There was just one final detail he needed to confirm. One last item to check off his list. And then he would never again have to think about how close he had come to ruin, but rather how he had triumphed over the kind of adversity that would have destroyed lesser men.
And this situation had better have been resolved to his satisfaction or heads were going to roll.
His among them.
The mayor dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and was just about to dial the dreaded number for what he hoped would be the final time when a group of workers rounded the side of the building. He nodded in greeting, flashed his megawatt smile, then ducked around the portico into an alcove where a scarlet maple sapling had been planted. A sparkle in the grass caught his eye.
“Damn it!” He turned and stormed back out to where he had just seen the work crew. “Hey! One of you! Come over here and look at this!”
One of the men hesitantly broke away from the others. Marten recognized the man, or maybe it was just his generic coveralls, as one of the countless supervisors with whom he dealt. The man removed his paint-spattered ball cap when he neared and nervously wrung the bill in his hands.
“Look at this!” Marten said, pointing back into the alcove. “Was anyone planning to take care of this or do I have to do everything for myself?”
“First I’ve heard of it, sir.” The man crouched beside the shards of broken glass and stared down into the basement of the building through the empty frame. “I’ll get this taken care of right away.”
“See that you do. This is entirely unacceptable. I was under the impression that the citizens of Seattle cared about this fine city.”
Marten didn’t wait for the man to formulate an excuse. The beads of sweat blooming from his forehead assured Marten that the job would be done in time. He walked back to the patio before he was surrounded by the thirty men it would take to replace the broken window. City workers. Was there a lazier bunch on the planet?
He ducked inside the main exhibit hall and was blasted with frigid air. There were dozens of industrial fans positioned around the room to force out the rank smell of fish guts, which seemed to be somehow fused to the oxygen molecules themselves. They would be the last things to be put away before the ribbon cutting if Marten had anything to say about it. His footsteps echoed from the pristine marble floor. Gold-framed black-and-white photographs lined the walls behind Plexiglas-encased displays of maritime relics. The skylights admitted columns of sunshine that cast long shadows from the red steel girders, from which replicas of historical seafaring vessels were suspended by cables. The exposed ductwork pumped heat down through vents the size of manholes in an effort to counteract the fans. Several matronly women were being schooled in the proper presentation of the various displays. By tonight, they would be dressed as though they had just stepped out of the nineteenth century.
He passed them with his most chivalrous smile and ducked down the hallway into the anteroom of the main convention hall, where he finally found himself alone beside a bank of chrome elevators. He plopped down in a faux velvet chair and sighed like an old man.
“No time like the present,” he said, and dialed the dreaded number.
* * *
Spears let the private line in his office ring until it went to voice mail and waited for the man he knew was on the other end to call again. Let him sweat it. Spears had learned to seize every possible advantage in any given situation. By the time the mayor called back, the panic would be tickling at the back of his skull and he would be desperate to believe whatever Spears said.
He stood at the mirror, the reflection of a man he hardly recognized staring back at him. He picked the crusted blood from the creases in his forehead and watched fresh crimson dribble down from the gash on his hairline to replace it. Both of his eyes were swollen and purple, deeply set into pools of black around slits through which he could barely see. He didn’t even bother washing the grime from his face. He bared his teeth and tongued the bloody gap where his right upper incisor had been. Everyone who saw him gave him a wide berth. Even Trofino, who had come storming into his office, face red, finger raised in accusation, had tucked tail and retreated the moment he saw Spears’s face. Or maybe it was the look in Spears’s eyes, which seemed to drift in and out of focus independent of one another. Regardless, the good doctor had what he wanted and the rest of Spears’s men were busy taking care of the remains of their fallen comrades. They all knew to leave him alone and would do so right up until the moment his deception unraveled. And then they would come for him. They were soldiers; such was their lot. But he would be long gone by the time that happened. Before the sun rose again, this situation would be resolved.
Damn the consequences. This was personal. It was high time he admitted that it had always been.
He could compartmentalize his feelings all he wanted. The money didn’t matter. He already had more than he could ever spend. And the genetic engineering possibilities fell a far cry short of the heart of the matter. There was no point in attempting to rationalize it. This creature was responsible for his son’s death and he was going to destroy it. He was going to paint himself with its blood and carry its head on a pike through the center of downtown. The men he had lost were soldiers. This was the life they had chosen, and whether they died here or in some remote godless desert or in a Third World coup was irrelevant. They had been extremely well compensated for their skills and had been slain in the course of the service into which they had willingly enlisted. His son, and the other hand…his son was a gentle soul who had chosen a far different life than the one his father had offered. While Spears had originally fought tooth and nail to make a man of his son, to make a hero out of him, in the end he had been forced to settle for the happiness of the child who meant more to him than anything else in the world.
And that choice had cost Nelson his life.
