February 3rd, 5:00 AM PST; Sunny Valley Super-9 Motel; San Francisco, California.
The alarm clock sprang to life with a newsman's deep, somber voice, shocking Gene into abrupt and unwelcome wakefulness. KSJO radio, though a modern rock station, was given over entirely to coverage of the impending nuclear threat.
"—at least seventeen dead by current estimates, all as a result of last night's rioting. Car-by-car searches on the bridges have brought traffic to a standstill, and even minor roads are backed up for miles with anxious residents trying to leave town.
"Angry protesters are questioning the administration's decision to search every evacuating vehicle, but FEMA spokesperson Nora Faulkner insists that containing the threat and apprehending the terrorists is the administration's highest priority. We turn to Elliott Marshall of NBC News for more. Elliott?"
Gene stretched and every muscle complained. He yawned as Elliott Marshall took over.
"Thank you, John. Rioting and civil unrest are now minimal. Many police and civilians were injured overnight, and two policemen have been confirmed killed as authorities struggled to restore order. FEMA has assured NBC News that military convoys will keep essential supplies such as food and medicine flowing into the peninsula and that there is no need to stockpile food or other supplies. Drop sites include hospitals, police stations, the old military base at the Presidio, and National Guard depots.
"If you run out of food or medical supplies, go to w-w-w dot FEMA dot gov, slash, San Francisco, all one word, dot h-t-m-l to find the closest supply depot, or call 911. Residents of the affected cities are advised not to go to grocery stores, as some store owners have taken to shooting at those who approach, fearing—"
The men droned on for a few minutes about the lockdown and the ensuing civil unrest. "The manhunt for Aryan Ascendancy ringleaders Harold Trubb and Jim Palenti continues. The Department of Homeland Security is offering a one million dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of either of these men, and a ten million dollar reward for the recovery of the nuclear warhead. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of these men, or any members of the Aryan Ascendancy, call 911, or on the web, go to w-w-w dot DHS dot gov and click on the link in the upper-right corner."
Gene turned off the radio and looked over at Carl.
Carl looked up from the floor and met his eyes. "I think we're screwed, Gene." They both looked over at Doug, who nodded in agreement.
"Even so," Gene said, "we need to get to Gabrielle's. We've lost too much time already." He picked up his COM from the nightstand, put it in his ear, and spoke. "Sam?"
For the first time since he started working with her, she didn't reply. He tried again. "Sam?"
A sonorous male voice answered. "Ms. Greene called in sick today, Agent Palomini. This is Agent Johnson. What can I do for you?"
Called in sick? Sam almost never left work, much less called in sick, and would have called him if she had. He looked at his phone. Nothing. "Um, nothing. I just wanted to ask her a question." He cut the connection and pulled the COM out of his ear.
He used his cell phone to call Sam's apartment. After twenty rings the machine hadn't picked up. He hung up and tried her cell, with the same result. He called the FBI's main number and spoke to the receptionist. The connection was terrible; there was a lot of noise on the line. "This is Special Agent Gene Palomini. Can you patch me through to A.D. Adams' home, please?"
"Hold, please," she said. The phone beeped in his ear.
Adams' voice was hard to recognize through the static. "Hello?"
"Bernard? This is Gene Palomini. What's going on?"
"Gene? Where are you? Sam said you'd flown to San Francisco. Are you still there? Are you in the lockdown zone?"
"You've spoken to her? I tried her at home and couldn't get through." Gene's voice was full of worry.
"I haven't. I'm just working on the report from yesterday. Are you in San Francisco?" Adams' voice was tight, his words clipped. It wasn't normal.
Gene's reply was guarded, "Not exactly, but in the area."
"Where precisely?" Gene raised an eyebrow at Doug.
"I'm not sure exactly. We're on the road somewhere at a little motel."
"What motel? What's the number there?" Visions of helicopter strike teams danced in his head.
"Um, Lucky Seven in Cupertino," Gene lied. "Um, I'd have to go get the number; it's not on the phone here in the room." Doug and Carl gave him odd looks.
"Are Goldman and Brent with you?"
