Crooked River

by Douglas Preston

  He gave a little chuckle. “The parasite in question is not uncommon: Toxoplasma gondii, which causes a disease in humans known as toxoplasmosis. The illness is usually mild, with flulike symptoms, and it’s common in households that have cats, which are widespread carriers. We were interested in this parasite because it appeared to have the power to alter mammal behavior. Mice infected with toxoplasmosis not only lose their fear of cats, but actually seek out cats—and subsequently get killed and eaten. This is how the parasite reproduces and spreads among cats—by altering the mouse’s behavior. In addition, studies showed that people infected with toxoplasmosis also experience altered behavior. It causes, for example, ‘crazy cat-lady syndrome.’ It can also trigger bizarre risk-taking and even schizophrenia.”

  He chuckled again and inhaled with a long noisy sniff. “Consider that. A single-celled parasite with no mind of its own, no brain or nervous system, is able to take over the mind of a mouse—or a human—and control its behavior. Truly remarkable!”

  Another strange inhaling sound as he gathered more air to continue speaking. His voice was high, loud, and pedantic; the voice of the lecture hall.

  “How does it do this? That was the question!” He raised a tiny finger. “When I arrived, I redirected the research program and we were soon able to discover a suite of complex neurotropic compounds released by the parasite. These compounds attached to certain lipoproteins in the brain and altered the firing of specific neurons. This in turn caused a range of bizarre human behaviors, mostly in the obsessive-compulsive realm. Endless handwashing, for example, or hoarding, or the sudden appearance of phobias. It even triggered, in some subjects, a compulsive nibbling or eating of the body, or violent sexual behaviors. Heady days indeed!”

  His voice had climbed in pitch and excitement until it was almost squeaking. He halted and took another long, snuffling breath.

  “One exploration of these compounds produced an especially strange reaction. It triggered a bizarre psychiatric condition known as body integrity identity disorder, or BIID. We called this drug H12K, after the batch number of its production.”

  The general spoke. “Mr. Pendergast, are you familiar with BIID?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not surprised, since it has yet to receive diagnostic criteria in psychiatric circles. It’s an extremely rare and perplexing psychological condition—so strange as to be scarcely believable. I’ll never forget the first time I saw a test subject in the grips of it. At first we didn’t know what was happening to him. He claimed that his left leg, from the knee down, was foreign. An alien thing, is what he called it. He loudly exclaimed to all within hearing that it was evil and had to be removed. This despite the fact that the limb was normal and apparently healthy. For days he was tormented by this hideous attachment, literally begging for help. We didn’t understand at first how this was going to work out—until we found him later in his cell, bleeding copiously. He had sharpened a piece of metal he’d unscrewed from his bedframe and had tried to hack off his own leg.”

  A long sniff of triumph and another chuckle from the doctor. “And that was when I understood this drug was special—truly special!”

  The chuckle, Gladstone realized, was a nervous tic, not an actual laugh. The sound of it made her blood run cold.

  “Here is the most amazing part,” the doctor continued. “Amputation is, in fact, the only cure for BIID. Nothing else works. There are doctors out there who quietly perform these amputations—and psychiatrists who sanction them. The feeling of bodily alienation is so strong, the individuals who get the amputations are relieved, even ecstatic, that the limb is gone. They are cured completely.”

  “How interesting,” said Pendergast. The agent’s voice was so calm, so neutral, that Gladstone wondered what he was thinking.

  “Interesting indeed!” the doctor said excitedly, his voice high and piercing. “We refined H12K to make it faster acting and more powerful. Best of all—it can be aerosolized!”

  He grasped his hands together and made that same wet chuckling sound.

  The general took over. “One can only imagine the effects of dispersing H12K over an enemy’s battlefield or city. Within an hour it would produce a scene of chaos, with hospitals and medical workers overwhelmed, inhabitants bleeding to death, utter bedlam. This is far better than a nuclear weapon, because it leaves infrastructure intact. It’s far more reliable than nerve gas, which remains in the region for a long time and can drift in the wrong direction when the wind shifts. H12K degrades within two hours in the environment. You simply administer it, wait half a day, and enter the area unopposed. Admittedly, our own refinement, the drug that brings on the dysphoria, does not replicate a subject’s long-term need to be rid of a hated, alien limb—the need is relatively brief, but more than sufficient to do the trick. Nor have we progressed to a point where we can specify which limb is considered alien: for now, all subjects present with the same symptoms. In a war situation, of course, these aren’t concerns. Just think of how we might have deployed this in Vietnam or the Middle East! It is truly the ideal weapon.”

  “Ideal,” echoed Pendergast.

  “I’m glad you see it our way.”

  “I understand you’ve been collecting your test subjects from among undocumented people arriving at the southern border.”

  “Undocumented people.” The general frowned. “You mean illegal aliens? They suit our purposes very well. No one is likely to come looking for them. They’re a self-selected group, if you think about it—deserving of no consideration.”

  “You’re a sick fuck,” said Gladstone, straining at her bonds.

