the Devil's Workshop (1999)

by Stephen Cannell

  "What is it?" Buddy said, his eyes on the orange painted canisters.

  "They're waterproof bio-units. Good to three hundred feet," she said. "They're used for marine research." With gloved hands, she picked them up. Inside the canisters the black Styrofoam packing was still in place; the indentations where several vials had been pressed were still visible.

  Then she carried one of the canisters back to the Blazer and examined it in the headlights.

  "What do you think?" Buddy asked. He had trailed her there, hating this discovery; afraid it might lead to something and afraid it might not.

  "I was just wondering if we should send this to Wendell. Maybe there were ink markings labeling the vials. We could get an ink transfer off these with chemicals."

  "What for? We know what was in there."

  "We think we know," she said. "But we can't be sure." She closed up the container and moved back to the boat to retrieve the second canister. When she got there, she saw that Cris was inside the boat, sitting on the center seat, studying a wet slip of paper in his hand.

  "What's that?" she asked.

  He handed the slip to her. On it she read:

  FT W/DGNO, GV KCS, MERIDIAN NS ROANOKE

  "Some kind of code?"

  "It's a track warrant. It marks a train route. It means Fort Worth on the Dallas, Garland and Northeastern line, transfer in Grandview to KCS, which is the Kansas City Southern Line. It heads up into central Kansas. Then change in Meridian to Norfolk Southern, then to Roanoke, Virginia."

  "It's a road map," she said, smiling. "Where'd you find it?"

  "In the bottom of the boat, floating in an inch of water."

  Buddy looked at the paper. "You know what the oldest cliche in movies is?" he said. "It's the fucking matchbook cover left at the scene of the crime. This is bullshit."

  Cris considered this. Maybe Buddy was right. He was also hungry, exhausted, and longing for a drink. So he thought of Kennidi, for strength and resolve; he remembered the horrible headaches, caused by the clusters of tumors that grew in her sinuses and bulged her skull.

  "We've got one thing going for us," Cris finally said. "These guys aren't exactly invisible. Forty guys with tattoos, guns, and Bibles are gonna be hard to miss. We could ask around in the jungles."

  "Jungles?" Buddy looked puzzled.

  "Hobo encampments. Hobos live in a narrow world. It covers the entire United States, but it's only as wide as the tracks. People congregate and talk. I think we should drive to Fort Worth, try and get there ahead of this train."

  "Then what?" Buddy said.

  "Then, if we don't see them, we pick up the trail and go on the rails after them. We ask around, try and run them down."

  "Riding a freight," Buddy said, chagrined. "You can't be serious?"

  "We won't find them any other way," Cris said.

  "And we don't have time to talk each other out of it. I'm game if you guys are," Stacy said, and hurried back to the car.

  "When we get to Fort Worth, I'll send these bio-containers to Wendell."

  Buddy got in the passenger seat and Cris climbed into the back as Stacy got behind the wheel. She took off fast, heading back to the main highway, trying to catch up to Fannon Kincaid and his band of murderous train riders.

  Chapter 31

  BUCK

  It was 8:45 A. M. and the Pentagon staff car was heading down Embassy Row in Washington, past the European embassies with their stone pillars and uniformed guards, past the ornate flagged buildings at the end of the street belonging to Mexico and Argentina. Then the car swung left and headed into the large, column-flanked driveway of the Naval Observatory, which contained the official residence of the Vice President of the United States.

  Admiral Zoll was seated next to four-star Army General and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Colin Stallings. Both men had been quiet on the long drive from the Pentagon, lost in their own speculations about what was going to take place.

  It was promising to be a typically muggy Washington June day. The leaves hung like limp decorations from the heavy oak trees that surrounded the magnificent property. The Naval guards at the drive-in gate saluted the two staff officers in the back seat of the Pentagon car, then let the vehicle pass onto the ten-acre estate. It headed up the sweeping drive toward Admiralty House, where the Vice President lived.

  Admiral Zoll often thought that Admiralty House, with its white turn-of-the-century splendor and acres of beautiful gardens, far outshone the White House, which seemed to him like little more than an antiques museum, full of boxy rooms, square architecture, and sweating tourists.

