The Huntsman (3 page)

CHAPTER
4   Put to Flight

Miranda
slid the video screen back into the ceiling. The formulaic comedy of a boy in
love with a girl in love with his sister had swiftly descended into predictable
farce. She had vague memories of her parents complaining the in-flight movies
had become second- rate but couldn’t imagine flying for longer than forty-five
minutes. Half-hour, made-for-flight sit-coms fit the bill now. She smiled at
the thought her children might one day hear her complain the in-flight fare had
become second-rate.

The
forward bulkhead’s digital display indicated the flight’s zero-g segment had
three minutes left. Below it, an oversized monitor provided a panoramic
exterior view. They flew fourth in line toward atmospheric reentry as the Earth
slowly rotated Hawaii into position. White heat already engulfed the first
flight’s orbital descent. Around her everyone remained glued to their sit-coms.

Miranda
gazed out beyond Earth’s spectacular blue horizon. The planet’s reflected light
failed to mask the stars in their unimaginable numbers. And beyond them
galaxies, countless galaxies extended into forever, suspended in the grand
void, calm, serene, profound. Only man’s brilliance shielded her from the
expanse’s duality. Outside, it would need but an instant to erase her existence.
Return her to her true origin. Not dust…irrelevance.

Miranda
pressed her communicator’s “2” button. Its female voice responded. “Connecting
to Gary Akiyama.”

“Say
‘hello’, Miranda.”

“Hello,
Professor Akiyama.”

“I
am reduced to a few simple pleasures: my wife, my grandchildren—but only for
two days, then they must return home—and the sound of your voice saying
‘hello’.”

“What
about your students?”

“They’re
not like normal youths. They’re very studious. They attend my lectures, turn on
their recorders, listen attentively, then regurgitate my words on test papers.
They seem oblivious to life’s moments passing by, never to return.”

Miranda
smiled. Everyone, including rebellious youths, adored and revered Professor
Akiyama. If they did what he described, it could only be out of respect and a
desire not to miss whatever he might say. “I’m sure they’re just trying to
understand. Sometimes you can be a little…opaque.”

“Aha.
I’m sure that will lead to the topic of conversation.”

“Indirectly,
yes. I’m still trying to understand why you saddled me with Clifford Easton. He
and I clash in every possible way. After you announced your retirement, I had
high hopes for your hand-picked successor.” His gentle tone belied any
harshness.

“The
interests of the zoo came before any need to get along with Miranda Logan. He’s
a good man and an excellent administrator. I thought he’d do well as a
counterbalance to your extraordinary animal skills. If I had picked a more
compatible personality type, you’d be more comfortable, but one day you’ll be
Director. You need to learn what he knows.

Nonetheless,
I did consider you. One does not learn from half-knowledge. It is not enough to
know what to do and how to be. You must also know what not to do and how not to
be. The comparative opposites provide perspective, the basis for all wisdom.”

A
jealous twinge stabbed through Miranda. She could see his students sitting
quiet, attentive, their recorders whirring. She missed the daily interactions
with the former Director. He’d served as mentor and taskmaster while she weaned
Ben. He made her his second when she returned. Under his tutelage, she learned
more than in any lecture hall. “Well, it might please you to know that good man
of yours has me on loan to the CIA.” The silence gave her some satisfaction.

“What,
what? What could the CIA possibly want with you? Wait, I’ll sit before you
knock me down again.” Miranda laughed.

“Don’t
bother. I’m on a flight to Honolulu and about to reenter the atmosphere. The
signal will disconnect. I’m transmitting some photos and documents as well as
my notes to you. It includes a DNA report I think you’ll find interesting. This
Hawaii trip is in conjunction with the case. I’ll call you in the next day or
two, so do your homework.”

Gary
laughed. He’d often commanded her to do the same. “I will, Miranda. Thanks for
calling. Aloha.”

“Aloha,
professor.” No “Fasten Seat Belt” sign flashed. In zero-g the orbiter
automatically locked them.

