Edge of Black (17 page)

He hit the speaker.

“You’re up late.”

“No rest for the wicked.”

“Inez has Marc Conlon’s computer.”

“Excellent. Listen, I’ve got good news. We’ve caught a break. Our attacker miscalculated. He dropped a backpack and clothes in an out-of-the-way subway Dumpster that is normally emptied at eight every morning. But because of the panic, no one went in to empty it until this evening, and they were under instructions to look for anything out of place when they did. There was an address recovered, there’s a team headed there now.”

Finally. A break.

“Give it to me, I’ll meet them there.”

“You stay on our victims. We need all the information we can get on them.”

“Come on, Andi. That’s not fair. I want to be in on the bust. If this is our guy, I want to be the one talking to him.”

He heard her talking in the background, then she came back.

“You will be. But you can’t go in without the proper gear. So get your fanny back here on the double, then you can head to the scene.” She hung up, and Fletcher barely refrained from screaming at her. He wasn’t the only person on this team, knew everyone had their roles. But damn it, he wanted to be there when they snatched this guy up.

He gunned it. He was only ten minutes away; if he hurried he’d be able to grab his gear and make the bust.

* * *

Fletcher arrived at the scene just as the team made entry on their new suspect’s apartment. They were in the Adams Morgan neighborhood, up the street from an Ethiopian restaurant Fletcher had eaten at once, at three in the morning, after a night out on the town. Run by natives, it served the traditional bread of their land, and that had been Fletcher’s undoing—the thin loaf reminded him of dead skin pulled off a sunburned arm and he’d been forced to the gutter to lose the night’s excess. Just knowing it was nearby made him queasy in remembrance.

There was nothing like a good SWAT entry to make your blood rise. It was especially exciting at night, when anything could come out of the darkness. Monsters and weapons and shrieking women—one never knew what would be behind that door.

He stepped from the car and watched as men bristling with weapons rushed up three flights of stairs, took the door and disappeared inside. After a few moments, he heard the shouts of the team: “Clear.” “Clear.”

Which meant no suspect.

He jogged up the stairs to the apartment, a tiny studio on the third floor of the building. Even without a suspect, it didn’t take much to see that they’d hit pay dirt. He was careful not to touch anything—the apartment was lacking in most normal amenities, instead had a long, low desk along the wall, and a hard wooden chair, that was all. A dark-haired man was gingerly pushing a few things around on the desk with a pencil. Fletcher assumed it must be bomb-building equipment. It certainly wasn’t the leftovers of someone’s dinner.

“Jesus. What is all that?”

One of the SWAT men looked at Fletcher. “Sir? Do you have clearance?”

“Darren Fletcher, Metro Homicide, attached to the JTTF. Yes, I do. What do we have here?”

“Ah, Fletcher. Heard of you. I’m Brandt, lead explosives technician. Looks like someone was cooking acetone peroxide. If you look around you’ll see some nails, tacks, steel ball bearings and a few leftover canisters. I’d say we have someone carrying a bunch of explosives out there. He built his bombs here and God knows where he is now.”

THURSDAY

Chapter 32

Dillon, Colorado
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sunlight streamed in the windows, making the room glow with early-morning luster.

Sam smelled bleach and felt the unfamiliar bedclothes as she rolled over, and panicked for a moment, then remembered where she was. At Xander’s house.

The bed was empty, devoid of her reason for being here, but she smelled the delicious scent of bacon wafting up from the lower level, and hurried from the bed. The wood floor was warm under her bare feet. Clothes were stacked in a roughly hewn armoire. Sam looked at it in appreciation. Xander had told her his parents made everything they used, and had built everything in the house themselves, from floor studs to furniture. Sam had seen similar armoires in magazines, rustic old things that people were desperate to buy that reminded them of simpler times. She’d bet if they wanted to sell the piece it would fetch upward of $5,000.

