Ejecta (25 page)

“They could be everyday thieves.”

“Yes, they could. And that's where you come in. The Portland Police don't know about the parasite angle—nor do they share your expertise regarding meteorites. So we would like you to go down and nose around.”

“There is a pretty extensive black market for the kind of things they stole,” Palmer put in. “So, if the thieves turn to the right people, they might be able to sell the entire truckload all at once. They would receive only pennies on the dollar. But it could still amount to thousands of tax-free dollars.”

“Or they don't give a shit about money,” Cooper countered grimly. “Because they're looking for spores.”

“True,” Palmer agreed. “But one host? With a group of other people?”

Cooper shrugged. “Mrs. Harris wasn't a host. But her adopted daughter was.”

“Point taken,” Paler replied. “I'll check it out.”

“If you come up with a lead, call me,” Cooper said.

“Understood.”

“And Parker...”

“Yeah?”

“Don't play cop. Remember what happened in New York.”

“What about Sara?”

Cooper's eyes were opaque. “We will continue to do everything in our power to find her.”

Palmer stood. “You'll call me if something breaks?”

Cooper nodded. “Yeah. I'll call you.”

***

Palmer left. Once he was gone Cooper stood and made his way over to a window. It was a sunny day. Tiny people were visible on the street below. Most of them were innocent citizens. But with each passing day more and more of them were the equivalent of plague rats. And in most cases, the best way to handle a plague rat was to kill it. Did the government consider Sara to be an innocent citizen? Or was she classified as a rat?

Seattle, Washington

It was cold. But not cold enough to snow. Nail called the sleety mixture “snain.” Whatever it was fell out of a lead gray sky to cover the rail yard with a layer of semi-liquid misery. But there wasn’t much Devlin could do about the situation except crouch under the bridge and wait for Nail's return. Because even though trains were coming and going it was impossible to know where they were headed. Not unless one could retrieve the information from a schedule that had been tossed into a garbage can, read the bill of lading on one of the outbound cargo containers, or chat up an engineer.

Fortunately the railroad men were a superstitious lot. Many of them believed that it was good luck to have a hobo on each train. So Nail had gone out to strike up a conversation and score the perfect ride.

Hours passed. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Devlin saw her companion appear from the south. He paused to look around before crossing four sets of tracks and tackling the concrete slope. Nail’s breath fogged the air as he topped the rise and Devlin could feel the tension around the drifter as he squatted next to her. “I have good news and bad news,” he announced portentously.

“The good news is that a yard worker told me about a three-loco hotshot that’s headed south in about fifteen minutes. The bad news is that two out of the three hobos we had the run in with are looking for us. It seems one of them went to the hospital with second degree burns. So even if we can’t catch a ride south, we need to catch a ride
somewhere,
or run the risk of getting stomped real bad. So, grab your stuff and let's get out of here.”

Ten-minutes later the two of them were down on the tracks hurrying south. “I saw some bulls in the yard north of here,” Nail warned. “And they’re coming this way. But, if we can get out
ahead
of them, we’ll be in the clear.”

The cold “snain” stung Devlin’s cheeks, and made her grateful for the parka, as Nail led her along a string of tankers. They had just passed a flat car loaded with tractors when a distant shout was heard. “Come on!” Nail shouted. “We’re almost there.”

Up ahead a long line of multi-colored box cars was starting to move. They groaned loudly as three 4,500 hp diesel engines began to drag them off a siding. The train wasn’t traveling very fast yet. No more than three-mph. It wasn't easy to catch up, not given the packs on their backs, and the slush on the ground. Most of the boxcars were closed. But Nail spotted one that was open and pointed at it. “That’s the one we want!” he shouted. “Work your pack free, and once we pull alongside, throw it in.”

The task didn’t seem possible at first. But Devlin felt a sudden burst of energy and it wasn't long before she gained on the boxcar. It was difficult to run
and
remove the pack at the same time but she managed. Finally, as the parasitologist drew abreast of the opening, she heard Nail shout. “Throw it!”

So Devlin threw it. And realized what that meant. Now she
had
to climb aboard or lose all of her newly acquired gear.

