The Serpent's Kiss

by Mark Terry

  Derek gave him his ID. “I’m working with an FBI agent. Her son... we don’t have time for a long explanation. Do you have security cameras?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s take a look.” He handed the tablet PC to Lippman and said, “This is the guy we’re looking for.”

  Lippman glanced at it and scowled. “That’s Kevin Matsumoto.”

  “Yes. He works here, correct?”

  Lippman shook his head. “Worked here. He quit a few days ago.”

  “Did he say why?” Derek demanded.

  Lippman shrugged. “We weren’t sorry to see him go. Kevin had a tendency to involve himself in things he wasn’t supposed to. And he made people nervous. We got complaints that made it to my office. I talked to him personally about it.”

  “What type of complaints?”

  Lippman shrugged. “Creepy threats. Talking about the end of the world. One or two people thought he might do one of those Colombine things, you know? Go crazy, shoot up the place. You have to take those threats seriously these days. But it was nothing solid. I talked to him about it. I warned him to behave and he apologized, said it was a misunderstanding. Just a religious guy who thinks the end of the world is coming any day now. That was my take on it. I kept an eye on him for a while, but he seemed harmless enough.”

  “He’s not,” Derek said. “What was his job?”

  “Part of the technical crew. Lights, sound system, electronics. The whole deal here. We not only have concerts and basketball games, but rodeos and tennis matches and hockey games, and Matsumoto was handy around equipment like the ice machine, the Zamboni and the smoke machines.”

  Derek said, “Smoke machines?” He nearly twitched, his instincts kicking in and kicking in hard.

  “Well, yes. For, you know, fog. We have foggers and smoke machines, for special effects.”

  “Where?”

  “Some are on the main floor. Some are set around the upper beams and belong the overhangs of the luxury suites.”

  Derek rubbed his forehead and checked his watch again. He said, “Show me the fog machines. Can you take me down there right now?”

  “You think—”

  Derek nodded. “I sure as hell do, Mr. Lippman. I sure as hell do.”

  91

  7:51 p.m.

  JILL ANSWERED HER PHONE. It was Michael. She could hear a babble of noise in the background—people talking, recorded music, the shuffle and clatter of people walking. Michael’s voice was an excited whisper. “I’ve got him.”

  “Where?”

  “He’s walking, we’re just past the north entrance.”

  “Okay,” Jill said. “Okay, Michael. Good. Keep an eye on him, but stay back. Don’t let him know you’re back there, okay? Whatever you do, don’t engage with him.”

  “Yeah, yeah ... uh, he’s out of sight, he just headed into some sort of--”

  Suddenly the connection dropped out.

  “Michael? Michael!?” Jill stared at the phone. The readout said: CALL ENDED.

  She punched the redial but got an OUT OF SERVICE message and was transferred to Michael’s voicemail.

  Jill screeched to a halt next to a long white limousine and sprinted for the entrance.

  92

  7:52 p.m.

  WHEN KEVIN MATSUMOTO DISAPPEARED around a corner marked Palace Employees Only, Michael Church picked up his pace. It was a door with a card reader as a lock and it was just swinging shut. Michael lunged forward, catching the knob just before the door clicked shut. As he did, the hand holding his cell phone slammed against the concrete block wall with the sound of breaking plastic.

  He sucked in air, blood rushing in his ears. He glanced at his phone. The little screen was shattered. Michael thumbed the power button. Nothing. Oh shit! He tapped the button again, shook the phone. Nothing.

  He glanced around, shook his head, clipped the phone to his belt and slipped through the door, allowing it to close behind him. He was in a long, narrow corridor. At the end of the corridor were two doors. One said Engineering. The other said Deck.

  Michael jogged down the hallway, his footsteps a muffled thudding echo on the tiled floor, and studied the doors. With a shrug, he opened the door marked Engineering. He stepped through and realized he was in the power plant for the facility, some sort of trunk line for all the heating and cooling ducts, the furnaces and air conditioning units. It looked to be a large room jammed with equipment. It was hot and noisy, the roar of the machinery deafening. It was also empty.

