Had to be Dodge. Had to be.
The thought repeated itself, loud and insistent, as Tess sped north on the San Diego Freeway, toward the Valley and her motel.
She wanted to talk to the son of a bitch. Well, not exactly. What she wanted was to wring his neck. But talking would be a start.
She wondered if he was still on duty, or if she could get his home phone number from the watch commander Home phone number.
She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Reaching into her jacket pocket, she found the snitch card Dodge had given her in the elevator last night.
At Ventura Boulevard she exited the freeway. Idling at a stoplight, she took out her cell phone and dialed the number on the card.
Three rings, and an answer. Dodge.
"You piece of shit," she said.
It wasn’t how she had intended to begin. She’d meant to be diplomatic, clever.
"Not exactly the greeting I was hoping for." Dodge seemed unfazed. "Is this Agent McCallum?"
"You know it is." The traffic light cycled to green, and she started driving again. "Damn it, I never should’ve trusted you."
"Something wrong?"
"Shut the hell up. You know exactly what I’m talking about."
"Afraid I don’t, Tess."
"You talked. You leaked to the media, to Myron Levine of Channel…I don’t know."
"Channel Eight. That’s where Levine works."
"So you admit it?"
"Admit what?"
"Don’t insult my intelligence. You went to Levine as soon as you left the campus, didn’t you?"
"Let me get this straight. You’re saying the story has come out, and Levine of Channel Eight has it?"
"Yes. That’s what I’m saying."
"Did it ever occur to you that in an operation this size, there’s bound to be a leak-maybe a dozen leaks? Anybody could’ve talked."
"Not about the chem lab. The fire. Scott Maple. No one else knew about that. No one but you and me."
"And Winston."
"What?"
"Rachel Winston, the pathologist. She’s been known to cozy up to the media-or at least that’s the rumor."
Tess blinked. She hadn’t thought of Winston. "Dr. Winston didn’t know the details," she said slowly.
"She knew Scott Maple died of a cut throat in an arson fire. And she knew about Mobius. You mentioned him-remember?"
That was true. But the name itself would have meant nothing to Winston. The killer’s nickname had never been made public or shared with anyone outside the task force.
Still, Winston could have a contact inside the bureau-someone to help her put the pieces together. Or she might have talked to another pathologist, perhaps the one who’d conducted the autopsy on Angie Callahan, Mobius’s first victim in LA."
"You’re reaching," she said to herself.
Dodge assumed the comment was directed at him. "No, I’m not. Winston knew enough to get Levine’s attention. And who knows what other sources Levine might have?"
"Like you, for instance."
"I’m clean, Tess. Really. I take it you’re getting blamed for this?"
"How’d you know?"
"You wouldn’t be so upset otherwise. Well, they’re hanging a bad rap on you-and you’re hanging a bad rap on me."
Maybe she was. She doubted it. She still disliked Dodge. But what he was saying was at least possible.
"Look," he went on, "why don’t we talk about it in person? I’m home now. Won’t be going out again unless I catch a call. Come on over, I’ll fix some dinner, and we’ll discuss it."
Distantly she wondered if this was yet another attempt at a come-on. She dismissed the thought. Dodge was a pig, but nobody was that much of a pig.
Anyway, she needed to talk to him face-to-face. Study his eyes, his body language. That was the only way to know if he was lying.
"All right," she said. "I’ll stop at my motel first, watch the news-there’s supposed to be a special report coming on. Afterward, I’ll stop by."
"Sounds good." He recited his address, and she scribbled it on the back of the snitch card. "It’s in the Hollywood Hills just off Mulholland. Small place, but a view of the city that’ll knock you out. You like linguini?"
She had eaten nothing all day. "I do," she said reluctantly, while her stomach seconded the remark with a gurgle.
"I’ll see you in a while. Don’t worry, Tess. We’ll work this all out. By the time we’re through, you’ll be off the hook-and Winston will be hung out to dry."
We’ll see, she answered silently as she clicked off the phone.
On her way to the motel, Tess picked up a meal at a fast-food place, using the drive-through window. She wasn’t fond of microwaved burgers and greasy fries, but her stomach insisted on immediate satisfaction.
