Ejecta

by William C. Dietz

  “Good to see you man. We're going to miss Mr. Quinton.”

  “I'll see you in the bar tonight, Alex. We'll hoist a couple for the old man.”

  And so it went until Palmer arrived at the reception desk. The show had been underway for two days by that time so the line was short. And since he had paid for a membership months before, his credentials plus a map, and a bag of freebies were waiting for him.

  After hanging the pass around his neck he tossed the rest of it into a convenient trash can. Then Palmer made his way to Exhibit Hall D. That was the vast hangar-like space which the thieves had driven the truck into. Palmer wanted to see it with his own eyes and talk to some of the victims.

  Exhibit Hall D was huge. In spite of that fact it was full to overflowing with informational booths, tables covered with carefully packaged objects, display cases filled with curiosities, racks of “how to” books, speaking platforms, scrolling flat screens, paunchy people in fanciful costumes, and powered wheel chairs that whizzed every which way.

  Knowing the attendees as he did Palmer wasted little time finding a dealer named Harvey Hanson. He was a balding man, with a pleasantly rounded face, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the business. Hanson was known for his loquaciousness which Palmer hoped to take advantage of.

  The dealer was standing in front of a table about half covered with “stones,” meaning meteorites which were comprised of silicate minerals, and generally classified as either chondrites or achondrites. Roughly 86% of all meteorites were stones. The rest were irons. And that's why the irons were so sought after.

  Hanson spotted Palmer, broke off the conversation he was having with a group of scouts, and turned to extend a beefy hand. “Alex! It's good to see you. I was wondering when you would show up. Martha and I were very sorry to hear about the ambassador. Somebody shot him? Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Palmer lied. “It was horrible. I'm going to miss him very much as you can imagine.”

  “Crime is getting out of hand,” Hanson said darkly. “You heard about what happened here?”

  “Yes. That was terrible. The way they killed that guard was nothing short of cold blooded murder.”

  “Exactly,” Hanson agreed. “Look at my table. Everything you see there is what Martha and I had stored in our hotel room. We were insured but most of the exhibitors weren't. The whole area was a crime scene until noon.”

  Palmer looked down to the spot where wood framing and a plywood patch had been used to fill in for the missing roll-up door. “I saw the security video on TV,” Palmer said. “It looked as if the thieves took whatever was handy.”

  Hanson nodded. “They got some good stuff and missed some good stuff too. There wasn't any rhyme or reason to it. Once the truck was full they left. The cops are all over the homicide. But I'm not sure they take the robbery very seriously. I get the impression that they see meteorites as little more than fancy rocks.”

  Palmer thought that was an interesting perspective—and wondered if that perception would hinder the investigation. If so that would be fine with Dr. Wilson, Cooper, and the rest of the biosecurity team. The last thing they wanted was for the police to figure out that an unknown number of homicidal parasites were roaming the land.

  After pumping Hanson for information Palmer spent the next twenty minutes roaming the floor, talking to various acquaintances, and picking up snippets of information here and there. Eventually he wound up at dealer Marsha Anne Tamby's table. It was very close to the door through which the aptly named Dodge Ram had entered. Perhaps that explained why it was bare of everything except a pile of hastily produced fliers. Tamby was there however, sitting on a stool, with a cell phone to her ear. She saw Palmer, smiled, and held up a well manicured finger as if to say “one minute.”

  Tamby was in her early forties and in good shape. Her short hair was an unlikely orange-red color that harkened back to her days as a Las Vegas showgirl. She had married and divorced three times to Palmer's knowledge and was currently single. She was wearing way too much jewelry and it glittered when she moved.

  There was a click as the cell phone closed and Tamby came forward to collect a hug. “Better late than never, Alex. How did the present go over?”

  The geode Palmer had given to Sara had been purchased from Tamby. “Not very well,” Palmer confessed.

  Tamby was only a little over five feet tall and had to step back in order to look up at him. She was slightly cross eyed and it was endearing somehow. “Really? Does that mean you're available? Because if so I'd be happy to take you off the market.”

