The next apartment was locked so Palmer continued on. The third unit, which shared a wall with the office, was unsecured. The stench that invaded his nose as he opened the door made him gag—and the source of the odor quickly became apparent.
The body was roped into a chair in front of an old tube style TV set. As the glow from Palmer's cell phone embraced the corpse he saw that the man's head was slumped forward so that his chin was supported by his blood stained chest. Judging from the hole in his temple the cause of death was a large caliber bullet. Fired by Florence? Or by one of the thieves? It hardly mattered. Dead was dead.
As Palmer backed away the edge of a coffee table hit the back of his knees and caused him to fall over backward. There was an almighty crash, and Palmer had just regained his feet, when the door flew open. The motor home man was big, surprisingly fast, and armed with a baseball bat. Palmer saw the length of wood come around, ordered himself to duck, but felt a sharp pain. The world snapped to black.
***
Denver, Colorado
Dr. Owen Wilson was trying to wade through his email when a cell phone hit the surface of his borrowed desk and skidded to a stop next to his elbow. “God damn it,” the Director of Terrestrial Biosecurity said, as he turned to the right. “How many times have I told you to knock?”
Cooper was perched on the corner of the big executive style desk by that time. He grinned. “Sorry. I forgot.”
Wilson plucked the phone off the desk and flipped it open. The display was dark and remained that way even after he tried to turn device on. “Okay, I give up. Who does this belong to? And why do I care?”
“It belongs to Dr. Sara Devlin. Or it did. A Sheriff's deputy in Oregon found it on a dead body, got the phone company to pry her name out of it, and a call came into us shortly thereafter.”
“A body you say... Tell me more.”
“His name was Mark Murphy, and he had a criminal record as long as your arm. Attempted murder, assault, you name it. A fisherman found him a mile downstream from a railroad bridge.”
“So you think Devlin was on a train?”
Cooper nodded. “She was carrying a lot of cash. We know that. So maybe the dead guy attempted to rob her, got his hands on the phone, but took a couple of .22 bullets in the process. Or some other version of that theme.”
Wilson looked doubtful. “Devlin shot him? That seems hard to believe.”
“Quinton shot a receptionist,” Cooper reminded him harshly.
Wilson sighed. “Point taken. “So, what now?”
“We watch all the trains on the left coast and pull Palmer back in.”
“Where is he?”
“I gave him some busy work to do in Portland. It got him out of my hair.”
“Why bother?” Wilson inquired cynically. “Devlin ran away from him in Seattle.”
Cooper shrugged. “I can't think of anyone else she might respond to.”
“Okay, it's worth a try I guess.”
“So, how 'bout it?” Cooper wanted to know. “Your propeller heads have all the data collected so far. Where are the parasites headed?”
“We have some data,” Wilson agreed cautiously, “but we need more. Maybe you people should follow the Chinese. They seem to know what's going on.
Their eyes met. If looks could kill Wilson would have been dead. “I'll stay in touch,” Cooper promised.
“You do that,” Wilson replied, and went back to work. The computer dinged—and twelve additional emails appeared in front of him.
***
East of Dayville, Oregon
Palmer awoke in hell. Darkness was all around. His head ached. A rumbling sound filled his ears and the smell of death filled his nostrils. The odor was so stomach churning that he tried to sit up only to bump his head on the surface just inches above. A coffin? Was he in a coffin?
No, Palmer decided, as he turned his head from left to right. He was in a storage compartment aboard a vehicle of some sort. The motor home he'd seen at the Blue Moon apartment complex? Yes, he thought so. In fact, now that he was more alert, he realized that he could see little bits of daylight here and there.
That explained the vibration, the persistent roaring sound, and the confined space. But what about the throat clogging stench? Palmer began to explore with his hands, felt some fabric to his right, and swore. Another person was lying next to him!