The motel room was stuffy, and because she’d left the DO NOT DISTURB sign in place, it had never been cleaned. She checked the air conditioner and dialed the fan to full speed. Time to get some air moving in here.
The motel chain called the room a suite, which simply meant that the bedroom area was separated from the living area by a partial wall. There was a rudimentary kitchen, as well, but she hadn’t taken the time to stock the fridge or even to fill the ice-cube trays.
She carried the brown bag and large diet soda into the living area, set down her chow on a coffee table before the sofa, then noticed that her nose was runny. Allergic reaction or something. She used one of the grease-spotted paper napkins to wipe her nose, then found the remote control and turned on Channel 8.
The special report was already in progress. A garish logo-BREAKING NEWS: TERROR ALERT-ran along the bottom of the screen. The news anchor was doing a recap of the story at her desk.
"…to repeat, KPTI sources tell us that federal, county, and municipal authorities tonight are searching for a canister of deadly nerve gas smuggled into Los Angeles by a suspected terrorist and now believed to be in the hands of a serial killer. This incredible story was first reported by our own Myron Levine in an exclusive…"
So it was really out. She’d been hoping irrationally for some last-minute miracle, a hold on the story that would at least provide time for an official announcement.
Andrus didn’t understand her concerns at all. Yes, she had believed that the public should be told, but not by a breathless newscaster breaking into Saturday-night programming to deliver a scare story. She’d wanted it done right-a sober statement presented by elected officials in a reasoned, thoughtful manner.
From the start, a leak had been inevitable. The news should have been put out in a way that would minimize panic.
Using the remote, she shuffled through the other channels. A second network affiliate had already picked up the story, the anchor reading an AP wire service bulletin that apparently summarized the KPTI report. Nothing had come on the other stations yet, but she knew it was only a matter of minutes.
Her stomach rolled, reminding her that she still had not touched her meal. She unwrapped the cheeseburger and hungrily tore off a bite.
When she clicked back to Channel 8, she saw Myron Levine doing a live stand-up outside Parker Center, the downtown headquarters of the LAPD. City Hall East, with its underground command center, would have been more appropriate, but Levine might not even know about that.
"…serial killer nicknamed Mobius, who was in Denver two years ago when this reporter was himself stationed in that city. Mobius, known to the media as the Pickup Artist, was responsible for a series of slayings…"
So he knew the name Mobius-the name she’d let slip in Rachel Winston’s presence. Could Dodge possibly be telling the truth? She had no absolute proof he was behind the leak, just a strong suspicion reinforced by an equally strong dislike of the man.
She ate more of the burger, then paused, feeling a momentary shiver of light-headedness. Going without food all day had been a bad idea. She wasn’t feeling so great all of a sudden. But it would pass.
She took a swig of soda, hoping the cold slush of carbonated water would revive her. For a moment it seemed to work. Then distantly she felt a headache coming on.
Levine was probably the reason. Just looking at him, flushed with the triumph of his breaking story, was enough to make her sick. The guy was a weasel, always had been, climbing the career ladder with reckless indifference to journalistic ethics.
Hell, even if she had decided to leak the story, she wouldn’t have given it to that jerk A bubble of gas worked its way out of her throat with an audible burp.
God, what was going on with her tonight? She’d gone without sustenance for longer periods than this. Maybe she was coming down with the flu.
The flu…
A low warning thought rose almost to the level of conscious awareness, but before she could focus on it, the KPTI report shifted from Levine to a camera crew doing man-in-the-street interviews at Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica.
"You’ve gotta be kidding me…"
"How do we know what’s really going on? The government never levels with us…"
"You’re saying there’s a serial killer that’s got hold of the stuff…?"
"Is this for real? Are you serious?"
"I’m just…it’s scary…everything’s scary these days, and just when you think it can’t get any worse…"
"I think I’d like to move to a small town someplace and stock up on supplies and just hunker down, you know…"
"I can’t talk to you; I’m looking for my kids… Marci! Terri! Where are you? We have to go…!"
