The Liger Plague (Book 1) (4 page)

The cobblestone streets were jammed with tourists sightseeing and checking out all the shops, restaurants and bars. Friday afternoon in the Old Port was always busy, readying itself for the pub crawlers and night owls that would soon invade the many bars, taverns and swank nightclubs. They walked up the hill and entered the gallery. Displayed in the front window were two of Monica’s glass sculptures, which ironically enough had been designed in the shape of two of the most lethal viruses known to mankind. This theme of viruses rendered from glass had been her most recent art project and had proved highly successful. Each glass-blown installment sold for between two and three thousand dollars.

“Hey there, Monica,” the gallery owner said from behind the counter. “Hold on a sec while I get the box that came in for you.”

“Thanks, Vicky,” she said, looking around at the abstract oils hanging on the wall. She loved the harbor paintings by Thomas Connolly, the gallery’s most famous artist.

“It’s no problem,” Vicky said, placing it down on the floor next to her sandaled feet.

“I wonder what’s inside,” Taylor asked, clapping her hands in delight. She knelt down next to the package. “Look, it says Cooke’s Island Art Fest but is addressed specifically to you, Mom. And it says not to open until the festival’s kick-off ceremony this afternoon.”

“I wonder why they just didn’t send it over to the island?” she asked.

“Come on, Mom. What better place to send a delicate piece of art than to an art gallery? You wouldn’t want the post office handling this now, would you?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Vicky’s a real pro. She knows how to handle fragile items like this. You send it to a gallery that knows how to handle delicate glass sculptures. Makes perfect sense, right?”

“They FedExed it overnight, stamped it fragile all over. Might as well have been a land mine with the care they gave this package,” Vicky said, laughing. “Besides, FedEx doesn’t deliver to Cooke’s Island. You would have had to come over and get it anyway.”

“You’re too nice to come in so early and do this for me,” Monica said.

“Oh, I don’t really mind at all,” Vicky said, turning to Taylor. “Your mother tells me you’re spending the summer in Paris. How are you liking it?”

“What’s not to love? Paris is amazing, but I’m psyched to be back here for Cooke’s Art Fest. Haven’t missed one since we’ve summered there.”

“Will you be heading back to college in the fall, Taylor?”

“If I can pry myself away from Paris.” She laughed. “And if Colby will have me back.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy Paris while you’re young. You only get an opportunity like that every so often in life, so you must make the most of it,” she said, touching Taylor’s long arm. “Those two pieces in the front sold yesterday, Monica. I tried calling your cell phone, but I couldn’t reach you.”

“I’m so scatterbrained these days. I misplaced my cell phone and can’t find it anywhere.”

“I wonder what’s inside the box, Mom. I’m so excited to open it.”

“Thanks, Vicky. We have to get back to the terminal before the next ferry fills up,” Monica said.

“Bye, girls. I’ll see you over there sometime this weekend after I close up the gallery.”

“We’ll be looking for you,” Monica said, waving goodbye.

Monica picked the box up by the plastic handle, surprised by how heavy it was, and then walked with Taylor back down to the terminal. Seagulls flew down and squawked atop the piers and alongside the water’s edge. By the time they arrived back at the terminal, the line for the Cooke’s Island ferry had grown long. It was a good thing they didn’t stop for a bite to eat like they had initially planned. On the way up to the gallery she noticed that the line to get into Ri Ra’s Irish Pub had been out the door, and Monica had so had her heart set on a hearty bowl of their Irish beef stew. They purchased their return tickets and sat down. Minutes later she heard over the loudspeaker that the return ferry had sold out.

Half an hour later they boarded the ferry and sat out on the sun-dappled deck, the mysterious box on the floor between their legs. They watched as the four-mile island neared. A large sign hung between the two docking poles, greeting them with the oversized letters spelling out Cooke’s Island. A few minutes later the ferry pulled into the dock. Monica picked up her box and along with Taylor disembarked from the vessel, and the two of them started up the hill leading to the center of town, the hub of Cooke’s Island.

