Midnight Grinding (22 page)

However, that didn’t ease Jasper’s mind any. He could picture himself forgetting the grisly events of that day, maybe stepping sleepily into the shower tomorrow morning and melting away beneath a yellowish cascade of deadly well water. He forced the disturbing image from his mind and drove on down the highway.

He was approaching the driveway of his property, when he noticed that a South Central Bell van was parked smack-dab in the middle of the gravel turn-off. Jasper craned his neck and spotted a single repairman standing next to a telephone pole a few yards away, looking as though he had just shimmied down after working on the lines.

Jasper tooted his horn impatiently and glared through his bug-speckled windshield. The man lifted a friendly hand and nodded, walking around to the rear of the van to put his tools away. The old farmer drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and glanced in his rearview mirror to see if there were any vehicles behind him. There weren’t. The rural road was deserted in both directions.

When Jasper turned his eyes back to the road ahead, he was startled to see that the telephone repairman was standing directly in front of his truck, no more than twelve feet away. The tall, dark-haired man with the gray coveralls and the sunglasses smiled humorlessly at him and lifted something into view. At first, Jasper was certain that the object was a jackhammer. It had the appearance and bulk of one. But on second glance, he knew that it was a much stranger contraption that the man held. It had the twin handles of a jackhammer, but the lower part of the tool resembled some oversized gun more than anything else. There was a loading breech halfway down and, beneath that, a long barrel with a muzzle so large that a grown man could have stuck his fist inside it.

“What in tarnation—?” began Jasper. Then his question lapsed into shocked silence as the repairman aimed the massive barrel squarely at the truck and fired once.

Jasper ducked as the windshield imploded. The projectile smashed through the safety glass and lost its force upon entering the truck cab, bouncing off one of the padded cradles of the gun rack in the rear window. Jasper looked up just as the cylindrical object of titanium steel landed on the seat next to him. He stared at it for a moment, not knowing what to make of the repairman’s attack or the thing he had fired into the truck. Then the old man’s confusion turned into panic as the projectile popped into two halves and began to emit a billowing cloud of yellow smoke. He knew what it was the moment he smelled the cloying scent. It was the same rancid odor he had gotten a whiff of that morning at the creek.

Jasper Horne wanted to open the truck door and escape, but it was already too late. He was engulfed by the dense vapor and was suddenly swallowed in a smothering cocoon of unbearable agony. That sizzling noise sounded in his ears, but this time it came from his own body. He felt his clothing fall away like blackened cinders and his skin begin to dissolve, followed by the stringy muscle and hard bone underneath. He recalled the screams of his Jersey cows, and soon surpassed their howls of pain…at least until he no longer had a throat with which to vent his terror.

***

The following morning, Bud Fulton received an urgent call from Sheriff Biggs, wanting him to come to Jasper Horne’s place as soon as possible.

Bud didn’t expect to find what he did when he arrived. A county patrol car and a Lincoln sedan with federal plates were parked on the shoulder of the highway. Only a few yards from Jasper’s driveway was a blackened hull that looked as if it might have once been a Ford pickup truck. It contained no glass in its windows and no tires on the rims of its wheels. A knot of cold dread sat heavily in the vet’s stomach as he parked his jeep behind the police car and climbed out. Slowly, he walked over to where three men stood a safe distance from the body of the vehicle. One was Sam Biggs, while the other two were well-groomed strangers wearing tailored suits and tan raincoats.

The sheriff introduced them. “Bud, these gentlemen are Agents Richard Forsyth and Lou Deckard from the FBI.” Forsyth was a heavy-set man in his mid-forties, while Deckard was a lean black man with round eyeglasses.

Bud shook hands with the two, then turned his eyes back to the truck. “What happened here?” he asked Biggs. “Damn, this is old Jasper’s truck, isn’t it? Did it burn up on him?”

“No,” said Deckard. “The truck body hasn’t been scorched. The black you seen on the metal is oxidation. Something ravaged both the exterior and interior of this vehicle, but it wasn’t fire. No, it was nothing as simple as that.”

