Ethan shook his head.
‘So what’s the deal?’
‘The laboratory they’d attacked,’ Zamora replied, ‘belonged to SkinGen Corp, owned and operated by Jeb Oppenheimer.’
Lopez turned to face Ethan, her arms still folded and her eyebrow still raised.
‘Shall we?’
Ethan was about to answer her when several white vans with tinted windows pulled up behind the squad cars, their lights adding to the blizzard of beacons. He watched with Lopez and Zamora as a thick-set man clambered out of the lead van, wearing a gray suit that matched his buzz-cut. He had a squat neck that, with his severely cropped hair, made his head look almost square. He slammed the van door shut and strode across to them, the identity tag on his jacket flapping in the hot breeze.
‘Butch Cutler,’ he announced himself. ‘USAMRIID. We’re here to take jurisdiction of the site.’
‘You are?’ Zamora asked. ‘We weren’t informed of any risk of hazardous material breaches or such like.’
‘Nothing’s certain yet,’ Cutler said, glancing curiously at Ethan and Lopez. ‘You must be Ethan Warner.’
‘And Nicola Lopez,’ Ethan gestured to his partner. ‘How did you know?’
‘My boss,’ Cutler said. ‘He’s been talking to yours. They’ve decided it’s best you hand over to us until we can figure out what’s going on here.’
Ethan said nothing for a moment as Cutler removed his jacket and folded it over his arm. His sleeves were rolled up and Ethan caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his right forearm, the banner of the US Army Rangers and a winged parachute.
‘That the real deal there?’ Ethan asked, gesturing to the tattoo. ‘Or are you just a fantasist?’
Cutler squinted at Ethan without apparent emotion for several seconds.
‘75th Rangers, Long Range Surveillance,’ he said. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘15th Marines, Recon,’ Ethan replied.
In all of Ethan’s years, whenever former soldiers met, especially those who had served alongside each other in grueling conflicts, there was an instant camaraderie, a realization that you were near another man who could be relied upon to get the job done, to find solutions and to survive. Ethan looked into Cutler’s eyes and saw there a sudden unease. The tattoo was almost certainly genuine enough, as was Cutler’s service — he looked all over like a born and bred ranger, but he was watching Ethan now with a wary expression as though he was being faced with a sudden and unexpected threat.
‘Why have your guys been sent down here, exactly?’ Ethan asked.
Cutler tossed his jacket into the van and walked past Ethan, who turned to give him room. He felt as though they were two predators circling each other before a fight.
‘The apartment, so I’ve been told,’ Cutler replied, ‘was the current residence of Tyler Willis, a micro-biologist. His work at both Los Alamos and here in Santa Fe brought him into contact with a number of exotic bacteria, any one of which he could have had on his person when this attack occurred.’
Lopez frowned at Cutler.
‘He wasn’t in the apartment when it went up,’ she pointed out.
‘But whatever he had on his person may have remained inside,’ Cutler replied.
‘The apartment’s been incinerated,’ Ethan said. ‘There’s not enough left in there to be an infectious hazard. Nothing could survive that.’
Cutler turned to face him.
‘Chemolithotrophic bacteria can live fifteen hundred meters underground in solid basalt rock, survive and reproduce on the edge of space and at the North Pole or beside deep-sea ocean vents where the temperature is well over a hundred degrees and the pressure four hundred atmospheres. That a chance you want to take in the middle of a residential area? Unless you’ve got probable cause for remaining here on site, I suggest you let us take over before anything else blows up in your face.’
Ethan, standing four-square in front of Cutler, knew that the man was trying to intimidate him. Cutler stood at least two inches taller than Ethan and was maybe thirty pounds heavier.
‘It’s all yours,’ Ethan said. ‘Although if there’s such a worry about hazardous materials shouldn’t you all have arrived here with protective gear on, seeing as we’re standing about thirty yards downwind from the burning apartment you’re so worried about?’
Cutler’s right eyelid twitched convulsively for a moment and then he smiled without warmth.
‘It’s unlikely we’ll find airborne pathogens. Tyler Willis was a research scientist, not Saddam Hussein. Now, if you’ll excuse us?’
Ethan stepped aside as Cutler led his team past them toward the smoldering apartment block.
‘Interesting,’ Lopez said. ‘They got here real quick.’
‘Too quick,’ Ethan said, turning to Zamora. ‘You got a Center for Disease Control unit down here anywhere?’
‘Not that I know of,’ he admitted. ‘And we didn’t call one in.’
Ethan watched Cutler for a few moments, and then turned to Lopez.
‘Let’s go and meet Jeb Oppenheimer, and see what he has to say for himself.’
24
The warbling of an old Kenny Rogers number strummed through the half-filled bar as Lee Carson swaggered somewhat unsteadily through the entrance and focused on his surroundings. He’d already downed half a dozen tequila shots after work with the guys, and it seemed to have affected him more than usual. Maybe he was losing his touch.
He looked at his reflection in the glass of the front door. His tasseled cowhide jacket, low-brimmed Stetson and leather ranch gloves were a little too much for him in the warm air, but they looked damned good and he knew it. No, he certainly wasn’t losing his touch.
He glanced in the mirror that ran behind the bar as he sauntered across to a vacant stool. The reflection showed his chiseled jaw, the wide sideburns he’d been cultivating for a few days and hazy blue-gray eyes staring back at him from beneath curls of jet-black hair as he removed his hat and set it down on the bar.
‘Afternoon, mister.’
Carson flashed a perfect white smile at the young girl approaching him from behind the bar. She looked early twenties, a blonde ponytail framing an angelic face above a cleavage barely contained by her tight white vest.
‘Well afternoon to you, ma’am.’ Carson grinned.
‘What’ll it be?’ she asked, leaning on the bar toward him.
‘A shot of your finest bourbon, and whatever you’re havin’, Miss…’
‘Eloise.’ She giggled, clearly enjoying the attention. ‘You got it.’
Carson watched her walk away down the bar toward the liquor rack, swinging her hips with more vigor than was strictly necessary. He glanced over his shoulder at the restaurant. Barely a dozen people, mostly eating at tables and booths. Perfect. He’d have the full and undivided attention of Eloise both now and during the later that he already knew would come.
Lee Carson was, by consensus, a very handsome man. He’d been blessed with genes from his parents that had given him a near classic-cowboy look, rugged and tough, a look that he’d only too happily cultivated by working as a ranch hand doing physical jobs that maintained his impressive physique. His shoulders were broad, his legs long, his chest that of five men, his belly flat and his waist slim. He looked at himself in the mirror again and couldn’t help but smile. He looked damn fine, for a man of one hundred sixty-eight years.