Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold (9 page)

“Yes sir, that’s one fine looking ghost,” Gladstone said, lifting his cup of coffee in a toast. At 6:30
a.m.
there wasn’t a soul around, except for Betsy.

Halliday glanced at Laurel McKittrick’s photo on his desk. Gladstone leaned against the doorpost wearing a shit eating grin.

“Ghost? More like a savvy woman staying under the radar here.”

“Come on Halliday, this county’s not an easy place to hide in. People don’t have a whole lot to do here. Anybody’s business is everybody’s business. A single woman in Santa Reina questioning the motives of Genevive Labs would stir up interest.”

“Who do you think the voice on the tape belongs to then?”

“No one’s ever seen her. I think she’s a product manufactured by a savvy group of computer nerds out to screw Genevive Labs.”

The obvious wasn’t always the truth. “What are their motives?”

The young detective shook his head while glancing around. Something was on his mind. “Who knows why computer hackers do what they do? Money? To bring down the mad scientists bent on creating viruses to end our way of life?”

Coming from Gladstone, that sounded extreme. Bio-extremists had the ways and the means to pull it off. “What else you got?”

“I went over to Merced. I talked to the missing person who turned up there. His name is Louis Tomko.”

Gladstone pulled out his notepad, a gift from Halliday.

“Tomko’s a drifter, originally from the Bay Area. No criminal record. DMV says his license expired ten years ago. He’s sixty-two years old. At one time he worked as an architect with a firm in downtown San Fran. I checked it out. Tomko’s name was on the list of the architects of the Moscone Center.”

Gladstone shook his head again. “What happens to them, Halliday?”

Although he didn’t have the answer, he gave it his best shot. “I think they’re getting caught up in a perfect storm. California is broke, our federal government is dysfunctional, hope is at an all-time low, half the population is addicted to food stamps, crime is up, and immigration is a joke. The weather has been wreaking havoc in all parts of the country. Did I miss anything? The drought?”

Gladstone flinched at his forthrightness. “Louis Tomko likes to talk.”

“Before you continue, tell me something. Based on your observations, do you believe Louis Tomko is mentally unbalanced?”

Gladstone’s face flooded with indecision. “It’s hard to tell. The way he told his story made sense. The story is a chapter right out of ‘Absence of Reality.’ You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Tomko said he got abducted off the street in Merced. Said he saw a flash of light, felt a needle in his back, and lost consciousness. Never saw the face of the perp. I followed up his allegation with the social worker at the Merced shelter. She said Tomko had checked in at the shelter earlier that night. Vagrants never leave the shelter after they’re assigned a bed and receive a voucher for a hot meal. She insists Tomko was a victim of foul play.”

“What evidence does she have?”

“She pointed out a witness, another vagrant, but nobody can find him. The witness alleges he saw a white pickup truck drive off after picking up Tomko.”

Genevive security used white pickups. “Go on.”

“Tomko told me he woke up in an operating room right out of a sci-fi movie. Said he believed he was on an alien space ship. A robot took samples of his blood. Halliday, I’ve read accounts of people who have been abducted by aliens. This was a page out of the same book.”

Again, Gladstone surprised him.

“Tomko swore that the robot prepared him for surgery. Tomko believes the aliens halted the operation because of his rare blood. Next thing he knew he woke up in a corn field outside Merced.”

Halliday had to say it. “Alien’s don’t drive pickup trucks.”

Gladstone gave a sheepish grin. “I don’t know why Tomko would lie. He didn’t have much to gain. Seemed like an Honest Abe to me.”

“Anything else?”

Gladstone squinted. “It’s odd. These vagrants must have come out of nowhere or dropped out of society decades ago.”

Halliday typed several commands on the laptop keyboard. After a few seconds he logged into the National Crime Index Computer. “How do you spell his name?”

“Last name: T-O-M-K-O, First name: L-O-U-I-S.”

Halliday typed in the name. The NCIC came up empty.

“There’s no record on Tomko or any of the others,” Gladstone said, wearing a frustrated look. “No marriages. No current DMV licenses. It’s as if they are anonymous.”

Gladstone’s investigative techniques were starting to come around.

The kid shook his head and said, “You know what? This whole thing keeps pointing back to ‘serial killer.’”

“The fact that persons are missing doesn’t tell us anything. It’s not until we find two or more vagrants that show up in the morgue who connect with common threads. Then we start thinking serial killer. Let’s stick to missing persons, not alien abductions or serial killers.”

Experience told Gladstone to listen hard when the coach spoke. He thumbed through his note pad. “The MPs are all male Caucasians except for one black. They are homeless. They all have O-positive blood type, except Tomko. Ages range fifty-five to sixty-eight.”

