Long Chills Page 11

  A moment later a thunderous crash sounded behind them and they turned. The Bedloe County courthouse had completely collapsed, its lower supports chemically eradicated by the spreading cloud of vaporous enzyme. All that was left were bricks and blackened file cabinets.

  “Well, we finally got the story,” called the voice of Richard Forsyth. “And believe me, it turned out to be a lot worse than we first suspected.”

  Sam Biggs and Bud Fulton looked up from their coffee cups as the two FBI agents entered the lounge of the federal building. It was almost midnight and the pair had been at it for hours, interrogating the man who had been responsible for the deaths of Jasper Horne and Alan Becket. From the weary, but satisfied expressions on their faces, the county sheriff and the rural vet could tell that they had finally cracked the killer’s shell and gotten the information they wanted.

  Forsyth and Deckard got themselves some coffee and sat down at the table. “First of all, the suspect’s name is Vincent Carvell,” said Forsyth. “He’s a white-collar hitman, a trouble-shooter that hires out to major corporations and takes care of their dirty business. And it seems that his latest client paid him very generously to help keep Tyrophex-14 a big secret.”

  “Exactly who was his client?” asked Bud.

  “A major corporation whose name you would instantly recognize. We would reveal it, but unfortunately we can’t, due to security risks,” said Forsyth apologetically. “You see, this corporation manufactures some very well-known products. In fact, it is responsible for thirty percent of this country’s pharmaceutical and household goods. What the public doesn’t know is that its research and development department also does some government work on the side. Mostly classified projects for the military.” The older agent sipped his coffee and looked to Deckard, passing the ball to him.

  “Although we can’t give you specific details,” continued Deckard, “we can give you the gist of what Tyrophex-14 is all about. You see, this corporation was doing some work for the Defense Department. Their scientists were attempting to develop an enzymatic gas to be implemented by the armed forces. It was originally intended to be used for chemical warfare in the event that similar weapons were used against our own troops. But the Defense Department pulled the plug on the project when the corporation’s scientists perfected a gas that dissolved any type of matter, organic or otherwise, with the exception of metal and stone. Tests showed that it was very unstable and difficult to control, so the project was quickly terminated and hushed up.”

  “But what the Defense Department didn’t know,” said Forsyth, “was that this corporation had already produced quite a large quantity of this destructive chemical, which had been labeled Tyrophex-14. They did a battery of tests, unbeknownst to the federal government, to see if it had any practical commercial use. And, obviously, they believed they had found it. Maybe their intentions were good at first. Maybe they actually believed that they had discovered a solution to the earth’s garbage problem. But, ultimately, they failed to seek the proper approval and chose to market it covertly. That was when the unstable properties of Tyrophex-14 got out of control… and began to kill innocent people.”

  “And they hired this hitman to hush things up?” asked Sheriff Biggs. “He killed Jasper Horne and Alan Becket, just to cover this corporation’s tracks?”

  “Yes, and he would have killed us too, if we hadn’t escaped from the courthouse. Carvell figured he could erase the threat of discovery if the investigators and the evidence vanished in a cloud of Tyrophex-14.”

  The thought of having come so close to death cast an uneasy silence over the four men. They thought of the blackened hull of Jasper’s pickup truck and the rubble of the Bedloe County courthouse, and thanked God that they hadn’t fallen victim to that corrosive monstrosity that had been conjured from the union of raw elements and complex chemical equations.

  A couple of nights after the collapse of the county courthouse, Bud Fulton sat alone in his den, stretched out in his recliner and sipping on a beer. The room was dark and the nightly news was playing on the television, but he wasn’t really paying very much attention to what transpired on the screen. Instead, he thought of the phone call he had received at the clinic that day. It had been Sheriff Biggs, filling him in on the results of the FBI’s midnight raid on the shadowy corporation responsible for manufacturing the deadly chemical gas known as Tyrophex-14.

