Wilson felt his righteous indignation start to ebb away. Perhaps he’d been too hard on Cooper. He forced a smile. “Point taken…. I can get a little wound up at times. What’s your first name?”
The agent smiled. “It’s Cooper—just like the last. My parents thought it would be simpler that way.”
That was strange. But so was everything else about the agent. So Wilson put the matter aside. “Listen, Cooper,” he said conversationally. “Here’s the thing… The odds against us running into a dead XT are astronomically large. And the odds of coming across a live organism are even longer. But, should that occur, call it in. We’ll give you all the support you need. Failing that our first priority is to make sure that no potentially harmful organisms are allowed to spread.”
“So, I should kill things if I have to,” Cooper concluded lightly. “Wow! This job is so confusing!”
Wilson scowled. “Get out of my office. And remember what I told you.”
***
San Jose, California
Alaska Airlines had direct flights from Sea-Tac to San Jose, which meant that Devlin was able to jump on an early morning plane, and land by 10:00 a.m. It was sunny, or would have been, if it weren’t for the gray-brown haze that clung to the low lying hills.
Thanks to the generally good weather the San Jose airport still made use of old fashioned roll-up stairs and a walk across the tarmac to move passengers from their planes into the terminal. And, because the scientist had no baggage other than her trusty knapsack, she made her way through the terminal in record time.
Once outside Devlin caught a cab without difficulty, gave the driver Wally Brisco’s address, and settled back into her seat. The startling photo of a blood drenched McCracken kneeling next to Podry’s headless body was posted on Brisco’s site. A single email was sufficient to make contact and Brisco had been cooperative. Almost too cooperative. It seemed as if he was starved for human contact and eager to talk with just about anybody. Especially if they were interested in what he referred to as “first person shooters,” animated pornography, or exploding people.
The taxi passed Gold Rush Motors, a bridge eclipsed the sun as they passed under the 280 freeway. Although the neighborhood didn’t qualify as a ghetto, the area beyond the overpass was somewhat shabby, and provided a glimpse into San Jose’s recent past. Being unable to compete with strip malls, much less super malls, the small family owned stores that lined the street back in the 50’s and 60’s had gradually given way to businesses involved in buying, selling, or maintaining automobiles. The cabbie braked, took a right on Union Street, and pulled to the curb. Devlin eyed the meter, gave the driver the exact fare plus a tip, and got out.
The address she was looking for was on the other side of the street. The modest cinder block structure slouched between two rather disreputable looking buildings. The badly faded words, “Wong’s Appliance Store,” could still be read over the front door. The scientist waited for a break in traffic, crossed to other side of South First, and eyed the sign over the door. It read, “No trespassing, survivors will be shot.”
Devlin knocked, and the better part of two minutes passed before hinges squealed and a young man appeared in the doorway. He was of medium height, badly in need of a haircut, and dressed in rumpled clothing. His T-shirt said “Geeks Rule!” and hung down over a pair of baggy shorts. A pair of filthy running shoes completed the look. Small, beady eyes blinked rapidly, as if adjusting to the daylight. “Yeah?”
Devlin smiled. “Are you Wally?”
The young man’s head jerked up and down. “Yeah, I’m Wally.”
“I’m Sara Devlin.”
He looked surprised. “Really? You came all the way from Seattle?”
“Of course,” the scientist replied. “I said I would didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” Brisco said, “but when people say they’ll come they usually don’t. Come in…. I call this ‘my lair.’”
Devlin followed Wally Brisco into a large rectangular room in what had once been a family owned appliance store, but had long since gone out of business. The windows were painted over but there were a few widely spaced lights to disperse the otherwise pervasive gloom. “I’m not supposed to live here,” Brisco explained. “Not according to the terms of the lease. But Mrs. Wong is pushing 80, and she doesn’t care what I do, so long as the rent checks arrive on time. That’s where I sleep,” he said, pointing toward the center of the room.
