Ejecta (26 page)

Palmer remembered the hunchback on the security video but kept it to himself. Could the woman have been a host? Casing the exhibit hall prior to the robbery? That seemed like a distinct possibility. “Have you still got the photo?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“How 'bout sending me a copy? She sounds like someone worth keeping an eye out for.”

Tamby shrugged and opened her cell phone. “Okay... What's your number?”

Palmer gave it to her and it wasn't long before he had two photos of the woman. Twenty minutes later he made an excuse, paid for the drinks, and gave Tamby a peck on the cheek. The people at a nearby booth took her in.

Having left the bar Palmer made straight for the convention center. Then, having secured the necessary directions, he proceeded to an office labeled “Security.” It was tucked away in a remote part of the complex next to maintenance. Once there he was greeted by a young woman with black hair, brown skin, and a uniform that was one size too big for her. She looked up from a stack of paper work. “Yes, sir? How can I help you?”

“My name is Palmer. I'm writing a blog about the convention. Shows like this one tend to attract some interesting characters. In fact a friend of mine returned to her table to find a lady licking her merchandise yesterday. She called security. Who could I talk to about the incident?”

“That would be Mr. McGinty. He's out making the rounds.”

“How soon will he back?”

“About twenty minutes or so.”

“Can I wait?”

The woman nodded. “Sure, take any chair you like.”

It was joke. There was only one chair to choose from. Palmer grinned. “Thanks.”

There was a pile of magazines. But all of them were at least a month old. Judging from the address labels McGinty brought them from home. So, when he wasn't watching the people who came and went, Palmer read an article about Jeb Stuart in the
Civil War Times
.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and a small man with sandy colored hair entered. He was wearing a dark suit, a conservative tie, and a pair of very shiny shoes. He greeted the woman at the desk by handing her a diet Pepsi. “That stuff isn't good for you, Clarissa,” he said. “Too much caffeine.”

Palmer could tell that Clarissa had heard it before. “I'll quit drinking Pepsi when you quit drinking Starbucks. This gentleman is waiting to see you.”

McGinty's eyes were like blue lasers as they swiveled over to inspect Palmer. The meteorite hunter had seen that look before. In the Marine Corps. “My name is Palmer. Alex Palmer.”

McGinty nodded. “Glad to meet you Mr. Palmer. I'm Ralph McGinty. What can we do for you? If this is about the robbery you should call the police department.”

“Nope. I write a blog and I'm doing a piece about the characters who show up at conventions like this one.”

“We get 'em. That's for sure,” McGinty responded. “Step into my office. I have about ten minutes. Then I'm supposed to meet with the boss. He wants to know why we let a pickup truck full of whackos bust through the door and ransack the place.”

As Palmer followed McGinty into a tiny room he saw a number of framed photos on one of the walls. All of them were of McGinty in various types of Marine Corps uniforms. And one of them showed him standing in front of a government building in Kabul. “Been there and done that,” Palmer said.

McGinty was seated behind his desk by then. He nodded. “You have the look. What outfit?”

“No outfit in particular.”

McGinty smiled crookedly. “Oh, it's like that eh? Special ops. Bug eaters. I prefer MRE's myself. I'd love to trade some war stories but it wouldn't be a good idea to keep his highness waiting. So, what can I do for you?”

“I'll keep it brief,” Palmer promised as he dropped into the guest chair. “I've heard a number of stories. One was about a woman who was licking some of the merchandise yesterday.”

“That was a first,” McGinty admitted. “Very strange. But guess what? There's no law against licking rocks. We asked her to leave and she did so.”

“I'd like to interview her,” Palmer said. “Could you give me a name and address?”

McGinty shook his head. “Nope. We checked her ID of course. In fact it's right here,” he said, as he removed a page from a thin stack of papers. “But I can't give stuff like that out. It wouldn't be right. Excuse me, son... I need to ask Clarissa a question.”

At that point McGinty got up and left. The paper was there. Right in front of Palmer. On purpose? Palmer thought so as he eyed it, scribbled what he saw into his notebook, and put the form back where it had been.

McGinty reentered the office about sixty seconds later. His face was expressionless. “Where were we? Oh yeah, sorry I couldn't help.”

