SKELETON

by Peter Parkin

  "I understand, yes." Dennis glanced over at Barb and then Fiona. He could see that their eyes were transfixed on Mel. She had everyone's attention.

  "He wants me to go with him to Maryland to see the property and decide how best to sell it. The will requires that it be sold as soon as possible after mom's death. And get this—I never really paid much attention to this clause until now, but the will requires that Sydney Fox as the trustee of the property, be allowed to inspect it alone. There's some legal gobbledygook about this keeping the inspection objective and without conflict of interest. Sounds convincing anyway."

  "So, you're telling me that you have to sit out in the car while he inspects our property?"

  "Yes."

  Denny jumped to his feet. "Jesus Christ, Mel! Sydney's the one who was given the instructions to release the package upon mom's death! He's going up there to retrieve it! He knows where it's hidden!"

  "Exactly."

  *****

  Salvatore Badali stood across the street from the pawnshop, watching. Good, only one attendant on after 9:00 p.m. Perfect. He knew the hero would be armed, but Sal wouldn't give him the chance to use it. He always went in guns blazing. Kill first, no questions later.

  Sal loved pawnshops—they were the best places to rob. Virtually all cash. And the owners were slime-balls, buying cheap and selling high. He remembered when his mom had to sell all her jewelry when Sal was just a little boy. His dad had run out on them, leaving them with nothing. His poor mom had to sell everything she owned, even her grandmother's wedding ring—just so they could eat.

  He hated pawnshop dealers. And he loved killing them.

  Tomorrow night he would hit this place. He concentrated on looking at the dealer through the window. Knowing that tomorrow night he would no longer be standing, breathing, dealing, cheating. Scumbag. It was surreal watching someone who only he knew was enjoying his last full night on earth.

  This would be the fifth pawnshop he'd robbed, and the fifth dealer he'd killed. No one could catch him. Sal was a night stalker. He had only been arrested on suspicion once, when the security camera caught a little more of his profile than he'd planned. Someone had recognized him. He didn't know who it was, but he wished he did. That person would no longer be breathing the polluted Washington air.

  Anyway, he got off. The image wasn't strong enough to convince a grand jury to indict him. Now he was more careful. He wore a full balaclava now. No chance of being recognized. And his modus operandi was based on being quick. Quick in and out.

  It always followed the same pattern. As soon as he entered the shop, he would shoot the dealer through the head, or the heart—didn't matter. Depended on how much he'd had to drink. His Marine training made him a marksman, but even a marksman found it hard to shoot someone through the forehead after eight beers.

  So, with the easy part over, he would blast his way into the cash drawers and take only the available cash. He didn't waste his time with the safe—didn't want to coerce the dealer into opening it for him. That took too long. He just wanted what he could grab and run. He was always out and back into his car within two minutes. Worked like a charm.

  Sal smiled. He was getting a rush just thinking about tomorrow night.

  He walked around the block and back to his car—a black '69 Camaro. Hot.

  Dark tinted windows. He was surprised the cops hadn't stopped him yet and ticketed him for blackout glass. Well, maybe not so surprised. They were incompetent at the best of times, and also badly short of manpower. And firepower.

  Sal opened the driver's door and hopped in. Turned on the engine and leaned his head back against the headrest. Just for a minute. Just to hear the growl of his 350 horsepower monster.

  Suddenly he was aware of a shadow, movement, or something above his head. Then impact. Something hit the top of his head and it felt as if it had caved in. It had caved in. His ears seemed to be flopping sideways and outwards. Sal was barely able to glance to his right just in time to see a man's forearm being pulled back to its owner in the rear seat.

  Salvatore Badali's chin bounced up and down on his chest. His head couldn't stop bobbing. It seemed to weigh a hell of a lot more right now than just a few precious minutes ago.

  *****

  Brett Horton was on the phone. He realized with chagrin that most of his work time now was spent either on the phone or the Internet. How times had changed from when he had first started out with the Secret Service. But—it was a necessary evil.

  "So, are you keeping busy these days, Randy?"

  "Very. Everyone in the world right now is worried about Internet security. I don't blame them. It's a scary world out there, and unfortunately, everybody's world is online now."

  "Isn't that the truth? How dependent we've become on this Internet shit, eh?"

  "Yeah. But let me guess—you've got something for me, right? You're dependent on me too."

  Brett laughed. Randy McEwen was sharp. He had been one of the top cyber-agents with the FBI, until retiring to go into private practice four years ago. He had been an FBI agent, sure, but in reality he was a hacker. One of the best in the world. He was just one of a team of specialists who Brett used from time to time as needed. They had a privileged relationship. They respected each other, not to mention that Brett paid Randy handsomely.

  "I do have something for you. It's very tricky. Very confidential. And very risky."

  "Big deal. No one can catch me. You know I'm far too good for that to happen. So, sock it to me."

  "Randy, I need you to hack into the Pentagon and the CDC. I need to know anything and everything to do with a project nicknamed in typical tacky Pentagon style as, 'Creepy Crawlers.' It has to do with microbiology experiments, dating back as far as 1977."