No. It was because of Spears’s intervention that his son was dead. Nelson would never have been able to join the doomed exploration party on his own. Spears had pulled strings, called in favors, and thrown an absurd amount of money at a long list of people to make his son’s dream come true. It was his fault that Nelson was dead. That was the reality he now needed to accept.
He had killed his own son.
And now it was up to him, and him alone, to do something about it.
He changed out of his tattered, blood-crusted shirt, tightened the dressings that compressed his ribs, and sat down at his desk to await the inevitable call.
His plan was the most simple and practical ever devised. If one wanted to kill a monster, then one needed to lure the monster from its lair. To do so, one needed three things. One needed an unobstructed view through the scope of a high-powered rifle, the courage to pull the trigger, and the most important thing of all.
He needed bait.
Fortunately, in less than ten hours, he would have all he could hope for. And then some.
He smiled and his face lit up with pain. It was worth it, though. For after tonight he knew there would be no future for him. Not that there ever could have been without his son. Everyone would be coming for him. The FBI, the DoD, the police. All of the people who had made him rich by paying him to do their dirty work when they hadn’t had the stomachs to do so themselves.
“Fuck them,” Spears said aloud. “Let them come.”
All that mattered now was that the creature suffered, and that it ultimately died by his hand.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. He waited until the fourth ring and snatched it from the cradle. The voice on the other end was every bit as panicked as he had expected. Maybe more so. Spears waited out the windbag’s tirade and then said the words the man needed to hear.
“Yes, Mr. Mayor. There is nothing to worry about. The threat has been neutralized.”
The sigh of relief was so great that Spears could almost feel the mayor’s breath in his ear. Marten had never known exactly what was down there in those ruins. For all he knew, the prevaili
ng theory with the investigators was still some sort of mutated animal, or even more ridiculous, a serial killer who wore blood thinner-impregnated dentures. It didn’t matter. No one would ever truly know what was down there.
But it would be a long time before the city would be able to forget the coming night.
Spears slammed the phone onto the cradle, jumped to his feet, and heaved his desk into the air with a roar. It landed on its back and splintered into a dozen pieces. Pens and paperclips skittered across the floor. His computer monitor and his lamp shattered. He kicked the broken debris and released another roar that he was certain could be heard throughout the complex.
Blood seeped into the bandage on his side and he could feel the bone fragment poking through the skin. Warmth flowed from his hairline down into his eyes. He tasted salt in his mouth.
He didn’t care.
“Ready or not!” he bellowed in a sing-song voice. “Here I come!”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Seattle, Washington
2:04 p.m. PST
Porter sat on the hood of his Crown Victoria in the parking lot across the street from the Phobos compound. He no longer cared if he was seen. His superiors may have been controlled by powers higher up the food chain, but he was beholden to no one. This was still America—his America—and no one was going to turn it into a free-fire zone. Not on his watch. He had signed on to protect the people of this great nation, even if it meant protecting them from the very government to which he’d sworn his allegiance. It didn’t matter how far up this conspiracy went or who all was involved. No man was above the law. Not even the president himself could be allowed to cover up the murders of so many people. This was about the ideals upon which this country had been built. No more of this cloak-and-dagger nonsense. He was going to expose the parties involved and ensure they were brought to justice. Never mind his career. This was personal, and he’d be damned if he was going to walk away without a fight.
He caught the reflection from a pair of binoculars through the window of the guard shack. With the biggest smile he could muster, he raised his arm and waved to the guards. Things were finally about to get interesting. By the time the security guard crossed the street, Porter was lying with his back against the front windshield, his fingers laced behind his head. He didn’t bother removing his sunglasses.
“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” the guard asked. He wore a standard security guard uniform: navy blue slacks and a lighter blue button-down with epaulettes on the shoulders. His cap was pulled down low to hide his eyes. The muscles in his square jaw bulged when he attempted a smile that suggested he had no intention of being helpful in the slightest. His name badge read: E. Pahlson.
“Just catching some rays before the next storm rolls in.” Porter smiled and tilted his face to the sky. “You can never tell where it’s going to come from until it rolls right over you.”
The guard’s smile faltered.
“There are plenty of places out there that are much nicer than this parking lot. You should really try one of those.”
“Like down by the waterfront? I hear the new cultural center is beautiful.”
Pahlson shook his head and looked back across the street. The other guard now stood outside the shack, cupping his hand over his brow. Pahlson gave him a subtle wave and the man stepped back into the shack.
“Time to move on, pal. This is a private lot.”
“Thanks, but I’m good.” Porter pulled his badge from his jacket and flashed it at the guard. “I’m actually looking for a missing person. Hey…maybe you can help me after all. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a little girl around here. She’d be hard to miss. Short. Kind of pale. Bald. Big teeth. Not the cutest kid on the planet, but definitely one you wouldn’t forget if you saw her. You haven’t seen anyone like that around here, have you?”
