Category 7

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  Old Greenwich, Connecticut

  The cab ride from the small airport in White Plains to the apartment he kept in New York City was both uncomfortable and uneventful. Carter had done what he could to keep the small talk to a minimum, but he’d had the misfortune to encounter one of the most talkative, law-abiding, and unfortunately well-informed cabbies in the tri-state area. The cabbie had recognized him immediately and, in an apparent attempt to bond with him or maybe just get a good tip, subjected Carter to a right-lane ride the entire way into the city, with a complimentary non-stop narrative on everything from crop circles to the war in Iraq. By the time Carter arrived at his small Midtown flat, the normally claustrophobic space seemed like a haven. He didn’t spend much time there, having made plans to meet Richard Carlisle at his home in Old Greenwich at eight, which was where he was headed right now.

  Carter pulled off I-95 at Exit 5 and drove first through moderately seedy areas and then increasingly nicer parts of town until he finally reached the quaint, old-fashioned village within a village. Elegant, authentic Victorians stood cheek-by-jowl with modern McMansions and older, larger estates as he wound through narrow lanes with Waspy names until finally reaching Ford Lane, the small private road that ended at Richard’s secluded and unassuming gravel driveway.

  Compared to the houses Carter had passed as he’d made his way down the street, Richard’s house looked like the neighborhood eyesore. It wasn’t in disrepair, but it could use some attention. No doubt the only thing saving it from the neighbors’ wrath was that you couldn’t see it from the street or neighboring houses. A thick border of tall trees and unmanicured shrubs blocked the view on all sides and cast long shadows across the grass.

  Carter brought the car to a halt and was about to open his door when an enormous lean white dog bounded out of the house and covered the fifty or so feet from house to car in what seemed to be three strides. The dog didn’t seem menacing, but there was no way Carter was getting out of his car with it standing right there. It practically had to bend down to look into the window of Carter’s BMW sedan.

  A moment later a casually clad Richard emerged from the house and called to the dog, which immediately loped back to the house. Alone, Richard proceeded to the car while Carter got out and began crossing the drive to meet him.

  “Sorry about that. He gets excited when we have company,” Richard called with a grin. “He’s gentle as a lamb, but his size scares people.”

  Richard had aged well, showing none of the padding or slouching that most men their age, Carter included, usually sported. He was tanned and fit, with the unnaturally white smile and deep, resonant voice required of TV personalities.

  “I’ve got a few with the same habit,” Carter replied, returning the smile as they met at the edge of the raggedy lawn and shook hands. “It’s been a long time, Richard. It’s good to see you. You’re looking well.”

  “It has been a long time,” Richard agreed. “I’m keeping busy. Come on inside.”

  The inside of the beachfront bungalow—it really wasn’t much more than that—was as unkempt as the outside, with books, papers, videocassettes, and clutter covering every available surface. Carter wasn’t surprised. No one on the team had been more meticulous than Richard when it came to analyzing data and designing models, but his desk had always been a mess of paperwork, overflowing ashtrays, and half-filled coffee cups.

  “We can get some drinks and head down to the water. I built a small patio there in the shade a few years ago. What’s your preference?”

  “Any sort of pop would be fine. Thanks.”

  Richard pulled two cans of Coke from the refrigerator, filled two glasses with ice, and handed one to Carter. “I was surprised to hear from you. I’ve been thinking of you lately.”

  I’ll bet you have. “Really? I catch your forecasts on television every now and then,” Carter replied as he walked ahead of Richard out the old-fashioned screen door.

  Richard smiled his thanks. “One of my former students works for you here in the city. Kate Sherman. Do you know the name? She’s—”

  Okay, so you want to get this over with as much as I do. “Yes, I know Kate. Not very well, but I’m familiar with her work. She’s very good. An excellent forecaster.”

  “Yes, she is,” Richard said as they crossed the lawn. “So what brings you out here after all these years?”

  “Your name came up recently and I started thinking about how long it’s been since we’ve spoken.”

