Crosscut (26 page)

This was the frame where Jesse had paused the video. Now it kept going.

Dana continued laughing. The sounds coming out of her throat seemed entirely unconnected with her thoughts, movements, or emotions. I clawed the edge of the desk.

Gently the man said, “Dana, remember what we practiced?”

For a second I thought she had gone incoherent. But it became horrifyingly clear that she was lucid. Her eyes stopped roving. She stared straight at the camera. Though she continued writhing and the laughter blurted from her throat, she fought inch by inch to bring her balled hand up to her face. Her mouth widened and the trapped animal voice cried out.

“Hi, little girl.” She groped for breath. “Mommy loves you.”

She bumped her fist to her mouth and blew a kiss. The camera zoomed out in time to see Dana drop her hand to a stomach swollen with pregnancy.

I came out of the bathroom after being sick. Jesse was sitting with his eyes closed, rubbing his fingers across his forehead.

“You may not want to watch the second video,” he said.

“Play it.”

I sat down. Sludge was running through my veins. He queued up a new file.

It was low-bandwidth streaming video, sent from a webcam. A man in the uniform of an air force officer sat at a desk talking to the camera. He looked spent, my age but dust inside. His was the gentle voice behind the video of Dana.

“At first I thought she was depressed. Her first trimester she got really, really down. She didn’t want to eat and she couldn’t sleep.”

He blinked. “But then the panic attacks started, and she began hallucinating. Like she was dreaming, wide-awake. I knew something was horribly wrong. She lost her coordination and started slurring her speech. Then it ate her up.”

He looked into the camera. “That video I sent? That was two weeks before the baby came. By then I knew Dana wasn’t going to make it. We’d had the MRI. When I took the video, she hadn’t slept in eight weeks. Period. Total insomnia.” He clawed his fingers through his hair. “We made the video so the baby would . . . so that when she got old enough, she’d have something from her mother, to know her by. Even with Dana like she was at the end . . .” He closed his eyes. “It was going to be for our baby girl.”

He reached out and hit his keyboard. The video blanked. When it came back a few seconds later, he looked more composed.

“The baby lived three hours. She had . . . profound neurological abnormalities.” He pressed his lips together. “Her name was Clare.”

I didn’t move a muscle. Jesse didn’t seem to be breathing.

“She was delivered by cesarean and that night Dana started bleeding. They couldn’t stop it. Finally the next morning they opened her up again and performed a hysterectomy. I mean, there wasn’t much point in trying to salvage anything. They just ripped everything out to stop the hemorrhaging.”

Now he looked at the camera. “Postop, that’s when the fire happened. And I’ve always known that there was no good reason for those doors to be locked.” He shook his head. “Why? I know she was dying, but to kill her like that . . . to start a fire that blew up the OR and then burned down the place?”

He leaned toward the camera. His voice remained gentle.

“Captain Delaney, find out who did this to my wife. Because I’m going to kill the motherfucker.”

 
Coyote stood by the window, amazed and apprehensive to be here. Everything felt familiar: the light, the traffic, the heat, and the smell. The halls were still ratty, the carpets just as moldy, the hallways as tainted with scuzz and urine as ever. Once, back in the days of silent movies, this had been a middle-class apartment building. Now, it was the last refuge of the decrepit and despondent. Home.

The clothing nest was long gone, but it was home nonetheless. She locked the door and undressed. Off came the eyeglasses and frumpy blazer and frowsy gray wig. They went in the suitcase with the photo ID that Mrs. Public Health Nurse wore when visiting elderly shut-ins, such as the crone who occupied these rooms with her croaky voice and shuffling slippers and eagerness to open the door to a face who would listen to her complaints. Coyote pulled on fatigue bottoms and a white wife-beater T-shirt and felt himself return. He sucked in a lungful of dusty air, tasting success like a promise on his tongue. It was time for the final push.

He turned the journal to a new page and began annotating. He felt himself revving up. He had an e-mail:
holy cross china lake, thurs 10 am. tc.
It was good timing. He hung the amulet on a candlestick and got down to planning.

 
Dr. Abbott sat at her desk watching the video of Dana West on my computer screen, fingers steepled in front of her lips.

