China Lake (31 page)

Sweat prickled on my forehead. Steal the toxin? Chenille Wyoming, come on down.

My dad said, ‘‘Tell me why you want to know this, Sis.’’

Chenille hadn’t wanted Kevin Eichner to filch drugs for treating chemical warfare casualties. Quite the opposite. She wanted to kick-start Armageddon by loosing the plagues of the Apocalypse.

Holding the phone, trying to keep calm, I walked out onto the deck. I said, ‘‘It’s going to sound crazy.’’

His voice crackled. ‘‘The people Tabitha’s mixed up with, you think they’re trying to obtain BW agents?’’

The ocean was glassy blue, the tang of salt sharp in the air. Out beyond the surf line a pelican raced along above the sea’s surface. The Remnant, I knew, did not see this scene. They saw an entirely different version of the world, one hidden from light, similar to what physicists call dark matter—a universe where unseen forces clash, creating and destroying, controlling our destinies. And Chenille wanted to seed the clouds, unleash the storm. She thought that if she did she’d end up running the show: high priestess of the aftermath.

I said, ‘‘Yes, that’s what I think.’’

A long, transpacific quiet stretched across the phone line. Then he said, ‘‘Aum Shinrikyo carried out the sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway. And the Rajneeshis up in Oregon sprayed salmonella over salad bars in restaurants, sickened over seven hundred and fifty people. What you’re thinking isn’t crazy, Evan."

"Thanks, Dad."

He said, ‘‘Is there someone at the police department you can trust to believe you?’’

I exhaled. ‘‘No. Not on such thin evidence. They’d think it’s speculation.’’

‘‘Listen,’’ he said. ‘‘From a perpetrator’s viewpoint, there are several advantages to engaging in chemical and biological warfare. One is ease of delivery— planting bug bombs, crop dusting on a cool night, there’s just a whole slew of do-it-yourself ways to wipe out a large population. Another is the potential for escape. Germs incubate for days, weeks, even months. Biowar’s effects aren’t as immediate as those of a bullet. A terrorist can be long gone before evidence of the attack starts appearing.

‘‘In fact,’’ he said, ‘‘biowar victims may not even know they’ve been attacked. One thing that makes this a nightmare scenario is that you can have a hell of a time determining whether you’re under assault, or are being struck by a natural epidemic.’’

A tickle started again, deep in my brain, the one that I’d been feeling off and on for the past few days.

‘‘Here’s the thing,’’ he said. ‘‘You tell me this church is planning some sort of attack to occur around Halloween. That’s a week from now. If they intend to release biological agents, they may do it before then. They may already have done it.’’

I stood up straight, feeling as if I had been jabbed with an ice pick. It was right in front of me. Incubation periods. Disease vectors. Emerging outbreaks and epidemics.

I said aloud, ‘‘Rabies.’’

Could rabies have been inflicted on Neil Jorgensen intentionally? If so, it meant that the coydog attack in China Lake had also been deliberate—and that the animal had been meant to assault me, not Abbie. The fact that the coydog had been domesticated now seemed sinister. It had eaten commercial dog food not long before its death, implying that it had been under human control in a rabid state. Was it possible? Thinking back to that night outside the Lobo, I recalled walking to my car, finding the vandalism, and looking around, seeing another car race away. The vandal, I had thought. But perhaps the vandal had dropped off more than spray paint.

My dad was skeptical. The military worried about many CBW—chemical and biological warfare—agents, he said, ranging from bubonic plague and smallpox to wheat rust and foot-and-mouth disease. Rabies was not high on that list. It acted slowly and was not easily transmissible. ‘‘Also, to weaponize a biological warfare agent you need an effective delivery system, one that can efficiently aerosolize the agent.’’ Drily, he added, ‘‘Coyotes don’t fit that bill.’’

But rabies was one of those pathogens that were plentiful in nature, I said. The disease was endemic in California’s wild animal population, which was why parents taught their kids not to touch raccoons or possums. Trapping a rabid animal would require only patience, not sophistication. Likewise creating a kennel of infected wildlife. ‘‘We’re not talking about rogue states tipping missiles with the stuff. We’re talking about people obsessed with germs, itchy to get rid of folks they consider unclean.’’ People who hankered after SPAM, Cheetos, and Doomsday.

He wasn’t convinced. ‘‘Okay,’’ I said, ‘‘don’t call it bioterrorism. Call it biohomicide.’’ Rabies wasn’t an efficient germ warfare agent. Just lethal.

