Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller)

by Deborah Shlian

  Nodding, Pappajohn looked at his watch impatiently. Seven fifteen. Time for another antacid.

  “Mr. Brewster, you’re a lifesaver.”

  The crusty Vermonter accepted the compliment with his usual noncommittal “eh yup” and handed Sammy a pile of black-and-white prints from the animal rights demonstration. Out of the original twenty-four, Brewster had only been able to salvage seven.

  Sifting through them, Sammy located a shot of Taft. Her flash had caught the Reverend head-on, and just as she’d been that day, she was struck by the raw fire in his dark eyes. Two black-red orbs floating in the underdeveloped ghostly face.

  Sammy drew herself away and skimmed through the other pictures. Brewster had been right — no man with the mustache. Instead there were a couple of views of the lone tech trying to stop the demonstrators and several profile and face-on shots of students she didn’t recognize. The exercise wasn’t futile, however, because two faces were familiar — the young woman who had leaked plans for Taft’s next demonstration to Sammy after the Sunday service and, standing just behind the short, stocky, older-looking fellow was Luther Abbott.

  The cadre of campus police and contract security officers crowded into the small office. Pappajohn faced his troops like a drill sergeant. Behind him was a rickety portable blackboard with a roughly drawn facsimile of a campus map.

  “The chancellor, Senator Joslin, and Mr. Nitshi. We’ll move the crowd around the press area down the brick path to North Campus. We’ve got cones up to reroute the traffic toward Lot Nine.”

  The phone on Edna Loomis’s desk rang as one of the security officers raised his hand. Pappajohn nodded at the guard.

  “You expecting trouble from the Tafties?”

  Pappajohn’s indigestion was reflected in his expression. “Not with the coverage we’ve set up, but I want everybody online.” He tapped the walkie-talkie on his belt. “Just in case.”

  “Chief, sorry to bother you.”

  Pappajohn turned to see Edna standing beside him.

  “Call from Senator Joslin’s office. Seems he’s gotten himself a touch of the flu — won’t be flying up after all.”

  Pappajohn returned to his blackboard. “That should save us about a half hour of hot air. Let’s be ready to move them out by quarter to one.”

  “Reverend, when do we go?”

  “Right after Senator Joslin,” Taft instructed the placard-carrying group of young men and women. “Move out in front of the press area. Keep the signs facing the cameras. We’ll start the chanting slowly and pump up the volume as soon as Ishida gets to the podium. Try drowning him out as much as possible.”

  “What about the cops?” asked a short-haired girl.

  “Let them come after you. Don’t resist. Just collapse and let them do all the work. Pappajohn’s Boy Scouts’ll have trouble carrying anything bigger than a donut.”

  Several of the students chuckled at Taft’s remark. He continued, very seriously. “Remember, no matter what happens, make sure it’s on camera. We want a record of their interference with our First Amendment Rights.”

  The Office of Contracts and Grants was tucked away in the basement of the university library. Inside the newly remodeled space, five full-time and three part-time personnel provided administrative support for all university research projects. Their salaries came from the forty-two cents of indirect costs added to each dollar government and private agencies paid Ellsford University. All excess monies went into the university’s general coffers. It was a tidy sum. Each year Ellford professors managed to bring in well over one hundred million dollars.

  Silence greeted Sammy as she pushed through the double doors. Where was everyone? She wandered down several rows of cabinets before she noticed a young man with a ponytail carrying a stack of files. His ID badge read: JON-ERIK SCONYERS, STUDENT ASSISTANT.

  “Excuse me? Do you work here?”

  “Yeah, whatcha need?”

  “Well, my T.A. asked me to check sources of private funding for a prospective project.”

  “Yeah. In what?”

  “Molecular genetics.”

  “You’re lucky. We just put everything on computer.” He led her to a walled-off cubby and pointed to a PC on the desktop. “All the medical and science contracts and grants since eighty-three. To retrieve the data, just type in the field.” He flipped on the screen. “If you need help, holler.”

