re worried about the necessary risks. We’ve covered that territory before.”

  I moved to the kitchen table where Beth was sitting and bent down to kiss her forehead.

  “I can’t be a boy in a bubble, Beth. You know that.”

  Beth looked up at me, a tear welling in one eye.

  “I know, Babe,” she said, “but as your wife I’m entitled to worry about you, aren’t I?” She offered a wan smile.

  I lifted Beth out of the chair and held her tightly, her head turned against my chest.

  “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Beth. Tomorrow will have worries sufficient for itself,” I said. “Wise words from a wise man.”

  “I haven’t gotten to tomorrow yet,” Beth said into my shoulder. “I’m still working on today.”

  * * *

  By the time I reached Rodney’s farm Agent Costa had already blocked the driveway entrance with his Lincoln. The Agent was inside his vehicle with the windows up and engine running.

  I swung the Pilot around his car, making use of the Honda’s All-Wheel-Drive to negotiate the shallow ditch, and pulled my driver’s door alongside his. I sat staring straight forward as my window slid down into its door cavity. Peripheral vision told me when Costa’s window had done likewise.

  “I thought you were going to get back to me,” I said, still facing forward.

  “And you were going to sit tight,” Costa replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

  “That’s what you said. I just ignored your advice.” I turned face-to-face with Costa. Actually, I held the high ground, sitting as I was in an SUV. A few inches of elevation can change the tenor of an entire interrogation – not that I planned on interrogating anyone today.

  “I’m not comfortable with you looking down on me,” Costa said. “Pull that truck out of the driveway and get in here.” He indicated the Lincoln’s front passenger seat.

  “Promise you’ll respect me in the morning?” I asked.

  “Just shut up and get in here.”

  Who could ask for more? I relocated the Pilot onto the grass and joined Costa in his well-chilled MKX.

  “So . . . what brings you to Rodney’s neck of the woods?” I asked, by way of a conversation starter.

  “Same as you, I imagine.” Costa withdrew a tin of Skoal tobacco from an inside pocket and thumped its lid twice with the knuckle of his middle finger. “Care for a dip?” he asked, offering the open tin in my direction.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Your choice,” Costa said, packing a pinch of the dark tobacco between his cheek and gums.

  “You swallow that juice?” I asked.

  Costa cocked his head casually. “Sometimes. It all depends on who I’m with. It is more appropriate to spit around some people than others.”

  I’d tried snus years ago, but had never been able to master swallowing the bitter saliva it propagated. I guess that made Agent Costa a better . . . snus swallower . . . than me. I didn’t perceive any carryover toward confirming manliness.

  “What’d your friends on the phone have to say?” I asked momentarily.

  Costa swallowed before answering.

  “CDC is going to be here as soon as they can round up a veterinarian with security clearance. Shouldn’t take them long. They’re just coming from St. Paul.” Costa turned toward me. “You’re pretty sure about the cows being sick? No . . . let me say that another way. You are damn certain those cows are sick, right?”

  “I have it on reliable authority,” I hedged.

  “Who might that be?”

  “You don’t know him,” I said. “He probably wouldn’t like you anyway, so it’s just as well you two don’t meet.”

  “Why? Does he have something against cops?�
�

  I chuckled. “Yeah . . . something.”

  “What’s the joke?”

  “It’s nothing. Never mind. He’s just a trustworthy source, okay? Call him a Confidential Informant.” I really didn’t want to try to explain Bull to the FBI. Their profilers would have a field day with him.

  “I suppose we shall find out about the cattle soon enough,” Costa said matter-of-factly, “when the vet gets here.”

  There was a moment of silence. Costa swallowed again. I figured I wasn’t the kind of person he wanted to spit in front of. Either that or he didn’t want to crack a window and allow the swelter to seep inside.

  “Any leads on the stolen meteor?” I asked, not wanting to waste an opportunity to gather information. I learned long ago that information is power, and power gives you an advantage, especially when it comes to catching terrorists. You can never have too much information.