  “Another unsolicited outburst. Please gag her.”

  Gladstone did her best to resist, but the waiting soldiers stepped forward and, holding her head immobile, stuffed a cloth in her mouth and wrapped duct tape around it.

  The general kept his gaze on Pendergast. “Perhaps my explanation has persuaded you to cooperate?”

  Pendergast said nothing.

  “You seemed interested.”

  “I am interested—interested in the profoundly psychotic pathology I see on display in both you and the doctor.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s remarkable you’ve managed to brainwash so many soldiers with this folie à deux. Or perhaps they don’t know the extent of the atrocities committed here?”

  “I warned you,” said Alves-Vettoretto. “He’s a snake.”

  “We didn’t need to brainwash anyone. When we first established this operation, we were careful to identify soldiers disaffected with the transformation of the U.S. Army—disgusted with the loosening of discipline, the admittance of homosexuals, the placing of women in combat roles, and the indiscriminate mixing of races.” His voice rose in volume. “We selected patriotic, tough, God-fearing boys who obey orders without question, not the sniveling, politically correct enlisted men you see in today’s—” He caught himself, took a deep breath, exhaled. “I’m getting off subject. Our soldiers are well aware of what we’re doing—and support it one hundred percent.”

  “It seems you and your men were born seventy-five years too late, and in the wrong country,” said Pendergast.

  The general ignored this. “We’re on a schedule here, and all this is wasting precious time. You will now answer my questions or the good doctor will inject your associate with the drug. Dr. Smith? Reinsert the needle, but hold off the injection until I give the command.”

  Smith picked up the needle again, examined it, then stepped forward. He slid it into the IV port and looked up at the general with anticipation.

  “I will ask again: who knows about this facility?”

  Gladstone stared pleadingly at Pendergast. But he didn’t answer.

  “You know what’s going to happen, of course. Surely you aren’t going to put her through this? It will be on your shoulders.”

  Silence.

  “We normally just let them bleed to death. And you will be watching.�
��

  “I can only ask you: please, do not do this,” said Pendergast.

  “Then answer my question.”

  A long silence. Son of a bitch, answer him! Gladstone thought, moaning and squirming.

  The general sighed, then nodded to the doctor. “Inject.”

  “Wait,” said Pendergast sharply.

  The general glanced back at him.

  “Very well. I’ll answer your questions: you have my word.”

  The general smiled and gestured to Smith to pause.

  Pendergast went on. “Nobody knows of this facility but me, Dr. Gladstone, and the late Dr. Lam.”

  The general arched his eyebrows. “Nobody?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What about your partner? We know you’re not working alone.”

  “He is en route from Mexico to the U.S. and I wasn’t able to contact him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the task force?”

  “No time. More to the point: We’d become sure there was a mole in the investigation, someone very close to the center. I couldn’t trust anyone.”

  The general smiled. “Now, how did you identify the source of the amputated feet?”

  “It was a drift analysis program, developed by Drs. Lam and Gladstone.”

  “In their lab?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does anyone else have it?”

  “No.”

  “An unfortunate fire will take care of that. Well, I’m relieved to know we’re safe—at least for now. Dr. Smith, you may remove the needle.”

  Alves-Vettoretto spoke. “How do you know he’s telling us the truth?”

  “An excellent question! You haven’t been around long enough to appreciate my methods. The fact is, we will know soon enough if Mr. Pendergast has lied or not.”

  Gladstone, moaning and struggling, saw Alves-Vettoretto frown in confusion.

  “You’re wondering how I can be so sure,” the general said. “Because he is about to witness, with his own eyes, the effects of the drug on a subject. You see—Dr. Smith already administered the H12K to Dr. Gladstone. He did that when he first inserted the IV. There’s nothing in that other needle but saline. Once Mr. Pendergast sees what happens…and knows the same will happen to him…then he will be totally forthcoming, if he has not been already.” He turned to Pendergast with a smile and checked his watch. “It takes about an hour for the drug to act on the brain. Almost forty minutes have gone by since Dr. Smith inserted the IV. That means we have another twenty until the show begins.” He gestured at the long mirror on the wall. “It can get rather messy, unfortunately, so let us retire to the observation room and watch from there.”

  He turned. “Ms. Alves-Vettoretto. You haven’t seen the results of the drug in action yet, have you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then, by all means, please join us.”

  59

  WHEN COLDMOON WAS about two hundred yards from the main building, the swamp gave way to a thin forest of sickly pines growing upon sand. The storm had finally broken for real. A heavy rain came down, accompanied by lightning, booming thunder, and gusts of wind that pressed the trees down and almost blew him off his feet. Coldmoon was glad of it. Even though he was soaked, the night was muggy and warm and he was grateful for the rain now washing away the mud from his skin and clothes. It also provided excellent cover—there was almost no chance that, in this chaos, he would be seen or heard.

  He walked through the forest and soon came to a looming cinder-block wall, about fifteen feet high, with spikes along its top. It was too smooth and high to climb, and the trees on either side had been cleared back at least a hundred feet.