  “Thanks.” Sammy sat down in front of the computer and typed in “Molecular Genetics” on the keyboard. The word “Searching” appeared in a corner of the screen, followed rapidly by “Forty-five Entries.” She called them up. Immediately the screen filled with research projects. Scrolling through, she squinted at the tiny, green luminescent print, most of the titles far beyond her understanding: “Hypothesis for the dual control of CFTR by PKA and ATP,” “Effects of MPTP and Gm1 Ganglioside Treatment on TH Immunochemistry of the Squirrel Monkey Putamen,” “Triplet Repeat Mutations in Human Disease,” “Cloning and Expression of Recombinant Proteins in Bacillus Systems,” “Site-directed Mutagensis and DNA Sequencing.”

  Beside each was the funding source and the name of the researcher. But it was difficult to find, and at this rate, she might be here a while.

  Jumping up, Sammy sought out the student assistant still filing away hard copies of old grants. “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is there any other way to get to the funding sources besides the field itself?”

  The ponytailed student nodded. “Sure. Everything’s cross-referenced by government institution, private organization, and principal investigator.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “I did some of the programming myself.” Sconyers smiled with obvious pride. “Need help?”

  “I think I’m okay now.” Returning to the cubby, Sammy quickly keyed in “Conrad, Barton.” Within seconds, she was staring at a long list of projects headed by the genetics professor. The most recent seemed to be funded by government agencies like the NIH and NSF. Money for work done three to five years before, however, came mainly from private sources.

  She jotted down the names: Biotech Development Corporation, Virology Research Foundation, and NuVax, Inc. — none familiar to her. Beside each she wrote the project title and grant award. Several corresponded to journal articles she’d found at his home. When she was done, she had a list of five grants totaling close to a quarter of a million dollars.

  Remembering that Yitashi Nakamura’s name had also been on several of the journal articles, she typed in “N-A-K-A-M” and waited for the program to produce his sources of project capital. Not surprising, the same three private companies that funded Conrad had supported Nakamura’s work as well. The older scientist had a prodigious output — twenty-three grants over a five-year period, each amounting to more than one hundred thousand dollars. The largest, however, was for one million. Sammy scanned through the scientific jargon until she found the financier: Nitshi Corporation.

  Interesting, she thought, tilting back in her chair.

  And then she remembered.

  She pitched forward onto her feet.

  Nitshi Day! Her Swatch read quarter to twelve. Switching off the computer, she hurried out the double doors, and headed toward North Campus. If she raced like crazy, maybe she’d make it in time.

  • • •

  As Sammy ran, she noticed cars parked along all the side streets leading to North Campus. More than a few had out-of-state license plates — especially New York and Massachusetts. As she got closer, she had to slow for people walking in groups — not only students, but also locals and their families. There were enough youngsters that Sammy surmised the schools let them off for the event.

  Yesterday’s storm clouds had vanished, along with the little snow that had stuck to the ground, leaving a spectacularly clear fall afternoon, a perfect backdrop for a carnival. Just behind the Nitshi Research Institute were a half dozen game and food booths along with a mini Ferris wheel and a house of mirrors. Faci
ng the striking modern four-story, glass-and-steel structure, a grandstand seated several hundred. It was already filled to capacity, with a large spillover crowd standing in front and around the sides. A small wooden stage with a speaker’s podium had been erected in front of the institute. Seated behind the podium were Chancellor Ellsford and a distinguished looking Asian man who seemed vaguely familiar. Several newspaper photojournalists hoisted cameras, while more than one television crew set up equipment nearby.

  Sammy scanned the crowd until she located Larry Dupree standing to the right of the platform. Or, rather, pacing.

  “For God’s sake, Sammy, where have you been? They’re going to start any minute.”

  “Sorry. Tracking down a lead.”

  Larry rolled his eyes in exasperation. He nodded at the remote set-up where Brian had built a clattertrap collection of boxes and wires perched precariously beside a group of well-dressed, short-haired students.

