The Serpent's Kiss

by Mark Terry

  Derek stared at her. That far? With a swallow, he turned his attention back to Michael. “Okay, Mike. Here’s the situation. Your mom and I are on I-75 between Adams Road and the Square Lake interchange. We’re on our way. We know what this guy looks like and—”

  ”There’s no fucking way you can make it here in time,” Michael said. “Once you get past Square Lake and M-59, it’s Palace traffic. There’s really only one exit and it’ll be backed up for a couple miles. If you make it before 8:00 it’ll be a miracle.”

  Derek said to Jill, “He says we’ll never make it. Is that true?”

  The look on Jill’s face said it all. “It’ll be close,” she said. “Hopefully Matt’s doing something.”

  Derek closed his eyes for a moment. “Okay, Mike. You’re right. We might not be able to make it in time. So you and your friend need to get the hell out of there.”

  “I can set a fire alarm off or call security. Get people out. I can’t just leave everybody to die.”

  “No! No! Look, this guy, Kevin Matsumoto, The Serpent, if they start evacuating, he’ll set it off early. We’ve—”

  ”Kevin Matsumoto? Do you have a picture?”

  “Michael, are you listening to me?”

  “You listen to me,” Michael said. “Do you have his picture?”

  Derek glanced over at Jill. She was listening. She cocked her head, then pulled her car onto the shoulder and started racing down the shoulder of the road. Derek swallowed. This was bad. They weren’t able to drive fast on the shoulder and there was a deep ditch dividing the north and southbound lanes. One bad patch of pavement or a swerving vehicle, and they wouldn’t get to The Palace at all.

  “Yes,” Derek said. “I have his picture on my computer. It’s off his driver’s license.”

  “You can e-mail it to me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Derek stared at the clock. 7:33 P.M. The were just coming up on the Square Lake interchange and it looked like there was an accident on the left-hand side, multiple cars. He saw it the same time Jill did, who suddenly cursed and hit the brakes. For a moment the wheels on the left side slipped off the shoulder onto the soft road bank. The car fishtailed.

  Derek swore and dropped the phone to hang on. Jill regained control of the car and signaled to merge back into the stream of traffic, which the driver wasn’t especially willing to let her do.

  “Just butt in,” Derek said. “Where’s the fucking phone?”

  With a sudden spurt of gas, Jill moved back into traffic to the squeal of brakes and honk of horns. Derek scrabbled around the seat until he found the phone. “Michael? You still there?”

  “Yes. E-mail me the picture of this guy. I can look for him.”

  Derek swallowed. “How am I going to do that?”

  “I’ve got e-mail on my phone. You can e-mail it to my address and I can bring it up on my phone. I can look for him.”

  Derek closed his eyes. Dear God. “It’s a bad idea,” he said. “You and Ray should—”

  ”You either send it to me or I’ll have him paged.”

  “Don’t do that! Goddammit, Michael!”

  Jill snatched the phone out of his hand. “Michael, you get out of—”

  ”Mom, it’s the only way. You can e-mail this guy’s picture to me and I can look for him. It’s a longshot anyway.”

  “You will do no such thing, Michael! You get Ray and get out of there. Leave this up to us.”

  “You’re stuck in traffic and you won’t even evacuate!”

  “Michael—”

  ”Mom.” Michael’s voice was low and surprisingly steady. “Mom,” he said. “What would Dad have wanted me to do?”

  Jill clenched the phone. “Michael, listen to me—”

  ”No, you listen to me. If I haven’t seen this guy by five minutes to eight, I’ll get out of the building. I promise. It’s our only hope.”

  Jill scowled. She looked at Derek. He was watching her. He said, “It’s too much for me to ask.”

  She swallowed hard. Took in a deep ragged breath. “Michael ... Michael, be careful. Promise me, five minutes to eight and you and Ray are out of there.”

  “I promise.”

  “Be careful. I’m giving the phone back to ... to Derek. Michael ... Michael, I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  She handed the phone back to Derek, then clenched the steering wheel as if it were a life preserver.

