9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

“Just come . . . that is, if you’re still interested.”

  Gunner could be a pain when he had the upper hand.

  “Okay. I’ll be there at ten sharp.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Gunner said, disconnecting the call.

  I wondered who might have info for Gunner about Rodney Holton. It could amount to nothing. On the other hand, on occasion, locals knew things that outsiders could never divine regardless of their resources. I presumed I would find out at ten.

  * * *

  There was a familiar aroma in the LEC reception area when I arrived to meet with Gunner and his informant, whose identity was no longer a mystery.

  The dispatcher waved me into the conference room. I waved back then knocked on the heavy, oak conference room door.

  “C’mon in,” Gunner called from inside.

  I took a couple deep breaths and entered.

  “You remember Mr. Volnscheid,” Gunner said to me, a smile on his face and arms crossed over his chest.

  “Certainly,” I said, bypassing Gunner’s grin. “Nice to see you again, Benny.”

  “You too, Sarge.” Benny rose and we shook. Based on sight and smell, it seemed Benny was wearing the same filthy military fatigues he’d graced us with last week . . . and had been consuming the same whiskey.

  “Sarge?” Gunner asked me as I sat across from him and next to Benny.

  “Some other time, Gunner,” I said. “What’s our friend got to tell us?”

  “Mr. Volnscheid was just telling me about the barn fire at Holton’s the other night,” Gunner said. Turning to Benny, he asked, “Can we start at the beginning for Mr. Becker?”

  “Sure,” Benny said, fidgeting with his Castro cap atop the table. “Like I was sayin’ to the deputy . . . last night, I was mindin’ my own business, when I heard this racket up by Holton’s place. Like jeeps and trucks and maybe artillery, ya know?”

  “This was last night?” I interrupted.

  Benny tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “Maybe night before. Hard to say for sure, ya know?”

  “Yup,” I said. A distortion of time didn’t necessarily render Benny’s testimony worthless. “Please continue.”

  “So I went up the hill to see what was goin’ on, kinda clandestine like.” He looked to me for understanding. I nodded.

  “There was a bunch of these like, alien guys, in yellow suits swarmin’ all over Young Holton’s farm. They had one big eye in the center of their face, and a nose kinda like an elephant.”

  It was a fairly accurate description of the men in HazMat suits who had been processing the cattle.

  “And some of ‘em, they were after the cows again. Only not shootin’ this time. They had these big needles and they were rounding ‘em up and stabbing ‘em with the needles. Then the cows just fell over dead.”

  Benny checked to see whether we were paying attention. I was. Gunner was watching me and still grinning.

  “Then what happened?” I asked, half interested in whether the lid had come off the FBI’s Foot and Mouth cover-up, and half wondering what else this odd, but observant, fellow might have seen.

  “Summa the alien guys were hauling the dead cows into the barn, with winches and Bobcats and loaders and what all.” Benny paused.

  “You got coffee?” he asked Gunner.

  Gunner was still smirking right up until his waitressing services had been requested.

  “Sure. Uh. Lemme round some up,” he said. “Think I’ll fetch it myself. You guys keep talkin’.”

  As Gunner left, I found myself coveting his sojourn in the realm of breathable air. Normally, you notice the stink when you enter the monkey house, but ten minutes later it smells just fine. Benny’s odor was a different story. I didn’t hold it against him, though. It was just an uncomfortable reality to be endured, like the hot weather.

  “Keep going,” I said. “I’ll fill the Deputy in on whatever he might miss.”

  “Ten-four, Sarge.” Benny saluted. “That’s pretty much all I saw, ‘cause somehow they must’ve spotted me. Anyway, a couple military guys . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Military? Not alien?” Costa must have had troops on the perimeter.

  “Nope. Regular Army. Anyway . . . a couple of ‘em were comin’ after me with a dog and carryin’ rifles. But I eluded ‘em, Sarge. I still got a few tricks. But I couldn’t go back to watch no more after that.

