by Mark Terry
Jill hesitated. She knew at some level that Matt Gray was a good agent. A politician, an ass coverer, a careerist, but a good agent. He sounded a little desperate. Another successful attack today would kill his career. Maybe he was trying to get on the ball and make sure that didn’t happen, no matter what his motivation.
Or maybe, she thought, he’s exploring ways to pin the blame on other people if everything goes to hell.
She said, “Anything on the bank account?”
“No. Not yet. They’re stalling us.”
“Okay. We’re working our end. We’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Good. You do that.”
Jill hung up, swallowed, and walked past the firemen and onlookers to her car. She tapped on the window. Derek glared at her, punched a button on his tablet PC, snatched out a disk and flung it into the backseat. He reached over and punched another disk into the slot.
“Open up,” she said.
Derek leaned forward and unlocked the door. She pulled it open and looked in. The backseat was covered with a scatter of computer disks. “Any luck finding anything?”
Derek scowled. “So far, every fucking one of these things is blank. The floppies look like they’ve been run over with a magnet and every damned CD is unformatted. This is all bullshit. Bullshit!” he yelled. “The bastard’s playing games with us!”
He pounded his fist on the dashboard, voice rough with emotion and frustration.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, Stillwater. Take a second. Think. We’ve got an agent trying to track down the rest of the scenario writers. What else—“
Derek snapped his fingers, reaching for his Iridium phone. “I’ve got to get back to the boss. He’s got somebody trying to track down the guy in California. The guy with SKOLAR MD.”
“Call,” she said.
And then, wondering if she was being set up to take a fall by Matt Gray, she said, “And Stillwater?”
He looked at her.
“No more mistakes. We can’t afford them.”
52
3:07 p.m.
MICHAEL CHURCH WAS FUMING. Back in his car, he cranked the stereo, an MP3 of J Slim rattling the windows. He guessed he was going home. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t actually know what he wanted to do. The day had been so full of revelations his head was spinning.
His father had been a spy!
He felt something that might have been pride. His mom had never wanted to talk about his dad, never wanted to talk about how he died. Just that they had both worked at the embassy in Tanzania and he had died in a terrorist attack. Everything about her attitude when he brought up the subject had indicated to him that she didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe didn’t want to think about it.
A part of Michael, the more grown-up part, realized that to his mother, those must have been hideously bad memories. You couldn’t have your husband die in a terrorist bomb attack, leaving you to be a single parent to raise a son, and not be messed up by the trauma in some way.
But Michael was a sixteen-year-old male, which meant he was largely addled by hormones and self-involved to an unhealthy degree. His physicality and size made him look like an adult, but his judgement and hormones hadn’t caught up yet.
He sort of knew that, too. Sometimes Michael felt like he did things his body wanted to do, while his brain told him not to. It was like there was a gremlin living inside his head, or a poltergeist.
And right now, the poltergeist was dancing up a storm. Michael kept flashing on the body of that woman, the one who’d suffocated on her own bed because this guy, The Serpent, had duct-taped her nose and mouth shut.
He shivered, thinking about it. What kind of person would do that?
J Slim screamed profanities, talking about the unfairness of the world, about giving the world back some of that unfairness, living with attitude.
“...You give it back,
Don’t take no shit, Jack,
Life ain’t no fair,
Nobody give you the time a day,
Nobody help you make your way—”
Michael bobbed his head in time to the rap, trying to take his thoughts away from the dead woman.
Away from the little bit of fear he felt for his mom, about her chasing The Serpent, someone who would suffocate someone on purpose.
And he felt a glow of pride about the way Derek Stillwater had treated him. Stillwater had treated him like an adult. Had been straight with him. Honest with him. Asking for his help, even if it was acting as a watchdog in case something went wrong, which it had. Handing him that injector thing, telling him to read it, just in case. Stillwater had acted like he was up to the task, up to the responsibility.
Michael swung by Ray Moretti’s house, figuring Ray would probably be home now. He parked out front of Ray’s house, a big two-story modern thing with a small, well-manicured yard. Ray’s sister, Ann, was home. She was two years older than Ray and Michael, and though Michael would never admit it to Ray, she was hot. Long black hair, big eyes, and those tight cropped T-shirts and low-rise jeans. Man, she made him sizzle.
“Hey,” he said, when she answered the door.
Ann smiled. She was a senior, planning on going to U of M next year, pre-med. A serious student, on the National Honors Society, on the track team and she played flute in the band. “Hi Michael. Ray’s upstairs.”
“Hey,” he said again, avoiding her eyes. “Uh, how’s it goin’?”
“Okay. You hear about this guy, The Serpent?”
He smiled at her. Man, he got a rush just looking at her. She watched him, her expression serious. God, she was hot.
“Yeah,” he said. “Psycho.”
“Is your mom working that?”
Michael blinked. “Uh, yeah, but, you know, I can’t talk about it.”
“Ray said you ditched him, went to pick her up. Did she tell you what was going on?”
