Ejecta (28 page)

Flo?
As in Florence? Suddenly Palmer wanted to call Cooper and bring in some help. But could the government react quickly enough? Palmer had his doubts. Especially since Wilson, Cooper and the rest of them were operating independently of the FBI. He could call 911 of course. But what then? If Biosecurity wasn't cooperating with the NYPD, it wouldn't be working with the Portland police department either.

Palmer pushed his way along the fence, darted across the driveway, and stopped next to the tarp draped vehicle. After glancing around left and right he lifted the cover. There was no mistaking the front end of a Dodge Ram 4 X 4. These were the people who had broken into the convention center alright. And Florence Kelty was one of them.

Palmer made his way over to the last unit in the complex and tried the door. It opened without protest. Palmer didn't have a flashlight. So he felt for his cell phone, brought it out, and flipped it open. The light from the display produced a ghostly glow. The bed was unmade, there were empty fast food containers laying around, and he saw a cockroach scuttle into a beer can.

Satisfied that there wasn't anything of interest in the apartment Palmer left, paused outside, and heard a burst of laughter. The party was still in full swing. The coach was running, and the interior lights were on, but no one was visible.

The next apartment was locked so Palmer continued on. The third unit, which shared a wall with the office, was unsecured. The stench that invaded his nose as he opened the door made him gag—and the source of the odor quickly became apparent.

The body was roped into a chair in front of an old tube style TV set. As the glow from Palmer's cell phone embraced the corpse he saw that the man's head was slumped forward so that his chin was supported by his blood stained chest. Judging from the hole in his temple the cause of death was a large caliber bullet. Fired by Florence? Or by one of the thieves? It hardly mattered. Dead was dead.

As Palmer backed away the edge of a coffee table hit the back of his knees and caused him to fall over backward. There was an almighty crash, and Palmer had just regained his feet, when the door flew open. The motor home man was big, surprisingly fast, and armed with a baseball bat. Palmer saw the length of wood come around, ordered himself to duck, but felt a sharp pain. The world snapped to black.

***

Denver, Colorado

Dr. Owen Wilson was trying to wade through his email when a cell phone hit the surface of his borrowed desk and skidded to a stop next to his elbow. “God damn it,” the Director of Terrestrial Biosecurity said, as he turned to the right. “How many times have I told you to knock?”

Cooper was perched on the corner of the big executive style desk by that time. He grinned. “Sorry. I forgot.”

Wilson plucked the phone off the desk and flipped it open. The display was dark and remained that way even after he tried to turn device on. “Okay, I give up. Who does this belong to? And why do I care?”

“It belongs to Dr. Sara Devlin. Or it did. A Sheriff's deputy in Oregon found it on a dead body, got the phone company to pry her name out of it, and a call came into us shortly thereafter.”

“A body you say... Tell me more.”

“His name was Mark Murphy, and he had a criminal record as long as your arm. Attempted murder, assault, you name it. A fisherman found him a mile downstream from a railroad bridge.”

“So you think Devlin was on a train?”

Cooper nodded. “She was carrying a lot of cash. We know that. So maybe the dead guy attempted to rob her, got his hands on the phone, but took a couple of .22 bullets in the process. Or some other version of that theme.”

Wilson looked doubtful. “Devlin shot him? That seems hard to believe.”

“Quinton shot a receptionist,” Cooper reminded him harshly.

Wilson sighed. “Point taken. “So, what now?”

“We watch all the trains on the left coast and pull Palmer back in.”

“Where is he?”

“I gave him some busy work to do in Portland. It got him out of my hair.”

“Why bother?” Wilson inquired cynically. “Devlin ran away from him in Seattle.”

Cooper shrugged. “I can't think of anyone else she might respond to.”

“Okay, it's worth a try I guess.”

“So, how 'bout it?” Cooper wanted to know. “Your propeller heads have all the data collected so far. Where are the parasites headed?”

“We have
some
data,” Wilson agreed cautiously, “but we need more. Maybe you people should follow the Chinese. They seem to know what's going on.