  “Mike? I need your e-mail address. Okay. Got it. Hang on.”

  Jill slowly pushed the car through traffic, finally making their way onto the right shoulder. She floored it.

  Derek had his tablet PC in his lap and had forwarded the photograph of Kevin Matsumoto to the e-mail address Michael Church had given him. “Confirm when you’ve got it. And Michael.”

  “What?”

  “Two things. He used to work at The Palace. He might be wearing a uniform of some kind. And two, if you identify this guy, don’t engage with him. You understand what I mean?”

  “Don’t confront him.”

  “Right. Don’t confront him. Don’t talk to him. Don’t do anything but keep an eye on him and let us know what’s going on. Hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Seven fifty-five, you and your friend are out of there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Call me back right back to confirm you got the photograph.”

  He ended the call and held the phone stiffly in his hand. They were coming up on the interchange and traffic was starting to move a little easier, now that the accident was behind them. Jill edged back into traffic and floored it.

  84

  7:35 p.m.

  MICHAEL CHURCH PACED OUTSIDE The Palace for a minute or two, restless, nervous, brain buzzing, giving Stillwater time to mail the photograph and for it to move from server to server to server. Then he launched his phone’s browser and connected to his e-mail and downloaded the photograph Stillwater had sent him. He studied the face on the tiny screen, suddenly worried that he wouldn’t be able to recognize the guy if he saw him, and realizing that he had only twenty minutes to find him. A surge of adrenaline swept through him, fight or flight. He clenched his fists, tasting something metallic and bitter. Fight.

  He hurried back in, returning to the concession line where he had left Ray. Ray wasn’t there. Michael scanned the crowd, looking for Ray hanging out somewhere. He didn’t see him anywhere. Had he bought the T-shirts and headed back to their seats?

  Glancing at his watch, Michael again scanned the crowd, this time looking for Kevin Matsumoto. This was impossible, he thought with a sinking heart. There were just too many people here. He took another look at the photo, then started walking. Ray was on his own. He hoped he would run into him, tell him what was going on. First, though, he wanted to make a quick circuit of the arena walkway before even considering moving into the main area.

  Sweating lightly, Michael strode along, scanning faces. He found as he moved he was able to quickly skip the women, the African-Americans, the kids who were too young, the few older people.

  His mind made a quick shift to looking for males in their twenties with dark hair and goatees, latching onto the shape of Kevin Matsumoto’s head, his ears, his nose. And constantly, in his head, time ticked by. He had to give himself enough time to find Ray and get them the hell out of here if things went bad.

  Time. He had never felt like this before, this sense of urgency and purpose.

  Where was The Serpent?

  85

  7:36 p.m.

  THE SERPENT MOVED ONE last time through the corridor that encircled The Palace. He was enjoying the crowds, reveling in the thought that he controlled their destiny. He was their God, determining their life and their death.

  His senses were finely attuned to everything. He heard the loudspeakers playing a recording of J Slim in the background as a warm-up to the real thing. Felt the wafts of air, cold from the exterior doors, warmer from the heating/cooling syst
em, the heat of thousands of bodies. He smelled their sweat and smelled the beer and the pizza and the popcorn. Heard the voices, talking, laughing, loud, boisterous, so energetic.

  He had everything he needed in place: a still active passcard that allowed him access to every door in the building, a uniform, and the remote control.

  One last time, he thought. Then I’ll get in place.

  The Serpent will get ready to strike.

  86

  7:37 p.m.

  RAY MORETTI WANDERED OUT of the Men’s room, bag with the two T-shirts clutched under one arm. When Michael went off to call his mommy, Ray had knocked back the rest of his own beer, then begun on Michael’s. He was pretty much trashed, he knew, and didn’t really give a shit. Ray didn’t much give a shit about anything. Nobody paid Ray much attention. Not his mom or dad with their high-toned careers, not his bitch of a “perfect” sister with her straight As, and her plans for college, all that shit.

  Ray could tell Michael was turning out to be just like her, worrying all the time, talking about studying, about the karate class he taught, talking about college, wondering what he wanted to do with his life.

