The China Dogs (14 page)

He skirts a big harvest barrow already stacked with peppers. Moves around until he gets a clean shot at the mutt's head.

The pistol kicks in his hand.

The German shepherd goes down with a yelp.

For a second there's silence. Then the hot Florida air fills with whistling, clapping, and cheering.

Jax Layton, local car thief and habitual petty offender, takes a hero's bow.

49

Coral Way, Miami

T
he famous clarinet opening of Gershwin's
Rhapsody in Blue
plays in Ghost's Dodge as he drops Zoe off and pulls away from Jude's apartment block.

The lieutenant is happily lost in the complex classical and jazz composition when his phone rudely beeps and, due to the horrors of Bluetooth, the music is muted and he's forced to answer it on the in-car system.

“Lieutenant Walton.”

“Hi, this is Sandra Teale.” In case he's forgotten who she is, she adds, “The vet from the beach at Key Biscayne.”

He remembers her all too well. “Hi there, do you have some good news for me?”

“I have news—though I'm not sure you'll find it good.”

“Try me.”

“I've now examined both the dog that killed Kathy Morgan and Matt Wood and also the animal that killed Alfie Steiner and they have something in common.”

Ghost's pale albino eyes light up. “They do?”

“Yes. They both had massively high levels of a type of epinephrine in their systems.”

“That's adrenaline, right?”

“Correct. But these were of such high levels that at first I suspected both animals might have been suffering from Cushing's disease—that's a condition where the adrenal glands, which are situated at the top of the kidneys, produce too much of the stress hormone cortisol because of an adrenal or pituitary tumor.”

“But that wasn't the case?”

“No it wasn't.” Teale looks down at her notes. “Both dogs were perfectly healthy. No growths or diseases of any kind. No reason for them to have such high adrenaline rates.”

“So they were doped?”

“I thought so but I couldn't see any signs of injection. It's possible to put some extra adrenaline down to the excitement in the animals' final moments and of course the reaction to the shootings, but levels still wouldn't be this high.”

“So how do you explain such high levels?”

“For the moment, I can't. What's more, the boys in the tox lab say what they found is not normal epinephrine, it's an incredibly concentrated mutated version of it.”

“Now I'm out of my depth. I know epinephrine is an adrenaline chloride, but beyond that I'm a fifth grader.”

She tries to make it simple. “You've heard of the fight or flight mechanism, right?”

“Sure. The psychological trigger that makes us decide whether to run for our lives or become violent in order to protect ourselves.”

“Right. Well, the ‘trigger,' as you eloquently call it, is the autonomic nervous system, and it is divided into the sympathetic and parasympathetic branches. In general, these two systems oppose each other. When stimulated, the sympathetic system increases heart rate, blood pressure, and cardiac activity. What happened in the case of both these animals is that some highly concentrated drug homed in on the chemical receptors in their cells and sent them into an aggressive overload.”

“So the dogs panicked and fought?”

“That's what I believe happened.”

Ghost turns the Dodge into the police station yard. “Do you think they could have been experimented on somehow?”

She's been wondering the same thing. “I really don't know. There's no clear evidence of it. I've asked for the medical records of the Wood dog. It could be that it was being treated with some new drug that I haven't heard of. But from the autopsy, I couldn't spot any underlying condition that looked as though it needed treatment. Do you know yet who owned the other animal?”

He switches the car engine off. “I don't have a name for you, but I'm on my way into the office right now, so hopefully I will in a very short time.”

“Will you let me know, Lieutenant?”

“Of course.” He looks at his phone. “Is this the best number to get you on?”

“It is.” She takes a beat, then adds, “It's also good for fixing dinner on, or just coffee.”

Ghost is surprised by her suggestion. He can often go months without attracting
any
female attention, now he's suddenly got too much. “Then I'd really better make sure I don't lose it.”

“You do that. 'Bye.”

He hangs up and heads inside.

