by G. M. Ford
“I need your help,” Harry Dobson announced.
“My help?” Dougherty repeated.
Before Dobson could respond, a pair of burly jailers in two-tone brown uniforms pushed into the room. “Take Mr. Corso here back to his cell,” the chief said.
The nearest jailer was reaching for a pair of handcuffs when Dougherty stepped forward, close enough to the chief to nearly put her nose on his. “You need my help, maybe we better keep Frank around.”
“Mr. Corso has several charges pending,” Dobson said.
“I really don’t give a damn,” she said.
They stood for a moment, gazes locked on one another, until the chief broke it off. He turned to the jailers. “Wait in the hall,” he said.
Harry Dobson watched the pair leave the room, then stepped around Dougherty. He walked over to Corso and stood looking up at Corso’s face.
“I’ve got an officer down.” He waited a moment, checking out Corso’s reaction. “In the alley closest to the bus tunnel,” he went on. “Somebody stuck a needle in him. Whatever it was…it’s nothing the doctors up at Harborview have ever seen before. They’re having a hell of a time bringing him around.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“That’s the question.”
“You asking me if I did it?”
“Yes…I am.”
Corso met his gaze. “I didn’t,” he said.
“Know nothing about it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“If you have knowledge—”
“I don’t know anything for sure,” Corso interrupted. “I didn’t see it happen, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But?”
Corso chose his words carefully. “But…I was probably somewhere in the immediate vicinity when it came down.”
“Which means what?”
“Which means I answered your question.”
Dobson flattened his lips and rocked on the balls of his feet. “You want to tell me how you knew it was safe to take off your breathing device down there in the tunnel?”
“Not particularly.”
Dobson tilted his head toward the door. “You of all people, Mr. Corso, are aware of what’s going on out there. We’ve got slightly less than a hundred twenty dead citizens. Murdered by a genetically altered hemorrhagic fever virus.” He fixed Dougherty with a stare. “Ask your friend Mr. Corso here. It’s not a pretty sight. He’s seen it firsthand.”
She flicked her eyes Corso’s way. His face was hard as stone. She watched as he gathered himself to speak only to be cut off by the chief.
“We’ve got another threat. Worse. Bigger.”
“They say when?” Corso asked.
“Sunday. Sunday is supposed to be the end.” He emphasized the final words. “That’s what the message said.”
“Why Sunday?” Corso asked.
“What do you mean, ‘Why Sunday’?”
“If I was going to pull off some sort of terrorist act, I’d want the city full of people. I’d want to do as much damage as I could. Hurt as many people as possible. I sure as hell wouldn’t pick the day when the city is the least populated.”
“Unless the target is something that only happens on a Sunday,” Dougherty said. “Like football or something.”
Dobson shook his head. “We’ve been over this with the feds. Both the Huskies and the Seahawks are playing out of town. The only weekend events going on are the biotechnology symposium at the Westin and a quilting show at Seattle Center.”
“The symposium would be the obvious target.”
“That’s what the feds think,” said Corso.
“What if it’s not?”
“Then we haven’t got a clue.”
A strained silence settled over the room.
“There was a woman,” Corso said suddenly. “She came out of the alley.” He looked over at the chief. “Same alley you say you had a man down in.”
“When was this?”
“Right before they sent the robot inside.”
“The alley closest to the entrance?”
“Right behind the Smith Tower,” Corso said.
“Describe her.”
Corso did so. In detail. Caucasian. Late thirties. Five seven or eight. Even features. No distinguishing marks. Short blonde hair. Athletic build.
“What then?” the chief asked quickly.
“She came out of the mouth of the alley, walked up to the entrance, pulled aside the plastic and went inside.”
“Wearing no protection of any kind?”
“No mask, no nothing.”
“Which you took to mean…”
“Which I took to mean she knew something I didn’t.”
“Would you recognize this person if you were to see her again?”
“I have seen her again.”
Dobson recoiled slightly. “You have?”
“Twice.”
The chief waited. Corso kept on.
“First time was down in the tunnel last night. When I was in there with the firemen. She was standing up on the mezzanine. Watching us.”
“And then?”
“On television this morning.” Corso waved a hand. “They had all those scientists from the symposium on there…explaining hemorrhagic fever and all of that. She was standing at the back of the crowd.”
“Do you recall what channel?”
“Five.”
“You think maybe she’s the one who killed those people in the tunnel?” Dougherty asked.
“No,” the chief said. “As a matter of fact, we don’t.” He paused. “What would you say if I told you that we have reason to believe the bus tunnel incident was perpetrated by the man you knew as Brian Bohannon?”
“Reason to believe?” Corso repeated.
“Solid reason to believe,” Dobson amended.
“I—I—don’t…” Meg Dougherty stammered. Dobson laid it out for her. The dead pathologist and her assistant. The vial. All of it. She listened in silence as he told her everything he knew.