  Sam had told him that the raid had taken place discreetly and that it would remain a secret matter, solely between the federal government and their unscrupulous employee. The FBI had failed to say what sort of steps would be taken to see that the project was buried and that experimentation in that particular area was never explored again. But Agent Forsyth had volunteered one last bit of information, albeit disturbing, to repay Biggs and Fulton for keeping silent on the delicate matter.

  Forsyth had said that the records of the corporation had listed twenty 50,000 gallon tanks as being the extent of the chemical’s manufactured volume. But when the federal agents had checked the actual inventory, only seventeen of the tanks had been found on the company grounds.

  Bud drove the sordid business from his mind and tried to concentrate on the work he had to do tomorrow. He was scheduled to give a few rabies and distemper shots in the morning, after which he would head to the Pittman farm to dehorn a couple of bad-tempered bulls. Somehow, the simple practices of rural veterinary seemed downright tame compared to what he had been through the night before last.

  Bud finished his beer while watching the local weather and sportscast. He was reaching for the remote control, intending to turn off the set and go to bed, when a news anchor appeared on the screen again with a special bulletin. Bud leaned forward and watched as the picture cut away to a live report.

  A female reporter stood next to a train that had derailed a few miles north of Memphis, Tennessee. Firemen milled behind her and the wreckage was illuminated by the spinning blue and red lights of the emergency vehicles that had been called to the scene. The reporter began to talk, informing the viewers of the details of the train derailment. But Bud Fulton’s attention wasn’t on the woman or the story that she had to sell.

  Instead, his eyes shifted to the huge tanker car that lay overturned directly behind her. He prayed that he was mistaken, but his doubts faded when the TV camera moved in closer, bringing the details of the cylindrical car into focus.

  Bud’s heart began to pound as he noticed a wisp of yellow vapor drift, almost unnoticed, from a rip in one of the tanker’s riveted seams. And, on the side of the ruptured car, were stenciled a series of simple letters and numbers. To those on the scene, and in the city beyond, they meant absolutely nothing. But to Bud Fulton they were like the bold signature of Death itself.

  And its name that night was Tyrophex-14.

  The Seedling

  Something had nagged at Roger Perry the entire week they had been in Florida; something that he had forgotten before they left. An unplugged iron, an oven left on in haste, or maybe an unlocked door? Whatever it was, it remained a mental burr in the back of Roger’s mind the whole time.

  It wasn’t until they rolled into the driveway late Saturday night, that it suddenly dawned on him. The trash. He had left the lid off the can out back.

  Roger helped his wife, Trish, tote two sleepy kids into the house, then crossed the kitchen and stepped out onto the back deck. The night was dark and moonless and more than little humid, which was to be expected in mid-July. The second his foot hit the boards of the deck, the security light winked on, bathing the rear of the house in halogen brilliance.

  He had been correct. He had left the lid off the trash can. Roger remembered that the last chore he had performed before hopping into the van and heading for Florida had been tossing the kitchen and bathroom trash into the big galvanized can at the far end of the deck. Trish had honked at him, impatient to get going – she was six months pregnant, so her patience was about as thin as a piece of toilet tissue – and he had complete
ly forgotten to fasten the lid securely on top. They’d had trouble with raccoons and squirrels since buying the house in the rural subdivision near New Middleton, and if they didn’t keep the trash locked up tighter than a drum, it ended up being rummaged through and scattered halfway across the back yard.

  Strangely enough, his forgetfulness hadn’t brought about any such disaster this time. The lid was off, but the garbage hadn’t seemed to have been disturbed at all. Considering they had dined on lasagna and garlic bread the night before their trip and the scraps of their meal were buried at the bottom of the can, beneath the trash from the full and half bathrooms, it was a wonder some hungry raccoon or possum hadn’t dug every bit of trash from the can to get to the food underneath.

  But, no… the trash was right where it had been when they had left. Puzzled, Roger grabbed the lid from where it leaned against the back wall of the house and prepared to clamp it down on the mouth of the can.

  Something lying in the center of the trash can’s contents stopped him, however.

  What the hell is that? he wondered, examining the thing in the glare of the security light overhead.