  Palmer grinned. “Be careful what you wish for... You might just get it. It looks like they wiped you out.”

  “Yeah, the bastards got most of it,” Tamby said bitterly. “And I wasn't insured.”

  “That sucks,” Palmer said sympathetically. “How 'bout I buy you a drink? You can drown your sorrows.”

  Tamby brightened. “That sounds like a great idea. I can't do much here.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were a block from the convention center in a bar with a Tex-Mex motif. It was packed with noisy conventioneers many of whom greeted the couple as they took a booth. When the waiter came Tamby ordered a gin and tonic. And when Palmer requested an iced tea she raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. “What's up Alex? Are you going straight?”

  “I'm trying to.”

  “For her? The one who didn't like your gift?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “You've got it bad,” Tamby responded. “So much for the plan to get you drunk and seduce you.”

  Palmer laughed. “The moment I recover I'll look you up. So tell me about the robbery. Have the police made any progress?”

  “Not that I know of,” Tamby responded. “But it hasn't been very long.”

  Once their drinks arrived the conversation turned to previous conventions and the weirdo's that attended them. Palmer told the story of a man who paid five-thousand for a small iron and had it made into a hood ornament for his '69 Cadillac convertible.

  Tamby laughed and took a final swallow of her second gin and tonic. “You think that's weird? Hell, that's nothing. Yesterday morning, back when I still owned some inventory, the guy at the next table agreed to keep an eye on my table while I went to the ladies room.

  “Well, apparently he got busy talking to customers, because by the time I returned a lady with a hunch back was standing there licking a geode.”

  Palmer felt a chill run down his spine. “A hunchback? Licking a geode? You've got to be kidding.”

  “Nope. I ain't kidding. She had frazzly hair, was wearing what looked like a man's raincoat, and a pair of black high tops. So I snapped a couple of pictures with my cell phone and called security. They took her away.”

  Palmer remembered the hunchback on the security video but kept it to himself. Could the woman have been a host? Casing the exhibit hall prior to the robbery? That seemed like a distinct possibility. “Have you still got the photo?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “How 'bout sending me a copy? She sounds like someone worth keeping an eye out for.”

  Tamby shrugged and opened her cell phone. “Okay... What's your number?”

  Palmer gave it to her and it wasn't long before he had two photos of the woman. Twenty minutes later he made an excuse, paid for the drinks, and gave Tamby a peck on the cheek. The people at a nearby booth took her in.

  Having left the bar Palmer made straight for the convention center. Then, having secured the necessary directions, he proceeded to an office labeled “Security.” It was tucked away in a remote part of the complex next to maintenance. Once there he was greeted by a young woman with black hair, brown skin, and a uniform that was one size too big for her. She looked up from a stack of paper work. “Yes, sir? How can I help you?”

  “My name is Palmer. I'm writing a blog about the convention. Shows like this one tend to attract some interesting characters. In fact a friend of mine returned to her table to find a lady li
cking her merchandise yesterday. She called security. Who could I talk to about the incident?”

  “That would be Mr. McGinty. He's out making the rounds.”

  “How soon will he back?”

  “About twenty minutes or so.”

  “Can I wait?”

  The woman nodded. “Sure, take any chair you like.”

  It was joke. There was only one chair to choose from. Palmer grinned. “Thanks.”

  There was a pile of magazines. But all of them were at least a month old. Judging from the address labels McGinty brought them from home. So, when he wasn't watching the people who came and went, Palmer read an article about Jeb Stuart in the Civil War Times.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and a small man with sandy colored hair entered. He was wearing a dark suit, a conservative tie, and a pair of very shiny shoes. He greeted the woman at the desk by handing her a diet Pepsi. “That stuff isn't good for you, Clarissa,” he said. “Too much caffeine.”

  Palmer could tell that Clarissa had heard it before. “I'll quit drinking Pepsi when you quit drinking Starbucks. This gentleman is waiting to see you.”

