Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold (25 page)

The doctor offered him “welcome to the club” exuberance. “We killed two birds with one stone. We found a cure for prostate cancer. More importantly, we opened the door to a whole new area of science. Although invisibility is many years down the road, human stealth technology will soon be possible.”

Halliday needed to know how far along they were. “Gennie? You’ve experimented with humans?”

“No, no, detective,” Dr. Krabbi said, like the kindergarten teacher correcting a five year old. “Gennie is a cow. We’re five to ten years away from cloaking humans.”

“What, you’re planning to create an army of invisible soldiers? Is that the grand plan? Wouldn’t the enemy spray the invisible troops with powder or something to reveal them? I’ve seen the movies.”

“No, it’s much more subtle. You would appreciate it, Detective Halliday.”

The doctor had to pause to wipe away spittle running into his beard.

“You see, they will be trained government agents. Spies who—”

“That’s enough,” Coulter said in a raised voice. “Why the fuck are you telling him all this for?”

The doctor lifted cartoon eyes. “I tell all my—”

“
Doc-tor Krab-bi
,” Coulter said in a voice as coarse as sandpaper. “No more.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got to finish up here.”

He had already been signed up for Lab 101 instead of a hoped for confrontation. The two men stared at each other until Krabbi raised his eyebrows. He sucked his cheek in. “Yes, we have investigative work to perform.”

Halliday wouldn’t let them have the final word. “Why are you abducting all the vagrants?”

The doctor’s apologetic shrug preceded his words, “Humans make for more exacting experimental results.”

Halliday couldn’t read Krabbi insane expression. He waited for Coulter’s response.

No words escapes through the NSA agent’s open mouth. His eerie stare made Halliday cringe.

“This has gone too fucking far,” Coulter said, punching numbers on his phone. The irate agent kicked the sofa table to the other side of the room. He rushed toward the stairs barking into his phone, “Brad, we have a security breach. You’d better assemble the group in building B1 conference room after lunch.” He paused. “Yeah, I’m having our lab people confirm it.” Another pause. “I’ll take the detective to see Altman at the security annex.”

Coulter ran up to the top of the stairs. He called out through the opening, “You lab rats can come down now.”

A group of white-smocked technicians toting various scientific instruments hurried down. Halliday moved away from the couch as the group began their work.

“Halliday, come up here where I can keep an eye on you.”

Could the results of the lab tests on the couch lead the Genevive scientists to Laurel? How ironic that Genevive’s brilliant scientists had missed the boat on the most important discovery in the history of mankind—Laurel’s transparency.

Halliday watched Coulter smack the government sedan’s dashboard. The agent cursed the convoy of protestors. Their vehicles plodded along Genevive Parkway, taking up both lanes, making it impossible for vehicles to pass.

“Did any of your superiors at DARPA ever recommend anger management classes, Coulter?”

“Up yours, Halliday.”

Dr. Krabbi sat in the backseat beside Halliday with Coulter’s SIG P229 pointed at him beneath a newspaper. Coulter had forgotten to bring cuffs or plastic ties. Another security ding for the DARPA agent unable to control his emotions.

Coulter’s reaction to Halliday’s accusation of murdering Jillian Andrews exposed the agent’s weakness. He believed the man to be innocent of murder. Coulter may have lured Jillian per orders from the higher ups. Coulter must have developed an affection for her. Jillian’s death had devastated him.

“Is our security force prepared for this demonstration?” Dr. Krabbi said.

Halliday caught the surprise in Krabbi’s voice at the size of the large fleet of vehicles. The parade of demonstrators heading to Genevive Labs would far exceed expectations. The chief had mentioned up to two or three hundred demonstrators. Halliday believed two or three times that to be a more realistic number based on the traffic he had seen.

Coulter caught his eyes in the rear view mirror. “You’re awful quiet all of a sudden detective.”

“Just enjoying the parade.”

“Altman brought in more manpower,” Coulter said in Krabbi’s direction. “In case things get out of hand.” He glanced at Halliday again in the rear view mirror. “Chief Brayden authorized a squad of motorcycle cops to support us.”

“This crowd is worse than I imagined,” Dr. Krabbi said. “The media will be there, too. They have talent for inciting trouble.”

“It’s not too far now,” Coulter said. “Once you’re in your lab, you’ll be safer than the generals in the Pentagon.”

