Explosive Dreams

by Hadena James

  “Really?” I frowned at him. “Everyone raises my hackles. For example, a few weeks ago, I was forced to attend a barbecue at some asshole’s house with his asshole ex-brother-in-law. The ex-brother-in-law really raised my hackles. I would have gladly shoved him into a tumble dryer and turned it on high.”

  “Ace,” Gabriel chided me. It had been his barbecue and then we’d been forced into the desert. Death Valley to be exact, chasing a serial killer who used mercury to kill and make works of art. After that we’d stuck around Las Vegas for a few days, taking in the sites, while Lucas had Trevor’s favorite painting removed from the house because it was by said artist. Trevor was still upset about it. He seemed to logically understand why they couldn’t own the painting, but was emotionally still stinging from the actual removal of it from the house.

  “You’re thinking,” Lucas said.

  “Did I meet anyone in Las Vegas?” I asked. “During the case or after the case, that might have been extra odd?”

  “Extra odd?” Yosh asked. He had gotten used to some of my eccentricities, but not all of them. There were also things he didn’t know or need to know about me. I liked the man, I didn’t want him to die because we were buddies. “You don’t remember?”

  “Well,” I shrugged. “Not so much.”

  My brain was running through the faces I had seen, the names I had heard; there had been the lovely coroner. She was nice, didn’t really take a shine to me, but that was to be expected. I couldn’t see her sending me a prairie dog. However, there were probably others. I attracted psychopaths like honey attracted Winnie-the-Pooh.

  We hadn’t worked any cases since coming back a little over a month ago. The Marshals Service had insisted on a vacation for the five of us. They had said something about psychological recovery time. Since none of us were exactly stable, I didn’t know how we were supposed to recover.

  January had been busy and the months that followed had been just as hectic. Running from city to city. Dealing with extreme weather conditions. Enduring seriously gruesome cases that included beheadings, electrocutions, and disembowelings. So far we hadn’t had a good, ol’ fashioned shooting or stabbing serial killer this year. However, it was only July, there was still hope.

  “We have a vet and a HAZMAT unit on their way,” Gabriel said.

  “Great,” I took a seat at a small table. The room was barren, more like a security room or interrogation room than a place to hang out all day. I imagined the guards didn’t spend a lot of time in the room.

  Chapter Two

  The HAZMAT unit arrived first. They secured the scene and began doing blood tests on all of us. These must have been for comparison purposes later, because if we had been exposed, an hour was definitely not enough incubation time for Bubonic Plague.

  Someone with a gruff voice and large hands told me to take a position against the table. He wanted my right hip for an injection. I was seriously opposed to this, I didn’t want to be pumped full of antibiotics that might not do anything except wreck my immune system.

  “Uh, no,” I told him.

  “It’s a prophylactic injection of ciprofloxacin,” he told me.

  “Then definitely not,” I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the hooded figure. His mask was tinted, obscuring his features. My imagination had him looking like Peter Sellers in Dr. Strangelove for some reason.

  “Cipro is very good at treating Plague,” he told me.

  “It also makes my joints swell. My body has undergone too much damage for Cipro. Find a different antibiotic and make sure I have Plague before you start injecting me with that crap.”

  “It’s one shot.”

  “It’s not about the number of shots. I’ve had rabies shots. It’s about the antibiotic in the shot and the fact that we do not know that I have an infection that needs to be treated. I don’t think I’ve been exposed to anthrax and I know I don’t have a urinary tract infection, so if you inject me with Cipro and I don’t have Plague, I’m just going to have swelling, achy joints, unless my tendons start spontaneously rupturing.”

  “She has a point,” Xavier intervened. “Cipro is probably not a good idea for her. Her knee will explode or something.”

  “Cipro doesn’t work like that,” the guy argued back.

  “Uh, yes, it does,” I said. “I’ve had Cipro before. My knee was the size of a basketball. They told me it wasn’t the Cipro. I stopped taking it, the swelling on my knee went down. I know the side-effects say spontaneous rupturing of the Achilles’ tendon, but honestly, it isn’t going to target just one tendon. It attacks any tendon that is weakened and damaged. Since that would be my entire body, you aren’t injecting Cipro into my ass or any other body part. If I have Plague, there are other antibiotics to treat it that work just as good, if not better.”

