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  “It’s still out there,” Guiscard replied, pointing to the sharp division between bright Saharan sunlight and the dark shadow thrown by the bridge. “But it can’t reach us here.”

  “No,” Palmer agreed as the Volvo burped another gout of flame. “But something tells me it doesn’t have to…. I think Jann is stalling, trying to hold us here until ground forces arrive and attack on foot.”

  That possibility hadn’t occurred to Guiscard as was clear from his wide-eyed expression. “My God, you’re right! He’s after the weapons on the Mog.”

  “Which probably belong to him,” Palmer added sourly. “Come on…. Let’s take a look at that load. I’d like to see what Jann is so desperate to protect.”

  The flat bed was parked a safe distance from the still smoldering Volvo. Damya came forward to greet the American. “Congratulations my friend.” the Tuareg said cheerfully. “You drive well while on fire.”

  “Thanks,” Palmer replied dryly. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had all day…. Keep an eye on your friends would you? Andre and I are going to take a look at those weapons.”

  As the tracker departed for the south side of the bridge, the other men climbed up onto the Mog, where they went to work on the tie-downs that held the long flat boxes in place. Further up, situated right behind the crew cab, the Mongo Iron could be seen. And felt, by Palmer anyway, who fancied that he could sense the meteorite’s brooding presence. “There,” Guiscard said, as the last tie-down was released. “Let’s see what we have.”

  That was easier said than done, since most of the olive drab containers were quite heavy, and it was necessary to shift some of the boxes around in order to examine the rest. But after ten-minutes of hard work Palmer had a pretty good idea of what was at hand. “I can see why Jann came after us,” the American said soberly. “Assuming the labels on the outside of those boxes are accurate—we’re standing on a small arsenal. We've got four M224 mortars, two heavy machine guns, thirty M16s, a nice selection of grenades, and a whole shit load of ammo…. But that’s not all. See those crates? The ones on the bottom? We’re talking two Man Portable Stinger missiles. I don’t know what something like that is worth on the black market—but it’s bound to be a lot. Maybe as much as a quarter-million each.”

  “Tell me something,” Guiscard said. “Is ‘Man Portable’ the same thing as ‘shoulder launched?’ Because if it is—I think we have a use for those missiles.”

  “Yes, it does mean the same thing,” Palmer replied, as his mind started to race. “And it’s worth a try. But launching a missile takes some practice…. And there’s the question of readiness. I’m no expert but I know these things rely on high-tech batteries. And who knows how long they’ve been sitting around? So there’s a real chance that if we try to fire one of those bad boys we’ll wind up looking stupid. Not to mention dead.”

  Guiscard answered with a Gallic shrug. “Have you got a better idea?”

  Palmer grinned. “Nope. So let’s get them down onto the ground. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll have a surprise for Police Chief Jann.”

  ***

  The helicopter was like a desert hawk, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of movement, as the last wisps of smoke blew away. Jann was happy to see it go because the last thing he wanted was to have some good Samaritans stop and give aid to the men hiding under the bridge. And without any smoke to grab their attention there was no reason for travelers to pause as they crossed the bridge. Meanwhile, having successfully gotten one of the Land Cruisers up and running, reinforcements were only minutes away.

  Such were the police officer’s thoughts as a pencil-sized hole appeared in the canopy. “What was that?” Jann inquired, as the chopper slid sideways towards the bridge.

  “That was a bullet,” the pilot replied calmly. “He’s down there! Over to the right!”

  Now Jann could see him. An indigo blue stick figure pointing a rifle up at him. The Tuareg was right next to the bridge using the side of it for cover. Jann expected the sniper to duck under the span as the helicopter began to close in on him but there was a muzzle flash followed by a loud ping as a second bullet hit the chopper. Then, as the pilot began to turn the passenger-side door towards the bridge, Jann had the opportunity he’d been waiting for. The AK-47 chattered, brass casings arced away, and the sniper was forced to duck out of sight.

