Dante's Equation Part 22

On the screen her building was burning, and she couldn't quite make herself believe it. Their computer. Their data. When was the last time she'd made a backup? Their research subjects, which she was hoping to postmortem-gone.

"Jill . . ." There was something on his face, a high color at the tops of his olive cheeks, a weird shininess in his eyes. He took one of her hands.

"At this time we know that there was a lab down in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the building, run by Dr. Jill Talcott. Officials think this was the source of the explosion but have not revealed the nature of the experiments."

It was like a slap in the face, hard, stinging. This wasn't justany explosion. This wasn't going to work and finding something had happened to her building, her lab, something terrible and inconvenient as h.e.l.l but not her fault. This washerexplosion.

She sucked in air. She was still floating, still remote, still held at arm's length from life by the fever's grip. But this thing came through all that like a speeding bullet.

Dead. My fault.

She heard sirens from the distance, growing louder.

"Jill?" Nate's face, streaming with tears, floated in front of her eyes. She pushed off it, like a swimmer pushing off a raft, and willed herself back into unconsciousness.

You thought in your own mind, I will scale the heavens; I will set my throne high above the stars of G.o.d, I will sit on the mountain where the G.o.ds meet in the far recesses of the north. I will rise above the cloud banks and make myself like the Most High. Yet shall you be brought down to Sheol, to the depths of the abyss.

-Isaiah 14:12

11.1. Calder Farris

SEATTLE.

The first thing Calder did after the explosion was find a bathroom and clean the blood off his face. Flying debris and gla.s.s had a.s.saulted his exposed skin like shrapnel. Little dark spots showed where particles had embedded themselves. He left them; he didn't have time to d.i.c.k with that now.

The second thing he did was call Dr. Rickman, his superior at the DoD. This was no longer a solo mission, Calder said; this was a possible XL3.

The XLs were codewords they used in the field when there was something definite to report. An XL1 was the discovery of a new weapon, typically something on the order of a bomb. An XL2 was a reallybig bomb. An XL3 was an unknown weapon of ma.s.s destruction.

In retrospect, it might have been overdoing it. But there were two ways to play it safe here. The first way to play it safe was by a.s.suming the worst in order to get the situation under control as hard and fast as possible. The second was to be leery of calling an XL3 until he had proof positive that's what it was. It all came down to his faith in the powers of devastation of the thing he was chasing.

By dawn, Calder had everything the DoD could give him.

7:00A .M.

Lieutenant Farris, Lieutenant Hinkle, and six other men in long black trench coats and dark gla.s.ses walked into Swedish Hospital in Seattle. They had a hardened, regimental look and the gait of a death squad. They knew where she was being kept: the second floor. According to their information, the detective in charge of the investigation was up there now. Calder didn't bother with anyone less than that. When they emerged from the elevator and were questioned by a young officer, Calder flipped his ID and kept walking.

By the time they reached Seattle Police Department's Detective Mathers, they were expected. Mathers stood in the hall, hands on his hips, his officers around him. Calder's eye flickered to Mathers's badge, verifying the name.

"Detective Mathers? Calder Farris, FBI. We're authorized to take over here, as I think you'll find if you contact your-"

"He already called." Mathers looked wary and excited. He jerked his head down the hall, signaling Calder to a private conversation. Calder followed.

"What's the FBI's interest?" Mathers asked when they were alone. He was a lean man, trying to look younger than his forty-odd years. He had a conspiratorial air, chewing his gum in an anxious rhythm. Calder, whose dark gla.s.ses were still in place, treated him to a stony, blank face. Mathers lost a little of his bonhomie.

"We're investigating the possibility of terrorist activity."

"Thought so. Is it because of this lab run by Dr. Talcott? You got a tip on her or somethin'? Some reason to think she's in league with Al-Qaeda or someone like that?"

Calder said nothing, letting Mathers draw his own conclusions. The FBI on a terrorist investigation was a common-enough story. It would hold for a while, keep this thing from attracting the interest of the wrong people.

"We have the fire department and an arson expert on-site," Mathers said.

"We just sent in our own. They'll be taking over. For now, we're on media blackout."

Mathers frowned at this, scratched his chin. "You want me to stick around? Go over-"

"I want you to clear out. You and your men. You have notes? Photographs? Information on Dr. Talcott? You will have interviewed her. I'd like a transcript."

"She's unconscious. Been asleep since we brought her in. Doctors advised that we let her. She's had a fever over a hundred and two. Viral, they think."

Calder felt relieved but didn't show it. These past few hours had been frustrating, waiting for everything to be put into place, thinking about what Talcott might be telling the Seattle police inside this very building while he waited outside like a cuckolded husband.