“9/11 showed us how vulnerable our structures are,” the doctor replied.

Coulter gazed into the sky through the windshield. The DARPA agent had been attempting to zigzag through the two-lane traffic. He had managed to get stuck in the right lane.

“I’ll take the security exit so we can avoid the riffraff,” the agent said.

A Ram Charger with an uplifted chassis pulled up beside Coulter. “Genevive sucks,” a longhaired kid yelled out from the driver’s seat. The kid leaned across his girlfriend. He peered down at the sedan and said, “Looky there, it’s a leprechaun.”

Coulter yelled back at the kid, “Fuck you, asshole. Move that pile of shit out of the way. This is an official government vehicle.”

“You handled that like a true professional,” Halliday said to Coulter in the mirror.

They were boxed in. An RV plodded along in front of them. On the right, a fence of pine trees wouldn’t allow for a shoulder. The kid in the Ram Charger adjusted his speed to match Coulter’s. The Ram Charger towed a flatbed trailer carrying two motorcycles. A gray plastic tarp covered a large object that hung off the rear. Halliday figured it might be one of those small tractors or a generator.

“Jesus, Coulter,” Halliday whined as well as he knew how, “didn’t DARPA teach you guys how to drive?”

“Save it for Altman, detective. He loves smart ass remarks.”

Halliday eyed the two motorcycles on the flat trailer. The Ducati dirt bikes stood upright on mounts. He had once owned a similar bike in Virginia.

Coulter, with the patience of a rabid Chihuahua, gunned the accelerator. He saw a small opening between the RV up ahead and the RAM Charger.

The kid in the RAM Charger sped up to block Coulter.

“Fucking asshole,” Coulter yelled out.

Coulter had to stand on the brakes when the RV in front of him slowed.

“Sorry, Doc. Fucking tourists.”

The little doctor, not wearing a seat belt, had rammed against the passenger seat. The gun hit the floor with a thud.

Halliday didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the handle and jerked the left rear door open.

“Halliday, what the fuck are you…?”

He hit the pavement and rolled on his side.

Luckily, the traffic crawled. The kid driving the Ram Charger swerved to avoid him. Halliday jumped to his feet. The trailer avoided sideswiping the sedan’s open door.

Halliday sprinted for the trailer. He glanced behind. Coulter had both hands glued to the steering wheel. The madness in his face worried Halliday. The government sedan sped right at him.

He dove onto the trailer and grabbed a metal collar supporting one of the bikes.

Dr. Krabbi shut the rear door before it got torn off by another vehicle. He stuck his head out, his chin resting on the window.

Coulter maneuvered to the passenger side of the Ram Charger. He had to slow because of the trailer in front. The troll gave Halliday a sinister glare then dove into the passenger seat next to Coulter.

The two men appeared to argue over Krabbi’s miscue.

Coulter jerked the steering wheel. The sedan veered into the lane directly behind the Ram Charger. He increased his speed. The crazed agent, a foot from the trailer’s bumper, shouted obscenities at Halliday. Dr. Krabbi tried to reach for the steering wheel. Coulter whacked him in the face with an elbow.

Halliday feared that Coulter had lost control. He pushed his hands out at the speeding sedan. “Slow down, Coulter,” he yelled. “It’s not worth it.”

Coulter ignored him. His own demons were pushing him to edge.

Traffic speed had picked up. Halliday wondered if the kid even knew that Coulter remained a death whisper off his rear bumper. Dr. Krabbi appeared to be reaching into the back for the gun on the floor.

Nothing swayed Coulter.

The kid in the Ram Charger inexplicably jammed on the brakes.

Halliday saw the terror in Coulter’s eyes.

He heard a loud thunder clap as he catapulted off the flat bed. He went airborne and slammed into black tarmac. Everything went blank.

When he regained consciousness Halliday found himself sprawled out on the road. He shook the cob webs off. His head ached more than ever.

Whatever had been transported on the rear of the Ram Charger had sprung loose from its mounts. It now sat on the sedan’s hood.

The kid stood over him. “Are you all right, mister?”

He came out of his stupor. If he had sustained major injuries he didn’t know it. “Do you have a phone?”

“Yeah,” the kid said. “It’s in the truck.”

