Ejecta

by William C. Dietz

  The ensuing conversation was rather one-sided, since Crystal did most of the talking, but that suited Quinton just fine. And finally, once the meal was over, the hunchback found the opportunity he’d been hoping for. “You have problems, I can see that,” the old man put in. “So here’s what you should do. Come stay with me tonight. You can phone your mother in the morning and tell her about Mr. Feely Hands. Because, if this Toby person isn’t good for you, then he won’t be good for her either.”

  It was a long speech. The longest Quinton had delivered in the last week. And it left the businessman exhausted. But Crystal was convinced, and even went so far as to hold onto his arm as the two of them went into the cold and began the short walk to the Hobley Hotel. Once there Quinton gave Crystal the key and let her open the door. Something that gave the girl a sense of control.

  The studio apartment was furnished with an old TV, a musty couch, and a queen sized bed. A small kitchenette and a cramped bathroom completed the floor plan. In spite of how weary he felt Quinton managed to pull the bedspread off so that Crystal would have some bedding. He gave the girl one of the three pillows that were on the bed and slipped between the sheets with his clothes on. That struck the youngster as a little strange, but somewhat comforting as well, since everyone knew perverts were more likely to take their clothes off rather than leave them on.

  The old man fell asleep shortly after that, or so Crystal assumed, as she stared up at the ceiling. More than an hour later the youngster began to snore softly. That was when Quinton threw the covers off and went to remove some items from his bag.

  A few minutes later Crystal felt something cold close around her right ankle. She heard a click and opened her eyes to find the old man kneeling next to the couch. The youngster attempted to roll away, but a chain brought her up short, so she started to scream.

  But Quinton was ready for that and struck Crystal a back-handed blow across the mouth. That took the fight out of her. Crystal fell back onto the couch and made no attempt to resist when the handcuffs were placed on her wrists. They had been purchased from a sex shop just three blocks away. The teenager started to sob softly as the truth dawned on her. Toby James was bad—but the old man was worse.

  ***

  The early morning sun was little more than a dim presence somewhere above the towering buildings. Sara Devlin had purchased some long underwear by then. That along with a turtleneck sweater, boot-cut jeans, and a wool overcoat from Macy’s kept the scientist from freezing to death. But even with a Grande mocha clutched between her gloved hands she still felt cold as she kept watch over the building on the far side of the street.

  The International Conference of Mineralogists (ICM) was housed in the same non-descript structure in the Union Square neighborhood where it had been located ever since mining magnate Henry C. Dobson had bullied his friends, investors, and customers into building it more than a hundred-years earlier. Now what had been a high rise back then was dwarfed by the giants around it.

  In the early days the entire first floor functioned as a men’s club. A place where mining executives could rest during the long difficult journey from the financial district to their homes on the upper east side. Those days were gone of course. But the ICM continued to survive. Not as a club but as a privately run library and repository. A place where carefully catalogued mineral samples from all over the world could be accessed by anyone willing to pay the initial $150,000 membership fee. One such person being none other than Ambassador Benjamin Quinton.

  But would he show up? The plan to try and intercept Quinton in New York city was based on a number of factors. But as Devlin stood on the street clutching her quickly cooling drink none of them seemed especially convincing. First there was the van that police had found abandoned in Miami. It was registered to one of the men Quinton had beaten to death and the ex-diplomat’s fingerprints were all over the inside. That seemed to suggest that the fugitive was headed in a northerly direction. So did what police described as “a sighting” in Washington D.C.

  Did that mean Quinton was headed for New York? No, not necessarily. But Devlin had come across three different documents relating to the ICM on the surface of the businessman’s desk. Along with a voice message from an ICM employee left after the ex-diplomat’s disappearance.

  All of which had been of very little interest to the Key West police force. Because they had no way to know that an extra-terrestrial parasite might exist. Or, that such a creature might go looking for a mate among the more than 10,000 meteorite specimens included in the ICM’s collection.