"Yeah, they're right here. What—?"
"Put Agent Goldman on the phone, please." It was clearly an order.
"Um, okay, but I have a question first." Gene mouthed to Doug, he wants you.
"Just put him on, Agent Palomini," Adams said.
"Okay, but he's not feeling well." Gene stalled. Doug held out his hand.
Adams' tone of voice brooked no argument. "I'm ordering you to give Agent Goldman the phone, Agent Palomini. Now." Gene handed the phone to Doug.
Doug took the phone. "This is Agent Goldman."
Gene could hear the voice on the other end, but not what he said.
Doug mumbled an okay, rose slowly from the couch, and stumbled his way into the bathroom. He closed the door.
Once inside the bathroom, Doug spoke into the phone. "Done." The tile chilled his bare feet, and he was in no mood for games.
"Is Palomini listening?" Something in Adams' voice didn't sound right.
Doug opened the door softly, stepped back into the living room, and looked at Gene with wide eyes. "Um, no. He's not listening."
He held the earpiece away from his head so that the sound would project into the room. "I need you to take Agent Palomini into custody."
"That's preposterous. You and I both know—"
"Doug, I don't care what you think you know. We have it on very good authority that Palomini and Palenti are the same man." Gene's jaw dropped as he looked at the phone in Doug's hand. "You will—"
Doug interrupted him. "Pardon my French, but that's the dumbest fucking thing I've heard in my entire life, sir. I've spent almost every waking moment with Gene in the past two weeks, and most days in his presence for several years before that. Even if he is a racist bastard, which he isn't, he wouldn't have time to run some skinhead group or plan a nuclear attack. Sam's been tracking our movements for years, ask her. It's simply not possible."
Adams didn't say anything for a few seconds. When he spoke, his voice was cold and authoritarian. "Agent Goldman, my hands are tied, and so are yours. I'm ordering you to place Gene Palomini into FBI custody and transport him to the San José International Airport, where you will turn him over to Department of Homeland Security for processing. Agent Brent will assist you." Carl shook his head.
Doug didn't even try to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "I don't think that sounds like a good idea, Director. He's probably armed and dangerous."
"Of course he's armed and dangerous!" Adams hollered.
Now Doug was sure of it. Adams was born in Texas and had moved to northern Ohio when he was young, but had never fully outgrown his Southern accent. The man on the phone had emphasized the "r" in armed, and hadn't drawled the "a" like Adams would have.
"I'm not negotiating with you, Agent Goldman. Go relieve Agent Palomini of his weapons and place him under arrest."
"I don't think so, Director," Doug said. He flipped the phone closed before the man on the other end could protest. Gene sat on the bed and put his head in his hands.
Carl smirked at Doug. "That could've gone better."
Doug sat next to his boss and clapped him on the back. "I think we're in deep shit, Gene. That wasn't Director Adams."
"I suspected it," Gene said, "but your behavior confirmed it."
"Going dark, are we?" Carl asked. Doug and Gene locked eyes, leaving the agreement unspoken. "Then we've got to keep our phones off. Sam always tracks us with them. If she can, they can. You can bet they already know what cel
l tower's covering us, and they've got men not too far away. If we move, we're just going to help them pinpoint us."
As if on cue Carl's phone rang. He looked at it, then at Gene. "It's Adams' office." He turned it off and pulled out the batteries.
"Good idea," Gene said. They followed suit. Doug stuffed their phones in the backpack they'd bought the night before. When he looked up from the bag, Gene was looking at him. "Look, guys, you don't have to do this."
Doug rolled his eyes. Carl grinned. "Skip the crap about cutting you loose, Gene. We've got your back. What's the plan?"
Gene smiled back. "You realize we're all getting arrested, if not killed, right?"
Carl spoke. "Get to the point. What's the plan?"
"Okay, here it is. All we need to do is beat Renner to Gabrielle's, find our way off the peninsula through legions of military personnel, get across the country while evading a massive manhunt and million-dollar bounty on my head, find Sam, get her to figure out who this Shelley guy is, arrest him, and get him to confess to the whole thing, leading to the downfall of the bad guys."