Devlin saw that a sleeping platform had been constructed in the middle of the large rectangular space. It consisted of a queen sized mattress supported by two sheets of plywood resting on a wood framework. The whole thing was held 8-feet-off the floor by four sturdy beams all stiffened with cross braces.
“I bought the ladder at a yard sale,” Brisco announced proudly. “The platform has a phone, clock, and combination TV/Blu-ray player. Would you like to climb up there?”
“That’s a clever use of space,” Devlin responded, as she eyed the maze of electronic equipment arrayed around the sleeping platform’s base. “But I think I’ll pass…. What’s all that stuff for?”
“That’s my supercomputer,” Brisco replied importantly. “Or it will be, once I finish assembling it. I spent the last three months collecting 130 old PCs. Now all I have to do is wire them together, install Ethernet cards in the front end node, and load all of the necessary software. Then, when the whole thing is up and running, it should be capable of 1.2 gigaflops! I call it the crop circle.”
“That’s very impressive,” Devlin allowed cautiously, “but what are you going to do with all that computing power?”
“Oh, stuff,” Brisco responded vaguely. “Come on! I’ll show you control central!”
Devlin followed as Brisco led her around the right hand side of the Crop Circle to an area reminiscent of a TV station’s control room only on a smaller scale. Three mismatched monitors hung suspended from the ceiling. The one on the far left was tuned to CNN, a cartoon claimed the middle screen, and the SyFy channel could be seen on the right.
Lower down, and arranged in a semicircle there were six old fashioned CRTs. Two of them were dark but the others were lit. Brisco’s home page could seen on one of them. Constantly scrolling code filled the next monitor over, an anime style porno clip was playing adjacent to that, and a half completed Word doc occupied the last screen. It was, judging from the first few lines, a letter to Sigourney Weaver.
But, if the juxtaposition of all those images seemed strange, they were nothing compared to the toilet that sat side-by-side with the beat-up high-backed executive style office chair. And, judging from the look of the plumbing, the commode had been there for a long time. It could have been a joke of course. But based on the roll of tissue that sat on the floor Devlin thought it was for real.
Brisco looked embarrassed. “Sorry about that…. I live by myself so I tend to put convenience first.”
Devlin, who had spent the last two years working with men who put convenience first, nodded understandingly. “So, tell me,” she said. “How did you come to be interested in exploding people?”
Brisco looked surprised. “Who wouldn’t be interested? I mean think about it…. Somebody’s just walking along, minding their own business, when boom! Their head explodes. That’s pretty interesting.”
“Yes,” the scientist agreed patiently, “it is. But how did you become aware of the phenomena?”
Brisco looked away. Something he did often, as if gathering his thoughts, or trying to reduce the stress generated by speaking with another human being. “My grandfather had a farm. My mother and father used to take us there every summer. I was out in a field, waiting for a tractor ride, when Josefina exploded. That’s what I thought, but the Sheriff said she’d been killed by a sniper, firing from the farm road. If so, they never caught the guy.”
“So, who was correct?” Devlin inquired. “You? Or the Sheriff?”
There was a long pause while Brisco seemed to consider the matter. Finally, just as D
evlin was about to change the subject, his eyes came back into contact with hers. “I was young. Only eight years old. But even a kid knows there should have been the sound of a gunshot. And there wasn’t any.”
Devlin nodded thoughtfully. “Can you describe Josefina?”
Brisco shook his head. “No. About twelve migrant workers were present when she died and I had no reason to pay attention to Josefina until there was a loud pop and her head exploded. Come on… . I’ll show you everything I have.”
Fortunately Brisco was able to find another chair so neither of them had to sit on the commode as the eccentric young man started into his tutorial. The lesson began with some material Devlin had stumbled across herself. That included the strange case of a chess master named Nikolai Titov who, according to an article in the Weekly World News dated May 24, 1994, died when his “…head suddenly blew apart. Experts say he suffered from a condition called Hyper-Cerebral Electrosis or HCE.” And, according to still another account, a psychic named Barbara Nicole had been killed in a similar manner back in 1991.