Palmer's initial reaction was to jerk his hand back. But without anything more than a few pin pricks of light to go by he had no choice but to reach out again if he wanted to learn more. The first contacts were tentative. But it wasn't long before Palmer realized the truth. The other person was dead. And, judging from how unyielding the body was, had been for some time. Hence the smell.
Palmer lay on his back breathing through his mouth as the pain pounded in his head. What was going on? Based on what little information he had it seemed logical to suppose that Kelty, her parasite, and the motor home man were on a trip. To the so-called nexus? That was a strong possibility.
But why take him along? Because they think you're dead, Palmer reasoned. And they plan to dump both bodies along the way. Except they're in for a surprise.
Not much of one, his inner voice countered. Because when they open the storage compartment, and discover that you're still alive, they'll whack you all over again. Only harder this time.
Palmer knew it was true. They would whack him unless he could find some means of defending himself. With that thought in mind he began to check his pockets. With the exception of a few loose coins they were empty. Phone, wallet, even his comb. All gone.
At that point he knew what he had to do next and it was nothing short of disgusting. But there was no getting around it. Teeth gritted Palmer managed to roll over onto his right side in an attempt to access the body.
He soon realized that the corpse was lying on its side too facing away from him. The body had been sitting in a chair the last time Palmer had seen it. And it was likely that rigor mortis had set in by that time. That made it necessary to place the dead man in the equivalent of a fetal position in order to fit him into the storage compartment. And thanks to the fact that the body was turned away from him Palmer could spoon with it. A truly nauseating thought. But what else could he do if he wanted to go through the poor bastard's pockets?
Palmer's right hand was largely useless given due to the nature of his position. But as he wiggled in closer he was able to pat the dead man down with his left hand, searching for anything useful. An exploration of the upper torso turned up an iPod Nano in the stiff's shirt pocket. But, as Palmer's hand slid lower, he came across an unnatural lump.
The pants were pulled tight, the body was rigid, and Palmer found it difficult to get his fingers into the pocket. Gradually his efforts became more and more aggressive until he was no longer treating the body with the respect normally due a human corpse, but rather as a thing which had to be overcome. Finally cloth ripped, his searching fingers found the lump, and he felt a moment of joy as he realized what he had. It was a clasp knife. The kind with a rubberized grip and a three or four inch blade. A real serious weapon indeed.
Careful to keep a tight grip on his new found treasure Palmer pushed the body away. Now, having armed himself, it was time to plan.
***
Ralph was at the wheel of the big motor coach. And it was he who had chosen to take U.S. Route 26 out of Portland rather than follow one of the more heavily traveled routes. That was partially because Ralph was a country boy and liked the idea of a rural road trip. But there was an additional reason as well. He had two bodies stashed down in “the basement” as he referred to the compartment located beneath the motor home. And Ralph figured there would be plenty of places to get rid of the stiffs out in the boonies.
So as That Summer, by Garth Brooks, blasted out of the sound system, and the sunlit countryside rolled past Ralph was a happy man. All of the rocks taken from the convention center robbery had been sold to the man who conceived of the scheme. A ta
lky sort who was not only a dealer—but one of the people who had been robbed. A slick deal indeed since Mr. Green as the man liked to call himself, would get an insurance check in addition to whatever the loot brought in on the black market.
That meant Ralph had his share of the money, plus Flo's because she didn't care about money, and Solly's since he was dead. And deservedly so given his attempt to take the entire payout and run. Fortunately Ralph caught Solly red handed. After roping him to a chair the rest of the gang took turns slapping the traitor around until they grew tired of it. Then Ralph put a bullet in his head. One fifth of the loot had gone to his nephew Joey and another fifth had gone to his girlfriend. The couple were given orders to burn the apartment complex before heading out on a road trip of their own. The whole thing was a work of art.
The thought caused Ralph to chuckle and glance over at Flo. She continued to stare straight ahead. That was one of the things Ralph liked about Flo. The woman was ugly, but she never ran her mouth, and was useful. Like when it came to loading the bodies for example. And now that they were on the road, headed south, she was easy to get along with. Ralph figured he would have to kill her eventually, but not for awhile yet, since he hated to cook.