“So…you don’t think I…I’m not a…”
“Suspect. No. You’re not.” He waited for it to sink in. “Our current assumption is that Mr. Bohannon’s death was connected in some way to his terrorist activities and not in any way with you.”
“Where would somebody like Brian Bohannon lay hands on a genetically altered strain of hemorrhagic fever?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, now isn’t it?”
“The feds are looking for Arabs,” Corso said.
“Yes…they are.” Dobson’s voice was flat…emotionless.
“They know about your suspicions regarding Mr. Bohannon?”
“Not at this time.” He sounded like a machine. The machine anticipated Corso’s next question. “An army of federal agents is already stomping all over town, doing what they do best,” he said. “Every phone call, every e-mail, every airplane and train reservation is being screened and monitored. They’re talking about calling out the National Guard.” He shrugged. “A couple cops one way or the other isn’t going to make any damn difference.” He gestured with his head, indicating the detectives leaning against the far wall. “I’m thinking…if there was anything in Mr. Bohannon’s movements last night…anything that might lead us to the people threatening our safety…I figure my men are better prepared for the job. They know the neighborhoods. They know the people.”
“And you want me to…” Dougherty let it hang.
“We want you to retrace your steps of the previous evening. We want you to take Detectives Hart and Gutierrez here to the exact places where you followed Mr. Bohannon. We want to start where you started and end where you ended.” He shrugged. “Who knows…maybe we’ll turn something.” He moved his eyes to Charly Hart. “You get through to Canadian Immigration?”
Charly straightened up. “Yes sir. Blaine’s going over their records for the past week. Same MO as Magnusen-slash-Bohannon. Canadian passport. Traveling alone
. Somebody whose present whereabouts we can’t verify.”
“They give us any ideas on a time line?”
“Midafternoon.”
The chief sighed. “All right then…Let’s get Miss Dougherty—”
Meg interrupted. “I’ll be needing Frank.” She gave the chief a faraway smile. “For emotional support.”
The chief shrugged in resignation. “Take them both,” he said, before striding quickly across the room. Then he stopped and walked back to the table, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of identical cell phones, which he slid onto the tabletop. “I want to be kept strictly in the loop,” he said. “Use the walkie-talkie button on these things. They’re connected directly to mine. Don’t use the radio. Maybe we can keep the newshounds from breathing down our necks this way. God knows they’re going to be all over the airwaves.”
Gutierrez and Hart pocketed the phones and assured their boss that he’d be informed of the slightest development.
“My ass is on the line here,” he reminded them and then headed for the door. The phone rang. The chief stopped. Charly Hart picked it up. He listened briefly and then held the phone against his bony chest.
“For you, Chief,” he said.
The chief winced. His secretary was the only person on earth who knew where he was, and, after seventeen years on the job, she knew better than to interrupt an interrogation for anything short of nuclear war. Whatever this was, wasn’t good. He handled the receiver gingerly, as if it were radioactive, using only his thumb and forefinger to hold the phone an inch away from his ear.
For thirty seconds, the chief of police listened without comment. Only his eyes moved, twitching here and there as he concentrated on what was being said. “Send them down here,” he said finally. “Interrogation Room Number Four.”
He replaced the receiver and turned his attention to Hart and Gutierrez. “Take these two next door,” he said. “Make sure the door’s locked.”
When nobody moved, the chief jerked his thumb toward the door. “Hurry up,” he said. “We’re about to get some company.”
Charly Hart started for the door. Dougherty and Corso were close behind, with Gutierrez bringing up the rear as they hurried down the hall, took a left past the Coke machine, then another left right after the ladies’ restroom.
The room was narrow. More like an enclosed hall really. No chairs. No nothing. Just the lingering odor of long-ago cigarettes and fresh sweat. A five-foot-wide viewing area where whoever was on this side of the window could look out across the proceedings in Interrogation Room Number Four. The chief was on the phone again. His voice crackled through a pair of speakers in the ceiling. “Have him call me on my cell phone,” he said.
“Can they hear us in there?” Dougherty asked from the other side of the black glass.
“Not unless you start banging on the window,” Detective Gutierrez said.
“All you gotta do is keep your hands in your pockets and stand still. You get to movin’ around a lot and they can sometimes sense movement.”
Charly Hart had his owl eyes locked on Corso. “You were down there,” he said. Failing to elicit a response, he clarified. “In the tunnel.”
Corso looked at the speakers in the ceiling. “Yeah.”
“It’s like they say?” Gutierrez asked. “Some kinda virus thing in the air? Just knocks you down and kills your ass right in your tracks?”
“Your blood vessels explode. You bleed out, right there on the spot,” Corso said. What he didn’t mention was the look of recognition on most of the victims’ faces. The horror of suddenly knowing, with absolute certainty, that the end was near. Must be what swimmers felt in those last instants before a shark bite, he thought to himself. That nanosecond when the word shark etches itself in neon on the mind and the world is, once and for all, reduced to nothing more than the scrape of tooth on gristle.
“Jesus,” Charly Hart muttered. “What if they sprayed that stuff from a plane?” he mused. “They could kill everybody.”
