by Hank Parker
“Must be thousands of cows in there,” said the lieutenant. “And plenty more to go. We’ll need to get a move on.”
“Approximately twenty-five hundred so far,” said the director, with a trace of annoyance. He knew what he was doing, knew how much time the operation would take if it was done right, to his standards. “The trench is a quarter mile long and twenty-five feet wide,” he said. “Filled to capacity, it’ll hold five thousand animals, about half the dairy-cow population in the vicinity of the farm where the infected cow showed up.”
The sounds of gunshots echoed in the background and a steady parade of dump trucks delivered new loads of dead cows to the pit. Backhoes stood ready to scoop earth over the charred bodies when the burning had run its course, and to start another excavation when the first trench was close to full.
The director gazed at the operation and turned back to the lieutenant. “Everything’s on schedule,” he said. “We’ll be done day after tomorrow.”
“What’s it going to do to the county’s farming?” asked the lieutenant.
“Pretty much destroy the livestock business,” said the director. “Best-case scenario is that livestock’s the only thing it destroys. I could see it collapsing the state’s entire economy.” Watching the slaughter and incineration made the director feel physically sick, but he knew that the quickest way to kill ten thousand cows in open farmland was to shoot them, and that the safest and most efficient means of carcass disposal was burning.
He’d had a lot of second thoughts about the operation, and a host of questions he didn’t share with the lieutenant. What if the containment efforts didn’t work? What if the disease spread beyond the quarantine zone, which had now expanded to fifteen miles, and engulfed the entire county, with ten times as many cows? How many National Guardsmen would it take to shoot a hundred thousand cows? How long would it take to dig five miles of trenches to accommodate the carcasses? How many dump trucks? Backhoes? Flamethrowers? Would the burning carcasses contaminate the groundwater and the air? And what about the psychological effects on soldiers who, hour after numbing hour, would have to fire point-blank into the brains of helpless farm animals?
He’d read about a 2002 homeland security exercise involving a hypothetical foot-and-mouth disease outbreak on five American farms. In ten days the virus had spread to thirty-five states. The exercise predicted that National Guardsmen would have to kill millions of farm animals, including pigs and cows, to stop the disease from spreading farther, that the soldiers would run out of bullets, that a ditch at least twenty-five miles long would be required to bury all the carcasses, and that all this would be in plain sight of the public. It predicted riots in the streets.
He forced the negative thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on the work of the soldiers. With luck, they’d be done by sunset, but for most of the Guardsmen it would be the longest day of their young lives. He would do his part to ensure that the soldiers had frequent breaks, plenty to eat and drink, and a chance to relax and chat about something other than the mass slaughter of farm animals.
* * *
Mariah unconsciously tightened her seat belt. They’d lost sight of the sedan and now Curt was speeding down the narrow rural road. She sat rigidly, jaw clenched, her eyes focused ahead.
“You okay?” Curt asked.
She turned quickly and looked at him. “Fine,” she said, embarrassed by the obvious catch in her voice. “Just trying to figure out where that guy went.”
Curt nodded then suddenly leaned forward. “Got him,” he said, pointing.
Mariah saw the sedan some distance ahead and then felt the truck decelerate. They maintained a distance of several hundred yards behind the other vehicle.
Soon the sedan turned right. Curt followed, onto Unionville Road, then Doe Run, bordered by fields and horse farms. Minutes later, the sedan turned left onto a narrow, paved road, then right into a cornfield, raising a cloud of dust above the head-high stalks.
As Curt and Mariah reached the turnoff he eased the truck into the entrance of the dirt road and stopped.
“Aren’t you going to follow him?” asked Mariah.
“Too risky. No easy way out if he sees us. Wait here.” Curt got out of the truck and jogged down the lane. He was back in five minutes. “The road’s about half a mile long,” he said. “House at the end. Looks kind of abandoned. I didn’t go all the way in.”
“Now what?”
