by Steven James
“That’s sign language, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it means ‘thank you.’”
He repeated the sign. “You’ll have to teach me more sometime.
I’d like to learn.”
“OK. Sometime.” She slid the key into the lock and pressed the door open. She wanted this conversation to go on. She wanted to invite him into her room, but instead, she simply said what she was supposed to say to a co-worker who’d showed appropriate concern for her well-being. “Good night, Pat. I’ll see you in the morning.
Really, I’m glad you stopped by to see how I was doing.”
He gave her a slight nod, tapped the door with his finger, and said, “OK, see you in the morning. Take care of that leg. Your neck too.”
She stepped into her room, eased the door shut, stood beside it for a moment, counted to five, then cracked it open to see if he’d left. When she saw that he had, she closed it again and went over to tend to her vase of dying flowers.
Nearly ten minutes had passed before she noticed that the ice was melting in the bucket and the bruise was still throbbing on her leg.
I’m an idiot.
That’s all there is to it.
A complete idiot.
Oh, you were very professional today, Lien-hua. I stopped by at this time of night to tell you how professional you were. Here, let me stand in the hallway with my fist stuck in the air like a bad mime for a few more minutes. Did I actually say, “Health benefits. Gotta stay fit”? Did I actually say that?
Just shoot me now.
Well, at least I didn’t say what I was really thinking when she mentioned that she needed to ice down her leg. At least I didn’t say,
“I could do that for you.” At least I didn’t say that.
I’d kinda been hoping she might invite me into her room just to debrief the day.
Yeah, right—debrief the day.
Just chill, Pat. Get some sleep.
I tapped on Tessa’s door, but she didn’t answer. I figured she was either asleep or listening to her iPod. Probably both. I pulled out my phone to see if she’d left me another text message and instead found a voice mail: “I’ll see you in the morning, Patrick. Just don’t be all, ‘Let’s get an early start on the day!’ or anything. It’s annoying.”
All right then, tomorrow we would catch up, and she could fill me in on how she’d spent the rest of her day.
Although, based on a couple of the phone calls I’d made earlier in the afternoon, I thought I already knew. And she hadn’t spent much of her time at that Internet cafe that served imported coffee, or walking around Balboa Park. Instead, she’d spent nearly five hours at one of the seedy tattoo studios over on Market Street.
Well, I could talk to her about that in the morning. For now, I needed some sleep.
61
Creighton Melice lay on the cot in his cell and let himself relax into the deep unknown. He dreamt of spiders, as he often did, but tonight, with the end so close at hand, the images seemed as real to him as moonlight and blood.
And so. Now, his dream.
A spider the size of a baby’s fist wriggles up his neck and across his face, brushing her feet against his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids, the soft indentation beneath his nose. In his dream he’s paralyzed, so he can see her dark body pause on his cheek, but he can’t move, can’t brush her away. It repels him and excites him at the same time, sending shivers of secret pleasure running all through his body.
The spider rears back and lands with a prick in the middle of his cheek. He wants to scream but can’t make a sound; can’t brush her away. He feels the pressure, the widening wound, the gentle ripping sensation as she burrows into his cheek and the skin kisses open to receive her eggs.
She deposits her skinned offspring, then, in one moist plop. And he can feel the small wet sacks soak onto his tongue.
In the cocooned heat of his mouth it won’t take the eggs long to hatch.
Time passes. How much? A moment. An eternity. Impossible to tell. Impossible to know.
And then they hatch.
It’s a dream. It’s all a dream.Their whisper-thin feet explore his tongue. Some of the babies roll down his throat, while others manage to squeeze up and out the narrow passages of his nostrils. A few of the tiny spiders crawl out his mouth, nimble legs stepping over his teeth, across his lips, and then spreading out to scurry around his face. Always examining, always probing.
Of course, it’s just a dream.
It’s only a dream.
The rest of the babies descend deeply into him. Moist bodies sliding, wriggling against the tight, confining space of his throat.
Down. Down.
A dream. A dream.
All the way down.
Deeply, deeply.
They land in his stomach. They’re still alive.
Then he feels them wriggling inside him, and senses the quivering sensation as they begin to work their tiny mandibles and chew.
Devouring him from the inside out.
And he imagines how all of this would feel, should feel, how much it should hurt; but he notices only textures, light and airy; only pressure, blunt and numb.
Then Creighton Melice awoke, pleased by his dream, and rolled to his side. And there, in the solitude of his cell, he began going over tomorrow’s plan as he scratched at the small wound on his left palm that none of the cops who arrested him had bothered to inspect. Wouldn’t they be surprised.
Wouldn’t they all.
62
Wednesday, February 18
7:10 a.m.
The next morning, after a quick workout at the hotel’s fitness room and a brisk shower, I walked to the Internet cafe Tessa had told me about to buy some of what she called “weird-sounding coffee.”
The place featured mostly South American blends, and I grabbed a cup of some gracefully nutty Peruvian coffee from the Chanchamayo Valley. The high regions of the Andes produce a light-bodied, aromatic, and slightly sweet coffee, perfect for the morning.
