by Sarah Lovett
Cutting through her thoughts, Dexter said, "This area is cold space."
For a moment Sylvia thought he was referring to the obsessively ordered office, then she realized he was discussing containment.
"Before we head downstairs," Dexter added, "I want you to understand what we're equipped for here: zootoxins, phytotoxins, viruses, microbes—we have the capabilities to handle them safely."
"Handle some of them safely," Sweetheart clarified. Biological hazards were rated from one to five—the higher the number, the greater the risk—all part of a rating code established by the CDC and the NIH. "I assume you're referring to those organisms permitted in labs rated at biological safety level three."
"That's a given." Dexter didn't try to mask his impatience. "For the most part, our scientists are working with DNA amplification. You'd be surprised—journalists, other civilians, are almost disappointed because it's not Ebola."
"But you do store live toxins on-site," Sylvia said, thinking of Dr. Thomas and the possibility of his exposure to a neurotoxin.
"We store toxins in this lab, yes, but it's important to have a realistic perspective. As I said, we are not talking Ebola virus, level four."
"But level three toxins can be lethal . . ."
"Table salt will kill you if you swallow enough."
Dexter ushered them back into the hallway, where they didn't have to venture far to reach the first barrier; Palmer's office was adjacent to a locked metal door, which had been plastered with warnings: a black skull and crossbones; STOP! BL3; CAUTION—CHEMICAL STORAGE; BIOLOGICAL HAZARDS ON SITE; NO EATING OR DRINKING; DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE! Dexter tapped on the emblems. "Even in level three, the standard is to separate hot areas from cold. Hot being where we're headed right now, y'all."
While Dexter punched a security code into a digital pad, he kept talking. "Now, if a research team has to cope with viable pathogens, there's a remote possibility of aerosolization. That's where the ventilation system comes into play. Clean air pumps from the cold rooms to the hot rooms, in five-minute cycles. If the system were to back up—it's happened at other labs—then you'd get workers breathing pathogens. To guarantee that doesn't happen, this air cycles only once from intake to outtake"—he swirled one index finger overhead—"and then it's processed through a series of filters that trap hot substances before release."
"Release where?" Sylvia asked.
"Into the environment. The system is state-of-the-art."
"Is your background in science, Mr. Dexter?" Sylvia asked.
Dexter's gaze was impersonal, detached. She was startled to recognize that he didn't categorize her with the good guys: she was an unknown. Her fiancé did the same thing when he met someone for the first time. A suspicious mind—a trait of career cops, state or fed.
"I went to college, Dr. Strange. I completed a master's in science before I decided on a career in investigation and enforcement. I can't adequately protect what I don't understand."
Sylvia nodded, impressed, but also aware of the lab's imperfect track record. "What about malfunctions? What about human error or deliberate sabotage? You're staking fifty, a hundred thousand lives on your state-of-the-art-system. Don't you ever lose sleep wondering if this research is as safe as the party line claims it is?"
Except for his eyes, which narrowed and seemed to darken, Dexter's expression remained neutral—but passion bled through his words. "My daughter sings with the church choir, my son's a fullback for the Hilltoppers, my wife teaches second grade. I make it my business to know that the air they breathe is safe."
The silence lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like ten minutes to Sylvia. She was grateful when Sweetheart drew Dexter's focus.
"What can you tell us about Palmer's research?" he asked.
Dexter blinked, seemingly relieved to move on. "From what I've been told, it follows two tracks. The first—amplification—is basically innocuous. You can't make the organism from scratch, and the DNA's in a stable form—you could spike your martini and pretty much all you'd have is a bad taste in your mouth."
"The first track's DNA analysis," Sweetheart prompted. "What about the second?"
"Where time is a crucial element—the anthrax cases after September eleventh—the DNA analysis happens simultaneously with work in other areas, such as toxin isolation, serum formulation, and then it's necessary to have whole animals on site."
"What kinds of animals are we talking about?" Sylvia asked.
