The Serpent's Kiss

by Mark Terry

  “He has good reason not to trust most of the female agents in his office.”

  Again, Derek didn’t comment. After a moment’s silence, he said, “And that’s why he’s a raving paranoid?”

  “It’s a factor. We think daddy’s been watching how things have been going in this office very carefully. Just hints and rumors we’ve been getting from other agents. You know, ‘Hey, I hear Senator Walker’s concerned about how things are operating up there.’ That sort of thing.”

  “Just because you’re paranoid...” Derek said.

  “Right. Maybe they are out to get you.”

  They pulled up in front of a small bungalow in what looked to be a working class neighborhood. It was on the edge of a light manufacturing strip, a row of boxy houses, probably two bedrooms, small yards, single story, car ports rather than garages. Kevin Matsumoto’s house was dark. There was a small concrete stoop in front. It looked like it was sided with either wood or asbestos siding, the drapes drawn, a few untended shrubs along the front of the house. There was no car.

  They studied the house for a moment. Derek voiced their thoughts. “I don’t know how to go in there safely.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Any suggestions?” he asked.

  Jill shook her head, her jaw firm, eyes hard. “Sometimes...”

  He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

  “Sometimes you just have to knock on the door,” she said.

  Derek scratched his jaw. “I’ve got another option, actually.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Try a window.”

  77

  6:31 p.m.

  DEREK AND JILL WALKED around the house, flashlights beamed around the foundation and at the window sills. Derek took every opportunity to peek in the windows, but on most of them drapes were drawn. What he saw otherwise was unremarkable.

  “Can you tell if the windows are wired?” Jill asked.

  “No.”

  Jill thought he had gotten surly and quiet since getting out of the car. Maybe it was what Simona had said about nobody being lucky three times.

  “There’s always the door,” she said.

  Derek shook his head. “Let’s try a window.” He stepped over to a rear window, studied it for a moment, then with a sudden move smashed out part of the glass using the butt of his gun. In the neighborhood’s silence it seemed loud. They waited. Nothing changed. Off in the distance a dog barked. Further off they could hear traffic.

  Derek reached in through the broken glass, unlocked the window, then gripped the frame and opened it, sliding it upwards. Carefully he removed any chunks of glass. “All right,” he said. “I’m going in.”

  “No,” she said, a hand on his arm. “I’ll go first.”

  “I’ll take the risk, Jill.”

  “Shut up. I’m smaller and I don’t have a bum leg. Now, cup your hands.”

  Derek frowned, then obediently stooped and laced his fingers together. He boosted her up to the window so she could squirm through. After a moment of rustling, she reappeared. “There’s a back door. I’ll open it for you.”

  “Be careful!”

  “Of course.”

  He waited. It seemed interminable, though it was probably only a minute or two. The rear door opened silently and Jill waved him over. Once he was inside, she said, “Flashlights?”

  “Just turn on some lights,” Derek said. “Flashlights will attract more attention.” Jill turned on a light and they found themselves in a tiny kitchen. The appliances looked like they had been around since the ‘50s or ‘60s. The decor had the feel of the ‘70s, with yellow and green ceramic fixtures and tile. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes. Against one wall was a small Formica table with aluminum tube legs. A copy of the Detroit Free Press was strewn across the table, as well as a cereal bowl of brown milk, a juice glass with dried orange juice on the bottom, and a grimy spoon. On the table was an opened box of Cocoa Puffs.

  They moved from the kitchen into the living room. It was small and cramped, the furniture worn and old-fashioned, as if Kevin Matsumoto had either inherited his parents’ leftovers or had picked it up at a garage sale. The only thing new was the TV, which was a flat plasma screen attached to one wall. There were more newspapers piled in messy stacks. The carpeting looked old and ratty, speckled with debris as if it had never been vacuumed. Next to an old armchair were chemistry textbooks, a scatter of books and technical journals. Derek leaned over and picked up one of the books, showing it to Jill. It was: “The Anarchist Cookbook.”