Bibby said Festus’s dog may have been killed by coyotes. The vagrant in Fresno had been mutilated. Maybe that was going to be Tomko’s fate until something happened. Wrong blood type? He couldn’t imagine a legit outfit like Genevive Labs involved in such horror.

“Well, Halliday?”

On the other hand, transients were perfect targets. “At this point I’m not ruling out anyone or anything. Let’s keep our investigation between us for now.”

Gladstone coiled his neck. “Gosh Halliday. You’re not thinking that Genevive Labs is even remotely involved with this, are you?”

“Genevive wouldn’t be able to control the behavior of one of their own. For example, it could be a rogue mentally ill security man.”

“Wow, that’s scary.”

Gladstone kept shifting his weight from one leg to another in a nervous way.

The young detective said, “Everybody knows that Genevive has this town by the balls. I have a dozen relatives employed by Genevive who are thrilled they’re here. CEO Robert Gartner would be the mayor if they had their way.” He gave a subdued grin. “Palmier would be head of the city council.”

The young detective didn’t have a finger on the pulse of his own city. “Citizens I talked to on the northeast side of town don’t share your opinion of Genevive Labs. They would like to see the biotech giant relocate to Southern California… or Siberia.”

Gladstone gave him a blank stare.

Halliday said, “Did you follow up with the ranchers over in Redwood Bluff?”

“No, I haven’t had a chance.”

Halliday didn’t have the patience for Gladstone. “I’ll take care of it this evening.”

Gladstone gave him a dumbfounded look. “If Genevive is sidestepping the law… If one of their security men is involved with the MPs… Well, no one here in Santa Reina will put up with that.”

That sentence pointed out Detective Rich Gladstone’s major shortcoming in that he lacked conviction. “What would you do, detective?”

Gladstone leaned back, surprised. Halliday rarely consulted him. “I’d check Genevive’s security staff for prior convictions and history of mental illness. We both know that’s not going to happen. Chief Brayden wouldn’t approve it.”

That’s better, detective.

“I’m going to run down the street to McDonalds. You want an Egg McMuffin or anything?”

“No thanks.”

After Gladstone left, Halliday placed a call to Redwood Bluff rancher, Bob Rogers.

Crimson flooded the western skies. The landscape languished in shades of melancholy gray-violet that incited coyotes to cackle. Halliday navigated the winding road up toward Redwood Bluff.

He remained alert. The voices of Lamar Festus, Tommy Hartnett, and Laurel McKittrick warned him of strange green creatures that lurked behind the purple mountain’s majesty.

A half hour later he pulled to a stop in front of Bob Rogers’ ranch, two miles outside of Redwood Bluff. Rogers’ instructions had enabled him to bypass the withering city presided over by the angry sheriff.

Halliday studied darkened windows above the porch. The Friday afternoon barbecue must have thinned out by now. His headlights revealed three full-size white pickups of one ton or more parked along the front. It occurred to him that most pickup trucks in the San Joaquin Valley were white color. Each vehicle reflected light off a silver tow ball used for hauling large machinery. He flipped off the lights and killed the Saab’s engine.

Leo had told him that ranchers were like rodeo cowboys. At first meeting they either liked you or didn’t. Growing up in Ithaca, Halliday had gotten along fine with horses, so he got along with ranchers. Eye contact was paramount whether he met a cowboy, Sea Biscuit, a waitress, or the Madam Secretary of State.

He didn’t smell a barbecue. The porch light illuminated a sign next to the front door of the single story, ranch house. It read, “Howdy, if no one answers please go out back.”

Halliday followed the arrows next to Malibu lights around the side of the property.

A huge covered patio deck held court over the spacious backyard. Chairs with faded hunter green cushions, and matching chaise lounges with knotty pine frames looked accustomed to dusty jeans. There were no visitors. Two large screened LED TVs installed at opposite corners loomed above a pool table on the far side. They were turned off.

Rogers liked to entertain. A San Francisco 49’er fan. He apparently had a high school son as evidenced by a letterman’s jacket draped over a chair. The large stuffed Rainbow trout over the bar reminded Halliday that all ranchers were fishermen.

Flood lamps lit a back yard lined by a perimeter of fruit trees. A sidewalk led down the middle to a canopied area. Beyond it were a series of greenhouses. He heard yelps on the other side of the greenhouses. Rogers had penned up his dogs.

A group of men stood beneath the canopy. Halliday returned a wave, and headed their way.

He shook Rogers’ extended hand.

“Hello Detective Halliday, Bob Rogers. I think you know Chuck Bibby.”

Halliday nodded at Bibby who wore Levi overalls fastened by suspenders of Native American design.

