The Panic Zone

by Rick Mofina

  Because they don’t believe me.

  She’d do better to search for answers in the shadows on the wall.

  “Emma?”

  She shifted her focus to the people around the table, who, at her insistence, had convened this meeting here in Laramie to report back to her on their “investigation” into the call.

  She looked into the faces of Aunt Marsha, Uncle Ned, Darnell Horn with the county sheriff’s office, his supervisor, Reed Cobb, Henry Sanders, the coroner, Dan Farraday with the highway patrol; and Dr. Kendrix, the psychiatrist from the hospital.

  Jay Hubbard, special agent with the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation who was running the meeting, repeated his question.

  “Would you like a tissue or some water?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “As I was saying,” Hubbard continued, “we’ve responded to the request to assist in this inquiry from the Big Cloud County Sheriff’s Office.”

  She knew this. Was Hubbard being officious for her benefit?

  “And, we’ve used all the records and information you volunteered. Working with authorities in California we have confirmed that you did receive a call at the time you reported.”

  Emma inhaled.

  “The call originated from a public phone in Santa Ana, California, in Orange County,” Hubbard read from his notebook.

  “It must have something to do with the clinic,” she said.

  “No, we don’t think that’s the case.”

  “Then something to do with Dr. Durbin’s letter. Did you talk to him?”

  “We’re coming to that,” Hubbard said. “The phone is located near a Burger King outlet some thirty-five miles south of West Olympic Boulevard, in Los Angeles, the location of the Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation. So we’ve ruled out that it was a call from the clinic.”

  Emma said nothing.

  “With your permission and using your volunteered material we spoke with Dr. Durbin and with officials at the clinic in Los Angeles.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “They acknowledged receiving delivery of Dr. Durbin’s letter confirming Tyler Lane’s death. But they’ve closed their file. They also stressed that no one at the clinic called you or would have reason to call you.”

  “That’s it?”

  “The clinic expressed its sympathies,” Hubbard said.

  Looking into the faces studying her, Emma felt like she was falling.

  “But how do you explain a woman calling me, telling me Tyler is alive?”

  “We can only surmise what happened.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That you got a wrong number call from California and in your semiconsciousness, in your grief, and with Dr. Durbin’s letter fresh in your mind, you got confused about what you heard.”

  “Confused? No!”

  “Emma.” Her aunt tried to calm her.

  “It was crystalline. The woman on the phone knew exactly who she was calling and exactly what she was saying. You’re wrong!”

  “Emma.” Dr. Kendrix had been tapping the tip of his pen to his chin. “It is not uncommon for bereaved people under stress, traumatized by an unbearable event like yours, to experience what you’ve experienced.”

  “A phone call like that?”

  Kendrix removed his glasses. “I’m talking about a post-tragic phenomenon whereby you see or hear deceased loved ones. It happens in dreams. You may hear them or see them in a room. And, yes, people have reported receiving phone calls or messages from those who have passed away suddenly. Usually they say, ‘I’m all right, don’t worry,’ or ‘I forgive you,’ or something to alleviate guilty feelings or fears. It’s not a supernatural event—it’s simply a coping mechanism.”

  Emma shook her head.

  “My case is different.”

  “Of course,” Kendrix said. “Each case is. For you, you’re hearing what you need to hear, that your baby did not suffer in the fire while you lay a few feet away unable to help him.”

  Emma stifled a great sob.

  “This call, this phenomenon,” Kendrix said, “is your mind working at helping you cope, so you can live, so you can move forward.”

  “It’s not true,” Emma said.

  “Sweetheart,” Aunt Marsha said, “maybe this is because you haven’t been taking the pills the doctor prescribed for you when you were released from the hospital?”

  Kendrix arched an eyebrow.

  “You’re all wrong,” Emma said. “I know what I heard. I know what I feel. Tyler’s not dead.”

  “You need to rest, Emma,” Uncle Ned said.

  Kendrix was scribbling on a pad.

  “We need to call the FBI,” Emma said. “Why didn’t you call the FBI?”

  “Emma,” Kendrix said. “You should take your medication. I’m writing you a new prescription, a stronger one. Now, I’ve spoken with Dr. Durbin and with Dr. Sanders. We all agree you need to talk to someone, get counseling. Dr. Allan Pierce at Big Sky Memorial Hospital in Cheyenne is excellent. I’ve called ahead—”

  “No, thank you.” Emma stood.

  “Excuse me.” Kendrix looked at Emma, then the others.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to think. I’m sorry.”

  Emma left the room with her worried aunt following after her until Emma turned.

  “Aunt Marsha, please, I need to be alone. I just need some air.”

  Emma left the building for the small patch of lawn at the side and the shade tree that framed the mountains. She stood there, searching the snow-capped peaks, knowing the whole world thought she was crazy.

  Insane with grief.

  But she didn’t care, for in her heart she knew, she felt, that Tyler was alive.

  Emma replayed the night call in her mind a million times. Never wavering because she knew with certainty that what she’d heard was no dream, no hallucination, no “coping mechanism.”