I could taste that the coffeehouse had roasted the beans just a bit too long, but I was feeling generous and didn’t even mention it to them. I added a little cream and honey, no sugar, just like always, and sipped my way to heaven.
Since I expected to have some company for breakfast, I picked up a couple extra cups to go.
On his way to the Project Rukh Oversight Committee meeting, Victor Drake stumbled upon a realization so simple, so obvious, he was amazed he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Who cares why Austin Hunter started the fire? It didn’t matter. He was dead. He couldn’t hurt Drake Enterprises anymore. And the fire had been effective.
That’s all that mattered.
Everything had been destroyed.
Everything.Yes, this would work out to his advantage, after all. He could get the remaining files from Dr. Osbourne and shred them as soon as the doctor got back into town. Yes, yes, yes. And because of the fire, he could get out of the contract gracefully and there would be no board of directors inquiry and no public backlash.
Victor couldn’t help but congratulate himself on how brilliant he was. He began to hum as he drove, as he thought about the look he would see on the general’s face in less than an hour when he regrettably explained the unfortunate situation to him.
After leaving text messages for both Ralph and Lien-hua, inviting them to join me for breakfast on the hotel restaurant’s veranda, I brought my computer to an empty table, and pulled up my notes about this case. A flock of questions flew through my mind.
It was time to get them to fly in formation.
First of all, before Austin Hunter died, he admitted to Lien-hua that he’d started the first fourteen fires but not the one on Monday night. OK, so that solved one mystery, but left us with another. The geographic distribution of the fires supported the premise that the same person had chosen all the fire locations, so I typed, “Why didn’t Austin start Monday’s fire? Who did?” I thought for a moment and then added, “Does John Doe�
��s death have anything to do with the previous fires?”
I gazed across the beach. A distant dog-walker. Two children looking for shells, trailing behind their mother. An older couple walking hand in hand. The ocean lay beyond them, gentle ripples on the surface, dark currents underneath. High above the world’s only ocean, a circle of patient clouds held up the sky, while on the eastern tip of Coronado Island, smoke from the remains of Building B-14 sloped southward, bent by the morning breeze.
Building B-14.
Cassandra’s abductors wanted that building burned down—why?
I added three more questions to my list: “What is their connection to Building B-14? What device were the kidnappers after? Where is it now?”
Nearby, a pair of anxious gulls greeted the morning with their screaking chatter, reminding me again of Tessa’s comment Monday night about squeals in slaughterhouses. Reminding me once again of Sylvia Padilla’s wet screams …
Of Cassandra Lillo’s silent ones …
Of Austin Hunter’s desperate struggle to save her life.
What else had Austin told Lien-hua last night?
Oh yes. That he hadn’t killed the people. But which people? Who killed them? Where were the bodies? When were they killed?
Too many questions. I sighed, but entered the growing list of mysteries into my document.
My mind sifted through the facts of the case, rotating them, holding the investigation’s complex prism up to the light. An enigma with many intersecting angles.
Cassandra Lillo, shark researcher …
Austin Hunter, arsonist …
John Doe, transient …
Victor Drake, billionaire …
Shade, unknown kidnapper who somehow knew my name …
What did they all have in common? What tied them together?
As I looked over the list, I realized there was at least one rabbit hole I hadn’t yet peered down.
I pulled up my Internet browser and cruised to the Drake Enterprises website, and a moment later found the person Terry had mentioned to me, Dr. Rigel Osbourne. I looked over his vita: BS in genetic engineering from UCLA, MS in microbiology from Biola, and two PhDs, one in neuropathology from Yale and the other in neuromorphic engineering from the University of Texas. Having jumped through graduate-level academic hoops myself—night classes, distance learning, independent studies, thesis, dissertation, all while still working in law enforcement—I knew how hard it can be to stick it out for an advanced degree, so I was impressed with Osbourne’s academic achievements. But since I’d never heard of neuromorphic engineering, I was also confused.
A couple clicks later I found an online scientific encyclopedia and discovered that neuromorphic engineers attempt to use computers to mimic biological processes. The last paragraph of the article read: Since its development in the 1980s, neuromorphic engineering has primarily been used in artificial intelligence research and in the development of advanced robotics systems. However, even though historically neuromorphic engineers have focused on ways to reverse engineer biological nervous systems to create artificial neural pathways, since 2003 the biotech world has been exploring many other uses for this quickly emerging field.
Many other uses, huh?
I went back to my Word document and typed, “What about killer ray guns?”
Then I checked my email and found a note from Terry telling me that he hadn’t uncovered anything more about the grant Cassandra was working on or DARPA’s contract with Drake Enterprises.
Angela Knight had also emailed to let me know that the cybercrime division hadn’t been able to get a GPS location on the caller who referred to himself as Shade. I wasn’t surprised. I had a feeling Shade was no amateur.
Finally, I made a list of three goals for the day: (1) talk with Dr.
Rigel Osbourne; (2) find out what really went on in Building B-14; (3) follow up with Aina about the radioactive isotopes found at Austin’s apartment.
Honestly, I didn’t feel like an investigator who’d just hours ago helped save a woman’s life and apprehend a suspect. Despite our progress on this case, despite the apparent closure, I felt more like a rat in a maze in which someone was opening and closing portions of the wall. Leading me steadily into a corner.