  With the ever-present cigarette drooping from his lips, Brian moved in and handed her a portable microphone and headset. He whispered, “Speaking of leads, I think I’ve got something for you.”

  Sammy’s face brightened. “The tape? What’d you get?”

  “No time to tell you now. I’ve still got more cleaning up to do, but I should be done by tonight. I’ll call when I’m through, and we can meet at the studio.” He caught Larry’s eye and said more loudly, “Let’s go. Ready in five, four, three. We’re live.”

  “Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen,” a campus administrator shouted into a squeaking microphone. “Welcome to Ellsford University’s celebration of Nitshi Day, sponsored by the Nitshi Corporation. With us today is Nitshi Chief Executive Officer Yoshi Ishida, and —”

  Sammy glanced at her Swatch. It was exactly noon.

  “— a long and productive cooperative association.” Smiling at the guests seated beside him, Chancellor Ellsford eased back to his chair on the podium.

  Swallowing a yawn, Sammy spoke softly into her microphone. “That was Chancellor Ellsford who just spoke for about twenty minutes on the cooperative relationship between the university and industry, specifically the Nitshi Corporation. The chancellor stressed that this association would improve research and educational opportunities for Ellsford students and faculty. His speech was met with some resistance from a group of protesters opposed to foreign investment in our colleges.” She glanced at the clean-cut group to her right and was startled to recognize the young woman she’d seen outside Taft’s service in its midst. She scanned the students for Luther Abbott, but didn’t see the angry young man among the crowd.

  The hyperactive administrator-announcer had just finished introducing the next speaker and Sammy quickly returned to her report. “In just a minute, we’ll be hearing from Nitshi CEO Ishida.”

  A burst of applause and a few scattered boos signaled the start of Ishida’s speech.

  He began in soft, clear, and articulate English. “Ladies and Gentlemen. We are pleased to be able to join you today to honor scientists and men of knowledge.”

  Sammy now recalled where she had seen the handsome Japanese man before. Two long days ago, he was coming out of Dean Jeffries’s office.

  • • •

  Though everything was proceeding surprisingly smoothly, Pappajohn felt his stomach churning. Things were going too well. As he reached in his pocket for a new roll of antacids, his walkie-talkie squawked. It was Edna Loomis from the office.

  “Phone call for you, Chief.”

  “Patch it through,” he said, a worried edge to his voice. He knew Edna wouldn’t interrupt for anything trivial.

  “Sergeant Pappajohn?” The voice was barely audible through the static.

  “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

  A group of marchers next to the grandstand began to shout loudly.

  “You Pappajohn?” the caller asked again.

  Pappajohn struggled to hear above the growing chanting. “That’s right. And who are you?”

  “That don’t matter. You just need to know there’s gonna be trouble today.”

  “What kind of trouble?” he demanded.

  “Just remember the Concord Mall.”

  Pappajohn froze. The explosion at the Boston shopping center six years ago had killed eight people, including two children. “What the hell —?” he shouted into the speaker. Too late. The connection had been severed. He clicked the button and his secretary came back on the system. “Edna, call the phone company and get that number traced right away.”

  Before she could respond, he was sending a message to his officers. “Code Red. Phase One Alert.”

  A tall, dark-haired boy gave the signal. The well-dressed group pulled their placards from behind the grandstand and began marching toward the stage. “L-O-V-E,” they chanted in unison. “Let our values endure!” As they formed a ten-deep phalanx around the stage, their shouts grew louder and more strident. “USA for Americans! Foreign interests go home!”

  • • •

  Pappajohn elbowed his way through the crowd. Caught in the middle of the protestors, he lost sight of his fellow officers closing in on the podium from all sides.

  Within seconds, Sammy realized something was seriously wrong. Taft’s group had taken center stage, but their shouts were now overpowered by a swarm of gathering policemen focused on evacuating the audience rather than arresting the protesters. One uniformed guard leaped onto the dais and with a few whispered words, urged an alarmed contingent of Ellsford brass to jump off toward the rear.

