by Milt Mays
“You’re bribing me with donuts?”
Sam smiled. “There is the coffee and the laptop.”
A wave of dizziness hit Dan. “It feels warm in here. Whatever drug you gave me is not out of me. I don’t know if I can concentrate well enough to use the computer.”
“Yeah, right. You can do more on that computer half asleep than ten Stanford hackers. Besides, the sedative should wear off completely in another few minutes.” He paused. “Might help if you took off that fleece pullover.”
Dan kept the fleece on, but pushed his sleeves up and sat on the chair and put his fingers on the keyboard. It was like what he imagined Sam felt like holding a gun, or a mechanic holding a wrench—the most natural and comfortable place his hands could ever be.
He started perusing through the MCW site looking for holes even before Sam said, “We need to find the mice.”
The dizziness was gone, replaced by prime numbers floating through Dan’s mind, a cacophony of pastel colors. His fingers flitted over the keys in a rhythm of clicking that matched the fastest tap dancing routine. The muscles in his back had apparently been tense, though he had not realized it until now. They relaxed, as did his jaw muscles. His eyelids half closed. There was a direct connection from brain to fingers that needed no muscular tension as interference. This was the most relaxing thing Dan could do, his Zen, his yoga trance. Who needed coffee? He did glance at the donut box once or twice, though.
He made it through the MCW firewall and located the map of the labs. They were labeled L1, L2, L3 . . . Not helpful.
He went to the email files of one of the lab techs he found in the staff directory: Grayson Kroll. Grayson had several running conversations with Lavelle Jackson. Dan paged down through the discussion about the latest staff meeting assignments until he came to one about—
“Did you find something?” Rachel said.
He could feel her standing next to him. He tried to ignore her and keep reading. His eyes opened wider. His fingers did a dance on the keyboard, rattling the tops, not pressing hard enough to actuate any characters. Didn’t she understand he needed to concentrate? Hot, but dumb.
“Give him room, Rache.”
Sam knew.
She stepped back and Dan rolled his head on his neck and refocused.
The email conversation went:
Lavelle: Harding said it might be the nano-coating, so we should isolate those.
Grayson: Yeah, but they’re in both rooms.
Lavelle: So get them all in the small room. We need the big one.
Grayson: Got it. Should be done by the end of the day.
Dan noted the date on the last email—two days ago. He went back to the map. Room 234 was about twice the size of 233. Bingo.
Absentmindedly, his left hand floated over the donut box, then snaked inside and felt around for his prize. A reward was appropriate. Using his right hand, he paged down through the rest of the emails. He almost had the donut to his lips when he froze.
He’d reached the end of the emails, but that was yesterday at 2 p.m. The last email got his attention, though it was a bit cryptic.
Grayson: CDC guy is here. Wants to change everything. And no more emails.
That was it.
He leaned back and bit into the donut. Excellent.
“Okay, Dan. Spill it.” Sam had moved next to him, bumped his side.
Dan held up his right index finger, like the number one. Wait one. He finished chewing, swallowed, and started to take another bite when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Please. We’re in a hurry, here.”
He looked up at Sam. “You got a printer?”
“No.”
“You’ll have to memorize the map then.” Dan hit a few keys with his right hand and the floor-by-floor line map of the labs came up. “Take a look. I think the mice are in 234. That’s the second floor.”
Sam leaned over and studied the screen. “You think?”
Dan explained the emails between bites.
“So they could have moved them anywhere,” Rachel was leaning over the back of Sam, perusing the screen.
A thought hit Dan. “I don’t get it.”
“What do you mean?” Rachel stood.
“If your company has been dealing with Ambrosia, why can’t you call them and go visit and take care of everything?”
Rachel’s smile was flat and her eyebrows went up, an expression Dan associated with Adam getting caught eating gummy bears before dinner.
“Ambrosia’s agreement with our company specified no visits to their labs or plants. All our business was supposed to be completed at either our labs or another place they specified.”
Dan remembered reading that clause in the contract he had signed, too. It had hit him then that Ambrosia did not trust anyone. It rang even louder now.
“But this lab is the Medical College of Wisconsin.”
“More fine print.” She pulled Sam back and stepped in. She reached out to touch the keyboard then drew her hand back. “May I?”
He shrugged and scooted his chair to the side. He grabbed another donut and poured a cup of coffee. She could have told him what to do, but he wanted to smell her hair and watch her fingers move. They were so slender. He took a large bite of the glazed donut. Mmmm. So many good feelings.
She hit the PgDn key until she reached the bottom. She moved the mouse over one word, “Sponsor,” and double clicked it.
One simple sentence: “We are proud to be sponsored by Ambrosia Corporation.”
A notice came up in the middle of the screen, a large white box with red block letters: WARNING. DOGS ARE SNIFFING.
He was so busy watching her slender wrists and fingers, he forgot. The wolves had arrived. He tossed the leftover donut into the box, licked his fingers and set his coffee down so fast it spilled. Pushing her aside, he took control of the mouse, clicked on the upper right icon that looked like a ghost, or a puff of smoke as he preferred to think of it. The screen went blank and the hard drive whirred.