He said, ‘‘You need more evidence.’’

After I hung up, I told Luke to get in the car. We had enough time before we were supposed to meet Jesse. We drove downtown to the
News-Press
building. The willows in the plaza outside undulated in the breeze. The sun spread warmly across the building’s red tile roof and lay chalk white on its adobe walls. Sally Shimada came to the lobby looking polished in a coral twinset that accented her glossy black hair.

‘‘You must be here to pay off the favor you owe me.’’ She smiled down at Luke. ‘‘Hello, young man.’’

He leaned against me. ‘‘Hi.’’

She said, ‘‘Your brother has agreed to the interview? ’’

‘‘No. But I have news that’ll stand your hair on end. Depending on what you’ve found out about Neil Jorgensen’s death.’’

She tried to look peeved, but couldn’t hold back. ‘‘It’s going to be page one.’’ She looked at the receptionist, and took my arm. ‘‘Let’s go outside.’’

We sat on a park bench while Luke kicked a soccer ball across the lawn of the plaza, the sun shining on his dark hair.

‘‘Jorgensen contracted rabies from a bat,’’ she said. ‘‘Analysis of his virus samples showed a strain that bats carry. And it gets more interesting. The spooky thing about bats is that they can bite you and you won’t even know it. Honestly. They’re quiet, and their bite barely leaves a mark. They can nip you while you’re sleeping and you won’t even wake up.’’

‘‘That’s—’’

‘‘Creepy. What typically happens is that Joe Blow comes into the ER hallucinating and unable to swallow. The doctors suspect rabies but his family says he hasn’t been bitten by an animal. Then, finally, they remember seeing a bat flying around his bedroom a couple of months back. But it’s too late. Joe’s dead.’’

‘‘I know we have bats around here, but—’’

‘‘Wait. Public Health found evidence of bats in the attic at Jorgensen’s house. You know, guano. Spattered on the floor.’’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘‘The bats had gotten in through a hole between the chimney and the roof. But the hole was sealed up with Brillo pads.’’

An image of Jorgensen’s attic formed in my mind. Spattered white droppings, brown furry forms clustered darkly in the rafters. It was an image I had seen before, in life. I tried to focus, to see it. Couldn’t.

I said, ‘‘Steel wool is about the only thing you can stick in a hole to keep animals out of your attic. It hurts their noses.’’

‘‘You don’t get it. The Brillo pads sealed the bats
inside
Jorgensen’s attic. He shut the bats in the house with him. He signed his own death warrant.’’

She was bubbling.
Page one
. It was like cocaine to her. I stared through her, trying to recall where I’d seen the image. . . . I grabbed her arm.

She said, ‘‘What?’’

Angels’ Landing. In the barn. Droppings spattered on old vehicles, and above them nesting forms hanging from the rafters.

I said, ‘‘Jorgensen’s death wasn’t a home pest problem gone wrong.’’

Her eyes were shiny, pinned on me. My head was pounding.

I said, ‘‘Let’s call Public Health.’’

I reached the Health Department investigator who had interviewed me earlier, letting him know that Sally was listening on an extension across her desk.

‘‘I heard about the bats and the Brillo pads in Neil Jorgensen’s attic,’’ I said. Then I leaped. ‘‘The hole where the bats got in. Was it natural or artificial?’’

Deep, uneasy silence. ‘‘Ma’am, I think you’d better explain that remark.’’

Direct hit. Across the desk, Sally’s eyes lit up.

I said, ‘‘Someone drilled or chopped a hole into Dr. Jorgensen’s attic, didn’t they? I bet you found fresh chunks of drywall and stucco on the floor inside.’’

‘‘I am not going to comment on that. Our investigation is ongoing. Now, would you please explain how you came up with such a theory?’’

‘‘Call it a hunch.’’

‘‘You’ll have to do better than that.’’

‘‘No, I think you will.’’ I hung up.

Sally said, ‘‘Oh, my
God
. How did you know? Where are you going?’’

I was halfway out the door. ‘‘To the police. Before Public Health calls and tells them I put rabid bats in Jorgensen’s attic. And Sally? We’re even. I just paid off my favor.’’

The detective, Chris Ramseur, was a placid young man with a banker’s soft hands. He sat behind his battered metal desk at the police station sipping coffee from a stained
Star Trek
mug, listening to me lay out my theories, occasionally glancing toward the lobby, where a female desk sergeant was entertaining Luke. He wore a knit tie and blue checkered shirt and looked like an English teacher, perhaps one at the end of a tough week. Except for the eyes—his were hard and calculating. Calculating me.