“We wait.” Curt started the truck, backed out onto the main road, and drove about a quarter of a mile beyond the dirt lane. He turned the vehicle around, facing the lane, and parked the truck off the road, partly hidden by tall corn.
“So what’s going on?” asked Mariah as Curt turned off the engine. “And who exactly was that?”
“My guess is someone made a duplicate set of keys to the freezer room,” Curt said. “If they had access to the originals, it wouldn’t be that hard. Pretty standard lock and key arrangement. Surprising. Thought Hoffman would have been more careful.”
“But how would they have gotten both of Hoffman’s keys?”
“If he was trusting enough to give them to me, he’s probably done it for others.”
“Pretty stupid if you ask me,” said Mariah. “So what do we do?”
“For now we watch,” said Curt. “I hope you’re okay with that. Pretty boring, I know.”
“I’m fine. We need to figure out what’s going on.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” said Curt. “Kandahar shows up not that far from the Barn and the only North American source is in a freezer in the Barn. And someone—whoever we were chasing—was in there just before us today.” He turned his head and looked toward the cornfield.
For several minutes neither of them said anything as they kept their eyes on the entrance to the dirt lane across the road. Mariah clasped her hands together in her lap, feeling keyed up but willing herself to stay calm. Even two feet away from Curt, she sensed energy radiating from him. She glanced over. He was staring toward the lane, his lips pressed together, eyes narrowed, attentive to the surveillance. She focused on his profile, the strong chin, crooked nose, small, ragged scar on his right cheek. She felt like touching it. Now he was turning toward her. She quickly looked away.
“You were looking at me,” he said. “Did I cut myself shaving or something?”
“No, nothing like that,” she said. “I was just wondering about that scar.”
Curt smiled. “Oh, that. Definitely not a shaving cut. Got it when I was younger. Wrong place at the wrong time. I guess it’s kind of ugly.”
“No, not at all. Hardly noticeable.”
“You’re being kind.” Curt was silent for a minute and then looked over at Mariah. “The other night in the lounge,” he said. “I mentioned making dollhouses.”
Mariah nodded, hoping he’d go on but not wanting to push it.
“I told you I made the first one for my little sister,” he said. “Lucy. I was twelve. She was seven. She’d been diagnosed with leukemia. She was in chemo. Really brave. Never complained, even when she lost all her hair. It got so she’d be comforting me instead of the other way around. I made the dollhouse to cheer her up.”
“Did she recover?” Mariah asked quietly.
Curt shook his head and began to watch the lane again.
Mariah cleared her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I lost both of my parents when I was young.” She felt like she owed him this.
“What happened?” Curt asked, looking at her with concern.
“My father was a cop in Philly. He was killed on the job. Drug bust gone bad. My mother was killed a couple of years later, in a car crash. I was nine. My grandparents raised me.” She saw Curt open his mouth, but then, ahead, she noticed dirt rising again above the cornstalks. She pointed.
Seconds later, the dark sedan appeared, turned left onto the m
ain road, and sped off.
“Government plate,” said Curt.
“Should we follow?”
Curt shook his head, started the truck, and pulled out into the road. He parked by the dirt lane, opened the glove compartment, and withdrew a spool of white thread. Mariah watched as he walked down the dirt lane and did something with the thread that she couldn’t make out.
“What was that all about?” she asked when he returned.
“Tied it off to cornstalks on each side of the lane,” he said, buckling his seat belt. “Strong enough that the wind won’t break it, but if a vehicle comes through it’ll snap.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll come back first thing in the morning. If the thread’s intact, we’ll check out the house.”
“Shouldn’t we run this by Hoffman?”
“No need. Besides, he’s out of the office today. If we see anything unusual, we can always fill him in.”
