Red Tide (9 page)

15

S
tevie had the radio on. KING 980. Action News.
“Jim Sexton reporting from downtown Seattle, where police have cordoned off a sixteen-square-block area of Pioneer Square.”
His voice was strident and high-pitched.
“From where I stand on the corner of First Avenue and James Street, it appears that whatever has caused these extraordinary measures is a little farther downtown than I am being permitted to go,”
he intoned.
“I find it rather ironic that ten blocks north of here, Seattle police have prevented demonstrators from closing down the city streets surrounding the International Symposium on Chemical and Biological Weapons, while here in Pioneer Square they themselves have cordoned off the entire southern portion of the
—” Shouting could be heard in the background. Then his news voice again.
“I’m standing outside the barrier, officer. Look…I’m standing right here. I realize that. Yes. But…but…the people have a right to know. Well…could you just tell me…”
Sexton was saying.
“We have a right to report the news. We have a right to provide our viewers…”

The sight of Dougherty coming out of the QFC supermarket with her hands full of twenty-dollar bills pulled Stevie’s attention from the radio, which he’d been using to divert his attention from the dull ache in his head and the swollen purple lump which had formerly been his right eye.

She gave him a handful of money, which he stuffed into the pocket of his jeans without counting. “Comes to more than that, send me a bill…you know where I live.”

She said the words with a bitterness that set Stevie’s teeth on edge. “Wasn’t
that
bad,” he said with a shrug. “You know…”

She looked at him in amazement. Her mouth hung open. And then she started to laugh. One shake of the shoulders at first. Then another. Then three and so on until she was out of control, holding her face in her hands, shaking with laughter. “Not so bad,” she brayed out between spasms. “You ought to see yourself,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You look like you’ve been in one of those tough man contests. Your cab looks like it’s been in the demolition derby.” Another fit of laughter overtook her. “Not so bad…” she sputtered. “The whole city’s in shambles. My life’s a wreck. We just had a guy drop dead on us. We spent the past hour lying to the cops so we wouldn’t end up in jail…”

“Aw come on now…they weren’t gonna—”

“Trust me, Stevie…we were this close…” She held her fingers about a quarter inch apart. “I’ve had some experience being thrown in the can and believe me when I tell you, man, we were damn near there.” She took a moment to compose herself, slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and wiped her eyes again. “I’ll walk home from here,” she said.

Stevie looked offended. Like this wasn’t the way the movie was supposed to end. “It’s a hell of a long way back to your place,” he said. “You sure you don’t wanna…”

She waved him off. “God knows I could use the air,” she said. “Maybe it’ll clear my head.”

“You sure?” he asked. “City’s full of crazies tonight.”

“City’s always full of crazies.”

Stevie shrugged in resignation. “Well then…I guess I’ll…”

“Get the cab fixed,” Dougherty said. She pointed a long manicured finger his way. “You probably ought to have somebody look at that eye too.”

Stevie lied, said he would and then pulled open the cab door. “See ya,” he said before ducking inside. “You be careful now.”

Dougherty stood on the sidewalk and watched the cab’s taillights dissolve into the tide of traffic. She sighed and then walked half a block up Broadway before realizing she wasn’t wearing shoes. She opened her mouth to call out, but he was too far away now.

“Perfect,” was all she could think to say.

“Jimbo,” said the voice in his ear. Jim Sexton finished stowing the microphone before he answered. “Right here, Robert.”

Not Bob or Rob but Robert Tilden. Only Robert. Anything else got you corrected, be it publicly or privately. Assistant News Director Robert Tilden. That’s how the yutz answered the phone, for pity’s sake. “Not much there,” his voice said. “I need a little substance…something everybody else hasn’t already got on the air. I need you to tap one of those sources of yours.”

“It’s a complete stonewall, Robert. Nothing going out. Nothing going in. Terrorist activity. Dead bodies in the bus tunnel. That’s it. They’re not giving us anything to work with.”

“Seven’s reporting a possible nerve gas scenario.”