  “The DC office is working that angle,” Costa said, scanning the gravel roadway, looking for oncoming veterinarians, I assumed.

  “Is DC looking at satellite pics? Or has their man in Pyongyang heard something new on the street?”

  Costa paused before answering. I guessed he was determining my need to know.

  “Mostly satellite, I think,” he said at last. “I’m informed that they have some imagery from last night that requires enhancement and analysis.”

  “I suppose we folks out here in the boonies oughtta be flattered that Uncle Sam’s got an eye in the sky looking after us,” I said. “But to be honest, I sort of value the illusion of privacy. I’d like to be able to take a pee in the woods without everybody at Snoop Central analyzing the strength of my stream.”

  Remember what I said about information being power? I’m not comfortable with the government having quite that much information. It’s Orwellian, you know?

  “Privacy? What’s that?” Costa replied.

  That was about what I had figured he’d say.

  A small cloud of light tan dust appeared about a half mile down the valley, rising like a horizontal tornado from the chalky road surface. As it got closer, I could see its source was a full-size, white SUV.

  Costa’s cell rang. His ring tone was God Bless America.

  “Costa,” he answered. Then in response to the caller he added, “Yes. Follow me up the driveway.” He tucked the cell phone back into its black leather case, which was attached to his black leather belt. He was probably wearing black leather underwear, too.

  Costa made a Y-turn and led the SUV up the drive to Rodney’s farmstead, coming to a halt near Rodney’s front doorstep. It was a quarter past five in the evening – late enough for the afternoon winds to have died, but still early enough to make use of at least three more hours of daylight.

  Everyone else got out of the vehicles, so I gathered I was safe to do likewise.

  Rodney appeared at the screen door wearing a matching ensemble of filthy T-shirt and dung-stained jeans. From the appearance of his hair, I would guess he’d been napping.

  Rodney recognized me and Costa and immediately moved toward us.

  “You guys find my meteor?” He blinked twice and rubbed the heels of both hands in his eye sockets.

  “Good evening, Mr. Holton,” Costa said. “We are sorry to trouble you for a second time today, but I am afraid another matter of concern has come to our attention.”

  Rodney’s expression soured.

  “What now?” he said, placing his hands on his hips.

  “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Holton.”

  Costa was consistent. You had to give him that.

  “This morning, a veterinarian came to examine one of your steers. What was his diagnosis?”

  “Huh?”

  “Mr. Holton,” Costa persisted.

  “Uh, he said it was probably hoof rot. He gave the steer a shot and left me with some penicillin. Why? Whatta you care about my steer?”

  Costa ignored the question. “I brought my own veterinarian along this afternoon, just to have a look at your herd. I’m sure that will be okay with you?”

  “Hell, I s’pose so. But you gotta treat any other sick cows you find . . . for free.” Rodney looked for confirmation from Costa, but found none, at least as far as I could tell. “Aw, hell. Do you need me at the barn?”

  Costa’s eyes fell on the vet, who shook his head.

  “That won’t be necessary just now, Mr. Holton. Thank you for your cooperation.” Costa turned his head to one side and squirted a gob of brown saliva on Rodney’s lawn.

  Rodney didn’t seem to care.

  After the CDC guys had relocated their SUV to a grassy spot nearer the cattle barn, they gave Costa and me our orders. We were to wait in Costa’s Lincoln while the vet suited up in his protective gear and assessed the cattle. That sounded fine to me.

  * * *

  An hour or so later, the vet re-appeared around the corner of the barn, maybe twenty yards from where we waited. The second CDC guy pulled a respirator mask from the rear of the SUV and fitted it over his face. Carrying a hand sprayer, the second man approached his partner. The vet stood spread eagle in an open area while the other guy hosed him with the sprayer – an obvious decontamination wash.

  When they were through spraying, the vet shucked his white jumpsuit and both men doffed their masks. All the protective gear went into a thick plastic bag, which they zippered shut.

  Costa and I got out of the car as the men approached.

  “What have we got?” Costa asked. “Anthrax?”

