Red Tide (25 page)

45

C
orso pushed the accelerator to the floor. The SPD cruiser fishtailed slightly before gaining traction and rocketing down Alaskan Way. Charly Hart hung on to the overhead handle with his good hand and braced himself with his feet.

Half a block down, the radio began to scratch out another message. Mostly streams of numbers. The only words Corso caught were “officer involved.” Then “Pier Fifty-Six.”

“I thought it was Pier Thirty,” Corso said, horsing the wheel to the left.

“This is something else,” Charly Hart said through clenched teeth. “Shots fired by an officer. Suspect down. Right up ahead here someplace.”

Before they could exchange further words, they rounded a slight bend in the road and there it was, an SPD cruiser parked diagonally across the street, driver’s door open, radio spewing static into the quiet, light bar ablaze, red and blue bolts of light bouncing off the foggy air.

Corso slid the car to a stop, half on, half off the sidewalk. Out where the two sets of headlights intersected, a uniformed officer knelt in the street, using his finger to check the pulse of somebody lying in the street. Ten yards closer another body lay facedown on the concrete, a crimson halo beginning to form around his dark head.

Wasn’t until they were right on top of him that they recognized the cop. Same guy who brought them that Pete Carrol character. T. Masakawa.

His mouth hung open. His eyes looked like he might start to cry. He looked up at Corso and Hart. “This one’s alive,” he said. As if on cue, an approaching siren could be heard. And then another…closer. “Roll him over,” Charly Hart said. “Keep the airway clear.”

T. Masakawa did as he was told. Carefully, as if he were handling a child, he rolled the victim over on his back. The slug had plowed a trough through his shoulder. Contact with the street had broken off both front teeth and painted a seeping stripe down the center of his face. East Indian. Maybe twenty-five or so. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow but regular.

T. Masakawa began to babble. “I…I mean they were…” He looked over his shoulder at the other man, still and silent in the street. “That one came at me,” he said. He looked down at the man cradled in his arms. “I told him to stop. Twice, I think.”

Charly Hart reached down and put a hand on his shoulder. “You did the right thing, Officer,” he said. “The want was for double homicide. The description said armed and dangerous.”

The cop blinked and shook his head. “I never wanted to…” he began. “I never…” He looked down at his side. “My gun…I never…” He began to cry.

“It’s all right,” Charly Hart intoned. “You did what you had to do.”

The
whoop whoop
of the siren was right on top of them now. Orange pulsing lights joined the red and the blue in a macabre dance. A guy in a white shirt had left the fenced-in parking lot two blocks up and was trotting their way. A red and white aid unit rolled around the corner behind them. Another police cruiser slid to a halt a block down.

Charly Hart squeezed the officer’s shoulder and looked over at Corso. “I’m staying with the officer here,” he said.

“I gotta see what’s going on at the boat,” Corso said.

Hart kneaded the kid’s shoulder and nodded his understanding to Corso. “I’ll have to say you stole the car.”

“Okay,” was all Corso said before sprinting back to the car and throwing himself into the driver’s seat. He jammed the lever into Drive and bounced down off the sidewalk with a squeal.

Two blocks down, the silhouette of an enormous ocean liner etched itself on the sky. A floating hotel bigger than an office building. Corso ignored the red light at the corner.

What had begun as fifty pounds strapped between his shoulder blades was feeling hollow and light now. As he sprayed a toilet in the first-class section, Bobby Darling mulled over what he was supposed to do when he ran out of virus. Find the foreman. Say he was out of disinfectant. Ask for another backpack. They’d said he’d probably need three or four before the night was over. Put the used ones in the orange bins marked
RECYCLE
. Get a new one from the white bins marked
FULL
. Simple as that. Keep working until the job was done. Then he and Holmes would walk off with the rest of them, collect their pay and disappear into the city. Bobby felt a glow of satisfaction as he dusted his gloves together and started toward the front of the ship. Considering how things had started, the plan had gone well. Only thing he was sorry about was that he didn’t have another load of virus to spread about the ship. Kill twice as many of the sons of bitches.

“What have we got here?” Harry Dobson demanded.