“They’ve got somebody inside?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then they’re talking through their ass.”

“Got to watch the potty mouth, Jim. Next thing you know you’ll be doing it on the air.”

He really, really wanted to explain to Robert how quaint phrases like “potty mouth” only have meaning when bandied among those under the age of seven, but decided against it. Instead, he stifled a sigh and said, “What have you got in mind, Robert?”

“News, Jimbo. Hard news.”

He put his hand over the mouthpiece. Didn’t want Robert to hear him gnashing his teeth. “Anything else we need tonight?” he inquired.

“I’m gonna send Sammy and a crew down.”

Sammy Anacosta was the new kid on the block. The new Hispanic face at the station. The kid’s ambition was so transparent, Jim could practically feel the hot breath on his neck. “Wish him luck,” Jim said. “I’m going home.”

“Yeah, Jimbo. You do that,” and the connection was broken.

Jim Sexton sat back in the seat and stared at the headliner. What galled him most was that he’d done it by the book. Taken it one step at a time. Paid his dues. Spent five years in Pullman…earning that journalism degree at Wazoo…working two jobs in his spare time. Making it through Beth’s first pregnancy, and then losing the baby. Another year as an intern at the station. And then, just like it was supposed to happen. They gave him a job. Reporting!

Okay…so maybe it was mostly the dog show stuff, the wind-whipped seventy-mile-an-hour gale remotes from the coast, flying high above the four-alarm warehouse fire in the International District, shouting into the mic with the clopping of the rotors punctuating his voice-over like hoofbeats. Back then it didn’t matter. He was on the air. All that remained was to work hard and allow his innate talents to come to the fore. Way he figured it, attrition would take care of the rest.

Turned out he figured it wrong. About the time he began getting a little local notoriety, the girls started coming. Melissa in ninety-one. Two years later it was Kimberly and then little Meghan in ninety-six. After that…well…after that things were never the same. Whatever notions they might have had about moving on…about following his career path around the country as he moved up the affiliate ladder…well that was pretty much out of the question. Beth was already as far from her family in the Tri-Cities as she planned on being. Career took a backseat to family. Jim took a backseat period.

Thirteen years of pounding the pavement and nothing had changed. Yeah, the local market had lost Aaron Brown to the lure of New York, but nobody else in the entire Seattle media market had budged an inch. The same primped personages appeared on the screen…pronouncing and pontificating on the news every night. The same set of second bananas waited in the wings, doing the weekends and holidays…waiting…waiting for their hour to come round at last. But no. The time never came.

He heard the tag. Heard it all the time. Jim “Parka Boy” Sexton. He’d become a local joke. Easing into middle age covering windstorms, slowdowns at the airport and icy streets. Mired in a midrange malaise. Nowhere to go but out the door the minute they could get anybody cheaper or younger…or both. And then what?

Pete Carrol, his cameraman, pulled open the back doors of the remote van, slid the camera and other gear up onto the deck and closed the doors again.

He slipped into the driver’s seat and reached for the key. “We done for the night?” he asked, his eyes almost pleading. Probably had a date.

“Yeah,” Jim said. “We’re done. Let’s go home.”

16

“Y
ou see? Right here.” Colonel Hines pointed at the close-up on the TV monitor. “The gray patches in the dried blood. That’s the intestinal wall.”

“The tissue can’t support the volume of blood pouring in,” Dr. Stafford said. “It simply collapses and the victim bleeds out through the anus.”

“Hey.”
The electronic voice brought everyone up short. They watched intently as the helmet-mounted camera lifted its eye from the pool of blood on the floor and focused on the tall orange-clad apparition twenty yards away at the center of the station.

“Whatever it was killed these folks was set off right here.”
He pointed to an area directly in front of the elevator doors.

The knot of people huddled in front of the TV monitor tightened slightly as the camera approached the center of the station.

“Something like a glass vial…inside a paper bag…set it off with something like a cherry bomb,”
the voice said.