"Two years ago, spores of Bacillus anthracis. Today, other microorganisms." He turned his attention to the sterile, packaged protective gear in the dispenser mounted on the wall. "We'll skip the respirators tonight because we've been given the all-clear. Pick yourself booties and gloves—one size fits all."
In the hot sector of B-30/T—the inner sanctum—the air was thick with misty blue-white twilight, and the world was made of unforgiving chrome, steel, tempered glass, plastic, and tangles of rainbow-colored wires.
At the core of the hot sector, labs reserved for physical research and analysis were filled with equipment: the traditional stuff of beakers, thermometers, centrifuges.
Smaller rooms surrounded the labs: offices, isolation cells, and animal containment areas, where the metallic hiss of running wheels, the chatter of rodents, and the plaintive cries of other living creatures created eerie white noise. Limited animal research had been approved only within the previous six months—another sign of the escalating war against terrorism.
The hallways were mazelike, and the air smelled stale and slightly chemical. Their footsteps sounded with a hollow echo. Instinctively, Sylvia felt restless, on edge, impatient to return to the outside world. Instead, they were heading deeper into alien terrain—a world where research supported diverse fields such as biowarfare and ecology. They were heading for Christine Palmer's lab.
As Dexter led them down another hallway, Sylvia heard Sweetheart asking about the facility, general security protocols, and the late Dr. Doug Thomas. She was trying to absorb the conversation and, at the same time, glean a preliminary sense of Christine Palmer, the person she now considered their quarry.
She almost bumped into Sweetheart; the men had come to a stop in front of a large, glassed-in laboratory.
"This is where Palmer does the bulk of her work," Dexter said.
"You said she was involved in two tracks of research," Sylvia said. "What's going on in here, specifically?"
"I can tell you what I know: Dr. Palmer and her team are in the process of isolating a potent neurotoxin."
With that, Dexter punched a code on the keypad and, opening the door, allowed both profilers to pass with the admonition "Do not touch."
Sylvia took a deep breath, then began to look around. The lab (approximately twenty square feet) reminded her of a morgue, with its stainless steel counters, massive sinks, and storage units. Glass isolation boxes, complete with gloves, occupied two corners. A large overhead flue provided extra ventilation for especially toxic samples. White plastic trays were filled with culture plates, and red buckets contained swabs, syringes, and filters. Storage tanks were marked LIQUID NITROGEN and CRYO. Behind a thick glass barrier, a dozen numbered boxes housed albino mice; most of the animals seemed healthy, but when she looked more closely, she saw that several boxes contained dead and dying mice.
Sylvia turned away to find Sweetheart and Dexter gazing into one of three glass-walled, isolated, adjacent subrooms where level three toxins were stored, maintained, and manipulated in refrigerators, freezer units, and storage cells.
"This is what you've been waiting for, Dr. Strange." Dexter's drawl sounded like warm taffy. "If Doug Thomas was contaminated by something in this lab, you'll find it there."
"Give me an idea what we're talking about," she said.
Dexter pointed to a small freezer behind safety glass. "A substance classified as an antidote for a specific biochemical contamination, which means it's also a toxin." He indicated another container, marked BIOHAZARD in orange le
tters. "That one has a toxicity level of six—it's classified as supertoxic: less than five milligrams per kilogram will produce lethal results."
"And Dr. Thomas had access?" Sylvia asked.
"Only with approval of his supervisor—Dr. Palmer," Dexter said.
"But he had access."
"Yes. He was an integral team member of Project Mith—that's what they've tagged Palmer's project. Short for 'Mithridates.'"
"King of Pontus, one hundred B.C., king of the universal antidote," Sylvia murmured. She saw Sweetheart eyeing her—deciding she'd come across this fact in his case files—and she smiled slightly, knowing she'd trespassed on his territory. He was the font of archaic facts and figures.
"Dr. Thomas's lab is a few doors down," Dexter said sharply. "Whenever you're ready." Meaning now.
"Good," Sweetheart said, following the cue.