Of course both incidents had been labeled as urban myths. And given the supposed circumstances they probably were. But, among the hundreds of documents and photos that Brisco had scanned into his computers, there was more. Much more. Including photos of 3,000 year old Olmec sculptures that not only depicted hunchbacks but clearly portrayed such individuals as having special relationships with supernatural powers.
And that wasn’t all. During his years of on-again off-again research Brisco had documented all manner of exploding minstrels, maidens, merchants, soldiers, warlords, and holy men. The most recent being just prior to WW I, when according to some accounts, a little known Prince suffered what physicians of the time described as an “internal pressurization” causing his head to explode right in the middle of a state dinner. But, Brisco didn't know if the unfortunate nobleman had been a hunchback.
Finally, having downloaded a good deal of Brisco’s research to a CD, Devlin thanked the young man and left. He was still standing in front of the building, and still waving, as the taxi pulled away.
***
Seattle, Washington
It was dark, and as Devlin guided the Scout down what she was slowly starting to think of as her street, she noticed that Halloween decorations were beginning to appear on the houses around hers.
The trip to Arizona and California had been followed by a two days of estate related business. Now, after arranging for McCracken’s memorial service, the parasitologist was momentarily caught up and ready to resume her investigation.
Such were Devlin’s thoughts as she turned into the drive, put the truck into park, and carried two bags of groceries over to the front porch. The scientist typically left some lights on when she was gone which served to make the big house feel less spooky.
Having returned to the 4 X 4 she drove it into the garage and carefully closed the doors before making her way back to the porch. Then, after unlocking the front door, Devlin carried her purchases inside.
She heard a meow followed by a thump and turned to see Dog pad in from the living room. And that was the moment when she saw the half-lit figure seated in the professor’s favorite chair. Her heart leap into her throat. She took a step backward and was feeling for the door when the man came to his feet. “Good evening, Dr. Devlin,” he said pleasantly. “I hope I didn’t startle you, but it was cold on the porch, so I came inside. My name is Cooper—and I work for the CDC.”
“But the door was locked,” Devlin objected, as Cooper came forward. His features were so even they were nondescript rather than handsome.
“I’m sure you meant to lock it,” Cooper replied gently. “But it’s my guess that you turned the key the wrong way. That's an easy mistake to make having just moved in.”
Devlin made it a habit to check the door once she locked it—and felt certain that she had this time as well. She put the groceries down on a bench and removed the new cell phone from her pocket. The door stood open and she was positioned to back out onto the porch. “If you really are with the CDC you’ll have some fancy looking ID to prove it. Or, I could dial 911,” she said firmly.
“That won’t be necessary,” the biosecurity agent assured her as he produced what looked like a wallet and flipped it open. Devlin saw an unfamiliar badge on the left—and an official looking ID card on the right. The photo matched, but in the age of digital technology, that didn’t mean much.
“It looks good,” she admitted, “but there’s no way to know if it’s real. So, that being the case, I’ll have to ask you to step out onto the porch while I call the CDC and ask them if you’re legit.”
Cooper sighed. “If you must, you must. Keep the ID…. You’ll need the number off the card.” And with that the bio security agent stepped through the door and out onto the porch. Devlin closed the door behind him. There was a click as the lock engaged.
It was around 9:00 p.m. on the east coast. So it took the better part of twenty- minutes for Devlin to come up with the correct number and explain the situation to the woman on the other end of the line. Having been placed on hold the scientist took the opportunity to put her groceries away and feed Dog while she continued to wait.
Finally, after ten-minutes or so a man came on the speakerphone to verify that yes, there was an agent named Cooper, who was currently assigned to a case associated with Seattle. The agent was standing on the front porch smoking a cigarette when the door opened. “Sorry about that,” Devlin said apologetically. “You can come in.”
Cooper took a final drag, sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, and exhaled as he launched the butt out over the grass. The little red eye climbed for awhile, reached apogee, and fell into a puddle where it winked out.
