Five Scarpetta Novels (61 page)

“It's anything but that.”

“What about the dead guy? They going to cremate him when we don't know who he is?”

“He'll be autopsied in the morning,” I said. “I imagine they'll store his body for as long as they can.”

“The whole thing's just weird.” Marino rubbed his face in his hands. “And you saw a computer in there.”

“Yes, a laptop. But no printer or scanner. I'm suspicious this is someone's getaway. The printer, the scanner, at home.”

“What about a phone?”

I thought for a minute. “Don't remember seeing one.”

“Well, the phone line runs from the camper to the utility box. We'll see what we can find out about that, like whose account it is. I'll also tell Wesley what's going on.”

“If the phone line was used only for AOL,” Lucy said as she walked in and shut the door, “there won't be any telephone account. The only account will be AOL, which will still come back to Perley, the guy whose credit card number got pinched.”

She looked alert but a little tousled in jeans and a leather jacket. Sitting next to me, she examined the whites of my eyes, and felt the glands in my neck.

“Stick out your tongue,” she seriously said.

“Stop it!” I pushed her away, coughing and laughing at the same time.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Where's Janet?” I said.

“Talking. Out somewhere. What kind of computer's in there?”

“I didn't take time to study it,” I replied. “I didn't notice any of the particulars.”

“Was it on?”

“Don't know. I didn't check.”

“I need to get in it.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked, looking at her.

“I think I need to go with you.”

“Will they let you do that?” Marino asked.

“Who the hell is
they?
”

“The drones you work for,” he replied.

“They put me on the case. They expect me to break it.”

Her eyes never stopped moving to windows and the door. Lucy had been infected and would succumb from her exposure to law enforcement. Beneath her jacket she wore a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter pistol in a leather holster with extra magazines. She probably had brass knuckles in her pocket. She tensed as the door opened and another ranger hurried in, his hair still wet from the shower, eyes nervous and excited.

“Can I help you?” he asked us, taking off his coat.

“Yeah,” Marino said, getting up from his chair. “What kind of car you got?”

T
he flatbed truck was waiting when we arrived, the vinyl-shrouded camper on top of it gleaming an eerie translucent blue beneath the stars and moon and still hooked to a pickup truck. We were parking nearby on a dirt road at the edge of a field when a huge plane passed alarmingly low overhead, its roar louder than a commercial jet.

“What the hell?” Marino exclaimed, opening the door of the ranger's Jeep.

“I think that's our ride to Utah,” Lucy said from the back, where she and I were sitting.

The ranger was staring up through his windshield, incredulous, as if the rapture had come. “Holy shit. Oh my God. We're being invaded!”

A HMMWV came down first, wrapped in corrugated cardboard, a heavy wooden platform underneath. It
sounded like an explosion when it landed on the hard-packed dead grass of the field and was dragged by parachutes caught in the wind. Then green nylon wilted over the multiwheeled vehicle, and more rucksacks blossomed in the heavens as more cargo drifted down and tumbled to the ground. Paratroopers followed, oscillating two or three times before landing nimbly on their feet and running out of their harnesses. They gathered up billowing nylon as the sound of their C-17 receded beyond the moon.

The Air Force's Combat Control Team out of Charleston, South Carolina, had arrived at precisely thirteen minutes past midnight. We sat in the Jeep and watched, fascinated as airmen began double-checking the compactness of the field, for what was about to land on it weighed enough to demolish a normal landing strip or tarmac. Measurements were made, surveys taken, and the team set out sixteen ACR remote control landing lights, while a woman in camouflage unwrapped the HMMWV, started its loud diesel engine and drove it off its platform, out of the way.

“I got to find some joint to stay around here,” Marino said as he stared out at the spectacle. “How the hell can they land some big military plane on such a little field?”

“Some of it I can tell you,” said Lucy, who was never at a loss for technical explanation. “Apparently, the C-17's designed to land with cargo on unusually small, unapproved runways like this. Or a dry lake bed. In Korea, they've even used interstates.”

“Here we go,” Marino said with his usual sarcasm.

“Only other thing that could squeeze into a tight place like this is a C-130,” she went on. “The C-17 can back up, isn't that cool?”

“No way a cargo plane can do all that,” Marino said.

“Well, this baby can,” she said as if she wanted to adopt it.

He began looking around. “I'm so hungry I could eat a tire, and I'd give up my paycheck for a beer. I'm gonna roll down this window here and smoke.”

