S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND: Season Two Omnibus (Episodes 9-11)

by Tanpepper, Saul

  She’d seen it happen before, though not in a lab she’d been in.

  But the shock of Jim’s death was one of those things that quickly passed. It had been years since she’d even spoken with him. Though the manner of his death was certainly horrible, hearing it like this from Heather, someone Lyssa had never been all that close to, was a bit like reading his obituary somewhere. It felt impersonal.

  But despite Lyssa’s inclination to dismiss Heather’s vague mention of telephone threats as just another drive-by anti-science fascist scare-monger, the unease which Heather had planted stubbornly persisted. Clearly something had spooked her badly. And it didn’t take a genius to know that Heather felt the threat and the lab explosion were connected.

  Maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  Lyssa hadn’t received any threatening calls; the one inexplicable message she had gotten, the one advising her to leave the island, didn’t really qualify as threatening. If anything, it had felt more like a plea.

  Restless and anxious, she returned to the lab. The lights flickered on automatically when she opened the door. It was a small room, cramped by the amount of equipment and research materials it held. So many opportunities for a fire.

  Now who’s being paranoid?

  To the right was their deep freezer, inside it the frozen tubes Jim had sent, now neatly arranged in their boxes. It was likely they were the only things left of her advisor’s work.

  As she stood in front of the open freezer, icy air spilling out in a fog at her feet, she heard Heather’s shaky voice once again. The timing seemed coincidental, but what if it wasn’t?

  You should just throw it all out. It was a long shot anyway. And you’ve had nothing but trouble since receiving it.

  She rolled her eyes at herself, then shut the freezer door and latched it. She had much bigger issues to worry about.

  Beside the freezer was the fridge, and next to it was the biosafety cabinet where they conducted their tissue culture experiments. The glass sash — what Drew jokingly referred to as the sneeze guard — was pulled down and the ultraviolet light was on inside, disinfecting the stainless steel surfaces while not in use.

  Along the back wall was a bank of tissue culture incubators, each of them emitting a chorus of quiet beeps and sighs as they regulated temperature and humidity. The flasks of cells she’d been culturing over the past couple of weeks would be overgrown by now and most likely dead. It had been Drew’s job to change out their exhausted growth media and replace it with fresh media on a semi-daily basis.

  Abutting the left-hand wall was a row of low desks, including her own, Drew’s, and Sudha’s.

  In the center of the room was an island bench— water baths and centrifuges, the microscope, a smattering of other instruments. The windowless room was kept cool by a pair of filtered vents.

  On a whim, she walked over to Drew’s desk. The surface was tidy and clean, as was his habit. She found his laboratory notebook in the top drawer and checked the last entry. It was from the previous Wednesday. In it, he carefully outlined the samples he had inventoried from Heather’s shipment. Next to one item was a series of question marks and a notation that the contents, when analyzed by spectrophotometry, appeared to already contain fully assembled virus-like particles, or VLPs.

  “Sent to Brookhaven for analysis,” he had written in the margin.

  He’d known.

  She flipped back a page and a slip of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. On it, in his script, was written, “Check on RDL-418 results.”

  RDL-418? It wasn’t an experimental notation she was familiar with, and it didn’t fit in with their sample labeling protocol. She folded the note and pushed it into her pocket. She’d crosscheck it with the requisition slip in her office when she returned there.

  There was also an outline of the rabbit experiment and which animals had received which treatment, whether VLPs or controls. Once again, she noticed the code RDL-418 written alongside some of the treatments. And for one, an additional code had been added: r-d7.04.

  Nowhere in the notebook or his files could she find what those codes referenced.

  She stepped to the left and flipped open Sudha’s notebook. Unlike Drew’s notes, the technician’s were hastily scribbled, nearly illegible, a combination of appalling handwriting, a penchant for abbreviations, and a liberal smattering of nonsensical symbols which Lyssa recognized as Hindi. The last dated entry was from Saturday evening, but all it gave was a date, a time, and two letters: F/W.

  Lyssa knew that those letters referred to feeding and watering, but there was no further description of what she’d done. The rest of the page was blank, save for a faint stain near the bottom corner that looked as if someone had dripped something and then wiped it away.

  The back of Lyssa’s neck prickled. The stain looked like blood.

  Rolling the stool away, she found another spot, small and nearly lost within the irregular design of the linoleum tiles. She located a third droplet halfway between the desk and the hallway. The image of the blood dribble on the glass door for the courtyard came back to Lyssa. Were they related? Had the drops all come from the same injury? More importantly, what had inflicted it?

  Lyssa’s eyes drifted to the biohazard container on the floor, the one Drew was supposed to ask Sudha to remove. It was empty. Someone had tended to it.

  Had the blood been Sudha’s? Had she been the one to put the biohazard waste in the regular trash?

  No! She knew better than to do that.

  The hazardous waste had belonged to Ames. They were the ones who were always screwing up.