  ***

  As the men in the helicopter continued to focus their attention on Damya, Palmer and Guiscard emerged from the other side of the bridge with two fully prepped Stinger missiles loaded and ready to fire. But even though the American had served in the military, he had never been trained to fire a shoulder-launched missile, and was by no means certain that he could. And, even if he did everything right, there was a strong possibility that the weapon would be faulty. So as he brought the tube around to align it with the EC-135, Palmer was anything but confident.

  But once the weapon’s trigger had been pulled, Palmer felt the reassuring recoil as the heat-seeking missile shot out of its tube, and went racing toward its target. Unfortunately the angle of alignment was such that the Saharan sun was only a few degrees away from the police helicopter. That caused the Stinger to race past the aircraft in a vain attempt to destroy the more intense heat source.

  Palmer said, “God damn it to hell!” as he dumped the first launcher, and bent to retrieve the second. There were no reloads, so the geologist knew there wouldn’t be any additional chances, as the chopper swiveled towards him.

  ***

  “They fired one of the missiles!” Jann said shrilly. “Close with them! Or they will fire again.”

  The police chief was correct, the pilot knew that, and hurried to obey. Because if he could come down practically on top of the two men they wouldn’t have enough room to launch. But it would be close, very close, and his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest as the aircraft surged forward.

  ***

  “Quick,” Guiscard shouted desperately. “Fire!”

  Having positioned the launcher on his shoulder, Palmer pulled the trigger, and staggered as the second missile raced away. Two heart-beats later there was a sudden explosion, followed by a massive red-orange fireball, and what sounded like a crack of thunder rolled across the land. “You did it!” Guiscard shouted joyously. “You freaking did it!”

  The engineer was right, and there was nothing Palmer could do but stand there and stare, as pieces of still flaming debris fluttered down out of the sky. “Damn,” Guiscard added. “That was awesome!”

  “Glad you liked it,” Palmer said dryly, as pieces of scorched aluminum clattered onto the bridge deck. “Quick, grab that launcher, and let’s haul ass. I have a feeling that Jann had reinforcements on the way. But, even if he didn’t, we blew the local police chief out of the sky. We might be able to prove that he was crooked, but a lot of the key witnesses are dead, so I wouldn't count on it.”

  ***

  Guiscard hurried to obey. Suddenly the plan to turn the remaining weapons over to the authorities wasn’t so appealing anymore. In fact, other than a fictional story about having found the Mog bogged down in a sand dune, the Chadian wasn’t going to tell anyone anything.

  It took less than five-minutes to throw the launchers into the truck, maneuver the Mog up onto the debris strewn highway, and hit the gas. All without seeing a single vehicle. Something for which Guiscard was extremely grateful.

  ***

  When Amar and his men arrived at the bridge fifteen-minutes later, two civilian vehicles were stopped there, and the wreckage of the EC-135 was plain to see. Which meant that Jann, like his half-brother Naravas, was dead. So the bandits continued on their way. Because Amar had no desire to be part of a police investigation or to do anything other than return to his wife and children. At least he was alive. Thanks be to Allah.

  Chapter Four

  Seattle, Washington

  The area surrounding the autopsy table was bathed in the cold glare of overhead lights as the parasite loca
ted between the dead man’s shoulder blades began to pulsate. The parasitologist, pathologist, and diener all took a full step backward. “Did you see that?” Yano demanded. “It moved!”

  All sorts of thoughts raced through Devlin’s mind as she stared at the fleshy matrix. The scientist’s first inclination was to try and save the specimen since it would theoretically be possible to learn more from a live organism than a dead one. But that might be dangerous since none of them knew how the parasite had been acquired.

  So rather than run the risk Devlin took a step forward, raised the scalpel high, and brought it down in one quick strike. The blade plunged down through the purplish nodule with ease but came to a sudden stop as it made contact with McCracken’s spine. There was an audible pop as droplets of pus-like material sprayed Devlin’s face shield. The pulsations stopped. “Damn,” Charles said, feelingly. “That was disgusting!”