The veterinarian stared at the federal agent, then at the sheriff. “It was that damned chemical, wasn’t it, Sam? But how did it get in Jasper’s truck?” He peered through the glassless windows of the truck, but saw no sign of a body inside. “Where the hell is Jasper? Don’t tell me he’s—”

“I’m afraid so,” replied the sheriff, looking pale and shaken. “Take a look inside, but be careful not to touch anything. Agent Deckard is a chemist and he thinks the black residue on the truck might still be dangerous.”

Cautiously, Bud stepped forward and peeked into the cab of the truck. Like the rubber of the tires and the glass of the headlights and windows, the vinyl of the dashboard and the cushions of the truck seat had strangely dissolved, leaving only oxidized metal. Amid the black coils of the naked springs lay a pile of gummy sludge that resembled the remains of the dead cows. In the center of the refuse were a number of shiny objects, all metal: a couple of gold teeth, a pocket watch, the buttons off a pair of Liberty overalls, and the steel frames of a pair of eyeglasses, minus the lenses.

Bud stumbled backward, knowing that the bits of tarnished metal were all that was left of his friend and fishing buddy, Jasper Horne.

“We appreciate you bringing this to our attention, Mr. Fulton,” said Agent Forsyth. “I know you must have been frustrated yesterday when the state lab refused to give you the test results of the samples you brought in, but we thought it best to have Agent Deckard analyze them before we released any information to local law enforcement or civilians in the area. We had to be certain that they matched up with the other samples we have in our possession.”

The veterinarian looked at the FBI agent. “Do you mean to tell me that this has happened before?”

“Yes,” said Deckard. “Three times in the past six months. We’ve done our best to keep it under wraps and out of the news media. You see, this is a very delicate investigation we have going. And the chemical involved is a very dangerous and unpredictable substance.”

“Do you know what it is?” Bud asked him.

“It is a very sophisticated and potent type of acid. More precisely, it is a super enzyme. From the tests we’ve run on the previous samples, it is not biological in nature, but completely synthetic. It can digest almost anything: organic matter, paper, plastic, wood, and glass. The only thing that it has no destructive effect on is metal and stone. We believe that it was produced under very strict and secretive conditions. In fact, its development might well have been federally funded.”

“You mean the government might be responsible for this awful chemical?” asked Bud incredulously.

Agent Forsyth looked a little uncomfortable. “We haven’t been able to trace its origin as of yet. That’s what Agent Decker and I are here to find out. You must understand, Mr. Fulton, the United States government funds thousands of medical, agricultural, and military projects every year. It is possible that one of these projects accidentally or intentionally developed this particular enzyme and that it somehow got into the wrong hands, or has been unscrupulously implemented by its manufacturer.”

“Do you have any leads in the case?” asked the sheriff.

“We have several that are promising,” said Deckard. “The previous incidents concerning this chemical took place in Nebraska, Texas, and Maryland. There seems to be only one solid connection between those incidents and the ones here in Tennessee.”

“And what is that?”

“Municipal and rural landfills. There has always been one within a few miles of the reported incidents.”

Sam Biggs and Bud Fulton exchanged knowing glances. “So old Jasper was on the right track after all,” said the vet. “Do you think Alan Becket might have something to do with this?”

The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t know. I was sure that Alan was a straight-shooter, but maybe he isn’t as kosher as we thought.”

“I suggest we pick up this Becket fellow for questioning,” said Forsyth. “He might just have the information necessary to wrap up this case.”

The four climbed into their vehicles and headed east for the county landfill. None of them noticed that a van was following them at an inconspicuous distance. A telephone company van driven by a tall man wearing dark sunglasses.

***

It was seven o’clock that night when Alan Becket finally decided to come clean and tell them what they wanted to know.

Sam Biggs brought Becket from the cell he had been confined to most of the day and led him to the sheriff’s office on the ground floor of the Bedloe County courthouse. Alan took a seat, eyeing the men in the room with the nervous air of a caged animal. Agent Forsyth was perched on the corner of a desk, looking weary and impatient, while Agent Deckard and Bud Fulton leaned against a far wall. Despite his veterinary business, Bud had decided to stick around and see how the investigation turned out. Jasper Horne had been a close friend of Bud’s and he wanted to see that justice was done, as far as the elderly farmer’s death—or murder—was concerned.