She jumped in the shower, then investigated the clothes, which were surprisingly cute: a sundress made of soft nubbly hemp in burgundy, a lightweight tan wool cardigan, and underwear that she was convinced must have been made of freshly spun wool, as soft and fine as cashmere. Obviously Xander’s mom or his sister was about her size, because everything fit perfectly. These were a bit louder than her normal earthy hues, but beggars can’t be choosers. She slipped her feet into her loafers, happy to see that the neutral tan leather matched the sweater, so she looked quite put together, even if she wore another’s clothes.

It had been past midnight when they arrived at the farm in Dillon. The lights were burning but there was a note on the kitchen table— “You must be exhausted. Help yourself to the plates in the fridge. See you in the morning.”

Sam had been momentarily stung that they hadn’t waited up, then reminded herself how tired she was, and realized it was probably a good thing she didn’t have to put on a show because she was not at her best. The upset bled away and she recognized what a kind gesture Xander’s parents had made in letting them arrive without a fuss.

There had been cold meats and fruit on the plates, some homemade goat cheese, flaxseed wheat bread, and of course, a small pottery flagon of the promised dandelion wine. Sam skipped it. They wolfed down the meal and headed to bed and Sam was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Now rested and steeled for the event ahead, she was going to be fed again, which was good, because she was starving. She glanced in the mirror, gave her hair one last fluff. She was too old to be intimidated by meeting her boyfriend’s parents, but she was just the tiniest bit nervous. She wanted them to like her, for Xander’s sake as much as her own. The last time she’d met someone’s parents she’d been twenty-four and in medical school at Georgetown. A lifetime ago.

With a final smoothing of her skirt and twist of her hands, she headed down the stairs toward the delicious scents of her breakfast, recognizing she was walking into her future for the first time in years.

* * *

The three Whitfields had their backs to her as she descended the stairs, giving Sam a moment to appreciate the beauty of the house and the setting. The A-frame was in the alpine style; she descended into an open great room with a massive peaked two-story bank of windows overlooking the mountains and the pasture below. She was assailed by colors, a hundred shades of greens complemented by the pinks, purples, blues and yellows of the wildflowers, set off by the blatant cobalt sky dotted with cottony clouds and the browns of the woods. The windows were so clear it seemed there was nothing holding her back from reaching out into the open air. No one could have painted a prettier picture.

Then Xander turned, sensing her nearby, and his smile made it all disappear.

“Good morning. I hope you’re hungry, we’ve got enough to feed a battalion.”

His parents turned then and she saw where Xander got his dark good looks—he was the spitting image of his father, but with a more sensual mouth and slightly lighter hair, sable instead of jet, compliments of his blond mother.

Sunshine couldn’t have been more aptly named; she radiated a warm happy glow. She rushed over and enveloped Sam in a hug.

“Welcome, welcome! We are so glad to have you here. I’m so sorry we couldn’t wait up last night—I’m afraid once ten o’clock rolls around we are both out cold. Farmer’s hours. We tried to stay awake but we both nodded off. You found the clothes, good. Yellow thought the burgundy would look nice on you, and she was right.”

“This is one of Yellow’s dresses? I love it. Very comfortable.”

“It’s yours now, and there’s plenty more where that came from. If you’re not wearing sustainable yet, we’ll get you fixed right up. We have everything, clothes to toiletries. Once you try Yellow’s soaps you will never go back to that nasty manufactured stuff. No wonder the world is—”

“Sunshine,” Xander cautioned. “Hold the politics for five, would you? Let the girl eat in peace.”

His mother laughed, a musical tinkle that made all four of them smile. “Oh, Moonbeam, she already knows what we believe in. I’m sure you’ve told her all the horror stories.” She turned to Sam and whispered, “Don’t believe a thing. He’s such a
man
.”

Roth shook Sam’s hand and politely gestured for her to have a seat. He was stiffer than his wife, a little more formal, not quite the free spirit. “It’s good to meet you, Samantha. Moon has spoken of you often. You’ve made quite the impression on our boy.”

