Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (23 page)

“Sorry. Tracking down a lead.”

Larry rolled his eyes in exasperation. He nodded at the remote set-up where Brian had built a clattertrap collection of boxes and wires perched precariously beside a group of well-dressed, short-haired students.

With the ever-present cigarette drooping from his lips, Brian moved in and handed her a portable microphone and headset. He whispered, “Speaking of leads, I think I’ve got something for you.”

Sammy’s face brightened. “The tape? What’d you get?”

“No time to tell you now. I’ve still got more cleaning up to do, but I should be done by tonight. I’ll call when I’m through, and we
can meet at the studio.” He caught Larry’s eye and said more loudly, “Let’s go. Ready in five, four, three. We’re live.”

“Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen,” a campus administrator shouted into a squeaking microphone. “Welcome to Ellsford University’s celebration of Nitshi Day, sponsored by the Nitshi Corporation. With us today is Nitshi Chief Executive Officer Yoshi Ishida, and —”

Sammy glanced at her Swatch. It was exactly noon.

“— a long and productive cooperative association.” Smiling at the guests seated beside him, Chancellor Ellsford eased back to his chair on the podium.

Swallowing a yawn, Sammy spoke softly into her microphone. “That was Chancellor Ellsford who just spoke for about twenty minutes on the cooperative relationship between the university and industry, specifically the Nitshi Corporation. The chancellor stressed that this association would improve research and educational opportunities for Ellsford students and faculty. His speech was met with some resistance from a group of protesters opposed to foreign investment in our colleges.” She glanced at the clean-cut group to her right and was startled to recognize the young woman she’d seen outside Taft’s service in its midst. She scanned the students for Luther Abbott, but didn’t see the angry young man among the crowd.

The hyperactive administrator-announcer had just finished introducing the next speaker and Sammy quickly returned to her report. “In just a minute, we’ll be hearing from Nitshi CEO Ishida.”

A burst of applause and a few scattered boos signaled the start of Ishida’s speech.

He began in soft, clear, and articulate English. “Ladies and Gentlemen. We are pleased to be able to join you today to honor scientists and men of knowledge.”

Sammy now recalled where she had seen the handsome Japanese man before. Two long days ago, he was coming out of Dean Jeffries’s office.

• • •

Though everything was proceeding surprisingly smoothly, Pappajohn felt his stomach churning. Things were going too well. As he reached in his pocket for a new roll of antacids, his walkie-talkie squawked. It was Edna Loomis from the office.

“Phone call for you, Chief.”

“Patch it through,” he said, a worried edge to his voice. He knew Edna wouldn’t interrupt for anything trivial.

“Sergeant Pappajohn?” The voice was barely audible through the static.

“Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

A group of marchers next to the grandstand began to shout loudly.

“You Pappajohn?” the caller asked again.

Pappajohn struggled to hear above the growing chanting. “That’s right. And who are you?”

“That don’t matter. You just need to know there’s gonna be trouble today.”

“What kind of trouble?” he demanded.

“Just remember the Concord Mall.”

Pappajohn froze. The explosion at the Boston shopping center six years ago had killed eight people, including two children. “What the hell —?” he shouted into the speaker. Too late. The connection had been severed. He clicked the button and his secretary came back on the system. “Edna, call the phone company and get that number traced right away.”

Before she could respond, he was sending a message to his officers. “Code Red. Phase One Alert.”

A tall, dark-haired boy gave the signal. The well-dressed group pulled their placards from behind the grandstand and began marching toward the stage. “L-O-V-E,” they chanted in unison. “Let our values endure!” As they formed a ten-deep phalanx around the stage, their shouts grew louder and more strident. “USA for Americans! Foreign interests go home!”

• • •

Pappajohn elbowed his way through the crowd. Caught in the middle of the protestors, he lost sight of his fellow officers closing in on the podium from all sides.

Within seconds, Sammy realized something was seriously wrong. Taft’s group had taken center stage, but their shouts were now overpowered by a swarm of gathering policemen focused on evacuating the audience rather than arresting the protesters. One uniformed guard leaped onto the dais and with a few whispered words, urged an alarmed contingent of Ellsford brass to jump off toward the rear.