  They reached the small flagstone patio that perched on a patch of land a few feet above the waterline. The tide was going out and there was a narrow, rocky strip of beach beneath the pilings of a short wooden pier. A small outboard-motor boat bobbed against the end of it. The sun was still bright but nearing the cloud-filled horizon and casting long shadows across Long Island Sound.

  They sat in chairs facing the water, separated by a weathered teak table.

  “It has been a long time,” Richard said with a too-casual note in his voice. “Maybe ten years. How did you say my name came up?”

  “I didn’t.” Carter smiled thinly. “That student of yours, Kate, wrote a paper that she presented at a conference yesterday, and she sent me a copy.” He took a sip of his soft drink. “She thanked you in a footnote.”

  Richard swung his head to look at Carter, clearly startled by the news. “She did?”

  “Yes, she did. Given the content of the paper…” He paused. “Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Have you read it?”

  “I didn’t finish it.”

  “Ah. Well, it was interesting.” Carter shrugged. “She makes a lot of suppositions. It’s not the sort of paper that would have withstood scientific scrutiny when you and I were publishing, but I can see how it would attract some attention.” He paused again. “Did you read far enough to get to the part where she starts hinting about an unnatural cause for the escalation of the storms she tracked?”

  Richard nodded.

  “I’m surprised you let your name be linked to it,” Carter said mildly. “That footnote made me wonder just what your input was.”

  “I didn’t have any ‘input,’” Richard replied, his voice marginally cooler than it had been moments before. “We discussed the storms a few times. When she told me she was writing a paper, I counseled her to leave well enough alone because all her questions would do would be to raise other, uglier questions and put her on the periphery of good science.”

  “She didn’t pay attention.”

  “She’s a grown woman and a professional. She didn’t have to listen to me. She doesn’t work for me.”

  “That’s right. She works for me.” Carter pulled his gaze away from the sparkling Long Island Sound and met his former colleague’s eyes. “And I, too, think her questions were better left unasked. So I’d like to know exactly what you discussed with her.”

  Richard said nothing for several minutes, a muscle in his cheek working, all vestiges of his casual demeanor gone. “If you’re asking me what I think you’re asking me, I’d prefer that you left my property.”

  “Without the benefit of an answer?”

  “You don’t deserve an answer,” Richard responded coldly, his voice dropping to a volume that Carter had to strain to hear. “I’ve never said a word about my past to anyone, and certainly not to Kate. Her questions are valid ones, as much as it scares me to admit that.” He paused. “Let me tell you what I think of those storms, Carter. They’re too damned similar to what I saw a long time ago. And I think they have your fingerprints all over them.”

  Carter raised an eyebrow, then gave a short laugh to cover his pleasure at the acknowledgment. “My fingerprints? When I read Kate’s paper, I’ll admit that I saw the similarities to some of our early research, too. She has a sharp eye for detailed analysis. But why would you think of me rather than our old friends? Or perhaps our foreign friends? I’m a little flattered.”

  “Nobody else carried on that research,” Richard said flatly. “If the Comp
any had wanted it to continue, we would have been the ones to work on it. And our foreign friends never had the technology and never knew we had it, either. The evidence points to you, Carter. You left the Company with a bad taste in your mouth.”

  “You’re talking about millions of dollars, Richard, if not billions.”

  “Another component that you, and you alone, have. And costs are much lower when you’re operating outside the system, aren’t they? There’s no oversight or regulations to worry about.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What is it that detective novels are always asking for? Means, motive, and opportunity? I’m not sure what your motive would be, but I’m sure you’ve got one. And the means and opportunity are already there.”

  “Detective novels? You disappoint me. You always struck me as a more literary type.”

  Richard shook his head, wearing a grim smile. “Give it up. They were small-scale storms, too much like our early test runs for my comfort. What are you waiting for? Or are you already planning something more dramatic?”

  “You know that what you’re suggesting is fantastic. In fact, it sounds like you’ve crossed over. Next you’ll be hosting Star Trek conventions.”