  “Yes,” Devlin agreed soberly. “It is. Let’s cut the organism out of there, section the tissue, and send the samples in for testing. And Charles….”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Once we’re done here I think it would be a good idea to incinerate our scrubs, clean this place, and then clean it again.”

  The diener nodded soberly. “Don’t worry Doctor Devlin, I’ll take care of it.”

  ***

  Having left Dr. Yano to submit tissue samples for further analysis Devlin returned to the house on Capitol Hill. Only this time her attitude was different. All hesitancy was gone as she stormed into what had been McCracken’s home determined to learn everything there was to know about the organism responsible for his death. Devlin had questions, dozens of them, and felt sure that the big house would surrender at least some of the answers.

  It was tempting to begin the investigation in McCracken’s study, where he could logically be expected to keep notes if any, but Devlin made a conscious decision to put that part of the search off long enough to give the top floors a quick once-over before night fell. It would be less spooky that way, and if things went well, she might find a better place to sleep. With that in mind Devlin lugged the blue duffle bag up the stairs and left it on the second landing.

  Having completed a quick reconnaissance Devlin learned that the extensive master suite occupied roughly the same area as the downstairs dining and living rooms combined. The whole thing had a retro look. As if Mac had left everything exactly as it was the day his wife died.

  The queen-sized bed was neatly mad and a pipe rested in the ash tray next to the plaid easy chair. Only the deliberate ticking of a clock on the mantle above the marble faced fireplace interrupted the otherwise perfect silence. An ornate dresser dominated the north wall. But a quick search of the drawers revealed nothing more than pajamas, underwear, and sweaters. A quick tour of the walk-in closet, the white and black tiled bath, and the sitting room beyond turned up nothing of interest either.

  Disappointed, but not especially surprised, Devlin left the master suite and crossed the landing. There were two bedrooms on the other side of the hall, both of about the same size, with a Jack and Jill bathroom between them. The one located on the street side of the house was practically empty. And, judging from the dust covered materials stacked along the west wall, had been slated for painting many years before. Another partially completed project.

  The second bedroom was in better shape—and clearly intended for guests. It was furnished with a full-sized bed, a dresser, and an old fashioned easy chair. Unlike the first bedroom this one opened up onto an enclosed sun porch, complete with a sweeping view of Lake Washington. Devlin liked that. So, after a quick check to make sure the bathroom was functional, she hauled her luggage inside.

  With that accomplished she followed a narrow set of stairs up onto a much smaller landing above. It was lit by a circular window that looked out onto the street. There were two long, narrow rooms. One to each side of the central stairwell. Both were defined by the steeply slanting roof and filled with all manner of cast-off furniture, boxes of old text books, and trunks layered with dust. The attic was going to require a lot of work some day.

  But that was for later, after the mystery surrounding Mac’s suicide was solved, and Devlin found time to deal with more mundane issues. Not having learned anything useful on the second or third floors the scientist went downstairs.

  It was getting dark by then. And was starting to rain. So rather than go out for dinner Devlin decided to eat in. Having rummaged through the kitchen cabinets she came up with a can of Bean and Bacon soup which she mixed with water and heated on the stove. That, combined with some margarine smeared rye crisp crackers, made for a better meal than many she had eaten while working in Costa Rica. In the meantime the cat was having dinner as well. “A cat named Dog,” Devlin said experimentally. “What do you think of that name?” But Dog, who was actually a cat, was too busy to look up.

  Having finished her soup Devlin put the empty bowl in the badly chipped sink and carried a mug of tea into McCracken’s study. Old fashioned wall sconces threw light down across green and white striped wall paper to pool on the hardwood floor. The desk was made of oak, and positioned to face the door, so Devlin circled around to the point where the chair’s brass casters had savaged the wooden floor. The scientist put the tea down prior to settling her weight into the chair. It creaked and rattled as she pushed herself forward.