  And Devlin couldn’t tell them. Not without violating the terms of the gag order she was subject to. Although if Quinton did show, and they were able to track the ex-diplomat to his lair, she planned to call Dr. Wilson and let him know. Then with what Devlin believed to be a sympathetic government official to run interference for them it might be possible to secure good treatment for Quinton and help the authorities learn more about the parasitic threat.

  Of course there was the distinct possibility that Quinton had already been to the ICM building and left. So standing around waiting for the ex-diplomat to show was a long shot at best.

  Devlin took a peek at her wrist watch and saw that Palmer wasn’t due to relieve her for a good forty-five minutes. An eternity out on the street. Her breath fogged the air, the last of the mocha went down, and she found herself thinking about Costa Rica. There were a lot of things to worry about in the jungle but at least it was warm.

  ***

  Somewhere, deep down within the spiral matrix of its DNA, every animal knows what it feels like to be hunted. To be alone in a hostile environment where every move is fraught with danger. That was how Quinton felt as he checked to ensure that the female’s gag was tight enough, that the chain which led over to the old fashioned radiator was still intact, and that a glass of water was within easy reach. She had soiled herself by then, and the room stank as a result, but Quinton barely noticed as he pulled the door closed behind him and made his way up onto the street.

  Like a ground dweller that had just emerged from its burrow he blinked repeatedly as he took a long slow look around. But there weren’t any signs of danger. So he hailed a cab and provided the driver with cross streets adjacent to the address he actually wanted. Traffic was fairly reasonable at that time of day so the trip took about ten minutes. As the taxi neared its destination Quinton felt what could only be described as a profound longing. A rising sense of tension and no small amount of fear. All of which were rolled up into a tight ball that rode the pit of his stomach.

  Everything seemed exceptionally clear as Quinton shoved a twenty through the hole in the foggy plastic barrier intended to protect the driver from his potentially homicidal passengers.

  Once on the sidewalk Quinton inhaled the cold, crisp air through his widely flared nostrils. He discovered that he could differentiate between the smell of diesel fumes, the chestnuts on a cart half a block away, and a momentary whiff of perfume as a pretty blonde hurried past. More than that he could see more shades of color than he ever had before, he could hear multiple layers of sound, and he could feel the vibration generated by a subway train as it passed under his feet. All amplified by the driving need which filled his brain, propelled him forward, and wouldn’t allow him to sleep. A force so strong, so primal, that he would do anything to satisfy it.

  But first it was necessary to survive, and elude the predators, which was why Quinton walked past the ICM building rather than turn into the entrance. But there weren’t any police in the area. None he could spot anyway. So he stepped into the store on the corner. The “I-heart-NY” bag was on sale for $12.95, so Quinton gave the clerk a twenty, and left without waiting for a receipt.

  And it was then, as the hunched over African American gentleman emerged from the store, and made his way back toward the ICM building that Devlin noticed him. She felt her heart jump, opened her purse to check the picture of Quinton standing beside ex-President Clinton, and saw
what she believed to be a match.

  Then, to confirm her suspicions, she raised the camera Palmer had given her. It was a perfectly normal thing for a tourist to carry around—and the telephoto lens worked as well as any pair of binoculars could have. And the likeness was clear to see. It was Quinton alright, except he looked younger now. As if the parasite possessed the means to reverse the aging process. But there was no further time in which to consider the implications of that because Quinton was only steps away from the building’s entrance.

  Horns blared, brakes screeched, and cabbies swore as Devlin threw herself into traffic. The first lane was clear, but the second was blocked by a bus, and by the time it pulled out of the way Quinton had disappeared. Devlin stood her ground as a delivery truck brushed past, ignored an irate limo driver, and began to run.

  The camera thumped against her chest. So she brought a hand up to control it. Finally, having arrived on the other side of the street, she ran up a short flight of stairs and burst into a spacious lobby. Clouds had been painted onto the high ceiling. Stylized mining scenes covered the walls. And Devlin realized that she was walking on a marble mosaic. “Whoa there Miss, hold on,” the gray haired security guard said sternly, as Devlin paused to look around. “Membership card please.”