  It was a dark pod or egg of some sort, lying there amid scraps of wadded tissue, an empty toothpaste tube, and a couple of cardboard toilet paper rolls. It was about the size of Roger’s fist and, from the textured surface of its leathery brown skin, sprouted several long hairs.

  He didn’t know exactly what possessed him to do so, but he reached out and touched the unidentifiable object. It was strangely warm to the touch… like the skin of a child in the throes of a high fever.

  Roger was about to withdraw his fingers, when something inside the pod twitched.

  “Damn!” he said, jumping back a couple of feet. He stood there and stared at the thing in the trash can for a moment longer, then hurriedly clamped the lid back on the can.

  When he left the deck and entered the kitchen, Trish was there at the table in the breakfast nook, preparing herself a peanut butter and raisin sandwich; a peculiar snack she had acquired a craving for during her fourth – and she claimed, last – pregnancy.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” she called to him. “Butter Bean’s awfully active tonight. Feels like the Rockettes are doing a chorus line in my tummy.”

  “Let me wash up first.” Roger walked over to the kitchen sink and scrubbed his hands with some anti-bacterial soap Trish had bought at Bath & Body Works – Country Spice or something like that. It took a moment of washing before the oily residue left by his handling of the mysterious trash can pod was neutralized. He dried his hands with a paper towel and then walked over to the table.

  He leaned over and snaked his hand beneath her nightgown, which read DANGER! PREGNANT LADY! LOADED & DANGEROUS! His palm ran along the curve of her belly, nearly straying downward to the waistband of her panties.

  “Don’t get yourself all worked up, honey,” she said softly, reaching down and guiding his hand back to the bulge of her stomach, just above her belly button. “You know what the doctor said.”

  Roger nodded. An awkward look passed between husband and wife. Trish had been pregnant eleven months ago and had lost the baby. Although she had never blamed him, Roger felt like the miscarriage had been his fault. It had taken place after a particularly vigorous session of lovemaking. With this new pregnancy, Trish’s OB-GYN had suggested that they refrain from sexual activity, just to be on the safe side. And, so far, they had followed that advice to the letter.

  Trish smiled shyly and guided his palm to a particular spot. “Here. Wait… there it is.”

  Roger felt the bump and flutter of the baby inside his wife, pushing for a second against the wall of Trish’s womb, then retreating almost as quickly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  Trish frowned. “You usually grin like the Cheshire Cat. This time you looked a little… disturbed. Or scared.”

  “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I guess I’m just tired… you know, from the long drive home.”

  Trish patted his hand lovingly and then went back to constructing her sandwich.

  Standing there, Roger Perry felt like a bald-faced liar. His reaction hadn’t been caused by fatigue, but rather by an inexplicable revulsion.

  The sensation of the baby kicking had reminded him, for an uncomfortable instant, of the twitching of that strange pod-like thing that was nestled amid toilet paper and refuse in the trash can outside.

  Later that night, Roger stood in the bathroom, regarding himself in the mirror.

  Crap… I’m getting old! he thought to himself. Roger was forty-six, still four years away from the big 5-0, but lately he had felt tired, run-down, and painfully aware of his mortality. He wondered if he was suffering from some sort of mid-life crisis, but dismissed it as too much stress in his life lately; his recent promotion at work, planning for their trip to Florida, and, of course, his wife’s new pregnancy.

  He sighed and brought his face closer to the mirror. Yes, he was definitely losing his boyish complexion. Enlarged pores and wrinkles showed clearly around his eyes and nose, and he spotted a few gray hairs mixed with the dark brown ones. Absently, he ran his hand through his hair and a strand came loose, clinging between his thumb and forefinger. Looking at it, he was reminded of the few strands of hair that protruded from that strange object in the trash can. As a matter of fact, those hairs had been the same color as Roger’s hair. The thought made him shudder.

  Exactly what is that thing out there?

  He nearly jumped out of his skin when two hands, pale and slender, snaked across the top of his shoulders. His alarm faded when he felt the bulge of Trish’s belly against the small of his back and saw her pretty, pixie face with its wreath of curly blonde hair peeking past his right ear.