“Would you like some tea?” Devlin inquired, as the man in the long raincoat entered the front hall. “Or are you a coffee drinker?”
“A cup of coffee would be great,” Cooper replied. “Thank you.”
Devlin led the bio security agent back to the kitchen where he took a seat while she made coffee. “So,” she said, as Cooper removed his coat. “Now that I know who you are…. What can I do for you?”
Cooper’s eyebrows rose. “What?” he inquired mockingly. “You can’t guess?”
The coffee maker began to make gurgling noises as the scientist came over to join him. “Yes, I guess I can, although I’m surprised to get a visit from the CDC. I figured someone from the city or county might call. Are you a medical doctor?”
“No,” Cooper answered matter of factly. “My job is to gather information for doctors and other experts to evaluate.”
Something about the way he said it left Devlin with the impression that Cooper’s responsibilities were a little more complex than he let on. She nodded. “I’m glad they sent someone because the government should be involved. I’ve been trying to gather information on my own—but you folks have the resources to do the job right. The problem is that some aspects of Professor’s McCracken’s death are a bit unusual. Beyond the fact that he committed suicide.”
***
“I have some of the story,” Cooper put in neutrally. “But I’d like to hear your version of it. Starting with the autopsy if you don’t mind.” Cooper’s relationships with women had always been mostly sexual. Partly because of his work, but also because he preferred it that way. But, as he gazed across the table, he wondered what it would be like to be in a relationship with someone like Devlin.
***
Devlin, who was oblivious to the agent’s thoughts, told Cooper about the autopsy, the mass embedded between the professor’s shoulder blades, and the discovery that the thing was alive. That caused the agent to sit up and take notice. His eyes locked with hers. “Alive, you say…. Are you sure?”
“Hell no,” the scientist replied, as she stood and made her way over to the coffeepot. “It moved…. But so do freshly decapitated chickens. In order to be sure the thing was truly alive it would have been necessary to preserve it, and wait
to see if it would proceed to eat, shit, and do all the other things we expect living organisms to do. But that would have involved taking a big chance—and since I had no way to know how infectious the creature was, I killed it.”
“But you know more about it now,” Cooper said suggestively, as he accepted a cup of coffee.
There was something about the gleam in the agent’s eyes that troubled Devlin. Minutes before, she had been relieved to discover that someone would take her seriously. Now, as Cooper awaited her answer, the scientist wasn’t so sure anymore. “I have a theory,” Devlin replied cautiously.
“Which is?”
“It’s pretty strange.”
“Try me,” Cooper said, as he took a sip of coffee. “I’m used to strange things.”
“I think the thing between Mac’s shoulder blades was a parasite,” Devlin answered simply. “A parasite with the capacity to influence its host in a variety of ways.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Devlin answered. “But, if I had to guess, I would expect a complex series of biochemical interactions that would encourage the host to carry out certain actions.”
“To what end?” Cooper wanted to know, as he put the mug on the table.
Devlin blew a tendril of steam off the surface of her drink. “I think we can assume that this life form has at least one thing in common with all other organisms and that’s the desire to reproduce.”
Cooper smiled crookedly. “So, it’s all about sex.”
“Yes,” Devlin agreed. “I suppose it is.”
***
“Let’s say you’re right,” Cooper said thoughtfully. “Where did this thing come from? Are there more of them out there? And if so, how do they reproduce?”
Cooper already knew the answer of course. Everyone in the newly created department did. But he wanted to see how the scientist would respond.
***
Devlin knew, or believed that she knew, at least some of the answers to those questions. But, in spite of the fact that the man seated across from her was from the CDC, and the danger represented by the parasites was quite real, she didn’t trust him. Something that was reflected in her not entirely forthright answer. “I don’t know…. You folks have the specimens Dr. Yano submitted. That’s why you’re here. So what did all the fancy tests show? I’d like to see the results. They should tell us something. Especially where the organism’s DNA is concerned.”
Ejecta Page 10