  He stepped back out and gripped the knob to the door marked Deck. What the hell, he thought, and stepped through.

  There was a stairwell marching upwards. Trying to still his beating heart, Michael listened carefully. High above him he could hear footsteps. It had to be Kevin Matsumoto.

  What was he supposed to do? His phone was busted, nobody knew where he was. He looked at his watch and saw it was 7:54. Only six minutes left.

  Michael rushed up the stairs.

  93

  7:53 p.m.

  BRUCE LIPPMAN BROUGHT DEREK Stillwater out of a hallway into an open area behind the stage. It was a mass of electrical connections, wires and cords strewn across the floor like a snake pit. Three men were going over a checklist. They looked up when Lippman and Derek entered.

  Lippman said, “Steve, this is—”

  ”Show me the fog machines,” Derek demanded.

  Steve, a wiry guy with shaggy brown hair mixed with gray, eyed Lippman, who nodded.

  “One’s over there.” He pointed to a barrel. “The other one’s over here.”

  Derek hobbled over and studied it. “Anybody opened it lately?”

  “It’s loaded with dry ice, ready to go when we get the signal.”

  “Who’s setting off the smoke machines?”

  Steve frowned. “What’s this all about?”

  “Who, dammit?”

  “Go ahead, Steve,” Lippman assured the man. “We don’t have time to explain.”

  “I’ve got the remote. I’ll set them off at the right time. I’ll be in the lighting booth. What’s going on?”

  “Let me see the remote control,” Derek asked.

  Steve unclipped what looked like a garage door opener remote control from his belt. “It’s got a decent range.”

  “And Kevin Matsumoto set these up for you?”

  Steve’s face twisted. “That jerk. Quit without giving notice, just got up and walked out. Left me short-handed.”

  “Did he set them up?” Derek repeated. His hands were shaking and it was all he could do to keep from grabbing this guy and shaking the information out of him.

  Steve shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Changed the frequencies so they all run off a single remote.”

  “Have you tested it today?”

  “What? No. Why? They’re all set to go.”

  Derek pried open the device, removed the batteries and pocketed the remote control.

  “Hey!” Steve reached for it, but Derek brushed his hand aside.

  “What’s the range on this thing?” Derek said. “Can you set it off from outside?”

  “No. We tried once, just for fun. Too much interference. Anywhere inside the arena. Anywhere inside the arena, but it’s not reliable out in the halls. Line of sight works better. What’s going on?”

  Derek turned back to the barrel. “When did the dry ice go in?”

  “About five minutes ago. Bruce, what’s going on?”

  Lippman raised a hand. “Just cooperate, Steve.”

  “Who put it in?” Derek asked.

  “Me and Frank.” Steve jerked a thumb at one of the other guys.

  Derek nodded and opened the top of the barrel. There was a mesh tray filled with dry ice. It could be lowered into the water. He reached in and lifted out the dry ice try, setting it on the floor. A huge block of dry ice smoldered and vented carbon dioxide. Reaching into his pocket, Derek pulled out his flashlight and shown it into the water.

  Steve looked past him.
“What the hell’s that?”

  The bottom of the barrel appeared to be filled with red metal canisters. Coils of tubing ran from a central regulator into the outflow hose. A red light glowed on what looked like a radio receiver. Derek recognized it immediately as being similar to the radio receiver that had been used at The Boulevard Café.

  Derek took a deep breath. He didn’t have time. If The Serpent booby-trapped these devices...

  “Move back,” he snapped, and plunged his fists into the water.

  94

  7:55 p.m.

  MICHAEL CHURCH ARRIVED AT the top of the stairs feeling only slightly winded. Only moments before he had heard a door close above him, so he felt confident Kevin Matsumoto had gone to the top, not taken any of the other doors he had encountered.

  The final door was blank metal with no sign indicating what lay beyond. Steeling himself, Michael pushed through it.

  He found himself standing in a gallery at the very top of The Palace. There were entrances to a number of the fourth level luxury suites. Panic gripped his heart with icy fingers. Had he lost The Serpent?