  “Emma Lane in Big Cloud, Wyoming? Listen to me. Your baby is not dead! Your baby is alive. That’s all I can tell you.”

  She cupped her hands to her face thinking of Joe, touching him as he died, remembering what he’d said to her that day.

  “You’re one of the most fearless people I know. Woe to anyone or anything that comes between you and Tyler.”

  She felt Joe with her now and she knew.

  Emma reached into her bag, saw two tiny eyes looking up at her and caressed Tyler’s stuffed bear.

  She’d reached a decision on what she had to do.

  She would find her son.

  32

  Fort Lauderdale, Florida

  This one was disturbing.

  Dr. Wayne Marcott, chief medical examiner for Broward County, stroked his chin in his office on Thirty-first Avenue.

  Again he read over his notes for Autopsy No. 10-92787. The decedent’s name: Roger Timothy Tippert, a white male, age forty-one from Indianapolis, Indiana.

  Was this an outbreak? This case was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

  Marcott checked on the status of his request to accelerate additional tests from the autopsy. He’d grown concerned over his findings.

  Tippert was a cruise ship passenger on the Spanish liner, Salida del Sol. According to the report from Dr. Estevan Perez, the ship’s chief medical officer, the ship was returning to Florida from a seven-day cruise of eastern Caribbean islands when Tippert, a teacher, experienced a sudden seizure, collapsed and died while drinking a beer at an upper deck lounge.

  The remarkable aspects are owing to his internal organs expanding and bursting. Was it an allergic reaction? Was it viral? It is uncertain at this stage. The subject was in good health. He was not taking medication and he had no known allergies or pre-existing medical conditions. He had not reported any illness. Seems the beer was fine. He was a healthy forty-one-year-old male.

  Perez said all procedures were followed for a death in international water. Tippert’s body was held in the ship’s morgue for return to the U.S., and his widow
was offered the counseling services of the clergy.

  Perez alerted Florida officials and the ship’s medical staff immediately and took precautions should Tippert’s death be the result of an outbreak. Tippert’s toiletries were tested, his beverage was tested, all of the ship’s water and food were tested, as well as the pools and showers.

  Nothing was found to be wrong.

  All passengers exhibiting any flu-like symptoms were swabbed and tested as were all members of the crew. Nothing of concern had emerged.

  This was puzzling because if Tippert’s death was the result of a virus, that virus should thrive in the ship’s confined environment.

  They’d expect to find some further evidence of it.

  Perez noted that the passengers in the adjoining cabin were tested and a female child did exhibit cold symptoms so mild as to be insignificant.

  Early indications were that a quarantine of the ship was not necessary.

  The cruise line intended to initiate a complete scrub down after the ship docked and all the passengers disembarked.

  Marcott paged through his notes.

  This case made him uneasy because it was baffling.

  The external hemorrhaging from orifices was characteristic of the Ebola virus. But there were no other symptoms. It was as if something were mimicking Ebola. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was the speed at which this thing moved.

  Marcott shook his head and cursed to himself.

  He punched an extension on his phone line.

  Once the connection was made, he activated his speaker phone.

  “Yes, Wayne?”

  “Isabel, have you got the samples from 92787 ready to ship to Atlanta?”

  “We’re good to go. I called ahead. They’re standing by.”

  “Thanks.”

  Marcott reviewed his notes again.

  His office had followed procedure and alerted the U.S. Centers for Disease Control.

  Those hotshots need to take a good hard look at this case fast, because as far-fetched as it sounds, it looks to me like we may have a new killer on our hands.

  33

  Fairfax County, Virginia

  In an airy, secured section of a subterranean floor of the National Anti-Threat Center, intelligence analysts hunted for ex-CIA scientist Gretchen Sutsoff.

  They focused on monitors and keyboards, processing data at a configuration of desks that suggested the bridge of a spacecraft.

  The Information Command Unit: what insiders called the ICU, where the nature of the work was top-secret cyber sleuthing.

  ICU analysts had diverted some of their resources from other classified assignments to accommodate Robert Lancer’s request for a “full-court press” to find Gretchen Sutsoff.

  He needed to interview her about Project Crucible.

  The room was taut with quiet pressure, underscored by the clicking of keys. In a process known as data mining, experts searched secure government archives, property records, court records, news articles, obituaries, Web sites, chat rooms, blogs and social networks—just about everything available online.

  They also searched law enforcement databases, drivers’ records, criminal records, death records, obits, tax records, corporate records and fee-based sources. And through international agreements, they were able to scour government holdings from foreign countries.

  Sandra Deller, the chief analyst handling Lancer’s request, had her eyes fixed to her monitor when Lancer arrived at her desk.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. “In some smaller, developing island countries, they haven’t transferred files to computerized databases. It’s Dickensian. We have to request manual searches of paper files—it takes forever. There are cases where departments have lost records in hurricanes or earthquakes.”

  “What about our sources? Like the IRS? Does she receive a pension?”

  “Nothing’s been found.”

  “She may have changed her name.”

  “We’re looking into that, too.”

  “Let me know if you get a hit.”

