The Serpent's Kiss

by Mark Terry

  Instead, he moved to the technical equipment area, checking the smoke machines. They were actually using two different types of machines, smoke machines and foggers. The foggers were behind and below the scenes, set up on both sides of the stage. They were large barrels filled with water. At the top of the barrels were baskets that contained dry ice. You lowered the baskets into the water and it produced a carbon dioxide fog. A heating element made the chemical reaction churn along even harder. Large hoses ran from the side of the foggers and out to the main floor of The Palace. This was very effective and cranked out a lot of fog.

  The main floor guests were going to be in for a shock as J Slim took the stage to the machine gun rat-a-tat-tat of his drummer, the throbbing buzz of the synthesizer, and the laser lights.

  And everybody else was going to be in for a surprise, as well.

  Kevin, in his job at The Palace as part of the technical crew, had arranged for smoke machines to be set along many of the upper beams that crisscrossed the infrastructure of The Palace. These were commercial smoke machines manufactured by the Roscoe Corporation. What Kevin liked most about these was the remote control. With a push of a button, the machines would kick in, producing smoke out of a chemical reaction of water and glycol. There were dozens of the machines installed around the arena, strapped to the front of luxury suites and bolted to overhead beams.

  As J Slim made his big entrance, the lights would dim, the band would fill the cavernous building with an electric thrum and a heart-thumping drum line. The concert was sold out, slightly over 20,000 people, and they would probably keep chattering or more likely cheer and scream. Oh yes, they would scream. The music would crescendo, rising to a howling wall of noise that was almost deafening. Colored spots would flash. Lasers would shoot everywhere, their effect increased by the carbon dioxide fog and artificial smoke that would swirl through the air and across the main floor.

  Kevin had loaded all the fog and smoke machines with canisters of sarin gas. With the punch of the remote control button, sarin gas would flow onto the main floor and drift down from the rafters and suite overhangs. Kevin doubted that he would kill all 20,000 concert goers. He expected, as they began to realize what was happening, that people would stampede for the exits. He predicted a lot of people would die in the chaos, either from the gas or being trampled to death.

  Some would escape. People at the higher levels might even get lucky. Sarin was heavier than air and accumulated at lower levels.

  Kevin predicted that tonight’s final attack would make the death toll at the World Trade Towers look like a picnic. Thousands were going to die. Thousands.

  The thought made him smile.

  80

  7:05 p.m.

  JILL SLAMMED ON HER brakes and swerved to the curb. Derek damn near catapulted through the windshield. Hands flung out in front of him, he bounced hard against the shoulder harness, cursing. Jill fumbled for her cell phone, panic etched across her face. Derek watched, unclear as to exactly why the 21,454 people identification had caused such a strong reaction.

  Jill, phone pressed to her left ear, muttered, “Come on, Michael. Answer, dammit!” Her face twisted in frustration. “Michael, it’s your mother. If you’re just out and about, call me immediately. Whatever you do, don’t go to The Palace tonight. Understand? We think there’s going to be ... there’s going to be an attack there tonight! Don’t go!”

  She violently jabbed off the button, said, “Answering machine,” then punched another number.

  Derek pulled out his tablet computer and booted it up. While he was waiting for it to kick on, Jill said, “Dammit, Michael! It’s Mom. If you get this, call me immediately. Whatever you do, don’t go to The Palace. We think The Serpent’s going to attack there again. Understand? Don’t go there. And if you are there, leave immediately!”

  Derek’s tablet PC popped on. He picked up a satellite signal and went online. He googled The Palace of Auburn Hills. A concert schedule indicated a sold-out show at eight o’clock at The Palace of Auburn Hills that night. J Slim.

  Meanwhile, Jill was clicking through her phone’s address book, scowling. Finally she tried directory assistance and was connected to the Moretti’s number. “Hello! This is ... Ann? This is Michael’s mother, Jill Church. Is Michael there?”

  Derek glanced away from his computer screen to the taut, frightened expression on Jill’s face. He had a pretty good idea what she was being told and felt an unpleasant tingling feeling in his stomach.