Tess shook her head. "Thank you, Channel Eight," she muttered. "That’s very helpful. That’s just-"
She wanted to say terrific, but her throat was suddenly dry, and the word died in a croak.
Weird-and now she was conscious of a sick feeling in her stomach, a liquid queasiness that became a dry, pasty taste in the back of her mouth.
More soda. That was what she needed. Too bad there wasn’t some nice Bacardi in it.
She picked up the big paper cup and raised it to her mouth, and her fingers splayed and the cup dropped on the table, spilling its contents.
What the hell?
Myron Levine was back on-screen, but Tess wasn’t listening anymore.
As she stared at her right hand, another shudder twisted through the tendons and ligaments. Her fingers shook briefly.
And the thought that had almost surfaced earlier flashed with full clarity in her brain.
It can be all around you — Tennant’s voice came back to her- and you won’t know it until you experience the initial symptoms of exposure: runny nose, sweating, upset stomach, headache… VX.
She had been exposed.
She looked around wildly, her environment suddenly hostile, as she tried to understand how Mobius had done it. But how didn’t matter at this moment. She had to get out. That was what Tennant had said-in the event of exposure, evacuate the area immediately.
The door to outside was only ten feet away. She got up, grabbing her purse off the coffee table, took two steps away from the sofa, and her knees buckled and she collapsed on the floor.
She knew what was happening. The nerve agent attacked the central nervous system. It caused flulike symptoms initially, then tremors, then convulsions and paralysis.
Finally, asphyxiation as the lungs stopped drawing air.
She struggled to rise, but she couldn’t make her legs work. They were shivering all over with what Dr. Gant had called generalized fasciculations, a fancy way of saying that her muscular activity had been converted into a series of tics and flutters.
The most basic control she possessed, her control over her own body, was lost.
At the ATSAC briefing, both Gant and Tennant had stressed that a VX victim had to escape the contaminated area immediately, but neither of them had mentioned that she would be unable to use her legs.
Could she crawl? Maybe, if she dragged herself forward using just her arms…but if she couldn’t stand, she would never be able to get the door open.
Anyway, she didn’t have time for a slow, arduous crawl across two yards of carpet. Already her breathing was coming harder than before. Shortness of breath-dyspnea-another symptom mentioned by Dr. Gant when he was handing out…
Handing out the antidote kits.
She’d received one, too-a MARK I Nerve Agent Antidote Kit-the same thing combat soldiers were issued when they were headed into a hostile zone where chemical weapons might be used.
Gant had explained it all, as an official-looking crew passed out the pouches. Each kit consisted of two auto injectors, crayonlike devices that could be yanked free of their plastic holder and pressed against the outer thigh. A needle would deliver a standard dose of medication intramuscularly. The first injector contained two milligrams of atropine sulfate, which would improve respiration. The second device held six hundred milligrams of pralidoxime chloride, an antidote to VX, which would break the chemical bond between the nerve agent and the enzymes in the blood.
And she had it in her purse, which lay on the beige carpet beside her.
If she could reach it.
Her right arm was no good. It had stiffened up with a painful muscular contraction. She thought of rigor mortis and pushed the idea away. Death was not the imagery she needed in her head just now.
Try with the left arm. Teeth gritted, she willed her arm toward the strap. It was almost within her grasp. But her fingers wouldn’t obey her, wouldn’t close over the strap. They were fluttering, useless.
The effects of the nerve agent were spreading fast, covering more and more of her body. Soon the muscles of her rib cage would fail, and she would suffocate, smothered by her own body.
She didn’t want to die that way. Fear gave her strength. Clumsily she hooked her hand over the strap and dragged it toward her.
She had the purse. But it was shut. She had to undo the clasp. Couldn’t do it. No motor coordination. In desperation she slammed the heel of her hand against the purse. Again. Again.
The clasp popped open. Okay, now get the kit out. Come on. She could do it; she was almost there…
She found the pouch inside the purse and scooped it out in a shaking hand.
With effort she ripped the first injection device free of its plastic clip.