Lanky, sandy-haired Rogers didn’t look too much older than Gladstone until Halliday saw his leathery eyes. The group leader introduced him to the other three ranchers. They were dressed in Levis with flannel shirts tucked under silver buckles. The men stood around a table featuring a hand drawn map.

Rogers turned his attention to Halliday. He planted his feet in the soft dew covered lawn, his hands placed firmly on his hips. He raised a hard, square jaw and said, “Detective Halliday, we’re going sightseeing tomorrow morning. We’d very much appreciate it if you came along.”

He thought of Genevive Labs. “What’s this all about?”

The ranchers’ solemn stares suggested their livelihood was in danger. “We have firsthand intelligence that Genevive security is planning a rustling operation.”

Rogers nodded at one of the ranchers before scrutinizing the map. “Luke Halverstad’s spread is their target.”

Halliday decided not to ask about their source. He had a feeling the ranchers wouldn’t tell him anyway. “What do you expect to find?”

The men exchanged glances. Their expressions conveyed frustration mixed with anger. Rogers pushed his hands toward the ground, warning them to take it easy. “Detective, you talked to Chuck Bibby already. You are aware of our concerns. It would help our cause for law enforcement to see firsthand what is going on in our county. They used to call it ‘cattle rustling.’ Genevive has broadened the term to ‘animal rustling.’”

Halliday decided to go along. “What’s the plan?”

Rogers’ pressure valve released. Activist Bibby wore his poker face. Halverstad, a good six inches shorter than everyone else, tilted his head up. The other two ranchers whose name Halliday couldn’t remember, did a lot of nodding.

Rogers pointed at the map. “At 2:00
a.m.
we head to Luke Halverstad’s place in two trucks. We follow this route.” He traced it with his fingers.

Halliday knew there would be hell to pay if he got caught in a rancher’s vehicle with a Genevive security man pointing a spotlight in his face. “I’ll take up the rear in my own vehicle.”

He let that sink in before he said, “No one—I mean
no one
—outside this circle is to know what transpires. As far as the rest of the world knows we are going trout fishing along the Santa Reina River.” He sought each man’s eyes. “Understood?” They nodded. Rogers, maybe put out that he was no longer in charge of the herd, rubbed his face with both hands.

Halliday said, “I’m the only one carrying a gun tonight. If any of you have weapons in your vehicles, remove them before we leave.”

After he got their nods, he addressed Rogers. “Bob, I suggest you grab some fishing gear to back up our story if it ever becomes an issue.”

“All right,” Rogers said, without an argument. He marched off toward the house.

Halliday poured a cup of black coffee into a Styrofoam cup.

Bibby caught his glance. “Covering all the bases, huh detective?”

He nodded. “What were you guys going to do if I hadn’t showed up?”

“I expect we would have conducted our own investigation, detective.”

Halliday didn’t appreciate Bibby’s answer. “We can’t have vigilante groups running rampant. Somebody’s going to get hurt.”

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful detective. We’ve been getting zero support out here. The farmer’s livelihoods are on the line. Sheriff Barnes is practically incapacitated. Santa Reina PD… Hell, Santa Reina might as well be in another state.”

Halliday had no response.

Rogers returned clutching five sets of fishing gear, along with a large tackle box. “If Genevive doesn’t show up then we sure as hell will go fishing,” he said in protest. “By the way detective, it’s dark as hell out there. Stay close to Chuck’s tail lights.” Rogers made eye contact with everyone. He pointed to the back of the room. “There are cots to nap on, a frig full of sandwiches along with a pot of coffee.” He looked at Halliday. “You’ll find a row of porta-potties lined up behind this tent.”

“Do you have any two-way radios lying around?” Halliday said.

Rogers shook his head.

“We’ve got our phones,” Bibby said.

Halliday preferred two-ways due to their instant call feature. All users heard each conversation. “Then I suggest someone write all our phone numbers down. Make five copies.”

“I’ll do it,” Bibby said.

Halliday eyed the cots. They had a six hour wait.

# # #

At 2:00
a.m.
a chill pervaded the air. Halliday tossed his coffee cup. He put on his black windbreaker. The somber group of men marched to their vehicles. The new moon left the night in a void. The rural area, lacking street lamps, succumbed to the wiles of imagination.

Halliday had agreed that Rogers should lead the convoy. The farmer knew every road in the area. He had drawn the map. The lead rancher jumped in the truck. When the engine started, headlights pierced a stand of eucalyptus. Bibby got in the driver’s seat of the second vehicle with the other rancher who didn’t say much.

Halliday started up the Saab.