The officers looked among themselves for a volunteer. When none was forthcoming, a balding sergeant stepped forward, hat in hand.

“Got a guy up on deck there with a knife,” he said. “Him and his buddy are part of the cleaning crew they bring on board between cruises. We’ve got one dead, one cut up pretty bad.” He pointed at the ship. “They ought to be bringing the vics down pretty soon here.”

“Where are the perps now?” Dobson asked.

“They got him and another guy locked in a walk-in freezer.”

The chief’s face darkened. “What about this situation required my presence?”

The sergeant ran a hand over his face. “There’s this window where you can look into the freezer.”

“And?”

“Well, every time somebody makes like they’re gonna open the door and take these guys into custody, one of these guys threatens us.”

“With his knife? You called me over a—”

“No sir, he keeps threatening to spray whoever opens the door. He’s got this canister strapped to his back. He keeps brandishing the sprayer thing.” The cop demonstrated by waving his hand around in a spraying motion. “Like he’s got something real dangerous in there or something.”

“They’re East Indian,” another of the cops said.

Harry stiffened like a metal rod had suddenly been driven through his core. The muscles along his jawline were in knots. Before he could muster a response, a metallic clatter pulled his attention toward the ship, where a pair of medical technicians were pushing an aluminum gurney across the uneven boards of the pier.

“Guy that got cut up,” one of the cops said.

Harry called for them to stop and walked in that direction. Halfway there, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. He thought about asking for a gas mask. One of the units they all carried in the cars. Then changed his mind.

“Can he talk?” Harry asked the nearest EMT.

Guy nodded. “Says his name’s Harris.”

The chief walked close enough to make eye contact. “Mr. Harris,” he began.

The other EMT slipped both hands beneath the man’s shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position. He was a dissolute fifty-five or so. African American, his hair grown out like Don King’s; a nasty-looking cut ran the length of his right cheek. Looked like it might have gone all the way through into his oral cavity. The pink flaps of skin had been sprayed with a yellow antiseptic and were being held together by a trio of metal clips. Both of his hands were bandaged the size of boxing gloves. He fixed his eyes on Harry Dobson. “Fucker’s crazy,” he said. “Crazy as a goddamn loon.”

Harry let him rant for a moment and then thanked him for the information. “What I need to know, Mr. Harris, is whether either of those men sprayed anything onto the ship.”

“Didn’t get that damn far.”

“This is very important, sir,” Harry said in his most serious voice. “If you’re not sure, just say so.”

Harris’s voice rose an octave. “I’m tellin’ you, man, I was the crazy bastard’s partner. Neither of them India boys was out of my sight the whole time we was on the damn boat.” He started to wave a hand but thought better of it. “Next thing you know, that fucker shanks McGruder.”

Harry spoke first to the EMTs. “Take Mr. Harris and put him inside your unit.” He pointed to the far end of the dock. “Park down there and do everything for him that you can. I’ll get you out of here as soon as I’m able.”

The closest took a step forward. “Is there a situation here, sir?” he wanted to know. “Should we be…”

“I suggest you take whatever precautions are available to you at this time.”

The guy started to ask another question, but Harry cut him off. “I’ll let you know if there’s any change in status,” he said in a tone designed to stifle further query.

Harry walked back to the collection of cops. “Get a perimeter on any and all exits from the ship,” he said. “Nobody goes on. Nobody gets off.” He cut the air with the side of his hand. “Nobody,” he said again. “Go.”

Everyone moved at once. The sounds of barked orders and scuffed shoes were muffled by the thick night air as Harry pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

“Emergency Services,” he said.

Soon as he got somebody on the line, he told them what he needed.

Before he could pocket the phone, another police cruiser came sliding into the lot. He was about to go ballistic on the officer for driving so recklessly when the door bounced open and out stepped Corso.

“It appears you may have been right,” Harry said.

46

C
harly Hart pushed the walkie-talkie button. “Chief?” he said.

The response was sharp and immediate. “I thought I told you to go home.”

Charly ignored him. “I’ve got two of our suspects here, Chief. One dead. One wounded. A patrol officer named—”

“Mr. Corso has apprised me of the situation,” the chief said. Charly Hart could be heard to swallow. “These are the guys we’ve been looking for, sir,” he said after a pause.