  “A couple hours later, I was home and I smelled somethin’ . . . somethin’ bad. Reminded me of ‘Nam. Kerosene and burnin’ flesh.”

  I’d made a similar observation to Costa just yesterday, hadn’t I?

  “So I went outside and I saw the glow, just over the ridge at Young Holton’s. Found out in the morning it was his barn that was burnin’ . . . and his cows.”

  Benny had seen too much. Agent Costa would have to rely on Benny’s reputation as a drunk, and my efforts as Costa’s de facto assistant, to keep a lid on news of the FMD outbreak.

  Gunner returned with a serving tray in his hands and cotton balls stuffed up his nostrils.

  I shook my head, incredulous.

  “What?” he said. “I got a bloody nose.” His voice sounded humorously nasal.

  “Some parking violator pop you one in the schnoz?” I asked.

  Gunner didn’t respond. Instead, he put the coffee tray on the table and poured cups for Benny and himself, then sat down.

  I smiled and shook my head at the Chief Deputy as I poured my own coffee.

  “Benny was just telling me how the aliens chased him off Holton’s place,” I said to Gunner.

  “Army,” Benny corrected.

  “Sorry,” I said. “That’s right. He said it was Regular Army.”

  Benny nodded.

  “Were there any meteors this time?” Gunner asked, a little too glibly. Benny noticed and took offense.

  “Hey. I’m doin’ my civic duty reportin’ this stuff to you, Deputy. You can believe me or not. But don’t go pissin’ up my leg.”

  Gunner could have apologized, but instead, he stood and spoke to Benny.

  “Look, Mr. Volnscheid.”

  I almost laughed because Gunner sounded so absurd with the cotton up his nose.

  “I appreciate you doing your civic duty. I really do. But I got other fish to fry, so I’m gonna take off now. Once again . . . you folks take your time.”

  He nodded to Benny, flashed a phony smile at me, and departed.

  I continued to feel in my gut that Gunner was making a mistake by ignoring Benny. Okay, from an olfactory perspective, he wasn’t pleasant to be around. He was probably drunk and possibly psychotic. But what should one expect from a soldier after we had wrung the sanity from his soul in a war zone where women and children could be as deadly as armed men, and fire was our country’s weapon of choice? I’d done my share of military ops, but had experienced nothing like the carnage and flames of that rotting Vietnamese jungle. Nothing like the hell Benny had endured, all the time knowing that his country had chosen to maintain a stalemate, to sacrifice his comrades-in-arms instead of crushing the enemy with overwhelming air power.

  How much sanity did we have a right to expect from U.S. soldiers after we had dusted them with Agent Orange, only to deny responsibility when symptoms started to appear?

  I appraised the dirty, rumpled, and rank man in the chair beside me. All things considered, Benny hadn’t turned out bad at all, I thought. Not bad at all.

  CHAPTER 23

  Suburban Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  Johnny Shin Cho had received directions for the next step of his mission – opening the metallic capsule. He made a trip to the Park Heating and Refrigeration workshop once again – this time after hours.

  He donned heavy rubber gloves, and as instructed, placed the four-inch steely ball inside a two gallon plastic bag before uncorking its contents. Grasping the two halves, he twisted in a counter clockwise direction. The gloves’ tacky surface gave him a good grip on the polished metal, and the halves began
to rotate in response to his pressure.

  This task was proving to be a simple one. Just as he was wondering why he hadn’t been permitted to complete it at his home, the two halves of the capsule sprang open with a puff that scattered its powdery contents throughout the bag. As surprised as Johnny was, he was also relieved that the large baggie had captured nearly all of the fine white grains, with only a small wisp escaping into the workshop.

  A tiny waft of the substance had reached his nose, he knew, but the powder seemed inert. There was no burning or odor in his nostrils, none of the characteristic numbness he had read was associated with cocaine. And no sensation of euphoria, as he might have expected from some other narcotic. Johnny was certainly no expert in illegal drugs, though, so he kept his guesses as to the powder’s identity in check. He would be told when he needed to know that information.