Doug put his hands to his head. With eyes closed he asked, "Is that all?" A faint grin betrayed his amusement.
"Nope. We do it without using an ATM or our FBI expense accounts, and without being able to coordinate anything through Sam. And we do it before Renner, who has a head start, gets to Shelley and kills him."
Nobody said anything for a few minutes.
Finally, Carl stood, clapped his hands together, and rubbed them in anticipation. "Well, better get moving then. But first things first." He walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
Chapter 28
February 3rd, 7:00 AM PST; Paul Renner's cabin; Lake Tahoe, Nevada.
Paul pulled up to an authentic log cabin nestled deep in the woods below Lake Tahoe on the Nevada side. Towering pines cast the driveway in shadow, but the house basked in early morning sunshine. He got out, slammed the door, and walked up the porch steps. He didn't have a chance to knock.
His dad opened the door, a worried look on his face. "Hey, Steve. You look stressed."
Paul shrugged. "Not really. I've got a lot on my mind, but that's pretty normal." His dad let him in, and he walked straight to the couch and sat. He looked up at the hart mounted on the wall, admiring the structure of the giant antlers.
"You get that one yourself?" his dad asked.
"It came with the cabin," Paul said. "I think it's older than you are. They aren't even indigenous to the United States."
"Oh." His dad sat on the couch next to Paul, his hands in his lap. "You want some coffee?"
Paul shook his head again.
"Okay," his dad said. They sat in silence for a while. Finally, his dad spoke. "Been reading the paper lately?"
Paul nodded. "Yup."
"It's kind of quiet up here. I don't watch much TV. But I do run into town to get the paper now and then. So you've seen the headlines?"
Paul nodded again.
"The pictures?"
Another nod.
"Care to explain about Harold Trubb?"
Paul gave his father a sad smile. "Harold Trubb is a figment of an overactive imagination, created by the man behind all this." He gestured to the cabin, then to his father. "I'm getting close to the answer, and he doesn't like it."
"So you know who it is?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"It's bigger than this, but the man who tried to kill you is a doctor. Lefkowitz. Ring any bells?"
His father blushed and looked at the floor. "No. Why would a doctor want to kill me?"
"Are you sure, Dad?" Paul asked. "He ran a methadone clinic back in the seventies."
"Why would I know a doctor who ran a methadone clinic, son?"
"Because," Paul said, "you were a junky. Just like Mom."
His face a thundercloud, Kevin Parsons stood and towered over his son. "You take that back." He grabbed Paul's hair and wrenched his head back. Eyes blazing, he repeated himself. "You. Take. That. Back." He let go and stared at his own hand in shock.
Paul leaned his head into his father's stomach and patted him on the leg. "I wish I could, Dad. I wish I could." Paul sat back and looked into his father's eyes. "Mom didn't die in a car accident."
His dad collapsed onto the couch. He put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook, and a keening noise more animal than human erupted from his throat.
Steve looked up, his mouth agape. His father fired out the window, the bark of the pistol louder than anything he'd ever heard. His mother stood over the coffee table, shoving bags full of white powder into a duffel bag. The bullet hit her in the neck. She fell onto the floor, and he leapt on her, pressing his tiny hands against the wound. The blood covered him, spraying through his fingers. She gasped and gurgled and tried to breathe through the blood. Steve pressed as hard as he could, but the bleeding just wouldn't stop. His hands were too small.
After a while he asked a question. "Dad, what really happened?"
His father's voice was tiny, barely audible. "Don't make me go back there. I don't live there anymore." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't go back."
Paul grabbed him, pulled him close, and held him. He leaned close to his father's ear. His lips barely moved, and no sound came out. Dad, I never left.
* * *
February 3rd, 7:46 AM PST; Gabrielle's Fine Jewelry; San Francisco, California.
Gene lay in the back seat as the sedan pulled up in front of Gabrielle's Fine Jewelry. He wore a leather jacket with an upturned collar, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. Like a perp on the lam, he thought. Doug parallel parked in front of the store.
"There's nobody home," Carl said. Turning to the back seat, he smiled at Gene. "Coast is clear."