“So, are you ready to level with us, Mr. Becket?” asked Forsyth.

“Yes, I am,” said the man. “I’ve been thinking it over and I think it would be in my best interest to tell you everything. But, believe me, I had no idea that what I did was illegal or unethical. And I certainly didn’t think that it would end up killing anyone.”

“Why don’t you tell it from the beginning,” urged the FBI man. “And take your time.”

With a scared look in his eyes, Alan Becket took a deep breath and began to talk. “It happened a couple of months ago. A man came to the landfill office. He claimed to be a salesman for a chemical firm called Tyrophex-14. At first, I thought it was a pretty peculiar name for a corporation, but after he made his sales pitch, it didn’t seem so odd after all. He said that his company manufactured a chemical called Tyrophex-14, and that the chemical digested non-biodegradable waste…you know, like plastic and glass. It also sped up the decomposition process of paper, fabric and wood. He said that one treatment per month in six calculated spots in the landfill would keep the volume of garbage to a minimal level. You see, after a month’s worth of garbage was buried, a representative would arrive with a weird-looking contraption and inject this chemical, this Tyrophex-14, six feet into the earth. The capsule that held the chemical unleashed a gaseous cloud of the stuff, which wormed its way through the air pockets of the buried garbage and digested it.

“Let me tell you, it was a strange process. Minutes after the chemical was injected, the trash underneath seemed to simply disappear. The earth would sink, leaving empty ditches that were ready to be refilled and covered once again. In my eyes, it was a miraculous procedure and the cost was surprisingly affordable. I signed a one-year contract with the guy, sincerely thinking that I was doing it for the benefit of the community. I mean, just think of it. A perpetual landfill that digests its own garbage; a dumping ground that will never reach its projected capacity. I thought it was some sort of incredible environmental breakthrough, one that would do away with the need to find new landfill sites. The old ones could be used over and over again.”

“But this miracle of modern science didn’t turn out to be such a blessing after all, did it?” asked Forsyth. “At least not for Jasper Horne, and nine other human victims that we know of.”

“I’m sorry,” said Becket. “I know I should have checked it out, or at least okayed it with the county commission before I signed that contract. It was just that I didn’t see any need to. The monthly treatments were only a few hundred dollars, and the county allots me twice that amount for supplies and maintenance.”

“How do you get in touch with this corporation?” asked Forsyth. “Did they leave an address or name of the sales representative?”

“No, just a card with a phone number on it. It’s in my wallet.”

Agent Forsyth exchanged a triumphant glance with his partner Deckard, then turned to the county constable. “Sheriff, could you please get me Mr. Becket’s wallet? I’ll call the phone number into the bureau office in Nashville and have them trace it. It shouldn’t be long before we know exactly who has been distributing this synthetic enzyme across the country.”

Sheriff Biggs was about to open the side drawer of his desk and get Becket’s personal property, when the upper pane of the office’s single window shattered. “Get down!” yelled Forsyth, drawing his gun and hugging the floor. The others followed suit—all except Alan Becket. The caretaker of the county landfill merely sat frozen in his chair as a cylindrical projectile of shiny steel spun though the hole in the window and landed squarely in his lap.

“Oh God,
no!
” he screamed, recognizing the capsule for what it was. He grabbed it and was about to toss it away, when the pod snapped in half, engulfing him in a dense cloud of corrosive gas.

“Everybody out!” called Sheriff Biggs. “This way!” The other three obeyed, crawling across the room in the general direction of the office door. They could hear the crash of broken glass as two more projectiles were shot through the window. When they reached the temporary safety of the outer hallway, they rose to their feet and looked back into the room. They watched in horror as the screaming, thrashing form of Alan Becket dissolved before their eyes, along with the wooden furnishings and paperwork of the sheriff’s office.