  “I don’t have one,” she confessed, still panting from the recent sprint. “But I need to speak with the man who entered ahead of me. He dropped his cell phone, and I want to return it.” So saying, Devlin removed her own phone from a coat pocket, and held the device up for the guard to look at.

  “You can give that to me,” the guard said, as he extended a hand. “I’ll make sure Mr. Quinton gets it on his way out.”

  “No,” Devlin insisted. “I want to return it myself.”

  The guard was becoming annoyed by that time and pointed toward the door. “Then you can wait outside. Or should I call the cops?”

  Devlin swore a very unladylike oath before turning toward the door and making her way outside. Cold air pressed against the scientist’s face, the door swung closed, and the city welcomed her back.

  ***

  Having visited the ICM building on previous occasions, Quinton knew exactly where to go, and wasted no time entering one of four gleaming elevators. It carried him up to the sixth floor where the so-called “Star Collection” was housed. He was confronted by a desk where members were supposed to check in and submit written request forms prior to receiving whatever samples they wanted to examine.

  But Quinton was in no mood for such formalities as he made his way across the small lobby. His heart was beating like a trip hammer and his face felt red hot as he pushed his right hand down into a coat pocket. The young woman with the page boy haircut, retro eye glasses, and bright red lipstick glanced up from the paperwork in front of her. “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”

  There was a loud bang as Quinton brought the Browning up and shot the girl between the eyes. Gore splashed the carpet behind her as her head snapped back and her dead body began to slip down out of the chair. There was a second bang as the businessman pushed through the waist-high gate and entered the restricted area beyond. The carefully catalogued meteorite “slices” were housed in metal storage cabinets. And after some on-line research Quinton knew which groupings met his criteria.

  It took a moment to orient himself. But the cabinets were clearly labeled, and it wasn’t long before he opened the first shallow drawer, and grabbed a fistful of plastic-protected meteorite slices. It was tempting to sniff and lick them right there. But Quinton forced himself to dump the samples into the I-heart-NY bag before taking more. Then, once that section was accounted for it was on to the next, and so forth, until the gym-style bag was heavy and a woman screamed.

  She was kneeling next to the body still screaming when Quinton emerged from between the rows of head-high storage cabinets. “What happened?” he demanded. “Where did all the blood come from?”

  “Somebody shot her!” the woman wailed miserably, as she continued to cradle the dead receptionist in her bloodied arms.

  “I’ll get help,” Quinton promised, and ran for the stairs located next to the elevators. That was when Quinton realized that he had left the cane back at the hotel or in the cab. Not that it mattered because the ex-diplomat had never felt better as he pushed the door open and took the stairs three at a time.

  Finally, after what seemed like a thousand stairs, Quinton arrived on the first floor where he burst out into the lobby. The security guard had been alerted by then, but was unarmed, and therefore powerless to stop the wild man with the semi automatic pistol.

  ***

  Devlin heard sirens in the distance, but had no way to know that they were connected to Quinton’s visit, as the ex-diplomat exploded out through the ICM building’s front door. But she wanted to stop him and threw herself in the way. They collided and fell in a tangle of arms and legs. But they were soon separated as Quinton bounced to his feet and took off. Having had the wind knocked out of her, Devlin was in the process of trying to stand, when Palmer arrived to help. “Sara? What the hell happened?”

  “He was here,” she shouted. “Come on!”

  So Palmer followed as she took off down the street.

  Devlin could see Quinton ahead. The two of them made momentary eye contact as the fugitive looked back over his shoulder. Then, having been alerted to the fact that someone was following him, Quinton ran towards a cab. A woman with a tiny white dog was just about to enter it when he jerked her away. She stumbled and fell as the old man slid into the taxi. “Hey, man,” the cabbie said, “what’s up with that? Are you crazy or something?”