  He’d have to go in through the gate. What a shame…for the guards.

  He moved back into the forest and walked parallel to the wall until he could see the cluster of lights that must represent a gate.

  How many were on guard?

  Keeping away from the road, moving with greater caution now, he approached and paused in a thicket about fifty feet from the gate. He could see a single man—a soldier—inside a gatehouse, brightly lit. He raised his binocs. The man was thumbing through an issue of Maxim, looking bored. Could it be there was only one? That would be most convenient. Of course, there were also cameras mounted above the gate, four of them, providing full coverage. Someone would be monitoring those.

  He circled closer, creeping on his belly, until he was within fifteen feet. The water was lashing the windows of the guardhouse, making it hard for the guard to see out even if he were looking, which he wasn’t. It really did look as if there was only one.

  Coldmoon continued crawling until he was at the guardhouse itself. The door was shut, as was the sliding window. But was it locked?

  Moving with infinite care, glad of the noise of the storm, he edged around to the door and reached up. The wind was shaking the flimsy metal shack.

  There was really only one way to do this.

  He stood up and peeked through the door window. The guard’s back was turned, hunched over the magazine as he flipped a page.

  He picked up a stick and whacked it against the guardhouse window.

  The guard jumped like he’d been shot, stood up, and peered out the window. He could, of course, see nothing. The guard sat down again. Coldmoon knew exactly what he was thinking—a branch, blown by the wind. Not even worth checking out.

  Coldmoon smacked the window again, even harder.

  The guard got up again, went to the window, peered out, and then, looking uncertain, stepped outside.

  Instantly, Coldmoon grabbed the man by the hair and pulled his head back, while at the same time yanking him behind the guardhouse, where he couldn’t be seen from the camera array, and cutting his throat. He skipped back as the body tumbled to the ground, neck jetting blood.

  So much for not killing anybody.

  Coldmoon waited a minute for the body to bleed out. Then he quickly removed the guard’s coat and hat, put them on, went back in the guardhouse, and opened the magazine, slouching down in the chair, all for the benefit of the cameras. He’d taken care to stay out of camera view as much as possible, but if someone had seen him, he’d rather know now than later. He remained for a few minutes, flipping pages; then he laid down the magazine and sauntered out of the guardhouse, playing idly with his fly, as if on his way to take a piss.

  He slipped through the gate and walked along the inside wall, pausing in a dark angle. He felt shaken by what he’d done…what he’d had to do. He’d killed before—once—but it hadn’t been in cold blood…

  He stomped hard on those feelings. Not now. Not until his partner was out.

  He couldn’t be sure the cameras hadn’t picked him up, but in the driving rain the view would have been poor. In any case, nobody had come running, no alarms had gone off, and no lights had started flashing. After getting his heart rate under control, he crept farther along the inside wall, moving into an area that was darker still. The tower spotlights roamed about, but their movement was desultory and repetitive. Nobody expected an intruder to show up on a night like this. He pulled out his binocs to reconnoiter.

  The main facility lay across a cracked and weed-infested apron of concrete, a solid two-story factory-like building with rows of small windows punched into a cinder-block façade. The windows looked new and there were other signs of renovations, especially evident in a freshly painted three-story building to one side. Past the gate, the road went straight on into the building, beneath a tall archway, also with a gate, into what looked like an interior courtyard. On either side of the courtyard, parking areas were visible.

  Crouching, Coldmoon waited for the klieg lights to circle around on their route—and then he sprinted for the archway leading into the building.

  60

  HER MIND SWAM back into consciousness and for a moment she braced herself instinctively, assuming the worst, hand tightening around a stiletto that wasn’t there. Then everything came flooding back: the ro
aring noise, being picked up and tumbled about like a rag doll…and then blackness.

  All was eerily quiet except for a steady falling rain. Constance raised her head, annoyed to find she was almost completely covered in mud for a second time that evening, but the warm rain was already washing it off. She lay on the river embankment, giving herself a minute to recover. The docks and outbuildings had been torn to pieces, an unrecognizable shambles of splintered piers and roofless structures. Their boat lay overturned where the waterspout had thrown it, about a hundred yards downstream, half on the embankment and half in the water, its hull split.

  But where was Perelman?

  She struggled to sit up, body aching. It was so dark she could barely make out anything on the ground beyond the nearby gleam of her stiletto.

  “Chief Perelman?” she called in a weak voice, and then louder: “Perelman?”

  “Over here.”

  The strained reply came from the blackness about twenty feet from her. She gingerly rose to her feet, wincing.

  “Are you okay?” Perelman asked.

  “I believe so. But are you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She carefully felt her way toward his voice. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated him, sprawled on the muddy embankment. One leg was twisted beneath him in an ugly, unnatural way.

  She knelt by his side. “Your leg?”

  “Broken, as you can see. Can you…help me out of this mud?”

  “Yes.” Constance put her arms under his and pulled him up the embankment and to a grassy area within a grove of trees.