Gene sat up, made a quick scan of the street, then looked inside the store. The lights were off and nothing moved. "Wouldn't you expect someone inside?" he asked. "Guarding the store from looters?"
"Yeah, I would," Doug said. "Renner beat us here."
"Let's hope not," Gene said. "We don't know if Renner found out about this place or not." He scanned the street. Nothing. "Let's go. And be careful. These guys have no reason to trust or cooperate with us."
They got out of the car and approached the door, huddled together against the damp, cold wind. Gene rapped on the glass with his knuckles. Doug and Carl covered him, hands in their pockets. There was no response. "It was worth a try," he muttered.
Shielding his eyes with his hands, he peered inside. Everything looked normal for a high-end jewelry store. A series of glass cases filled with sparkling gems, gold jewelry, watches, tie clips, and so forth dominated the main room, all arranged in a jigsaw maze designed to make shoppers slow down and take it in. A marble-topped mahogany cabinet with an old rotary-dial phone and an antique cash register stood in the back. Behind it stood a single door marked Employees Only.
Gene stepped back and took a better look at the storefront. The phone number for the store was printed in large letters on the door. He took out the TrakFone Carl had picked up from Wal-Mart an hour earlier and dialed the number. The phone rang ten times, with no answer. He hung up.
Gene sighed. "Doug, hit the store with the Maglite."
The beam of light flared across the inside of the store, scattering and refracting through thousands of gems and reflecting off countless pieces of gold, platinum, and silver. "What am I looking for?" Doug asked.
"Anything out of—there! Right side of the counter!" Gene pointed, and Doug turned the light toward the rug.
"I see it," Carl said. "It" was a red stain on the carpet near the checkout. The back wall was misted with brownish spots. "It looks bad, Gene."
"Yeah," Gene said, surveying the interior. He pointed to a small gray box next to the door, connected to a modern-looking phone. "We need to get in there. How do you feel about bypassing the alarm?"
Carl raised his eyebrows. "This isn't the movies, Gene. That kind of thing takes time and the right equipment. I can'
t see the box very well. I think it's a GoldShield. The bad news is that they're a pretty reliable retail alarm. The good news is that I've bypassed a bunch of them."
"Can you do it?" Gene asked.
"I can definitely shut it off, but maybe not before it calls the police. Let me get my kit." He walked back to the car.
Doug looked at Gene. "You sure this is a good idea, Gene? If the cops show up…."
"Yeah, I know," Gene said. "I think it's worth the risk. You stay in the car, and the two of you take off if Carl botches the alarm. Assuming I get away, meet me at the diner two blocks that way." Gene indicated the direction with his thumb.
"What, and just leave you to the police? I don't think so, Gene."
Gene smiled. "I appreciate the support, but I'm not asking. Better me than all three of us. If they catch me, it's up to you to find Renner. Do it."
Doug stomped over to the car, cursing under his breath. Carl walked up to the door and set down his bag. "What's his problem?"
"His problem is that he's the getaway driver. If you can't shut off the alarm, run to the car." Carl looked annoyed, so Gene held up a hand to cut off an interruption. "I'll go inside and find out what I can in the few minutes before the local PD gets here. Get to it."
Carl opened his bag and removed something similar to a hand-held multi-meter. He touched the door and the frame of the building with the leads, fiddled with a dial, and did it again. Gene watched up and down the street. A few minutes later Carl put the device away. "There's nothing super-fancy going on. Seems like a pretty standard commercial burglar alarm."
He removed an electric screwdriver, a police-issue flashlight, and two pairs of wire cutters from the bag, one large and one small. He handed the large cutters to Gene and set the other two tools on the ground. "After I break the glass, we've got maybe sixty seconds, tops. You need to cut a hole through that wire mesh, open the door, then get out of the way so I can get to that box. Then we pray that I cut the right wire. Okay?"
Gene nodded and opened the cutter. Carl picked up the screwdriver and small cutters in his left hand, the flashlight in his right. Shielding Gene with his body, he smashed the window with the light. A recurring beep sounded over the tinkle of falling glass.
Blood List Page 20