  Asshole!

  Ray didn’t worry about any of that. Life was short. He watched his parents work all the time, lecturing him on how hard they worked to pay for their big mortgage on their big house, how it was a good thing they worked hard to make good money so Ann could go to Medical School, how he needed to find his direction.

  Fuck! He looked at their lives and didn’t think that was such a great thing. Eleven hour work days, long commutes, worrying, worrying, worrying.

  They needed to party. Not some three-martini cocktail party, either. Not some Club Med vacation spent talking about work, calling in at the office or checking your e-mail three times a day.

  He didn’t want to grow up to be tight-asses like his parents.

  All Ray thought about was partying and getting some pussy, and that was just fine by him.

  When he stepped out of the bathroom and there was still no Michael, he said, “Fuck it,” ignoring the glance of a guy passing him, and headed for their seats. Michael would find him after he got done talking to his mommy.

  87

  7:38 p.m.

  JILL AND DEREK SCREAMED along northbound I-75, Jill swerving in and out of traffic. The right two lanes were bumper to bumper, traffic jamming up at The Palace exit at Lapeer Road. Jill stayed in the left two lanes, racing past the cars on her right. Off to their left Derek glimpsed a white dome. “Is that it?”

  “No. That’s the Pontiac Silverdome.”

  Derek set aside his tablet PC away and dragged one of his GO Packs into his lap and began to rummage through it. He drew out an extra clip of ammunition for his gun, the first aid kit and the atropine injector. Dropping them into various pockets, he pulled out a small book, opened it and held up a photograph to the interior light.

  Jill, concentrating on her driving, glanced over. “What’s that?”

  He held it so she could see. “My ex-wife.”

  “Pretty.”

  Derek nodded. “She’s a doctor in Texas now. Our marriage couldn’t survive our careers.” His hand crept to the chain around his neck, the one with the St. Sebastian’s medal, the ju-ju beads and the rabbit’s foot. Was he superstitious? No, not really. But he believed in luck, good and bad. He had been very lucky today. He hoped his luck would hold.

  “Hang on,” Jill said, and pressed the gas and jerked right, fist slamming down on the horn. With a roar she ripped across traffic, cut off a pickup truck and blasted onto the looping ramp to Lapeer Road and The Palace of Auburn Hills. There was the screech of tires and wail of horns as she raced along.

  Ahead of them was a cutaway entrance to the south Palace parking lot. It was blocked by an Oakland County Sheriff’s patrol car, lights flashing. Jill spun onto the cutaway and pulled up to the sheriff’s deputy, who stood next to his car. She rolled down her window and held out her identification. “We’ve got an emergency situation. We need to get in. Right now.”

  The deputy was a young guy with dark curly hair and a thick mustache. “Yes, ma’am. Go right ahead.”

  He moved a pylon aside and Jill sped past. Derek took one last look at the photograph and slipped it back into the book, laying it carefully back into his GO Pack.

  Jill rocketed past the parking attendants, skidding to a halt in front of the closest entrance. She killed the engine and jumped out of the car. Derek clambered out, messing with his crutch. Jill was on her phone, punching in her son’s cell number.

  “Michael. We’re at the South Entrance. Where are you?”

  A sheriff’s deputy approached. “You can’t park there,” she said. “Sir, you can’t park there.”

  Derek turned and flashed his own identification. He waved at Jill. “This is Agent Church, with the FBI. Have they contacted you yet?”

  “Who?”

  “The FBI.”

  “No, sir. What’s this all about?” Her blue eyes were inquisitive, her pale skin flushed from the cool temperature. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with strong-looking hands.

  Derek shook his head. Figured. You couldn’t count on Gray at all. He quickly outlined the situation for the deputy. He held up the tablet PC and showed her the image of Kevin Matsumoto. “We’ve got to find him before eight o’clock. And we’ve got to do it without him knowing it. We can’t spook him.”

  The cop frowned. “Maybe we can coordinate with security.”

  “Good.”

