the Devil's Workshop (1999)

by Stephen Cannell

  "Where is Dr. DeMille now?" CNN asked.

  "We are assuming that he perished in the fire. However, until we can completely sort out the military Medical Examiner's reports and do all the dental identification, that is simply conjecture. I know you people thrive on conjecture, so please quote me accurately. This is just an assumption."

  "The reports of some sort of strange microbe getting loose persist," NBC said.

  "Yes, I know. And right now we can't confirm or deny that. If a product of DeMille's illegal research got loose, then perhaps some biological illness could have escaped. Right now we just don't know. We'll have to monitor the area carefully. Twenty-four hours should give us the answer."

  "If DeMille's research was illegal, what exactly was the nature of the legal research being done at Vanishing Lake Prison?" a woman from Reuters asked.

  "Classified," Admiral Zoll said.

  There was an angry murmur from the reporters, so he quickly added, " 'Classified' is not a pseudonym for 'illegal.' There was no underground science taking place at that test site. Most anti-terrorist research loses its effectiveness when declassified. For example, as soon as we develop an anti-toxin in a natural environment for a bio-weapon, and the enemy finds out, they simply alter their bio-weapon to defeat the anti-toxin. Much of what we were doing at Vanishing Lake was experimental defense work aimed at protecting the population from waterborne bio-weapons. That lake behaves very much like a water reservoir, which would be a natural target for waterborne toxins. Vanishing Lake is a crater, making it useful for all kinds of deep-water research. It enabled us to test anti-toxins under extreme cold and high pressure. Beyond that, I don't want to comment."

  "Was there an ongoing danger to the people living up there?" another reporter shouted.

  "Absolutely none. All of the strains we were working with were dormant, as required by government health standards. We were simply tracking dormant toxins to see how viruses will react in large, open bodies of water."

  "Who is investigating the disaster?"

  "We are. The area conceivably contains an outbreak of a non-sanctioned bio-organism designed illegally by Dr. DeMille. For health and public safety reasons, the C. D. C. in Atlanta and the bio-weapons experts here at Fort Detrick will be in charge of the investigation. That's all I can say at this time. Further briefings will be scheduled by the Provost Marshal's Office." He turned and walked off the stage, leaving the reporters with hundreds of unanswered questions.

  Admiral Zoll knew that the only way to spin the disaster was to do it in waves: First give them provable facts to appear to be open and honest; later, bore them to death with complicated microbiology.

  He moved to his makeup room, where Colonel Chittick and Dr. Lack were waiting. "Fucking vultures," Admiral Zoll said, as he started taking off the thin layer of powder, which he detested, but had come to realize was an absolute necessity in this TV media age. Nothing looked worse during a military Code Blue than a startled Pentagon official with sweat on his upper lip.

  "Sir, we have got to open Vanishing Lake to the media," Colonel Chittick said. "We've had a medical quarantine on the area since this morning, but we've found no more infected mosquitoes in the insect traps. It looks as if the fire did its job. The media pressure is building. Lieutenant Nino DeSilva is up there with the remaining Torn Victor commandos we deployed from here this morning. He says that the area seems clear. The longer we hold the press out, the worse it looks."

  "Okay, let 'em in. But I want our people with them. I don't want a buncha fucking newsies poking around, diggin' up stuff we can't explain."

  "I can restrict their movement with medical quarantine guidelines. They're all spooked by the bio-weapons angle. They don't want to go in there and come out with Black Death."

  "We've got to play that one just right," Admiral Zoll warned. "We have to scare 'em enough to slow 'em down, but not so much they sense a huge story and start risking their lives to get it."

  Then Captain Wilcox came in and handed Admiral Zoll a fax of a newspaper article.

  "What's this?" he snapped.

  "Nino DeSilva just sent it to us. It's from a local paper up there ... the Clark County Crier Clark County is about a hundred miles from Vanishing Lake, almost in the Oklahoma panhandle."