I sensed the ranger did not want anyone smoking in his well-cared-for Jeep, but he was too intimidated to say so.

“Marino, let's go outside,” I said. “Fresh air would do us good.”

We climbed out and he lit a Marlboro, sucking on it as if it were mother's milk. Members of the USAMRIID team who were in charge of the flatbed truck and its creepy cargo were still in their protective suits and staying away from everyone. They were gathered on the rutted dirt road, watching airmen work on what looked like acres of flat land that in warmer months might be a playing field.

A dark unmarked Plymouth rolled up at almost two
A
.
M
., and Lucy trotted to it. I watched her talk to Janet through the open driver's window. Then the car drove away.

“I'm back,” Lucy spoke quietly, touching my arm.

“Everything okay?” I asked, and I knew the life they lived together had to be hard.

“Under control, so far,” she said.

“Double-O-Seven, it was nice of you to come out and
help us today,” Marino said to Lucy, smoking as if it were his last hour to enjoy it.

“You know, it's a federal violation to be disrespectful to federal agents,” she said. “Especially minorities of Italian extraction.”

“I hope to hell you're a minority. Don't want others out there like you.” He flicked an ash as we heard a plane far off.

“Janet's staying here,” Lucy said to him. “Meaning, the two of you will be working this together. No smoking in the car, and you hit on her, your life is over.”

“Shhhh,” I said to both of them.

The jet's return was loud from the north, and we stood silently, staring up at the sky as lights suddenly blazed on. They formed a fiery dotted line, marking green for approach, white for the safe zone, and finally warning red at the end of the landing strip. I thought how weird it would seem for anyone who had the misfortune of driving by as this plane was coming in. I could see its dark shadow and winking lights on wings as it dropped lower and its noise became awesome. The landing gear unfolded and emerald green light spilled out from the wheel well as the C-17 headed straight for us.

I had the paralyzing sensation that I was witnessing a crash, that this monstrous flat-gray machine with vertical wing tips and stubby shape was going to plow into the earth. It sounded like a hurricane as it roared right over our heads, and we put our fingers in our ears as its huge wheels touched down, grass and dirt flying, great chunks chewed out of ruts made by big wheels and 130 tons of
aluminum and steel. Wing flaps were up, engines in thrust reverse as the jet screamed to a stop at the end of a field not big enough for football.

Then pilots threw it in reverse and began loudly backing it up along the grass, in our direction, so there would be enough of a landing strip for it to take off again. When its tail reached the edge of the dirt road, the C-17 stopped, jet exhaust directed up away from us. The back opened like the mouth of a shark as a metal ramp went down, the cargo bay completely open and lighted and gleaming of polished metal.

For a while we watched as the loadmaster and crew worked. They had put on chemical warfare gear, dark hoods and goggles and black gloves that looked rather scary, especially at night. They quickly backed the pickup and camper off the flatbed truck, unhooked them, and the HMMWV towed the camper inside the C-17.

“Come on,” Lucy said, tugging my arm. “We don't want to miss our ride.”

We walked out onto the field, and I could not believe the power surging and the noise as we followed the automated ramp, picking our way around rollers and rings built into the flat, metal floor, miles of wires and insulation exposed overhead. The plane looked big enough to carry several helicopters, Red Cross buses, tanks, and there were at least fifty jump seats. But the crew was small tonight, only the loadmaster and paratroopers, and a first lieutenant named Laurel, who I assumed had been assigned to us.

She was an attractive young woman with short dark
hair, and she shook each of our hands and smiled like a gracious hostess.

“Good news is you're not sitting down here,” she said. “We'll be up with the pilots. More good news, I've got coffee.”

“That would be heaven,” I said, metal clanking as the crew secured the camper and HMMWV to the floor with chains and netting.

The steps leading up from the cargo bay were painted with the name of the plane, which in this case, appropriately, was
Heavy Metal
. The cockpit was huge, with an electronic flight control system, and head-up displays like fighter pilots used. Steering was done with sticks instead of yokes, and the instrumentation was completely intimidating.

I climbed up on a swivel seat, behind two pilots in green jumpsuits, who were too busy to pay us any mind.

“You got headsets so you can talk, but please don't when the pilots are,” Laurel told us. “You don't have to wear them, but it's pretty loud in here.”

I was clamping on my five-point harness and noting the oxygen mask hanging by each chair.

