by Tim Curran
If cops and reporters really had what was called a gut instinct (and Harry believed that some of them did even if his own was more often than not gas), then his was telling him something unusual was going on. Very unusual. That combined with the fact that Shawna, a pretty normal girl, was terrified, made him very uneasy.
He refreshed her drink and poured one himself.
One wouldn’t hurt, would it?
“So, let’s think about this,” he told her. “I drop you off at Portage. You brood a bit about the horrible wreck you’ve made of your life and—”
“Harry, please!”
“I’m only setting the scene in my mind, pet.” He took a pull of his drink. Mmm. Now isn’t that nice? Like a blowjob from an old lover. “Now. You’re at the park. You see some guy, some emotionally disturbed person, EDP, dressed like a Gulf War vet digging in the cans. A white van pulls up, a couple guys conk him on the head and throw him in the back.”
She nodded, pressing her glass to her lips. Not drinking, just wetting them as if they were so hot they might melt.
“About how far away were you from them?”
“I don’t know. Less than half a city block, I’d say. I saw them clearly. I used the zoom on my cell, but I could have watched the whole thing without it.”
“And the guys were wearing trenchcoats—”
“Yes. Black ones. Like rain slickers.”
“—and they drove off with that guy, our EDP. You followed them to an old warehouse down by the river—”
“Yes, over on North La Salle Boulevard. You know, the Furniture District.”
“—un-huh, and the place had more security than Fort Knox. You later followed them across the state line to some place in East Chi, historic little Marktown. Again, the HAPPY VALLEY van and a refrigerated truck. And later another truck came?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t read what it said very good. It was too dark. I thought it was Something or Other Pressure Cleaning. But I can’t be sure.”
“Perplexing. Weird shit. Now these guys at your apartment looking for you. You sure you didn’t stiff a date with a couple FBI boys?”
She glared at him. “Don’t, Harry. Not now.”
“Okay, I’m just kidding.”
“Do you think it’s... it’s the Mob?”
Harry shook his head. “I doubt it. The thing that bothers me are those guys in the white rubber suits. Sounds like protective gear of some kind.”
“They reminded me of those suits people wear when there’s a radiation leak at a nuke plant. You remember those pictures from Cherynobl and Japan?”
“Only too clearly. But this can’t be a radiation leak and if it was, why the ruse with a meat truck? If something like that happened, they’d evacuate for blocks. And whoever heard of a radiation leak at an apartment building?”
“That cop must’ve given ‘em my plate number.”
“Probably.”
“Harry, what can we do?”
He sat down by her and put his arm around her, kissed her forehead. “There’s only one thing we can do. We have to go to your apartment and see what there is to see.”
DETROIT: RIVERFRONT
12:58 A.M.
Johnny Kopok made his way along Jefferson Avenue East, cutting into the park until he got so close to the Detroit River that he could smell it. It didn’t have the same stench it had back in the good old days, but on a warm night like this, yes sir, she still didn’t smell too good.
He could see Belle Isle Park out there and Canada on the other side. He’d heard or read once how when you went through the Windsor Tunnel into Canada the crime rate dropped like sixty-percent. And that was something to think about when you came right down to it.
Johnny supposed by that they meant Detroit was a real hellhole. And Canada was some kind of fucking paradise.
He had to laugh at that. He’d been to Canada once. Him and a few of the old gang (all dead now, of course) had gone over there after someone told them the booze was cheaper. It wasn’t. In fact, it was a lot more expensive. Johnny had ended up in bar fight with a trio of Canucks and what had he gotten for his trouble?
A month in the can.
And not a real jail like they had in Detroit or Bay City. But one of those Canadian joints that was full of Canadians. All them Canadians thought they was better than real Americans. But if that was so, how come Johnny had laid out three of them without working up a sweat?
The trouble had been when Johnny took on them Mounties.
Now those guys, hell, they could fight pretty good. And to prove it, they’d kicked the shit out of him. Ah, now those were the days. Good memories and good times.
Johnny couldn’t remember what year that was.
Sometimes he had trouble remembering what year this was.