Swarms of art lovers and tourists milled around the main square. All over town, sidewalk artists had set up their displays and had begun to paint or sell their works. A gang of about twenty bikers walked down the main street, having parked their Harleys on the other side. Monica lugged the box over to the Cooke’s Island community center, the epicenter of the annual art festival. A long line of people formed at the front door, waiting to get in. Rather than try to push her way through the crowd and invoke their wrath, she guided Taylor to the back of the building, where the artists could come and go with their work. They entered through the rear and made their way into the main hall. Patrons entered a few at a time in order that the hall not become overcrowded and break the fire code. About thirty artists had set up booths and were busy showing off their murals, photographs and finely wrought sculptures. As soon as the organizer of the Art Fest saw them walking into the room, she walked over to greet them. Monica, her arm tired from lugging the box up the hill, set it down on the wide pine floor, stretching her sore arms. Her own booth had already attracted many patrons, but unfortunately there was no one there yet to tend it.

“I can’t wait to see what’s inside, Mom,” Taylor said.

“It’s not often we get such a generous gift from my gallery in D.C.”

“Well, you’ve made them a good deal of money these last few years. It’s the least they can do.”

“Still, it’s a nice gesture sending a gift like this. Probably sent it because I’m the guest of honor at this year’s festival,” Monica said.

“Hurry up and open it,” said Valerie, the longtime director of the festival. “I’m dying to see what’s inside.”

“Look, Mom,” said Taylor, reading the card. “It says ‘Congratulations on being named Guest of Honor of Cooke’s Art Festival, Monica. It’s a well-deserved honor.’ Aw, that’s so nice. Now hurry up and open that box, Mom!”

Monica took out her penknife and sliced through the layers of tape. Once it fell away, she lifted the flaps and removed the paper balled near the top. She lifted the bubble-wrapped object out of the box and placed it on an empty table, carefully cutting away the plastic material. Soon enough the object was revealed in all its splendor, and they gasped at how beautiful it appeared in the light. It looked to be a meticulously crafted hand-blown glass sculpture of a cat rising up on two legs. Multi-colored stripes ringed its torso up to its slight mane, and it seemed cartoonishly large in proportion. The cat stood on a carved oak base, at the rear of which sat a small, white button directly under the cat’s tail.

“Oh my God, it’s stunning,” Monica exclaimed. “Look, it even says Cooke’s Art Fest on the rim of the base.”

“It’s a lion,” Valerie said.

“Then why does it also have these orange and black stripes like a tiger?” Taylor said, examining it up close. “I say it’s a tiger.”

“You’re both wrong,” Monica said. “It’s a liger, the result of a lion mated with a tiger.”

“Seriously, Mom? Isn’t that a myth like unicorns and the Easter Bunny?”

“No, ligers are definitely real, but they’re only bred in captivity.”

“I wonder what the button is for?” Taylor said.

“Why don’t you press it and see what happens?” Valerie said.

“Shouldn’t we wait and see if there are any instructions before we do that?” Monica asked.

“Come on, Mom, don’t be such a downer.” Taylor chuckled.

Taylor placed her face down against the liger so that her mother could see her smiling through the transparent glass sculpture. Taylor pressed the button, and the sculpture whirred imperceptibly. A fine white mist resembling steam emitted out of the cat’s open mouth and hovered over the community center and the crowd. The mist caught glints of light and transformed into beautiful, streaming pink beams of cylindrical radiance. Monica thought it one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen. In a matter of minutes a large group of people had surrounded the glass sculpture to witness this magnificent smoke-breathing glass liger. An ethereal, billowing cloud of shimmering particles danced in the rafters above their heads, causing onlookers to gasp in awe at this amazing sight, as if this demonstration was all part of the show.

“It’s wonderful,” Taylor said, a huge smile on her face.

“Amazing,” said Valerie, clapping her hands excitedly.

Sure is
, thought Monica.
But why a liger
?

Chapter 4

Tag went back to his Jeep and retrieved his bag containing his khakis, a .45 pistol and Stinger II combat knife with a five-inch blade. The bag also contained his medical supplies and a biosafety preparedness kit, which included bleach, face masks and a flexible one-piece protective suit. He debated grabbing the portable biosensor located in the back, but decided against it. He couldn’t carry everything. Given the opportunity, the biosensor would have allowed him to identify the type of virus responsible for this event, if indeed the threat was real. Too bad he didn’t have three hands.

