Perimeter

by M. A. Rothman

  With a friendly pat on Juan’s shoulder, Winslow turned back into his office and shut the door.

  Juan stared at the closed door and silently wished he could be a fly on the wall when the director met with the advanced research leads.

  ###

  “Hey, Nate, it’s John Hendrickson over in the evidence lab. I just got done processing the evidence pouches you brought over from Nevada. I think you need to come over here. Some of this is… well, it just doesn’t make much sense.”

  Nate pressed the phone to his ear. “I didn’t bring my car, and it’s a ten-minute walk from my office to your lab. Not to be lazy, but… can you just tell me what you found?

  “Trust me, come over here. This shit just got weird, and I need someone else to verify what the hell I’m seeing.”

  That was a strange request. But Nate had worked with Hendrickson before, and he was a level-headed guy and a solid lab analyst. He glanced up at the clock; it was near the end of the day. “It’s 4:55 right now. I have a few things to finish up here and then I’ll come over. Will you still be there at 5:30?”

  “Yup, no problem. I’ve got other evidence to process anyway.”

  “Okay, see you in a bit.”

  Nate hung up and sat back in his chair. He couldn’t help but wonder what had gotten the lab tech acting so excited.

  ###

  When Nate first joined the FBI as a member of the Evidence Response Team Unit, the world-renowned FBI forensics lab had been intimidating. It was a massive, five-hundred-thousand-square-foot campus entirely dedicated to processing everything from fingerprints to DNA to hazardous materials. They did it all.

  Now the double doors swung open with a whoosh of air, and Hendrickson, a green-haired tech in a well-worn lab coat, greeted him with a crooked smile.

  “Here, put this on.” He tossed Nate a lab coat. “You know the drill.”

  Nate stepped through the outer doors into an airlock. As he put on the lab coat and slipped protective cloth booties over his shoes, he felt and heard the whooshing of air as the lab was sealed from the outside. The lab’s air was highly filtered, and the airlock was there both to prevent the escape of hazardous materials from the lab and to prevent any contamination of evidence from outside sources.

  Nate put on a pair of latex gloves and peered at the thirty-year-old tech. “Green hair? Really?”

  Hendrickson’s face flushed red. “I did it for a St. Patrick’s Day party. The shit won’t wash out.”

  Nate chuckled. “Well, it looks… it looks terrible.”

  Hendrickson scowled. “Gee, thanks. Come on. I’ll fill you in on the simple stuff on the way to the DNA lab.”

  The two men walked through a room filled with lab benches laden with state-of-the-art analysis equipment.

  “Basically, all of the burnt samples had an accelerant on them. But I’m pretty sure you’d figured that out already.”

  Nate nodded. “I smelled something. Did you figure out what was used?”

  “Yup. It was basically a mixture of gasoline, benzene, and polystyrene.”

  “Shit, that’s napalm!” Nate exclaimed.

  “Napalm B to be exact. And the swab you took off the dead guy had the same trace elements from your samples. He was around that place when it was being torched, no doubt about it.”

  “Yet, he wasn’t burned,” Nate murmured. “What about that tiny metal object coated with glass? Did you figure out what that was?”

  “Yep. It’s a PIT tag—like the kind they stick into your friendly family pet to identify them. Except this one had an active transmitter. And it looked like it probably once had a wire antenna, but it had broken off. With the antenna, it would be powerful enough to track this thing from a good distance.”

  They approached a door with DNA Lab printed on it.

  Hendrickson swiped his ID against a badge reader and the door opened.

  “So is that the kind of thing someone might use for a pet? In case they get lost?” Nate asked.

  “Not a chance. The stuff they use for pets wouldn’t be transmitting anything unless you’re inches away. I’ve seen this kind of thing only once before. They used it to track the prisoners they let out of Gitmo.”

  “They? The CIA?”

  The tech flicked the lights on in the small lab and shook his finger. “The CIA tracked the Gitmo prisoners, that much I do know. It would be a good guess that’s where this tag you found might be from, but I haven’t yet verified who made the thing. Give me some time, I’ll track it down.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk about the hair samples.” Hendrickson scooted to his right and typed into the nearby computer terminal. “Come here and look at this.”