  “Figures. I wish that thing had never been published,” she said.

  Derek scanned the room, focusing on several photographs on the wall. He stepped closer. “Shit.”

  Jill joined him. “He looks familiar.” She pointed to a photograph of a round-faced Asian man with a Fu Manchu mustache, big scruffy black beard and mane of pitch-black hair worn long.

  “Shit,” Derek repeated. “That’s Shoko Asahara.”

  “Who?”

  “The head of Aum Shinrikyo. After the gas attack he was arrested, tried and found guilty. They sentenced him to death by hanging, but so far it hasn’t happened. Oh, damn. I...”

  Jill turned. “What?”

  “Shoko Asahara was the name he took when he started the Aum. His given name was Chizuo Matsumoto.”

  “You don’t...”

  “I think Asahara had five or six kids by his wife. After Asahara and his wife were convicted, the kids ended up living with remaining members of the Aum, who started calling themselves the Aleph. Asahara had a lot of followers in a lot of countries.”

  “So Kevin could be his son.”

  “Or think he is.”

  Jill swallowed. “Let’s keep looking.”

  There were two more rooms. One was clearly a bedroom. Dirty clothes erupted from a laundry basket. It smelled rank, of sweat, dust, mold and dried semen.

  Derek stuck his head in the sole bathroom. He sniffed. “The chemistry lab,” he said. “Can you smell it?”

  “I smell something.”

  It was a small, cramped room, the tub looking like it had never been scrubbed, a pink moldy shower curtain pushed to one side, damp towels on the floor like twisted snakes. Derek eyed a closet. With slow, deliberate movements, he stepped into the bathroom and turned the knob. It opened without any resistance. There were four shelves. The top two held soap and razors and deodorant and all the other paraphernalia of a single man’s bathroom. The bottom two shelves held rows of chemicals and Pyrex laboratory vessels—beakers and Ehrlenmeyer flasks of varying sizes. Derek studied the labels on the chemicals. “DMMP,” he said.

  “What?”

  “One of the four ingredients needed to make sarin.”

  “It only takes four?”

  “Yeah, ain’t chemistry wonderful? He’s our boy.”

  He backed slowly out of the bathroom and looked across the hallway toward the second bedroom. The door was closed.

  “I really don’t like the fact that door is closed,” Derek said.

  Jill nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. “Suggestions?”

  He sighed. “No.” He held up the atropine injector he had brought with him. “The person who stays in the hallway gets this. I suggest I be the first one in.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes. She said, “He likes bombs, too.”

  “A real Renaissance Man, our Kevin. Here. Take it.”

  She took it. Derek studied the door. It was uninformative. “Step back,” he said.

  When she had moved down the short hallway, he reached out, hand shaking, and gripped the knob. Slowly he turned, sensitive to any resistance. There wasn’t any.

  Once it was turned all the way, Derek opened the door the same way. Also nothing unexpected. Once the door was open halfway, he stopped. He wiped sweat off his forehead and craned his neck. He panned his light around the room, shook his head and reached in and turned on the overhead light.

  This
room had been The Serpent’s work room and office. There was a long workbench filled with tools and wires and mechanical and electronic objects. At another table there was a computer system. Blackout blinds had been pulled over the two windows.

  “Let me check the floor,” Jill said.

  Derek nodded.

  Jill joined him, got down on her knees, and began to gently feel the carpet. She peered around the door and said, “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “The door’s wired. Good thing you didn’t open it any more. It looks like it’s set to go off if the...” She fell silent.

  “What?”

  “Look!” Jill jumped to her feet and pointed. On the wall behind the door was a digital readout. The wires from the door ran to the readout. Bright red letters counted down. 10. 9. 8...

  There was a touchpad beneath it.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Derek said.

  “Derek—”

  He grabbed her and shoved her out into the hallway, then glanced around the room and leaped over to the computer desk.

  7. 6...

  He snatched a pad of paper off the desk and rushed for the door, getting tangled up with his crutches.

  5. 4...

  Jill caught his shirt and dragged him out of the room, nearly carrying him.