  “I’m sorry. Did I startle you?” she asked.

  “No. I was just engrossed in thought. Taking inventory of my rapid physical deterioration.”

  Trish’s hands linked and she gave him a hug. “Nonsense. You’re just as virile and manly as the day we married. Except for maybe a few gray hairs. And some crow’s feet. And maybe those adorable little love handles of yours…”

  Roger laughed. “Okay, I get idea.”

  Trish studied his eyes in the mirror. “Are you going to tell me why you’ve been on edge lately? Even on vacation, you just didn’t… well, seem yourself. I know it can’t be the dry spell the doctor put us on.” She grinned slyly. “I know what you’ve been doing in the bathroom, behind locked doors. Ogling those scantily-clad ladies in the underwear section of the Sears catalog.”

  “Not since I was twelve!” protested Roger with a grin. His ears blazed red with sudden embarrassment. “I’ll just be glad when we can, you know… be together again.”

  One of Trish’s hands snaked down the front of Roger’s white t-shirt to the fly of his pajama bottoms. “Well, we don’t have to wait for that. I can make you feel good right now.”

  Roger shifted uncomfortably from one bare foot to another. “Trish… please.”

  His wife looked a bit puzzled. Her husband’s “please” had not been the sexually pleading kind, but a definite “leave me alone” please. “Well, imagine that. Roger Perry turning down a free hand-job. What’s going on, sweetheart?”

  “Like I said before… just tired, that’s all. Twelve hours cooped up in a van with two kids shrilling ‘Are we there yet?’ or ‘He’s touching me, Dad!’ can fray your nerves to a frazzle.”

  “Yes, it was exhausting. My back’s absolutely killing me.”

  He turned and gave her a kiss. “I’ll give you a nice back rub. Then we’ll get us a good night’s sleep… in our own bed.”

  “Sounds good to me.” She turned back toward the bedroom. “Don’t be too long.”

  “Just gotta pee and brush my teeth.”

  When Trish was out of sight, he looked at himself again in the mirror and saw an uncomfortable expression on his lean face. Again, he had been lying, both to his
wife and himself. His lack of desire in the face of Trish’s loving gesture wasn’t due to exhaustion at all.

  For some odd reason he couldn’t put his finger on, he had felt strangely guilty when she had made the teasing remark concerning his extra-curricular activities in the face of their medically-imposed abstinence. He had suddenly felt like an adolescent boy who had forgotten to lock the bathroom door and was caught whacking off to a Playboy he had sneaked out of his father’s underwear drawer.

  To tell the truth, he had felt that way during the entire week of their vacation… like his self-indulgence had been akin to cheating on his wife. He knew it was silly to think that way – Trish certainly wouldn’t have – but, still, that vague sense of unfaithfulness remained to nag at him.

  He looked down at his right hand. “It’s not like that at all, is it? We’re just old pals, aren’t we? I’m not going to buy you candy and roses and suggest a weekend trip to the mountains or anything like that.”

  “What did you say?” Trish called from the bedroom.

  “Nothing, honey. Just thinking out loud.”

  “Well, stop thinking and come on. I’m ready for that back rub you promised.”

  “On my way, sweetheart.” Roger turned off the bathroom light and went to attend to his husbandly duties.

  The next morning, they skipped church services.

  Normally, Trish would take Tyler and Cindy to Sunday school, and Roger would tag along later for the regular service. Yesterday’s grueling drive from Florida to Tennessee had taken its toll on them all, however. It was already eight-thirty and Trish and the kids were still sound asleep.

  Roger decided to let them rest. Besides, he had some chores to take care of that morning; cleaning out the van, putting away some folding chairs and sand toys they had taken to Pensacola Beach with them, and making an appointment with his pal, Jack McCall, for a round or two of golf later that afternoon. He hoped his consideration would be rewarded rather than condemned. His wife would either be grateful or seriously pissed-off over missing church. He never knew how she would react, what with her recent mood swings.