“I'm going to be down here and will check on you from time to time,” the lieutenant went on. “It's about three hours to Utah, and the landing shouldn't be too abrupt. They got a runway long enough for the space shuttle, or that's what they say. You know how the Army brags.”

She went back downstairs as pilots talked in jargon and codes that meant nothing to me. We began to take off a
mere thirty amazing minutes after the plane had landed.

“We're going on the runway now,” a pilot said. “Load?” I assumed he meant the loadmaster below. “Is everything secure?”

“Yes, sir,” the voice sounded in my headset.

“Have we got that checklist completed?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We're rolling.”

The plane surged forward, bumping over the field with gathering power that was unlike any takeoff I had ever known. It roared more than a hundred miles an hour, pulling up into the air at an angle so sharp it flattened me against the back of my chair. Suddenly, stars spangled the sky, the lights of Maryland a winking network.

“We're going about two hundred knots,” a pilot said. “Command Post aircraft 30601. Flaps up. Execute.”

I glanced over at Lucy, who was behind the co-pilot and trying to see what he was doing as she listened to every word, probably committing it to memory. Laurel returned with cups of coffee, but nothing would have kept me up. I drifted to sleep at thirty-five thousand feet as the jet flew west at six hundred miles an hour. I came to as a tower was talking.

We were over Salt Lake City and descending, and Lucy would never come to earth again as she listened to cockpit talk. She caught me looking but was not to be distracted, and I had never really known anyone like her, not in my entire life. She had a voracious curiosity about anything that could be put together, taken apart, programmed and, in general, made to do something she wanted. People were
about the only thing she couldn't figure out.

Clover Control turned us over to Dugway Range Control, and then we were receiving instructions about landing. Despite what we had been told about the length of the runway, it felt like we were going to be torn out of our seats as the jet crescendoed over a tarmac blinking with miles of lights, air roaring against raised slats. The stop was so abrupt, I didn't see how it was physically possible, and I wondered if the pilots might have been practicing.

“Tally-ho,” one of them said cheerfully.

D
ugway was the size of Rhode Island with two thousand people living on the base. But we could see nothing when we got in at half past five
A
.
M
. Laurel turned us over to a soldier, who put us in a truck and drove to a place where we could rest and freshen up. There wasn't time for sleep. The plane would be taking off later in the day, and we needed to be on it.

Lucy and I were checked into the Antelope Inn, across from the Community Club. We had a room with twin beds on the first floor, furnished with light oak and wall-to-wall carpet, everything blue. It offered a view of barracks across the green, where lights were already beginning to come on with the dawn.

“You know, there really doesn't seem any point in taking a shower since we'll have to put on the same dirty things,” Lucy said, stretching out on top of her bed.

“You're absolutely right,” I agreed, taking off my shoes. “You mind if I turn this lamp off?”

“I wish you would.”

The room was dark and I suddenly felt silly. “This is like a slumber party.”

“Yeah, the one from hell.”

“Remember when you used to come stay with me when you were little?” I said. “Sometimes we stayed up half the night. You never wanted to go to sleep, always wanting me to read one more story. You wore me out.”

“I remember it the other way around. I wanted to sleep and you wouldn't leave me alone.”

“Untrue.”

“Because you doted on me.”

“Did not. I could scarcely tolerate being in the same room,” I said. “But I felt sorry for you and wanted to be kind.”

A pillow sailed through the dark and hit me on the head. I threw it back. Then Lucy pounced from her bed to mine, and when she got there didn't quite know what to do, because she was no longer ten and I wasn't Janet. She got up and went back to her bed, loudly fluffing pillows behind her.

“You sound like you're a lot better,” she said.

“Better, but not a lot. I'll live.”

“Aunt Kay, what are you going to do about Benton? You don't even seem to think about him anymore.”

“Oh yes I do,” I answered. “But things have been a little out of control of late, to say the least.”

“That's always the excuse people give. I should know. I heard it all my life from my mother.”

“But not from me,” I said.

“That's my point. What do you want to do about him? You could get married.”

The mere thought unnerved me again. “I don't think I can do that, Lucy.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe I'm too set in my ways, on a track I can't get off. Too much is demanded of me.”

“You need to have a life, too.”

“I feel like I do,” I said. “But it may not be what everybody else thinks it should be.”

“You've always given me advice,” she said. “Maybe now it's my turn. And I don't think you should get married.”