  "This guy can sound like a hick, but he does his research and he knows how the fruit gets canned, so don't volunteer anything," General Stallings said in his Texas drawl.

  "I know all about Buck Burger," Admiral Zoll said. "I did this whole dance in the late eighties to get funding, and again last year, when the Agency spooks fucked up. Buck sees the big picture. This will go down fine."

  Nonetheless, Zoll was dreading the meeting.

  The summons by Vice President Burger had followed a flurry of phone calls from O. T. S. G. (Office of the Surgeon General) and M. R. D. C. (Medical Research and Development Committee). The frantic calls started coming about an hour after the in-depth frontpage Vanishing Lake story in The New York Times hit the Congressional doorsteps early that morning. Zoll got a wake-up call from the office of the Vice President requesting this nine-A. M. meeting. He and General Stallings had gathered their wits, compared notes, and rehearsed their defense over the phone. Now, without benefit of morning coffee, both were headed to a meeting that could easily spell disaster.

  They were led into the Observatory Wing, where the V. P.'s residential suite was located, and shown into his massive office, which was empty when they arrived. Plate-glass windows looked out over rolling lawns and fountains. The room had blue velvet drapes, Early American furniture, and hardwood floors. The flag of the Office of the Vice President stood next to the American flag on gilded eagle-head poles. An old polished brass telescope, dredged up from the quarterdeck of John Paul Jones's ill-fated ship, the Bonhomme Richard, sat in the window, pointing out at the gardens. Like both Admiral Zoll and General Stallings, it had seen its share of incoming cannon fire.

  After a moment, the double doors at the end of the room opened, and Vice President Brian Burger briskly entered the room like a Lexus salesman smiling his greeting. He had been the senior Senator from Arizona and had once chaired the powerful Ways and Means Committee. Admiral Zoll had appeared before him for initial funding on his anti-terrorist bio-research program at Fort Detrick. Back then, the Senator had been known as "Buck" Burger, a folksy nickname he still favored.

  "Colie, James, thanks for coming over on such short notice," he said, booming the greeting as he moved behind his desk.

  "Mr. Vice President," they chorused, and both shook his hand.

  His smile widened, giving them the whole campaign package. White teeth glistened like Ajaxed porcelain; thick, dark-brown, blow-dried hair helmeted a face highlighted by sky-blue eyes that projected warmth and intelligence. Barring a disaster, such as being exposed as the one who had approved funding for an illegal, covert bio-weapons program, he would one day make it to the Oval Office. He was carrying a heavy folder, and now sat behind the working desk near the observatory window, motioning them to the two chairs opposite him.

  "Admiral, since Fort Detrick is your command, let's start with you. What the fuck is going on?" Buck Burger began.

  "What exactly do you want to know, sir?"

  "The President is concerned that we are engaging in illegal bio-research. He wants to know 'yes' or 'no.' "

  "Absolutely not, sir."

  "Glad to hear it. Very reassuring, but I need more. Your word won't be enough this time, Admiral."

  "How about General Stallings's word? As head of the Joint Chiefs, the General would never let our program engage in a criminal endeavor," Zoll said. "Offensive bio-research has been
illegal since Nixon signed the Geneva Protocol on Nonproliferation in '72. We are certainly not going to disobey a Presidential mandate, right, Colin?"

  Colin Stallings nodded his big gray head. He was a remarkably fit sixty-eight-year-old who had had a brilliant career and was set to retire in six months.