Their eyes met. If looks could kill Wilson would have been dead. “I'll stay in touch,” Cooper promised.

“You do that,” Wilson replied, and went back to work. The computer dinged—and twelve additional emails appeared in front of him.

***

East of Dayville, Oregon

Palmer awoke in hell. Darkness was all around. His head ached. A rumbling sound filled his ears and the smell of death filled his nostrils. The odor was so stomach churning that he tried to sit up only to bump his head on the surface just inches above. A coffin? Was he in a
coffin?

No, Palmer decided, as he turned his head from left to right. He was in a storage compartment aboard a vehicle of some sort. The motor home he'd seen at the Blue Moon apartment complex? Yes, he thought so. In fact, now that he was more alert, he realized that he could see little bits of daylight here and there.

That explained the vibration, the persistent roaring sound, and the confined space. But what about the throat clogging stench? Palmer began to explore with his hands, felt some fabric to his right, and swore. Another person was lying next to him!

Palmer's initial reaction was to jerk his hand back. But without anything more than a few pin pricks of light to go by he had no choice but to reach out again if he wanted to learn more. The first contacts were tentative. But it wasn't long before Palmer realized the truth. The other person was dead. And, judging from how unyielding the body was, had been for some time. Hence the smell.

Palmer lay on his back breathing through his mouth as the pain pounded in his head. What was going on? Based on what little information he had it seemed logical to suppose that Kelty, her parasite, and the motor home man were on a trip. To the so-called nexus? That was a strong possibility.

But why take him along?
Because they think you're dead
, Palmer reasoned.
And they plan to dump both bodies along the way. Except they're in for a surprise.

Not much of one,
his inner voice countered.
Because when they open the storage compartment, and discover that you're still alive, they'll whack you all over again. Only harder this time.

Palmer knew it was true. They
would
whack him unless he could find some means of defending himself. With that thought in mind he began to check his pockets. With the exception of a few loose coins they were empty. Phone, wallet, even his comb. All gone.

At that point he knew what he had to do next and it was nothing short of disgusting. But there was no getting around it. Teeth gritted Palmer managed to roll over onto his right side in an attempt to access the body.

He soon realized that the corpse was lying on its side too facing away from him. The body had been sitting in a chair the last time Palmer had seen it. And it was likely that rigor mortis had set in by that time. That made it necessary to place the dead man in the equivalent of a fetal position in order to fit him into the storage compartment. And thanks to the fact that the body was turned away from him Palmer could spoon with it. A truly nauseating thought. But what else could he do if he wanted to go through the poor bastard's pockets?

Palmer's right hand was largely useless given due to the nature of his position. But as he wiggled in closer he was able to pat the dead man down with his left hand, searching for anything useful. An exploration of the upper torso turned up an iPod Nano in the stiff's shirt pocket. But, as Palmer's hand slid lower, he came across an unnatural lump.

The pants were pulled tight, the body was rigid, and Palmer found it difficult to get his fingers into the pocket. Gradually his efforts became more and more aggressive until he was no longer treating the body with the respect normally due a human corpse, but rather as a
thing
which had to be overcome. Finally cloth ripped, his searching fingers found the lump, and he felt a moment of joy as he realized what he had. It was a clasp knife. The kind with a rubberized grip and a three or four inch blade. A real serious weapon indeed.

Careful to keep a tight grip on his new found treasure Palmer pushed the body away. Now, having armed himself, it was time to plan.

***

Ralph was at the wheel of the big motor coach. And it was he who had chosen to take U.S. Route 26 out of Portland rather than follow one of the more heavily traveled routes. That was partially because Ralph was a country boy and liked the idea of a rural road trip. But there was an additional reason as well. He had two bodies stashed down in “the basement” as he referred to the compartment located beneath the motor home. And Ralph figured there would be plenty of places to get rid of the stiffs out in the boonies.

So as
That Summer
, by Garth Brooks, blasted out of the sound system, and the sunlit countryside rolled past Ralph was a happy man. All of the rocks taken from the convention center robbery had been sold to the man who conceived of the scheme. A talky sort who was not only a dealer—but one of the people who had been robbed. A slick deal indeed since Mr. Green as the man liked to call himself, would get an insurance check in addition to whatever the loot brought in on the black market.