  Richard got to his feet, clearly losing patience with the conversation but still in control of himself. “I know what to look for, Carter,” he said flatly. “I saw your signature. I slowed down the pictures and went in deep, nearly to the pixel. I saw the infrared bursts.”

  Carter went still. “Lightning strikes.”

  “No. Wrong wavelength, shorter duration, dead straight. They were low-altitude infrared bursts, Carter. The only time I’ve ever seen anything like them was thirty-odd years ago, when they came from the business end of our laser. And the results killed people back then and they killed people last week and last month and the month before that. The only difference between then and now is that back then we called ourselves scientists. As of right now, you’re a sociopath and a mass murderer. Please leave.”

  His heartbeat accelerated and jumped as the offensive words sunk in and Carter got to his feet slowly, fighting dizziness and measuring his breath. He knew the sweat at his hairline had nothing to do with the warmth of the summer night. “You’re wrong, Richard.” He had to force the words from his chest.

  “I’m not wrong. You’re sick.” Richard turned and began to walk away, then stopped and met Carter’s eyes again. “What I can’t figure out is what the hell you think you’re doing. Playing God? What’s the next thing on your agenda, Carter, now that you can make storms? Are you out to save the world like you used to say you were? Or are you going to try to control it, like you try to control most things you touch? You’re a sick, twisted, egomaniacal bastard, Carter. You can’t do this. I don’t know what your end goal is, but you can’t do this.”

  His breathing and his equilibrium restored to normality, Carter’s anger flared. “But I can,” he said softly, and watched Richard’s expression change from contempt to disbelief. “And I’m not a murderer, not any more than you are. Or have you forgotten what we did in our final test? Super Typhoon Bess was the most destructive storm in the Pacific that year, Richard, and she was our baby. One-hundred-sixty-mile-an-hour winds at the peak, one-hundred-thirty when she made landfall in Taiwan, and she still packed some punch when she crossed the strait and hit the mainland. Thirty-two dead, thousands displaced. And she was only one of our creations. There were others. A lot of rice was ruined that year, wasn’t it, Richard?”

  The sun had dropped below the horizon. The long pause between the two men was filled with the sounds of an evening at the shore, cicadas, bullfrogs, the occasional low hum of a distant motorboat, the muted laughter of a nearby cocktail party.

  “How did you do it?” Richard asked, staring past Carter to the Sound.

  “Just as you described. Without oversight and with my own money.” Carter smiled, empowered by the look in Richard’s eyes, an expression bordering on fear. The loathing that accompanied it didn’t bother him. “Offshore. Poor countries will take funding where they can get it, as will their researchers and their bureaucrats.”

  He could see his former colleague’s throat move as he swallowed hard.

  “You built the laser?” His voice was low and almost hoarse.

  Carter nodded once, imperiously. “It’s not like the other. It’s more powerful and compact. You’d be impressed.”

  “What do you plan to do with it?”

  “Good things, Richard. Necessary things. I’m going to undo some of the damage we’ve done to the earth and free the people Western technology has enslaved. I’m going to start in east-central Africa, in what once was the cradle of life.” He rocked from his heels to his toes and back again, almost gloating. “I’m going to restore Eden. But first I have to provide some context so that people will understand.”

  Richard frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve found that people learn better and faster when you teach using an example. Surely you’ve discovered the same thing during your years in the classroom,” Carter jeered, his voice finally revealing his contempt for everything Richard had come to symbolize over the course of the conversation.

  “Carter, what are you going to do?” Richard demanded, his voice rising slightly.

  “No, Richard. You mean, what am I already doing.”

  They stood in the fading light, staring at each other. Carter’s smile widened as he watched Richard synthesize their conversation and come to the correct conclusion.

  “Simone,” he said at last, his voice sounding somewhat strangled.