Fifteen minutes later they paused at Halverstad’s ranch. As agreed, Bibby and Halliday extinguished their head lights on Rogers’ cue.

The convoy navigated the dirt road edged by citrus groves on both sides.

Bibby’s taillights became faint glimmers. If the ranchers were confronted by Genevive security Halliday intended to stay behind the fray. He would exercise his authority if and when necessary.

The citrus groves gave way to a dark curtain of irregular pleats. Bibby’s tail lights, panther’s eyes, opened and closed at the turns. Halliday battled to stay within reach. The maze of dirt roads led him into black holes.

Halliday slammed on the brakes.

“Shit.” He yanked the steering wheel. The rear of the Saab careened to the right. The passenger door slammed into a wall of corn stalks.

Halliday jerked his head both ways at the “T” junction. He strained his eyes to see. No tail lights were visible in either direction. With no time to think he continued left in the direction the car was pointed.

If after two or three minutes he hadn’t caught up with them he’d make a U-turn. Rogers should have sense enough to stop and wait. Otherwise, he could call them on the phone. What would he say to Roger’s? “Meet me near the trees?”

A dim glow off to the right caught his eye. He pulled off to the side.

Halliday leaned over to peer out the passenger window. A misty white light hovered above the cornfield like a thick meringue. Experience told him to point the Saab in the direction he had come. He parked fifty yards down the road.

His cell vibrated.

“Halliday.”

“Halliday, where are you?” Rogers said in a sharp edged voice.

“I’m heading back to Santa Reina. I’ll call you back later.”

He turned the cell off. The Saab’s trunk clicked open. Halliday grabbed gloves, a small flashlight, and his gun.

His Clark shoes made no more noise than rabbit’s feet. The dull lights reminded him of playing slo-pitch at night. Voices, like whispers on the wind, emanated from beyond the thick cornstalks. Several rows of corn stood between him and the activity on the other side.

He stuffed the flashlight in his pocket and put on the gloves.

The close planted stalks, over seven feet high, formed a thick wall. Halliday tried not to imagine the critters that lurked in the thick wet growth beneath him as he crept along on all fours.

As he drew closer the voices grew more intelligible. Through the stalks he saw a beam of light shining across a small open field. The headlamps of a large black suburban labeled
SIERRA CONTRACTORS
illuminated two Genevive security men attempting to rope a bull out of a small herd of cattle.

“We don’t have all night, Jimmy,” a voice yelled from the other side of the suburban. “Doctor Krabbi said to pick out a well-hung stud for Gennie One-Seven.”

Halliday heard the security man named Jimmy mutter to himself, “Fuck you, Special Agent Asshole.”

He saw activity at the end of a horse trailer hitched to the suburban.

A black-suited agent wearing sunglasses came into view. Halliday looked on in awe. He had entered the realm of science fiction.

The agent clutched a long silver rod with a probe on the end. The trailer ramp lowered at the sound of a motor.

He could not see the trailer well. He couldn’t risk proceeding any further. One of the security men stood less than ten feet away. The one named Jimmy now had a rope around the neck of a muscular bull. When the animal resisted, the men steered it toward the truck trailer. Halliday leaned forward for a better view.

The DOD agent prodded the bull with the long rod.

The animal’s legs gave out. It dropped in its tracks.

“Lift his leg up, Jimmy,” the black suited agent barked out. He addressed the other security guy. “Round up the rest of those steers. Collar them. We’re taking them back to building C14.”

Building C14?

The man dragged his rope in Halliday’s direction while black suit maneuvered the end of the rod. He probed between the animal’s legs.

The other security guy waved his cowboy hat at the herd. Spooked, the animals stampeded, blocking Halliday’s view. One of the calves pushed his head through the corn stalks, into his face.

“Get out of there, doggie,” the security guy barked.

Halliday slammed his face into the earth.

A few minutes later black suit said, “Okay, we’re good to go. Bring out Gennie One-Seven.”

“Christ sakes,” Jimmy said. “Can’t you do that business inside the trailer?”

“Doctor Krabbi said it all has to feel natural for her. This artificial super-dong isn’t enough to satisfy the bitch. She needs to moo at the moon.”

Why were they artificially inseminating the cow? Halliday’s head spun. Festus hadn’t lied about the men in black. None of it made any sense. This must be part of an experiment.

“There’s no moon tonight,” Jimmy said.

“I was speaking rhetorically. You do know what that means don’t you?”

The other security man’s back blocked Halliday’s view. He craned his neck to see the activity at the trailer. The animal banged into the sides of the trailer, creating a lot of noise. Jimmy stood on the ramp holding onto a rope like a water skier behind a speed boat.

“Jesus, Jimmy, haven’t you ever worked with animals before?”