Red Tide (18 page)

33

T
he mayor was livid. “How could you hang me out to dry like that?”

Harry Dobson kept his face bored and his voice neutral. “The information
was
and
is
part of an ongoing homicide investigation. It’s not the kind of thing we release.”

“The information could be germane to finding these damn people who are threatening to destroy—”

Harry interrupted. “The feds sure as hell don’t think so. The only information I know of that could possibly be of use to a terrorist investigation is the route that Mr. Bohannon took while driving around the city last night. I’ve got a pair of competent men checking that angle right now.” He threw a hand at the collection of agency heads huddled on the far side of the room. “You think these ham-handed feds here could do a better job than my men…you’re just plain crazy.”

“Makes us look like small-time operators out for ourselves.”

Harry shook his head. “I respectfully disagree, Your Honor. What it makes us look like is a competent law enforcement agency, following standard investigative procedures to the letter.”

Harry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the coaster. “I think we better get our panel of experts back together,” he said.

The mayor hesitated and then took the coaster from Harry’s fingers. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and began to read. Harry watched the words form on his lips. “The next batch of virus will become airborne in thirty hours and will live for thirty days.”

The mayor swallowed hard and read the message again. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.

Harry told him everything…except the part about how he believed this was the same woman Corso had seen in the bus tunnel.

“You saw this Israeli woman leave this on the table?” the mayor asked.

“No. I found it in the area she had vacated.”

“So we don’t even know for sure—”

Harry cut him off. “No, we don’t.”

“Then we better be careful about what we say.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

The mayor slapped the coaster against his hip in disgust. “Can this be true?”

“I don’t know, but we darn well better find out.”

The pager on his right hip went off. His wife. Third time she’d paged him in the past two hours. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to the mayor as he reached for his phone. Gary Dean turned quickly and walked away.

“I saw it on the news,” Kathleen said as soon as she picked up.

“It’s ugly,” Harry said.

“A hundred sixteen dead?”

“Hundred eighteen,” Harry corrected.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he assured her.

She had something to say but was holding back. Harry could sense it. “What’s up?” he asked, trying to make it easy for her.

“I made some calls this morning.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Caregivers.”

“Ah.”

“Somebody who could be with Dad full-time.”

“And?”

“It’s steep.” She named a monthly figure.

“We’ll figure something out,” he said.

“One of them could start now,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

Harry held his breath. “Why don’t you stay there for a while. Interview a bunch of these people. Get me some names and addresses. I could make a call or two and have somebody over there run a little background check on all of them.”

She wasn’t fooled. “You don’t want me back there do you?” When Harry didn’t answer, she pressed. “I thought you told me things were okay.”

“Just stay where you are for a few more days,” Harry said.

A silence settled over the phone line.

“Listen…I gotta go,” Harry said.

“Be careful,” she said.

“I always am.”

“I love you.”

“Me too.”

Dougherty stared distractedly out the side window of the car as they pulled a hard hundred-and-fifty-degree left turn off Denny Way onto the last little spur of Third Avenue. The white arches of the Pacific Science Center loomed overhead like the discarded cocoon of some long-vanished insect. She fell against the door as they leaned right around the corner onto Broad Street. Feeling Corso’s eyes on the side of her face, she looked his way. Corso started to speak, but she cut him off.

“Don’t,” she said. “Just leave me alone.”

He held up a restraining hand. Kept his mouth shut.

The light changed. Gutierrez wheeled the Ford through the intersection, put the left-turn signal on and moved over a lane. Elliott Bay came into view now, from this angle jagged and black as an agate out beyond the foot of Broad Street. To the north, over the top of Myrtle Edwards Park, a trio of grain tankers stood by the Pier Eighty-Six grain terminal, empty holds waiting to be filled with eastern Washington wheat before heading out through the straits for the green Pacific and Asia beyond.

“How far, miss?” Gutierrez asked as he wheeled the car along the deserted street.