  “Yes, Richard, Simone.” He paused and released a breath that was almost a sigh. “She was a small cluster of dirty clouds when I first saw her on the satellite footage, and she spoke to me, helped me understand what I needed to do.” He shrugged. “She was destined to do nothing until I discovered her. And now, she’ll transform the world’s understanding of how and why mankind and Nature must work together. She’ll never be forgotten. And neither will I.”

  “You have to be stopped.” Richard turned on his heel and began walking toward the house with too much purpose in his stride to please Carter.

  He’s going to make a call.

  It didn’t matter to whom. Without stopping to plan what he would do next, Carter ran after Richard and launched his full body weight at the taller, more fit man, bringing him to the ground with a heavy grunt.

  The breath knocked out of him, Richard couldn’t react immediately and Carter took full advantage of those few seconds. Grabbing his former friend’s head, he jerked it back and slammed it forward, then did it again, and again, the wet, sickening thuds barely registering in his brain. After a few moments, reality cleared away the cloud of fury in Carter’s brain and he realized that there was no resistance left in the man beneath him. There was no life left in him.

  Carter rolled off Richard’s body and lay on his back, breathing hard as he stared at the darkening sky and the thin slashes of clouds adorning it. The painful pounding of his heart thundered in his ears, blocking out the night sounds. He closed his eyes and tried to ease his breathing.

  It hadn’t been a matter of choice. He’d had to do it.

  No one knew he was here, unless Richard had mentioned it to someone. Carter had told no one. Not his assistant, not even Iris, knew he’d made plans to meet with Richard. The only thing that could link them was the phone call he’d made yesterday evening.

  Given the hour and nature of their meeting, there was no risk of anyone discovering his body tonight. Tomorrow was Sunday; Richard wasn’t due on the air until Monday morning. This spot could not be seen from the road. If no one came to visit, Carter would be able to put nearly thirty-six hours between now and the discovery of the body. That was plenty of time to get out of here, out of New York, and back to Iowa. He’d keep his appointment with Davis Lee in the morning and fly home as planned. By then, the world would have more pressing things to think about. Raoul would a
lready be airborne and approaching the strike zone. Simone would be a Category 5 in less than an hour.

  Satisfied with his decision, his breath slowing, Carter opened his eyes and sat up gingerly. His body ached from the unaccustomed activity. He brushed the dirt and blood from his hands, careful to smear it in the grass rather than on his clothes, and glanced at the dead body next to him. He’d never seen one up close. There was a stillness about it that was eerie and couldn’t be mistaken for mere lack of consciousness.

  Rising laboriously to his knees and then his feet, Carter brushed the grass and bits of leaves off his clothes and retrieved both his Coke can and his glass from the patio table. With a stride as purposeful as Richard’s had been, he walked to his car, got in, and drove away.

  Saturday, July 21, 8:00 P.M., McLean, Virginia

  It hadn’t taken Jake long to get the names of the weather researchers. All he’d done to sidestep the protocols was phone Tom Taylor. He still wasn’t sure who the hell Taylor actually was, but the original, unredacted microfiche had been delivered to his carrel within the hour, along with the news that, several hours earlier, the mayor had called for voluntary evacuations. Jake shrugged it off and went back to his research without a second thought.

  The composition of the research group had surprised him. Most of the names were familiar, but two had leaped off the page, sending his brain into overdrive. Richard Carlisle, “The Nation’s Weatherman,” and Carter Thompson, Mr. Green Jeans with billions of greenbacks.

  Both were nationally known and respected, but neither had ever been linked to weather research—publicly. Yet both were linked to Kate Sherman, and Kate was stirring up some serious interest among conspiracy theorists while venturing a little too close to something called national security.

  It could be coincidence.

  Then again, maybe it wasn’t.

  Shaking off the cold feeling that had settled into the pit of his stomach, Jake had returned to his cubicle several floors up and begun going over his data in light of this last bit of information. Two hours later, he found himself staring at one of his monitors, wondering if his brain was overtired and he was seeing things that weren’t there or if he’d stumbled onto something that he’d overlooked. At this stage, he was willing to consider almost anything.