  "Here's the problem, James," Burger continued. "This is already a media fire dance. So far, on the negative side, we have Dr. Dexter DeMille, who was assigned to USAMRIID under your command, and who, you yesterday told the media, may have been suicidal and was probably nuts. Yet he was still, somehow, able to use your facility to work on illegal bio-weapons without your knowledge or permission. Second, he has mysteriously disappeared. Maybe he's dead, maybe not. Nobody knows. Next, we've got this town in Texas where lots of innocent citizens got horribly incinerated. We also just told the press some unknown sickness may be loose up there. No real reason given, except DeMille went berserk, set the bug loose, then burned the place. We have fifteen dead military troops, also under your command, stationed at Vanishing Lake, Texas--a facility, I might add, that isn't even listed on the government books. The prison, it now appears, was rented to the Science Department at Sam Houston University, but was being used by USAMRIID for defense bio-research. Making matters worse, some of these dead soldiers have been burned beyond recognition. Their remains are so charred there is almost nothing left to ship home. On the positive side, we have your assurance that nothing is out of order. I think you'll agree this scale is horribly out of balance. The President is getting swamped with calls from families of dead soldiers and civilians, and from some front-bench players in government, including Congress. The press is sharking every detail, and the President has very little to tell them except 'Don't worry,' 'Trust me,' and 'I'm looking into it.' This is not a good situation for the Commander in Chief of the Free World."

  Zoll replied with practiced sincerity, "I wish I could change it, but unfortunately it is what it is."

  "Not the answer I'm looking for, Admiral." The meeting, and the vibes in the room, had become ice cold.

  "I wish I had Dr. DeMille on hand, so we could debrief him and find out exactly what really happened up there. But until we locate either him or his remains, I don't know what else I--"

  "This sounds like you guys have been freelancing again," Vice President Burger interrupted. "What is it, two, three times you've violated that treaty since '72? Not counting the times you didn't get caught."

  "Buck, you know that I was as shocked by those transgressions as you or anybody else on the Hill. The fact is that the CIA was running a parallel program at the Fort. Congress accepted that explanation, and several Agency S. A. C. S lost their jobs and pensions over it."

  "I'm not going to rerun that disaster, okay? The fact remains that it did happen, and that causes our Defense Oversight people to be goddamn suspicious of this thing that's goin' on now."

  "Of course, Congress needs to be vigilant, but--"

  "Come on, your history here is piss-poor! Y'get caught running a bunch of illegal aerobiological tests over San Francisco and Minneapolis, let shit loose in the subways of New York, kill people with yellow fever in the Florida panhandle testing mosquitoes," Burger lectured, rerunning the disasters from the mid-eighties, after promising not to. "The Congress and the press aren't gonna accept some promise of innocence, or your lame excuses." Buck Burger was getting worked up; his genial blue eyes had turned glacial.

  "General Stallings and I are giving you our assurance that everything is as it should be."

  "Fuck assurance, I want evidence. We had assurances last time. This is now a big media deal. 60 Minutes has their nose up the crack of your ass, Admiral, and you two are standing on the end of the plank. Only way you get back in the boat is to come completely clean. If I have to push you two jugheads overboard, then that's what's gonna happen. The President is not going to be embarrassed again. You fuck up here, and you both are going to experience firsthand the meaning of the words 'political sacrifice.' "

  "Mr. Vice President, you tell us what you want, and that's what we'll do."

  "The President has instructed me to initiate an independent investigation. The Subcommittee on Bio-Defense is gonna conduct it. That's Senator Osheroff and Senator Metzger. They're gonna want full access to the facility at Fort Detrick, and to the records of the U. S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases."

  "When?" Admiral Zoll asked. Ugly silence polluted the room, their collective thoughts dark and ominous as an oil spill. Zoll wondered if they had been called in here to be disciplined or to be warned.

  "How long do you need," the Vice President finally said, "to get ready to receive the Committee Investigators?"

  "Two days," Zoll answered.

  "Okay, then I'll wait to call for the investigation until tomorrow. I'm sure everything will turn out to be fine, and they won't find anything, but we're gonna have to give this a complete onceover."

  "Yes, sir," Admiral Zoll said. "I think it's always better to be vigilant and thorough."

  "Best to Sally and Beth. Don't fuck this up, guys."

  Without saying another word, the Vice President got up and left the office.

  Admiral Zoll and General Stallings waited until he was gone, then moved out of the room. They said nothing until they were back in the staff car, heading off the property.

  "I assume you'll need the White Train," General Stallings said.

  "Yes, sir, but there's a lotta bio-active shit to get rid of. Some of it is toxic and unstable. You gotta find a place we can put it."