Sammy was certain that among the panic she heard the word “bomb.” Amidst the confusion, she couldn’t locate Larry, though she did catch Brian’s eye from across the wall of students as she wended her way toward the podium. The engineer had extinguished his cigarette and was frantically waving for her to return to the outskirts of the scurrying audience. She shook her head and pressed on, surrounded by the hysterical screams and shouts from the crowd.

It happened with horrifying speed: an excruciating burst of sound, a blinding sheet of flame, followed by towers of smoke. The podium exploded in a shower of splinters trailing red, white, and blue streamers. Sammy’s last memory was of two strong arms pushing her down onto the hard dirt ground.

N
ITSHI
R
ESEARCH
I
NSTITUTE
F
OURTH FLOOR

Though her head felt cottony, Lucy fought sleep. She needed to think. With the shades down, it was impossible to tell exactly what time it was. She only knew it was night because the nurse had just told her so.

Night?

How long had she been here? A few hours? A few days? She couldn’t remember. Ever since she’d gotten up and tried to take a walk down the hall, the staff had kept a vigilant eye on her. Every
hour on the hour, gloved and masked, they tiptoed in on crepe-soled shoes, their footsteps never disturbing the gentle hum of the laminar flow equipment. Taking vital signs, checking her IV, bringing meals.

“You’re too weak,” had been Dr. Palmer’s explanation.

“But won’t I get weaker lying in bed all day?”

Dr. Palmer assured her with a gentle pat on the arm. “You’ll get weaker if you don’t follow orders.” He’d removed a syringe from the pocket of his white coat, plunged the needle point into her IV tubing, and emptied the colorless fluid.

“What’s that?”

“Just something to calm you down. I know this is all very strange and I know you’re frightened. This will help.”

“I’d feel much better if I could just talk to my parents and see my friends.”

He’d smiled. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. But don’t worry. I’ve called them all, and they know you’re in good hands.”

She’d returned the doctor’s smile — more resigned than convinced.

That had been when? she wondered now. Yesterday? This afternoon? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she felt terribly alone. Alone and afraid. Looking around her white sterile room, she had the strangest sensation that she wasn’t so much in a hospital as a prison.

Sammy’s first conscious feeling was the throbbing pain in her head. For a moment she lay still, her eyes squeezed shut, then finally she risked opening them.

“Hello there.” Reed smiled down at her.

She tried sitting up, but was assaulted by a wave of dizziness. “My head.”

“Whoa, take it easy.” Reed gently touched the bandage covering her temple. “It took twelve stitches to close that gash. You suffered a mild concussion.”

“Where am I?”

“Ellsford General,” Reed reported. “You were injured in the blast.”

Blast? She vaguely remembered people running, screams around her, then the sound of a loud explosion. But after that, it was as if a curtain had been dropped over the scene. It was blank.

“You’re lucky,” Reed added. “The CT scan was normal; no broken bones, no intracranial bleeding.”

“Then why was I admitted?”

“Just routine observation. You can check out tomorrow.”

Sammy surveyed her private room. It was small, but comfortably decorated — more like a three-star hotel than a hospital, with carpeted floors, curtained windows, even a TV that had been turned on, the sound muted. In the dull light of dusk that filtered through the window, the images flickered silently across the screen like an old kinescope.

“Anyone else hurt?”

“Don’t worry about that now. You need to rest.”

“Don’t baby me, Reed.” Her mind conjured a vision of sheets of flames in a web of piercing screams. “What happened?” She pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the throbbing in her forehead.

“Evidently a pipe bomb was planted near the podium,” Reed explained.

Nitshi Day. She did remember someone yelling about a bomb. That’s when pandemonium had broken out.

Reed’s voice was reassuring as he guided her back down. “All your people are fine. The cops managed to disperse most of the crowd.”

“And the rest?”

“We got about thirty injured, most not too badly,” Reed said. “They were treated in the ER and discharged. Including your buddy, Pappajohn.”

Another flashback — the campus cop pushing her down, saving her life. “Is he okay?”