“Why?” I was more curious than surprised.

“I don't think you ever really buried Mark. And until you do, you shouldn't get married. All of you won't be there, you know?”

I felt sad and was glad she could not see me in the dark. For the first time in our lives, I talked to her as a trusted friend.

“I haven't gotten over him and probably never will,” I said. “I guess he was my first love.”

“I know all about that,” my niece went on. “I worry that if something happens, there will never be anybody else for me, either. And I don't want to go the rest of my life not having what I've got now. Not having someone you can talk to about anything, someone who cares and
is kind.” She hestitated, and what she said next was honed to an edge. “Someone who doesn't get jealous and use you.”

“Lucy,” I said, “Ring won't wear a badge again in this lifetime, but only you can strip Carrie of her power over you.”

“She has no power over me.” Lucy's temper flared.

“Of course she does. And I can understand it. I'm furious with her, too.”

Lucy got quiet for a moment, and then she spoke in a smaller voice. “Aunt Kay, what will happen to me?”

“I don't know, Lucy,” I said. “I don't have the answers. But I promise I will be with you every step of the way.”

The twisted path that had led her to Carrie eventually bent us back around to Lucy's mother, who, of course, was my sister. I wandered the ridges and rills of my growing-up years, and was honest with Lucy about my marriage to her ex-uncle Tony. I spoke of how it felt to be my age and know I probably would not have children. By now, the sky was lighting up, and it was time to start the day. The base commander's driver was waiting in the lobby at nine, a young private who barely needed to shave.

“We got one other person who came in right after you did,” the private said, putting on Ray-Bans. “From Washington, the FBI.”

He seemed to be very impressed with this and clearly had no idea what Lucy was, nor did the expression change
on her face when I asked, “What does he do with the FBI?”

“Some scientist or something. Pretty hot stuff,” he said, eyeing Lucy, who was striking-looking even when she'd been up all night.

The scientist was Nick Gallwey, head of the Bureau's Disaster Squad, and a forensic expert of considerable reputation. I had known him for years, and when he walked into the lobby, we gave each other a hug, and Lucy shook his hand.

“A pleasure, Special Agent Farinelli. And believe me, I've heard a lot about you,” he said to her. “So Kay and I are going to do the dirty work while you play with the computer.”

“Yes, sir,” she sweetly said.

“Is there anywhere to have breakfast around here?” Gallwey asked the private, who was tangled in confusion and suddenly shy.

He drove us in the base commander's Suburban beneath an endless sky. Unsettled western mountain ranges surrounded us in the distance, high desert flora like sage, scrub pine and firs, dwarfed by lack of rain. The nearest traffic was forty miles away in this Home of the Mustangs, as the base was called, with its ammunition bunkers, weapons from World War II and air space restricted and vast. There were traces of salt from receding ancient waters, and we spotted an antelope and an eagle.

Stark Road, aptly named, led us toward the test facilities, which were some ten miles from the living area on base. The Ditto diner was on the way, and we stopped
long enough for coffee and egg sandwiches. Then it was on to the test facilities, which were clustered in large, modern buildings behind a fence topped with razor wire.

Warning signs were everywhere, promising that trespassers were unwelcome and deadly force used. Codes on buildings indicated what was inside them, and I recognized symbols for mustard gas and nerve agents, and those for Ebola, Anthrax and Hantavirus. Walls were concrete, the private told us, and two feet thick, refrigerators inside explosion-proof. The routine was not so different from what I had experienced before. Guards led us through the toxic containment facilities, and Lucy and I went into the women's changing room while Gallwey went into the men's.

We stripped and put on house clothes that were Army green, and over these went suits, which were camouflage with goggled hoods, and heavy black rubber gloves and boots. Like the blue suits at CDC and USAMRIID, these were attached to air lines inside the chamber, which in this case was stainless steel from ceiling to floor. It was a completely closed system with double carbon filters, where contaminated vehicles like tanks could be bombarded with chemical agents and vapors. We were assured we could work here as long as we needed without placing anyone at risk.

It might even be possible that some evidence could be decontaminated and saved. But it was hard to say. None of us had ever worked a case like this before. We started by propping open the camper's door and arranging lights directed inside. It was peculiar moving around, the steel
floor warping loudly like saw blades as we walked. Above us, an Army scientist sat in the control room behind glass, monitoring everything we did.