The jerking and twitching of her legs had died away, replaced by a heavy sense of muscular fatigue and a numb, limp paralysis. This was a bad sign, a later stage in the progression of neurological attack. But at least it made it possible for her to inject herself cleanly.
Twisting at the hips, she pushed the green tip of the injector hard against her thigh, and the needle punched through the fabric of her pants leg and penetrated the muscle. She held it in place, counting to ten.
Popped it free. Cast it aside.
One down. One to go. The atropine was only the preliminary treatment. The second injection was the antidote itself.
She reached into the pouch again, and suddenly the shaking of her left hand became a generalized agitation of both arms, and she was rolling on the floor, arms crossed over her chest as if straitjacketed, then pounding the floor with her elbows, her hands.
The seizure passed, and she lay still, stunned by her exertions
But breathing. Still breathing. The atropine had kept her lungs working, at least.
Get the antidote into her system, and she might actually survive.
She rolled onto her side and reached for the pouch. Her left arm was heavy, fatigued, but not yet paralyzed. Movement was difficult, not impossible.
Snap the injector free…
She was trying, but she had no strength. Her fingers could not exert enough pressure to break the injection device out of its clip. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t Another tremor swept through her, jerking her sideways. The room darkened.
She wavered on the edge of unconsciousness, then came slowly back.
And found the injector, liberated from its clip, held loosely in her hand. The jerk of her arm had broken it free. All she had to do was stick the needle in her thigh…
But her arm wouldn’t move.
The last wave of seizure activity had stolen all her muscular strength. The extreme muscle fatigue Dr. Gant had called flaccid paralysis, which already had overtaken her legs, had now taken possession of her upper body as well.
The injector began to slip from her fingers. If she dropped it, she would never be able to pick it up. With an effort of will, she managed to hold on.
There was no hope of injecting the drug into her thigh-it was a million miles away. But another injection site would do. Deep muscle was what she needed. The muscle tissue of her breast and underarm was close enough that she could reach it simply by bending her arm at the elbow.
It was a slow process, though not painful-she felt no specific pain anywhere, only the numbness of utter exhaustion. An inch at a time she advanced the injector. She could see it clearly, could even read the words printed on the side of the tube-PRALIDOXIME CHLORIDE.
Now the injector was pressing against the muscle just behind her right breast. But she couldn’t fire it, couldn’t push hard enough to pop the needle through the protective tip.
She had enough strength left for one final exertion. She pushed herself up with one arm and thudded down on her side, and the weight of her body compressed the injector between its target and the floor.
She felt a sudden burning pain under her arm, and she knew the needle had plunged through her shirt and into her muscles, releasing its ampoule of medicine.
For a long moment she just lay there, certain that the injection had come too late. She felt no improvement. Her lungs were barely functioning. Every breath was a struggle.
You’re not going to make it, she thought as her awareness flickered on the verge of a blackout.
Time crawled past. A minute or more. The TV still babbled; the air conditioner still hummed.
And she was breathing just a little easier.
Her lungs were starting to work again. She was weak and wheezy, but it seemed the antidote had kicked in.
All right, then. Time to summon help.
Her cell phone was in her purse, and it was already turned on-she left it on all the time to take incoming calls.
She willed her hand toward the purse, reached inside, and dug out the phone.
Got it.
All she had to do was dial 9, then 1…
Her fingers stabbed at the keypad, missing their mark. The keys were too small, her hand still too shaky.
There was another way: press redial. It was only one button to hit, and it was bigger than the other keys.
On her fourth or fifth try, she succeeded. The phone’s LCD screen lit up with the words SENDING CALL.
Who was the last person she’d talked to? Andrus when she was at the chem lab? No, it was Dodge, of course. She’d called him from her car, minutes ago.
She hadn’t thought she’d ever be happy to hear Detective Dodge’s voice again, but she would be thrilled to hear it now.
But he wasn’t answering.
Three rings.
Four.
No pickup on the other end.
But this was his cell phone number, the one he gave to informants. He would always answer the cell phone.
Except tonight.
Six rings by now. Seven. Eight.
She lay on her side, fighting for breath, praying for Dodge to answer.