By now a small crowd had formed around them. “Go get it,” he said.

Halliday attempted to get up. Someone in the crowd gave him a hand.

He limped over to the sedan.

The bloody mess looked manufactured, as if it had been created on a Hollywood set. A forklift sat on the hood. Its metal forks protruded downward at about a thirty degree angle. They had penetrated the windshield.

Coulter had caught the forklift’s narrow wedge at neck level. His head remained attached by stray ligaments at the top of his spinal column. The second fork had crushed Doctor Krabbi’s back. No use checking vitals. Halliday pulled Coulter’s I.D., on a chain, off the outside rearview mirror.

The crowd stood there spellbound at the horror in front of them.

The kid returned, holding out the phone with a shaky hand.

Halliday had regained his faculties. He held up his badge so everyone could see it. Then he called 911.

“This is Detective John Halliday, Santa Reina PD. There’s been a vehicular accident on the Genevive Parkway two miles west of the facility. There are two fatalities. No other injuries to report at this time. Send an ambulance. I need traffic control assistance ASAP.”

He handed the phone back to the shaken young man.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Josh Lefebvre.”

“Josh, none of this is your fault. Okay?”

The kid stood there, mouth open, wide-eyed, and afraid.

“Josh, I need to borrow one of your bikes. It’s a matter of life and death. I promise I’ll get it back to you.”

Before the kid could respond Halliday removed a business card from his wallet. He handed it to the kid. “That’s how to contact me.”

He climbed up on the trailer and said, “Help me get this bike on the road.”

The Ducati bike danced around the assemblage of RVs, pickups, and SUVs arranged in two straight lines. Most of them hauled trailers. Up ahead, Halliday saw the hold up. Men in blue on motorcycles had put up a temporary road block. They were checking all vehicles.

Halliday cut across the highway in front of another RV with motorcycles hanging off the rear. The demonstrators had used good strategy by bringing along an army of trail bikes. The RV driver honked his horn and cussed. Halliday waved behind as he turned off the highway.

He sped down the narrow lane bordered by forest. An opening on the right revealed a large motor pool that housed Genevive’s fleet of white pickups along with the battery operated trams that ferried workers around the campus. He slowed at a guard shack. A sign read: ABSOLUTELY NO VISITORS ALLOWED. PLEASE REPORT TO THE MAIN GATE.

Halliday drove up to the guard shack. He flipped his I.D. at the guard and said, “Detective John Halliday, Santa Reina PD. You see any tourists coming down this way?”

“No sir, Mr. Altman assigned four personnel near the Parkway junction to monitor the situation. They called and told me a black suit on a bike headed this way.”

He should have seen them. “I’ve got business with Mr. Palmier.”

After a quick glance at a list the guard said, “Yes, sir.”

The guard lifted the gate arm.

Halliday drove through. A group of motor pool mechanics eating lunch at a bench beneath a canopy paid him no attention.

The lane continued a half mile before the Ducati roared up to an intersection. A sign said, NO VEHICLES ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT. Halliday saw a clump of bushes off to the right. He cut the engine, letting the bike coast into the dense foliage.

He headed on foot in the southwestern direction where Laurel’s map had placed building C-14. He had an hour before their meet up. White security pickup trucks apparently were exempt from the “no vehicles” rule. He had to change directions twice to avoid them.

Halliday got his bearings from the water tank atop the hill. Where possible he used the canopies that connected the buildings as cover. He felt like the lead character in his favorite 50’s sci-fi movie. Alien pods had taken over the bodies of the Genevive employees, not Halliday’s. As in the movie he walked deliberately to show that he was one of them.

“Detective Halliday, where are you headed?”

The deep voice from above startled him. He stopped and looked up.

On the second floor of the building, a large black man leaned into the railing with a coffee cup in his hand.

“Come on up, Detective Halliday,” Genevive Security Chief Altman said. He held up his cup. “We’ve got fresh brewed coffee.”

Halliday knew he had no choice but to comply with the security chief. He had plenty of time before he met Laurel at C14.

When he arrived at the second floor veranda Altman offered a cup of coffee. With a smug look, he said, “I bet you’re a black coffee man, detective.”

“It shows, huh?” Halliday pretended to relax. He dropped into a comfortable overstuffed chair.

He sipped the delicious coffee blend, waiting for Altman to say something.

