The God Particle (25 page)

The exact millisecond the bullet was about to leave the gun
barrel, Deiter’s arm had been involuntarily nudged up and to the left by the
door crashing into his back. It was only a fraction of an inch but, over the
distance the bullet had to travel, it was enough to save Serena’s life.

Jed burst through the doorway, his mind taking a snapshot of
the carnage before him. He saw Serena lying immobile underneath the shattered
window, blood splatters on the wall, his boss, Charles, slumped over his desk,
more blood, his friend on the floor in front of him, half his face covered in
blood, a man hunched over him holding a smoking gun...

He launched himself forward, but the figure had regained its
composure. Straightening its posture, it turned towards him, firing
indiscriminately. Jed had decided that a rugby tackle would be his best option
and the bullets flew innocuously over his head, lodging somewhere in the wall
behind him.

He caught Deiter just above the calves, his knees buckled
under the weight, bringing them both crashing heavily down to the floor next to
Tom. The gun went clattering across the room.

Deiter managed to free one of his legs from the grip and
lashed out, the heel of his shoe connecting with Jed’s jaw. His head snapped
back but he clung on, clawing his way up Deiter’s torso. Another kick, this
time aimed at Jed’s face. It landed on the bridge of his nose, fracturing it.
Blood flowed from his nostrils. Momentarily stunned, he loosened his hold on
Deiter’s leg, who scrambled towards the gun.

Tom tried to clear the fog that was clouding his head; he
could see that Jed was no match for his opponent’s superior physical fitness
and knew they had to join forces if they were going to overpower him. He willed
himself to stand, but the connection between his brain and his leg muscles was
impaired. He staggered to his feet but was unable to keep his balance, instead
wheeling drunkenly in the opposite direction that he wanted to go. He managed
to make it to the desk and held on to steady himself.

Deiter knew that if he could just get to the gun he would be
able to regain control of the situation. Dislodging his assailant with his
second kick gave him the opportunity he needed. He could see where the gun had
landed some twenty feet to his left and belly-crawled towards it. His breathing
was laboured, having been winded by the impact of the tackle, but his focus
remained resolutely on the weapon.

Less than two feet away, he felt a vice-like grip around his
ankle. He lunged for the firearm but he was inches short, the gap widening as
Jed dragged him back away from it. He twisted his body over, trying to break
loose, but Jed held firm, drawing him in like a fisherman reeling in his catch.
He kicked out with his free leg but failed to connect with anything solid.

The force of the blow to Jed’s nose had made him see stars,
but he quickly recovered his cognitive powers when he realised his adversary
had broken free and was making for the gun. He shook his head to clear his
thoughts further, the blood from his nose dripping liberally onto the floor. He
half crawled, half slithered after the retreating form, knowing that if he
didn’t manage to catch up in time it would be the last thing he ever did.

He was gaining, but he could tell it wasn’t going to be
enough to prevent the other person reaching his objective. Risking everything,
Jed got unsteadily to his feet and pounced at the flailing legs, managing to
latch onto an ankle. His rival squirmed underneath his grasp like an alligator
performing a death-roll, but Jed had no intention of letting go. He pulled him
away from the revolver and, having studied his opponent’s form, was ready for
him when he lashed out with his foot, dodging the kicks with ease. He drove his
fist hard into the other man’s groin, promptly stopping the thrashing limb and
replacing it with a low, guttural moan, followed by a whimper.

Tom pulled himself upright using the desk as a crutch;
Charles’s blood was now spilling over the edge. He looked beyond the body to
the window where Serena lay, expecting the worst. He could see where the bullet
had grazed her forehead; it looked bad, but not bad enough to be
life-threatening.