He froze. He wanted to tell her everything, to try and impress her. But he couldn’t, could he? He really wanted to. He knew his mom wouldn’t approve, and he could live with that. But he thought Derek Stillwater wouldn’t approve, and for some reason he didn’t want to disappoint Stillwater. Michael took a deep breath. He wondered how Derek Stillwater would handle this situation. Stillwater seemed like a cool guy, someone who had a handle on things. What would he say? Probably something funny and charming.
“Only a bit,” Michael said, feeling a little flood of confidence. “It’s important ... you know, it’s important that rumors don’t go around, I mean, I know more than I can talk about.” His face burned, especially at the way Ann was watching him.
“That’s so cool,” Ann said. “Your mom is so cool. An FBI agent. Not like my parents. I mean, mom’s a banker and dad’s, you know, he works at Chrysler.”
“Hey, your parents are okay. Mom’s just ... she’s just Mom.”
Ann blinked, then smiled. “Well ... Ray’s upstairs.” She walked back to the couch, where she had been sitting with a notebook and chemistry textbook in her lap.
He watched her as she sat down and curled on the sofa. He watched the curve of her thigh in the tight jeans, the way the pink T-shirt rode up, the soft flatness of her stomach. He wanted to say something to her, make her see him as somebody besides her dummy brother’s buddy. He opened his mouth and was surprised to hear himself say, “You know anything about sarin gas? I mean, you’re real smart and you want to be a doctor.”
Ann’s face burned a little pink and she smiled at Michael. “Thanks. Um, no, not really. We could look it up. On the computer. I bet there’s a lot there, though. That’s what The Serpent’s using, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. In gas canisters that he sets off using a cell phone.”
“Wow! That’s ... your mom tell you that? Wow, that’s really scary.”
Michael shrugged.
“C’mon,” Ann said, jumping up. She waved him to follow her. “C’mon, let’s check that out on the computer.”
He followed he
r up the stairs, unable to keep his eyes off her ass. She was so hot. She looked over her shoulder and saw him watching her. She flushed a little darker. “The computer in my room. C’mon, Michael. This is exciting.”
Her room was across the hall from Ray’s. He’d never been in there, though he’d seen her room before. It was kind of a girly room. The drapes had big sunflowers on them, as did the comforter on her bed. Dark blue with big bright cheerful sunflowers on it. There were photographs in frames on her wall. It kind of surprised him. He’d expected her to have posters of rock bands or something. He studied one of the photographs while she booted up her computer.
It was of a sunset reflected across the glass panels of Chrysler World Headquarters. It was shot at an odd angle, so the big Chrysler star was isolated, refracting colors in a thousand shades.
“That’s pretty cool,” he said.
“You like that? I took it myself.”
“Cool.”
“I like photography. For a while I thought I wanted to be a photographer, but I think I’d rather be a doctor. What about you?”
“Huh? I like it.”
She turned to him, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “What do you like?”
He mind went blank. “What?”
“You don’t seem much like Ray. I think Ray’s smoking dope. If mom and dad catch him they’ll kill him. But Ray’s really not into anything. Video games, I guess. How ‘bout you?”
“I ... I like karate,” he said. He hoped she’d be impressed.
Her eyes grew big. “Really? Are you a black belt?”
“Yeah,” he said automatically.
“Are you any good?”
He nodded, knowing that he was.
“Do you, like, break boards and stuff?”
He smiled. “Better to use a saw. Most people don’t get in fights with boards. We don’t do that in the style I study, Sanchin-ryu.”
“Wow. Have you, ever, like gotten in a fight or anything?”
“Just in class. We call it kumite. It’s like sparring. You know, fighting, but you don’t hurt each other.”
“Cool.”
Ray’s door opened and he sauntered across the hallway. “Hey, what’s going on? You finished bein’ taxi driver for your mommy?”
“Shut up, Ray,” Ann said.
“Shut up yourself. C’mon, dude. Tell me what happened. Shit man, lucky you missed history. Binks jus’ ‘bout put us all to sleep.”
Michael stayed rooted to his spot, not wanting to leave. “I ... Ann and I are checking something.”
Ray rolled his eyes. “Jesus, you boner. Get a fuckin’ life.” With a shrug he wandered back to his room and slammed the door.
Ann looked at him. “You can go on.”
Michael shook his head, jaw locking into a stubborn expression. “Nah, he’s bein’ a jerk. Hey, can you, you know...”
“What?”
“There’s something else I want to check, once you’re online.”
“Sure.” She clicked on the Internet icon. “What’s that?”
He leaned over to the computer, very conscious of how close he was to her, how shiny and soft her hair was, how she smelled, which was wonderful. “Um... well, let’s google Tanzania and U.S. Embassy. There’s some stuff I want...”
She leaned back, looking at him up close. She had such big eyes. And her mouth looked so...
“Michael?”
“Huh?”
“What’s this about? You look a little...”
He turned to her. “I, uh, lived there when I was a kid.”
“Really? In Tanzania?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know that.”
He shrugged.
“Was this an FBI thing? I mean... maybe you can’t talk about it and stuff.”
“Mom was with the FBI then, yeah.”
She turned and typed it into the computer. When the entries came up, he pointed to one. CNN.com—Embassy Bombings. News reports of the terrorism bombings that killed eleven. “That one,” he said.