Mariah didn’t like it. Too cloak-and-dagger, not her thing. And maybe dangerous. She wanted to object. But she was letting her imagination get the better of her. If no one returned here before tomorrow morning, it should be safe enough. Plus there was definitely something suspicious about that person they’d seen in the MCL. And, she admitted to herself, she felt safe with Curt.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AUGUST 28
SOUTHEASTERN PENNSYLVANIA
Mariah was behind the wheel of her Outback with Curt beside her. They were heading back to the cornfield. From the corner of her eye she could see that Curt was looking at her.
“So what do you think of Hoffman?” he asked. It was the first thing beyond pleasantries he’d said since she’d picked him up twenty minutes earlier.
“He’s okay, I guess,” Mariah said. “Why?” She was careful to keep her eyes on the road ahead. She’d offered to drive so that Curt could pay closer attention to the surroundings.
“Just wondering,” said Curt.
Mariah thought about the question. She respected her boss, but he made her a bit uncomfortable. She didn’t think she should share that with Curt, and she couldn’t really put her finger on what bothered her, hadn’t really thought about it that much. “He obviously knows his stuff . . .” she said, letting her voice trail off.
“But?” said Curt.
Mariah glanced over at Curt, then turned back to the road. “He can be a bit over-the-top with that America first shtick,” she said.
“That’s no act,” said Curt. “Do you know what happened?”
“I heard his wife was killed by terrorists in London in 2005. She was on a double-decker bus that got bombed.”
“Right,” Curt said. “On the upper level. The explosion threw her about fifty feet into an iron fence.”
Mariah shuddered, picturing the scene and then trying not to. “That’s awful,” she said. “Was she killed instantly?”
“She lived for several days. Hoffman got there as soon as he could. The doctors thought they could keep her alive. But they told him she’d never be the same—not just physically. Permanent brain damage. And she was suffering, even drugged up. Hoffman told me he could see it in her eyes. So he gave the doctors permission to let her go.”
“I can’t even imagine,” she said, rewinding through her interactions with Hoffman over the years, trying to see him in a different light. “But he seems to have been able to move on.”
“I guess so,” said Curt. “But it took a while. His wife was his whole life outside of work. No kids, no siblings, and his parents died when he was in his twenties. He’d always talk about her. Brought her by the lab a few times. She seemed sweet, devoted to him.” Curt sipped from a cup of takeout coffee. “He went into a deep depression after she died. He was working at Fort Detrick at the time. Took a leave of absence. There was a rumor that he was hospitalized for a while in a psychiatric ward, but I don’t know if that’s true. When he came back to the lab a year or so later, he seemed okay. And he worked his ass off. Understandable. Probably good therapy. He was always a strong leader and his people respected him. So when the Barn directorship opened up, he was a logical choice.”
“Mmm,” said Mariah. She wasn’t sure where Curt was going with this. Was he sticking up for Hoffman? Scolding her for misreading him? Had Hoffman asked him to say something? Stop it, she told herself. She was being paranoid. Curt had no reason to care about how she felt about her boss. Nonetheless, she resolved to be more open-minded about Hoffman, about people she didn’t know well in general.
“Here we are,” said Curt, pointing off to the right. “Just pull into the lane entrance.”
Mariah braked the car, turned onto the dirt road, and stopped. She waited while Curt got out and walked up the lane. He returned seconds later.
“Thread’s intact,” he said. “Drive slowly and try to keep the dust down.”
At the end of the lane they saw an old white farmhouse surrounded by cornfields. The house needed paint and there were no cars in the driveway. A faded sign in the front yard read Beware of Dog. But no dogs rushed up to greet them. Curtains were drawn across the windows.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s living here,” said Mariah, easing the car to a stop near the house. Curt was only half listening. He appeared to be scanning the outside of the house. “What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Video cameras, hidden alarms,” said Curt. He got out of the car and walked toward the house. Mariah followed him.