I laid it out for him. The Remnant was assembling an arsenal, and it included not just firearms, but biological agents. Kevin Eichner had refused to steal drugs for Chenille, but Glory had gotten hold of Botox, at the cost of Mel Kalajian’s life.

He had Glory’s photo out on his desk. ‘‘This woman hasn’t been turning up for work. We can’t locate her.’’

Meaning they could neither verify nor disprove her involvement.

I stepped it up to the next level. Public Health, I said, would tell him that rabid bats were put into Neil Jorgensen’s attic through a hole that was deliberately drilled, and then filled with Brillo pads.

Ramseur steepled his fingers. ‘‘You think the Remnant did this?’’

‘‘Yes. I think Dr. Jorgensen figured out that the drug thieves belonged to the church, and perhaps that they were after Botox. They wanted to get rid of him. But murdering both him and his partner would have drawn attention back to the medical practice and the robbery. So they found a way to make it look like a tragic illness.’’

Ramseur nodded. He finished his
Star Trek
coffee. I waited.

‘‘I understand you’re an author. Science fiction,’’ he said, and I thought, I’m cooked. ‘‘This is a fascinating theory you’ve developed.’’

He opened a file folder. Now he was no longer the friendly English teacher, but the vice principal, pulling out my permanent record.

‘‘You’ve developed quite an entanglement with the Remnant.’’

In the folder I saw a police report and the word
fax
. It had to be from the China Lake police department.

He said, ‘‘Witness to Neil Jorgensen’s accident. Report of intruders in your residence, allegedly belonging to the Remnant. Arrest in Kern County for damaging a sheriff’s department cruiser. Plus frequent mentions of your name in the paper. Oh, and your brother’s arrest for the murder of Peter Wyoming.’’

He drummed his fingers on the folder. ‘‘Why do I seem to hear ‘Dueling Banjos’ in the background?’’

I spread my hands out flat on his desk. ‘‘This is not some hillbilly vendetta between my family and the church. You know the Remnant is dangerous. I’m trying to tell you exactly how dangerous. They’re not going to wait around for Jesus to call them long-distance; they’re going to light up the night. Soon.’’

‘‘I understand your concerns, Ms. Delaney. Thank you for bringing this information to our attention.’’

My face felt hot and tight when I got up and went to get Luke.

The lobby had turned loud. A little girl stood at the desk crying, and a woman was holding up a ball-peen hammer, saying, ‘‘I want him arrested!’’ The desk sergeant was staring into a shoe box on the counter.

‘‘What,’’ the cop said, ‘‘is that?’’

The little girl’s face puckered and she let out a droning wail. ‘‘It’s Tooter. My hamster.’’

The mother said, ‘‘It got loose, and next thing we hear the neighbors screaming, saying, ‘Watch out for the teeth!’ ’’ She waved the hammer. ‘‘This is the weapon he used.’’

The little girl wailed. The cop backed away from the shoe box. ‘‘Tooter was rabid?’’

I grabbed Luke and walked out.

The courthouse takes up a city block, its dense white walls rising like cliffs, flanked by palm trees, giving off an aura of Spanish heat. Late-afternoon sun was etching the mountain ridges gold. Across the street from the courthouse entrance, the green Dodge pickup was parked in front of a fire hydrant. People noticed the man behind the wheel, whittling at a pencil with a pocketknife, and the woman next to him, sucking on a chocolate milk shake.

Inside the courthouse, Jesse was walking along the tiled hallway, talking to a paralegal. The day had been rough, fighting motions filed by Skip Hinkel. The paralegal commented that this whole trial could have been avoided if crusty, eccentric Anita Krebs had only prosecuted Priscilla Gaul for burglary. If she’d been convicted, Gaul couldn’t have sued for her injuries. But Anita thought she had suffered enough, losing her hand, and hadn’t pressed charges.

‘‘Yeah,’’ Jesse said, ‘‘rough justice can turn out rougher than people expect.’’ He put on his sunglasses, about to go outside.

The woman in the green pickup sucked up the last drops of her chocolate shake and chucked the paper cup out the window. Passersby scowled but she ignored them, staring at the courthouse entrance. Jesse and the paralegal came through the archway. The man behind the wheel flicked shut his pocketknife.