  Jill said, “Does Ray have his cell phone... yes. Thank you. Are your parents...” She listened some more.

  Derek reached over and gripped her free hand. She at first shot him an annoyed look, then softened to one of gratitude, squeezed back and let go.

  “Okay. Now Ann, you need to listen to me very carefully. If Michael or Ray call you, tell them to come home immediately. They have to leave The Palace. Do you... I ... no. Thank you.”

  She clicked off, her face white. “Michael and his friend Ray went to The Palace for the J Slim concert.” She smacked her palm against the steering wheel. “I told him he couldn’t go! I told him no! Dammit! Why—” She glanced over at the screen of his computer. He was on the official Palace website again. “Is there a number there?” She held up her phone, scanning the computer screen.

  Derek turned it so Jill couldn’t see. “Hang on. Take a minute.” His voice was calm, soothing.

  “Dammit, Stillwater! My son is there!”

  “I know that. Take a minute. Think. What’s going to happen if they start an emergency evacuation of this place? If all of a sudden they come on the loudspeaker and say there’s been a bomb threat or the event’s been canceled, everybody should head for the nearest exit immediately? What is The Serpent—let’s call the prick Matsumoto—what’s he going to do?”

  Jill’s eyes grew wide. “Dear God! He’ll—”

  ”He’ll set it off immediately, that’s what he’ll do! Right. He’ll know the game’s up and he’ll take out as many as he can. But we know what he looks like and we know where he is.” He checked his watch. “And we’ve got slightly less than an hour to get there. How far—”

  Jill slammed the car into drive and floored it. “It’s going to be tight.”

  81

  7:15 p.m.

  SIMONA TOREANNO SAT SLUMPED in the interview room in FBI Headquarters, staring at her cell phone, which was now officially without charge. She was isolated and didn’t know what to think any longer. Her anger had burned itself out and what she now felt seemed a lot like despair.

  The door opened. Matt Gray stood there, head cocked, looking at her. He said, “I’ve received a couple interesting telephone calls in the last half hour, Simona. One was from the Director.” He shook his head. “Going over my head like that—”

  ”You are so full of shit, Matt! You had your stooge lock me up, for God sakes!”

  “And then I received a phone call from my father-in-law.” Clearly he was more angry about this than the call from the FBI Director.

  “And you’ll listen to him?”

  Matt’s eyes glittered. “Here’s the latest news, Simona. Jill Church and Derek Stillwater were last seen fleeing a crime scene in Ferndale. A house explosion. The house was being rented by a man named Kevin Matsumoto. Matsumoto is missing. Matsumoto, as it so happens, is on your list of people who created scenarios for that university think tank. I made a few calls and managed to get some background information on Matsumoto. You see, Simona, I am doing my job here. I am conducting my due diligence. But I’ve got a couple rogue agents undermining my chain of command. You do understand that, right?”

  “What did you find out about Matsumoto?”

  He met her angry gaze. “What I found out is pretty damned scary. Honors Student in Chemistry from Waseda University, Tokyo. He was in the doctoral program in Biochemistry at Wayne State University, but dropped out. He is reported to be a genius. I ran him through INS. It gets interesting. His mother’s name was Julie Hawkins
. She’s in our files as well as INS. Julie Hawkins spent time in Japan as a college student in the ‘80s, dropped out and disappeared. Then in the late ‘80s she shows up as a member of Aum Shinrikyo. Her parents freaked out—justifiably, in my opinion—and hired a deprogrammer who dealt with cults. This guy and his team go to Japan and kidnap her and her son and return them to the U.S. Julie Hawkins doesn’t handle it and has a nervous breakdown and her parents institutionalized her. She committed suicide in 2000. The kid was raised by his grandparents, but from a few calls I made it wasn’t a happy situation. The kid’s had a history of mental problems, but considering his parents, maybe he came by it naturally. Anyway, he went to college in Japan on scholarship. At least, we think so. It’s possible it was funded by a group called Aleph, which is Aum Shinrikyo’s new name.”

  Simona swallowed hard, trying to digest all that information. “What’s he doing now? What did he do after he quit Wayne?”