She rested her hand on his arm. “You okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
53
3:15 p.m.
DEREK’S CALL TO SECRETARY Johnston was answered by his personal secretary, Roslyn German. She was a brusque woman with a nasal Brooklyn accent and Derek really didn’t know her very well. She was a recent addition to the staff.
“Secretary Johnston is not available, Dr. Stillwater,” she said. “He’s in a meeting with the President.”
“I asked him to track down some information for me,” Derek said, desperation seizing him once again. What to do if they dead-ended?
“Yes, I have a note about that. He has a message for you. First, he says the FBI is stalling on the Jillian Church request.”
“Screw that, it’s not important.”
“Sure, but you did ask for it.”
“It’s irrelevant now. Forget about it.”
“I’m just saying—”
”What’s next?!”
“I’ve heard about you, Dr. Stillwater. This is exactly what I was warned about.”
“Then don’t act so fucking surprised. What else does the General have for me?”
“I’ll be discussing your attitude with the General, you know.”
“Knock yourself out. The sooner you cut through the shit and tell me what I need, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Fine. Secondly,” German said, “there has been a problem with Dr. Bernard Schultz at Stanford. Let me check this. I’ll read it to you. Are you still there?”
Derek controlled his desire to reach through the phone and pull Roslyn German’s lip over her head. “I’m still here.”
“First, Dr. Stillwater, there’s a three-hour time difference between us and California.”
“I know.”
“So, the first point Secretary Johnston wanted to make sure you understood was that it was 5:00 A.M. for Dr. Schultz when the first attack in Detroit occurred.”
“Get to the fucking point!”
“There’s no reason to use that tone of voice or that type of language with me, Dr. Stillwater.”
“Like hell there isn’t.” He clamped the phone to his ear, willing himself to be calm. “People are dying here.”
She ignored that and continued on in her implacable way. “Secondly, Secretary Johnston wants you to note that it was only 9:00 A.M. in California at the time of the second attack.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” Derek clenched his hands into fists, glaring at Jill, who watched him without emotion. The wind shifted and blew a cloud of oily black smoke their way. Derek shut his eyes, trying not to cough.
“Quite a bit, Dr. Stillwater, if you would be patient.”
“I’m trying to be patient.”
“You’re not very good at it, then, are you?”
Derek didn’t comment. He waited. He watched a firefighter run through the front door with a hose, determined to put out the fire for good.
“Dr. Stillwater, are you still there?”
“Yes,” he said through clenched teeth. “Still here.”
“Yes. Well, it seems, then, that Dr. Schultz did not hear about any of the sarin gas attacks until nearly 9:45 A.M. Pacific Standard Time. He apparently just arrived in his office at Stanford University when he was told about it.”
“Fine. Does he have the—”
”Dr. Stillwater, Dr. Schultz suffered a massive heart attack this morning, shortly after 9:45 A.M.”
Derek was speechless. He sat there in Jill’s car, his stomach churning.
Jill must have sensed something was wrong. “What?”
He shook his head.
“Dr. Stillwater. Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here. I can’t believe this. That’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“Secretary Johnston has underlined, strong history of heart disease, here in his notes. Apparently Dr. Schultz has had sever
al heart attacks before, is quite overweight and had very high blood pressure. At least, that’s according to the field agent we’ve got there in San Francisco.”
“Who’s that?”
“Janice Beckwith. She’s at the hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“Yes, Dr. Schultz was admitted to the Stanford University Medical Center.”
“He’s alive?!”
“Yes, though unable to—”
”I need Janice Beckwith’s number.”
“That’s—”
”Now!”
“Dr. Stillwater, I really—”
”Now!”
Roslyn German was quiet for a moment, then rattled off an Iridium phone number. “Now, Dr. Stillwater, I really think you owe me an—”
Derek didn’t hear the last think Roslyn German wanted, which was apparently an apology. Instead, he was punching Agent Janice Beckwith’s number into his phone.
54
3:16 p.m.
SCOTT ABRAMS WALKED THROUGH the slots room of the Greektown Casino, part of his regular tour of duty. As Casino Manager, Abrams regularly toured the facility to keep staff on their toes and get a feel for the mood of the gamblers. He thought the mood was a little edgy today, though there didn’t seem to be any real change in the buzz, clank and ching of the slots. Maybe he was just projecting the day’s events onto the casino.
The Greektown Casino, the original one, not the new one being built on the corner of I-375 and Gratiot across from Comerica Park and Ford Field, was 75,000 square feet of gaming area with over 2400 slots. It was in the heart of Greektown, across from Trappers Alley, one of the more vital entertainment districts in Detroit, and one of three casinos in the city.
Abram’s assistant, Lisa Mobly, appeared around a corner. He smiled and joined her. “Everything seems to be going well.”
Lisa Mobly was an elegant Native American woman, the assistant Casino Manager. The Greektown Casino was 90% owned by the Chippewa Tribe, and Mobly had come down from Sault Ste. Marie, where she grew up. In her gray suit, Abrams would never have guessed her for Chippewa except for her dark hair. And it didn’t really matter. She was his right-hand.