  Off to his right he glimpsed Matsumoto glance around, then step through another door, this one marked Authorized Personnel Only. Michael leapt toward it, sprinting the distance, and lunging against the door just before it shut completely. There was a card reader on this door, as well.

  He pushed through. Another flight of steps, industrial metal, bare walls.

  He rushed upward, reckless. Time was ticking away too fast.

  Out another door, and he found himself standing on a metal gridwork at one end of The Palace. The entire arena was below him. He was at the very top of the building, among the girders and catwalks. Pennants dangled nearly at eye level proclaiming the Detroit Piston’s championship seasons and the retired numbers of Piston stars. PalaceVision loomed large, still dark, a huge four-sided TV screen dangling from the center of the roof. The Palace arena spread at his feet, a huge, scooped bowl filled with people, probably a couple hundred feet across, and easily a hundred feet down.

  Kevin Matsumoto was off to his right, moving determinedly toward a catwalk that angled all the way across the space. Matsumoto focused straight ahead, not looking back at Michael. Michael slipped along the wall, trying to keep to the shadows, not wanting Matsumoto to see him.

  Matsumoto stepped out onto the catwalk, walking toward the middle of the space.

  Michael increased his speed, trying to close the distance. Sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes. He blinked, wiping his face with his sleeve. He didn’t want to go out on that catwalk. It looked like it was about five or six feet wide, a steel grid, with a railing on one side, a drop of about a hundred feet off the other. Michael felt like a clamp was being tightened around his guts.

  This was for real. This wasn’t some fantasy, some TV or movie, some heroic video game. This was real.

  Matsumoto was moving toward the center of the space, turning toward the railing. Michael saw that he had something in both hands. He thought one looked like a remote control. He wasn’t sure what the other was.

  Taking a deep breath, Michael stepped onto the catwalk, ignoring the dizzying depth beneath him, and headed toward The Serpent.

  The Serpent turned then to see him. Something peculiar flashed across the guy’s face. Surprise? Relief? Shock? Anger?

  Michael didn’t know. He felt his concentration both narrow and broaden, similar to what he experienced when sparring in karate—focusing on the opponent but staying attuned to the environment and other possible threats.

  A smile burst across Kevin Matsumoto’s face and he held up the remote control. “Don’t even think about it,” he called out.

  Michael didn’t hesitate or pause for even a second. He broke into a flat-out sprint along the catwalk toward The Serpent.

  95

  7:56 p.m.

  JILL WAS FRANTIC. WHERE was Michael? What had happened?

  She spun in the entryway, looking for her son. Looking for Matsumoto.

  No one. Even the crowds were thinning and they streamed into the arena.

  She held her phone in trembling fingers, debating what to do. Then she punched in Derek’s number. It rang and rang, then was abruptly picked up.

  “Hello?”

  She didn’t recognize the voice. For a moment, she wondered if she had dialed the wrong number. “Hello? Who’s this?” Had something happened to Derek? Who was this?

  96

  7:56 p.m.

  DEREK RIPPED THE TYGON tubing out of the fogger outflow hose, then gripped the entire assembly of gas cylinders, braced himself and lifted it out of the tank. Turning, he set it down on the floor, studied the device, turned off the regulator valve, then examined the radio receiver. It looked straightforward. He took his gun and slammed the butt down on the radio. With a crack, the light went out.

  He picked up his crutch and moved across the stage to the other barrel. Lippman said, “Is it ... neutralized?”

  “I hope so. Put a guard on it. Nobody gets near it, touches it, moves it until the Bureau’s HMRU people get here.”

  He stood in front of the second barrel, lifted off the top and set aside the dry ice tray. He looked at Lippman. “So far so good. Keep your fingers crossed.” He hoped the reason these didn’t seem to be booby-trapped was the cylinders took up too much room in the tanks, and any additional explosives would have displaced too much water. Or maybe the water had provided too much of a technical problem. Or maybe Matsumoto didn’t booby-trap his gas bombs, just the houses of his victims.