He pushed his way through the agitated mob and made his way into the terminal restroom. He entered a stall and changed into the khakis. His nerves felt raw and exposed thinking about the consequences of this biological threat, especially considering that Monica and Taylor were on the island and had no idea about the potential threat facing them.

Hundreds of people packed the terminal, trying to find out when the ferry to Cooke’s would resume service. Tag made his way past them and emerged into the warm July sun. He strolled down the ramp and to the water’s edge where the patrol boat idled against the dock. The powerful smell of ocean greeted him as small waves lapped up against the boat. The mayor and police chief walked down the ramp to see him off.

“Good luck, Colonel. Please keep us informed of the situation once you get over there. We have two officers stationed on the island at all times, but for whatever reason we haven’t been able to contact them. The returning passengers on Cooke’s will be upset at the interruption of ferry service, so try to keep a low profile if possible.”

“I’ll certainly keep you informed once I evaluate the situation on land, but I can’t overstate the necessity of blocking any craft that try to approach or depart the island. Block them by any means necessary if you must. And make sure that neither you nor any of your officers have any contact at all with anyone from the island.”

“We’ll guide them right back into their slips if need be, Colonel,” the police chief said.

Tag shook both of their hands and then carried his belongings over to the boat. Once onboard, he stood under the cabin next to the uniformed Portland cop manning the wheel. In a matter of seconds it accelerated through the choppy water towards Cooke’s Island. The sun beat down on him as they sped over the considerable swells, spraying his face with cool, salty water. The patrol boat rose and fell as the bow hit the water of the incoming tide, the engine roaring in his ears, the wind blowing past his determined face. He texted his two other children to see if they were okay and then stashed his phone away.

“Where do you want me to drop you off, Colonel?”

“Proceed to White’s Passage. You know where that is?”

“Colonel, I’ve been cruising this harbor since I was knee high. My dad lobstered these waters for many years. Who do you think was his underpaid stern man?” the cop said, laughing.

“Then I’m in good hands. Once you make your way through the passage, I’d like you to head over to the eastern end of the island. There’s a small cove located on the southern shore of Krane’s Beach. I don’t want any of the residents to see me coming ashore in uniform, or they’ll suffer a stroke.” He laughed nervously.

“If you don’t mind, Colonel, can you tell me what’s going on over there or is that classified information?”

“I can’t divulge that information, Officer, except to say that I hope it’s not what I think it is.”

“Damn! From the sounds of it, I hope you’re right.”

The boat passed through the channel and headed toward the end of the island. The swells started to get bigger the closer they got to the open waters of the Atlantic. From afar, he could see big swells pounding the outer banks, the smaller islands in the bay and the tiny lighthouse situated front and center. Officer Small steered the vessel into the protected cove fronted by a strip of rocky beach. The stern of the boat skidded along the sand and came to an abrupt halt. Tag thanked the police officer and shook his hand before jumping out onto the beach and making his way up to the heart of the island.

He looked back and watched the patrol boat churn through the channel and head back to Portland. Then he turned around and trudged up the hill, humping the backpack as well as the bags in his hands. His summer home was located only half a mile away and high up on the hill overlooking the southern coast. The east side of the house had an unobstructed view of the ocean, and the western side a view of the Portland skyline. The sun was beginning to set. Once he reached Atlantic View Road, the main thoroughfare encircling the island, he stared down at the water and saw a few families strolling along the beach. The kids knelt down to collect crabs and seashells in buckets before the tide rolled in. Out in the bay, a lobster boat chugged past Cooke’s Island.

He pulled his cap down low over his forehead and started up Atlantic View Road. A few couples headed down the road, but he didn’t want anybody to see him. Having summered on the island for the last fifteen years, he knew a good many of the island residents and had become friendly with some of the nearby families, picnicking and having them over to the house for the occasional barbecue. Most of the people he knew had no idea he held such an important position in the military, only that he was an army physician.