Chimera

by Ken Goddard

  “Sure,” Bulatt said agreeably. “Go ahead.”

  “I’ll start,” Ferreira said. “The tissue under the jacketing of that bullet is definitely from a Clouded Leopard. I confirmed that with the mass-spec a few minutes ago. I don’t know if it’s been genetically altered, like the other two; but I should know more about that by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “And we’ve gotten three hits out of NIBIN on the cartridge casing,” Renwick said. “one out of Russia, one out of Alaska, and one out of South Africa; all within the last two years. No suspects, but a lot of scene evidence that we can try to link up.”

  “Any hits on the bullet?” Bulatt asked.

  “No, just the casing, so far.”

  “Okay, that still fits the wealthy international hunting pattern,” Bulatt said, nodding. “Anything else?”

  “Just one minor thing,” Hager said. “We got a match on the print.”

  “You — what?!” Bulatt’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Michael Hateley. Fifty-five year old Caucasian male, CEO of a major defense industry subcontracting firm in Denver, busted for drunk-and-disorderly and assaulting a police officer in Anchorage thirty-four years ago,” Hager said, reading from his notes. “That’s where the computer found a set of his prints. Based on his reported blood alcohol level, he probably didn’t even remember having his prints taken.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about the match?” Bulatt said in a hushed voice.

  “Ninety-eight percent confirmation by the system, which is as high as the software is programmed to go. I’ll have a copy of the original prints faxed to us tomorrow morning, so I can make the final confirmation under a glass; but, yeah, odds are extremely high that he’s the guy who put his thumb on that two-four-three casing. Unfortunately, I don’t think that solves your problem.”

  Bulatt blinked in sudden realization.

  “Shit, you can’t match the casing to the bullet with the Clouded Leopard tissue, can you?”

  “No, we can’t,” Renwick said. ‘We would have some arguable degree of probability if there were bullets collected from those Russia, Alaska and South African scenes; but the only thing they submitted were cartridge cases.”

  “But you can still link those cartridges — and therefore the scenes — to Hateley’s rifle, can’t you?” Bulatt asked hesitantly.

  “Very possibly,” Renwick agreed, “assuming he didn’t buy it from some other internationally-traveling hunter, which is exactly what his lawyer is going to claim.”

  “And even if we can prove he bought the rifle two years ago, and didn’t lend it to anyone, he still could have been hunting at each of those locations the week — or month — before; which is something else his lawyer is likely to claim,” Hager added.

  “And you can’t tell when those cartridges were fired?” Bulatt asked.

  The two forensic scientists shook their heads.

  “Shit,” Bulatt muttered to himself. He stared down at the table, lost in thought for a few seconds. Then his head suddenly snapped back up.

  “Can we get a copy of Hateley’s mug shot from that Anchorage arrest; or, ideally, an updated photo,” Bulatt asked.

  “We’re already working on it,” Achara said, looking up from the computer. “The boys are digging into his Corporate website right now. If they can find something — ”

  “Not ‘if’ — we will find something,” one of the identical twins said. “No doubt about it.”

  “Yeah, absolutely no doubt,” the other confirmed.

  “You two just be careful where you dig; you know your limits,” Linda Reston warned her sons, and received a quick pair of “yes, moms.”

  “Limits?” Bulatt asked quizzically.

  “There are some relevant federal rules about hacking firewalls and private databases; and, contrary to my son’s opinions, the computers they’re using can be traced,” Reston said. “Being the responsible parent, I’d like to keep them out of federal prison for a few more years.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Bulatt said absentmindedly as he looked around the conference room, grabbed a pad of paper, and began writing furiously. After a minute or so, he tore the top sheet off the pad and handed it to Reston. “Can you do any or all of that?” he asked.

  Reston examined the block-printed notes. “Satellite Security?”

  “The window sticker on the rental car I smacked into claims it’s protected by their full system,” Bulatt explained. “Why rent something like that for one car and not the others?”