The hula girl on the dashboard swayed seductively as the motor home entered a curve. A sheer cliff rose to the right. The John Day river was off to the left and about thirty feet below the highway. Greenery grew up along the top of the slope and there were pullouts every once in awhile. So, Ralph figured that if he pulled over to where he could remove the stiffs from the river side of the coach, the people who passed by wouldn't be able to see what he was up to. That would allow him get the chore over before the steadily increasing stink got even worse.
It would be a simple matter to roll the bodies down the bank into the river. They would be found of course. But the motor coach would be long gone by then. All he had to do was find the right spot.
Having formulated his plan Ralph began to monitor the other side of the road. Almost ten minutes had passed, and Garth was singing about a rodeo rider, when the perfect pullout appeared up ahead. It was large enough to accommodate the coach—but too small for anyone else to park next to them. “Hang onto your panties,” Ralph said, as he activated the turn signal. “We're going to stop and take out the trash.”
Flo looked alarmed. “No stop,” she said insistently. “No stop.”
Ralph sighed as he began to brake. Flo was no retard. He knew that. But there was a very real possibility that she was crazy. The trip south being the thing she was crazy about. “Don't worry, hon,” he replied. “It will only take a moment. Then we'll be back on the road again. Okay?”
There was a moment of silence, finally followed by a grudging, “Okay.”
Ralph stopped, waited for a pickup to pass, and hit the gas. Moments later the motor coach was positioned right where he wanted it, which was at the top of a steep bank with the river below. “All right,” Ralph said, as he checked to make sure the chrome plated .38 was in the right hand pocket of his jacket. “Let's take care of business.”
Flo said something unintelligible before getting up and making her way back through a messy living area. Ralph followed her back to the door on the passenger side. From there it was only a couple of steps down onto the ground. He was pleased to see that the blue-green water was rushing past at a good clip.
Ralph turned, saw that Flo was licking a rock, and shook his head disgustedly. “What's wrong with you? Put that thing down. We have work to do.”
***
Palmer wasn't asleep, but he wasn't awake either, as the motor coach slowed and came to a halt. He was in some sort of strange in between state. An act of will was required to break himself out of the reverie and focus. That meant battling a ferocious headache, a terrible thirst, and the fear in his belly. He had a weapon. That was true. But it would be nothing against a gun and the ball bat that had been used on him before.
Where was the machine anyway? In a gas station? If so maybe he should bang in the door.
Palmer heard the sound of muffled conversation, followed by the crunch of boots on loose gravel, and the rattle of keys so he knew the coach was somewhere Flo and her boyfriend considered to be safe. Shouting for help would not only constitute a waste of time but earn him a bullet.
Light flooded into the storage compartment and Palmer could see it through closed eyelids. “Damn!” a male voice said. “What a stink. These guys are ripe.”
There was movement as someone pulled the tray-like shelf that Palmer was resting on out into the open. He felt the welcome warmth of sunlight on his face and heard the sound of rushing water.
“Here we go,” the voice said. “Grab on Flo... We'll toss this one over the bank first. And let this be a lesson to you. This sonofabitch followed you home. You've got to be more careful, babe. There's all sorts of whackos out there.”
Palmer sat up, opened his eyes, and brought the knife around. The man with the piggy eyes, heavily veined nose, and bushy beard was bent over and facing Palmer. The blade sank into his neck. It came as a complete surprise judging from the wide-eyed expression that appeared on his face. Warm blood sprayed the area as Palmer jerked on the knife and cut the internal jugular as well. Just the way the marines had taught him to.
In that split second the man's hands went up to his throat and a shadow fell across both of them. Palmer rolled left. There was a crash as a rock fell on the metal tray.
Palmer found himself next to the dead body as Flo turned and went looking for another rock. After a quick pat down he found the chrome plated revolver in a the man's jacket pocket and attempted to remove it. The hammer caught in the fabric, and he had just managed to free it, when Flo returned. She was holding what looked like a two-hundred pound chunk of limestone over her head as she waddled forward.