  "Wow—you weren't kidding. This will be risky. Okay, shouldn't be a problem, however I'll have to take this one to the 'stable.' I'll need to relay it around the world. Where would you like it to end up this time? Iran or Israel?"

  "Randy, I would shit my pants thinking that the Pentagon and White House clowns traced the hack back to their good loyal friends in Israel. That will keep them busy with shuttle diplomacy for a while! Go with Israel, if for no other reason than just my amusement!"

  "Done. Shalom."

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Brett was patiently awaiting a call back from Randy. The hacker extraordinaire had indeed discovered something pertaining to 'Operation Creepy Crawlers,' but wanted to get back into the Pentagon site once again to do a bit more fact checking.

  So, Brett strummed his fingers on the beautiful mahogany wood of his executive desk while straining his eyes at his computer monitor. He knew he was going to need glasses soon—his eyes had started going downhill at age forty but he'd resisted taking the big leap. Male vanity, he guessed. He knew also that society was now seeing an earlier deterioration of eyesight since the advent of computers. The premature strain was evident in virtually everyone, even young people. Prosperous times for opticians.

  Today he was reading about the 'Partial Nuclear Test Ban Treaty.' It was a treaty signed and ratified by the governments of the old Soviet Union, the United Kingdom, and the United States of America way back in 1963.

  It prohibited all test detonation of nuclear weapons in any mode other than underground. No more nukes in the ocean, none above ground, and most definitely none to be allowed in outer space. The treaty's intention was to slow down the nuclear arms race and put a halt to the release of nuclear fallout into earth's atmosphere.

  The agreement almost didn't get signed due to a clause that was in the original draft that banned all nuclear testing including underground tests. There was general disagreement over this until concessions were made by the Soviets to ban only testing above ground, in the sea, and in outer space. Underground testing would still be allowed.

  This seemed to make sense to all parties, because it would have been difficult anyway for any of the signatory countries to police and enforce an underground test ban. When
those suckers exploded underground, the seismic effects closely resembled earthquakes—and indeed on several occasions had actually triggered earthquakes.

  Brett shook his head in disgust. Treaties apparently meant nothing to these clowns. The U.S. had clearly violated a decades-old treaty by dropping a ten-megaton nuclear monster into the moon's 'Shackleton' crater. No wonder they needed to desperately protect that secret. The resultant worldwide chaos if that fact became known would be immense and insurmountable on the diplomatic stage. All bets would be off, all similar treaties nullified, and the arms race would escalate beyond anyone's imagination. All that, plus international condemnation and charges against the U.S. filed in the World Court.

  In short, a disaster.

  But all that didn't even consider possibly the worst part of this whole mess. If they did indeed bring living organisms back from the moon, what did that mean? Where were they? How secure were they? What were they doing with them?

  He placed his elbows on the desk and rested his face in the palms of his hands. Then he started gently rubbing his forehead. What had started out as a curious adventure was now turning into something that was causing him more stress than he could have ever imagined.

  Normally things didn't bother him—his prior assignments had all been serious and usually dangerous and he had caused real harm or death to many, all of whom had probably deserved it. But this...this was different. His instincts told him that this far surpassed anything he had ever been involved in before, and made even the most severe action he had ever executed seem miniscule in comparison.

  And he couldn't stop now. He was in too far.

  Brett's official assignment from the Pentagon was to retrieve the 'package,'

  whatever and wherever it was. But Brett was starting to feel betrayed. They gave him the assignment not only because he was the best at what he did, but also most likely because he had shown a total lack of conscience throughout his career. He felt a little insulted all of a sudden. Did they really think that he could overlook an abject violation of an international treaty, and overlook the introduction to Planet Earth of alien organisms?

  They assumed too much. They had gone too far. And he was now determined to follow whatever semblance of conscience he still had left. Retrieving the package and handing it over to these power-mad wing nuts was fast becoming the last thing on his list.

  He was jarred from his deep thoughts by the phone ringing. In an instant he had it up to his ear.

  "Talk to me, Randy."

  "Holy shit, Brett! What the fuck are you into here?"

  "It sounds like you found something?"

  "Yeah, I did! Are you ready for it?"

  "Yes, do you mind if I record this?"

  "No, but promise me that once you take your notes, you'll destroy the recording?"

  Brett clicked on his recorder. "I promise. Now, give it to me, laddy." "Okay, 'Operation Creepy Crawlers' does indeed exist as a project under the supreme supervision of the Pentagon. The CDC are subordinate, but they're the ones firmly in charge of the experimentation."

  "Experiments?"

  "It all seems to be about weaponization, Brett."

  "What kind of weaponization?"

  "You name it—there are references to bodily injections for soldiers to make them super-soldiers, contamination to populated areas, and bio-tipped warheads. And a bunch of references to 'dumbing' of populations, sterilization, population eradication in unfriendly countries—you name it, they talk about it. I even saw notations about bio-induced insanity, bio-induced aggression, and bio-induced fearlessness."

  "Dr. Strangelove?"

  "Good analogy."

  "I'm catching my breath here, Randy."

  "Hopefully you're breathing clean, fresh air. Because from what I've been reading, I feel like I should be wearing a mask."