  Examining the contents of the plastic bag, his gloved hands still inside, Cho noted several things about the capsule in which the powder had been so carefully shipped. The shiny halves were only a fraction of millimeter thick, though still rigid when he squeezed them. Probably titanium or some high grade of steel.

  Affixed to one of the halves of the shell was a small electronic device. Ahh, that would be the radio transmitter that had allowed the capsule to be found in the first place. He could also see the spring mechanism that had popped the sphere open so unexpectedly. Otherwise, a full load of the white powder seemed to be the capsule’s only contents.

  Shedding the yellow gloves inside the plastic bag, he withdrew his hands and secured the baggie’s contents using the bag’s zipper seal. He washed his hands and face at the shop sink, then returned to add a second baggie outside the first, and then a third outside the second. The mystery powder and its metallic casing were now completely isolated inside the package, with no danger of leakage or contamination.

  Johnny Shin Cho had completed his second task. He was anxious to finish this project so he could be paid for his services. The tax free $50,000 would go a long way toward getting his wife the new car she had been whining about. This payday might not cover the total tab, but with a trade-in, he should be able to get her something nice.

  The triple-bagged shipment had, thus far, traveled from the Korean Peninsula to Minnesota. He wasn’t taking any chances with it now. He slipped the baggies inside a metal canister and then a cardboard box, securing the entire ensemble with crumpled paper packing and surrounding the box with shipping tape.

  He would report completion of this assignment promptly and await further direction.

  CHAPTER 24

  Red Wing, Minnesota.

  Before I’d even finished my chat with Benny, I had a call from Agent Costa buzzing in my pocket. He had arranged a meeting with the CDC lab folks in St. Paul to review the scientific findings from Rodney’s farm.

  I concluded my conversation with Benny, assigning him a homework project. It would give him something to focus on besides the dead cattle and the aliens. And who knows, he was well-practiced at surveillance, maybe he could be of help to the investigation yet.

  The convo with the CDC guys was scheduled for 12:30 p.m. I could grab a sandwich for the ride and still arrive on time.

  Smokey Row had a special on tuna today. If I haven’t mentioned it, Smokey Row is my preferred breakfast and lunchtime restaurant in Red Wing. Their breads are baked fresh daily and the food is made after you order it, a practice that is becoming increasingly rare these days. I ordered my tuna sandwich toasted on rye with a shot of coleslaw on the side. The pickle came without asking.

  The food took a little longer than McDonald’s, but not long enough to crunch my schedule. A few minutes later, I headed out the door, brown bag in hand.

  * * *

  I arrived at the FBI Regional HQ on Fifth Street in St. Paul fifteen minutes early. A lot of people don’t appreciate the importance of being on time. In my experience, a few minutes can mean the difference between negotiating a successful solution, and pissing off an adversary. I absolutely refuse to be late for a meeting if there’s any way I can avoid it.

  After clearing security, I took the elevator to the sixth floor and checked in with the receptionist.

  “James Becker to see Agent Costa and some lab folks at 12:30,” I said with a smile. It never hurts to smile.

  The receptionist referenced her computer.

  “You’re the first to arrive, Mr. Becker. Please have a seat and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She motioned to the seating area, where a matching set of cushioned lounge chairs awaited.

  Being somewhat of a reception seating aficionado, I appraised each chair before deciding where to sit. The seat level was a bit low for my preference, but even the worst of these chairs put Gunner’s metal and plastic jobs to shame.

  As I waited, I checked email on my phone. Each moment occurs only once. We might as well make use of all of them.

  It wasn’t long at all before the receptionist appeared in a side doorway.

  “This way, please, Mr. Becker.”

  She led the way to a sparsely furnished room in which I found Agent Costa and the two white-coated gentlemen from Rodney’s farm sitting around a rectangular metal and vinyl table. I wouldn’t call this a conference room. If there had been a mirror on the wall it would have been a dead ringer for an interrogation cell, though.

  All stood.