  Lucas looked at me. His face was set in a frown that creased deep furrows into his forehead. The whitish-blond hair reflected the red coloring that his face was taking.

  “You just injected an antibiotic that can cause tendon damage?” He looked at the other suited up guy.

  “It is very rare,” my suited monster told Lucas.

  “It is rare,” Xavier said. “However, I wouldn’t personally recommend it for people in our line of work. On the flip side, Plague sucks, so I took a shot. My shoulder is going to be killing me for a few days.”

  “Well, if it ruptures, they’ll give you the good drugs,” I told him, smiling.

  “Don’t smile like that, it’s creepy,” Xavier told me. “Everyone but Ace should get the shot. Her body is so damaged, I’m afraid of what it would do.”

  “You say the nicest things about me,” I continued to smile.

  “Great, so I should plan to spend a day or two with my ankle on a chair,” Gabriel said. He’d been attacked by a dog at some point in the past. It had torn open his ankle. After reconstructive surgery, he had movement in it, but it bothered him and on more than one occasion, it had popped out of socket while he was running.

  “We are on vacation anyway,” Xavier shrugged. “If you have a tetracycline, you could give her that.”

  “I have a couple of pills of doxycycline,” the guy said, getting out a bag.

  “I refuse to take any antibiotics until I know that I have Plague,” I told Xavier. “I’d take penicillin or amoxicillin, but all the others are out.”

  “What’s wrong with the others?” Xavier asked.

  “They have really crappy side-effects. Tetracyclines are hard on the stomach and my stomach can’t handle them even with food. I’d rather not spend a few days worshipping the porcelain god.”

  “You are so intolerant of medications,” Xavier shook his head. “Treating you is harder than treating an alien.”

  “Again with the compliments,” I said. “Is the vet here yet?”

  “Yes,” Captain Yosh said. A woman, also in full safety gear, was led into the room. “You’ll have to do the necropsy here.”

  “Well, I’ve never done one on a prairie dog and I need a microscope,” she told the captain.

  “I know,” Xavier handed her one out his bag.

  “Where did you get a microscope?” I asked.

  “I am a doctor.”

  I didn’t say what instantly popped into mind. Xavier wasn’t allowed to treat real people. His bedside manner left a lot to be desired and he had issues with live patients. He’d once given a woman an entire bag of saline and a diuretic because she questioned his skills. Luckily, the woman hadn’t been me.

  Four very long hours later and the vet confirmed the prairie dog had Bubonic Plague. She also informed us that we were all safe. It had been dipped in liquid nitrogen while alive, effectively killing the prairie dog, the bacteria, and the fleas it might have been carrying.

  I felt better about not taking the Cipro. She couldn’t tell us how long it had been dead, but it thawed in transport. Gabriel thanked her as she took the prairie dog away for disposal.

  However, if someone was dipping prairie
dogs in liquid nitrogen while they were still alive, that was a whole new kind of twisted. First prairie dogs, then people, it wasn’t that large of a leap. I had seen a dead rat dipped in nitrogen once. It had shattered when it hit the table. The teacher had scrambled to get it cleaned up before it started to thaw. Shattered pieces were messy when they thawed.

  I waved and left the guard tower. There was a new admirer in my life. Unfortunately for them, there wasn’t room in my life for another asshole with a fetish for death.

  My house was cool inside. The sweat instantly gelled on my skin, making it feel slimy. I stripped off in the living room and went to the master bath. Trevor was doing a great job with my house. My bathroom was all rich browns and vibrant greens. I found the colors soothing. The bathroom had a shower with four spray nozzles and a “rain” function in the ceiling. A large bathtub with jets that could hold Lucas and maybe another person for soaking my aching body. The floor had heated tiles and there was a heat lamp in the ceiling. There was a single vanity that was modern, sleek and minimalist. A large walk-in pantry held towels and toilet necessities. A second, slightly larger room held a toilet and bidet.

