Turtle Island (36 page)

‘I'll be damned...It's a tattoo.’ Leroy said.

The area on the man's back became slightly clearer.

‘Can you improve on that, so we can see exactly what it
is?’

‘Give me an hour.’ Andy turned to the detective.

As she worked at the jammed door Jo-Lynn began to notice the
increased noise of air-traffic as the sound of helicopters and
light planes echoed through the air duct in the wall above her. She
ran the edge of the ring along the seized joint for what seemed to
be the hundredth time and tried to prize free the ring that was set
in to the door. A groove had been worn around the small handle, all
she needed was something to wedge under the small gap and she would
be able to pry the handle free.

‘My God, I can't believe this is real.’ Maria Codez sat back
in her chair, her office colleagues were either glued to their own
screen, logged on to the same site or gathered around any available
monitor, watching the drama unfold. What made it so real to Maria
was that Jo-Lynn was a senior member of the small law practice that
she worked in. Coffee was placed by Maria's side by a tearful
secretary. The atmosphere in the office was solemn and the usual
hum of activity had been replaced with intense concentration as the
employees of Sagem Carter willed Jo-Lynn free. Maria flicked back
to the voting screen. A clock was ticking inexorably toward eight
o'clock. Maria could not believe that nearly eighteen million
people had actually voted to see her friend executed.

Georgina continued reading through the long list of e-mails,
opening each communiqué and scanning it for relevant information.
Some were innocuous, some had links to other web sites, others
contained downloads of child pornography, pictures that Georgina
had to look at, images that defied humanity. She made a note of
various files on a note pad in front of her. Some names kept
appearing, though names used in this secret underworld were
undoubtedly pseudonyms.

Narla Fleisher rubbed her eyes, weary of reading from the
screen. ‘I don't know how kids stay on these things for so long, it
must drive their eyes crazy.’

Georgina scrolled down the page of the latest opened e-mail to
the sender information and transfer coding. Something registered in
Narla's brain. A subliminal message, a name she recognised as it
flashed past her eyes.

‘Stop a minute could you?’ Narla grabbed Georgina's
arm.

‘What is it?’

‘Go back up the page.’ Narla watched as the lines of text
reversed from the bottom of the screen. The name appeared
again.

‘Stop, stop.’ Narla pointed to a name sandwiched between lines
of coded text.

‘There...John Kiers...I know that name.’ Narla bit her into
her lip, trying to force her brain to remember. Georgina looked at
her, hoping that this was the break she needed, everyone needed.
Narla stood up, walking away from the computer, needing to put
distance between herself and the flickering screen for a second.
She gazed out of the bedroom window, racking her mind.

‘Kiers, Kiers, Kiers.’ Narla repeated the name, hoping that
hearing it echo through her head would jar a distant memory. An
image flashed in her mind. A face. ‘Oh my God.’ She sat on the edge
of the bed. ‘I've nearly got it. I can see his face.’ Narla leaned
forward and put her hands to her face, covering her eyes and
closing them in the same instant. The face was still there,
floating in her mind’s eye. A picture of Charles smiling and
shaking hands with John Kiers joined it.

‘That's it…’ Narla said. ‘He used to work with Charles a long
time ago. God, yes. We had dinner with him once. I remember him
now.’ Narla shuddered. ‘He was really...overpowering...You know?’
Narla lifted her head and stared at Georgina. ‘A real creep. We
were eating and he was trying to touch me, you know, under the
table. He had this 'butter wouldn't melt’ look on his slimy face.
It seemed to be part of a game with him. I don't even think he was
doing it because he fancied me. I just think he enjoyed making me
feel uncomfortable.’ Narla stared into her distant memory, lost in
thought. Georgina opened her mobile phone and began to dial, as
soon as the last digit was entered an operator’s voice
spoke.

‘I'm sorry but all lines are temporarily busy. We are
experiencing severe demand on this network, please hang up and try
again later.’ Static followed, cutting the line dead.

Georgina closed the phone. ‘Great. Can I use your
phone?’