Palmer stood and extended a hand. “No problem Command Sergeant Major. I'm glad you made it back.” And with that he left.

***

Somewhere south of Seattle, Washington

The train was moving along at about fifty-mph by then. The boxcar rocked slightly as it reacted to irregularities in the road bed. And a continuous blast of cold air blew in through the openings on both sides until the man Devlin thought of as the cowboy ordered his buddy to rig some lights and close the sliding doors.

Devlin was seated on the floor. She experienced a sinking feeling. Once the doors were closed Cowboy would be in complete control. It was as though the hobo could read her mind. He smiled evilly as the man in the watch cap used duct tape to fasten a couple of flashlights in place.

Cowboy had long stringy rock ‘n roll style hair. He hadn’t shaved in three or four days. His clothes were filthy as were his hands. “That’s right, honey,” he said. “We’re going to party! But first things first. Okay, skinny ass. Let’s start with you. Are you carrying a knife?”

Nail nodded wordlessly.

“Okay, then,” Picker said. “Take that pig sticker out real slow—and slide it over to me.”

The drifter had no choice but to obey. The knife caught in his pocket, but eventually came free, and made a rattling noise as it came to rest near a pair of silver-capped cowboy boots. “That’s good.
Real
good,” the tramp said approvingly.

The light level dropped by eighty-percent as the second door slid shut. The flashlights threw a spray of yellow light down onto the section of the badly scarred floor directly in front of Cowboy. “Crawl on over,” the hobo ordered, and flicked the pistol towards the pool of light by way of illustration.

Having rigged the lights and closed the doors, the second man was eager to begin. In addition to a black watch cap he wore a puffy après ski jacket courtesy of the Salvation Army plus a pair of desert camouflage pants that were bloused around his ankles. His combat boots had seen a lot of wear and were overdue for replacement. “Hey,” Watch Cap exclaimed, “whacha wait’in for? Make the bitch strip!”

But Cowboy knew there was no reason to hurry and shook his head as the boxcar swayed and the prisoners entered the pool of uncertain light. “Patience brother…. Skinny ass gave up
his
blade—now it’s her turn. Come on sweet stuff—I know you're packing. Give it over.”

Devlin was fast thanks to the parasite. But not bullet-fast. So she had no choice but to remove the big clasp knife from her coat pocket and toss it forward. As she did so her cell phone clattered onto the floor. “I'll take that too,” Cowboy announced. “Who knows? Maybe I'll speed dial your mommy and tell her how naughty you are.”

“Okay,” Cowboy said, as he bent to retrieve both items. “Now for the money…. Hand it over.”

Devlin felt for the roll of twenties, pulled it out into the open, and threw it. The wad of money bounced once and took a sideways hop. “I’m rich!” Watch Cap exclaimed, swooping down on the prize.

“
We’re
rich,” Cowboy said pointedly. “And
I’ll
be the banker.”

***

Watch Cap made a mental note to spend some of the loot on a gun of his own. And as he surrendered the roll he watched to see which pocket it went into. The next time his partner got drunk, which was likely to be soon, the money would be
his.
Then, with cash to burn, he’d go to someplace warm.

“Stand up,” Cowboy ordered, and pointed the .38 at Devlin. There wasn’t a damned thing Nail could do to help her. Devlin knew that. But for some reason she turned to look at the boy. And that was when she saw a slight almost imperceptible nod. As if the teenager was telling her to go ahead.

“I said stand the fuck up!” Cowboy reiterated angrily. “Or would you like to have your ass kicked
before
I shove my cock in it?”

Devlin stood.

“That’s more like it,” Cowboy growled. “Now, take them clothes off…. Let’s see what you got.”

Devlin stared at the far end of the boxcar and willed herself to be somewhere else, as she began to unzip the parka. Was
she
stripping? Or being forced to strip by the parasite? The fact that she didn't know made the moment even more horrible.

“That ain’t no strip tease!” Watch Cap objected loudly. “Make her dance!”

“You heard the man,” Cowboy said agreeably. “Dance, bitch.”

Devlin ignored the order and continued to remove her clothing as if for a gynecological exam. And, because she was wearing three layers of clothes, that took awhile. Not that the hobos minded because this was more fun than either one of them had experienced in a long time. Cowboy ran his tongue over badly chapped lips, while Watch Cap rubbed his crotch, and made animal noises deep in the back of his throat.