“All the way down to the bottom and turn left,” she said.

The Ford crested the hill and started down to the waterfront. Toward the half-mile tourist promenade along the edge of the bay, where a gauntlet of tourist traps, waterborne adventures and curio shops stood ready to separate the traveler from his folding money.

Even with the windows rolled up and a stiff breeze hissing around the car, the roar of the train whistle reached their ears. “Oh shit,” Gutierrez said.

He jogged to the left again, over into the turn lane, and gave the car some gas, but it was already too late. A block and a half ahead, the safety barrier had eased down across the roadway. The train whistled again, this time closer and louder. The deep roar of the diesel engines vibrated the car windows. Gutierrez braked the car to a halt less than a foot from the red and white striped barrier, then flopped himself against the back of the driver’s seat in frustration. He looked back over his shoulder at Corso and Dougherty. “Could be a while,” he said disgustedly.

He was right. Burlington Northern trains were not only prodigiously long but were restricted as to how fast they could travel through the urban core, an unfortunate combination of circumstances which often led to interminable waits at downtown train crossings as a seemingly endless stream of graffitied car carriers and container cars inched through the city, bringing crosstown traffic to a complete standstill.

As Corso sat and waited for the train to appear, he noticed Gutierrez’s reflection in the rearview mirror. He watched as the detective reached up with a thick knobby hand and adjusted the mirror slightly, frowned and then turned and looked over his shoulder out the rear window of the car. His brown brow looked like a freshly plowed field.

“Now…what in hell is this about?” Gutierrez asked himself out loud. He popped the door lock and began to step out of the car.

Harry Dobson pulled open the door to his private office area and stepped inside. The outer office was quiet, and he was grateful for the calm. The serenity was, however, short-lived. Margy looked up. “Lotta people looking for you, Chief,” she said.

“I’m sure,” Harry said.

“The mayor’s called four times in the past ten minutes,” she said as Harry crossed the room and stepped into his private office overlooking Sixth Avenue. To the south, the Port of Seattle’s orange loading cranes rose above the stadiums. He closed the door. Ten minutes was how long it had taken Harry to duck out the service door of the hotel and walk the five blocks to the Public Safety Building. He heard the click and then Margy’s voice was coming from his speaker phone.
“The mayor says the experts will be gathering at one in the Critical Incident Room.”

Harry walked over and pushed the red button. “Tell him I’ll be there. What else?”

“Lieutenant Pirillo from Downtown says you asked him to send a detective team to the…”

Harry winced. He reached out and locked the button down and then shrugged himself clear of his jacket. “Get back to him. Give him my apologies. Tell him I’ll get in touch when things slow down.”

“I’ve got a bunch of stuff for Detective Hart, who for some reason doesn’t seem to be answering his radio.”

Harry hung the coat in the closet and closed the door.

“Such as?”

“The Canadian Immigration report he requested.”

“Bring it in here, please.”

Click. Ten seconds later, the door eased open. Harry thanked her.

He began pulling electronic devices from his belt, shaking his head at the amount of equipment he carried these days—two phones, two pagers—until he found the one he was looking for. He held the transmitter in front of his mouth, pushed the big white button and said, “Detective Hart.”

Almost instantly, the reply came, “Yes, Chief.”

“The Canadians came up with…”

Charly Hart must have forgotten to release the
SEND
button, because he certainly wasn’t speaking to the chief when he began to shout, “Hey now…goddammit…hey…” Harry could hear other voices. A woman screamed. The deep roar of an engine filled the tiny speaker until it buzzed. “Detective Hart,” Harry called.

The roar of the diesel engines had begun rising in his ears when Bobby Darling felt Holmes suddenly stiffen in the driver’s seat. The man’s usually implacable features were a mask of confusion. He’d never before seen Holmes appear this concerned about anything.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Holmes bobbed his head slightly, indicating the gold Ford Taurus in front of them. The one nosed right up to the red and white barrier. “It’s those same cops,” Holmes said.