  "I'll get the Train down to you tomorrow. Sweep the area carefully," the General ordered. "I'll find a secure dump site where we can lose everything without paperwork."

  "Hell of a way to start the week," Zoll muttered.

  Chapter 32

  STEAM TRAIN JACK

  They were forced to stay on Highway 16 out of the Black Hills. The two-lane road wound back and forth, meandering like a coiling rope down the fire-ravaged slope, heading west toward Howlings Junction. The denuded landscape and blackened tree trunks were monuments to a night of insanity. They had to double back to catch the four-lane highway toward Fort Worth. The Southern Pacific tracks that they suspected Fannon Kincaid was still traveling on followed a much more direct route. Those tracks were on the east side of the mountains, following a gradual slope that allowed the freight to attain speeds of over fifty miles an hour all the way to Fort Worth.

  They arrived at the main SP switching yard just after nine in the morning. Stacy parked next to a split-rail fence and turned off the engine. They looked out the front window at acres of track and parked freight cars.

  "What now?" she said.

  "We gotta find what time that unit train got here, then find out what trains have left this yard since then, or the trains scheduled to leave later today. Then we need to check the Sugar Shack."

  "Sugar what?" Buddy asked. He had been sleeping in the front seat, and was trying to come awake. He felt sluggish and dull.

  "It's a jungle, a hobo camp down by the river. I wanta see if I know anyone there, ask around about Kincaid. Somebody might have seen him." Cris pushed on the seat, forcing Buddy to get out, so he could exit the back of the Blazer. The Texas heat fell on their faces and shoulders like exhaust from a factory furnace. The relentless morning sun was softening the asphalt, and rippling their view of the distant shopping center. It was only shortly past nine, and already near a hundred degrees. Cris knew the temperature would soon soar to 115.

  "So these train-yard jerkoffs who run the switching operation are just gonna tell you what's coming in and going out?" Buddy said doubtfully.

  "They won't tell me anything, so I won't bother asking."

  "If they won't talk, then you won't get dick."

  "This information is guarded, but not protected."

  "You sound just like a fucking agent," Buddy said, getting irate, rubbing his eyes and wishing he had slept better.

  "Be right ba
ck," Cris said, and moved away, heading across the tracks, staying in between cars, moving toward the spot where he remembered the Southern Pacific Yardmaster's office was located. He'd only been in this place once before, and back then he'd been drunk and still suffering the aftereffects of the great tennis shoe robbery. Now, as he moved along, he could feel a terrible weakness in his legs, and it startled him. Then he realized that although he had stopped drinking, his appetite had not come back. He'd had no calories in almost twenty-four hours.

  The Yardmaster's office was in a three-story tower at the east end of the switching yard. The observation windows overlooked the tracks and most of the railroad cars parked on the several acres of sidings. Cris skirted a line of parked grainers and then moved down between two rows of stack cars. Crouching on trembling thighs, he inched along, staying out of sight of the high, green-tinted windows until he got opposite the tower. He hoped that the three or four people in the office would be looking back the other way, at the incoming tracks. If the Trainmaster spotted him, he'd be arrested and questioned by the yard bulls.

  Cris had been taught the art of carbon-sheet-spotting by an old-time hobo with the unlikely name of Begone John. "These dufuses get their train line-ups and consist sheets delivered in sealed, locked pouchesJohn had once told him, grinning, his brown teeth and stringy pencil-neck belying a soul as crafty as an Arab merchant's. "Everything has five copies, but with downsizing, a lot of these carbon copies are no longer necessary. The stupid pricks just throw the extra sheets in the trash. If ya know what trains are leaving and where the sleepers are, then ya don't have ta wait on the grade with forty other drunk assholes while the sun's fry in' yer brains. Ya just show up at the appointed hour and catch out on the exact right car.9'

  Cris snuck around to the windowless back of the Yardmaster's tower, where he found the trash cans. Three fifty-gallon oil drums were pushed up against the yellow-painted wood building. An aerial circus of black horseflies the size of gypsy moths, strafed the top of the oil drums, competing for airspace in the fetid containers.