Finally, having stripped down to her bra and panties, most of Devlin’s long lean body was revealed. The cold air caused the scientist to shiver—and goose bumps appeared on her arms. “Alright!” Watch Cap said eagerly. “Let’s see them perky little boobs!”

But Tracker didn’t get to see Devlin’s breasts because that was the moment when Nail removed the .22 Derringer from his right boot and jerked the trigger twice. The first slug hit Cowboy belt-buckle high. That granted the hobo a fraction of a second in which to contemplate how stupid he’d been before the
second
bullet punched its way into his chest.

As the tramp released the .38 and fell backwards Devlin made a grab for the pistol and came up with it. Watch Cap started to move forward but stopped when he found himself looking down the gun barrel. He held his hands palms out as if to ward off any bullets that Devlin might fire.

Nail was on his feet by then. He broke the little weapon open, ejected the spent casings, and fed two hollow-points into the empty chambers. “Please don’t kill me,” Watch Cap sniveled. “I’m sorry.
Real
sorry... Please let me go.”

Nail fired twice. Both bullets hit Watch Cap in the head. He collapsed onto the floor. Nail turned toward Devlin. “Good work, Sara…. They won’t bother anybody ever again.”

That was when Devlin's legs gave way, she collapsed, and began to sob uncontrollably. Not for Tracker—but for herself.

“It’s going to be okay,” Nail assured the woman. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

But as Nail wrapped a comforting arm around Devlin’s shoulders, he felt the mass hidden beneath the surface of his companion’s back shift slightly, and wondered what it was.

***

Portland, Oregon

It was nearly dark by the time Palmer got back to his car, drove downtown, and checked into the Benson. It was a traditional hotel, with upscale comforts, located near the things he liked most. One of which was Jake's Grill. A typically crowded restaurant known for its steaks and seafood.

On the theory that it was too late to follow-up on the woman Tamby had told him about Palmer took the familiar walk to Jake's. It was necessary to wait fifteen minutes before being shown to a table. Then came the moment of truth. Drink or no drink? For some reason it had been easy to have iced tea during the get together with Tamby. But now that he was tired, worried, and alone the desire to order some liquid comfort was very strong.

Palmer looked up to discover that the long-faced waiter was still standing there and wondered how much time had passed. “I'll have water, thank you. I know what I want.”

After placing his order Palmer was confronted by something he already knew. And that was the fact that even the best dinner in the world can be a very lonely experience. So he dialed Cooper's number hoping for some news. But, when Palmer ran into the agent's voice mail, he chose to hang up rather than leave a message. What could he say? That he loved Sara? That he was worried about her? Cooper knew that. Or should have.

But just in case Palmer left the phone on the pristine white table cloth where he would be sure to hear it if it rang. Courses came and went, the phone was mute throughout, and Palmer slipped it into a pocket as he got up to leave. The night took him in.

***

Palmer rose early the next morning, ate breakfast in the hotel, and was on the road by 9:00 AM. According to the information obtained from McGinty the hunchback's name was Florence Kelty. Having entered her address into the car's nav system it wasn't long before Palmer found himself in a pleasant neighborhood called Healy Heights. It wasn't what he expected, given the photo of what looked like a bag lady, but so what? Quinton had been living in a million dollar house before he was infected. And Podry had been down and out. It seemed as though socioeconomic status had very little, if anything, to do with being infected.

And sure enough the house he was looking for had a gabled tile roof, arched windows, and was beautifully landscaped. Palmer parked the car, got out, and made his way over to a wrought iron gate. A curved path led him to a porch and a door that was the same shade of red as the tiles on the roof. He pushed a button, heard distant chimes, then the rap, rap, rap of footsteps. Palmer suspected that he was being scrutinized via the door's peephole and produced what he hoped was a winning smile.

His reward was a snicking sound as a bolt was thrown followed by a squeak as the heavy door opened partway. A TV could be heard in the background as an elderly woman with carefully coiffed hair looked out through the opening. She had a heavily lined face and flour white skin, with a patch of rouge on each cheek. “Yes?”