  In his head, Derek counted: 3...

  Jill flung open the front door.

  2...

  They tumbled outside onto the concrete stoop.

  1... Derek thought.

  They raced across the lawn.

  0...

  Nothing happened. They turned to look at the house. “Maybe it was just an alarm,” Jill said.

  Then the house erupted into flames, glass and wood exploding outwards. The compression wave slammed them off their feet. By the time they came to their senses, the small house was engulfed in flames.

  78

  6:40 p.m.

  JILL ROLLED OVER AND pressed her hands to her ears, which hurt. Every sound seemed muffled—the flames devouring the house, the distant cry of sirens, the murmur of voices from neighbors appearing to see what had happened. Even Derek’s voice.

  He said, “You okay?”

  Jill looked over and saw he was sitting up, staring at the house.

  “Can’t hear very well,” she said.

  He nodded and pointed to his own ears. “Me neither. Hope it passes soon.”

  She pulled herself to a sitting position, then cautiously climbed to her feet. For a second she swayed, then her equilibrium kicked in and she steadied. She reached down and helped Derek stand up.

  “Where’s your crutch?” she said.

  He gestured to the crutch lying in the grass fifteen feet away.

  Jill nodded, jogged over and retrieved it for him.

  Derek frowned, scanning the ground. “I dropped it. Where is it?”

  “What?”

  “The notepad I took off his desk.”

  “Was there something on it?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have much time. But I thought I ought to grab something.”

  “Let’s hope it was worth it.”

  One of the neighbors trotted over. He was a big, burly guy with a shaved head and a gray goatee. Even though the head and goatee made him look tough, Jill thought he was a puppy dog. Something about the attitude suggested he was a nice guy. He wore faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt and looked like he might spend some time in a gym. “Hey, you two all right?” His voice was a little high-pitched for such a big guy.

  “I think so,” Jill said.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “House blew up,” Derek said. “Duh!” He limped away, scanning the ground for the notebook.

  Jill frowned. She turned to the neighbor. “You know the guy who owns this?”

  “Owns? No. It’s a rental. Kid lives there, young guy, anyway. Japanese, I think. Odd kid. I’ve talked to him once or twice. Not too friendly.” He gazed uneasily at the house. “He in there?”

  “No,” Jill said. “Any idea where he might be?”

  The neighbor shrugged. “Don’t know. He works strange hours, comes and goes.”

  “Any idea where he works?”

  “Palace.”

  Jill said, “In Auburn Hills?”

  “Yeah. Offered my daughter tickets to a concert a month or so ago, said he got them

  because he worked there.” He licked his lips. “She turned him down. He’s a creep.”

  Jill said, “Any idea what he does at the Palace?”

  He shook his head. “Hey, here’s the fire truck.”

  Jill turned to see Derek struggling to catch the notebook, which was being blown around the yard by the wind. Under different circumstances it would have made her laugh. She ran over and picked it up. She jogged back to Derek with the paper. In a low voice, she said, “I really don’t want to spend the next couple hours explaining this.”

  “I’m a bad influence on you, Agent Church,” he said, taking the notebook from her. “I’m with you, though. Let’s go.”

  The firefighters almost blocked them in, hooking up to a hydrant about fifty yards down the street, the street quickly clogging up with rescue vehicles and police cars. Flashing red, blue and white lights cut the darkness. Jill helped Derek into the car, walked over to the neighbor who had been so helpful and handed him a card, saying, “Give this to a cop, tell him to tell the firefighters that nobody’s inside.”

  He studied the card. “FBI?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Thanks!” she said, not answering, and ran back to the car.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “You’re not staying?”

  She fired up the ignition and slowly threaded their way out of the neighborhood. Derek, in the passenger seat, turned on the map light and studied the notepad.

  “Well?” she said.

  “It’s ... blank.” His voice was so laden with disappointment that Jill thought he might break into tears.

  “We’ll think of—”

  ”Wait. It ... it looks like he may have written over it. Um, I’m about to trash evidence here.”