  “I believe you people have met, but probably have not been properly introduced,” Agent Costa said. “James Becker, these are Doctors Benson and Dearborn. Doctors, this is James Becker. He prefers to be called ‘Beck.’”

  We shook hands and I took the remaining seat at the table.

  “Dr. Benson,” Costa said, “you called this meeting. What can you tell us about your findings?”

  “Let’s back up if we can, Agent,” Benson said. “I want to be certain we are all proceeding from a coherent understanding of the basics.”

  I liked this guy already.

  “The infection we found in Ottawa County is commonly known as Foot and Mouth Disease. Some lay people call it Hoof and Mouth. Most of us at the CDC refer to it as FMD. FMD is comprised of a family of viruses that infect primarily cattle, sheep, goats, pigs and other cloven-hoofed animals. Major symptoms in cattle include high fever, followed by blisters in the mouth and on the feet.” Benson looked to Costa and me for input. “Too basic?” he asked.

  “Not for me,” I said. “Please continue.”

  Costa nodded.

  “The oral vesicles burst and become painful, with the result that the animal in question foams at the mouth or salivates excessively. The foot blisters are also painful and cause the animal to go lame. This limping is frequently the first symptom detected by the producer. Left untreated, FMD can be fatal, but in most cases, the sores eventually heal and the infected animals recover, but in a diminished state.”

  “What do you mean by ‘diminished state’?” I asked.

  “The animals lose weight or fail to gain weight. Milk production declines. Reproductive systems may be impacted.”

  FMD didn’t sound all that bad so far. Not great, of course. But there must be more.

  “Can humans get FMD?” I asked.

  “Only very rarely, and symptoms are usually so mild as to evade detection,” Benson said, a tiny bit of irritation in his voice. “Now, if I may continue . . . .”

  “Please, go ahead,” I said. “My apologies for the interruption.”

  “The real scourge of FMD,” Benson continued, “is its communicability. The virus is highly infectious and can be transmitted in livestock through contaminated clothing, feed, farm equipment, or directly from one animal to another via aerosols.”

  I raised my hand.

  “Transmission by aerosols means the disease can spread through the air, and for immense distances,” Benson said, anticipating my question. “In fact, the virus is so hardy that it can survive for days or even weeks in open air, and has been shown to infect animals as far away as twenty-five mil
es from the source. No other disease of animal or human has expressed such a high degree of infectiousness.”

  “So, we can’t really be certain that the outbreak at Holton’s farm has been effectively contained. Can we?” I said.

  “Correct,” Benson acknowledged. “Destroying the infected animals was the first step. But we have also notified area veterinarians to watch for signs of FMD. It is easily diagnosable by a professional, provided they know what they are looking for.”

  “How do you manage to warn vets without starting a panic?” I couldn’t help it.

  “We tell them DHS has identified a credible threat,” Dr. Dearborn interjected. “That’s all we ever say. Each local agency has its own response plan for an elevated threat status. Doctors, bankers, police . . . and veterinarians, as well.”

  That made sense, of course.

  “If we have failed to eradicate the Ottawa County outbreak with our actions earlier this week, we run the risk of a widespread epizootic, similar to that experienced by the British in 2001, when two thousand instances of the disease resulted in destruction of nearly ten million animals before the outbreak was contained,” Benson said. “So you can see why FMD makes an effective weapon for agro-terrorism. The economic consequences can be devastating. That’s why the CDC has been working with DHS to develop the best disaster response plans possible.”

  I raised my hand again.

  “Yes?”

  “Epizootic?” I asked. I couldn’t recall ever having heard the word

  “An epidemic among an animal population,” Dearborn said.

  The regional, and even national, ramifications of the events that had occurred on Rodney’s farm were beginning to come into focus for me. An attempt by North Korea to kill off a few hundred, or even a few thousand, animals with an FMD attack seemed unlikely. But if such an assault could affect millions of animals, not to mention commodities markets and international livestock trading . . . well, that was a different thing entirely.

  “Do you have more background for us, Doctors?” I asked, not wanting to be labeled a troublemaker with the CDC.