"Fine. Just hand over whatever you have. If I have questions, I'll call you."

Mathers was getting p.i.s.sed at the brush-off. "I thought the FBI worked in conjunction with local authorities. This isouruniversity,ourkids."

"This is a national security issue, Detective Mathers, and no longer your responsibility."

Within five minutes, Calder's men had the entire floor cleared of Seattle's finest. Objective achieved: contain the situation; eliminate outsiders. Mathers would probably hold up his reports for hours to make a point. Let him. Calder had Talcott, and he'd already done his own background check on her.

He accepted a paper cup of cold water from one of his a.s.sociates and drank it in a gulp. He removed his coat and went in, alone, to see her.

There, in the hospital bed, making barely a mound under the sheets, was a woman. Calder walked to the foot of the bed and took off his gla.s.ses, stared. Her arms stuck out of the hospital gown, thin and pale and freckled. Her hair was a nondescript shade of dirty blond and was unwashed (probably sick for a few days at least, Calder noted). Her face was narrow, aquiline, unexceptional, but not unattractive and not without character. It reminded him of the faces of plainswomen he'd seen in photographs: hard, not with denigration, the way hookers' faces are hard, but with a rocklike determination to take whatever life threw their way. She might prove stubborn, but she was female, after all, and looked too physically insignificant to be a real problem.

As if feeling his eyes like cold spots on her flesh, the woman shivered in her sleep and turned over.

He could wake her now. But he had other things to take care of-making sure the on-site team at the university had cleared out the local workers, for example, and seeing if she had any confidantes, despite Grover's remark that she was a loner. She could wait. She wasn't going anywhere.

Calder picked up her chart and smiled: Jill Talcott, doctorate in physics from the University of Tennessee, onetime graduate student of Dr. Henry Ansel.

11.2. Nate Andros

Nate was serving Sat.u.r.day brunch at the Coastal Kitchen when the guy came in. Huge, hamhanded, with a face like a pork loin. He didn't exactly fit in on Capitol Hill, where the men were less macho as a rule: students, artists, musicians, gays. Nate was too distracted this morning to notice, not until someone pointed him out.

"Rambo at ten o'clock," said Michel as he spun by carrying twin platters, his hips swinging.

Nate looked and saw that Pork-Loin-Face-Rambo-was looking at a menu. He'd been seated in Nate's section.

"Great," Nate said, to no one in particular.

He was exhausted. He'd been at the hospital until 2:00A .M., hovering around the waiting room. The police had finally asked who he was, and he'd said, "A friend." He would have told them more, if they'd pressed. They didn't. They seemed disorganized. And the longer he'd sat therewithout being questioned, the more nervous he became about what he would say, so he'd ditched.

Maybe he shouldn't have come in to work today. He wasn't thinking too clearly. This morning it had seemed like a good excuse in case the cops asked why he hadn't come to the station to volunteer what he knew:I was working. But he could barely make himself go through the paces. He was frantic about Jill, wishing he could be at her bedside to hold her hand-as if she'd want him to-or at least be there to see for himself that she was going to be okay. And he couldn't stop thinking, too, about the deep, deep,deep s.h.i.t they were in. Atlantic Ocean deep.

What the h.e.l.l was he going to tell the police? Whatcouldhe tell them without making Jill look guilty as h.e.l.l? Or himself, for that matter? He was as much a party to everything that had happened as she was.

"What is thematter with you today, boy?" Michel asked. Nate was staring down at an undelivered omelet as if the clues to the universe had to do with eggs, caramelized onions, and Havarti.

"Nothing."

Michel put his empty plates in the back room and returned, put a hand on Nate's arm. "Are you sick? You look like Death, and I don't mean Brad Pitt."

Nate collected himself. "I was thinking about something, that's all."

He took the coffeepot and filled up a few of his tables. He was running out of ways to avoid taking Rambo's order, so he headed over there.

Rambo stared at him as he approached. There was a curled-up sneer on his face-the look a cat gets when it's smelled something particularly piquant. Nate could guess what that smell was: he was the only straight waiter in the place and the clientele was pretty much fifty-fifty.

"What can I get you?"

"Steak and eggs. Coffee."

"Sure." Paleolithic. Big surprise. Nate reached for the menu. Rambo clamped a fist over his wrist.

It hurt, as it was meant to, but it was more of a shock, that someone would do that in the first place and do it here, on Nate's own turf. He guffed a laugh, stared at the man indignantly.

"Nate Andros, right?"

Nate nodded, his view of the man shifting instantly.Cop. He should have guessed.