  Lyssa shut the lab door behind her and hurried back to her office. She had to find Drew. He would be able to answer all her questions. He would tell her what those codes meant and whose blood it was. Even if he had to finally admit he’d gone to work for someone else, Lyssa didn’t care anymore. She just wanted answers.

  The light on her office phone was blinking, but the message hadn’t been left by Drew. It was, however, in regards to Sudha.

  “Hello, Doctor Stemple,” the message began. “My name is Fred Smallwood. I’m an investigator with the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department. I’m calling with regards to an individual by the name of Sudharaptan Hernandez. We understand that she is under your employ. Would you mind calling us back to answer a couple of questions?”

  Lyssa immediately picked up the receiver and dialed the number provided and was quickly connected with the detective.

  “Doctor Stemple.” He sounded tired. “We appreciate you calling us back so quickly. I’m working on a case involving Missus Hernandez. Can you confirm that she works for you?”

  “She does,” Lyssa answered, “but she’s not here. What’s this about? Is Sudha all right?”

  The detective was silent for a moment. “Do you know where she is? Or where she might be?”

  “No, I haven’t seen her in almost a week. She was out sick for a few days. She came in over the weekend, but I wasn’t here. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  Lyssa felt her face go cold. “Um, she has children, a young daughter and twin boys.”

  “Yes, we know. That’s why we’d like to find her.”

  “Please, tell me. Are they all right? The children, are they okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Stemple. We believe they’ve been murdered.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Lyssa sunk into her work chair and sat without moving for several seconds as she processed the information. How was this possible? What the hell was going on?

  “Doctor Stemple?”

  “It’s Lyssa,” she heard somebody say, someone with her voice but standing very far away. She could barely hear them over the roar of the ocean battering the inside of her head.

  “Lyssa, I realize this is coming as a shock to you. I’m sorry to—”

  “What happened?”

  “As this is an active investigation, I can’t give any specifics. But if you
know where this Missus Hernandez is—”

  “It’s Miss. She’s divorced.”

  “Is she involved with anyone? Romantically?”

  “Y-yes. I think so.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Drew—” She stopped herself, jolted out of whatever trance the news had flung her into. “What happened? How were they murdered? How do you know they’re her children?”

  “You were going to say a name. Drew something. Who was she involved with?”

  “I need to talk to my husband.”

  “Doctor, we need—”

  But she had already hung up on the officer.

  That wasn’t a good idea, honey.

  She didn’t care. She needed time to think. She needed to—

  The phone rang, eliciting a small cry from her lips.

  She jumped from her desk and hurried out of the room to find Ramon.

  * * *

  News of the double murder was all over the radio and television that evening. Lyssa had gone out to the car after dinner to listen. She didn’t want to upset Cassie by having it on in the house. The last thing the poor girl needed was to hear about children dying.

  The Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department, the reporter on Ramon’s favorite news station, a Manhattan affiliate, was saying, hasn’t yet officially released a statement to the press about the case, but sources close to the investigation speaking on the condition of anonymity told us that the two deceased children, a teenaged boy and a young girl of about five or six, were allegedly brutally bludgeoned to death in their East Patchogue home sometime between late Sunday night and early Monday morning. Their mutilated bodies were found by an as-yet unidentified person. The mother, an employee of the controversial Long Island Laroda Animal Research Facility, remains missing, along with a second son, a twin of the murdered boy.

  Lyssa groaned and dropped her head into her hands. How could this be? How could this happen?

  Police will not speculate as to whether the missing individuals are still alive or their possible involvement in the deaths, but a massive manhunt is being conducted even as we speak. The hunt is employing multiple local and regional police agencies and is being directed by specialists from the FBI. The search is also being assisted by National Guard and other military forces which happened to be conducting training exercises in the region.

  Lyssa frowned. She’d never heard of such coordination for a killer. It seemed strange that so many agencies would be involved. Especially the National Guard. There’s something we’re not being told, she thought.

  We also have a report from a separate, independent source that the police are looking for a man whom they will only describe as a middle-aged coworker of the missing mom. This was neither confirmed nor denied by Detective Frederick Smallwood, the lead investigator on the case. ‘All I can say at the moment is that we have a list of people we’d like to interview.’ When asked if the single mother was romantically involved with anyone, the detective declined to comment.

  Police are also continuing their search for the young newlyweds from Islip who were reported missing last week. The couple, both inspectors at Francis S. Gabreski Airport south of Riverhead, Long Island, failed to return from a hiking trip at Rocky Point Preserve. Police will not speculate as to whether those disappearances and the bloody slayings are in any way connected to the double murder.

  In unrelated news, the Department of Fish and Game has offered its services in the health department’s investigation into the spread of a strange and deadly animal disease. Officials are still unclear what—

  Lyssa flicked the dial away, unable to listen to the gruesome news any longer. It was all horror stories lately. Too much killing. Too much disease. Too many people.

  She thought about Sudha’s poor children and wondered how it could even be possible that something like this could happen. Was Drew involved? How? Why?

  A terrible sense of dread came over her as she dialed Heather Hick’s number. After several rings, the answering machine clicked on. “Heather,” she said, “please call me back. Something strange is going on. We need to talk.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. Whatever was happening with Sudha, whether or not Drew was involved, she hoped the police would find them soon.