  Derek reached in and repeated the procedure. His phone rang while he was up to his elbows in the water.

  “Answer it,” he said, still focusing on the task of immobilizing the sarin canisters in the fog machines.

  Lippman took the Iridium phone off Derek’s belt and answered. “Hello?”

  He listened for a moment. Then Lippman said, “It’s Agent Church. She’s lost contact with her son.”

  “Tell her to get to the highest point in The Palace. That’s where this guy will be.”

  Lippman looked surprised. “Up in the suites? Or the catwalk?”

  “My money’s on the catwalk.”

  Lippman put the phone to his ear. “He says he believes The Serpent will be at the highest point in the facility. That would be the catwalk. Where are you?”

  He listened. “There’s an elevator near there. Take it to the top level and go right. There’s a door to the utility levels. It requires a card reader. I’ll get somebody up there.”

  Derek set the canisters down and smashed the receiver. He took the phone from Lippman and said, “I’ll meet you there.”

  He turned to Lippman. “Where?”

  “Let’s go.” Lippman spun on his heel and led Derek toward an elevator. Lippman was on his own phone, calling his security people, telling them where they needed to go.

  Lippman looked at Derek. “The FBI is on its way. Are we going to be in time?”

  Derek shook his head, took out his gun again, checked that it was loaded and ready. “I’m afraid this is in the hands of a sixteen-year-old kid.”

  97

  7:56 p.m.

  AS distance toward Kevin Matsumoto, his brain clicked into what he sometimes thought of as “combat calculus,” a not-quite-conscious assessment of his opponent. He noted that the remote control was in Matsumoto’s left hand. That was the primary objective.

  He noted that there was something in Matsumoto’s right hand. He didn’t know what it was. It was small. He didn’t think it was a gun.

  He noted that Matsumoto had raised the left hand and shown him the remote control. It suggested that Matsumoto was left-handed.

  He noted Matsumoto’s size, his build, the way he moved.

  He noted the look on Matsumoto’s face when he started his charge, a look of surprise.

  In the few seconds he had before they collided a hundred feet above certain death, Michael Church’s mind calculated a thousan
d different factors.

  Kevin Matsumoto spun toward him, bringing the right hand forward, keeping the left hand raised.

  Michael, moving fast, came in low, slamming his left arm down on Matsumoto’s right, spinning into a right elbow thrust to Matsumoto’s solar plexus, immediately snapping his right arm out and clamping onto Matsumoto’s left wrist and twisting.

  With a surprised cry, Matsumoto dropped the remote control. It clipped the railing, bounced on the catwalk’s grid and skittered away.

  With a shout, Matsumoto punched Michael in the face and dived after the remote control.

  Michael jerked his head to the side, the punch grazing his cheekbone. Michael used the momentum to shift and bring his left hand into Matsumoto’s ribs, following with a flurry of short blows to the killer’s chest and ribs.

  But Matsumoto wasn’t interested in the fight. He was interested in the remote control. With a guttural cry Matsumoto shoved Michael away.

  Michael fell backward under the impact, smacked up against the railing, lost his balance and fell to the catwalk.

  Matsumoto tried to leap over him. Michael grabbed his legs and brought him crashing down.

  For a moment the two engaged. Matsumoto kicked out, catching Michael in the jaw with his booted foot. Michael jerked his head, stunned.

  Matsumoto lunged away, scrabbling toward the remote control.

  Michael reached out, caught his pant leg and yanked hard.

  Matsumoto’s legs fell out from beneath him and he crashed down on the walkway with a grunt, the remote control still out of reach.

  Beyond them, Derek Stillwater appeared on the walkway followed by Bruce Lippman. Derek was moving fast despite the crutch.

  Matsumoto kicked out again and caught Michael in the shoulder with a hard slash that knocked Michael toward the unprotected edge of the catwalk.

  For a heart-stopping moment Michael balanced on the edge, legs sliding out into open air. With a cry he gripped the catwalk and swung himself back over, rolling to his feet. He leapt after Matsumoto, who was heading for the remote control.