Rambo used his nonsqueezing hand to show a badge, making sure Nate had plenty of time to read it.ED HINKLE .FBI . "I'm going to eat my steak; then you and I are going to chat. So go tell your boss you're leaving early."

Nate was still nodding; his neck had, in fact, grown springs, so he didn't have to make a special nod for this occasion. Rambo released him.

The kitchen grill was open to the restaurant, the chefs and diners face-to-face. But behind the grill was a back room where they did dishes and yakked. Nate grabbed some dirty plates and went back there, wanting to get out of the man's sight.

Nate stood breathing heavily and looking around the long room. There were boxes of food, the dishwashing machine, and a walk-in fridge. There was no back door. This was an urban neighborhood, and the only doors in the whole place were the front door, in the restaurant itself, and a door at the tail end of the restaurant that led to a small balcony two stories up with no stairs.

FBI! s.h.i.t!

He had an order up. He delivered a salmon salad and a scramble. He could feel Rambo's eyes boring into him.

"Boy, you are hyperventilatin'! What'sup?" Michel was at the waiters' counter, along with Justin, a blue-eyed Iowan who had all the other waiters drooling. Nate muttered something indiscernible and went into the back. They followed.

"You're driving me crazy, and Ihatethat." Michel blocked the doorway, hands on his size 21 waist.

"That guy out there," Nate said, scared and sounding it. "He's FBI."

"Rambo? No s.h.i.t?" Michel looked back over his shoulder, delighted.

"What's goin' on?" Justin asked with cowboy sincerity.

"I think he wants to talk to me about that explosion on campus last night." Nate gripped his abdomen and bent over. Just saying it made his stomach ache.

"You had something to do with that?" Michel was no longer goofing, his face worried. "Oh,jesu, are you in trouble. Mannie works over at Swedish. He called me this morning, says the FBI are allover the place, man. They've got that scientist from the news, what's her name, Dr. Talbot or something?"

Mannie was Michel's partner, a male nurse. Nate was startled at this news. When had the FBI taken over? Andwhy ?

"Talcott. I've been her grad student for the past two years."

Michel went maternal and put his arm around Nate. "Oh myG.o.d ! What were you guysdo ing? Did she really cause that explosion?"

Nate shook his head mutely.I don't know. But his face burned. Yeah, she did. He did.They did. Michel and Justin exchanged a look.

"Listen, you don't want to talk to this guy, just say the word."

"No problem." Justin nodded.

Nate looked at their resolute faces. "I'll have to talk to them eventually."

"Yeah, but do you want to talk to themnow , that's the question." Michel held out his hand, expression Cuban c.o.c.ky, as if to say,You don't have to dos.h.i.twhile I'm around.

Nate breathed deeply and raked a hand through his cropped hair. He went to the doorway and peeked out. Rambo was staring right at him. Someone had taken him his order and he chewed steak, looking back at Nate with eyes that had a little too much . . . antic.i.p.ation in them.

Nate drew back, confused. This didn't feel right. Why was the guy alone? Why couldn't Nate just talk to the police instead of this goon? And there was this whole gay thing mixed up in it, that look of disdain. Was Rambo a h.o.m.ophobe? Would he take the opportunity to beat the c.r.a.p out of him?

Nate nodded quickly at Justin and Michel before he could change his mind. "Yeah. Get me out of here."

Michel unfurled a smile the devil couldn't have matched. "You got it, sweetcheeks."

Five minutes later, the entire Coastal Kitchen crew was huddled over a piece of chocolate mousse. Michel lit the candle and winked at Nate.

"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!"

The rousing chorus line descended on Rambo with felicitations, blocking his view and his path. Nate beat it out the front door.

He was heading toward his apartment when he realized that wouldn't be smart. If the FBI knew where he worked they had to know where he lived. And his bike was there, d.a.m.n it, and therefore irretrievable.

He was standing on one of the residential streets that stretched off Fifteenth. Old brick apartment buildings lined the narrow street. He sank down to sit beside a car to get out of sight, put a piece of gum in his mouth, which was drier than dust, and tried to think it through.

You'd rather talk to the police? So go to the police department. Turn yourself in.

It was a good idea, but he had no idea what he'd say. He'd been gestating that all morning and still didn't have an answer. Did he confess everything about their experiment? Or did he deny up the wazoo and hope no one knew otherwise? After all, the lab was gone, burnt to a crisp. No one knew what they'd been doing.

But there was something else, something that had been bugging him and he couldn't quite grasp. He sat there thinking about the FBI, about how their involvement seemed to really change things, and about ham-hock man, until it came to him.