  Back at his desk, Lancer loosened his tie and resumed writing his latest report on the CIA file to his supervisor. He’d revisited his list of sources from around the world. No one had gotten back to him with anything on his requests for help. He needed to close the loop on Foster Winfield’s concerns about Crucible.

  Lancer also noted the separate case he was pursuing out of Dar es Salaam, the claim of an imminent attack. He looked at his calendar. Time was ticking down on the Human World Conference in New York.

  Was it a target?

  There were so many other events and potential soft targets: airports, malls, amusement parks. It was overwhelming, but Lancer knew he was not alone in assessing threats. Other agencies were doing similar work.

  His phone rang.

  It was Martin Weller at the East Africa section. Reaching for the handset, Lancer glanced at his watch. He had fifteen minutes to finish his report before the meeting.

  “Lancer.”

  “Bob, we may have something coming to advance Said Salelee’s information. We’re picking it up from police sources in Africa.”

  “Can you give me a summary, Marty? I’ve got to finish reports before the E-3.”

  “Just some chatter. Something major in the works.”

  “Where? When? Who? What? I need more, Marty.”

  “Our analysts are still working on it. No details yet, I’ll keep you posted.”

  The E-3 was a regular meeting within the U.S. intelligence community, held every three days, regardless of the day of the week. It included Homeland Security, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the U.S. State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the National Security Agency and other intelligence agencies.

  Representatives provided updated analysis of threats arising from their areas of responsibility. Their reports were debated and ultimately distilled by the team representing the national intelligence director, who was the intelligence advisor to the president and presented the Oval Office with the president’s daily brief.

  Today’s meeting began with a summary of threats and reports.

  Lancer, who was with the National Anti-Threat Center team, did his homework and was aware of most of the threats. A few new ones, like the updated report from the State Department, got his attention.

  “Foreign government intelligence and press reports indicate the recent bombing of a café in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, was not a result of narco gang wars, as first reported. The attack is suspected to be tied to another criminal network.”

  There was another one from his old section, the Joint Terrorism Task Force.

  “East African sources report chatter of operatives preparing to mount a ‘large action.’ Target and method of attack unknown.”

  Lancer reflected on that one as the meeting continued with other reports, including an intriguing one from the FBI.

  “A forty-one-year-old male U.S. national died mysteriously aboard a Spanish passenger ship returning to Fort Lauderdale, FL, from a Caribbean cruise. Cause and manner unknown. The Broward County medical examiner conducted an autopsy then alerted the CDC. CDC now investigating and accelerating testing. No other signs of illness among other passengers, nor any indication of foul play at this time. Cruise liner scrubbing entire vessel as a precaution.”

  Near the meeting’s end, the U.S. Secret Service reiterated that there was a fifty-fifty chance that the president and first lady would be attending the Human World Conference in New York City. All advance work was continuing. It was processing some sixty individuals on its watch list and analyzing ninety-four threats, everything from a letter to the White House stating the president will die if he comes to NYC, to boasts by fringe extremists groups that they will have “martyrs” in Central Park “for the day of reckoning.” The Secret Service had the security lead and was working with federal, state and local agencies.
>
  As the meeting finished, Lancer stayed to make notes when he was approached by two CIA officials he knew: Raymond Roth and Nick Webb.

  They were not smiling.

  “Isn’t Canada nice this time of year, Bob?” Webb asked.

  Lancer knew that they were aware he’d been poking around in the CIA’s backyard and had expected this.

  “I’m curious,” Lancer said. “Why didn’t you raise Crucible at the meeting?”

  “We’re still working on it. There’s nothing to report.”

  “Did you find Gretchen?”

  “Stay out of the way, Bob,” Roth said. “We’ve got this.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “All we have is a few dedicated aging scientists expressing some concerns. We’re looking into it,” Webb said.

  “I can understand why the CIA wouldn’t want this little embarrassment getting out of hand—rogue former scientist, lethal top-secret experiments. It’s the stuff of thrillers, movies, congressional hearings and the death of many careers.”

  Roth stepped into Lancer’s space.

  “We’re on this, Bob. I think we know what constitutes a threat.”

  Lancer’s jaw line pulsed. Roth had hit a nerve in sacred territory.

  “You know, Ray, the last time I heard talk like that my wife and daughter came home to me in coffins.”

  “Bob, you’d be wise to stay out of our way.”

  He stared at Roth and Webb, the tension rising, then his cell phone vibrated and flashed with a call, cuing Roth and Webb’s departure.

  Lancer had a security-encrypted text. He entered his password to read the message from one of his new sources overseas.

  Got new data linked to SS in D es S. Need to meet U in North Africa. Advise.

  Lancer responded.

  When & where?

  34

  Benghazi, Libya

  Time was ticking down on Dr. Gretchen Sutsoff.

  After launching her experiment against the cruise ship passenger, she flew to Libya to confront the angry leaders of her inner group.

  The secret meeting was at the new National General People’s University. Drake Stinson had arranged it with the help of Professor Ibrahim Jehaimi, one of her inner circle. Jehaimi had worked with Sutsoff on some sensitive projects while he’d studied in the United States. Since then, he’d remained a believer in her cause.