Chapter 53
It had taken them only a few minutes to get a picture of Joseph Rider and pass it on to the LAPD and the military, which had taken over most of the city. To no one’s surprise, Rider and his boss never made it to the airport, and his boss didn’t answer his cell phone. Ten minutes later, the LAPD found his vehicle and his body. Several minutes later, the first of several police cars pulled up at the Rider residence, only to learn from his neighbor that he had just left, five, maybe ten, minutes ago. It took another twenty minutes for a hazmat team to arrive and enter the empty house, where they found nothing of use.
He has at least a thirty-minute head start, Phil calculated as he walked into the house in his own hazmat suit. He could feel Rider’s energy all around him; it lingered in his house like a familiar smell. Reisch had known this man, and known him reasonably well, but that didn’t help Phil establish a connection.
“Anything?” Patton asked. He was out of his element with this “psychic shit,” but he was trying to adjust.
“Nothing useful. I know he’s not here.”
“That much we’ve already established, Doctor,” Patton said sarcastically.
Phil looked back at the large detective, who was wearing his own isolation suit; only his was stretched far tighter. “These aren’t my rules, Patton. I know he’s close.”
“Can you tell how far away?”
“More than five miles.” Rucker played with a small lamp on his kitchen table and started to feel a vague sense of Rider’s thoughts, almost as if they had clung to the metal. He stripped off one of his gloves, and then the other. He unfastened the seals around his hood and removed that as well.
Patton had started to object, but then realized that Rucker had no need for protection. Phil fingered the lamp, and for a fleeting moment found him. It wasn’t the lamp; it was Rider himself, who had turned his thoughts back to his house, wondering if the police had arrived yet. It had happened so quickly, and it was so unexpected, that Phil didn’t react fast enough. “Damn, I almost had him,” he cursed. “He’s in an apartment or a house about eight miles that way.” Phil pointed at a spot just to the left of Rider’s refrigerator.
“Don’t move,” Patton ordered. Someone found a GPS monitor and calculated the vector.
A LAPD detective mapped it for them and then frowned. “If that’s where he’s at, he picked a damn good place to hide. There are about ten different apartment complexes in this area, as well as about a hundred low-income houses.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. He can track ’em,” Patton said, motioning to Phil. “Get us there before he moves again.”
* * *
It was supposed to be an ultra-fine powder, but instead, it was somewhat granular, like big grains of salt. Rider, aka Izhan Ahmed, started to grind the grains into smaller pieces. Time was running out. He had two full hours before all the Americans would go scurrying back to their little rabbit holes. Five minutes of grinding had managed to convert the grains of sand into something approaching a powder. It had also managed to infect him, and the warm Southern California breeze had managed to infect the other fifty residents of the Villas Del Mar Apartments with a purified form of the Hybrid virus.
He sprinkled some of the powder across the sheets of parchment and then soaked them for five minutes. They came out of the water looking like very thin linen, but ten minutes later, they looked like ordinary notebook paper. That made him happy. He checked his watch and wondered if the police had raided his house yet. It didn’t matter. They would find nothing that would lead them to him or give them any idea what he was planning next. He decided that he had another five minutes, so he went back to the mortar and pestle and began to grind up the remaining virus. When he had his fine dust, he stopped. The first blister had started to form on his cheek. It took less than ten minutes to finish his final task and leave.
* * *
It had taken them almost half an hour to travel the eight miles. The roads were packed with cars, and there were some physical realities that lights, sirens, and desperate need could not overcome. It had only taken Phil a minute to find the correct apartment complex.
“Stop! He’s already gone.” Phil yelled. “Don’t anyone get out. Keep your windows up, close your vents, and let’s get out of here. He’s infected the whole place.” The police lieutenant driving their car jerked back into traffic, and the trailing cars followed. The police captain had begun to radio instructions to their military escort to seal off the area.
“Where is he? Where do we go?” the lieutenant asked nervously while snapping the air ducts closed.
Phil didn’t have a clear answer to either question. He couldn’t get a fix on Rider; he was close, he knew that, but he couldn’t pin him down. “What’s down this road?”
“The mall,” the lieutenant said. “It’s about two miles away, but the traffic. . I don’t think we can get there in time.”
“Tell your dispatch people to. .” Patton started barking out orders, but Phil had tuned him out. They were missing something, something critical.
They had made it less than two blocks before they were once again forced to stop; it almost seemed as if the lights and sirens were causing more confusion than space. Phil stared out the window, willing himself to find Rider in this mass of humanity. It should have been easy; Rider’s energy was so radically different from everyone around him. He was happy, almost blissful, reveling in the chaos that he had sown, but all Phil could feel was the terrorist’s proximity and general direction. “Stop the car,” he finally said. “We might as well walk.” A gap had opened in front of them, and the lieutenant drove as far as the bumper in front and stopped.
“The mall is a few blocks beyond the overpass,” the captain said as Patton and Phil climbed out. “I’ve got as many LAPD units as possible responding. The army is sending their helicopters, and security in the mall is looking for him as well.”
The two cops droned on, but Phil began wandering towards the jammed supermarket across the crowded street. Rider had been here; Phil could feel it. Something of his presence remained, and its energy drew Phil into the parking lot. People began running from him, scared by his isolation suit. Two nights earlier, the president had given a second televised address in which he explained the reason for the quarantine. He had spoken with unusual candor, and the American public had responded with understandable panic. Phil saw himself through the eyes of a middle-aged woman; he looked like a space alien in a B-movie, and people everywhere began to scream and run as he approached.
He caught sight of a small child wearing a surgical mask and realized that a lot of the children were wearing them, but few of the adults. It was a curious situation, and Phil’s mind focused on it. He approached the mother of the child, but she snatched her toddler out of the cart and began running from Phil.
“What is it?” Patton said slightly breathlessly.
“The masks,” Phil said without further explanation.
“What about them? A lot of people are wearing them.” Patton looked around to confirm what he had said.
“Just the children.” Phil suddenly saw a small piece of paper tacked to the community bulletin board just inside the market’s doors. He walked closer. Patton started to follow, but Phil put a hand to the large man’s chest. “I think you need to stay here.” He moved into the entranceway, and the sea of humanity parted and began to flow out the other doors. It was a small piece of slightly yellow paper. Phil took it down, unzipped his suit, and tucked the slip of paper inside.