The AC in the station house is set to lower than a fridge. The place drives him crazy. It's either too hot or too cold. Somehow, they never manage to get it right. He's just about to clear reception when the desk sergeant, a big bull of a guy named Stefan, shouts across to him, “Yo, Ghost—you got a visitor.”

The lieutenant looks toward the row of hard plastic chairs reserved for members of the public unfortunate enough to have to wander in off the street and ask for help. A smartly dressed white guy with well-cut, dark hair is playing Tetris on his phone.

He looks up as soon as the cop heads his way. “Lieutenant, Carlo Affonso from CBS.”

“What can I do for you, Carlo, I'm in a hurry.”

“Off-the-record comment on the dogs?”

Ghost smiles at him. “You guys don't do off-the-record.”

“On-the-record, then.”

He decides to give him a break. “Off-the-record.”

Affonso nods.

“You need to have a look at bite rates—fatal and nonfatal. I suspect you'll find they're pushing a line to a new peak. Dogs are being more aggressive for some reason. Might be the recession. Might be the heat. Or maybe they've just had enough of being dragged around on a leash and having their butts kicked.” He starts to walk to the security door that only cops can get through.

The reporter is catching his drift. “I want to do a piece that makes people take more care around dogs. You got any statistics, or pictures of attacks, anything that can help me?”

Ghost has his swipe pass on the electronic reader. “You got a card?”

Affonso pulls one out of his shirt pocket.

Ghost takes it and looks it over. “I get something the public needs to know, I'll call, but don't pester me anymore.” He passes through to the other side.

He's pocketing the reporter's card at the top of the stairs when he almost walks straight into his captain, Bob Cummings.

“What the fuck, Ghost?”

“Apologies.”

“Accepted. I was on my way to your squad room. There's some Little Miss Dazzlebutt from the CIA squatting in my office saying she ain't gonna move until she sees you.”

50

The White House, Washington DC

P
resident Molton's morning proves hectic.

Breakfast with speechwriters, a quick intelligence briefing, an Executive Office session on fiscal reform, and a tough one-on-one with the VP on internal budgets. He and Pat Cornwell are only just done when Don Jackson is ushered in for his slightly postponed eleven o'clock meeting.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting.” Molton gestures to sofas around a low but large glass-topped table. “I've updated Pat on our conversation last night re General Zhang.”

Jackson flips open his attaché case. “I've brought a transcript of the call, in case you'd like to scrutinize it.”

“I'd like to scrutinize Zhang's head on a platter,” says the VP. “'Morning, Don. How you doing?”

“I'm fine, thank you, sir.” Jackson settles opposite the two politicians and hands over copies of the transcript.

Molton starts to flick through it.

Cornwell is still staring at Jackson. “You know, you don't look so ‘fine,' Don. We're used to seeing you with a bit more spring in your step.”

“Optimism doesn't come easy when you're talking to the Chinese, Mr. Vice President. I feel somewhat as though my spring is pretty much sprung at the moment.”

Molton gets to business. “Tell us first, what are the hard facts on dog attacks?”

“Not good, sir. We've had two fatalities. One at a correctional center in Jacksonville and one at Lake Jackson. Given my name is Jackson. I can't help but point out they could have been deliberately targeted in order to send us a message.”

“You serious?” The VP looks astonished. “You need time off, my friend, you're seeing shadows where there aren't any.”

The President is too long in the tooth to jump to conclusions. “Maybe not, Pat. Don's right to point it out, now let's pick through the details.”

Jackson hands out more sheets. “These are the case details. Millers Landing, Lake Jackson, early hours of this morning. A young couple who bred dogs and a local jogger were killed by animal or animals unknown.”

Cornwell jumps in. “Animals unknown? That's gator country. Could easily be one of those big lizards.”

The director nods. “It could be, but said ‘unknown' also bust into a barn and ripped a dozen pups to pieces.”