  McGinty's eyes were like blue lasers as they swiveled over to inspect Palmer. The meteorite hunter had seen that look before. In the Marine Corps. “My name is Palmer. Alex Palmer.”

  McGinty nodded. “Glad to meet you Mr. Palmer. I'm Ralph McGinty. What can we do for you? If this is about the robbery you should call the police department.”

  “Nope. I write a blog and I'm doing a piece about the characters who show up at conventions like this one.”

  “We get 'em. That's for sure,” McGinty responded. “Step into my office. I have about ten minutes. Then I'm supposed to meet with the boss. He wants to know why we let a pickup truck full of whackos bust through the door and ransack the place.”

  As Palmer followed McGinty into a tiny room he saw a number of framed photos on one of the walls. All of them were of McGinty in various types of Marine Corps uniforms. And one of them showed him standing in front of a government building in Kabul. “Been there and done that,” Palmer said.

  McGinty was seated behind his desk by then. He nodded. “You have the look. What outfit?”

  “No outfit in particular.”

  McGinty smiled crookedly. “Oh, it's like that eh? Special ops. Bug eaters. I prefer MRE's myself. I'd love to trade some war stories but it wouldn't be a good idea to keep his highness waiting. So, what can I do for you?”

  “I'll keep it brief,” Palmer promised as he dropped into the guest chair. “I've heard a number of stories. One was about a woman who was licking some of the merchandise yesterday.”

  “That was a first,” McGinty admitted. “Very strange. But guess what? There's no law against licking rocks. We asked her to leave and she did so.”

  “I'd like to interview her,” Palmer said. “Could you give me a name and address?”

  McGinty shook his head. “Nope. We checked her ID of course. In fact it's right here,” he said, as he removed a page from a thin stack of papers. “But I can't give stuff like that out. It wouldn't be right. Excuse me, son... I need to ask Clarissa a question.”

  At that point McGinty got up and left. The paper was there. Right in front of Palmer. On purpose? Palmer thought so as he eyed it, scribbled what he saw into his notebook, and put the form back where it had been.

  McGinty reentered the office about sixty seconds later. His face was expressionless. “Where were we? Oh yeah, sorry I couldn't help.”

  Palmer stood and extended a hand. “No problem Command Sergeant Major. I'm glad you made it back.” And with that he left.

  ***

  Somewhere south of Seattle, Washington

  The train was moving along at about fifty-mph by then. The boxcar rocked slightly as it reacted to irregularities in the road bed. And a continuous blast of cold air blew in through the openings on both sides until the man Devlin thought of as the cowboy ordered his buddy to rig some lights and close the sliding doors.

  Devlin was seated on the floor. She experienced a sinking feeling. Once the doors were closed Cowboy would be in complete control. It was as though the hobo could read her mind. He smiled evilly as the man in the watch cap used duct tape to fasten a couple of flashlights in place.

  Cowboy had long stringy rock ‘n roll style hair. He hadn’t shaved in three or four days. His clothes were filthy as were his hands. “That’s right, honey,” he said. “We’re going to party! But first things first. Okay, skinny ass. Let’s start with you. Are you carrying a knife?”

  Nail nodded wordlessly.

  “Okay, then,” Picker said. “Take that pig sticker out real slow—and slide it over to me.”

  The drifter had no choice but to obey. The knife caught in his pocket, but eventually came free, and made a rattling noise as it came to rest near a pair of silver-capped cowboy boots. “That’s good. Real good,” the tramp said approvingly.

  The light level dropped by eighty-percent as the second door slid shut. The flashlights threw a spray of yellow light down onto the section of the badly scarred floor directly in front of Cowboy. “Crawl on over,” the hobo ordered, and flicked the pistol towards the pool of light by way of illustration.

  Having rigged the lights and closed the doors, the second man was eager to begin. In addition to a black watch cap he wore a puffy après ski jacket courtesy of the Salvation Army plus a pair of desert camouflage pants that were bloused around his ankles. His combat boots had seen a lot of wear and were overdue for replacement. “Hey,” Watch Cap exclaimed, “whacha wait’in for? Make the bitch strip!”