“Anorexia, complete insomnia, ataxia, and myoclonus. That’s the slurred speech and jerking movements.”

She lifted the printout. Dana’s husband had e-mailed her medical reports.

“The MRI confirms that she had a transmissible spongiform encephalopathy. Her brain was riddled with holes.”

“How about the baby?” I said.

“I don’t know. I don’t have any medical data on the infant.”

I watched her, practically begging her to give me absolution, a free pass, to wave her doctor’s wand and sing Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo and tell me I was okay.

She said, “I spoke to the doctors in Memphis about Sharlayne Jackson. She died from intracranial hemorrhaging after a fall. She was at twenty-five weeks’ gestation.”

“The baby?”

“Was delivered, but was simply too small to survive.”

I sank in the chair, saddened. “So Sharlayne’s death was unconnected?”

“I don’t know about that. The doctors found it perplexing. She had fallen down some stairs and hit her head, hard. But afterward she said that she felt fine. She was covered with bruises but insisted that she didn’t feel any pain at all. She went on with her day at work. Then that afternoon she went into premature labor. She didn’t feel the contractions. She gave birth in the middle of her school classroom.”

I felt frozen. “She had it. The pain vaccine. It killed her.”

She didn’t quite acknowledge that. “If I had to venture a guess, this is a variant form of sporadic fatal insomnia.”

“Lack of sleep can kill you?”

“Patients generally die from secondary infections, often pneumonia. The primary problem is a prion infection that spongifies the brain.” She sat forward. “The major strain of the disease is genetic—familial fatal insomnia. But your classmates seem to be suffering from a form that arises from infection. Inhalation may be the transmission mechanism in this case.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Get more information. And you should speak to your friend who’s ill—Valerie? Also, talk to that doctor back in China Lake who handled the medical waivers after your class was exposed. If this is a new TSE, I’ll notify the CDC’s emerging-infections division.”

All I could think about was peak soldier performance: Project South Star’s work with sleep deprivation and pain control. It had gone wild.

“I think this has infected the killer, too,” I said. “But . . .”

“But the killer can’t possibly be as ill as Dana West.” She looked at the computer image again. “If he’s infected, either he isn’t end-stage, or something’s keeping him going.”

This wasn’t making sense.

I forced myself to look at Dr. Abbott. “Can people with these diseases pass it along to their children?”

“Some forms can be inherited. Not all.”

The walls in the office constricted. “I think this form can be passed on. I think that’s why Coyote killed Becky’s little boy.”

I stood up, ready to run for the door before the walls closed in on me.

“Evan.”

Dr. Abbott was standing behind her desk with my lab results in her hands. “All your blood work came back normal. And you’re showing no—I repeat no—signs of neurological instability.”

“I’m close to having a panic attack right here on the carpet. That’s a symptom, right?”

“To be absolutely safe, I’m going to recommend that you get an MRI—”

“Schedule it.”

Hands up. “Once you’re past your first trimester.”

Six, seven more weeks. Could I handle that before the other symptoms made me insane? Panic. Paranoia. Uncontrollable laughter and tears.

“Okay, okay.” I swallowed. “Okay.” Another swallow. “Are there tests for these diseases? Can you check to see if the baby’s okay?”

She shook her head. “You’re going to have to wait.”

 
I tore out of the doctor’s office and went ripping up the street in the Mustang, punching the number for Sanchez Marks. Damn if I wanted to tell Jesse, but we were in limbo. However, I didn’t get to break the news. His PA sounded breathless.

“He’s on his way to court. The Dieffenbach case, hell broke loose and he’s trying to get a TRO.”

“Which judge?”

“Rodriguez. By any chance do you have a decent shirt and a tie for him?”

I didn’t. When I crept into the back of the courtroom, he was arguing for the temporary restraining order, and Judge Sophia Rodriguez was looking like vinegar. Opposing counsel wore pinstripes. Jesse’s T-shirt sported a picture of Darth Vader and the caption,
Who’s your daddy?

But when Rodriguez clacked her gavel, he had the restraining order.

“Thank you, Your Honor.” He pushed back, turning to leave.