“Who escorted you through security?”

Palmier must have ordered Halliday’s name to the list without notifying Altman. “Agent Coulter. I heard him mention an emergency security meeting. I thought it would be a good opportunity to tour your fine campus.”

“Tour the campus, huh?” Altman’s expression said he didn’t believe him. “Coulter rough you up?”

“Comes with the territory. Are you going to do something about those protesters?”

Altman gave a wolfish grin. The man looked larger than when Halliday had seen him at the cabin. He stood six and a half feet and must have weighed in at close to three hundred pounds. His head resembled the shape of a hatchet with a long, skinny neck. His lower body, the larger portion of him, sported thighs the size of tree trunks.

Halliday ignored the brute’s intimidating stare.

The man who might have murdered Jillian Andrews leaned over, draped a badge over his neck and said, “We have a hospital on campus. I don’t think you’ll need it, though.”

The way Altman said it gave him pause. Halliday peered down at the badge. “What’s going on? This says James Hallowell.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Altman said. “It’s just temporary. Come on, we have to go.”

“Where are we headed?” Halliday said. A wave of dizziness caused him to stop and bend over.

The big security chief gave him an annoyed look. “To my security annex, Halliday. Mr. Palmier will join us there.”

Altman led him past the rustic, two-story buildings with wide porches. Each one of them had a “Welcome” mat. Each floor contained a lounge area and the equivalent of a Starbucks, which served caffeine laden drinks that he could never pronounce. He could see why people wanted to work amid the picturesque campus setting.

He looked over his shoulder. Altman’s pasted-on smile impersonated a company man. He made short crisp remarks about the weather to passersby. He wished a pregnant woman named Sheryl good luck on her upcoming birth. Sheryl would be shocked to find out that Altman had no doubt authorized the capture of vagrants for research and dismemberment purposes. Unless Sheryl belonged to the mad scientists’ group and already knew.

The eerie campus tranquility coupled with the employees’ docile demeanor was too reminiscent of his favorite sci-fi movie. He could imagine bio-extremists breaking through the front gate. The doe-eyed employees would offer them lattes laced with whatever potion had turned them tranquil.

He saw no feasible escape route.

Altman steered him along a footpath through a grove of trees, into a large open area. Halliday could no longer hear the sounds of the protestors. The campus pedestrian traffic ceased. After the long trek the two men stood in front of a small square two story building without porches, verandas, or windows. Beyond, Halliday could just make out building C14 through the trees. The large black cube appeared to belong at Fort Mead, Maryland, home to the National Security Agency.

“Hands against the wall, detective,” Altman ordered.

Halliday leaned into the wall while the security honcho patted him down.

“It’s S.O.P.,” Altman said. “No way are weapons getting through our security.”

Yeah, right.

Altman swiped his badge across the reader. The annex door opened. Altman said, “Halliday, get your sorry ass in there.”

Altman’s transformation into chain gang jargon would have upset the happy passersby.

Halliday heard the door slam behind him and felt a shove. He lost his balance, barreling into an empty desk.

“I am the law inside the gates of Genevive Labs, Detective Halliday. Remember that.”

He righted himself. “Private property or not, you can go to jail for assaulting a police officer, Altman. What is this place?”

“The security annex is
my
jurisdiction,” Altman said. “People that come here find it an unforgettable experience. Now move your ass.” He pointed in the direction of the lit hallway.

None of the offices had names or numbers on the doors, although the hall carpet appeared worn. The building looked vacant. Near the end of the hall, on the left, a door had a red alarm light above it.

“Move away from the door,” Altman said.

Altman swiped his badge again. When he turned the door handle, the red light flashed once followed by a delayed audible alarm. Altman fumbled with a remote control that he pulled out of his pocket. It silenced the loud shrill.

“I gotta get that fixed.”

The interview room resembled a smaller version of the kind the big city police departments used. The Santa Reina PD had neither the budget nor the need for one. A full length one-way mirror separated the room. A viewing area next to the window enabled security personnel to observe interview subjects.

“Look familiar, Halliday?” Altman flipped a switch that illuminated the interview room behind the dark windows.

“Why would a research and development lab need an interview room that rivals LAPD’s?”