Porter stared up into the sky with an amused smile. He could feel the guard’s stare burrowing into the side of his face.
“You have a good day, sir.” Pahlson took several steps toward the street, then stopped and turned around. “Better enjoy the sun while it lasts. Funny thing about the weather this time of year…you never do see those storms coming until it’s too late.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Porter patted his shoulder holster through his jacket and gave his most charming smile. “I always pack my umbrella.”
Pahlson nodded and struck off across the street. Porter watched him talk to the other guard, who couldn’t help but glance back at Porter. He offered a mock salute.
That was fun.
Maybe this day wasn’t going to be a total wash after all.
He could still have plenty more fun before the day was through. He’d poked the hornet’s nest here. He could almost hear the men inside already starting to buzz. Only time would tell what would boil out. In the meantime, he had a couple of calls to make. It wasn’t fair that he should be having all of this fun by himself. He could think of at least one other person who’d be happy to join in.
* * *
“That can’t be right,” Dr. Trofino snapped. “Run the tests again.”
“We’ve already run them three times,” his lab assistant, Carla Stewart, said. “The results came out exactly the same each and every time.”
“But they can’t be accurate. You must have contaminated the samples or improperly calibrated—”
“Fine. We’ll start the whole process over again with new samples. Will that make you happy? And when the results come out identical—”
“They won’t. Somebody obviously screwed something up. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Trofino turned his attention back to the work at hand, but the seeds of doubt had taken root. He didn’t employ ordinary assistants with trade school educations prone to making such ridiculous errors. Carla had a master’s degree in microbiology and had spent the better part of a decade at the CDC in Atlanta. His frustrations aside, he knew better than to question her results. But no one was infallible, not even the venerable Dr. Amon Trofino, loath as he was to admit it. Prudence dictated that new samples be obtained and run through the gamut of tests again. Only then would he allow himself to contemplate the ramifications. Of course, that didn’t mean he intended to sit on his hands in the interim.
The whirring drone of the ventilation fan overhead lulled him into a state of total concentration. The clean room was the perfect laboratory environment. Everything, from the autopsy table to the implements at his disposal, was cast of stainless steel that glinted under the high-wattage lights on armatures mounted to the ceiling. The air was sterile and heavily oxygenated, the temperature just cool enough to heighten his focus. He absolutely loved every minute he spent in here. It was his own idyllic world of order, the eye in the hurricane of chaos that swirled relentlessly two stories above him.
He adjusted his plastic face shield and shot the sleeves of his isolation suit. He wasn’t working with the kind of pathogenic agents to which he was accustomed, but part of the joy he derived from his work was in the ceremony. There was nothing quite as exhilarating as the feeling of walking into a room knowing that the only thing separating him from the miasma of potentially virulent microorganisms he prepared to unleash from the corpse before him was a thin layer of polyvinyl-impregnated fabric.
Thus far, his investigation had been on a purely macroscopic level. He had meticulously photographed every inch of the burned body, which was curled into fetal position at the mercy of the contractures that were only now slowly beginning to relax, and sampled the epidermal and subcutaneous tissues. He had grudgingly allowed Carla to draw a few ccs of cerebrospinal fluid and what little blood she could from deep within the wound on the cadaver’s neck, but had insisted that visceral tissue and bone marrow extractions wait until he had properly examined the body and reached the appropriate stage in the process. He was anxious to get on with it, as well, but he wanted to savor every single moment of this. There was no telling when an opportunity like this would
come along again. The corpse was far less useful than a live specimen would have been, but it would more than suffice. Adding the knowledge he gleaned from this fresh body to that of the other degraded samples from the Siberian remains that had nearly gone to rot during their long journey across the Pacific would surely give him everything he needed to launch the groundbreaking gene-splicing project that would not only allow him to stamp his name on the field, but to change the world in a way that no man ever had. This was bigger than Columbus proving that the world was round, bigger than the discovery of genetics itself in Gregor Mendel’s garden, bigger even than putting a man on the moon.
This was the kind of revolutionary project that would allow him to see the universe through God’s eyes and remake it not just in his image, but in any image he chose.
He tried not to consider Carla’s words as he rolled the small corpse onto its back and began pulling its arms and legs away from its chest in anticipation of creating the Y-incision. They were still waiting on formal DNA sequencing, but the preliminary blood tests, which should have been a mere formality, were more than a little troubling.
“The CBC showed RBCs and WBCs well within the normal range. Hemoglobin and hematocrit levels are marginally high,” she had said.
Trofino had looked curiously at her and tried to interpret the expression on her face.
“That’s impossible.”
“And yet that’s precisely what the tests showed.”
She had crossed her arms over her chest as though to physically defend herself from the argument ahead.
“If that’s true—and I find your results dubious at best—then you’re suggesting that—”
“There’s no way this blood is anemic in the slightest, let alone to the degree of thalassemia.”
Predatory Instinct: A Thriller Page 23