  "What documents have you been reading?"

  "Well, I managed to hack right into the Pentagon site. 'Operation Creepy Crawlers' exists in a file all its own, with a link to the Centers for Disease Control. There's some correspondence back and forth between the Pentagon and the CDC. They're very careful in one respect—no names or signatures on the correspondence. Just reports of test results, questions and answers, statements of intention."

  "Have their tests been successful so far?"

  "Doesn't look like it—seems to be a lot of dissatisfaction from the Pentagon, threats of more frequent audits at the laboratory site, and it looks like a couple of scientists at the CDC were fired. But it doesn't look like they're giving up—they seem to be actually kicking it up."

  "Geez."

  "All of the testing seems to revolve around animals—primarily monkeys.

  They refer to one species of monkey as "Greenies." And the other species is clearly the Chimpanzee."

  "Christ!"

  "Yeah, the most violent species of ape in existence. But—get this.

  They've already tested some of these chimps in populated areas. I saw reference to the necessity to observe at these early stages how the modified chimps would behave in urban areas, and other areas where humans are predominant. They wanted to gauge the fear level of the animals and the degree of unprovoked aggressiveness, strength, and anger."

  "So they transported these animals to cities?"

  "Yep, saw observation notes in the files. Two chimps were on the loose in Las Vegas recently. They went 'ape,' pun intended. Ran down the streets scaring the shit out of anyone who saw them. Came across a police car, jumped up and down on the roof caving it in. The officer started the car up and drove—the chimps hung on for a while then leapt onto the hood of an oncoming car, smashing the guy's windshield. One chimp reached in and grabbed the man around the throat and began choking him while the car was still moving. At that point one of the officers stationed along the sidewalk took a shot and killed the thing. Great shot—the driver was just shaken up, managed to stop the car with the dead chimp lying on top of him."

  "They should autopsy the beast."

  "Can't—report states that the body was removed securely."

  "What happened to the other ape?"

  "Ended up in the backyard of a house, threw the father under a rider mower and actually figured out how to turn it on. The guy lost his leg."

  "For God's sake!"

  "They tranquilized the thing, and it too was taken away to parts unknown."

  "I read about that Vegas incident, but these details were not mentioned at all. It just said the chimps went on a rampage and that they were in fact pets that escaped."

  "Obviously sanitized media."

  "Were there other experiments in urban areas?"

  "There sure were. A chimpanzee sanctuary in South Africa, which allowed tourists and university students to tour the facility, had an incident that was also sanitized. A tour guide was yanked under the fence of the enclosure by two chimps, dragged by his feet for more than a mile. They were described in the report—very clinically I might add—as being in an extremely frenzied state. It was almost as if someone was standing around taking notes! Anyway, there wasn't much left of the guy when they found him. He'd been cannibalized."

  "Chimpanzees are unpredictable...and very strong."

  "Yes, they sure are. The report says their normal strength is six times that of a human being."

  "Jesus! Any other tests?"

  "Several more chimps on the loose—one report in Canada, one in Wales, and another in Germany. No violence in these incidents—but again, clinical reports on what they did, where they went, how they behaved. Then, they were tranquilized and removed."

  "You mentioned other animals?"

  "Yes, cats. The experiments with cats seem to have been geared to making them robotic and compliant. Whatever they did seemed to strip the cats of their natural independent loner tendencies, and make them basically sublime. Interesting—with apes the tests tried to achieve the exact opposite of what they were trying to achieve with the cats."

  "Different strains? Different o
bjectives? Different weapons?" "Perhaps."

  "Okay, where is this fucking lab, Randy?"

  "I wish to God I could tell you. The reports are very cryptic about the location. They keep referring to it as 'Snow Lady.' I haven't had time to research that, so I'll have to leave it to you. If anyone can figure it out, you can, Brett."

  "Snow Lady? That's it?"

  "Yeah—sorry."

  "Okay. You've done great as usual. I'll probably be back to you on this again, but in the meantime the check's in the mail."

  "Thanks, Brett. Good luck—and be careful. This is pretty serious stuff."

  *****

  Jim Morton watched as she walked down the street—no, she wasn't really walking, she was dancing. Dancing just for him. She was blonde—his favorite color—and a body that was made for sex. Her ass wiggled as she moved, her arms and shoulders swung like she was ready to take on the world—or take on any cock that came her way. Yes, that's what she really wanted, Jim was convinced of that. He knew it. She'd seen him already and she wanted him. He was powerful and she knew it.

  He'd been lurking at a new corner tonight. He couldn't use the same corner all the time, even though he had his favorites. But this corner seemed to be productive. It was near five pick-up bars and he'd seen her come out of one of them. He was surprised she was leaving alone. With the way she displayed her ample chest, he figured guys would have been all over her.

  But then, he hadn't been in that bar. If he had, she would most likely have made a move on him. He was convinced that all of his targets had wanted him, and when they fought him, they were just playing hard to get, just like the teasing bitches they were.

  She was his tonight. He hadn't had sex in a week now, and the pressure was building, building badly. She was most definitely his tonight.