  The headline read:

  HOBO FOUND DEAD

  Under that was a brief description of Hollywood Mike's death. Admiral Zoll scanned the article, then read part of it aloud:

  " .. Twenty-two-year-old Michael Brazil, known among hobos as 'Hollywood Mike,' jumped aboard the Southern Pacific westbound freight to avoid the huge forest fire that was consuming Vanishing Lake. Yesterday, he and his companion were aboard the freight for the short distance to Badwater, Texas. Sometime after that ride, Hollywood Mike began having trouble swallowing, the Southern Pacific spokesman said. According to his hobo friend, he could have crushed his larynx getting on the train. They jumped off at the Badwater switching station to seek medical attention. Before they could get a doctor, Michael Brazil died.' "

  Admiral Zoll looked up at the men standing in the makeup room. "Trouble swallowing ... son-of-a-bitch! The bug is out of the containment area."

  "Sir," Dr. Charles Lack said, "we need that body. If that dead hobo had the Pale Horse Prion, it's still inside him. It's a protein. It doesn't break down. It's like DNA--it'll still be there ten years from now. All our research, all the years of study, could be in jeopardy if somebody draws half a cc of blood or cerebrospinal fluid. If they know what to look for and get their hands on that body, we could lose control of this strategic weapon."

  "Tell Lieutenant DeSilva to take his four men and get over to ... where the hell is it?"

  "Badwater, Texas," Captain Wilcox said.

  "Badwater, Texas?" Admiral Zoll repeated softly. "Not a good omen."

  "Are you Roscoe Moss?" Stacy Richardson asked when he opened the door of his motor home.

  "Yes ma'am," he answered.

  "I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute about this article that was in the newspaper." She showed him a copy of yesterday's Crier, which had the account of Michael Brazil's death.

  He glanced at it. "Ain't much t'tell," Roscoe said. "Mostly it's all in there. He was supposed to be a big movie producer's son. I sent the body down to Government Camp and I heard they put it on a plane, sent it to the coroner in Santa Monica, California, this afternoon."

  "Oh," she said, and seemed disappointed.

  "I do something wrong?" he asked, momentarily stunned by her beauty.

  "I was hoping it would still be up here, that's all."

  "Well, it ain't." He smiled at her. "I got some coffee in the pot. It's just recooked grounds, but if you want some ... it's hot."

  "Thanks," she said.

  He led her into the motor home, which was littered with souvenirs. He had dragged the old GMC bus all over West Texas during his three years on the rodeo circuit, right after he got out of the Marines. He had a few pictures on the walls, shots of him riding Brahma bulls. Bull-riding had been his best event until a two-ton monster named Evil Thunder had gored him, taking half of Roscoe's stomach and his short rodeo career in one gruesome moment.

  "The article said that the train rider was having trouble swallowing/' Stacy said. "I was wondering, if you saw that, could you describe it to me?"

  "He was dead by the time I got there," Roscoe said. "That's what the other guy said."

  "The other guy?"

  "The other hobo."

  "Oh yeah, right. He's mentioned in here. Did he tell you anything else?" Stacy asked.

  "He told me that the kid banged his throat getting on the train, but he was lying. Doc Fletcher down in Government Camp checked the larynx and he said nothing was broken."

  "Why do you think he lied?"

  "Don't know why. He was a scruffy-looking bird. Both a' them looked and smelled like hell. Just a minute, I'll show you. I think I got a picture a' the kid" He moved to a table and poked around in some
papers. "I hadda send a picture by fax to his father's office at Paramount Pictures Corporation. Can you believe that? A movie producer's son livin' a hobo's life. Don't add up."

  He turned away from the stack of papers he'd been looking through and went into the back of the motor home to continue his search.

  Stacy had gone without sleep for almost twenty-four hours. After the hobo with the silver hair had killed the soldier on the baseball diamond, she had hidden in the hills around Vanishing Lake until morning. Then when the County Sheriff's helicopter came in with the news trucks, she had used the confusion to trek over the hills to Highway 16 and hike out. Stacy had been in Bracketville, drinking coffee at a diner, trying to figure out her next move, when she saw the article in the Crier. She rented a car and drove straight to Badwater. Now, as she waited for Roscoe to get Michael Brazil's picture, a wave of fatigue hit her. She shook it off, determined to go on.