“Security involves much more than just keeping people out,” Altman said. “Scientists here are developing products that promise to slow the aging process. People will live decades longer. They’ll stamp out diseases that were long thought to be incurable. Sometimes people get greedy and want to go into business for themselves.”

Altman’s sincerity belonged on a chain gang.

“Thanks to the scientists at Genevive I’ve been cured of prostate cancer. Two years ago a doctor told me that I had six months to live. Now, I am cancer free. The drug’s not even on the market yet.”

It must be the same prostate drug that Palmier used to prolong the chief’s life, Halliday thought. The drug kept the chief in line. It began Laurel’s transparency miracle.

“Dr. Krabbi told me Lamar Festus was Genevive’s poster boy,” Halliday said. “I think you should be their
boy
.”

Altman raised his eyes. “Dr. Krabbi told you that?”

Halliday nodded. “That doesn’t justify taking the law in your own hands. Why have you been
interviewing
people here?”

“My task is to keep a safe environment for the scientists to perform their miracles. Sometimes, the enemy comes from within. Then I deal with it.”

The egomaniac Altman conversed well when the need arose. If Genevive’s disregard for humanity got anymore preposterous, though, Halliday might flat out start laughing. He figured his chances were better revealing what he had discovered of Genevive’s secrets in front of the battle scarred Altman rather than the calculating Brad Palmier.

“Does Genevive policy condone abducting vagrants to use for experiments?”

Altman’s face appeared to belong to a robot that had received too much input data. He couldn’t adjust. His facial features failed to manage the right expression. He stepped toward Halliday. “Who the fuck told you that?”

“Come on, George, everybody’s aware of the experiments the mad scientists have been conducting here. Mice and rabbits are one thing, but humans? It’s just a matter of days before the state Attorney General rounds up your gang in front of a grand jury. They’ll pull the plug on this lawless operation.”

Irate, Altman swiped Halliday’s head with his big hand. Halliday fell to the floor. He shook out of a daze as the angry security man lunged forward.

The audio alarm’s short-lived yelp stopped Altman.

When the door opened Altman blurted out to Palmier, “He knows about the ASCENT Project and our experiments…
with them
.”

Halliday pulled himself up off the floor. He gave Palmier a challenging stare.

Fear, a new emotion, surfaced in Palmier’s face. The executive muttered, “That crazy little doctor will be our downfall.”

He must not have heard the news yet. Halliday figured that Doctor Krabbi wasn’t the only weak line in this comedy of horror. “You’d better get used to fallibility,” he said to Palmier. He raised his arm, prepared to deflect another roundhouse smack by Altman.

“At ease, George,” Palmier said in a controlled voice. “We’ll take care of him later.”

To remain alive Halliday knew he would have to resort to tactics he would never have considered a few days ago. Lying deserved a reward with these two. “Palmier, did you receive the FBI reports?”

“I didn’t receive any reports. If you’re lying we’ll get the truth from you.”

He needed to give them a reason to doubt themselves. “That’s odd,” he said. “Agent Candiotti called this morning. He mentioned he had had a conversation with Mr. Altman a few days ago. He said he told Altman that the suspect, Laurel McKittrick, is the girlfriend of the Morning Glory leader.”

The furious Altman stuck his huge fist in Halliday’s face. “You lying sack of shit.”

Halliday kept his cool. He said to Palmier, “Get smart. The biotech extremists are using your deceased ex-wife against you. I don’t know why Altman is keeping it from you. Maybe he’s playing the other side or he’s just plain stupid.”

Palmier gave Altman a disappointed glance. “Lay off him, George.” Then he said to Halliday, “Your allegations regarding my ex-wife sound preposterous. At this point it doesn’t matter, though. An hour with Mr. Altman will have you begging to tell the truth.”

The two Genevive employees stood in an awkward silence. Altman would have a lot of explaining to do.

“You shut down the public hot springs because of the water contamination,” Halliday said. “Then you had Altman murder Jillian Andrews to quiet her. You people disgust me.”

Palmier stood rigid wearing a stunned look. For the first time since Halliday had met him the executive seemed to lack confidence.

Halliday stuck it to him, “The
coup de grâce
came with your insane idea to abduct San Joaquin Valley vagrants for mad scientific experiments. What were you people thinking? That’s monstrous.”

Palmier remained speechless. Halliday feared that Altman, now consumed with rage, would do something stupid.