“What happened?” she asked.
He wanted to say, You about got us found, dumbshit. But instead he said, “Nothing much. Ambrosia was hunting us, but their dogs are too slow.”
Sam’s phone sounded the four beginning guitar beats of Eye of the Tiger. He answered it. The caller spoke and Sam listened. He said, “When was this?” He listened some more. “Okay, keep me informed.”
He lowered the phone a few inches then pushed the phone against his ear again. His knuckles got white gripping the phone. “You think it was him, too?”
He waited, his eyes dark squints, gazing into the corner of the room. “Thanks.” He ended the call.
“Let’s go,” Sam said. “Dan, bring your laptop. We may need to hit MCW tonight, and you’ll need to disable their security.”
“What’s going on?” Rachel said.
“Jabril, I think. A bicycle cop reported a stolen car close to MCW labs. It was found later, abandoned.”
“Did it match the vehicle of the guard at the D.C. vault?
“No, but the driver and his call to the station are suspicious. A very skinny Arab man was driving and a few minutes later he apparently called the station she works at and the dumb desk clerk gave out her first name and the time she gets off work. A sergeant who was reviewing this clerk’s calls found this about an hour ago. It seems the clerk had already screwed up once.”
“I thought you said this Jabril was like a werewolf, not some skinny Arab guy.” Dan said.
“He’s deceiving,” Rachel said to Dan. Then, as she was moving toward the door she spoke to Sam. “What makes you think it was the same guy?”
“First, the bike cop is a knockout, according to the sergeant. Second, the Arab guy told her he was a medical student who’d pulled an all-nighter. And finally, the station desk clerk distinctly remembers the caller identifying himself as ‘the tired student.’”
He looked at his watch. “She got off ten minutes ago. Her house is only a few
minutes away. Let’s move.”
Chapter 29
Jabril hated Walmart for its decadent capitalism, but was glad now there was always one close by. They had everything. He purchased a large submarine sandwich, an apple pie, a gallon of milk and four packs of Twinkies. The last time he had those was in LA, fifteen-and-a-half years ago. Delicious. He didn’t understand the clerk’s comment about, “How long you think they’ll be here this time?” He also found another cheap cell phone, Silly Putty, and electrical wire. Sitting comfortably in the Subaru in the Walmart parking lot, he consumed the food and milk. At first, only the wrapper on the Twinkies caught his eye. Then, inspecting every other food container, he saw the same thing: They all contained GMO foods. Maybe he needed that, because he felt wonderful after eating. Now he could think and the blood poured into his muscles. He was ready.
He programmed the new phone, then drove and parked the Subaru on a road close to the medical school. Inspecting the area, he saw no one. Using the Silly Putty to hold the wires and phone under the wheel well, he wired the phone to the gas tank and walked away.
A parking garage was not far. In the dark bowels of the basement lot, he found a dented white Chevy Blazer with the parking stub on the dash. The Blazer was an old model, which made it easier to steal: no security system and hot-wiring was simple. There were cigarette burns on the driver’s seat, empty wrappers of granola bars and Lay’s potato chips, and it reeked of smoke and sour milk. He threw out the half-full chocolate milk bottle sitting in the drink holder as soon as he got in, but the smell persisted. Quarter tank of gas was all he needed for now. He would have to get another car soon. This one was too disgusting.
He drove up to the second deck, parked and slept. At 7:30 p.m., the cell phone gonged and he woke, so refreshed he enjoyed a moment of out-in-out-in claw practice. Fun was coming and he was ready. The drive to the police station was as much reconnaissance as travel. He first drove around the block to see the entire station. Satisfied, he parked on the left side of the one-way street that passed the station, a half a block south of the station, in the shadows of a large maple tree. On his left was a park with mature trees, a mowed lawn, manicured flower beds and stone benches and paths.
At 7:50 p.m., Helene pedaled her bicycle by him on the right side of the road, in and out of street lights and tree shadows. She coasted to a stop and flung a leg over the bike, a long slender leg in pants. Multiple bright lights around the station illuminated her well. She took off her helmet, shook out lovely, shoulder-length blond hair, and pushed the bike up the stairs into the station. No bike rack outside. Jabril smiled. Even Milwaukee had infidel vandals. He wanted binoculars to see the finer lines of her anatomy, though her energy and ease of motion was visible. A nice appetizer.
A tall thin man wearing a dark baseball hat, a green jacket with yellow stripes around the upper arms and a number fifteen on the back, walked out of a side street a few meters south of the station. He casually glanced around and studied the phone in his hand, then walked across the street and sat on a bench at the park, facing the road and the station. He wore white running shoes with red soles and moved like a cat. Another guy leaned against a tree in the park about fifteen meters north of the station. Tree shadows hid him, though Jabril could make out the dark sheen of a black man’s face and massive shoulders.
Those men were watching and waiting for him, he was sure. Somehow his call earlier had aroused their suspicions. Maybe someone from the FBI had called them. He scooched down in his seat. They could not see him from their outposts, but he wondered if there was another behind him. If he started his Blazer and drove, he would have to drive right by both men and the station. He’d not thought this out, but he didn’t care. He must have Helene. It was a thought he could not delete, not ignore. She would know the medical school. She was blond. At this point the two men were a challenge. His muscles felt about to burst and his heart raced.