They tried to peer through the drawn curtains into the darkened interior of the house. Where the curtains hadn’t quite closed they could see most of a living room and adjoining study. Fireplace along one wall, an old couch, a couple of armchairs with worn cushions. They walked to the side of the house and looked into the kitchen. The kitchen windows had no curtains. A dirty bowl and cup lay in the sink and a covered pot sat on top of the stove. A yellowing copy of the Philadelphia Inquirer lay on the counter.
“Let’s check the garage,” said Curt. As they approached it he stopped and pointed toward the far end of the building where a tall, stainless-steel pipe projected several feet above the roof line of the garage. “Looks like an exhaust vent,” he said. He walked back around to the front of the garage. Mariah followed and watched him as he tried to raise a large overhead door. It wouldn’t budge. He tried an adjacent small door but it was locked.
Curt moved around to the left side of the garage and looked at a window, midway up. He retrieved an old pallet from a pile of debris and propped it against the side of the garage under the window.
“Almost as good as a ladder,” he said, positioning his feet at the top of the pallet and stretching toward the window. He pushed up on the frame. “Locked and the shade’s drawn, but there’s a gap at the bottom,” he said. “Whoa, what’s this?”
“What do you see?” asked Mariah.
“I’m not sure,” said Curt. “My tool bag’s on the floor of the front seat. Mind bringing it over?”
Mariah brought him the bag and watched as he removed a small, high-intensity LED flashlight, held it against the bottom of the window, and turned it on.
“Some kind of lab,” Curt said. “I can see a lab bench, stainless steel by the look of it. Drop-in sink, gas jets. And there’s a refrigerator and upright freezer next to the bench.”
Mariah waited while Curt played the flashlight beam along the interior of the garage. “What the hell?” he said. “There’s a large biosafety cabinet in there. That explains the exhaust vent outside. And that’s not all. A growth chamber of some kind. And animal cages.”
He stepped off the pallet and reached back into the tool bag. He removed a small tool and a pair of gloves and safety glasses, which he slid on. He climbed back onto the pallet, secured a suction cup on the tool against the bottom of the window, and began to turn the tool’s rotating arm.
“What are you doing?” asked Mariah.
“Cutting
a hole in the glass.” Slowly and carefully Curt rotated the arm. “This thing’s got six tungsten-carbon cutting blades. Super sharp, which is a good thing. Window’s pretty thick.”
Mariah watched with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. “What was your previous profession again?” she asked. “Cat burglar?”
Curt chuckled but didn’t answer. After several minutes, he stopped and peered at the window. He shook his head in disbelief. “Only about halfway through,” he said.
Then they both heard the noise of an approaching vehicle.
* * *
Tony Parnell of the Inquirer stood at the edge of a crowd of several hundred people at Stony Creek Park in Brandywine Heights, Pennsylvania, just outside the newly expanded quarantine zone. The day was clear and hot. Off to the southwest, across the Chester-Lancaster county line, Parnell could see a thin plume of black smoke curling from a hayfield and drifting toward the park, borne along by a fresh breeze. Even at that distance, he could practically taste the smoke—acrid, oily, and redolent with the scent of burning flesh—and it was all he could do to keep from gagging. He noted a four-foot-high, woven-wire fence running along the edge of the park and stretching to the northwest and southeast as far as the eye could see. The fence appeared to be topped with a row of electric wire. National Guard soldiers, spaced evenly apart, stood between the fence and the crowd. The expressionless soldiers held rifles, in some cases clutching them so tightly that their knuckles showed white. Their helmets seemed too big for their heads. They occasionally licked their lips and their eyes darted from crowd member to crowd member.
Parnell studied the crowd. Some carried signs reading Don’t Kill our Pets! and Free the Animals. Other signs, evidently displayed by religious zealots, decried the abandonment of God and proclaimed the imminent end of days. But to Parnell, most of the demonstrators seemed to be average citizens reacting viscerally to what amounted to a military-enforced government takeover of a small rural town. He didn’t blame them. If it happened in Middle Valley, he thought, it could happen anywhere.
