Ill Wind (21 page)

“Take more than a gallon to get to a town where you can trade in a rental car.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Bobby Carron. I don’t have a spare gas can, but I do have a hose. We could siphon some of my gas into your tank. That should get you to Lone Pine, about twenty miles back on 136.”

“All I need is a phone.”

“Then that’ll do ya. Ridgecrest is where I’m heading, China Lake Naval Weapons Center. A lot bigger city, but that’ll take you an hour. If you got a leaky gas tank, I wouldn’t chance it.”

Bobby Carron rummaged around in the back of his jeep, finally pulling out a length of narrow hose. “I do a lot of off-roading in this puppy. Need to be prepared for most anything.”

From the dust and caked mud on the sides of the jeep, Spencer could imagine some of the places Bobby Carron might have taken his vehicle. “Anything I can do to help?” asked Spencer.

“Yeah, pop your gas tank,” Bobby said, sliding one end of the hose into his own tank. He got down on his knees, put the end of the tube in his mouth and sucked, puckering his cheeks as he drew gasoline out of his tank.

When fuel finally gushed out, Bobby grimaced and spat, then jammed the other end of the hose into Spencer’s tank. The spoiled reek drifted out of the rental car’s gas tank. “Problems with the catalytic converter, I think,” Spencer repeated Dick Morgret’s diagnosis.

Bobby sniffed. “I smell like that myself when I’ve had too much Mexican food.”

Bobby let a few gallons flow into Spencer’s car,
then
pulled out the hose, letting the gas trickle back into his jeep’s tank. “That should take you far enough to get some decent help. Sorry I couldn’t do more, but I gotta get back to the base.”

“You’re a life saver, Bobby. Thanks a million!”

Bobby made a dismissive gesture. “No problem. Glad to be of service.” He rolled up the hose and tossed it in back of his jeep. “Let’s prime your carburetor so you can get going.”

Spencer let Bobby tinker under the hood for a few moments. “All right, try it!” Bobby said.

Spencer started the car, heaving a sigh of relief to hear the engine rumbling. If his tank did indeed have a leak, he would lead-foot it to the next town. He’d had enough of this supposedly relaxing side trip. It was time to call an end to this vacation, and just get himself back to White Sands.

Bobby Carron honked the jeep’s horn as he spun around, then peeled off on the desert highway toward the China Lake Naval Base.

Chapter 25

The coffee at Stanford’s Tressider Union wasn’t any better than the stuff from Iris Shikozu’s own pot—but sometimes she just had to get out of the lab, smell the morning air, and watch the other students going about their business.

When she had only light teaching duties to muddle her post-doc work, she took a break each morning to sit under one of the red-and-white umbrellas at Tressider, sipping coffee as she read the student paper. But today she took a large cup to go and tucked a copy of the paper under her arm.

A shocking picture of a scrawny, grime-smeared black man holding an oil-smothered pelican dominated the front. An old photo of
herself
, oversized glasses and all, appeared in the lower right-hand corner. The article said that Stanford researcher Iris Shikozu had overseen the Prometheus spraying. The reporter made Iris out to be a patsy for the big oil company, while Todd Severyn and Alex Kramer, not to mention Oilstar management, were the bad guys. Some students, irate at her involvement, had made crank phone calls to her lab, but Iris just snapped back at them.

On the kiosks she had seen flyers announcing a rally against Oilstar that morning, but the turnout of protesters was much lighter than Iris expected—only a few people waving banners and attempting to pass out leaflets to other students who had no interest. Their noise seemed insignificant in the laid-back flow of students in the mall.

Stanford hadn’t experienced a real protest in years, but she thought that frustration over the
Zoroaster
spill would have brought the demonstrators out screaming. Maybe everyone wanted to see if Prometheus worked before they complained—and although thick crude continued to gurgle from the sunken tanker, the spreading slick was shrinking measurably.

A few people claimed a connection between Prometheus and the rash of car breakdowns supposedly caused by a “bad batch” of gasoline from the Oilstar refinery. To disprove those rumors, Iris herself agreed to perform a quickie analysis for one of the TV stations looking for a scoop, just to prove that the two couldn’t be linked. She had even shipped blind samples via overnight mail to a few of her colleagues.

Now, as she took her styrofoam cup of coffee and made her way across campus, dodging bicyclists and skateboarders, Iris barely noticed the groups of students playing tag-football, frisbee, or just lazing in the sun. By the time she returned to her lab, the combustion-product spectrograph analysis of the bad gasoline would be complete.

The door to her lab was unlocked. Refilling her cup from the coffee pot at the table, Iris listened to the answering machine. After a message from the TV station querying about her analysis, Todd Severyn’s twangy voice came on, stuttering in an attempt to ask her to return the call. She smiled. It must have been hard for the old cowboy to ask her to do that.
I wonder what he’d be like in bed
. .
. .

Sipping the coffee, Iris strode around the gas chromatograph hooked up to the experimental chamber, then slid into the chair and tapped on the keyboard. This would prove once and for all there was no connection between the breakdowns and Prometheus.

A long string of numbers appeared, highlighting an array of expected parameters. Frowning, Iris clicked on an additional data file and compared the two in silence. It didn’t make any sense.

She put down her cup, intently watching the screen. The jagged trace of a spectrograph jittered across the monitor, exactly matching the first.

She ran back her analysis of the Prometheus microbe eating the spilled oil and a sample she had obtained of the supposedly bad gasoline.

No difference.

The Prometheus microbe had infected the gas tanks in the cars that had broken down.

They
can’t
be the same!
she
thought. There was no vector. How did the microbe find its way into the gas tanks?