He manoeuvred around the desk, almost slipping on a
congealed puddle on the floor. Still a little shaky on his feet, his mind had
started to clear. Kneeling down next to her, he felt for a pulse. He hadn’t
realised until that point that he had been holding his breath and exhaled at the
relief of feeling the faint rhythmic beat on his fingertips indicating that
life was coursing through her veins. Her breathing was shallow, but steady. He
inspected the crease above her eye more closely; it didn’t appear to be that
deep and had stopped bleeding. A commotion on the other side of the room drew
his attention back to the immediate threat. Unsure of who had the upper hand,
he looked around for a weapon. His eyes rested on a familiar object and he
gingerly made his way over towards it.

Deiter knew that he was at a disadvantage. One leg was
incapacitated and he was lying on his back, like a turtle with its underbelly
exposed. He was vulnerable to any attack that his advisory wanted to deliver,
so it came as no surprise when he felt the searing pain in his groin; he had
half expected it and, as such, had mentally prepared for it. But, to catch his
opponent off-guard, he needed to make him think he had delivered a killer blow.
The moan that elicited from the punch was genuine, but the whimper after it was
pure theatre.

As he continued the charade, he could feel the grip on his
ankle slacken and the weight transfer to both legs as the person sat astride
him. Timing was the key; if he made his move too soon the other person would be
in a position to counter it. He waited, eyes screwed up as if in agony, hands
clutching his crotch, moaning softly to himself. He could feel the hot breath
on his chin as the victor leant over to inspect his kill.

Now!
He launched himself into a sitting position
using the weight on his legs as leverage. His forehead connected with the
already shattered cartilage that was once a nose, obliterating it. This time it
was his opponent’s turn to cry out. As his hands flew up to protect what was
left, Deiter pushed him backward, toppling the weight off his legs.

He was on his feet in an instant, delivering a barrage of
kicks to his adversary’s head and torso, like a man possessed. Even when the
person stopped moving, he carried on remorselessly. It was only when he himself
was exhausted that he relented. He quickly retrieved the gun from where it lay
and walked back to the vanquished form on the floor. He pointed it at the
bloody mess of a face and cocked the trigger, hesitating only because he caught
a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.

Tom had worked his way around the perimeter of the room
using the walls to prop him up, like a novice at an ice rink. He was relieved
to see his friend had the situation under control. Jed was sitting on top of
Deiter, who was crying like a baby, his manhood apparently being the object of
his anguish. He was about to call out to his friend, when Deiter suddenly
sprang up, delivering a crushing blow to Jed’s nose with his forehead.

He edged his way closer as his friend was being pummelled on
the ground. He thought about calling out for Deiter to stop, but he knew that
that would only put the focus on him and he was in no position to defend
himself. If he was going to have any chance of saving them, he would have to
disarm Deiter once and for all. He was in the shadow of the corner of the room
when Deiter went to pick up the gun. Tom had the disturbing feeling from the
frenzied look in the man’s eyes that he wouldn’t have been noticed, even if he
had stood next to him. His blood was up and he only had one thing on his mind.

He saw Deiter raise his arm and prime the weapon, the gun
pointing directly at Jed’s head. He was under no illusion that if he didn’t act
now his friend would be dead in less than a second. He left the shadows and
moved stealthily behind Deiter, raising the object in his hand high above his
head as he did so. Deiter half turned as if sensing him coming, but it was too
late; Tom brought the statue of Shiva the Destroyer crashing down onto the back
of his head.

‘Looks like I saved ya sorry arse, again.’ Jed had regained
consciousness and was being stretchered out of the room on a gurney to a
waiting ambulance.

‘We both owe you our lives,’ Tom replied, walking by his
side. ‘How did you know to come in
all guns blazing?
’

Jed winced at the pain in his ribs as he tried to laugh.
‘When Charles rang me, the call connected so I heard the shot. I have to admit,
my first thought was to get the hell out of Dodge as fast as I could and then
phone the police.’

‘Well, I’m sure as hell glad you didn’t.’