‘Of course.’ Narla pointed to a handset sitting next to the
computer. Georgina picked up the phone but was greeted with the
same white noise of static. She slammed it down.

‘Shit! The lines are down.’ She looked at her watch, it was
nearing midday. ‘Okay, stay cool, O’Neil, stay cool.’ Georgina
tried to calm herself down. She was faced with a decision, to stay
where she was and continue sifting through a backlog of computer
files, hoping that the phone lines would clear, or get in her car
and play a hunch. She picked up her files, phone and keys and
started heading out the door. As she walked down the hall to the
stairs she scribbled a phone number on a piece of paper.

‘I want you to keep ringing this number. If the lines come
back on, ask to speak to Detective La Portiere.’ Georgina passed
back the scrap of paper into Narla’s waiting hands. ‘Tell him to
run a check on John Kiers.’ O’Neil’s voice quivered as she was
running down the steps and out through the front door. ‘Oh, and
whatever you do keep the Internet connection logged on.’

The traffic jam started two miles out of Narla's house and was
solid both ways, going onto the mainland and crossing Independence
Bridge to the island. Georgina begrudgingly brought the car to a
halt. The rain hammered down from the sky, bouncing like bullets
off the windscreen. There would not have been any point turning a
siren on even if she had one. To her right there was no grass verge
with a high bank and the cars to the left formed a formidable wall
of steel leaving her no place to go drive other than remain static
in the roadblock. For a moment she contemplated driving down the
median in the centre of the carriageway, but she could see metal
crash barriers erected forty yards ahead. Georgina picked up the
mobile from the passenger’s seat and tried ringing Leroy once more.
She was greeted with static fuzz this time and no message from the
operator. She flicked the radio on and tuned to a local
station.

‘
The word, Bob, is that it's chaos out there. Believe me if
your thinking of travelling anywhere today forget it.’

‘Yeah Mike, our eye in the sky has just passed over the
incident and Arlene in the chopper tells me that the traffic is
queuing back a solid five miles in either direction. Wouldn't want
to be in that, Mike.’

‘No, Bob. More after Celine Dion and the love theme from
Titanic.’

Georgina frantically searched for another radio station. Being
in the traffic jam was bad enough, but watching the time tick away
until the Montoya family were slaughtered before the eyes of the
world, left Georgina cold with fear.

‘WkFM, You're listening to WkFM and I'm Phil Slaver taking you
through to drive time, not that anybody’s going anywhere today
thanks to the jack-knifed articulated wagon and the thirteen car
pileup that followed…’

It was as she was being informed by the radio that Georgina
noticed the thick plumes of black smoke rising into the air, a mile
or so north.

‘First reports mention up to 18 casualties, three of which are
confirmed fatalities. Rescue attempts have been hampered by the
heavier than usual traffic, the weather and the loss of telephone
communications in the area, which I have been informed is a
temporary fault which should be rectified in three to four hours.
Full report in the news after Celine…’