That meant Ralph had
his
share of the money, plus Flo's because she didn't care about money, and Solly's since he was dead. And deservedly so given his attempt to take the entire payout and run. Fortunately Ralph caught Solly red handed. After roping him to a chair the rest of the gang took turns slapping the traitor around until they grew tired of it. Then Ralph put a bullet in his head. One fifth of the loot had gone to his nephew Joey and another fifth had gone to his girlfriend. The couple were given orders to burn the apartment complex before heading out on a road trip of their own. The whole thing was a work of art.

The thought caused Ralph to chuckle and glance over at Flo. She continued to stare straight ahead. That was one of the things Ralph liked about Flo. The woman was ugly, but she never ran her mouth, and was useful. Like when it came to loading the bodies for example. And now that they were on the road, headed south, she was easy to get along with. Ralph figured he would have to kill her eventually, but not for awhile yet, since he hated to cook.

The hula girl on the dashboard swayed seductively as the motor home entered a curve. A sheer cliff rose to the right. The John Day river was off to the left and about thirty feet below the highway. Greenery grew up along the top of the slope and there were pullouts every once in awhile. So, Ralph figured that if he pulled over to where he could remove the stiffs from the river side of the coach, the people who passed by wouldn't be able to see what he was up to. That would allow him get the chore over before the steadily increasing stink got even worse.

It would be a simple matter to roll the bodies down the bank into the river. They would be found of course. But the motor coach would be long gone by then. All he had to do was find the right spot.

Having formulated his plan Ralph began to monitor the other side of the road. Almost ten minutes had passed, and Garth was singing about a rodeo rider, when the perfect pullout appeared up ahead. It was large enough to accommodate the coach—but too small for anyone else to park next to them. “Hang onto your panties,” Ralph said, as he activated the turn signal. “We're going to stop and take out the trash.”

Flo looked alarmed. “No stop,” she said insistently. “No stop.”

Ralph sighed as he began to brake. Flo was no retard. He knew that. But there was a very real possibility that she was crazy. The trip south being the thing she was crazy about. “Don't worry, hon,” he replied. “It will only take a moment. Then we'll be back on the road again. Okay?”

There was a moment of silence, finally followed by a grudging, “Okay.”

Ralph stopped, waited for a pickup to pass, and hit the gas. Moments later the motor coach was positioned right where he wanted it, which was at the top of a steep bank with the river below. “All right,” Ralph said, as he checked to make sure the chrome plated .38 was in the right hand pocket of his jacket. “Let's take care of business.”

Flo said something unintelligible before getting up and making her way back through a messy living area. Ralph followed her back to the door on the passenger side. From there it was only a couple of steps down onto the ground. He was pleased to see that the blue-green water was rushing past at a good clip.

Ralph turned, saw that Flo was licking a rock, and shook his head disgustedly. “What's wrong with you? Put that thing down. We have work to do.”

***

Palmer wasn't asleep, but he wasn't awake either, as the motor coach slowed and came to a halt. He was in some sort of strange in between state. An act of will was required to break himself out of the reverie and focus. That meant battling a ferocious headache, a terrible thirst, and the fear in his belly. He had a weapon. That was true. But it would be nothing against a gun and the ball bat that had been used on him before.

Where was the machine anyway? In a gas station? If so maybe he should bang in the door.

Palmer heard the sound of muffled conversation, followed by the crunch of boots on loose gravel, and the rattle of keys so he knew the coach was somewhere Flo and her boyfriend considered to be safe. Shouting for help would not only constitute a waste of time but earn him a bullet.

Light flooded into the storage compartment and Palmer could see it through closed eyelids. “Damn!” a male voice said. “What a stink. These guys are ripe.”

There was movement as someone pulled the tray-like shelf that Palmer was resting on out into the open. He felt the welcome warmth of sunlight on his face and heard the sound of rushing water.