  Hendrickson had pulled up a DNA analysis report. The conclusion stated simply, UNIDENTIFIED.

  “So, no match,” Nate said. “That’s not unusual in a fire.”

  The tech frowned. “Nate, I’m not an idiot. But some of what you retrieved wasn’t burnt—including the sample being reported on here. The computers still couldn’t find a match.”

  Nate didn’t understand. “What does this mean?”

  Without answering, Hendrickson unlocked a drawer and pulled out an evidence bag containing a slide. He slipped it under the clips of a high-powered microscope and flipped a switch. A monitor lit up, showing two hair samples.

  “These look the same, right?”

  They looked the same to Nate, not that that meant anything. “I guess so. I take it one of those is a strand I picked up, and the other is…?”

  “The other is a dog. Specifically, a Labrador. I thought your sample looked like a canine hair, so I ran through a bunch of samples until I found a visual match.”

  Nate studied the images. “So, someone put a tracking device on a dog after all. I don’t understand what’s interesting about this. Seems like a dead end. A pet locator. High-tech, but still.”

  “What’s interesting is not that I matched your sample to a Labrador, what’s interesting is that the computer didn’t. It should have, if the DNA was the same. But it isn’t. I pulled up the DNA records for the breed-standard Labrador. Obviously, even though the DNA won’t be identical unless they’re twins, members of the same species will have more than 99.9 percent match on their DNA sequences. But when I compared the Labrador DNA to your sample, there was a 97.8 percent similarity. That’s a huge difference. For comparison, humans and chimps have a 96 percent similarity.”

  Nate’s eyes widened. “So is the sample a Labrador or not?”

  The tech turned to him with a concerned expression. “Honestly, I don’t know what it is. This hair is a Labrador hair—or at worst, something very, very similar to a Labrador. But the DNA is radically different. I had to look it up, but the difference between dogs and wolves is only about 0.2 percent in their mitochondrial DNA. This is ten times that. How can what is clearly a very dog-like creature have massively non-dog-like DNA?”

  Nate frowned. “So we’ve got a high-tech tracking device. Someone’s using Napalm B to destroy evidence. And a dog that isn’t a dog.”

  “It’s not just ‘not a dog,’ Nate. It’s an animal that doesn’t match anything in our databases. What the hell did you find out there?”

  A chill raced up Nate’s spine. “I don’t know.”

  Chapter Five

  --- Three years later ---

  Kathy O’Reilly licked the salty spray of the Pacific from her lips. As she leaned forward in the tall swivel chair bolted to the deck, the fifty-foot sailboat rocked gently on the warm waters.

  She glanced back at Brad, who was busily poring over a map. “Do you think we can outrun the storm?” She nodded toward a line of gray storm clouds spanning the horizon.

  Brad shook his head. “I wouldn’t chance it. But there’s a small island not too far away, and it has a lagoon where we can shelter until this blows over.”

  As if to emphasize the point, the wind grew stronger, pitching the boat
wildly.

  Kathy tapped on the touchscreen for the navigation console and yelled, “What are the coordinates? I’ll set the autopilot.”

  “The lagoon is on the west side of the island. Let’s shoot for that. Put in 11 degrees, 25 minutes, 19.2 seconds south, and 151 degrees, 49 minutes, 22.7 seconds west.”

  Kathy plugged in the coordinates and hit “go” on the boat’s navigation system. The sailboat tacked slightly to the left.

  She gave Brad a wry smile. “‘Let’s go sailing,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve been sailing since I was a boy,’ he said.” She playfully wagged her pointer finger at him. “If we get stuck on some godforsaken island because of your bright idea, I’m not going to let you live this down, you know.”

  Brad’s blue eyes sparkled, reflecting the bright sun overhead as he laughed. He was nearly forty, but his boyish smile and adventurous attitude made the fifteen years that separated them inconsequential.