  Sammy was certain that among the panic she heard the word “bomb.” Amidst the confusion, she couldn’t locate Larry, though she did catch Brian’s eye from across the wall of students as she wended her way toward the podium. The engineer had extinguished his cigarette and was frantically waving for her to return to the outskirts of the scurrying audience. She shook her head and pressed on, surrounded by the hysterical screams and shouts from the crowd.

  It happened with horrifying speed: an excruciating burst of sound, a blinding sheet of flame, followed by towers of smoke. The podium exploded in a shower of splinters trailing red, white, and blue streamers. Sammy’s last memory was of two strong arms pushing her down onto the hard dirt ground.

  NITSHI RESEARCH INSTITUTE

  FOURTH FLOOR

  Though her head felt cottony, Lucy fought sleep. She needed to think. With the shades down, it was impossible to tell exactly what time it was. She only knew it was night because the nurse had just told her so.

  Night?

  How long had she been here? A few hours? A few days? She couldn’t remember. Ever since she’d gotten up and tried to take a walk down the hall, the staff had kept a vigilant eye on her. Every hour on the hour, gloved and masked, they tiptoed in on crepe-soled shoes, their footsteps never disturbing the gentle hum of the laminar flow equipment. Taking vital signs, checking her IV, bringing meals.

  “You’re too weak,” had been Dr. Palmer’s explanation.

  “But won’t I get weaker lying in bed all day?”

  Dr. Palmer assured her with a gentle pat on the arm. “You’ll get weaker if you don’t follow orders.” He’d removed a syringe from the pocket of his white coat, plunged the needle point into her IV tubing, and emptied the colorless fluid.

  “What’s that?”

  “Just something to calm you down. I know this is all very strange and I know you’re frightened. This will help.”

  “I’d feel much better if I could just talk to my parents and see my friends.”

  He’d smiled. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. But don’t worry. I’ve called them all, and they know you’re in good hands.”

  She’d returned the doctor’s smile — more resigned than convinced.

  That had been when? she wondered now. Yesterday? This afternoon? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she felt terribly alone. Alone and afraid. Looking around her white sterile room, she had the strangest sensation that she wasn’t so much in a hospital as a pr
ison.

  Sammy’s first conscious feeling was the throbbing pain in her head. For a moment she lay still, her eyes squeezed shut, then finally she risked opening them.

  “Hello there.” Reed smiled down at her.

  She tried sitting up, but was assaulted by a wave of dizziness. “My head.”

  “Whoa, take it easy.” Reed gently touched the bandage covering her temple. “It took twelve stitches to close that gash. You suffered a mild concussion.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Ellsford General,” Reed reported. “You were injured in the blast.”

  Blast? She vaguely remembered people running, screams around her, then the sound of a loud explosion. But after that, it was as if a curtain had been dropped over the scene. It was blank.

  “You’re lucky,” Reed added. “The CT scan was normal; no broken bones, no intracranial bleeding.”

  “Then why was I admitted?”

  “Just routine observation. You can check out tomorrow.”

  Sammy surveyed her private room. It was small, but comfortably decorated — more like a three-star hotel than a hospital, with carpeted floors, curtained windows, even a TV that had been turned on, the sound muted. In the dull light of dusk that filtered through the window, the images flickered silently across the screen like an old kinescope.

  “Anyone else hurt?”

  “Don’t worry about that now. You need to rest.”

  “Don’t baby me, Reed.” Her mind conjured a vision of sheets of flames in a web of piercing screams. “What happened?” She pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the throbbing in her forehead.

  “Evidently a pipe bomb was planted near the podium,” Reed explained.

  Nitshi Day. She did remember someone yelling about a bomb. That’s when pandemonium had broken out.

  Reed’s voice was reassuring as he guided her back down. “All your people are fine. The cops managed to disperse most of the crowd.”

  “And the rest?”

  “We got about thirty injured, most not too badly,” Reed said. “They were treated in the ER and discharged. Including your buddy, Pappajohn.”