The police had arrived, as Deiter predicted, within five
minutes of being called. They, in turn, had alerted the medics on the complex
who were able to stabilise the injured before ferrying them to the local
hospital in the only ambulance they had available. Serena, who they deemed the
most seriously hurt, was the first to go, followed by Deiter accompanied by two
deputies, and then Jed, who insisted he’d been in worse fights.

‘Out on the piss on a Saturday night, in Glasgow,’ he’d
said, apparently referring to when he was younger. Tom didn’t doubt this.

One look at the state of the room had convinced the on-site
police officer that it was way out of his league and had called in
reinforcements from the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department. They arrived en
masse; clearly, nothing as juicy as this had happened in their jurisdiction for
a very long time, if at all.

Statements were taken from those able to give them – which,
as the only two still conscious at the scene of the crime, meant principally
Tom and Jed. Receptionists and security guards were interviewed; however, as
they’d had only limited contact with those involved, they were only able to
confirm arrival times and calls transferred.

A forensic team was duly called in to dust for fingerprints and
to take DNA samples. The murder weapon was ‘bagged and tagged’, as one of the
Sherriff’s Deputies put it, along with the statuette. Photographs were taken of
everything from every conceivable angle, including Charles’s body. He was the
last of the whole shooting match to leave the office, his journey to the
hospital being considered not as urgent as the others.

The Sheriff in charge of the investigation was in his late
fifties. Having completed twenty-four of his twenty-five years in service, he
was looking forward to retiring next year. He was a rather rotund man with a
snow-white thatch and matching facial hair, making him look like Colonel
Sanders on a diet of too much of his own Southern fried recipe.

Sheriff Pete Watkins told Tom that he was obliged to call in
the FBI, as was de rigueur in murder cases involving a foreign national.
However, he would postpone the call until after he’d had a chance to interview
the prime suspect – and, given the condition Deiter was in, that could be
several days away. Tom suspected the Sheriff had his own agenda for not wanting
to involve the FBI, possibly because he wanted to have the case sewn-up by the
time the suits arrived, or he didn’t appreciate external agencies trampling on
his turf. Either way, it suited Tom, as the last thing
he
needed was
anybody making the connection back to the Swiss authorities.

‘How’s Serena?’ Jed asked.

‘The medics say she’s stable,’ replied Tom. ‘But they won’t
know for sure if there’s any brain damage until she regains consciousness.’

‘You must have really pissed that guy off back at CERN?’

‘I gave you the condensed version on the way here. Why don’t
I save the rest of it until you’re feeling better, then I’ll tell you all about
it over a couple of beers?’

‘A couple? Ya wee shite, I think I deserve the barrel.’

Tom laughed, despite the excruciating pain in his head.
‘You’ve got it, big man. The whole barrel.’

They had arrived at the waiting ambulance. Its blue strobe
lights melded with those from the dozen or so police cars in the car park,
illuminating the buildings and the faces of the crowd that had gathered out of
curiosity in a monochromatic light show. The two orderlies collapsed the
gurney’s framework, lifted Jed onto the ambulance and then expanded it again,
ensuring the wheels were locked in place. Tom clambered in afterwards, taking a
seat on the chair opposite.

***

Despite Jed’s protestations, they were rushed through to A
& E, where they received immediate attention. The buzz going around the
hospital was that a crazed gunman had gone berserk at the lab up the road,
killing one and injuring at least three others. They weren’t that far off the
mark.

Tom received six stitches to his head wound, had an X-ray,
which was clear, and had to stay in overnight for observation.

Jed had X-rays followed by a CT scan. Miraculously, all his
vital organs were undamaged, apart from his liver, which was in poor shape; however,
that
was put down to years of self-abuse rather than anything he’d
sustained in the fight. He had severe bruising to his arms, legs and torso, two
black eyes, as well as several fractures to his nose, in addition to three
cracked ribs which, the doctor informed him, should heal by themselves in six
to eight weeks.