“A broken arm, some bruised ribs. The physical injuries aren’t
bad, but he’s taken this pretty hard. Feels responsible for the one . . .” Reed hesitated, “the one who didn’t make it.”

Sammy sat up quickly now — pain or no pain. “My God. Anybody —?”

“A student. Katie Miller. Protesting with that born-again group.”

“How can Pappajohn blame himself?”

“I don’t know.” Reed shrugged. “But he wanted to leave the hospital and start tracking down the bad guys right away.”

The six p.m. local news had just started with a camera pan of the Nitshi Day crowd, followed by a tight shot of Yoshi Ishida speaking. A moment later there was a jostled view of an explosion and the ensuing chaos.

“Turn that up!” Sammy ordered.

Reed clicked the remote.

“Senator Joslin, you canceled your plans to attend today’s celebration at Ellsford University due to illness. Your constituents in Vermont are wondering if you could’ve been the target of the mad bomber.”

“An unfortunate coincidence,” the senator responded. “But let me say that we will never condone this kind of violence anywhere in this great country. I’ve already conferred with the university chancellor who promises a full investigation.”

“Senator, there’s a rumor circulating that you may have ties to Reverend Taft, that —”

Sammy studied the Republican senator as the aristocratic-looking face changed from his usual on-camera Olympian expression to suppressed anger.
Interesting and understandable
. Six months ago the man had barely managed to squelch talk of philandering. Any new scandal could ruin his reelection plans.

“I can only surmise that such rumors are politically motivated. I have never been involved with extremist groups.”

Another picture of Nitshi Day flashed across the screen — this time the young Tafties marching toward the stage chanting “Let our
values endure!” “USA for Americans!” and “Foreign interests go home.”

“Meanwhile, the investigation into the bombing itself has led to speculation that Reverend Taft or at least some member of his right-wing group may be responsible, although the exact motive is unclear. Mr. Grant Stone, assistant director of the FBI was quoted as saying that his organization does plan to question the religious leader and his staff. A spokesman for the Reverend has vehemently denied any involvement in the incident.”

“I don’t care what he denies.” Sammy declared. “It
had
to be Taft.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I knew he planned to disrupt Nitshi Day. I just never —” She grabbed the remote from Reed and clicked off the TV. “Damn him. If only I’d been able to stop him last year after the abortion rights demonstration, this would never have happened.”

“Aren’t you taking on a little more responsibility than is fair?” Reed asked. “Besides, what could possibly be Taft’s motive?”

“The man has always hated Nitshi. Don’t you remember the demonstrations he led before the research institute was built?”

“Sure, but there’s still a long way from demonstrations to bombing.”

Sammy shook her head. “I attended his Sunday sermon. You had to see the man on stage. It was as though he was —” she searched for the appropriate adjective, “possessed. He really believes he’s been ordained by God himself to lead mankind into the light.”

These forces of evil seek to destroy the foundations of America and American greatness.

“Nitshi represents everything he hates — a foreign corporation trying to control an American university.”

“They don’t control Ellsford.”

“But they do fund a significant amount of research here, don’t they?”

“Well, it’s true that with so much federal funding gone, the
university is becoming more dependent on private sources,” Reed conceded. “Big science costs big money.”

Sammy nodded, reminded of the millions worth of grants awarded to Professors Nakamura and Conrad by corporate sponsors. “Taft sees himself as some holy crusader fighting the corrupting influence of this major foreign company.”

Reed remained unconvinced. “Academics receive industry funding all the time, Sammy. It doesn’t necessarily bias their results. If anything, it may positively influence the direction of the work.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, more academics are doing applied research these days.”

“Applied?”

“As opposed to basic research,” Reed explained. “Some might argue that in a perfect world, academic scientists should only do basic research — say, figuring out the cause of a specific disease — like AIDS — without concern for its treatment. The stark reality is that twelve years and ten billion taxpayers dollars into the AIDS epidemic, there’s no cure in sight. On the other hand, applied research could mean the development of a new genetically engineered drug therapy or even a vaccine. In fact, that’s what my preceptor, Dr. Palmer, is working on.”