  “We just fled a crime scene, Derek. What difference does it make?”

  He found a pencil and lightly rubbed it across the top page. “I have a feeling a document examiner somewhere is having a heart attack right now,” Derek said.

  “Anything?”

  Derek angled the page this way and that, squinting. “Numbers and letters. Like he’s calculating something.”

  “That’s all?”

  Derek frowned. “‘0.5mg X 21,454 = 10,727mg. Total.’ And then it says: ‘25% dispersion???’”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Derek was silent. “It also says: ‘1700 mg/70 kg X 21,454 = 36,471,800 mg. Total.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “70 kilograms,” Derek said. “That’s like the average person’s weight. 154 pounds or so. Oh shit.”

  “What?”

  “And 0.5 mg is about the lethal dose of sarin gas. Or in other words, 1700 mg per 154 pound person.”

  “That’s all it takes to kill somebody? Half a milligram?”

  “Fun stuff. And both times he multiplies it by 21, 454. He’s trying to figure out the dosage of sarin needed to kill 21, 454 people! Jesus! And he talks about a 25 percent dispersal rate. He’s got more calculations, adding a quarter more to these numbers. That’s got to be some sort of guess. If you’re aerosolizing a space, how much of it lands on the floor or whatever. But 21,000 people?”

  “Tonight at eight o’clock?” Jill asked.

  “That would make sense.”

  He angled the sheet closer to the light, then held it up so the light shone through the back of the piece of paper. “It says: ‘airborne exposure limit: 0.0001 mg/m3.’ Yes, he’s definitely calculation how to kill over 21, 000 peo—”

  Jill let out a little cry, half gasp, half controlled scream. “Oh dear God!”

  79


  6:55 p.m.

  KEVIN MATSUMOTO, OTHERWISE CALLING himself The Serpent, moved through the crowds at The Palace of Auburn Hills. It was a huge, circular arena, industrial in flavor with white concrete walls, and exposed girders and duct work. Once through the entrance and ticket areas, a broad tiled walkway encircled the actual arena. Vendors and strollers hung out here, hawking jewelry, memorabilia, and food.

  The J Slim concert didn’t officially start until 8:00, though a few thousand people were already here, milling around, checking out the arcade, buying T-shirt, CDs, driving mugs and posters. Others were here starting their party early, eating dinner at one of the restaurants or snacking on pizza, pretzels, popcorn, just as likely paying five bucks for a beer or a gin and tonic.

  Kevin grinned, watching some idiots standing in line for a J Slim T-shirt. Forty bucks for a T-shirt with this asshole flipping the bird! They looked like they deserved it. Torn jeans, motorcycle boots, J Slim tank tops, their hair spiked with gel, skull and crossed-bone earrings, tats on their arms, probably temporary. Somebody bumped him and he smiled, pleasant, though the person who bumped him recoiled at his expression. “Hey, get a life,” she snarled, beer in her hand. She wore low-rise jeans, her puffy exposed stomach showing off a pierced belly button, her shirt pink and tight, nipples protruding.

  You’re dead, he thought, and smiled harder, wondering what it was people saw in his face when they looked at him. Wondered why when he thought he was covering up, being normal and friendly, that people seemed to sense just how much rage he was feeling. How much hatred.

  They would speak his name in fear. Kevin Matsumoto, rightful head of Aum Shinrikyo reborn. His half-sister, Rika Matsumoto, ran Aleph now. She would not recognize his rightful place at the head of Aum. She was younger than he was. He had been born before Aum, before Chizuo Matsumoto was reborn as Shoko Asahara. Kevin was the first-born, son of Shoko Asahara. Him. Not her. After tonight the world would be forced to realize that only the true son of Aum could have been responsible for the day’s destruction.

  Using his Palace ID, he moved toward the backstage areas, making sure he didn’t get into the areas where J Slim and his band were hanging out with local disc jockeys and the people who had won free backstage passes, or who knew people who could get them access. No, he didn’t need that. Besides, security was tight here.