“Are you certain?”

“ID says Paul Rishi and Samuel Singleton. Same names we got from Canadian Immigration.”

“Seal off the area. Nobody in. Nobody—”

“Don’t think we need to, sir.”

When the chief failed to respond, Charly Hart went on. “Don’t think these two ever got their virus canisters on board.” Charly told him the story. “So we went through the bin the guy says he set their equipment in and lo and behold, down at the bottom are a pair of backpacks. Full. Seals still intact. Right where the guy says he put ’em. Everything else in the bin is empty.”

“I’m going to send a CDC team your way,” the chief said. “In the meantime, nobody goes aboard the ship and nobody gets off.”

“Yessir.”

“How’s the officer?”

“Pretty broke up about it, sir. Never had his piece out before.”

“Get him some help.”

“Already did, sir. Except this time of night the only thing I could come up with was a grief counselor.”

“Keep me posted,” the chief said.

“Yessir.”

Harry pocketed his phone just as the elevator door slid open. He stepped to the side, allowing Hans Belder and Isaac Klugeman to precede him from the elevator car.

“CDC team came up negative,” Harry said. “No trace of the virus.”

“Sounds like you may have gotten lucky,” Belder said as he passed.

“I pray to God,” Harry said.

“Sometimes luck is better,” Klugeman added with a grim smile. A muted
ding
announced the arrival of the second elevator, crammed with people from the FBI, the CIA, the Centers for Disease Control, Homeland Security and every other agency that could be squeezed into an elevator. Corso and the guy from Scandinavian Cruise Lines stayed in between the two groups as they walked all the way to the stern of the ship, where a knot of police officers milled about the rails, engaged in low-key conversation. The sight of the chief coming their way brought about an instant improvement in posture.

The dozen or so cops backed away, making room for the official delegation to enter the metal corridor marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
. At the far end of the space, a huge stainless steel food locker covered nearly the entire width of the area. Fifteen by fifteen with a four-foot-square window to the right of the door. Somebody had slipped a thick, greasy bolt through the eye beneath the handle. Put the nut on too. Nobody inside was going anywhere.

The chief and the scientists bellied up to the window. The feds hung back at the end of the hall. Corso straightened up and looked over the top of the trio. Two guys in blue coveralls walking back and forth inside, trying to keep warm. A pair of black breathing devices lay on the floor. Nearest guy had an unruly mop of black hair and a wicked-looking scar zigzagging down his face like a slalom course.

The other guy looked fairly normal until he reached the far side of the space and turned back the other way, revealing a withered ear, shriveled and brown as a dried apricot. He was pleading his case, whatever it was, to the guy with the scar, who, quite obviously, wasn’t buying it. From their positions outside, Corso and the others were unable to hear so much as a whisper.

Harry looked over at Corso. “One of these the guy you and Gutierrez saw?”

“Nope. One we saw was older than these two.”

“You get a look at the guys we got up the street?”

“Neither of them either.”

“So where’s the guy you’re describing? There were six of them in addition to this Holmes guy. I got Bohannon in the morgue, got two here and two up the street. Where’s this Holmes character?”

Corso shrugged. Harry turned to the guy from the cruise line. “How long before they run out of air?”

“Two days,” the guy said. “Give or take.”

“How cold is it in there now?”

He stepped around the corner and consulted a gauge. “Thirty-four.”

“How cold can you make it?”

“Forty below.”

Belder let go a low whistle. “Forty below is the end of the virus.”

“Minus twenty-five would be sufficient,” Klugeman added.

“It would kill it?”

“Absolutely,” Klugeman said.

“Unless, of course, it had been engineered to withstand that kind of cold,” Belder cautioned.

“What would be the point?” Klugeman snapped. “That sort of engineering is far too costly and time-consuming to be used frivolously.” His scowl did not encourage disagreement. “I mean…what would be gained? There is no strategic value to a cold-tolerant virus.”