“Still possible.” The VP sits back undaunted and crosses his arms.

“A couple of hours later,” Jackson continues, “a correctional officer's German shepherd turned on him while he was out with a group of ten prisoners. Facts get a bit messy here, but it seems the dog killed the handler then attacked another officer before a prisoner shot it dead.”

Molton's not sure he heard that properly. “A prisoner shot it?”

“Yes, sir. As I said, the facts are not really clear. It seems some kind of altercation had been under way when the dog kicked off; a prisoner grabbed an officer's gun and shot it. Took three bullets to kill the thing.”

“Hang on a minute.” Cornwell sees another chance to be picky. “We've got three deaths by animal or animals unknown in one location and another by a German shepherd, which, unless I'm unusually mistaken, has actually been trained to turn violent when prisoners get rowdy and physical.”

“Yes sir, but—”

“Don, regardless of them both happening in places that have Jackson in their names, I don't think either of these can seriously be attributed to Chinese war games.”

Molton nods. “I agree.”

“Sir, General Zhang specifically warned that—”

Molton cuts him off. “I understand that the call from Zhang last night flagged deaths in Florida, but I think we're being too easily spooked here.” He sits back and puts the briefing sheets down. “To be honest, Don, I'm relieved that this is all you brought to us. My big fear last night was that you were going to come in here today and read off a long list of attacks and deaths.”

“Add these deaths to those in Miami and I'm afraid you have your list, Mr. President.”

Molton is still not buying it. “Hell, Don, you're starting to talk like a journalist. We've got a spike in dog-related deaths, that's all. Like someone said, these things are unpredictable. There's a bunch all at once and then none for ages. Over the year things even out.”

The NIA director shuts his file.

He knows they're wrong.

He also knows that at the moment he doesn't have enough proof to make the two most powerful men in the country change their minds. “Thanks for your time, gentlemen. I'll update you if there are further serious developments in Florida or if there is any more communication from Zhang.”

Cornwell has a point to make before the director goes. “Clint's remark about you talking like a journalist made me think.” He glances toward the President, then back at Jackson. “The press are going to start panic stories about dog attacks. We need to make sure no one in our administration comments. Same with the law enforcement and medical people, we don't want them saying crazy things either. There can't be any leaks on our discussions or data compiled.”

Molton nods. “Can you have the White House press team briefed accordingly?”

“Sure,” says the VP. “Consider it done.”

The President can tell Jackson is biting his tongue. “Don, I appreciate your diligence in bringing your concerns to us. It's always better to be safe than sorry. I've got the French president and his wife arriving this afternoon, and a state dinner tonight, so I'm going to be tied up, but don't hesitate to contact Pat if you need to.”

“Thank you.” The NIA director shoots Cornwell a look on his way to the door. “I suspect we'll be talking later, Mr. Vice President.”

51

Miami

G
host is usually pretty good at fitting faces to voices, but in the case of the CIA agent sitting in his captain's office, he's got it hopelessly wrong.

When he'd taken Gwendolyn Harries's call in his car, she'd been sharp, officious, and mature. He'd imagined her as one of the army of pencil-thin, mid-thirties, dynamic go-getters that the Agency likes to recruit.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Agent Harries turns out to be a small, chubby brunette with a boyish haircut. She's wearing an unflattering, gray suit and unfashionably chunky heels.

Cummings walks her to the door. “Agent Harries, meet Lieutenant Walton. Ghost is heading up our investigations into the recent dog attacks and he'll look after you now. Thanks for stopping by.” He shuts his door after they shake hands,

“This needn't take long,” Agent Harries says, then frowns. “Did your captain just call you Ghost?”

“He did. Let's go down the corridor, there's an interview room we can use. You want anything, coffee, water?”

“No, I'm good.”

He shows her inside.

She takes a seat without being asked and flops her black leather shoulder bag on the table in order to fish out a pen and notebook.

“So what brings you all the way from Langley?”