  Reston shrugged. “I can check. When do you need it?”

  Bulatt looked at his watch. “Is a half-hour asking too much?”

  “Yes, it is, but I’m starting to enjoy this; so I’ll see what I can do,” Reston said after a moment’s hesitation. Then she looked over at her twins. “Can you keep an eye on those two while I try to get some work done?” she asked Achara, very much aware that the hormones of her sons were finally kicking into high gear.

  “As long as I can stay awake, sure, no problem,” Achara said with a tired yawn, generating a pair of wide grins among her two charges.

  “Actually,” Bulatt said, “I think I’m going to need Achara for a while; but I guess I could take the boys along too,” he offered.

  “Absolutely not, they get enough free-wheeling inspiration from their father as it is,” Reston said emphatically. “I’ll keep an eye on them; they can help me on the car registrations.”

  The twins started to protest, but Bulatt cut in: “after that, Achara and I will be happy to take them out for all the pizza they can eat; but only if they manage to track down those links.”

  “Going out for pizza afterwards is fine, just as long as their computers stay right here,” Reston reminded.

  The promise of all the pizza they could eat while in the presence of an exotic woman like Captain Achara Kulawnit was apparently too much for a pair of fourteen-year-old male minds to resist. They followed their mother out of the room obediently.

  Bulatt turned to Renwick. “Got another government rig we can borrow?” he asked.

  “I think we’ve got a couple that are still in reasonable shape,” Renwick replied. “Truck or van?”

  Bulatt looked over at Achara. “How do you feel about being in close proximity to a bunch of critters with hairy legs?”

  “My father always said I was born to be a biologist, and my mother never liked to go in my room,” Achara said with a smile. “Does that answer your question?”

  “I think so,” Bulatt said as he tore the next page off the note pad, took out his wallet, pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them over to Renwick along with the page of block-printed notes. “The van will do just fine,” he said. “You think you could arrange for all of those things to happen without identifying yourself as a federal government employee?”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem,” Renwick said as he scanned through the notes. Then he looked back up at Bulatt. “ Two large pizza’s?”

  “Better make it three,” Bulatt said. “I’m going to need those fourteen-year-old brains well fed.”

  Rear Parking Lot, Windmill Inn, Ashland, Oregon

  Bulatt drove the damaged dark blue SUV around to the rear parking lot of the Windmill Inn, ignoring the thrashing and muffled cursing from the man who was still jammed into the rear seat floor space. He parked next to a trio of like vehicles — two similar SUVs and a new van — all of which sported identical warning stickers on the driver’s side windows.

  “So much for covert tradecraft,” Bulatt muttered to himself as he waited for Achara to park next to his SUV. Once she was parked, he got out and walked around to the driver’s side of the lab van. As he did so, he thumbed a call number on his Blackberry.

  “How did it go?” he asked Achara, looking past her shoulder at the array of fifty duct-taped glass aquariums that took up most of the floor space of the van’s cargo bay.

  “Just fine,” she said, her brightly flashing eyes matching her dimpled s
mile. “They’re actually very cute little fellows.”

  “Maybe to their mothers, or born-to-be biologist,” Bulatt replied with a grin as he brought his Blackberry up to his ear. “This is Ged,” he replied to the responding voice. “I’m looking at two SUV’s and a van.” He quickly read off the license plates, and then waited.

  “Right now would be just fine,” he finally said, then disconnected the call, slipped the Blackberry back onto his belt and turned to Achara. “Are you ready to go to work?”

  The Ashland Springs Hotel, Ashland, Oregon

  Two hours later, Bulatt opened the door to the top-floor, two-room suite that Renwick had paid cash for; stepped inside with a hole-punched cardboard file box in his hand; turned on the light; looked around briefly; and then moved aside to make room for Achara and the two Reston boys.

  “Oh, wow,” the two boys whispered wide-eyed when they saw the contents of the living room.