“And Mr. Blackburn, never again. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He came down the aisle looking chastened rather than victorious.

“Did she hold you in contempt?” I said.

“Onetime exemption, because she wants to get her grandson a shirt like this.” His eyes shone, unquiet. “What did Abbott say?”

I told him on the way out, walking along the corridor toward an archway that opened onto morning sunshine. We could say nothing to comfort each other. As we walked outside tourists strolled past, listening to a guide describe the Moorish architecture.

I turned. At the back of the tour group, looking like Cossacks on vacation, were Salt ’n’ Pepa.

“I don’t believe it.”

Jesse turned. “Son of a bitch.”

I strode toward them. “Hey.”

They looked up from their courthouse brochures. Salt was decked out in a white Izod shirt and chinos, Pepa in a Notre Dame sweatshirt and Yankees cap. With the smoothness of dance partners they turned and headed for the street.

“No, you don’t.” I ran toward them.

“Ev, wait.”

They jogged across the street, beating the light. Traffic stopped me. They sped out of sight beyond the library, cutting toward State Street one block over.

Jesse caught up. “What are you doing?”

The light changed. “This is about equilibrium. I’ll take Victoria. Will you cut through the arcade?”

Pointing down the street, I broke into a run. These guys were bugging the hell out of me, and with everything out of control I was damned if I was going to let one possible chance for information or clarity escape. Again. I ran, seeing my reflection in the tall windows of the library.

I passed restaurants and shops and stopped on the corner of Victoria and State. I looked down State in the direction of the beach. Palms shrugged in the breeze. The street was shiny with traffic, the sidewalks dense with shoppers. Down the block Jesse came out from the pedestrian arcade onto the sidewalk, glancing around. He saw me, waved, and pointed across the street.

I bolted across the crosswalk and ran down State. There were Salt ’n’ Pepa power walking amid the crowd a block ahead. I dodged a clump of teens playing hooky from Santa Barbara High. They wore piercings and life-sucks expressions. A surly lass blew smoke at me. Yeah, chem class is harsh. It’s a tough-ass world. I bumped her aside, saying, “Grow up.”

Salt ’n’ Pepa crossed Carrillo and fuzzed into the crowd. I worked to keep them in sight. Across the street Jesse jumped a curb to keep from getting stuck at the light. I kept running.

When they cut into the wide promenade at the Paseo Nuevo mall, I figured they might know we were on their tail. Damn. If my father had really worked as a spook the least he could have done was teach me some tradecraft. Instead, I was dogging these two like a fan chasing a rock band. And hey, what do you know, Salt headed into Mel’s and Pepa kept going. Splitting up, that was probably Undercover 101. I heard Jesse whistle and caught sight of him coming around the corner. Pointing him after Pepa, I veered through the door into Mel’s.

Gloom, Formica, and whiskey: everything the committed drinker wants at eleven thirty in the morning. Salt stood at the bar. The bartender took his five and slid a Budweiser across to him. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror along the wall behind the bottles of Maker’s Mark.

I hopped up on a stool. “If you’re investigating crop circles, the courthouse tour’s the wrong place to find them. Check behind the Old Mission. But be prepared: It’s a crop triangle.” I smiled sourly. “And your iPod’s missing one earpiece.”

He continued staring at the mirror, ignoring me and his beer and the wireless radio receiver in his ear. The bartender rang up his Bud and slapped change down in front of him, giving us the eye before wandering away.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

He didn’t respond.

“Coyote? South Star? The pain vaccine that’s killing the people Coyote doesn’t?”

He kept gazing at his reflection.

“These are my classmates and their kids, you jackboot SOB. Tell me.”

He stared at the change on the bar, shifted his shoulders, and finally spoke.

“I’m tracking down the conspirators who assassinated JFK.” He thumbed a quarter and slid it at me. “There’s a pay phone back there. You spot anybody lurking on the grassy knoll, give me a call.”

Call it a draw. I wasn’t going to get anything from him. I stood up.

“Hope your buddy picks you out something nice from Victoria’s Secret.” I poked him in the shoulder with my index finger. “Tag, you’re it.”