Again, I went in first because I wanted to thoroughly survey the crime scene. Gallwey began photographing tool marks on the door and dusting for fingerprints, while I climbed inside and looked around as if I had never been there before. The small living area that normally would have contained a couch and table had been gutted and turned into a laboratory with sophisticated equipment that was neither new nor cheap.

The rabbit was still alive, and I fed him and set his cage on top of a counter neatly built of plywood and painted black. Beneath it was a refrigerator, and in it I found Vero and human embryonic lung fibroblast cells. They were tissue cultures routinely used for feeding poxviruses, just as fertilizers are used for certain plants. To maintain these cultures, the mad farmer of this mobile lab had a good supply of Eagle minimal essential medium, supplemented with ten percent fetal calf serum. This and the rabbit told me that deadoc was doing more than maintaining his virus, he was still in the process of propagating it when disaster had struck.

He had kept the virus in a liquid nitrogen freezer that did not need to be plugged in, but refilled every few months. It looked like a ten-gallon stainless steel thermos, and when I unscrewed the lid, I pulled out seven cryo-tubes so old that instead of plastic, they were made of glass. Codes that should have identified the disease were unlike anything I'd ever seen, but there was a date of
1978, and the location of Birmingham, England, tiny abbreviations written in black ink, neatly, and in lowercase. I returned the tubes of living, frozen horror to their frigid place, and rooted around more, finding twenty sample sizes of Vita facial spray, and tuberculin syringes that the killer, no doubt, had used to inoculate the canisters with the disease.

Of course, there were pipettes and rubber bulbs, petri dishes, and the flasks with screw caps where the virus was actually growing. The medium inside them was pink. Had it begun to turn pale yellow, the PH balance would indicate waste products, acidity, meaning the virus-laden cells had not been bathed in their nutrient-rich tissue culture medium in a while.

I remembered enough from medical school and my training as a pathologist to know that when propagating a virus, the cells must be fed. This is done with the pink culture medium, which must be aspirated off every few days with a pipette, when the nutrients have been replaced by waste. For the medium still to be pink meant this had been done recently, at least within the last four days. Deadoc was meticulous. He had cultivated death with love and care. Yet there were two flasks broken on the floor, perhaps due to an infected rabbit hopping about, somehow accidentally out of its cage. I did not sense suicide here, but an unforeseen catastrophe that had caused deadoc to run.

Slowly, I moved around some more, through the kitchen, where a single bowl and fork had been washed and neatly left to dry on a dish towel by the sink. Cupboards were orderly, too, with rows of simple spices,
boxes of cereal and rice and cans of vegetable soup. In the refrigerator was skim milk, apple juice, onions and carrots, but no meat. I closed the door as my mystification grew. Who was he? What did he do in this camper day after day besides make his viral bombs? Did he watch TV? Did he read?

I began to look for clothes, pulling open drawers with no luck. If this man had spent a lot of time here, why had he nothing to wear except what he had on? Why no photographs or personal mementos? What about books, catalogues for ordering cell lines, tissue cultures, reference material for infectious diseases? Most obvious of all, what had happened to the vehicle that had towed this? Who had driven off in it and when?

I stayed in the bedroom longer, the carpet black from blood that had been tracked through other rooms when we had removed the body. I could not smell or hear anything but air circulating in my suit as I paused to change my four-hour battery. This room, like the rest of the camper, was generic, and I pulled back the flower-printed spread, discovering the pillow and sheets on one side were wrinkled from having been slept on. I found one short gray hair, and collected it with forceps as I remembered that the dead man's hair was longer and black.

A print of a seaside on the wall was cheap, and I took it down to see if I could tell where it had been framed. I tried the love seat beneath a window on the other side of the bed. It was covered in bright green vinyl, and on top was a cactus plant that had to be the only thing alive in the camper except for what was in the cage, the incubator
and the freezer. I stirred the soil with my finger and it was not too dry, then I placed it on the carpet and opened up the love seat.

Based on cobwebs and dust, no one had been inside in many years, and I sifted through a rubber cat toy, a faded blue hat and a chewed-on corncob pipe. I did not sense that any of this belonged to the person who lived here now, or had even been noticed by him. I wondered if the camper had been used or in the family, and got down on my hands and knees and crawled around until I found the shot shell and the wad. These, too, I sealed inside an evidence bag.

Lucy was just sitting down at the laptop computer when I returned to the laboratory area.