  In addition to the stuffed couch and chairs that had been moved against the walls near the suite door, the room contained three cloth-covered round tables with pairs of chairs at each. The table furthest to the right held three large pizza boxes still nestled in warming pouch that was plugged into the nearby wall; six bottles of soda in an ice bucket; a plate holding a dozen chocolate chip cookies; and assorted plates and silverware. The table in the middle of the room, pushed up against the far wall, held a single laptop computer that was connected to a small color printer, and to a grey electronic box that, in turn, was connected to the wall by a thick white cable.

  “There are more sodas in the fridge. The laptop, printer and firewall are mine, so your mother’s concerns are not an issue here,” Bulatt said as he closed the door, locked it, set the file box down, and then dragged the couch over so that it blocked the door. “There’s only one computer, so you guys will have to share.”

  “Who’s the software registered to?” one of the twins asked.

  “The hardware and software are registered to a covert business I set up in Redmond to work fresh water mussel cases,” Bulatt said. “According to your mother, the system’s connected up to the Ashland Fiber Network so that all routine tracking queries link back to Redmond. As long as you don’t use any of your personal passwords to access programs and data, everything you do should track back to my dummy corporation. I don’t understand how that happens, but I suppose you both do.”

  “Oh sure,” the other boy who was eagerly pulling one of the pizza boxes out of the warmer said, “all you have to do is — ”

  “Don’t tell me,” Bulatt said, holding up his left hand as he unsnapped his holstered pistol with his right and dropped it on the couch, “I’m not going to understand what you’re saying, and it would just make my head hurt if I tried.”

  “Hey, is that a Sig-forty?” The boy paused in the middle of opening the first box.

  “Yes.”

  “It looks just like the one our dad carries. Can I see it?”

  “No.”

  “What if — ?”

  “You touch the gun, I dislocate both of your thumbs,” Bulatt said matter-of-factly. “I’m sure your father would approve, and it would simplify the computer-sharing problem.”

  “Oh,” the boy said, apparently intimidated by at least one of the threats as he turned his attentions back to the pizza box.

  “Are you sure our mom knows about this?” the second boy — who had already set himself down in front of the computer and was eyeing the connections warily as the odor of hot pizza began to fill the room.

  “She knows you’re going to be using my covert business laptop through this specific Internet connection to see what you can find out about Michael Hateley and his globe-hopping buddies, and I’m sure she’s got some clever way of monitoring what you do; but — ” Bulatt started to say.

  “Did she actually turn on and operate your laptop?” the boy interrupted.

  “Not as far as I know,” Bulatt said. “She just gave me the firewall box.”

  The two boys looked at each other, smiled, and nodded. The boy at the computer quickly disconnected the firewall box at the wall and laptop, reconnected the computer directly to the wall, and then turned back to Bulatt. “Now she can’t monitor us.”

  “At least not very easily,” the boy stacking slices of pizza onto a plate amended.

  “Yeah, that’s true, she’s pretty sneaky,” the boy at computer agreed as he grabbed a slice of pizza from the plate his brother sat next to the laptop. “But, at least this way, it’s not really our fault if we go too far.”

  “That’s precisely the idea,” Bulatt said.

  The pizza boy started to sit down next to his brother, but then looked over at Bulatt. “Hey, you guys want some of this pizza?”

  At that moment, the pungent aroma of Thai spices and garlic erupted into the room, easily competing with — and quickly overwhelming — the odors of baked cheese, crust, tomato paste and pepperoni.

  “Eeew, what’s that?” the boys chimed in unison as they turned their attention to Achara, who had turned away from the computer discussion and was now busily opening up boxes labeled KAT WOK and filling plates.

  “That,” Bulatt said with a satisfied sigh, “is what real food smells like.”

  An hour later, Bulatt set his plate aside, leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch, and sighed contentedly, very much aware of the enticingly warm leg of Achara Kulawnit pressed tightly against his. “That was an excellent meal.”