“Good,” Nail exclaimed, as he tossed his gear aboard as well. “Now grab the door latch, throw one leg up over the edge, and roll inside.”

Devlin’s breath came in short puffs as the train picked up speed and her legs pumped like pistons. Nail made the process sound easy. Like boarding a bus. But the boxcar was moving, the latch bar was coated with ice, and there would be no second chance if Devlin missed. “Now,” Nail insisted. “Go for it now!”

So Devlin threw herself up, caught hold of the bar, and felt her boots leave the ground. Then her body was suddenly horizontal, as she battled to bring her right leg up onto the cargo deck, and eventually did so.

Then she was inside, rolling away from the open door, as Nail grabbed onto the lever. Moments later he was inside the boxcar too, laughing out loud, as the train cleared the yard.

And that’s where the two of them were. Laying side-by-side and laughing as two men emerged from the darkness at the south end of the car. “Well, well,” the man wearing the cowboy hat said ominously, as he pointed the snub nosed revolver at the couple. “Look at what we have here. The pretty slut, who likes to carry lots of money—and the skinny piece of shit who likes to play with gasoline. It looks like we hit the jackpot.”

“It sure does,” the other man agreed. “Which one of us gets to screw the bitch first?”

“That would be
me
,” Cowboy responded possessively. “Because I don’t like sloppy seconds—and
I
have the gun.”

***

Portland, Oregon

Palmer liked Portland and always had. Unlike so many large cities the downtown area had clear boundaries. Plus it was not only walkable but home to some very good restaurants. So staying there was normally a treat.

But as Palmer pulled into the underground parking lot at the Oregon Convention Center he couldn't escape a persistent concern regarding Sara's well being. There had been no further sightings of her in spite of the all points bulletin that had gone out. And he didn't want her to wind up the way Quinton had. Wandering all alone according to the whims of a parasite.

Palmer made his way onto a crowded elevator and rode it up to the main floor. As he got off and made his way toward the lobby the familiar feel of the show began to close in around him. Many of the same dealers and collectors attended every year. So people knew each other. And, having been being a regular for a long time, he was a member of the extended family.

So it wasn't long before people began to call out his name and come over to greet him. And while they didn't know the actual cause of Quinton's death they knew the two men had been close. So there were numerous expressions of sympathy as Palmer made his way to check-in. “Sorry to hear about the ambassador, Alex....”

“Good to see you man. We're going to miss Mr. Quinton.”

“I'll see you in the bar tonight, Alex. We'll hoist a couple for the old man.”

And so it went until Palmer arrived at the reception desk. The show had been underway for two days by that time so the line was short. And since he had paid for a membership months before, his credentials plus a map, and a bag of freebies were waiting for him.

After hanging the pass around his neck he tossed the rest of it into a convenient trash can. Then Palmer made his way to Exhibit Hall D. That was the vast hangar-like space which the thieves had driven the truck into. Palmer wanted to see it with his own eyes and talk to some of the victims.

Exhibit Hall D was huge. In spite of that fact it was full to overflowing with informational booths, tables covered with carefully packaged objects, display cases filled with curiosities, racks of “how to” books, speaking platforms, scrolling flat screens, paunchy people in fanciful costumes, and powered wheel chairs that whizzed every which way.

Knowing the attendees as he did Palmer wasted little time finding a dealer named Harvey Hanson. He was a balding man, with a pleasantly rounded face, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the business. Hanson was known for his loquaciousness which Palmer hoped to take advantage of.

The dealer was standing in front of a table about half covered with “stones,” meaning meteorites which were comprised of silicate minerals, and generally classified as either chondrites or achondrites. Roughly 86% of all meteorites were stones. The rest were irons. And that's why the irons were so sought after.

Hanson spotted Palmer, broke off the conversation he was having with a group of scouts, and turned to extend a beefy hand. “Alex! It's good to see you. I was wondering when you would show up. Martha and I were very sorry to hear about the ambassador. Somebody shot him? Is that true?”

“Yes,” Palmer lied. “It was horrible. I'm going to miss him very much as you can imagine.”

“Crime is getting out of hand,” Hanson said darkly. “You heard about what happened here?”