  Stacy was worried about a lot of things. She was sure Pale Horse Prion had escaped at Vanishing Lake, but she didn't know what the incubation period was. There was no way to tell when a mosquito vector had bitten an afflicted victim like Sid Saunders, so there was no way to set the clock. She also knew that if the Prion was in the blood there was the possibility of secondary infection. If, for instance, a noninfected mosquito bit an infected victim, by sucking up the blood and then injecting it into another healthy person, the Prion might be passed. During a medical procedure it could also be passed. For this reason, she wanted to warn any doctor attempting an autopsy, as well as warn the other hobo.

  She could hear a drawer opening and closing in the bedroom of the motor home. While she waited, she wandered around and looked at the rodeo pictures that were up on the walls. Shots of a younger Roscoe Moss, one hand high over his head, the other holding the bull knot. They were impressive photographs. She turned as he reentered and handed her a Polaroid headshot of Michael Brazil. The hobo's eyes were open, but he was dead.

  "There it is," he said.

  She looked at the picture and immediately recognized him as one of the hobos who had cleaned up the raccoon mess at the Bucket a' Bait. "I'll be damned," she said.

  "You know him?" Roscoe asked.

  "Not really," she replied. "The other one was named Lucky?"

  "Yes ma'am. Had the D. T. S right in my office. Not much left there, I'm afraid. Long hair, busted-out tooth. Wouldn't tell me his last name, just wanted to get the hell out of here 'fore the cops showed up."

  She tapped the Polaroid against her thumb. "You mind if I keep this?"

  "Sure, help yourself. I was just gonna throw it out. Don't even know why I brought it home with me--just had it in my pocket."

  "Lucky didn't happen to say where he was going ... ?"

  "Home to Pasadena, California. That's all."

  "Where's the closest airport?"

  "Sierra Blanca, 'bout fifteen miles down the road. But they don't have no commercial flights outta there. T'get a commercial, you gotta go to Waco."

  "Thanks," she said, and hurried out of the trailer. First she had to call Wendell at USC and get him to warn the coroner in Santa Monica that Mike Brazil's body was "hot." Any accidental blood or fluid transfer during the autopsy procedure could pass the deadly Prion to the Medical Examiner. Then she had to find Lucky. Despite his D. T.-ravaged condition, she had to find out if he, too, was infected. She got into her rented car and pulled away from Roscoe's motor home, sending a dusty plume up against the cold blue Texas sky.

  That night, Roscoe changed into his crisply ironed blue-and-red saddleback cowboy shirt with the arrow pockets. He put on his new Tony Lama boots with the fancy leather inset on the toe. Then he got into his pickup and headed toward town. He decided to eat at the Sierra Blanca Bar and Grill, maybe play some pool with the farmers who always spent their Friday nights there. He was going almost seventy, so he was surprised to see a car speeding up behind him, closing so fast it was almost as if he were standing still. He pulled the truck to the side to let the speeding car pass. Suddenly, it swerved to the left, pulled alongside of him, then started to run him off the road.

  "The fuck you doin'?" Roscoe yelled at the gray sedan with the tinted windows. Then, without warning, it smashed his left fender, and the truck was off on the shoulder, skidding badly. He hit the brakes and fought to stay in control. Before he even came to a stop his driver's-side door was yanked open and three men in ski masks dragged him out of the truck into a choking cloud of billowing dust. They were all armed. One of them stuck a gun into Roscoe's face and thumbed back the hammer.

  "What's the problem?" Roscoe stammered. "Whatta you want?"

  "Get him up there," one of the men said, pointing to some brush away from the road.

  They yanked Roscoe up the hillside and into the dense foliage.

  "What's going on? I ain't got much money, just a few bucks. It's yers."

  Once they were a few hundred yards off the road, they spun him around and pushed him down into the dirt. Again, the gun was in his face, pressed against his forehead by Lieutenant Nino DeSilva, who was wearing a ski mask.

  "Where's the body? The hobo's body?" DeSilva demanded.

  "Gone ... to Santa Monica, California. I drove it down to Government Camp this afternoon. They took it to the airport."

  "Shit," DeSilva said, spitting the word out with venom. "When? What time this afternoon?"

  "It left the airport 'bout four. Why is everybody so interested in that dead bum?" Roscoe asked.

  "Somebody else was askin' about him?" another commando in a ski mask said.

  "Yeah."

  "Who?"

  "I didn't get her name. She said she knew him from before. That's all."