And I had a feeling I knew who it was.
Shade.
I entered one last question: “Who is Shade?”
I was poring over the notes on my computer, thinking about how much the gulls were really starting to annoy me, when Ralph showed up wearing the same set of clothes he’d had on yesterday.
“No suitcases, huh?”
He plopped down beside me. “On their way to Miami. Can you believe it? Miami!” Then he let out a deep sigh and provided me with a colorful description of what the airline baggage handlers ought to do to themselves with his retractable-handle fold-over garment bag. I wasn’t sure it was anatomically possible to do what he recommended, but it certainly brought an interesting picture to mind. “Plus,” he added, “I tried making coffee in my room this morning. I’m telling you, Pat, avoid anything with ‘o-matic’
in the title. I don’t care if it’s a toaster-o-matic, a pizza-o-matic, a jambalaya-o-matic, or a urinal-o-matic. Doesn’t matter. If they couldn’t come up with a better name than that, their product stinks.
You can be sure of that.”
I wasn’t really in the mood to talk about urinal-o-matics. “Well, here.” I offered him a cup of Peruvian coffee. “This is pretty good, except I think they might have used a roaster-o-matic.” After he’d swallowed a Ralph-sized gulp, I asked him if he’d heard how Cassandra was doing.
“Talked to the docs. She’s stable, but they told me one-third of the people who survive a near-drowning like that end up with nervous system problems, or lung and heart complications, so they want to keep her at the hospital today. Monitor her progress.”
“Maybe I’ll head over there before she leaves,” I said. “See if she can help untangle some of my questions about this case.”
“Better hurry. Docs say she’s not too excited about being there.”Ralph took another draught of coffee, finishing off the cup. “A couple more tests scheduled for this morning, then she’ll probably take off.”
The way he phrased that, “probably take off,” reminded me of our theory that she and Austin might have been trying to get out of town quickly yesterday morning. “Ralph, do you know if anyone has told her about Austin’s death yet?”
“I asked the hospital the same thing, but since Austin didn’t have any ID on him last night, they said they’re waiting until his body can be positively identified before telling her. It’s just a formality, but it’s enough to hold things up—and after what Cassandra went through yesterday, they don’t really want to make her do it. I think they’re trying to contact a family member somewhere in Arkansas.
Hey, did you eat already?”
“Just some oatmeal.”
“I need some flapjacks.”
And before I knew it, I was in line behind Ralph to get a second breakfast.
Ralph’s mention of the search for Austin’s family member brought to mind a question I’d wanted to ask him, but I waited until we had our plates stacked high with pancakes smothered in maple syrup and were on our way back to the veranda. Then I said, “Ralph, you’ve been a parent almost ten years longer than I have.
How do you know how much freedom to give Tony?”
“Oh. So Tessa did something stupid.”
“Snuck off to get a tattoo. Does that count?” We found our seats.
“I just don’t think I can trust her to be here in San Diego without supervision. She’s at a tough age. She asks for more freedom, and I want to give it to her, but when I do, more often than not, she acts irresponsibly.”
Ralph attacked his pancakes with gusto. “Sounds pretty normal for a teen.”“I know she wants to stay in San Diego, but I don’t want to reward her for doing things behind my back. So I decided earlier this morning to send her bac
k to Denver and have her stay with my parents for a day or two until I can close up some things here and get back home.”
“The freedom thing, Pat, no one knows the answer to that.”
Ralph didn’t let having food in his mouth stop him from passing along his parenting advice. “It’s always a balancing act between trusting ‘em and setting ‘em up for failure. They’ll push the limits, you’ll end up stepping on their toes. You’re both gonna make mistakes, I guarantee you that. You just need to keep loving her and be patient. That’s about all I know. Where’s the butter?”
I handed him some mini butter tubs. “One more thing.”
He stuck his fork into his pancakes. “What’s that?”
I wasn’t quite sure how to phrase this. “Ralph, something happened to Lien-hua. Something in her past. A couple times she’s hinted to me about it, but when I follow up and ask her about it, she backs off. Do you know what it is?”
The edge of his jaw twitched. “No. It was something before I met her. I wondered for a while, and then one day I just decided to let it go and let her have her secrets. You better believe I’ve got mine.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We all do.”
He swallowed a forkful of pancakes and then draped a giant paw across my shoulder. “Pat, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do it.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Investigate her. Just let it be. You push her, you might hurt her.
I know her heart’s been broken before. Don’t pry. She deserves better than that.”
“Ralph, you know I don’t want to hurt her. That’s the last thing I want—”
“Good morning, boys.” Lien-hua appeared beside me and set down a plateful of fruit and a bowl of yogurt sprinkled with granola.
“What were you saying, Pat? What’s the last thing you want?”
“To eat yogurt,” I said, staring at her plate. “If I ever tell you I want some yogurt, hospitalize me. That and quiche. I’m obviously not in my right mind.”
“Yogurt-a-matic,” mumbled Ralph.
“Health benefits,” she said coyly. “Gotta stay fit.”