It had been like that since Hue. He’d taken some shrapnel in the head and after that, well things got a little fuzzy sometimes. That’s what had started him drinking. Before then, he’d been okay. His old man had always told him he didn’t have the brain power to light a frigging candle, but Johnny had shown him when he passed that exam and made it into the Marines in ‘67.
Or was that ‘68?
Not that it mattered.
Before that shrapnel things had been good. Johnny had been a boxer. He’d been pretty good. A light heavyweight. He’d been ranked at number 4 in the Marine Corps. After the shrapnel, well, he just couldn’t think straight enough to fight anymore. Sometimes things got real hazy. That one match—the last match—he’d kind of went berserk. Accidentally, of course. He’d knocked down that big guy…what was his name? Earl Freed? Eric Freed? Laid him out like the fucking weeks’ wash. And then... well, hell, things got funny then. He could’ve sworn that Earl had gotten up again... so Johnny pounded on him until he went down again. Next thing he knew, the Shore Patrol was all over his ass like flies on a juicy shit roast. Seems that big fellah…God, now what was his name?... had never gotten up at all.
Johnny had been knocking around the ref.
No more fights after that. And no more Marines.
Like yesterday, Johnny found himself thinking. Seems like that might’ve happened yesterday or the day before.
He had a pint of Ten High. There was one good swig left. He downed it and smashed it on the fancy-dancy cobblestone riverwalk. Then people started shouting at him, saying some terrible things.
“Dirty cocksucking stoolies,” Johnny said back to them. “Bastards! Fucking shitters! Yeah, you, buddy!”
Some guy was walking up the cobbles, looked like Earl Freed. He was staring at Johnny.
“You got something to say to me, bozo? Huh?” Johnny stood his ground ready to do some swinging. Nope, it wasn’t Earl. Some other guy. Big, looked like he wanted to go a few rounds. “Go ahead, punk! Run! Run home to mama and suck her tit!”
Johnny kept arguing and gesticulating. The only problem was that he was quite alone.
“Bastards. All of ya.”
Johnny kept moving. Wasn’t a good idea to hang around like that. Metro cops sometimes cruised the park and those sonsabitches would throw you in the clink for next to nothing. Once they’d thrown Johnny in citing he was a public nuisance. But that was a load of shit. They claimed he was standing out front the Renaissance Center saluting cars as they went by. Johnny knew they were lying because he didn’t remember doing none of that. But that was cops for you. Made up stuff. They’d harassed Johnny plenty. That one time they said he’d peed right out in the middle of Ford Freeway. Another time they said he’d been walking up Gratiot without his pants on, his Johnson hanging in the breeze. And that bit about him taking a dump in the parking lot of Tiger Stadium with all the kiddies watching now that was ridiculous.
Sometimes things got a little fuzzy, but he wasn’t that bad.
“You know how it works,” Johnny had told Lou Priam one night as they sprawled out front the Greyhound depo in Royal Oak. “You give a guy, some ordinary Joe Jackshit Nobody a badge, and all of a sudden... all of a sudde
n, well he’s a god. He runs the show. He owns the world. He can just shit on anybody and everybody he goddamn well pleases. That’s what. Bastards. Gimme a hit of that, Lou. Better. Now what was I saying?”
But Lou couldn’t remember either.
Those damn cops. They had thrown Johnny in dry-out half a dozen times. Like it was any of their business. That last time in the hospital, that Pakistani know-nothing doctor told Johnny he was a dead man if he didn’t quit with the hootch. Said his organs and whatnot were all swollen up. But that had been a year ago or a month ago or something and old Johnny was still ticking like the gold watch on some rich man’s arm.
He stumbled along through the park.
It was a shame what they’d done to Jefferson. Used to be lots of warehouses and breweries and factories there and now all the rich uppity little suits from Seventh Avenue had turned them into trendy hotels, ritzy apartment buildings, and high-end restaurants.
It was disgusting.
They called it urban renewal or reclamation but what it really was, was a damn shame. Lots of people had been employed in those places. A shame.