  He turned his gaze toward her and ran his fingers through his pale-brown hair. “I seem to recall that we discussed these plans and you thought it was a great idea too. And besides,” he unclipped from his waistband a satellite phone, “at least we’ve got this, so even if we have trouble, we can always call the maritime cavalry.”

  “Well, let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  A brilliant flash of lightning streaked from one cloud to another, and seconds later came the long, rolling thunder. Kathy felt a shiver as she glanced at the autopilot screen and then up at the advancing dark clouds.

  For a brief moment, Kathy wished she were back home. She’d grown up as a cattle rancher’s daughter in Nevada, and never intended to go back, but as she felt a growing sense of foreboding about their surroundings, her thoughts briefly fled to the familiarity of home.

  “Kathy,” Brad yelled over the wind and the echoing boom of thunder. “Let’s get down in the cabin.” He climbed below deck, motioning for her to follow him. “It’ll take us about two hours to get there, and though we should beat the storm, it’ll get pretty windy topside.”

  Hopping off the captain’s chair, Kathy ducked into the cabin and gave Brad a quick kiss on the cheek. “No shipwrecks, you got that, Mr.?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A shipwreck would give me more time with you all to myself.”

  Brad pinched her rear, and she shrieked with feigned outrage as she hopped toward the bow.

  He grabbed a pillow from a cabinet and tossed it to her. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll keep watch over things.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  As Brad sat in front of the controls of the in-cabin navigator’s station, Kathy climbed into the V-shaped bed in the front of the sailboat and tucked the pillow beneath her head. Brad was a captain for a professional fishing outfit, and she had full confidence in his ability to get them safely where they needed to go. So she lay back and enjoyed the rocking of the boat, and when her eyelids began to droop, she didn’t fight it. The next thing she knew, she was awakened by Brad’s shout from above. “Honey, can you get up here?”

  Kathy shook off her mental cobwebs as she stumbled up to the deck and looked around. The sound of waves breaking on a shore caught her attention. With the sun hanging low on the horizon, Kathy squinted as she realized they’d arrived at the island but hadn’t yet entered the lagoon.

  Brad was removing his shirt and kicking off his deck shoes. He unclipped the sat phone from his belt and held it out. “Hold on to that.”

  She took it. “What are you doing?”

  “There’s a line of coral blocking the entrance to the lagoon. It looks like someone dredged a path through it, but then they put a gate in the way. I guess someone owns this place. But considering we’ve got a storm chasing us… it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.” He grinned and jutted his chin toward the captain’s chair. “I’ve furled the sails, so just use the thruster motor to coax the boat into the lagoon as soon as I open the gate.”

  Kathy nodded, and Brad blew her a kiss and dove into the water without even the slightest hint of a splash.

  She clipped the phone onto her waist and grabbed a pair of binoculars. She could clearly see the gate blocking the entrance to the lagoon; it was about thirty feet wide, with a sign on it that said Private Property. No Trespassing.

  Brad swam to the gate and, like a monkey, climbed up the chain-link fencing to the locking mechanism. He seemed to struggle with it, pulling with both hands on the metal bar that kept the gate from swinging open.

  Suddenly, the metal bar flew upward and Brad tumbled into the water.

  Kathy hopped to her feet and yelled, “Brad!”

  Seconds later he surfaced, gave a thumbs-up signal, and motioned for her to approach. Before she even started the motor, he dove below the surface and the gate began to grudgingly swing open.

  Sitting back on the captain’s swivel chair, Kathy started the outboard motor and slowly pushed the throttle lever forward. The sailboat inched forward just as sheets of rain began to fall.

  ###

  In the light of morning, Kathy stared across fifty feet of water at the mangled remains of the gate, now hanging precariously from its metal post.

  The previous night had been the most frightening night of her life. The winds had howled while the typhoon raged overhead. Their boat was far from tiny, but even with the protection of the lagoon, it had rocked like a child’s toy. And when dawn had finally broken, the skies were clear, but they’d encountered a new problem. The mangled gate was blocking their exit. To make matters worse, it had acted as a net, capturing all manner of seaweed, driftwood, and vegetation.