  She jolted awake to the sound of static from the radio. There was a voice speaking beneath it, a familiar cadence and urgency. She adjusted the dial until the signal cleared.

  —manhunt for a single killer, folks. I was up by Rocky Point. I was over in Riverhead and Baiting Hollow. The Marines are everywhere, from Flanders Bay east to Dix Hills, from the north shore to the south. Don’t tell me this is just a manhunt. I’ve seen the biohazard suits. I’ve seen the heavy arms. If they’re checking for a fugitive, this person must pose more than a physical risk. I’m talking something biomedical, folks.

  Lyssa picked her head off the rest at this last bit, startled. Biohazard suits?

  They’re not just keeping people from leaving Long Island, Jay Bird continued, they’re stopping anyone from coming in! Why the hell would they do that?

  Stopping? It explained why the Ames team had had trouble coming from New York this morning, but Lyssa agreed that it didn’t make sense. Why would they prevent all traffic, both to and from the island?

  And it doesn’t explain why whole neighborhoods have been blocked off, residents prevented from getting to their own homes. This morning, for example, they even attempted to evacuate the entire city of Medford! Then this afternoon, they let everyone back in without an explanation. Was it a drill or something else? Something strange is going on here, folks! Something big!

  AND THEY’RE NOT TELLING US!

  Let’s put this all together: Heightened military drills, military coordination with civilian investigations; a new, unknown plague, supposedly limited to animals, although who really knows anymore? People missing all over the place; and now this horrible murder with links to a tiny, remote animal research laboratory. If I were you, folks, I’d get out while it’s still possible. Get off the island.

  There was a knock at her window. “Cassie’s ready for bed,” Ramon told her, his voice muffled by the glass.

  Lyssa reached over and turned the radio down, then opened the door. She didn’t know what to say. Her whole body felt numb with shock.

  “She’s asking for a bedtime story.”

  “I I’ll be right in.”

  “Anything new about Sudha and Drew?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nothing more than what we heard on the way home.”

  That’s not exactly true. They mentioned Laroda by name.

  She decided not to tell him. It would only put him in a much fouler mood.

  “She’s asking for you,” Ramon nudged.

  What else weren’t they being told? She wanted desperately to listen some more, maybe even make Ramon listen, too. But she knew he wouldn’t. Or, if he did, he’d just say the man was a nutcase.

  Like he’d said about the man in Medford this morning.

  Listen to the bird.

  He had to be talking about Jay Bird. What else could it be?

  The bird sings the truth.

  She settled her head back against the rest. “You read to her,” she told Ramon. “Please. I just need some time alone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  The press the next morning was having a field day connecting the mother of the murdered children with a research facility conducting mysterious experiments. The lab, they further explained, was located at the northeastern tip of Long Island, thirty miles up a desolate stretch of Highway 25. They then began to tar the facility with the same brush they had painted the controversial government-run animal lab a decade before, as if the two were somehow synonymous.

  Ramon was livid. But even in his fury, he insisted that they carry on as if nothing were amiss. He and Lyssa were to go to work, just like normal. Ronnie would pick Cassie up and take her to school. There would be the inevitab
le media barrage, so Ronnie would then take her to her place afterward, like they used to. He and Lyssa would pick her up in the evening.

  A van had arrived during the night, one of the television stations. It parked itself at their curb and remained there without showing any signs of life. But someone was watching from inside. A minute after Lyssa looked out the front window, the phone started ringing. She made the mistake of replying to the reporter’s questions before Ramon pulled it from her hand and hung it up. “No more,” he told her.

  After that, it wouldn’t stop ringing.

  “Whatever is happening to Drew and Sudha,” Ramon said, “we’re not responsible for any of that. So no talking to the press. And if the police want to talk to you, they can come in person.”

  “If we act guilty, then they’ll assume we’re involved somehow,” Lyssa countered.

  “We’re not acting guilty. Besides, they’ll just twist anything we say. The laboratory doesn’t need more problems than it already has.”

  A bit too late to worry about that, she thought bitterly. It troubled her that he expected her to behave normally. Nothing about what was happening — neither to Drew, nor to Sudha’s family — was normal. Didn’t he have any sympathy?

  For that matter, she realized, couldn’t he see how so much — the exercises and drills, the missing people and murders, the animal outbreak — fell outside of the definition of normal?

  “The Ames team members are on their way,” he said, knotting his tie.

  “They got onto the island?”

  He gave her a strange look, narrowing his eyes. “Of course. Why would you say something like that? Were you hoping they wouldn’t?”

  She could only stare back at him, hating how he could be the bearer of information that undermined her understanding of the state of affairs. If they were coming, then Jay Bird had been mistaken in claiming the island was being forced into isolation. Had he lied about it? Or had something changed overnight?

  “I’m expecting the scientists to be at the lab by ten o’clock, so we better be sure and be there before they are. As soon as Ronnie’s here, we need to leave.”