Extinction, page 22
The driver jumped out and opened the door for the billionaire, who stepped out, followed by another man, a little dumpy, wearing an ill-fitting blue suit. Who was that? Another cop? Here was someone new.
The door of Ballou’s honey wagon opened, and the star came out, dressed in a nineteenth-century white linen Western suit with a white cowboy hat, string tie, and snakeskin boots. For once, Doyle was grateful for his sartorial excess.
“Mr. Barrow,” said Doyle, his hand outstretched, “welcome!”
Barrow took his hand and gave it a shake. “And you are—?”
“Wallace McFaul, director, Colorado Bureau of Investigation.”
A bigger cop. “And I’d like to introduce you to our star,” continued Doyle, “Brock Ballou.”
Ballou stepped forward with a dazzling smile and gave Barrow’s hand a good manly shake. “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Barrow,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed working in your gorgeous valley. What a special place. Thank you for making it available to us.”
Barrow chuckled. “We’re delighted to have you, Mr. Ballou.”
“Please, call me Brock.”
“Brock. Perfectly delighted to host your movie here. I only wish we hadn’t run into this little difficulty.”
“Not at all,” said Doyle, turning the conversation smoothly in the direction he wanted to take it. “We’re so far from where the incident occurred—miles away and far up the valley—that it hasn’t affected us at all. At least, not until now …”
He let that sentence die away.
“I’m truly sorry,” said Barrow, “that we’re forced to temporarily close down the set. The investigation, I’m told, is making excellent progress now that Mr. McFaul has arrived, and it might only be for a few days.”
“Thank you for your concern. That’s actually the reason I invited you down here—to make a little appeal in that regard.” Doyle went on quickly, “We have a problem. You see, Mr. Barrow, we were just about to shoot a crucial scene—today—a scene involving some major pyrotechnics. No doubt you’ve seen our beautiful narrow-gauge train over yonder.” He pointed beyond the town to the train. “It’s set to be blown up in one of the most spectacular pyrotechnical displays you will see in any film ever, I promise you. The problem is, it’s already wired to blow, with explosives in place. We can’t walk away leaving it like that. We either have to shoot the scene of it blowing up, or we have to dismantle the entire pyrotechnical setup—which is a delicate and dangerous operation—and it simply can’t be done by the eleven o’clock deadline.”
Barrow said, “I understand the problem. It wasn’t my idea to shut down Erebus in the first place.” He glanced at McFaul.
Ballou now spoke, his legendary plangent voice cutting into the conversation. “Mr. Barrow, the heart of the film is when the gang of outlaws blows up the train. It’s going to be spectacular. I believe it could win an Academy Award for best visual effects. Nowadays, everything is CGI, but this is going to be real. Nothing beats good old-fashioned pyrotechnics. All we ask, Mr. Barrow, is to be given enough time to shoot the scene.” Ballou finished up the appeal with a big smile.
“How much time?”
“Just six or seven hours,” said Doyle. “We’ll shoot the scene at two this afternoon, wrap at five, and then we can shut down the set and evacuate the entire film crew. I understand you’re worried about risk, but we’re miles down the valley from where the killings took place. And look at how many we are. We have our own security. No one’s going to come after us.”
“I’m all for it,” said Barrow. He turned to McFaul. “What do you say, Mr. McFaul?”
McFaul was sweating. “Well, the order to evacuate nonessential personnel came from the governor. I can’t contravene that.”
“Of course,” said Doyle, “but I think the argument could be made that these are essential personnel. At least until the pyrotechnics scene has been done. We can’t leave it like this: it’s way too dangerous.”
“I strongly agree with Mr. Doyle,” said Barrow.
McFaul nodded. “I understand.” There was a silence as the cop furrowed his brow. “Well, I think, under the circumstances, we’ll give you those extra hours.”
After McFaul and Barrow had left in the Karlmann King, Doyle turned to Ballou. “Thank you, Brock. You’re a true gentleman, and you handled that very well.”
Ballou looked at him coolly. “You owe me, Slavomir. You owe me.” And he walked back off to his trailer.
What an asshole, Doyle thought as he watched him go. But he was an asshole who could perform when needed. He picked up his radio and called his pyrotechnician. “Get ready to rock and roll, Jack. We’ve got the rest of the day.”
46
The main hall of the lodge was now quiet and almost empty. The valley had been evacuated smoothly, with all guests and nonessential personnel leaving by eleven. But the calm, Cash thought grimly, was not going to remain so for long: workers were busy preparing for the one o’clock press conference in the hall of the main lodge for the “select” group of media. As workers began setting up a podium with multiple mics and cables and plug-in power units going every which way, she began to wonder just how “select” this group might be.
She told herself it wasn’t something she had to worry about. This was McFaul’s deal. Even though she had to be there, she knew McFaul would do most of the talking and her role would be minimized. So much the better—she had bigger fish to fry.
The warrant hit Cash’s phone at eleven thirty, arriving as an email attachment. She texted Colcord and met him in the conference room.
“We got it,” she said.
“Good.”