Johnny sometimes forgot that those places had been empty and rotting for years. A hangout for rats and drug addicts and cheap criminals. And guys like him that weren’t real particular as to where they stretched out for the night.
He always had to be careful, he knew that much. Cops were everywhere, looking to roust guys like him. In the past month, he’d been driven out of his corner over in Roosevelt Park, chased from beneath the overpass near Joe Louis Arena, and run out of Hart Plaza along with a dozen others. Only safe place was getting to be the Rescue Mission on Third, but all that preaching over there…gah.
Remembering all that, or trying to, he started getting scared.
It came on him like that sometime.
The shakes. That’s what he called it. The fuzz in his brain got so bad it was like spun cotton. His heart began to pound, his temples throbbed. He had trouble catching a breath and everything started hurting real bad. Sometimes he fell right down. It was like that now. He couldn’t remember where he was or where he’d come from.
Down in the grass, leaves stuck to his face, Johnny pissed himself. “HEY! HEY! OVER HERE GODDAMMIT! GOTTA MAN DOWN NEED A MEDIC! MEDIC!”
A couple of teenage youths who’d been lounging nearby smoking some weed came over.
“Pete? That you?” Johnny asked. “Fucking slopes! Goddamn, Pete, they tried to run the perimeter again! Crazy fucks! VC hardcore for sure... oh, God, Pete... I hurt... I hurt. I must’ve cut a dozen in half with the fifty! Kansas City kept poppin’ the recoilless... zipperheads were coming apart like water balloons! Jesus, Pete, is it bad... is it bad... WHERE’S THAT FUCKING MEDIC?”
“What the fuck’s matter wit you?” one of the boys said.
“Old Johnny,” said the second one. “Don’t you know Johnny? Still in the war, man. Insane in da membrane.”
“No shit? Zat right, Johnny?” He prodded him with the toe of his Nike. Then he kicked him. “Get the smell of that motherfucker. Shit his pants. Damn.”
Johnny’s natural bouquet acted like a repellent and the boys took off, wanting to be anywhere but with him.
“Hey!” Johnny called after them. “You’re not Pete. I know. I know.”
“Why don’t you dry yer white ass out!” one of them called.
“No, no, boys. I’m okay. But you gotta help me. What... what city is this? Am I still in Detroit?” Johnny rubbed his face in hands. “MEDIC! I NEED A MEDIC OVER HERE!”
The duo, only shadows now, disappeared into the night laughing.
“Fucking bastards,” Johnny said, dragging himself to his feet. “No good mouthy brat shitters. That’s all.”
Two minutes later, Johnny had forgotten all about them.
He had more pressing business. Whistling a tune he thought was from “The Sound of Music” but was actually the theme for “Green Acres”, Johnny scoped out the park. He was looking for Lou Priam. Lou was the closest thing Johnny had to a friend these days. It was too bad about Lou, though. Lou had developed a real problem with the hootch, the old Sweet Lucy. Other than that Lou was one hell of a stand-up guy.
The park was big and Johnny looked and looked for over an hour before he came upon a dark shape collapsed in some bushes by a bench.
“That you, Lou?”
“Who dat?”
“Johnny. You know Johnny, eh, Lou?”
“Yessir, I do. C’mon in,” Lou said as if he was indoors.
Johnny dug in his pocket for the half-smoked cigar some rich SOB had dropped outside Joe Louis. Lou just loved cigars and Johnny always brought him one. It was what friends were for.
“How are ya, Lou?” he asked.
“Not... not so good, Johnny. Not so good.”
Johnny plugged the cigar between his lips and lit it up. In the glow of the flame, he could see that it was true: Lou looked like hell. His black face was beaded with sweat and his eyes were bulging from their sockets like runny fried egg yolks.
He’s bad, Johnny started thinking. Real bad. Guy’s got to cut down on the sauce or he’s gonna damn well kill hisself.
He handed the cigar off to Lou.
“Good old Johnny bringing me cigars,” Lou said, his voice raspy and dry. “Good friend Johnny. You a saint, my friend. You a saint.”