  There was a positive click as the architectural-style swivel armed lamp came on and light flooded the surface of the desk. An old fashioned green blotter served as the place mat around which everything else was organized. A photo of a young wind-whipped Mary McCracken sat across from Devlin and smiled into the future. A can of pipe tobacco was positioned to the right of that, and was flanked by a half full ashtray, and a U of W coffee mug filled with pens and pencils.

  Off to the right, where they would have been readily accessible to a right-handed man, was a stack of folders. The one on top was glaringly red and positioned where it was impossible to miss. And, when Devlin flipped the file open, the first thing she saw was a yellow post-it note with her name on it. Below, printed in shaky block letters, were the words, “Look in the basement.”

  The sight of the words, and Mac’s familiar printing, caused Devlin’s heart to practically jump out of her chest. Did that mean that Mac had anticipated the autopsy results? And expected her to carry out some sort of investigation? Yes, she thought it did.

  Rather than fire up the professor's desktop computer the way she had planned to, Devlin got up and went out into the central hallway. A few steps carried her to a modest side door which opened onto a narrow staircase. The house had been constructed back in a time when basements were the province of hulking furnaces and rec rooms were unheard of. So Devlin had no idea of what to expect as she threw a wall switch and made her way down the well worn treads into the gloom below.

  Another light switch waited at the foot of the stairs and Devlin hurried to flip it on. But rather than the jumble of junk Devlin expected to see, a very different sight awaited her. The basement was part lab, part scientific archive, and part old curiosity shop. Because even though McCracken had never gotten around to remodeling his kitchen or the upstairs bedroom, it looked as though considerable effort had gone into the lower part of the house. Floor-to-ceiling shelving units occupied the center of the large room. A well equipped work bench stood against the west wall—and a bank of mismatched filing cabinets ran along the south wall. A space consuming testament to the days before personal computers.

  As Devlin strolled between the rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves she realized that she'd seen some of the specimens while sitting in McCracken's classroom. Some, like the forty-two foot long tapeworm in the gallon-sized container were always good for “oohs” and “ahhs” from the students.

  While others, like the stuffed Cuckoo bird, were equally interesting in their own ways. Because unlike tapeworms, which take up residence in the intestinal tract, Cuckoos like to lay their eggs in nests belonging to other
avian species. Thereby tricking other birds into raising baby Cuckoos rather than their own offspring! But both, as McCracken liked to point out, were classified as parasites.

  So rather than point Devlin towards some sort of clue, as the parasitologist had first supposed, it was quite possible that the yellow post-it note was no more than a sign post directing her to what McCracken saw as an important part of her inheritance. And that, Devlin realized, went a long ways towards explaining why the academic had chosen to leave everything to her. Because the professor knew his former student would not only respect the materials stored in his basement but treasure them as he had. The realization made Devlin feel better in a way, but worse too, since she’d been hoping for information pertaining to the mysterious parasite.

  But having begun the tour Devlin was determined to finish it. A quick check revealed that the filing cabinets were filled with research materials, endless iterations of tests that McCracken had concocted over the years, and the voluminous correspondence that the professor carried out with peers before the advent of email.

  The surface of the work bench was unremarkable. But as Devlin peered into the half-bath located next to it she noticed that the toilet seat was still in the raised position. A phenomena that she, as a woman used to living with men, was very familiar with.

  At that point the only area left to explore was what had once been the coal room. It was located against the north wall, adjacent to the driveway, where the coal had once been delivered via a chute. That was gone now, along with the huge furnace it served, having been replaced by a sleek no-nonsense unit that looked to be fairly new.

  That was interesting since the house was hers. But of greater interest to the parasitologist was the table set up at the center of the room, and the sheet-draped lump resting on top of it. The object was too shapeless to convey a sense of what it might be. But the setting was somehow reminiscent of the lab where the autopsy had taken place.

  Slowly, not being sure of what she would find, Devlin pulled one corner of the sheet up and away from the object underneath. Though not a trained archeologist or anthropologist Devlin knew a mummy when she saw one. A piece of ruled paper was pinned to it. Another note from McCracken? Yes, she thought so.