She printed it out and laid it on the table. The judge in Eagle had come through big-time: it was the no-knock warrant they sought, and it was broadly worded, allowing them to search anywhere in the laboratory complex they deemed appropriate for evidence connected to the homicide of Johnson.
“So,” said Colcord. “Now we have to figure out how we’re going to serve it. At the main door?”
“No,” said Cash. “If we walk in there, even with a no-knock, we’ll get the same treatment we did last time: cooperation.” She made air quotes with her fingers. “They’ll let us look around everywhere, but we’ll get nowhere because what’s hidden stays hidden. This time, we go in the back door.”
“You mean, the steel door from the Jackman Mine? How are we going to get through that? Knock and say, ‘Avon calling’?”
“We torch it open.”
Colcord stared at her. “How in the world are we going to do that?”
At this, Cash gave him a big grin. “My right-hand guy, Detective Romanski, is a wizard with an acetylene torch. One of his hobbies is cutting and welding junk to make sculptures. We take him and his torch.”
“Does he know about this?”
“Not yet. But he’s authorized to go with a warrant party and often does. He’s been in the mine and knows all about it, he’s part of the investigation, and we’ve got a legal warrant. I’m still the nominal head of the investigation. So what we’re doing is strictly legal in every sense.”
“ Will he do it?”
“As the director of Forensic Services, he’s technically still responsible to me since I am the agent in charge. But he’s a good guy—he’ll do it because he’ll realize it’s important for the investigation. And it’s the kind of thing that’ll capture his interest. I know him—as soon as he hears about that steel plate, he’s gonna want to see what’s behind it.”
Colcord let out a big sigh. “Agent Cash, why don’t we just take this whole idea to your boss, lay it out for him, and do it that way? This guerrilla operation makes me nervous.”
“Because he’ll put the kibosh on it. You know he will. He’s too chummy with Erebus already—sharing with them details of the investigation, making sure they’re informed of what we’re doing. He’s way too impressed with Barrow. Trust me, there’s no way he’s gonna agree to this, and besides, he’ll be rip-shit when he finds I went behind his back to get a warrant. The only way we’re going to get through that door is to do it ourselves, on the q.t.”
“We’re going to need security going into the mine.”
“We’ll enlist some Denver PD SWAT guys to go with us. But I’m pretty sure the mine’s been abandoned. Those crazies are long gone.” She paused, looking at Colcord’s face creased with doubt. “Are you in? Can I call Romanski?”
He pursed his lips, took off his hat, ran his hand over his balding head, and fitted the hat back on. Then he grinned. “I’m in.”
She checked her watch. “And now, Sheriff, it’s time for the bullshit news conference. You ready?”
“Hell yeah, I’m all for a bullshit news conference. I’ve got a reelection coming up.”
She shook her head sadly. “What is the world coming to?”
47
McFaul had choreographed everything. He was good at that, Cash thought. He’d arranged law enforcement personnel in a standing semicircle at the head of the room, flanking him on both sides of the podium, all in uniform with their hands clasped in front. It was impressive, reassuring, and a colossal waste of time.
It was ten minutes to one, and McFaul was still fussing with the way people were lined up, where their hands were, whether they were straight-backed and had wiped any inappropriate smiles from their faces. There was the sheriff on one side of her, his deputy next to him, and two other sheriff’s office undersheriffs. Cash was to his right, with Commander Graves and several uniformed Denver PD guys flanking her. McFaul was like a damn wedding photographer, adjusting people’s positions and making sure their heads were upright and turned the correct way.
“We want to show a solid wall of confidence and poise,” he said. “This is what we need to project to the public. This isn’t just about image—it’s about reassurance.”
He had even suggested including Maximilian in the lineup, but the security director had demurred, saying Erebus security staff needed to stay in the background. It was Cash’s distinct impression that Erebus did not want to take part in the news conference at all and that both Maximilian and Barrow were unhappy at the whole spectacle. Barrow, in fact, had disappeared.
Then, when all was ready, the media pool was let in like a bunch of dogs released into a run. First came the news television crews wielding cameras and boom mics, jostling and pushing each other, with their anchors in front. That was followed by the rest of the media—radio, newspapers, online news outlets, and bloggers loaded down with equipment. There were no chairs—this was standing room only—and there was quite a bit of noise and raised voices as everyone jockeyed for position. Cash was astonished; this was not the select pool McFaul had described—this was forty or more people.
When the hubbub had settled down to a murmur, McFaul stepped up to the podium. A hush fell, and he looked around the room, his face a mask of gravitas, and delivered a statement in a classic police monotone, all in the passive voice. It was one of those jargony speeches, full of the kind of phraseology you hear on television, about perpetrators and persons of interest, ingresses and egresses, and such. But it conveyed, quite magnificently, the impression that the case had stalled until he arrived—and then the breakthroughs came thick and fast. They had discovered the opening to the mine; they had entered at great risk; an officer had bravely sacrificed his life; they had found the killers’ lair; and they were now hot on their trail. No mention was made of the eyeball ornaments—that was one detail they had managed to keep secret, thank God—but the cannibalism aspect of the case had gotten out, and McFaul addressed that with expressions of outrage, condemnation, and promises to bring the monsters to justice. Cash was praised just faintly enough to throw shade on her efforts, but Sheriff Colcord and the Denver PD were applauded, as was Erebus for its “exceptional cooperation.”