  But Cowboy knew there was no reason to hurry and shook his head as the boxcar swayed and the prisoners entered the pool of uncertain light. “Patience brother…. Skinny ass gave up his blade—now it’s her turn. Come on sweet stuff—I know you're packing. Give it over.”

  Devlin was fast thanks to the parasite. But not bullet-fast. So she had no choice but to remove the big clasp knife from her coat pocket and toss it forward. As she did so her cell phone clattered onto the floor. “I'll take that too,” Cowboy announced. “Who knows? Maybe I'll speed dial your mommy and tell her how naughty you are.”

  “Okay,” Cowboy said, as he bent to retrieve both items. “Now for the money…. Hand it over.”

  Devlin felt for the roll of twenties, pulled it out into the open, and threw it. The wad of money bounced once and took a sideways hop. “I’m rich!” Watch Cap exclaimed, swooping down on the prize.

  “We’re rich,” Cowboy said pointedly. “And I’ll be the banker.”

  ***

  Watch Cap made a mental note to spend some of the loot on a gun of his own. And as he surrendered the roll he watched to see which pocket it went into. The next time his partner got drunk, which was likely to be soon, the money would be his. Then, with cash to burn, he’d go to someplace warm.

  “Stand up,” Cowboy ordered, and pointed the .38 at Devlin. There wasn’t a damned thing Nail could do to help her. Devlin knew that. But for some reason she turned to look at the boy. And that was when she saw a slight almost imperceptible nod. As if the teenager was telling her to go ahead.

  “I said stand the fuck up!” Cowboy reiterated angrily. “Or would you like to have your ass kicked before I shove my cock in it?”

  Devlin stood.

  “That’s more like it,” Cowboy growled. “Now, take them clothes off…. Let’s see what you got.”

  Devlin stared at the far end of the boxcar and willed herself to be somewhere else, as she began to unzip the parka. Was she stripping? Or being forced to strip by the parasite? The fact that she didn't know made the moment even more horrible.

  “That ain’t no strip tease!” Watch Cap objected loudly. “Make her dance!”

  “You heard the man,” Cowboy said agreeably. “Dance, bitch.”

  Devlin ignored the order and continued to remove her clothing as if for a gynecological exam. And, because she was wearing thre
e layers of clothes, that took awhile. Not that the hobos minded because this was more fun than either one of them had experienced in a long time. Cowboy ran his tongue over badly chapped lips, while Watch Cap rubbed his crotch, and made animal noises deep in the back of his throat.

  Finally, having stripped down to her bra and panties, most of Devlin’s long lean body was revealed. The cold air caused the scientist to shiver—and goose bumps appeared on her arms. “Alright!” Watch Cap said eagerly. “Let’s see them perky little boobs!”

  But Tracker didn’t get to see Devlin’s breasts because that was the moment when Nail removed the .22 Derringer from his right boot and jerked the trigger twice. The first slug hit Cowboy belt-buckle high. That granted the hobo a fraction of a second in which to contemplate how stupid he’d been before the second bullet punched its way into his chest.

  As the tramp released the .38 and fell backwards Devlin made a grab for the pistol and came up with it. Watch Cap started to move forward but stopped when he found himself looking down the gun barrel. He held his hands palms out as if to ward off any bullets that Devlin might fire.

  Nail was on his feet by then. He broke the little weapon open, ejected the spent casings, and fed two hollow-points into the empty chambers. “Please don’t kill me,” Watch Cap sniveled. “I’m sorry. Real sorry... Please let me go.”

  Nail fired twice. Both bullets hit Watch Cap in the head. He collapsed onto the floor. Nail turned toward Devlin. “Good work, Sara…. They won’t bother anybody ever again.”

  That was when Devlin's legs gave way, she collapsed, and began to sob uncontrollably. Not for Tracker—but for herself.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Nail assured the woman. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  But as Nail wrapped a comforting arm around Devlin’s shoulders, he felt the mass hidden beneath the surface of his companion’s back shift slightly, and wondered what it was.