The camera bobbed up and down as the cop agreed.
“I’ll get us a wipe on the explosion point and see if I
can’t come up with some of the paper and glass. You finish your wipes on the tunnel.”

After that, things got quiet again, as each man went about his tasks in silence, moving among the dead as if the bloodied corpses were no more significant than newly fallen leaves.

Harry Dobson looked back over his shoulder at Mike Morningway, who stood transfixed, chewing on a cuticle with his eyes glued to the screen. Been a while since he’d seen anyone look as relieved as Morningway when the word had come that his man Taylor had staged a recovery and was going along with the team after all. That he was performing well was the icing on the cake. “Your man Taylor’s showing a lot of chops,” Dobson said. “He’s cool under pressure.”

Morningway acknowledged the prop without taking his eyes from the screen. The phone rang, scaring the hell out of everybody. Ben Gardener picked it up. Slowly, his forehead began to furrow. Everyone in the room picked up on it. Beneath the dark brows, Gardener’s bright blue eyes darted about. From Dobson, to Morningway, to the mayor and finally to the floor in front of his feet. “Just a minute,” he said, looking out over the crowd. “It’s for you, Mike,” he said, proffering the phone.

“Me?”

Gardener reached over Dr. Belder’s head and handed Morningway the receiver. He watched as Morningway opened his mouth to speak and then changed his mind as the voice began to rattle in his ear.

“Where is he now?” he said finally. “You’re sure?”

He listened for a minute and then seemed to lose patience with the conversation. “I’ll send his supervisor up. Okay. Yeah. Gotta go. Yeah. Gotta go.”

Gardener reached out for the receiver, but Mike Morningway seemed to be lost somewhere inside himself. “Mike,” Gardener prodded.

Morningway looked at him uncomprehendingly, then noticed the phone dangling from his fingers and handed it back. “Sorry,” he said.

On the screen, the helmet camera was headed back for the escalator. The image bounced up and down as the cop worked his way over and around the maze of bodies.

The camera panned a one-eighty, coming to rest on the third man down by the elevator.
“Let’s go,”
the cop said.

“Him,” Mike Morningway sputtered. “That’s not him.”

While the words made no sense, something in Morningway’s tone pulled everyone’s eyes from the video monitor.

“Who’s not who?” Harlan Sykes asked.

“Come on, man. Let’s go,”
the cop on the screen said.

“That’s not Colin Taylor,” he said pointing at the screen. “Taylor’s in a room up at Harborview sick as a dog.”

A moment of stunned silence ensued before the mayor asked the obvious question, “Then who in hell is that?”

Morningway didn’t answer. On the screen, the cops were running for the elevator. The third man had stepped inside the car. Just as the door began to close, the guy turned his face to the side and pulled off his breathing device. The room held its collective breath. Then the door slid closed and he was gone.

Harry Dobson was the first to recover his wits. “So…what we’ve got here is a terrorist act for sure,” he said. Nobody disagreed. He slid the papers back into his pocket.

“I better call the State Department,” he said. “They’re gonna want to hear about this.”

17

C
orso wadded the haz-mat suit into a ball and jammed it into the elevator door. Upon encountering the obstruction, the door emitted a chime, bounced back a few inches and tried again to close. Rebuffed for a second time, the mechanism stopped the door in the middle of the car where it seemed to pout as it pondered its next move.

By that time, Corso was gone, hugging the wall as he crossed to the northbound side. Keeping himself out of view from below, he made his way across the station. Moving quickly toward the sole break in the ocean of white tile surrounding him on three sides…to a solitary door adorning the north wall. A big solid brass door. A door so solid it didn’t require any kind of written admonition. A door hanging half open.

He poked his head into the darkness and held his breath. He heard the slap of footsteps from somewhere within, before a fan clicked on and blew the sound to dust. He stepped all the way inside and pulled the door closed. Evenly spaced safety lights showed the way along the metal catwalk. Corso grabbed both handrails and hurried along.