The nose was a different matter; it would require extensive
rhinoplasty surgery to rebuild and straighten it. However, he was assured that,
over time, they would be able give him his old profile back. He was also advised
to stay in overnight for observation; but, as soon as his ribs were taped up,
he took one look in the mirror, tweaked his nose into some form of shape and
discharged himself.

***

Tom had been allocated a gown and a bed in a private room,
but he was desperate to see how Serena was. He had ascertained from his nurse
that she had regained consciousness. The brain scans showed no significant
damage, but she had mild concussion.

He threw back the covers and made his way to the door. He
was still a little woozy and his head hurt like hell; it felt like the worst
morning hangover of his life without having had the enjoyment of getting it the
night before. As he made his way down the corridor, he noticed two docile
deputies, lounging on either side of a closed door. Their alertness piqued when
they saw him approaching.

‘Shouldn’t you be resting, Professor Halligan?’ the younger
of the two enquired, rising out of his seat and moving to block the door they
were guarding.

‘I’m just checking on my friend. Do you know where she is?’

‘Miss Mayer? She’s in the room at the end, but I heard the
doctors saying she shouldn’t be disturbed.’

‘I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I just popped my head in.’

He continued on his way before they had a chance to object.
It was an alien feeling to him, being uncomfortable around the police. He half
expected one of them to say,
‘Hey, aren’t you wanted by Interpol?’

He stopped outside Serena’s door and knocked softly. Hearing
no reply, he went in. She was propped up in bed, bolstered by some over-sized
pillows. Her eyes were closed. A catheter ran from her arm into a transparent
bag containing a clear fluid, suspended above her head. On the index finger of
her left hand was a clip connected by wires to a heart rate monitor. As Tom
approached the bed, he could see the visual representation of her heart beating
on the screen. He was mesmerised by the green line pulsating its steady rhythm.

‘Will I live?’ Serena asked groggily, opening her eyes when
she heard Tom approach her.

Tom smiled, leant over and kissed the bandage on her
forehead, being careful to avoid the site where the bullet had struck. ‘My
prognosis is that you’ll live to a ripe old age, but you certainly had us all
worried for a while.’

She reached up and tenderly touched the dressing above Tom’s
eye. ‘And you?’

‘A few stitches and a scar that I’ll be able to bore the
pants off explaining how I got it to anybody stupid enough to ask.’

She paused for a moment, trying to organise her thoughts.
‘What about Deiter?’

He told her how Jed had burst into the office and tackled
him to the ground, effectively saving their lives. How Jed and Deiter had
fought over the gun and how he had managed to sneak up and knock Deiter out.

Her face clouded as the memories slotted into place. ‘Poor
Charles,’ she said almost to herself.

‘Deiter’s under armed arrest. It looks like he won’t be
going anywhere for a very long time,’ Tom replied, in an effort to comfort her,
but her melancholy persisted. ‘What’s with the drip?’ he said, to change the
subject.

‘Painkillers, antibiotics and saline solution,’ she replied
faintly. ‘Apparently, I’m dehydrated.’

‘Any idea how long they’re going to keep you in?’ He was
trying to keep her mind off the images of Charles slumped over his desk, which
he knew must be haunting her, as it did him.

‘The doctors were a bit vague, but they said they wanted to
keep me awake overnight so they could monitor my concussion. Any suggestions on
how I can do that?’

‘A few, but none that would be appropriate, given your
condition.’

‘Try me.’ Her hand reached out and gently stroked his cheek.
He bent forward and kissed her full on the lips.

Just then, the door suddenly flew open and in pitched the
deputy he’d spoken to earlier, his right hand brandishing his gun, his left
clutching at a patch of blood that was spreading across his abdomen. Tom could
see the hilt of a scalpel poking out through his fingers.

‘Stay in your room,’ the man managed to gasp. ‘I’ve called
for support.’

‘What’s happened?’ Tom asked, alarmed. But before the deputy
had a chance to reply, Tom already knew the answer.

‘He’s escaped...’