Xander blushed and rolled his eyes, which made Sam smile more.

The three bustled around for a moment then joined her at the table with a mountain of food.

“I hope you don’t mind eating clean, Sam,” Sunshine said. “We grow everything here, so there’s none of the pollution most folks eat. It’s all fresh, no preservatives, so no inflammation for your skin and bowels, and after a few meals with us, your system should regulate itself and start healing from the inside. You’re going to feel better, sleep better, everything.”

How could she say no to that?

“It all looks delightful, Sunshine. Thank you.”

And it did. Buckwheat pancakes, sunny yellow eggs with fresh butter and herbs, lean bacon, and more of the thick dense wheat bread from the night before.

“I will admit, I expected you to be vegans,” Sam said.

Roth fielded her statement. “A fair assumption, considering. But we can eat meat with no guilt, since we shoot it and skin it and cure it ourselves. We know the animals are treated humanely. Our bodies are meant to eat rich proteins, that’s one of the places we get the balance of nutrients. People who don’t eat meat need supplements, and that’s a much less natural state of being. We understand you’re a widow.”

“And your poor babies,” Sunshine added, reaching over and settling her hand over Sam’s own. “We were just devastated when Moonbeam told us. You are quite an admirable woman, Samantha. A lesser one would have given up. I lost a child between Moonbeam and Yellow, I have had a glimpse at that abyss. You have our deepest respect.”

“Sunshine, Roth! Please.” Xander looked about ready to explode. He nudged Sam’s leg with his in apology, and she squeezed his knee to say it was fine. She’d rather someone be honest and forthright with their questions than dance around her issues forever. This way, the sting was briefer, like a wasp that bumbled into your forearm and had no choice but to react on instinct. At least they hadn’t said something stupid and hurtful, like
you can always try again,
or
what about adopting?
As if children were cereal boxes on a store shelf, just waiting to be plucked and scanned and taken home.

“It’s fine. Thank you,” she said, and that was all that was needed. There was a moment while everyone took a few bites, recovering, then Sunshine began again, on seemingly safer ground.

“So Moon tells us you were the one who identified the toxin in the D.C. Metro attack. Have the authorities gotten a sense of who committed the crime yet?”

“I honestly don’t know. I need to call my friend and see if they’ve made any progress. Was there anything new on the news this morning?”

Xander smiled through his pancakes. “No television, hon. Or internet, or wireless signal, or 3G. There’s a radio but it broke years ago, and
someone
doesn’t want a new one.”

Roth smiled indulgently. “Too much noise, son. The local NPR stopped playing classical and went to talk format during the day anyway, so what’s the point?”

She’d forgotten. “Oh, that’s right. If you don’t mind, we’ll just have to go to the closest technology-friendly area and find out, won’t we?”

“That would be pretty much anywhere that isn’t the top of this mountain. We’ll head down after breakfast.”

“Good. I definitely want to get up to speed. What are your plans for our next steps out here? Did you find the website owners?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He didn’t continue, and Sam waited him out. He was just framing his argument because he knew she wouldn’t like what he had to say. He finished his bacon and then cleared his throat, his course chosen.

“A guy I grew up with runs the site. His father lives on a ranch about twenty minutes from here. Roth and I went to visit yesterday, and my friend was there. He shared some disturbing information with me. He thinks the man who is responsible for the chatter on his site is the Farmer.”

“That’s the anarchist who claims to be friends with the Unabomber, right? If that’s the case, why wasn’t the JTTF all over him?”

“Well, A, no one knows where he is. And B, this is my friend’s assumption. I don’t know if they’ve drawn the same conclusion yet.”

“But isn’t a Metro attack a little outside his normal activities? I mean, he’s known for ecoterrorism, green anarchy, that kind of stuff.”

“Ah, but what bigger use of energy and consumptive materials than a subway system?” Roth put in. “They’re just as bad as cars, and planes, and trains.”