The area was designed for the Metro engineers to be able to service the tunnel’s ventilation system. Huge metal ducts ran this way and that. Everything tagged and marked and labeled. Twelve forty-six east. The catwalk turned hard right and then suddenly ended at a white metal ladder leading down to a lower level. From somewhere deep in the bowels of the machinery he heard distant footsteps again.

He swung out onto the ladder and began to descend. Moving quickly, using his long legs, he took two rungs at a time, until he reached the bottom, where he found himself in a dimly lit concrete corridor leading off in both directions. He listened. Felt a breeze on the left side of his face and so hurried in that direction. A sign on the wall proclaimed this to be a hard hat area. Eighty yards away, at the far end of the corridor, a dim patch of light suddenly appeared. And then the woman’s soft silhouette filled the opening. She looked back over her shoulder at Corso and said something in a low voice. Something derisive in a language he didn’t recognize. Then the light disappeared and she was gone. He began to run. At that moment, all the lights went out.

Corso came to a stop. He spread his hands for balance and waited for his eyes to adjust to the total darkness. When his pupils failed to gain a purchase on the inky blackness, he put his right shoulder against the wall and began to walk quickly along. Took him a full minute to negotiate the distance. By that time, his eyes had begun to come around and he was able to make out the black metal security door at the far end. And the red light switch on the wall.

He pulled the door open and stepped out into a much larger tunnel. The woman was nowhere in sight. He looked to his right and realized he was inside the bus tunnel, somewhere under Third Avenue. The sign on the wall announced Pioneer Square Station as the next stop. He began to run the other way. North toward University.

Maybe two hundred yards and he was starting to wheeze when he saw the sign,
EMERGENCY EVACUATION EXIT
. A series of metal rungs had been set directly into the concrete, forming a rudimentary ladder to the sidewalk above. In the second before he began to climb, he thought he might have heard laughter but couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine what was funny.

Jim Sexton fumbled in his pocket for the key, then found it and tried to put it in the lock upside down. He cursed under his breath, reversed the damn thing and let himself in the door. The forced-air warmth of the room hit him in the face like a scratchy blanket. He had to square his shoulders and wade into the room like it was filled with Jell-O.

Beth stirred slightly in the armchair as he pulled the door closed and shrugged himself out of his jacket. It was nine-fifteen on a school night. The girls were off to bed. At least nominally. This time of night Melissa and Kimberly would be burning up the cellular airways chatting up their girlfriends regarding their boyfriends. Beth and the little one were asleep.

He hung his coat in the hall closet and then turned back to the room. The novel in Beth’s lap had slipped over to one side and nearly closed itself. She’d ordered pizza for herself and the kids. He could smell it.

Motherhood had fulfilled Beth. Whatever dreams or aspirations she may have once harbored—he remembered vague talk of a career in fashion design…or was it office management…it seemed so long ago—anyway…the roles of wife and mother had provided Beth with sufficient cachet to allow her to get out of bed every morning and look at herself in the mirror with a certain degree of satisfaction. Different strokes for different folks, he reckoned in his finer moments. In his more pensive moments, he tried to recall exactly when he’d signed off on the oft-told tale of the rigors of wifedom and motherhood. The terrifying tale of tater tots and trauma that a full-time wife and mother was forced to endure day after day, year after year, while the wine of her youth spilled down the drain of life…drop by drop by drop. Wasn’t like he could have disagreed anyway. Stepped up and said, “You know, honey, all in all I think you’ve got it pretty damn easy.” No way that was going to float. No sir. “The trials and tribulations of the housewife” was one of those places in life where it was just plain easier to go along with the program.

A squeaky floorboard chirped under his feet as he crossed the living room and made his way to the kitchen. He could hear the girls chattering on the phones as he poured himself a glass of milk. He considered and then rejected the idea of poking his head in to say goodnight. In his mind’s eye he could see the anguished looks they threw at the door these days, aghast that their privacy had been compromised by anything so trivial as a heartfelt greeting. Pleeeeeeease.

Jim turned out the kitchen light on his way to bed.