  "And you told her where the body went?" Lieutenant DeSilva asked through the ski mask.

  "Why not? She wanted to know. What's this all about?"

  "Luke, get on the phone," DeSilva said to one of the masked commandos. "Tell Colonel Chittick where we're going." Then he shifted the nine-millimeter directly between Roscoe Moss's eyes.

  It happened so fast Roscoe never heard the gunfire or felt the bullet that exploded his head. One moment Roscoe Moss, Jr., was there, the next he was gone.

  Part Three

  BUDDY

  Chapter 17

  THE PRODUCER

  Buddy Brazil shot his Porsche Spyder out the front gate at Paramount Studios and hung a wide right, barely missing a westbound bus on Melrose Avenue. He was on his cellphone screaming at his assistant, Alicia Profit, because he had no idea where the Santa Monica morgue was.

  "It's in fucking Santa Monica is all I know!" he yelled impatiently. "That's all the guy said, 'the Santa Monica morgue.' Do I have to do everything? Call 'em, get me an address, and get back to meShit!" he said, as he accidentally ran a red light at La Brea.

  Buddy Brazil was loaded. He had done two lines in his bathroom at the studio before he got the call telling him that his only son, whom he barely knew, was dead. It would be another twenty minutes before he got level. Driving when he was wired had already cost him his black Testarossa and his license. He had flipped the Italian sports car on Angeles Crest Highway, then had bricked the substance abuse test. As a result, he was driving without the permission of the State of California.

  He decided to go down Fairfax and get on the Santa Monica Freeway, south of Olympic.

  He wasn't sure how he felt about Mike's death; lately all his introspections were puzzles. His personal feelings had become more hidden from him than his asshole. Of course, he reasoned, he'd just done two lines of primo rocket fuel, blocking some neurons, along with his faltering internal voice.

  He got to Fairfax and turned left. The guy at the morgue had mentioned that the family physician would be permitted to witness the autopsy, so Buddy snatched up his cellphone and called his pool house out at Malibu. The phone was answered on the twentieth ring. Dr. Gary Iverson's voice sounded like he'd just been dragged up from drug hell.

  "Fuck," Gary croaked, as he answered the p
hone, then dropped it and got it back again. "What is it? Who is it?"

  "Jesus, Gary, it's three-thirty in the afternoon. What'd you take last night?" Buddy yelled over the rushing California air that was slipstreaming over the windshield into the sports car.

  "Buddy ... geeze, just a minute. I'm putting the phone down. I'll be right back."

  "No! Don't put the fuckin' phone down, Gary. I need help now! Sit up and put your feet on the floor. Don't zone out on me, man."

  There was a long pause, and then he heard Gary Iverson's voice again. "Jesus, my head is buzzing. What a cocktail..."

  "What'd you and Ginger take? You gotta get straight. I need you. I need a doctor."

  Dr. Gary Iverson had been prescribing most of Buddy's drugs since Buddy'd flipped the Testarossa. Buddy had pulled every favor he had in city government to keep the D. A. from filing DUI charges against him. As a result, he had given up street dealers and cultivated Dr. Iverson's friendship.

  They had met at a party at Charlie Sheen's, where Gary was set up in the bar, prescribing the alphabet, everything from Atarax to Xanax. It was too good for Buddy to believe. Later that night, Buddy had driven a wasted Dr. Iverson home. When he found out that Gary had lost his residence to his ex-wife, he moved the doctor into his pool house, where Iverson took root like a mushroom fungus, writing prescriptions faster than freeway graffiti. In return, Buddy got the geeky doctor laid with A-line hookers from Heidi's old stable. He told Gary they were actresses. When Dr. Iverson had become so unreliable that he had lost most of his practice and was in danger of losing his medical license, Buddy paid for him to take the cure at Windsong Ranch in Montana. Buddy had detoxed there three times himself.

  The doctor had returned from drug camp twenty-eight days later, freshly pressed and ready to go, and they had taken up where they'd left off. It was an ideal solution for Buddy, who could now get his prescription of morphine or Seconal or gamma-hydroxyl barbiturates by simply walking down the garden path. Buddy had neatly switched from street drugs, with their potential for serious medical and legal risk, to Dr. Iverson's squeaky-clean drugstore prescriptions.