Her hands shook as she ran through her computerized
rolodex
to find Kramer’s number at Oilstar. First the Prometheus reaction rates were drastically different from what she had observed with her control specimen. Now, the organism seemed to have gotten into automobile gas tanks. Had it found a way to go airborne? Before giving her unofficial OK to the spraying operations, Iris had run numerous tests on the control sample—none of this should have been possible.

Unless Kramer had used two different microbes: one for her initial tests, and a more voracious one to be sprayed onto the Bay . . . where it would cause all sorts of havoc.

After six rings, a computerized voice instructed her to leave a voicemail message for Dr. Kramer. She hung up and tried again. Who could she call if Alex wasn’t around? She tried to remember—there was that jerk at the party . . . what was his name, Mitchell Stone? She dialed again, asking the Oilstar operator to connect her. Iris waited impatiently for him to answer, then finally slammed the phone down.

Damn!
She brushed her black hair with a quick swipe and reached for her coffee. Draining the dregs, she paced, thinking of Mitch Stone, then Kramer’s party . . . then Todd Severyn.

It
would
be an excuse to call him. Otherwise, that Wyoming cowboy would keep bugging her until she went out with him, saying “ma’am” and “aww, shucks” every chance he got. Normally, she wouldn’t allow herself to be distracted by personal affairs, but there was something about him . . . was it his honesty that attracted her to him, or his naiveté?

She decided to wait before calling Todd to see if he knew how to reach Alex Kramer. She would recheck her work.
First order of business.
Drawing in a breath, she turned back to the spectrometer. She vowed to watch over every incubation period, recheck every procedure until things turned out right.

#

Things didn’t turn out right.

Iris watched the screen, at a loss for words. Being overly meticulous, she had taken three hours to go through the two-hour checklist. In the meantime she placed cautious calls to the labs where she had Fed-Expressed blind samples the day before. Her colleagues confirmed her analysis, but she gave them no details.

Kramer’s microbes were breaking down the oil spill, and now they were in the gas tanks. Eating gasoline.

Another quick call to Oilstar confirmed that Kramer was still out. Frustrated, she hung up the phone just in time to have it
ring
again, startling her. She grabbed the receiver, but it was only the TV news crew bugging her about the analysis. She put them off by using multisyllable technical jargon and saying she needed to recalibrate her results. If she talked now, she would send them into a panic!

Her mind started to reel with the implications of what she had discovered.

No use putting it off anymore
;
Todd might know how to reach Kramer. Plus, he probably had more common sense than most Oilstar people.
Or anyone else, for that matter.
She tapped the black lab table for a moment,
then
returned to the phone.

Rewinding her answering machine, she listened to the message again and dialed Todd’s number.

Chapter 26

Just off the exit ramp Connor Brooks could see the colored lights of BP, Union 76, Shell, Chevron, Texaco, and Oilstar gas stations. If Connor was going to rip anybody off, he decided it should be Oilstar. No question about it. They had already done enough to him.

He had hiked in the breakdown lane from the dead hulk of the lavender Gremlin as traffic whooshed past. Though it was ten o’clock at night, cars pulled in and out of the gas stations clustered in the exit-ramp oasis in a steady stream.

He glanced at the cars at the pumps, but did not see what he was looking for, nothing he could use. The tile-roofed station looked too quaint to be real. He went inside the Star-Shoppe convenience store and, using some of the money Dave Hensch had given him, bought one of the three-foot-long ropes of jalapeno beef jerky. The overweight clod running the cash register looked about as interested in his job as an Army doctor checking a thousand new recruits for hernias.
All the better, Connor thought.
Then he went out to stand at the pay phone.

Connor chewed on his beef jerky, picked up the phone and pretended to talk into it as he watched the cars come and go.

A mustard-yellow Volkswagen bus, a silver Honda, a red Nissan pickup, a Chevy, another Honda, a Toyota, a big black Caddy, a rusty pickup piled high with old furniture and cardboard boxes, a low-rider El Camino, three Winnebago campers in a convoy. He saw college students in the cars, families with kids, grandma and grandpa with a poodle barking behind a rolled-up window, a group of college girls coming back from a skiing trip.

But Connor saw no opportunities. Still, shit would happen, if he waited long enough.

He hung up the phone, walked around the building,
then
went back to his vigil. He had eaten all but four inches of his beef jerky by the time he made his move.

An old station wagon with fake wood sidewalls pulled up; it had only one man inside. The driver opened the door and clambered out, dressed in old jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, needing a shave, and stumbling as if he had been driving for the last four years without a break. Like a horse with blinders on, the gangly man headed for the rest room. He left the station wagon’s lights on, the engine running. Perfect.

Connor strode toward the car. Hesitation only wasted time.

By the time the driver had slipped through the battered gray door of the men’s room, Connor reached the station wagon. Not the type of vehicle he would have preferred, but he wasn’t picky.

He opened the driver’s door and slid inside. Connor’s heart pounded. No one had seen anything yet. Maybe this would teach the jerk to be more careful next time.

The seats were worn, and the interior smelled like burned garbage. The
ash tray
overflowed with crushed-out cigarillo tips. Connor scowled. Slob! But he didn’t care, as long as the car could take him to Flagstaff, Arizona. He adjusted the seat, gunned the engine,
then
put the station wagon into gear. “Ready or not, here I come!”

Just as the station wagon started moving, the gangly driver suddenly walked out of the rest room. He stopped for a moment, as if astonished to see someone stealing his car. Then he jumped in front of the station wagon, waving his hands for Connor to stop.

What? Does he think I’m stupid?

Connor jammed the
gear shift
into reverse and lurched away from the driver. The man had stringy black hair, dripping wet, as if he had just gone in to splash cold water on his face. His flannel shirt hung unbuttoned over a grimy t-shirt, flapping like wings as he flailed his arms.