  Brad was now hacking at the vegetation with a small fire axe, but didn’t seem to be making any headway.

  Kathy yelled over the sound of his chopping, “Do you want me to help you?”

  He glanced up at her and shook his head.

  Kathy felt heat rise up her neck and into her cheeks as she realized he was using the only tool they had. What am I thinking? The only other cutting tools we have are steak knives.

  She felt helpless as she watched Brad struggle with the mess. After another ten minutes, he roared with frustration, jumped back into the water, and swam back to the boat.

  Seconds later, Kathy helped Brad as he struggled to lift himself back into the boat.

  With a final heave, Brad clambered over the transom and collapsed onto the deck. “Sorry, babe. There’s just too much crap tangled up in there. And I think the weight of it all drove part of the gate into the silt. I don’t think we’ll be able to move it without heavy equipment. I know you didn’t want it to come to this, but I think we have to call for help.”

  As he climbed to his feet, he winced, and Kathy noticed his right ankle looked bruised and had begun to swell.

  “What’s wrong with your ankle?”

  “It’s just a sprain.” Brad waved dismissively and grabbed the sat phone.

  ###

  “I know this is private property, but it was the only shelter from the typhoon we could find. Can you just help us get the path clear so we can sail out? That’s all I’m asking. We don’t need to be airlifted or anything. Our boat’s fine.”

  Brad held the phone away from his ear and gave Kathy a look that said the conversation wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. The first call, to the local maritime authorities, had gone all right, but then they’d routed him to whatever company owned the island, and that’s when the conversation went south.

  “No, we won’t be taking anything from your damned island. We just want to get as far from it as we can.” Brad ran his hand roughly through his hair, exuding a sense of frustration. “Thirty-six hours? Nothing quicker than that?” He sighed. “Okay, fine. No, we’ll be on the boat waiting for you.”

  Brad stared at the phone, shook his head, and clipped it to his waist.

  “So,” said Kathy. “A day and a half hanging out here.”

 
“Yup. Evidently there’s some company that has a long-term lease on this island. They got real pissy about ‘trespassing’ when I gave them my location, but seems like they’ll get us out. Though they made a point to tell me that they’ll be charging us for the inconvenience.”

  “And you’re surprised by that?”

  “No, I suppose not.” A sly expression crossed Brad’s face, and he hitched his thumb toward the island. “You know, as long as they’re pissed with us for trespassing…”

  Kathy smiled. “We shouldn’t.”

  “Why not? I saw some giant crabs on the beach as we approached, and that forest is nothing but coconut palms. What do you say to a crab feast? And we can drink fresh coconut water, straight from the nut.”

  He had a point—fresh-cooked crab was infinitely better than anything they had in the galley.

  Kathy wrapped her arms around him. “Let me get this straight. You think a fancy crab dinner will make a girl forget that you stranded us on some deserted island?”

  He grinned. “Well…”

  “Oh, bite your tongue.” Kathy smacked him playfully on his chest. “I’ll grab a pot and a fire starter for the crab boil. You grab the axe for the coconuts.”

  ###

  Kathy propped herself up on her elbows as she lay on the sandy beach and inhaled the scent of the ocean. Next to her, Brad was busy trying to build a fire, but so far had only managed to envelop himself in a large cloud of white smoke.

  She was about to crack a joke when suddenly the orange licks of flames burst forth from the pile of wood. Brad leaned back from the growing fire with a satisfied expression. As the blaze grew ever larger, he hopped to his feet—and winced.

  “Brad, are you sure you’re okay? Your ankle is really swollen.”

  “I’m fine. Just sit back and relax. I’ll get the water boiling and we’ll have some crab in no time.”

  While Brad set the water to boiling, Kathy panned her gaze across the beach. It was dotted with No Trespassing signs, written in several languages, but she was more concerned with the woven mess of broken branches, seaweed, and other debris covering the shoreline. Though he’d tried to hide it, Brad had limped a bit on the walk here, and now his ankle was getting worse.