  Ten feet away, the twins continued to mutter, point at the laptop screen, and then quickly work the keyboard and mouse; just as they’d been doing for the last hour in between occasional bathroom, soda and cookie breaks.

  “It was very nice,” Achara agreed with a yawn as she contemplated the last Szechwan green bean that she held casually at the end of her chopsticks, “but I can do better.”

  “Really?” Bulatt’s right eyebrow rose skeptically.

  “Absolutely.” Achara extended the green bean in front of Bulatt who groaned, leaned forward, bit off half, and then sank back into the cushions with another contented sigh as Achara popped the remaining bean half into her mouth. “It’s just a matter of carefully controlling the heat.”

  “And you know how to do that.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Achara glanced over at the twins, eyeing them with an expression on her face that Bulatt couldn’t quite interpret, shook her head, and then turned to Bulatt.

  “Speaking of which, I assume you do realize that we could have had a much more intimate dinner if you hadn’t brought along the chaperones,” she added in a quiet voice, her facial features shifting to an expression that was much easier to read. “Tell me you did that because you want very badly to find the men who killed my brother and shot my father.”

  “Definitely because of your father,” Bulatt said, meeting her gaze. “I promised him I would find and deal with the men who killed your brother and his Rangers.”

  “My brother is at peace with my mother, my father is a very understanding man, and that was an evasive answer,” she said softly.

  “Yes, it was,” Bulatt agreed.

  “But you still plan on sleeping out here on the couch, guarding the door all night; just in case this John Smith character figures out where we are, and tries to interfere with our investigation again?”

  Bulatt glanced down at his wristwatch. “Smith isn’t going to find us, even if he’s awake and looking, which I seriously doubt; and, in about three more hours, he’s going to be much too busy to care about us at all. So, to answer your question: yes, I am going to stay here on this couch and keep an eye on those two, because they’re my biggest concern at the moment,” Bulatt said, nodding his head in the direction of the twins.

  “Why, because you’re concerned they might go too far?”

  “No, actually, I’m concerned they might be too afraid of their mother to go far enough.”

  “Ah.” Achara considered the implications for a few seconds. “And whil
e all of this illicit probing and data mining is going on, you really think the little ones are going to be sufficiently… distracting?”

  “Not necessarily, but I do think they’re going to scare the shit out of Smith and his pals for at least fifteen seconds — and make them a lot more thoughtful about other possible consequences down the road — while they’re busy discovering that all their tires are flat, all their car-door keyholes are filled with glue, all their lock releases are duct-taped, and all the Satellite Security systems are disabled. And after that, they’re going to be very busy trying to figure out how to get their trussed-up watchman out of that SUV without breaking a window and setting off the car alarms and waking up the neighborhood.”

  “Or getting bit, I suppose.”

  “That too,” Bulatt agreed.

  “And you’re sure Smith won’t try to hurt them?” Achara asked, looking concerned.

  “Oh I’m sure he’d get around to thinking about hurting them, eventually,” Bulatt said. “But, long before that happens, he’s going to find himself confronted by a team of pissed-off special ops agents who are going to want all of their evidence back; and who are going to be very upset if a single hairy leg is harmed.”

  “You’re talking about Henry Lightstone, that agent who you said couldn’t tell a dead Cat Island turtle from a live one?” Achara said dubiously

  “Henry is making dramatic improvements as a wildlife agent,” Bulatt said, smiling. “And he’s actually getting pretty good at telling dead turtles from live ones. He just doesn’t like getting bit.”

  “By turtles?”

  “By just about anything; it’s sort of a personality quirk.”

  “But you did say he’s more aggressive than you are?” Achara pressed, still sounding dubious.

  “Henry is definitely more aggressive than I am, in a devious sort of way; Larry knows every bureaucratic trick in the book; Mike’s off the chart in terms of technical skills; and Dwight’s perfectly capable of ripping arms and legs off guys like Smith and his associates,” Bulatt said. “All things considered, I don’t think you have to worry about the little ones at all.”