“I gotta call my wife,” Gutierrez said. He looked over at his partner. “Duty is one thing, man…but this kind of shit…I don’t know. Get offed by something you can’t even see.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, man.”
On the other side of the viewing panel, the door to Interrogation Room Number Four burst open. The chief folded up his phone and stowed it in his jacket pocket.
“FBI,” Meg Dougherty muttered. “Same guys they sent after me.” They watched a strained round of introductions and ID ogling.
“The one in charge calls himself Payton. Special Agent Payton,” she said.
Payton wasted no time. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. The jagged edges along the top attested to the fact that the package had already been opened at least once. Payton proffered the pages. “We’ll be requiring some assistance,” he said.
The chief kept his face as bland and emotionless as a cabbage as he looked the other man up and down, before reaching out and taking possession of the envelope. He removed the contents, dropped the torn envelope onto the tabletop. Looked to be about five pages. Single-spaced names and addresses. He gave the printed matter a quick perusal and then focused on Agent Payton.
“What kind of assistance would that be?” he inquired.
“We need you to pick up these people,” Payton said.
“Pick them up?”
“Take them into custody.”
“For what?”
“For questioning.”
“On what charges?”
“Under the provisions of the Patriot Act…” Payton began.
“These people are citizens of the State of Washington. Residents of the City of Seattle. I’ve sworn to protect and serve these people.”
“As I said…the Patriot Act allows us to—”
“Then do it yourself,” Dobson snapped. “No member of my department will take anyone into custody without due process. Not now. Not ever.”
“We have other resources,” Payton said evenly.
“Then bring them to bear,” Dobson said.
“Be assured that we will.”
The agents passed a glance. Harry Dobson took a chance. “You’ve already been to the county…haven’t you?” A slight twitch in the nearest agent’s cheek told him he was on the money. “Dan Reinhart wouldn’t do it either…would he?” No response. When they continued to stonewall, the chief dropped the list of names onto the battered table.
“Unless and until these people are charged with a crime of some sort, I’m not picking any of them up.” He cut the air with the flat of his hand. “Period.” He looked around the room. “Am I making myself clear to you gentlemen?”
His final phrase was wasted on their backs as they slid out the door like nickels down a slot. The chief turned toward the black glass panel. Toward Charly Hart and Reuben the Cuban, Corso and Dougherty. “Go,” he mouthed.
28
They were lined up like so many schoolboys. Standing at attention in their new clothes, still and silent, as Holmes moved around them, inspecting the young men from every angle. Not surprising really. He had, after all, once been a policeman, accustomed to rank and file, to inspections and the chain of command. Their acquiescence was a show of respect from those who had long ago ceased to believe in such inanities as right and wrong, or good and evil…an assemblage who had tasted the bitter backwash of despair in their mouths for so long they had come to imagine it to be nourishment.
In a way, it was worse for Holmes. He wasn’t so much a victim as an unwilling accomplice. While the five young men standing before him had been purely the victims of circumstance, Holmes had played an unwitting part in his own personal doom and thus was as much a victim of himself as of the pack of dogs who had torn their lives to pieces.
Bobby remembered him from way back when Holmes was trying to restore order from chaos. Back when he still believed in something. Back before Bobby learned to make a life on t
he streets, hustling a living from garbage bins and gutters and before even Holmes learned that certain circumstances required redress regardless of the human toll.
Then he didn’t see him for a long time. Not until he heard someone calling his old name in the street. “Parag,” the voice called. “Parag Dubey.”
He recognized the man right away. “Do you remember me?” the man asked.
“The policeman,” Parag said.
The man looked him over. His sad liquid eyes flowed over the boy’s gaunt frame, to the unkempt mop of hair, over the greasy assemblage of rags that passed for clothes, down to the hard calloused feet that clicked on the pavement like the talons of a bird.
“Do you remember what happened? What came to pass that sent you out here to live this life you are living?”
Parag had never thought of it in those terms. For him, it had seemed a gradual decline. From the hospital and his awful eye, to his ancient uncle in Sanchi. And then his uncle had passed away and he had been on his own, driven from the neighborhood for his insistent begging. Moving from one street to another. Learning to take advantage of his deformity. It was not a single event, it was…a series of unfortunate…And then, for an instant, in his mind’s eye, Parag could see the beasts lying still in the watery fields in the moonlight. He could hear the wailing of the voices wafting above the warm breeze. Feel the awful burning in his eye. Without willing it so, he brought his hand to the fetid crust that had, for the past twelve years, habitually surrounded his left eye.
“I remember,” he had said. “Yes, I remember.”
“Do you know of any other boys? Boys who lost their families as you did and are now forced to fend for themselves?” He stared directly at Parag’s left eye. “Who themselves perhaps were injured at the same time?”
“Some,” he had answered, in what he imagined to be a noncommittal response, and yet, with that single word, in an odd, roundabout manner far too complicated to describe, this present moment in Seattle had begun to take shape.