  Gray shrugged. “I’ve got people on it. Now here’s the plan, Simona. You have one chance to hold on to your career. No matter what happens after tonight, I will request that you be transferred elsewhere. Whether you are merely reprimanded and transferred or fired from the Bureau is entirely up to you. Do you understand?”

  He was offering her some sort of a deal and she was willing to take it if it got him off his ass. “What do you want me to do?”

  “You, me and Kandling are going to go after Matsumoto. We have forty-five minutes before a possible attack. If there’s going to be one. If we...”

  She was on her feet. “Deal. Give me your phone.”

  Gray looked startled. “Why?”

  “I’ll call Jill.”

  “She’s not—”

  ”Oh, grow up, Matt. You want to save your own ass? Then find out what she and Stillwater know. It’s the smartest thing you could do, no matter what you’re trying to accomplish. Don’t you realize they’re on the right track and we’re not?”

  Anger flashed across his face, then he shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. Here.” He handed her his phone, waiting.

  Simona tapped in Jill’s number and waited. “Jill? Simona. Matt’s willing to listen. What’s...” She went still. Muscles in her throat tightened and she closed her eyes. “Okay. I... I don’t know what we’ll do, but we’ll... yes. I understand. I’ll be in touch.”

  She clicked off the phone and handed it back to Gray. “Is the HMRU still around?”

  Gray nodded. “They’ve gone back to Scott Hall to work on cleanup and decon.”

  Jill was already on the move. “This is going to be tricky. Come on, Matt. Let’s get everybody moving.”

  “Where?”

  “The Palace of Auburn Hills.”

  82

  7:16 p.m.

  MICHAEL CHURCH AND RAY Moretti stood in line to get J Slim T-shirts. Both clutched tall plastic cups of beer in their hands. Ray was getting wasted in a hurry, thought Michael. He only sipped his own beer, wasn’t sure if he liked it. They’d stopped at Hoops and tried out their fake I.D.s, no problem, though the bartender eyed Ray a little suspiciously. He’d had two beers then, Ray had three, and Ray was getting a little loud and dumb. The loud wasn’t exactly new. The dumb wasn’t either, for that matter, but Michael hadn’t realized just dumb Ray could get.

  “Look at her,” Ray pointed. “Check out her ass. What you think? An eight?”

  He was loud enough that everybody around him looked over. A couple guys looked where he was pointing and hooted. “A seven, man. But check out those tits!”

  “Low standards,” another said. “Big, but fat. Not bad ass, though.”

  Michael felt uneasy. It wasn’t just the girls. It was something else. The way some of the people looked at them disapprovingly. And something else besides that. Probably that he was so far off the reservation right now.

  Ray elbowed him, spilling beer. “What ya think, Mike? How about her?”

  Michael looked over at the girl Ray was pointing at. She saw the gesture and gave them the finger. Then she pointed at Ray and held up her hand in a zero gesture. Michael had to smile at the same time his face flushed with embarrassment. She was pretty hot and he liked that she wasn’t embarrassed—instead, she got ticked and dished it right back.

  “Chill, dude,” he said.

  “Is this fuckin’ great or what?” Ray crowed.

  The guy in front of them glanced behind him. He was an older guy, maybe in his thirties, with deep-set blue eyes and a round face. He slouched in his denim jacket, a gray painter’s cap shading his face. He took in Ray and said, “Might want to pace yourself, bud. It’s gonna be a long night.”

  “Mind your own fuckin’ business,” Ray snarled.

  “Chill,” Michael hissed. He flashed the guy an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

  The guy just shrugged.

  Ray went back to his pussy hunt. Michael wished he’d stop. He had a little bit of a headache from the beer. And he really didn’t want to get piss-drunk. If he did they’d never get home in one piece, assuming he could find his friggin’ car out there if he had too much to drink.

  He ignored Ray for a minute and took out his cell phone. He’d turned it off. But he needed to see if his mom had called. He’d need someplace quiet to talk to her and convince her he was actually over at Ray’s. He figured she was all tied up with The Serpent and wouldn’t be home anytime soon, and that was okay. And she hadn’t actually given him a final “no” about the concert tonight, though he knew she would have if she hadn’t actually had to take off to the city so fast.