“Yes. That was terrible. The way they killed that guard was nothing short of cold blooded murder.”

“Exactly,” Hanson agreed. “Look at my table. Everything you see there is what Martha and I had stored in our hotel room. We were insured but most of the exhibitors weren't. The whole area was a crime scene until noon.”

Palmer looked down to the spot where wood framing and a plywood patch had been used to fill in for the missing roll-up door. “I saw the security video on TV,” Palmer said. “It looked as if the thieves took whatever was handy.”

Hanson nodded. “They got some good stuff and missed some good stuff too. There wasn't any rhyme or reason to it. Once the truck was full they left. The cops are all over the homicide. But I'm not sure they take the robbery very seriously. I get the impression that they see meteorites as little more than fancy rocks.”

Palmer thought that was an interesting perspective—and wondered if that perception would hinder the investigation. If so that would be fine with Dr. Wilson, Cooper, and the rest of the biosecurity team. The last thing they wanted was for the police to figure out that an unknown number of homicidal parasites were roaming the land.

After pumping Hanson for information Palmer spent the next twenty minutes roaming the floor, talking to various acquaintances, and picking up snippets of information here and there. Eventually he wound up at dealer Marsha Anne Tamby's table. It was very close to the door through which the aptly named Dodge Ram had entered. Perhaps that explained why it was bare of everything except a pile of hastily produced fliers. Tamby was there however, sitting on a stool, with a cell phone to her ear. She saw Palmer, smiled, and held up a well manicured finger as if to say “one minute.”

Tamby was in her early forties and in good shape. Her short hair was an unlikely orange-red color that harkened back to her days as a Las Vegas showgirl. She had married and divorced three times to Palmer's knowledge and was currently single. She was wearing way too much jewelry and it glittered when she moved.

There was a click as the cell phone closed and Tamby came forward to collect a hug. “Better late than never, Alex. How did the present go over?”

The geode Palmer had given to Sara had been purchased from Tamby. “Not very well,” Palmer confessed.

Tamby was only a little over five feet tall and had to step back in order to look up at him. She was slightly cross eyed and it was endearing somehow. “Really? Does that mean you're available? Because if so I'd be happy to take you off the market.”

Palmer grinned. “Be careful what you wish for... You might just get it. It looks like they wiped you out.”

“Yeah, the bastards got most of it,” Tamby said bitterly. “And I wasn't insured.”

“That sucks,” Palmer said sympathetically. “How 'bout I buy you a drink? You can drown your sorrows.”

Tamby brightened. “That sounds like a great idea. I can't do much here.”

Fifteen minutes later they were a block from the convention center in a bar with a Tex-Mex motif. It was packed with noisy conventioneers many of whom greeted the couple as they took a booth. When the waiter came Tamby ordered a gin and tonic. And when Palmer requested an iced tea she raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. “What's up Alex? Are you going straight?”

“I'm trying to.”

“For
her?
The one who didn't like your gift?”

“Basically, yes.”

“You've got it bad,” Tamby responded. “So much for the plan to get you drunk and seduce you.”

Palmer laughed. “The moment I recover I'll look you up. So tell me about the robbery. Have the police made any progress?”

“Not that I know of,” Tamby responded. “But it hasn't been very long.”

Once their drinks arrived the conversation turned to previous conventions and the weirdo's that attended them. Palmer told the story of a man who paid five-thousand for a small iron and had it made into a hood ornament for his '69 Cadillac convertible.

Tamby laughed and took a final swallow of her second gin and tonic. “You think that's weird? Hell, that's nothing. Yesterday morning, back when I still owned some inventory, the guy at the next table agreed to keep an eye on my table while I went to the ladies room.

“Well, apparently he got busy talking to customers, because by the time I returned a lady with a hunch back was standing there licking a geode.”

Palmer felt a chill run down his spine. “A hunchback? Licking a geode? You've got to be kidding.”

“Nope. I ain't kidding. She had frazzly hair, was wearing what looked like a man's raincoat, and a pair of black high tops. So I snapped a couple of pictures with my cell phone and called security. They took her away.”