  “Shut up and drive,” Quinton said hoarsely, as he shoved a couple of twenties through the window.

  The cabbie fingered the notes, found them to his liking, and was already pulling into traffic when Devlin and Palmer arrived.

  The woman with the dog was back on her feet and complaining bitterly as Palmer hailed a second taxi, and dove inside. Devlin was right behind him, pulling the door closed as Palmer said, “Follow that cab!” and pointed ahead. If the cabbie thought that was strange he gave no sign of it as he pulled out into traffic.

  ***

  Quinton clutched the I-heart-NY bag to his chest as the cab carried him back towards the Hobley Hotel. The trip to the ICM building had gone well. Very well. And he was looking forward to exposing the teenaged female to the meteorite samples now in his possession. Then, assuming a potential mate was present on one of the slices, all he’d have to do was sit back and wait.

  Once the cab was within a block of the hotel Quinton pushed more money into the driver’s compartment and ordered the cabbie to pull over. Then, after exiting the vehicle, the old man went straight toward the hotel. He was in a hurry now. Partly because there might be a mate waiting for him inside the bag clutched to his chest, and partly because the girl was chained to the couch. But something was wrong. Not only did he have a headache, but the worst headache he had ever experienced, and the pain was so intense it made him feel dizzy.

  Then, through increasingly blurry vision Quinton saw that two medic units were sitting out front of the Hobley Hotel, along with some police cars. It was obvious that the girl had gotten loose, or been discovered somehow, which meant the authorities were looking for him.

  He turned, hoping he hadn’t been spotted, and was retracing his steps when a cab screeched to a halt and two people got out. It was getting progressively more difficult to see. But the ex-diplomat recognized one of them as his old friend Palmer— and the other as the woman who had attempted to stop him back at the ICM building.

  Quinton ran, or tried to, but Devlin had anticipated the move and was there to block the old man as three policemen arrived with weapons drawn. They were shouting orders at Quinton, and appeared ready to fire, so Palmer went to intervene. That made the policemen angry, and Palmer was trying to explain, when he was thrown to cement.

  Devlin was left face-to-face with Quinton. “Please!” she s
aid. “I know what’s wrong with you! I can get help! We’ll take the parasite out! We’ll….”

  But Quinton never got to hear the rest of what the woman had to say. Because his head exploded, sending chunks of bone and brains out to form a bloody halo around his still vertical body.

  Devlin saw the whole thing as if in slow motion, as the body collapsed, and the steadily expanding cloud continued to radiate in every direction. That gave her a fraction of a second in which to take a deep breath and hold it, as thousands of warm airborne droplets painted her face and her clothes.

  Though well out of range of the explosion Palmer saw it, shouted “No!” and tried to get up off the sidewalk. A cop, who assumed that the old man had been shot, threw him back down.

  Devlin understood the danger she was in and was determined to hold her breath for as long as she could. Because if she could hold it long enough the spore-laden aerosol mist would disperse and leave the air safe to breathe. But finally, unable to hold it any longer, the parasitologist was forced to exhale and take a deep breath.

  Chapter Ten

  New York, New York

  The room was small, the walls were green, and Devlin had been sitting on the hard wooden chair for the better part of four hours. In spite of considerable pressure to do so she had steadfastly refused to answer the questions put to her by members of the New York city Police Department until she was provided with an attorney or given the opportunity to speak with a representative from the CDC’s Department of Biosecurity. Not because Devlin wanted to obstruct justice. But because she had no way to know whether the gag order applied to the NYPD and didn’t want to get into even more trouble by telling the cops things they weren’t supposed to know.

  All of this made the policemen seated on the other side of the table crazy. Because they had a murder to solve, and based on the information obtained from the ICM security guard, Devlin had been outside waiting for the killer to emerge from the building. The question was why? Was she intent on returning Quinton’s cell phone? Or was Devlin an accessory to murder? A lookout perhaps who had been left behind during the murderer’s frenzied escape.