  Trevor had hired someone to create the bathroom. They had stolen space from one of the spare rooms, but I didn’t really have many visitors. It wasn’t used very often.

  I ignored the tub and the heat lamp. Using the special keypad on the outside of the shower, I set the water temp and turned on the rain function. A very cool 100 degree simulated rain beat down on the tiles of the shower floor.

  “Ace, you’re wanted downstairs,” Lucas shouted from the other side of the bathroom door.

  “It can wait,” I shouted back, already stepping out of the shower. I knew it wouldn’t wait, probably couldn’t wait. It looked like the vacation was over. I hoped it was something easy and mundane.

  “And we have company,” Lucas said.

  “Grab me some clothes,” I turned off the shower using the touch pad. Wrapping up in a towel, I opened the door to let the big man in. He held a t-shirt and a pair of jeans in his hands. One of the stranger aspects of Lucas grabbing clothes for me, he always forgot underclothing. Trevor never missed the opportunity to color-coordinate the two, but Lucas didn’t seem to understand the necessity of it. I guessed he went commando.

  “Play nice,” he left with those parting words. I frowned. If I was being told to play nice, it meant we were going to be dealing with the FBI. It wasn’t hatred because of principle, it was just general. Malachi didn’t help the matter.

  I flopped onto my couch once I was downstairs. The man in my living room was dressed in his best. The single suit probably cost triple my entire wardrobe, even including underclothes which were awfully expensive.

  He didn’t seem very impressed with me. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t very impressed with him either. Fancy suits and expensive haircuts just meant you made a lot of money, it didn’t prove you were intelligent.

  “Aislinn Cain, this is Jeffrey Adams with Homeland Security,” Gabriel’s words cautioned me.

  “We have a situation. There have been six bombings now,” Jeffrey Adams began. “The first was in Illinois, then two in Missouri, two in Illinois, one in Indiana and now, Missouri again. The bomber sets the bombs and leaves. He somehow positions them so that they create the most damage to both the fairs and the attendants. There are about six hundred dead right now, over a thousand in hospitals and we don’t have a lead.”

  “We don’t do terrorist attacks, foreign or domestic,” Gabriel said.

  “We don’t think he’s a terrorist, not in the sense that you would think of a terrorist. We think his purpose is to kill, not instill fear,” Jeffrey Adams remarked. “We’ve done all the terrorists check-lists and this bomber just doesn’t seem to fall into the guidelines.”

  “You think he’s using bombs for mass murder?” Lucas asked.

  “Yes and without the terrorist angle, it has been difficult for us to track him. That’s where you guys come in,” Jeffrey answered.

  “Terrorists use bombs, mass murders use sniper rifles and machine guns,” I told him.

  “I think this will interest you, Dr. Cain,” he handed me a folder.

  I read through it. The bombs weren’t exactly stuff you could look up on the internet. You needed more than a crash course in chemistry. Their placement dictated an intimate knowledge of engineering and mechanics.

  Bombers puzzled me. They always had a cause. Something they believed in deeply enough to kill other people to prove their dedication. I had never believed in anything enough to kill people to prove it. Hell, I couldn’t be bothered to volunteer for anything, even causes I supported, like cancer research and the search for extraterrestrial intelligence. Now, if they sent me a letter asking for money, I’d send a check, but that was about all the support I could muster.

  “How long will it take us to fly to Palmyra?” Gabriel asked.

  “Not long,” Jeffrey Adams said.

  At least it wasn’t Death Valley.

  Chapter Three

  The crime scene was still mostly fresh. The bombing had happened the night before. Paramedics and police officers were still sorting through the carnage. The men jumped in, searching for survivors. I stared at the scene and wondered how many people could have been in attendance in Palmyra, Missouri that there might still be survivors.

  Jeffrey Adams was running around, attempting to look important. The FBI and Homeland Security were both on the scene. Luckily, Malachi didn’t deal with bombings. Instead, there were agents from the St. Louis, Missouri office.