“Stop!” Palmer instructed, as he brought the pistol up. “I know you can hear me Florence. I spoke with your mother. She loves you. And I know about the parasite. I can get help. Please... Listen to me.”
But Florence wouldn't listen. Or couldn't listen. Palmer back pedaled, tripped, and landed on his ass. He fired. Florence was forced to pause as the first bullet hit her chest. But she still managed to keep the rock aloft as she staggered towards him. Then, as the second and third slugs hit, her knees gave out and the weight of the stone drove her to the ground.
Palmer just sat there for a moment, the pain pounding in his head, as a truck roared past on the other side of the coach. It took an act of will to stand, climb up into the motor home, and make his way to the front. A cell phone was sitting on the center console with a map underneath it. Paper rattled as he opened the map all the way. An orange highlighter had been used to draw a snaking line from Portland to another major city. Nexus? The place where all of the parasites were headed? That was a distinct possibility.
Palmer flipped the cell phone open, entered Cooper's number and heard it ring. He half expected it to go to voice mail and was extremely pleased when it didn't. The response was understandably cautious since the agent had never seen the incoming number before. “Yeah?”
“This is Palmer. I'm somewhere in Oregon. That's what I assume anyway. Although it's hard to tell since I've been under lock and key since last night. And I've got three bodies to dispose of. One of them is, or was a host, and the other two were members of the gang that broke into the convention center in Portland.”
There was a moment of silence before Cooper responded. “Didn't I tell you not to play cop?”
“Yeah,” Palmer replied wearily. “I'm real sorry about that. Feel free to dock my pay. Have you got anything on Sara?”
“She's been hopping trains. But we don't know where she's going.”
Palmer felt a surge of hope. Devlin's infection was relatively recent compared to Kelty's. That was his theory anyway. So maybe the doctors could remove the parasite. If they got to her quickly enough. “I think I know where she's going,” Palmer said. “In fact I think I know where all of t
hem are going. The dead host I told you about was headed for New Orleans.”
“That's interesting,” Cooper replied. “Very, interesting. Keep that cell phone on. We'll track the signal and be there as soon as we can.”
Palmer was about to reply when Cooper broke the connection.
***
Southeast of Los Angeles, California
They had made good progress. Or so it seemed to Nail, as he skidded down a steep embankment, into the train yard below. There was a town half a mile to the east. A nothing place centered around a big water tank where the residents looked at him suspiciously but were happy to take Sara’s money. The newly purchased items were safely stowed in his pack where they wouldn’t attract attention from the law or the other tramps who were camped in the area. His tail was clean, or that’s what the drifter assumed, as he followed the tracks north. Still, Nail knew how dangerous assumptions could be. So he went over to sit on some railroad ties and smoke a cigarette. If anyone was dogging his footsteps they would probably show themselves.
The smoke tasted good, the air was a lot warmer than it had been up north, and things were going as well as they ever did for the teenager. Sara was a good companion in most respects. She never drank. Never did drugs. And never ate more than her share of the food. Of course there were a few negatives too. Starting with a recent tendency to snore, steadily deteriorating hygiene, and the fact that she was weird. And getting weirder all the time.
Still, what could someone like him expect? Within a week or two it would be time to part company with Sara. The question was whether to steal what remained of the money or let her keep it. Maybe some sort of compromise was in order. He could steal half the money and leave the rest. Yes, that was fair Nail decided. Especially in light of their friendship.
Being satisfied with his plan, and not having seen any signs of pursuit, Nail flipped the cigarette butt out onto the tracks. Then, having slipped his thumbs under the pack straps to take some of the pressure off his shoulders, the youngster followed a rusty siding back to where an old caboose sat surrounded by a cluster of trees. It had been set on fire at least once and put out. But the interior was still intact.
Ejecta Page 22