“From the house?”

“Yes.”

A shiver ran down Bobby’s spine like a frozen ball bearing.

“What are they doing
here?”

“Yeah,” Holmes said.

And then a big hand reached up and adjusted the Ford’s rearview mirror. Bobby could see the top half of the cop’s face in the glass. He watched a question form on the cop’s forehead. Watched as the guy swiveled his head and looked back their way in astonishment. Watched his lips move as he said something. Whatever it was he said got everyone’s attention, as the other three people then followed suit, craning their necks to the rear, staring back at Holmes and Bobby.

“You think they—” Bobby started.

And then the train rolled into view. A massive soot-covered Burlington Northern diesel, pushed along by another and yet another behind that, like a parade of dirty green elephants, joined trunk to tail for the journey south. The wet scream of its whistle shook the car on its springs.

And then…they were moving. Instinctively, Bobby reached up and grabbed the safety strap as the big Mercedes lurched forward, slamming into the back of the car in front of them, forcing the Ford forward, slowly at first, then faster and faster as Holmes brought the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

Ahead, the Ford’s driver was standing on the brakes and frantically working the gearshift lever…all to no avail, as the out-of-control car snapped the red and white barrier and skidded out onto the tracks, just in time for the lead locomotive to plow into the side, sweeping the Ford from the roadway like a leaf in a hurricane, sending it tumbling onto its side as the scream of tearing metal rose static in the air. The last image Bobby collected was of the car rolling yet again on its way down the tracks, of the roof collapsing, of pieces of the car being torn off, of a steady stream of sparks, of the plaintive wail of the train whistle in his ears as Holmes pulled a U-turn and went tearing back up the deserted street.

The feeling in Jim Sexton’s chest was so foreign and so nearly forgotten that he came within a whisker of not recognizing the sensation when it arrived. And then…sitting in the passenger seat rolling down Third Avenue, he started getting radio reception from another galaxy. Sense images really. The first one green with a little bit of white…it took him a minute to recognize. A football field. And then…he was there…smiling in his red and gold uniform. Old number twenty-seven. Reserve safety for the Inglemoor Vikings. It was at that moment when the oft-run movie of his single moment of glory in an otherwise ignominious high school football career flashed before his eyes. Nineteen eighty-eight. The Bothell game. He’s on the field only because both the starter Kerry Nash and his backup Richard Oyler have already been carted off with injuries.

They’ve got Bothell backed up to their own five-yard line. Bothell’s fullback takes the ball on a sweep, when, without being hit, he just up and drops the ball on the ground. The ball takes one low hop and then bounces straight up in the air, where it lands in Jim’s arms and stays there long enough for him to lug it the five yards for the score.

For a day and a half he’s a piece of the continent, a part of the main, not just the dweeb who does the morning news on the school station, but one of the inner circle.

In many ways, for Jim Sexton, that thirty-six hours was as good as it ever got.

His pager beeped once. The station. The sound pulled him from his reverie and damped the warm glow in his innards. Pete looked over dubiously and then went back to driving. The unasked question was whether their actions made them conquering heroes or plague carriers. Jim lifted the radio handset from its hook on the dashboard and brought it to his mouth. “Jim Sexton here,” he said.

“Robert Tilden here,” came the reply.

Jim winced, waiting for the hammer to fall.

“Jim…er…wait a second…Mr. Lehane wants to have a word with you.”

Jim rolled his eyes and pushed the button. “Okay,” he said.

Ten seconds passed and then Albert Lehane’s rough voice came rasping out of the speaker. “Jim?”

“Here, sir.”

“Hell of a job, son. Hell of a job.”

Jim and Pete exchanged relief-filled glances.

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s what TV news is all about. Getting what nobody else can get.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What I want…” Lehane began and then stopped.

Lehane was still holding the
SEND
button. Jim could hear another voice coming over the line and then the news director’s voice again, half an octave higher.