Sylvia shook her head. "I need another minute."
Sweetheart nodded. "Join us when you're ready."
Dexter hesitated, eyeing her. "Do not touch," he finally repeated on the way out.
When the two men were gone and Sylvia was left alone, she perched on the edge of a work stool and waited for her thoughts to tear loose, for her mind to begin spinning. She tried to imagine what it was like to dedicate one's life to the study of poisons and toxins.
Scientists were compulsive people; it took a certain level of obsession to focus your entire life on something that fit inside the lens of a microscope or a test tube, or simply into a theoretical formula—the task of counting angels on the head of a pin.
Christine Palmer was good at her job. She was one of the best toxicologists in the world. Was she a murderer? If so—had something turned her toward darkness, or had she always lived with the shadow of pathology?
It was too early to answer any of those questions, but already, Sylvia felt a deep curiosity—a yearning—to understand Christine Palmer.
She shook her head at her own arrogance: she could be accused of counting angels from time to time, and certainly she was obsessive when it came to her work as a psychologist.
Sylvia closed her eyes to let her senses register the background noises of the lab: the rustling of mice, the soft sounds of distress from dying animals, the hum of electrical systems—and the regular shush of air being circulated and filtered. She shivered. Dexter had explained that the room was pumped with pressurized fresh air, which ensured that old air moved out of the lab. A backdraft would allow pathogens to enter the lungs before the victim was even aware of exposure . . .
"I think it sounds like the room is breathing."
Sylvia started forward, opening her eyes abruptly, pivoting around. She found herself standing less than three feet away from Christine Palmer. Recognition was instinctual: this woman had to be Palmer—the force of her personality, the obvious charisma, the powerful presence.
Sylvia could feel her heart pounding against her rib cage. "You startled me. I didn't expect to see anyone here." She held out her hand, half afraid it would tremble. "I'm Dr. Strange. You must be—"
"Dr. Christine Palmer." The toxicologist kept her arms at her sides. "What are you doing in my lab?"
"I'm sorry—I assumed you'd been informed." Sylvia found herself talking fast. "Due to the circumstances of Dr. Thomas's death—"
"Multiple agencies will conduct inquiries," Palmer finished tersely. "I'm familiar with the protocol. You're not physical security; not internal security—and that leaves DOE's administrative security, but I don't think so." Her eyes—intelligent and perceptive—were a deep smoky blue. At the moment they were communicating a direct challenge. Her features were symmetrical, slightly delicate, almost perfect. "So which agency are you with?" Palmer asked, scanning the lab.
"I didn't touch anything," Sylvia said, palms up, trying out a smile. "Actually, I'm a psychologist—part of a joint effort—"
"DOD? DOE?"
"—to study industrial accidents associated with toxic materials, toxic contamination."
"Do you have some ID, Dr. Strange?"
"I'm on contract with the health department." That much was true. Sylvia dug into her pocket and pulled out a business card. "My associates are working under the DOE," she said—at least that was somewhat true of Dexter. "As I said, we understood the lab was off-limits until morning. The FMU crew let us inside. Listen, I understand your attitude. I'd feel the same way in your shoes. I'm sure you need to call security. Clear this up." Sylvia moved briskly toward the telephone mounted on the wall near the door.
Christine Palmer held up one hand, the business card trapped between her fingers. "That's not necessary."
But behind those blue-gray eyes, Sylvia knew that Palmer was running scenarios, trying to identify an intruder in her territory. The black dots of the woman's pupils expanded and contracted infinitesimally.
"You said you're a psychologist?"
"In this case it's my job to look at the psychological state of victims," Sylvia said, warding off another challenge. "Did you know Dr. Thomas well?"
"We were colleagues—we did not socialize. He was a meticulous researcher." Palmer removed the cover from the first of the plastic trays.
"His death must have come as a terrible shock."
"Actually, no. I assume you're looking for indicators of emotional instability, substance abuse, life stressors?"
"Among other things."
"So you're conducting a psychological autopsy?"