The electricity in the room was intense. The press was hanging on every word. Cash had been so focused on the investigation and so isolated in the valley that she hadn’t quite grokked just how huge this story was in the outside world. As soon as McFaul concluded his statement, it was as if the entire room raised its collective hand with a frantic roar, trying to attract McFaul’s attention.
McFaul was just eating it up. He pointed to a famous anchor in front. “Ms. Ross, of CNN?”
“Do you have any idea who these killers might be?” she asked as boom mics swung around.
“We have reason to believe we’re dealing with a cult—an anarchistic, anti-capitalist, radical environmental group that opposes the scientific work of Erebus and are intent on driving them from the valley. Unfortunately, it appears families and even some younger children might be involved—which adds even more urgency to solving this case.”
More shouting. He pointed to another.
“Have you any ransom notes or demands?”
“No. We’ve received taunting videos and cryptic messages of sorts, but nothing that makes any sense or presents any demands.”
“What kind of videos? Can we see them?”
“They’re strictly confidential for now.”
“Do you have any theories as to why these cultists are cannibalizing their victims?”
“We believe it is to send a message of complete hatred and rejection of society. They are establishing that they are entirely outside of all societal and cultural norms.”
“You mentioned cryptic messages. Can you be more specific?”
He paused. “They left for us six Monopoly tokens, wrapped in grass, which we’ve interpreted as a possible anti-capitalist gesture.”
This was new, and it generated more shouting.
“What about DNA? Do you have any DNA of the killers?”
“Our Forensic Services Division has collected a great deal of DNA, which is being analyzed. The DNA is mixed and contaminated, and it’s been a tough problem to sort it out—we’re still working on that and will have results shortly.”
“Why weren’t the mines searched right away? Why did it take five days?”
Now they were getting down to the nitty-gritty, thought Cash. She was damned glad she didn’t have to answer that question.
“We weren’t aware of the Jackman Mine’s existence until yesterday. It was believed by Erebus that the mine had been thoroughly sealed a decade ago.”
“Where did the killers go? Where do you think they are now?”
“We’re searching the entire valley, quadrant by quadrant, on foot, with dogs and infrared drones. Trust me, we’re going to find them.”
“Why did it take so long to close the resort?”
“It was initially decided that it wasn’t necessary, but when I arrived, I promptly reversed that decision and persuaded the governor to agree. Only the governor had the power to do that.”
The questions went on and on, until it became clear they were never going to end as long as the press conference remained open. Finally, McFaul called out, “One final question. Ms. Dixon, KOAT?”
“Agent McFaul, as head of the investigation, what would you say to the family of the guard who was murdered and then, ah, cannibalized by these killers?”
Cash could see McFaul was taken aback by the question. He spent an uncomfortable moment with his face furrowed in thought. “I would say this: I extend my sincerest and most heartfelt condolences. Your son was a hero who died in service. Second: We’re going to bring these monsters to justice. You have my word on that. They will be brought to justice, and I can promise you the law will come down on their vile heads like the full weight of the Rocky Mountains.”
It wasn’t the happiest of metaphors, Cash thought, but it was effective, and she had no doubt it would be the lead on the national news across the country.
The press conference began breaking up. The press had been told they could remain in the lodge, asking questions and doing their thing, until a four p.m. deadline, when they were required to be gone.
She exchanged a glance with Colcord. They had a warrant to execute.
48
Romanski had gotten the call from Cash that morning, and he was intrigued. While collecting evidence the night before, he’d also seen the steel plate in the back of the mine and had dusted it for prints, finding quite a few, which they were running through the databases. Cash’s idea of using a no-knock warrant to cut through it appealed strongly to his sense of drama and curiosity. Romanski had never yet seen a blocked door he didn’t want to open, he told himself, and this one was more intriguing than most. Of course, it might lead into a boring lab full of test tubes and microscopes.
At the same time, he was apprehensive about the scheme. Cash had explained at length how cutting through the plate and executing the search warrant was by the book in every way: they had a legal warrant, she was still officially the agent in charge, and, as lead investigator, she could tell Romanski what to do. McFaul in his usual weaselly way hadn’t officially and formally taken over the case. It was typical of the CBI director, Romanski thought, to work both sides, hedging his bets—hoping to take credit if the case were swiftly resolved, but ready to pass the buck if it went south. Cash had promised to have his back—or, as she’d put it in her usual blunt way, They sure as hell aren’t going to mow your ass as long as I’m around.
The problem was, she might not be around. Cash could get fired for this stunt. That, Romanski thought, would be a damn shame, as she was maybe the best agent they had. But he agreed to it, eyes wide open.
They’d worked up a cover story that, while not exactly a lie, wasn’t the entire truth. He had put in a request to do one final round of evidence collection at the mine, which included the ore-cart handle from which the eyeballs had been hung. That would require an oxyacetylene torch to cut off the handle since they couldn’t lug the whole thing out. They would need a chopper ride to and from the mine entrance and two Denver PD SWAT team people as security.