Xander smiled at his father. “None of us has wings, Roth. We still need transportation.”

They all laughed, then grew serious again.

“Be that as it may, the Farmer is an arsonist. And he’s never hurt anyone, only taken down empty buildings and that shipyard in Tacoma. This feels like a big change in M.O.”

“I’m just telling you what my friend said,” Xander replied.

She played with her water for a moment. “Suppose it is the Farmer. Why would he be on a survivalist website talking about his crimes? I thought those kinds of people didn’t really mesh with the ecoterror set.”

“They don’t. Completely divergent political views. The anarchists are addicted to creating chaos, the survivalists are doing all they can to prepare to survive the eventuality of that chaos.”

“So again, why would he be on that site?”

“Laying a false trail?” Sunshine chimed in.

Sam considered that. “Perhaps. Or maybe trying to make sure the blame is on the wrong people. But the Farmer has always taken responsibility for his events, hasn’t he? I don’t remember any media outlets, or even the cops, mentioning him yesterday. And where would he get the abrin?”

“Where did anyone get the abrin?” Xander asked.

“Excellent point. It’s not something you can buy in the store. It had to be harvested and made. Ricin is a by-product of castor oil manufacture, that’s why it’s always been a much bigger threat—it’s much easier to access, much easier to generate large quantities. Abrin is different. It comes from the rosary pea, and because there isn’t a lot that the rosary pea does other than produce pretty red and black seeds, it’s never been widely grown, and as such, not weaponized. I was going through the acute exposure guidelines, and everything that was listed was ‘not determined.’ But three are dead and hundreds sick and more may die, because there isn’t a known antidote. A mass delivery system hurdle has been jumped. Whoever did this has made a technological breakthrough that no one has seen before. Does that sound like the Farmer?”

Xander shook his head. “You make a good point. No, it doesn’t. And it doesn’t sound like anyone else who’s been making headlines in the past decade.”

“Exactly. And looking at Ledbetter’s memoir, and knowing there may be a link to the survivalists who make up the Mountain Blue and Gray...what’s bothering me is not that he figured out a way to make it, but that he must have tested it somewhere. To know the dosages, the ratios. To make sure he had enough to really harm some people. It was airborne, so it was in some sort of propellant, which means not only did he manufacture enough to be deadly, he created a suspension that allowed the abrin to flourish. Someone somewhere has been exposed and gotten sick before this and the doctors simply didn’t know what they were dealing with. It can mask itself easily as another lung ailment.”

Roth had been following their conversation with interest. “What other kinds of lung ailment can it look like?”

“Ricin, anthrax, anything that would cause sudden pneumonia. Blood in the lungs, frothing, that sort of thing. We should be checking with that group to see if any of their people got sick.”

“Can someone survive exposure?” Roth asked.

“Depends on the type of exposure and dosage, but yes, I’m sure they could. If the doctors found out about it early enough, they could treat the appropriate symptoms and do preventative medicine and stop it. If it’s ingested, you treat like any other poison, with a charcoal lavage. Inhalation, it’s primarily supportive measures. Similar to the steps taken for ricin poisoning. There’s just not a lot of documentation on abrin poisonings, so it’s not going to be first and foremost in the responders’ minds, you know? Usually people and animals who die from it are exposed by accident—the rosary pea is often used in jewelry in the tropics and Africa. Cracked seed, open wound, ground dust, it gets in there and it can definitely kill.”

Roth continued to tap his chin thoughtfully.

“What is it?” Xander asked.

“Oh. You’re thinking about old man Gerhardt,” Sunshine said.

Roth nodded. “About a year ago Crawford’s buddy Sal Gerhardt got real sick, all of a sudden, and no one could pinpoint what was wrong with him. They thought it was lung cancer, but then it cleared up. A couple of months ago, he got sick again, but this time he died, and so did some of his animals.”