He wiped the tears from her face with a gentle touch. “Now get your fat a.s.s off the floor and make some food. Feed us, we’re hungry.”
He felt excitement well up fresh and strong. The Triangles knew food was on the way; it made them happy. Very happy. The emotion was powerful, so powerful that Perry couldn’t help but feel a little of their happiness himself.
66.
OVERTIME
Dew stared out the Buick’s window, watching the flurry of police activity outside, the big cellular phone pressed to his ear. By the looks of things, he’d arrived maybe ten minutes too late. So close. The missed opportunity made him boil inside.
“It’s a really, really big SNAFU, Murray,” Dew said. “f.u.c.king locals are everywhere, and more on the way.” He could almost see Murray’s face turning red.
“Did the rapid-response teams go in?” Murray asked. “Why don’t they just take over?”
“They didn’t go in at all,” Drew said. “They called me first and I waved “They didn’t go in at all,” Drew said. “They called me first and I waved toting goons wearing biosuits and watch the press j.i.z.z all over themselves.”
“Oh for G.o.d’s sake,” Murray said, his voice tired and ragged. “The press is already there?”
“Yeah. The local cops were first on the scene. Press picked it up on a scanner, maybe. We didn’t have a chance at information control. The cops are keeping the media at a distance, but there’s no way we can go in without being seen by at least three network news teams.”
The radio and TV stations had already been buzzing with news of Kiet Nguyen’s murder spree and subsequent suicide. News didn’t get any bigger than that, unless, of course, the cops mounted a manhunt for a former University of Michigan linebacker who’d left a mutilated corpse in his apartment. With those two murder stories flying, coverage of a gas explosion that had killed a mother and son had disappeared completely.
“Remember, the Dawsey kid was a major celebrity in this town,” Dew said. “Bunch of f.u.c.king liberals here in the media, they’re giddy to see a football player live up to billing as a creature of violence. This isn’t D.C., Murray, this is Ann Arbor, Michigan. This is a long-haired, pot-smoking little college town. A fugitive killer football player is their story of the decade, and the guv-ment trying to cover it up is icing on their hippie cake.”
“Dew, considering the situation, do you see any way we can bring
Dawsey in alive?”
“That’s your call, L.T.,” Dew said. “You have to appreciate just how
many cops are looking for him. There’s a dead body in his apartment —
they’re not just going to stop looking just because I tell them we’re on the
case. They want Dawsey, and they want him bad. If he’s in any kind of advanced state of infection, the cops might see his growths. If they capture
him, expect someone to get a camera on him and a boatload of reporters
fighting to know why he killed a man. If he’s arrested, and we can’t get to
him right away, the triangles might make national news before the night is
out. If the reporters see triangles, that SARS bulls.h.i.t won’t cut it. Cops
take Dawsey alive it blows this whole thing wide open.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I recommend we take him out ASAP,” Dew said. “And we get the
local cops in on the action. They’re just looking for an excuse to pull the
trigger. Maybe we connect Dawsey to Nguyen. I’ll tell them Dawsey
probably has an explosive vest, or a biowarfare agent, whatever. I’ll make
sure there are clear orders to shoot Dawsey on sight, but to stay away
from his body until our crews can remove him.”
“Margaret needs a living victim.”
“So we get the next one,” Dew said. “If you want to keep this secret, I
told you what we need to do.”
Dew waited through a long pause. L.T. had a h.e.l.l of a decision to make. “No,” Murray said finally. “She needs that kid alive. It’s more important than secrecy. Whatever it takes, bring him in alive.”
“That’s not going to be easy,” Dew said. “The locals are really on edge.” “Then we connect Dawsey to Nguyen. I’ll take care of it from our
end. We’ll inform the local cops, you just validate the story.” “What story?”
“That Dawsey has knowledge of a terrorist bomb, that he absolutely
must be taken alive no matter what the cost. Bring him in alive, Top.” Murray hung up. Dew ground his teeth. Murray’s plan would work, and
Dew knew it. The cops would do whatever it took to get Dawsey alive. Dew alternated his time between looking out the window at the
army of police and looking at digital photos of Dawsey that Murray’s people had transferred to the big cell phone. One was Dawsey’s most recent driver’s-license photo. Another was a close-up from Nguyen’s painting of the human arch — where the other faces writhed in terror and agony, Perry’s scrunched in raw rage. Additional photos came from the kid’s college football days.
Dew focused on one such picture, a typical preseason publicity shot from Dawsey’s soph.o.m.ore year.
“You are a big f.u.c.ker, ain’t you, kid?”
In the posed picture, late-summer sun blared down on his maize and blue uniform. Most times these shots showed a kid’s best smile, but this one was different. Dawsey smiled, sure, but there was something else, something around the eyes that bespoke a savage intensity. It was almost as if Dawsey’s very being vibrated aggression, as if he couldn’t handle putting on the pads and not hitting something.