If he got out and walked away, would they see him? Maybe. He wanted to follow her and find out what else they knew. And then there were her long legs and hair.
He sat and waited.
The black man walked south toward the other guy, nodded at him then kept walking toward Jabril, shining a flashlight in each car he passed.
Now Jabril had no options. He pulled the hood over his head, got out and walked south, away from the black man and the Blazer, expecting a yell. He would have to lure the man into a darker street.
Ahead of him another man stepped out of an older pickup, this man white and even larger than the black guy, probably an American football player hired as a policeman. His head was a baseball atop a bear’s body.
Jabril thought about options: Skewer the white ape and run, run the other way and slash and kill either of the other two or both, or he could run across the street and avoid all of them. The faint tingle of the claws bursting through his knuckles made him smile. Skewer, slash, kill— those were all wonderful options, but it would draw a crowd.
He ran.
If they never saw his face they would not be sure. Remain in hiding as long as possible: an important caveat his trainers had taught him so many years ago.
The white ape was quicker than he looked, but Jabril was across the street and over a six-foot privacy fence, across the manicured backyard and rose garden and over the other side before the big guy had scaled the first fence. Jabril slowed to a fast walk. A black BMW crept out of a driveway in front of him. He stopped and stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide the growing claws. The tinted windows of the BMW reflected his dark hooded figure. Maybe he could grab the driver and steal the luxurious car. That would be a nice ride.
The driver sped into the street. Behind Jabril the crackle of a radio spurred him into a run. He crossed the street, ran east around another house, then back north toward the police station. There was still Helene. This street was almost completely dark, but Jabril could see fine. He had not experienced this state yet, halfway between human and . . . whatever he was at the extreme. More and more, he felt better in that exaggerated state than he did as a human. One day he hoped he could stay that way, after the infidels were conquered and he was honored by Al Qaeda. But now he was with two-inch claws, not his usual four-inchers, and his night vision was excellent. It worked nicely. He ran faster.
There’d been a house on the north side of the station, a low enough roof, he thought. He made his way around the back block of the station and found the house. A quick jump and he was on the roof, as noiseless as a tiger. He lay on the north slope of the roof, hidden behind the roof peak, allowing him to peer over the top at the station exit. Would she come out?
The black man had returned to his place, leaning against the tree. The thin man sat on the bench. The white ape came lumbering up the sidewalk toward the thin man. They exchanged words. The big guy put his hands out, palms up and shrugged. The thin guy shook his head, then nodded south. The big guy lumbered back to his post.
Helene came out of the station house and trotted down the stairs. She had on an olive- green down vest, a white pigtailed knit cap, low-cut jeans and white running shoes with fluorescent-yellow highlights. Her cheeks were pink, blond hair trailed down below her cap onto her long neck. Mmm.
The thin man waved at her. She raised a hand, and her merry “Thanks” carried to Jabril on the roof. She crossed to the other side of the road and walked north, the park on her left. The black guy followed, glancing back and forth. The thin man ran up the stairs and was gone inside the station house. In another minute the football player walked into the station, too. It was 8:10 p.m.
A light wind rustled the trees. Jabril leaped down and followed Helene and her protector. This would be easy.
Chapter 30
The black man kept back about ten meters from Helene, his head always moving like it was on a swivel. Every ten seconds or so he would turn around and walk backwards a few steps then continue. Once he stopped and moved behind a tree, waited several seconds and reappeared, looking back, flashli
ght beam searching.
Jabril had trotted off to their left, all the way into the park. He loped along easily in the dark park. Then the park ended and he had to move in closer to them. What he should do is kill the black guy. But all he had were his claws and someone would notice the manner of death, call it in and the military would be on him and he would be back in the vault. The other option was to forget the black guy and forget Helene. Leave her and go. No. He couldn’t do that. She was too . . . too much what he wanted. Needed. She knew the rat lab. She was—He shivered. The claws hurt in his fingers, aching to come out. The ache in his phallus also needed release. No way was she getting away.
He ran left, in an alley around two houses, then back right to the road they were walking, about fifty feet in front of them. They were looking behind them for a tail, so he felt safer being in front. The disadvantage: He was already in the next block when she turned left. He waited for the black protector to make the turn and watched them walk away. After the black guy was about thirty meters in front, Jabril followed behind them again, only on the right side of the road, moving from tree shadow to tree shadow, their mature trunks blocking his movements. He tried to walk, not slink between trees. Slinking might bring a concerned yell from someone looking out their window in this peace-loving, American-pie town, “Hey you. What are you doing?” No, he had to get Helene, no delays.
In the next block the trees disappeared, only grass and sidewalk and empty lots on both sides of the road.
Beyond the empty lots, she turned right. He hadn’t even started onto that block for fear of being too exposed. He waited for the black guy to follow her. But he walked straight to the next block, into deep tree shadows.
Jabril spun around and peered behind him. Could the black man be luring him into a trap between him and another already following Jabril? Or was the black guy checking her home first, making sure all was clear?