Georgina clicked the off button, knowing that she was going
nowhere fast. The rain continued a relentless assault against her
windscreen. Her wipers smeared the latest collection of bugs across
the constantly smudged screen. She turned her engine off and opened
the door. Lifting the tailgate, she searched through her bags in
the boot and found what she was looking for. She took the bundle of
clothing and threw them into the passenger’s seat. Georgina sat in
the driver’s seat once more and turned on the air-conditioning to
full blast, slowly the windscreens started to mist. She turned the
radio back on, Celine was in full effect as Georgina started to
take off her jacket and unbutton her blouse. She pulled on the
hooded sweat top quickly, not because she was worried about being
seen stripping in the vehicle but because she was more concerned
with the plummeting temperature as the air-conditioning did its
thing. She pulled up the sweat pants and then unzipped her skirt,
her shoes was lying discarded in the foot well, the only problem
Georgina had was in tying the laces of her running shoes. The
confines of the car made it nearly impossible without eating part
of the steering wheel. Celine finished singing and after three
minutes of adverts, the news bulletin arrived as promised. Georgina
sat and listened to the worsening picture developing a mile or so
up the road. The death toll had risen to five, the result of a
truck and trailer spinning out of control and crushing a car and
its occupants, before careering across the verge and coming to a
rest, blocking both north and south bound lanes. Georgina wrote a
hasty note and pinned it to the dashboard before abandoning her car
and starting to run through the metal jigsaw of stationary
vehicles. The rain pressed against her face, immediately soaking
her jogging top, although it wasn’t cold, air vapour puffed out
through her mouth and nose at regular intervals. The police
precinct was at least five miles away; Georgina guessed that at her
current pace it would take her at least 40 minutes. She injected a
little speed, hitting seven-minute miles; hoping she could sustain
the pace for the distance. Georgina ran along the narrow grass
verge, occasionally weaving around overheated cars that had pull
over to cool down. Sporadic wolf whistles followed her progress,
something that managed to bring a smile to her face, those
neglected muscles almost protested at being woken from their
dormant stasis, bringing light relief to an otherwise dour
situation. After twenty minutes she began to notice drivers
standing outside their cars, even though it was still lashing with
rain. The curious were craning their necks for a better view of the
overturned truck and trailer. The windshield was sitting in the
road some thirty yards from where the truck came to rest. The
blackened cab, was now nothing more than a twisted carbon filled
shell, with molten plastic and metal dripping through the open
aperture. Georgina spotted a burned-out vehicle. She guessed it was
the one from which the majority of the fatalities came. She
mentally blamed another five deaths on the monster that was
bringing chaos to Turtle Island. The emergency services were still
tending to casualties, dousing the vehicles with foam. The Police
were starting to erect a huge plastic blue screen to cordon the
area from the prying eyes of the morbidly curious, who were
gathering in silence by the scene, watching as though they were
watching something reverential. Georgina held onto her warrant card
and cut through the crowd, attracting the attention of an officer
who was trying to get some of the traffic to reverse off the
bridge.

‘Sorry ma’am, you can't come through here.’ The policeman held
up his hand in an effort to stop her. Georgina flashed her FBI
identification.

‘Officer, do you have communication with your HQ.’

‘Yeah, the radio link’s still operational.’

‘Thank God. I need to get a message through to Captain
Frusco.’

The policeman stepped back and smiled. ‘Well that shouldn't
prove to be too difficult.’

He turned and called out. ‘Captain, there's an FBI agent here
who wants to speak with you.’

Norman Frusco walked out from behind the blue
screen.

The bell never stopped ringing. Every two seconds the slightly
swollen door would jar against the frame; followed by the bell
announcing yet another customer. During a quiet moment Gary
Clarkson stopped for a brief coffee, whilst making it, he stopped
and breathed the scent of money from his hands. Food, maps,
alcohol, bumper stickers, everything flew from the shelves. The
afternoon brought the first of his regulars in through the door in
deeply paranoid panic mode. Clarkson was shrewd enough to put aside
his regular orders, he didn’t mind ripping off the tourists but a
living still had to be made when the fuss eventually died down.
Regulars came in the store in bunches, whispering conspiratorially
until the strangers had left the shop before talking openly about
their fears.

Rick’s throat felt dry. He couldn’t move, yet nothing bound
his limbs. He couldn’t see, yet he was not in darkness. It took
every effort of concentration to move his eyelids barely a
millimetre. His mind was active, working, torturing him with
thought, memory and guilt. He wanted to shake the voices from his
head but how could he, he was literally powerless. Jordan Montoya
was sitting next to him in the jeep; it was a bright sunny day.
Rick waited for the traffic lights to change from red with his foot
hovering over the accelerator. Jordan was quiet, she had been quiet
for months, almost mute. A Camaro pulled up next to Rick’s car. The
blast from the cars horn broke Rick’s reverie. Rick turned to his
left and saw Prentice Fortune sitting behind the wheel of the
Camaro. Next to him was his girlfriend with the emphasis on girl.
Dorette Nelson was thirteen years old, she smiled at the detective
and then her head disappeared from view as she ventured toward
Prentice Fortune’s lap. Fortune rolled his head back as the lights
changed colour. Rick turned to his daughter.