  My gaze was drawn to the grandstand. Part of it had collapsed. Blood had dried on the wood and metal heaps. The folder in my hand had informed me that the truck and tractor pull had been in full swing when the bomb went off. It also told me that they had sold roughly 1,200 tickets. There were over 100 dead from the carnival and the grandstands and over 500 injured. The area hospitals were over run and those that could be sent elsewhere, were being sent to Quincy, Illinois and St. Louis, Missouri.

  What the manila folder didn’t tell me was the panic and terror involved. A few cars from different rides had hit the back of the grandstand, two of the supports had collapsed. There was stampeding to get away. Injuries caused by fear and horror were more numerous among those in the bleachers than from debris and collapsing rides.

  One car, from a ride called The Sizzler, was halfway through a concrete wall. The sign over the door had the universal symbol for male on it. I wasn’t going to enter the men’s restroom. My mind had already conjured an image of blood and gore dried on the concrete floor and splattered on the cinderblock walls.

  “Cain!” Gabriel shouted for me. I turned, finding him among the suits. He was the only one in jeans. We were pretty lax on a dress code. My shirt had something snarky about poisons printed on it.

  Gabriel handed me a photo. The glossy picture showed a pretty girl with a fake tiara. Her eyes stared at nothing, they looked glazed over. The mouth hung open at a strange angle. A perfectly round hole was directly between her eyes. It had bled very little. The photo didn’t show the back of her head. The thick crown of hair and fake sparkly tiara was covering a huge pool of blood and other things.

  “She was shot,” I handed the picture back. “Who blows up a fair and puts a bullet in the brain of a beauty queen?”

  “She was the fair queen,” Adams corrected me.

  “Fair queen, beauty queen, whatever,” I shrugged. “She was a pageant winner and now she’s missing the back of her head. That doesn’t change the question. Why blow up a carnival and do all this damage, but shoot one person? Is the bomb a distraction so that the killer can assassinate the queen?”

  “That sounds very,” Xavier thought for a moment. “Monarchial. Our madman doesn’t have a real king or queen so he shoots a stand in?”

  “Have any other fair queens been shot?” Lucas asked.

  “No,” Adams said. “But the other fairs, well, the fair queen died in the carnage of
the bomb.”

  “Who kills teenage girls over pageants at county fairs?” I asked.

  “Other teenage girls,” Lucas said.

  “And I thought I was cold,” I looked past them.

  “You’ve never been in a pageant,” Xavier said.

  “That’s true, but I lost the Geography Bee Regional Championships when I was seven,” I told him. “And I lost a school spelling bee in fourth grade. Who uses the word ‘deinstitutionalization’ on a regular basis or reads it?”

  “What letter did you miss on that?” Xavier raised an eyebrow.

  “None, I just refused to spell it after the teacher giving the bee failed to use it correctly in a sentence,” I told him. “I knew how to spell institutionalization, so it wasn’t like it was a hard word, I just needed to know the person using it understood it. The person before me was given the word ‘vanilla.’ The person before that was given ‘irritated.’ I am still convinced it was rigged.”

  “Does that help this case at all?” Adams asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t go kill the teacher or my opponents,” I told him.

  “Good to know even you have your limits,” Gabriel gave me a quick wink. “However, if it doesn’t help, we probably should talk about it at another time.”

  “Sure thing Kemosabe,” I gave him a salute and turned back to the decimated fair. There was only so much one could glean from a bombing. Or at least, that I could glean from a bombing. Bombings were impersonal, usually, and those behind them had causes and beliefs and things worth fighting and dying for. The closest I came to any of that was Nyleena and my family. Maybe Malachi when he wasn’t being a jackass, but that was pretty rare.

  I understood shooting the pageant queen. Jealousy, hatred, and rivalry were all good motives for that. The bullet hole hadn’t been darkened by gunpowder, so the shot had been fired from a distance. Our shooter probably used a rifle, perfect for assassinations. The target through the scope would appear to be so close he could reach out and touch her. Maybe he thought about caressing her face before the life drained from it.