At that point, the one with the scar noticed he had an audience. His thick lips folded back into a sneer. He crossed the room in three quick steps and slashed at the window with his knife, causing Harry and the doctors to flinch a step backward.

He began to shout but could not be heard by those outside. Scattered bits of spittle appeared on the inside of the window as he yelled himself red in the face. The second man crossed to his side, spoke to him and then took him by the shoulder. Scar shrugged off the hand and took another swipe at the window with his knife. The violence of the movement sent the other guy skittering back against the rear wall, where he watched in horror as Scar separated a brass spraying rod from his backpack, aimed it at the window and let loose a thick stream of what could have been a thin broth. He kept at it until the window was completely covered and he was no more than a shadow behind the glass.

Klugeman stepped forward; he put his finger on one of the many brown specks at large within the solution. He beckoned Belder to his side. “See,” he said, “some kind of airborne pollen.” He tapped the glass with his fingernail. “The virus is inside the little pod. Exposure to air opens the pod. The pollen containing the virus becomes airborne.”

Belder slipped his glasses over his nose and peered intently at the area. After a moment, he looked back at the chief. His face was the color of oatmeal. “The doctor is correct. And once Marburg is airborne…once it discovers lungs…” He waved an uncomprehending hand. The words congealed in his throat.

“You have no choice,” said Klugeman. “You must kill the virus.”

Belder nodded gravely. “Freeze it,” he said. “By the grace of God, you have the opportunity. You must seize it.”

A buzz of conversation ran through the crowd in the passageway. Harry turned to face them. “Any of you gentlemen care to do the honors?” he asked.

The crowd went suddenly silent. Which made the voice from Harry’s pocket all the more audible. “Hey,” it said, “Chief Dobson.”

Harry turned his back on the feds, pulled out his phone. “You listen to me, whoever you are,” he whispered.

“You gotta get down to Pier Eighteen while everybody’s still on board.”

Harry appeared dumbfounded. “Eighteen?”

“Caravelle,”
said the guy from Scandinavian Cruise Lines.

“What about
Caravelle?”

“Dey got a ship down at Eighteen.”

“What ship?”

“Anodder cruise ship.”

“There’s only two,” Harry insisted. “I watch them come and go every weekend. In Saturday morning. Back out on Sunday.”

“Dey do it every October. Last cruise of da year,” the guy said. “Dey got a lot of comps from when they had the sickness, so they put on anoder ship. Keep da refunds down.”

“Something’s not right here,” came the electronic voice. “I don’t know what these guys are doing, but—”

Harry held the phone to his mouth. “You listen to me, whoever you are. We’re on the way, and when we get there you damn well better be there waiting for us. Do you hear me?” No answer. “I will find you,” Harry said. “Know that. I will find you.” Silence. Harry pointed to the jittery crowd. “Everything we have to Pier Eighteen.”

They didn’t have to be told twice. Harry then pointed to his own men. “Seal off this entire deck. I don’t want anybody up here at all.” When they were slow to disperse, he hollered, “Go,” and things got moving. He beckoned for a sergeant. Sent Belder and Klugeman with him. A minute later, only Harry Dobson and Frank Corso remained. They passed a long look.

“You better go,” Harry said.

“Might be best if we were both here.”

“It’s not your job.”

“It’s all of our job.”

Jim Sexton stood with his elbows resting on the round metal rail, the chief’s voice still ringing in his ears. Hard as he’d tried, he’d been unable to convince himself to wipe the phone clean of prints and throw it into the Sound. He’d have preferred to think that this inability to take definitive action was a matter of good character. A sense of the heroic which allowed himself to put the good of others before his own well-being. He’d massaged that notion for a full fifteen minutes before reluctantly rejecting it.

Who was he kidding anyway? The reason was baser and far more pragmatic than that. Problem was that plan wasn’t going to work. Sooner or later, when all the excitement died down, somebody was going to notice that the timing of today’s piece showed that he seemed to be getting to the story before the cops, and sooner or later they were going to demand an explanation, which sooner rather than later would lead to Pete, and, quite simply, no sane plan could hinge on Pete. Simple as that. So much for rising above self-interest. He closed his eyes and hoped for an inner voice to lead him from the darkness.