  He turned to Jill, who was listening closely to whatever Michael was saying to her. To Derek she said, “Go on. I’m going to hook up with Michael.”

  Derek paused. “He’ll be all right.”

  Jill’s face looked wan and tired. She nodded. “Let’s go, Derek. Keep your line open.”

  “Got it.” He turned and followed the deputy into the building. Jill returned to her car and drove off, heading to the opposite side of The Palace.

  88

  7:39 p.m.

  THE FBI’s HMRU HELICOPTER, a Bell-UH-1 Iroquois, or “Huey,” lifted off from the Detroit Medical Center helicopter pad with the HMRU team, Matt Gray, Roger Kandling and Simona Toreanno on board. Once above the buildings, it headed due north.

  Matt Gray sat up front next to the pilot. “How long?”

  The pilot checked his readouts and said, “It’s about forty miles, so probably 15 or 20 minutes.”

  Matt swallowed, looking at his watch. He turned to Simona. “It’s your ballgame. Get The Palace security on the horn and give them an update.”

  Simona nodded and began to work the phone. What she thought was: Matt’s isolating himself from screw-ups. If this goes to hell, I’ll be the one responsible.

  Beneath them, the city of Detroit slipped by. They raced northward along the river of light that was I-75.

  89

  7:43 p.m.

  MICHAEL CHURCH DIDN’T WANT to admit it, but he was relieved when his mother called. He was getting increasingly freaked out by this. There were so many people! And that was just on the walkway around The Palace. There were people milling around outside and the arena itself was slowly starting to fill up, and there were luxury suites that he didn’t have access to.

  She’d asked where he was and he’d told her he was by the north entrance and she’d told him to stay put, she was on her way. She’d asked where Ray was and he’d told her about missing him. She hadn’t responded to that, and—

  It took a minute for his brain to consciously lock onto what he was seeing. He blinked. That guy...

  A guy who looked just like Kevin Matsumoto was moving toward him. Michael thought he was staring and didn’t want to attract the guy’s attention, so he turned, glanced at his cell phone to verify the picture, then put the phone to his ear, pretending to listen to someone on the other end.

  The guy walked by him, not three feet away. He wore black pants and a red shirt that said Palace Staff on the left breast and he carried w
hat looked like a tool kit of some sort in a bag he carried over one shoulder. He was tall, with narrow shoulders, long arms and a brisk, aggressive stride.

  For a moment Matsumoto’s gaze flicked over him, then he moved on.

  Michael felt a chill. There was something about the guy’s expression, so cold, that gave him the creeps.

  And yes, it was Kevin Matsumoto.

  When Matsumoto was past him, Michael turned to follow, punching up his mom’s number.

  90

  7:46 p.m.

  THE PALACE SECURITY OFFICE was tucked away in a corner behind the box office and Derek was sweating heavily by the time he and Deputy Angela Pushman got there. The chief of security was an elegantly-looking man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Despite his appearance, he wore jeans, a white dress shirt and tie and a navy sport coat. He stood up and took them in, his voice soft and gentle. “Hello. I’m Bruce Lippman. Is there a problem?”

  Deputy Pushman said, “This is Derek Stillwater, with the Department of Homeland Security. There’s—”

  Derek checked his watch and said, “We have reason to believe there’s going to be a sarin gas attack here at eight o’clock.”

  Although Lippman didn’t act noticeably perturbed, he did straighten his back and focus on Derek. “Credentials,” he snapped. He tapped his Timex watch and looked back at Derek. “This is rather short notice, Agent ... is it agent?”

  “Agent Stillwater or Dr. Stillwater. We’re afraid a mass evacuation will just set him off, and we haven’t known very long. Have you received a phone call from the FBI? They’re supposed to call.”

  “No. We have not.”

  Dammit, Derek thought.

  “Please, sit down, Doctor. You ... do you need a wheelchair or something?”

  I need a vacation, he thought. “No, I’m fine for now.” Derek thought Lippman must have a bit of the rebel in him, wearing jeans when all the rest of the staff wore dark slacks. Trying to be a regular guy, maybe.