“Got anything to wet the whistle, old friend?”
Lou giggled then started coughing with a deep, phlegmy rattle. “Sure as shit.” He handed Johnny a bottle. There was no label on it. It could’ve been drain cleaner or goat piss; neither man would’ve probably known the difference. “See how this sets ya.”
Johnny raised it to his lips. “Goddamn. This Don Q?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lou laughed. “Yes sir.”
“Where’d ya get it?”
“Couple kids left it yonder. Out sparkin’ they was. Did their business and left—not that I watched. Bottle stayed. Yessir.”
Johnny gulped off it. It was fire in his belly, bringing parts of his anatomy to life he’d pretty much forgotten about. It made his head tingle with a nice buzz. He was a happy man. Content and relaxed like a tomcat sprawled in the sunshine.
“I was going to suggest we leg it over to Moxie’s, but this is better,” Johnny said, grinning wide and proud. He stood up uneasily, swaying like a sapling in a December blow. He began urinating on the bench nearby. “Fucking town’s going to shit, Lou. Lookit this fountain. Used to be lit up and pretty and now look at it. I’ll just pee in it then.”
“Ain’t no fountain, Johnny. It be a bench.”
Johnny’s vision swam in and out of focus. “Well, I’ll be go to hell,” he said. “It does look like a bench.”
He sat down by Lou and they passed the bottle back and forth, just as happy as happy could get.
“Iss bad, Johnny. Iss real bad,” Lou began. “Did I tell you... did I tell you or not?”
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND:
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY
1:26 A.M.
It was a perpetual flood, all days, all hours—millions upon millions of snippets of data, everything from solid leads to dry holes, gossip and rumor, images and text, classified briefings and leaked high-profile conversations, encrypted fragments and private transmissions. It was sifted and mined all courtesy of NSA computers which scanned billions of channels per minute, storing vast amounts of information that might be pertinent to national defense and dispensing with that which was trivial in nature.
In the wake of 9/11, the search had been broadened to glean anything that might be considered a security threat to the United States or its allies. Much of the technology used was exposed in the Snowden disclosures, but there was plenty of exotic, classified tech that could not even be guessed at.
Following the Syrian Incident, a great deal of the NSA’s resources were directed towards the outbreak and overspill of Project BioGenesis. Everything from emails to cell conversations to medical records and VA files were filt
ered and scrutinized, anything of value passed on to the office of DCI VanderMissen and then to the ERTs of S5.
NSA Director Gordon Parks, sat in his lavish yet functional office, fully aware that he was without doubt the most powerful man in the country. And if not that, then certainly he chaired the most important intelligence position in not only the country but quite possibly the world. In an arena of interagency squabbling, he sat above it all, a spider in its web, connected to every strand, feeling every tug of silk, every nuance regardless how slight, of every friend and enemy and potential prey.
It was late now, and all the administrators and civil servants had gone home. Those left—intelligence analysts, security people, hackers and techs—were mostly locked away in their private domains.
“I appreciate you coming out here at such a ridiculous hour,” Parks said to his guest, Elizabeth Toma.
“Well, there are certain things more important than sleep.”
“It’s coming in from every corner of the country now, Liz. Everything is proceeding right down to the letter. What has been sown will now be reaped. Countless tiny details, a million things that could have gone wrong, but due to our foresight and diligence and, yes, imagination, it’s happening. It’s really happening. Within a week at the very outside, there will be no hiding the outbreak. It will reach epic proportions and with the future of our great union at stake, the President will call martial law.”
Elizabeth did not smile at this, she just studied him with her dark, simmering eyes. She was hard to read, hard to know. An attractive woman, she had been courted by men (and women) of great power and learning, but the only ones who were invited into her private world—and bedroom—were those who had something she wanted. She was a venomous snake and Parks knew it. He was always very careful around her because she was notorious for her shifting loyalties. And a wise man never turned his back on a viper.
“You and I and a few select others are in the rare, godlike position of engineering not only our destiny but that of the world. Did you ever stop and consider that?”