  “Calling your mommy?” Ray asked, knocking back a big swallow of his beer.

  Michael flashed Ray the bird and waited for the phone to come on. Almost immediately it chimed, indicating he had a message. Damn.

  “Hey, get me an XL in that one there,” Michael said, pointing to a black T-shirt with a big, distorted white J Slim face on the front, a list of concert venues on the back.

  “You don’t want that one?” Ray pointed to the classic J Slim with two raised middle fingers.

  Michael patted his chest. “Got that one. Here.” He thrust money into Ray’s hand. “I’ve gotta go check this. Hold my beer.”

  “Fuckin’ A, man. It’ll be gone if you don’t hurry your ass.”

  Michael walked hurriedly away from the concessions, looking for a door outside. It was damned loud here. He double-checked that he had his ticket and his hand stamped, and stepped through the doors onto the west entrance sidewalk. It was cool outside, a breeze blowing in out of the northwest. The air smelled rank. The Palace was just south and east of a landfill, and when the wind blew right, it smelled like garbage.

  He had a good strong signal here, and he punched in to retrieve his call. His jaw dropped as he heard his mom’s message about leaving The Palace, about The Serpent planning an attack. Heart hammering in his chest, he punched the auto dial for his mom’s cell. A wild moment of panic gripped him. He wanted to run. He wanted to drop the phone and sprint for his car and get the hell out of there.

  Then he bit his lip and cooled off. Okay. Now what? What was he going to do?

  83

  7:25 p.m.

  JILL AND DEREK RACED north on I-75, ripping along the expressway in the left lane at 85 miles an hour, at least as much as possible. Traffic was moving pretty well, but as they sped past Crooks Road, traffic seemed to get thicker and more erratic. They found themselves alternating between sudden slow-downs to 25 miles per hour that freakishly cleared for a mile before jumping back to 70, 75, 80 miles per hour.

  Jill’s phone rang. She flipped it out and punched it on. “Jill Church.”

  “Mom? It’s Michael!”

  “Oh, thank God. Are you at The Palace? If you are—”

  ”Mom, what’s going on? He’s here?”

  “Yes, we think he’s going to do something big at 8:00. Now Michael, you and Ray have to leave. Immediately. We’re on our way.”

  “But what about all the people here? They’re not evac
uating or anything. What about all these people? It’s a sold-out show.”

  “Michael, listen, if—”

  ”Haven’t you called this in? What’s going on?”

  “Michael—”

  ”Tell him,” Derek said. “Now’s the time.”

  Jill wanted to punch him. “Michael, just listen to me.” She didn’t like the edge of hysteria that was creeping into her voice. “Just listen to me, please. You and Ray, you have to leave.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  Jill clutched the phone. Suddenly the cars in front of her slammed to a halt, brake lights flashing one after another ahead of them. “Shit!” She dropped the phone and stomped on her brakes. The car bucked and her tires squealed on the pavement, but stopped in time.

  “Where’s the phone?”

  “You drive,” Derek said. “You’re going to get us killed. I’ll talk to him.”

  Derek picked the phone off the floor and said, “Michael, it’s Derek Stillwater.”

  “Dr. Stillwater! Is this for real?”

  “Yes. It’s for real. Do what your mother says. Go get your friend and get out of there.”

  “But what about—”

  ”Michael? Or is it Mike?”

  “Either way. Look, Dr. Stillwater—”

  ”Derek.”

  “Derek. Fine. I can’t just abandon all these people.”

  Derek looked at the clock on the dashboard. They had less than thirty minutes. Traffic had thickened and was barely moving. Jill’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock, her jaw set in a fierce expression of concentration.

  “Mike,” Derek said. “Listen to me very closely and don’t interrupt for a second. Your mother and I are on the way. We’re ... just a second. Where are we?”

  “Between Adams Road and the Square Lake interchange,” Jill said through clenched teeth. “About ten miles away.”