  “This herd has been infected with the Foot and Mouth Disease virus,” the vet said. “FMD isn’t normally dangerous to humans. But it’s a disaster when it gets into livestock. The U.S. hasn’t seen an outbreak since . . . I don’t know . . . maybe a hundred years ago.”

  “Any idea how these cattle got infected?” I asked, fearing I already knew the answer.

  The other CDC guy spoke.

  “Homeland Security has been watching for exactly this kind of agro-terrorism for a long time,” he said. “Odds are, somebody intentionally infected this herd . . . somebody bent on causing an economic disaster. FMD is highly contagious. We’ve got to contain it here, if at all possible.”

  “You guys are the experts,” Costa said. “How do we proceed?”

  * * *

  By midnight Rodney Holton’s farm was swarming with specially trained FBI agents. His cattle had all been euthanized and their carcasses stacked throughout the wooden barn . . . where they were about to be cremated.

  CHAPTER 19

  Park Heating and Cooling. Suburban Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  After cleaning up the shop area, Johnny Shin Cho decided to give the capsule a closer look before tucking it away. He picked it up in one hand. It was hard and cold, and except for a fine seam tracing a line around its circumference, it was smooth as a ball bearing. As a man who worked with metal, Johnny could appreciate the skills, or more likely the technology, required to create a surface this uniform and flawless.

  Probably, if he twisted the halves along that seam, the ball would come open and he could expose the secret that lay within. But Johnny was good at obeying orders. So instead of trying to open the softball-size capsule, he double-bagged it in Ziplocs and packed it securely in a cardboard box.

  Before departing Park Heating and Cooling, Johnny gave the shop a final visual sweep. Everything was in order. He picked up the box, turned out the lights, and locked the door behind him.

  Task number one was complete. He had succeeded in “unpacking” the metal ball without damaging it. He would receive praise for that, he hoped. For now though, he would stow the steely ball in his van and resume his regular work duties. He would report on his success when time allowed.

  CHAPTER 20

  Red Wing, Minnesota. The day after Holton’s barn fire.

  I called Gunner to see whether his ego had healed sufficiently to tolerate my presence after Costa’s dismissal. He sounded more irritated than wounded on the phone. I was used
to Gunner being irritated. In fact, irritation was probably his most common state of mind when I was around. Come to think of it, that may be more than a coincidence.

  In any case, Gunner had agreed that I could visit him in his office this morning at 9:00 a.m. I arrived precisely as the Episcopal Church carillon chimed the hour. As some grease for the metaphorical wheels of our impending meeting, I had brought with me a box of selected donuts and pastries from Hanisch’s Bakery, including many of Gunner’s faves.

  Following the dispatcher’s page, Gunner was quite prompt in retrieving me from the reception area. Usually, he made me wait. I couldn’t explain the anomaly, but the white cardboard bakery box couldn’t have hurt.

  A few minutes later, we each held a Styrofoam cup of Gunner’s “murk roast” coffee and a pastry treat. Gunner had chosen a cream cheese Danish. I’d broken a cake donut in half for dunking purposes.

  Gunner led off.

  “How’re you and your buddy, Costa, getting along? Having a great time, I hope.”

  “It’s really not fair that you take out your interagency tensions on me, Gunner. I can’t help it that I have a higher security clearance than you.” Sometimes a strategic counterattack can deflect protracted unpleasantness.

  Gunner put down the pastry and slammed both hands on his desk.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your fancy federal clearance. This is my damn county and I damn well oughta know what sort of FBI hanky panky is going on inside my borders. Lack of communication can get people shot, ya know.”

  So much for the strategic counterattack.

  “What people?” I said, dunking the half-donut in my coffee. “Give me a for instance.”

  “How about you, for instance?”

  I guessed Gunner needed to get this animosity off his chest before we could have a substantive discussion.

  “You gonna shoot me now or later, because if it’s not today, I’ve got plans.” I smiled.

  Gunner flopped backward into his metal task chair, leaving his head drooping over the backrest and his eyes staring at the ceiling.