"Yes." Sylvia pulled back a few inches; she was giving Palmer plenty of room. "Do you have any insights to share?"
"As team leader, I have insights into all my coworkers," Palmer said softly. She was more than confident—she was arrogant. "Doug Thomas had troubles with his personal life. He was recently divorced, he drank too much, and he liked to play the casinos."
"Did he confide in you?" Sylvia asked, silently deciding, unlikely.
"No. But I make it a point to pay attention to details. It doesn't take a genius to notice deteriorating personal hygiene, phone messages from ex-wives, casino matchbooks." Dr. Palmer washed her hands carefully at the decontamination sink. "What else would you like to know, Dr. Strange?"
"I was wondering where toxic exposure on the job was most likely to occur."
"Wouldn't it be more helpful to use Dr. Thomas's lab for his—autopsy?"
"I needed a sense of the overall structure of B-30 before I zeroed in on his work area."
"I see," Palmer said, nodding. "For the sake of this project, I want questions around Dr. Thomas's death answered as soon as possible. If you're interested in possible symptomology from exposure to neurotoxins—"
"I'm interested."
"I've been involved in after-the-fact analyses of a number of accidental exposures. The most recent was a lab in England."
"What types of symptoms?" Sylvia asked, watching Palmer move around the space.
Palmer pulled gloves from a dispenser as she said, "The symptoms may be fleeting, and they are varied: tremors, blurred vision, headaches, vomiting, weight loss, lesions, short-term-memory loss, general cognitive deficit. At their most acute, seizures, heart failure, total paralysis."
"Would those symptoms relate to this project?"
"Are they relevant to Dr. Thomas? Possibly. But the lab is clean."
Sylvia didn't acknowledge the statement. She forced herself to wait out an uncomfortable silence while Palmer examined several trays of cultures.
After almost a minute, Palmer turned to face Sylvia. "In the case of Dr. Thomas, you can't rule out suicide."
"Why not?"
Palmer looked surprised by the question. "He was unstable." She shrugged—case closed. "Now that I've answered your questions, perhaps you'll return the favor. Can you give me any information about the accident?" Her voice was soft, almost insinuating. "Was Dr. Thomas conscious at the time of impact?"
"I don't know."
"Is there any evidence of convulsions? Seizures?"
"I'm sorry . . ." Sylvia shook her head,
uncomfortable with the level of Palmer's curiosity. "I have no information to share at this time."
Palmer was staring at Sylvia. She frowned, and the skin at the corner of her eyes tightened. "Have we met before?"
"No. I'd remember."
Palmer took a step forward. An arm's length separated the two women. Sylvia could hear Palmer breathing under the sound of the lab mice and the hum of equipment. She could see a dark speck in the iris of Palmer's left eye; the woman didn't blink.
The hair on the back of Sylvia's neck stood up.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Sylvia jerked forward—feeling released—moving quickly toward the exit. She didn't want Palmer to encounter Dexter and Sweetheart.
"You've been helpful," Sylvia said, pushing the door open. "I appreciate the fact you didn't tear my head off. I know what it's like to work with sensitive material. I'd love to talk with you some more about exposure scenarios."
Palmer just stared at her as the door closed with a soft hiss of air.
Sylvia hurried down the hall to intercept the men. She had the distinct impression that Palmer was following her—but there was no one there when she turned to look back.
CHAPTER
5
Special Agent Darrel Hoopai spoke quietly into his transmitter. "The Target caught Pest Control in the Web."
"Web" meaning laboratory, "Pest Control" referring to LANL security and the two profilers, "the Target" being Dr. Christine Palmer—the whole incident adding up to one big snafu.
As he listened to his superior read him the riot act, Hoopai walked, tracing a circle, trying to get his circulation moving again, to pump the blood out of aching feet.
At this moment his partner was in position behind the Nest, his vantage point allowing him to cover all three rear exits.
Hoopai listened for another fifteen seconds then said, "Target departed the Web at twenty-three hundred and came home to Nest."