CHAPTER
5   Curiouser and Curiouser

Encumbered
only by immediate necessities, Miranda bypassed the typical baggage claim
anxiety for the terminal’s exit. Cross and Dawkins had accompanied her to the
Columbus ticket counter then wished her luck. “How will I know where to go when
I land?”

“Someone
will be waiting for you and make contact.”

“What
if the person contacting me is the maniac we’re pursuing? Don’t we have to
exchange passwords or something?” Dawkins smiled.

“That
happens mostly in fiction and movies. The irony of our business is that without
a little faith, one can easily end up a paranoid schizophrenic. There’ll be
undercover assets throughout the terminal. No one will pick you up who’s not
supposed to.”

“Will
we see each other again?”

“Yes,
but first we have other leads to follow.”

Curious
who awaited her, Miranda stepped through glass doors that swooshed open. All
about her, frenzied passengers rushed for departing flights, tired travelers
greeted excited family, anxious arrivals searched for taxis, casual shoppers
awaited connections, loudspeakers announced delays. She slowed then noticed the
tall, tan, fortyish, good-looking man strolling toward her. He wore khaki pants
and a blue open-necked, pullover sports shirt with matching blue, deck shoes.
Sunglasses perched atop his black curly hair conveyed a relaxed, island-chic image.
In comparison to the instantly forgettable Cross, he certainly fit the suave,
dashing, international spy ideal. Strong, white teeth smiled at her.

“Dr.
Logan? Dr. Miranda Logan?” She smiled back.

“Yes,
I am. How did you know?”

“They
told me to look for a distinctive female emerging from Gate 11b. I thought a
beautiful, green-eyed, red-head fit the bill.” She shot him a look.

“I’m
kidding. I saw a photo.” He extended a hand. “My name is Ben Wolford. Hi. May I
take your bag?” Miranda shook it and her head.

“That’s
okay. It’s not heavy. You’re the second Ben I know.” A faux frown darkened his
face.

“I
knew there had to be competition. Oh well. If you’ll follow me, we’ll be on our
way.”

Miranda
didn’t like to set first impressions in concrete but the glib and too
self-assured Ben Wolford might have talked himself out of any chance. Long
accustomed to just showing up and smiling, he’d become lazy. She appreciated a
sense of humor and a quick wit but preferred her men serious and not kidders.
Miranda smiled to herself. How would his ego react if she told him he’d lost to
a hippo?

Outside,
a riot of color and floral variety greeted her. Oahu’s magnificently landscaped
aerospace port matched every Hawaii image she’d ever seen and softened the
hectic activity bustling about her. It quickly became a pleasant memory as they
sped along North Nimitz Highway. The black asphalt, white-striped lanes, and
familiar vehicles overshadowed her brief glimpse of tropical paradise. She
looked up through the open-air Jeep to the azure heaven pockmarked with fat,
lazy clouds. How many times had she seen such a sky? Something about this one
though left no doubt she rode atop an island dwarfed by the Pacific.

Miranda
pressed against the seat’s back and stretched lazily along its lowered length.
She gave up trying to find an apt comparison to the sky’s rich, deep blue but
noticed Ben casting quick, sideways glances. Her less than form-fitting clothes
could not hide the body underneath. She found her reaction curious. The obvious
lust bursting from his eyes suffused her body in sensuous warmth. When had a
man last looked at her like that? When had she last had a man? That she asked
answered the question. The zoo’s schedule cocooned her life and the animals
provided a convenient outlet for pent up emotions. When had she last had a man?

“Where
are we going?”

“Foreign
Trade Zone 9, a section of Honolulu Harbor’s Pier 2. Companies can rent
warehouse facilities for assembling imported equipment or disassembling
manufactured goods for export. How much have they briefed you?”

“Beyond
the bizarre circumstances that prompted this case, I only saw a low-resolution
photo of two men hanging on a wall. Do you mean the victims are inside a
warehouse?” Ben nodded.

“It
is a bizarre case. I’m in charge of the site. We fenced off the area under
24-hour guard. It’s an industrial zone so secure sections are commonplace. No
one has given us a second look. A plastic wall seals off half the interior. The
temperature within is just above freezing to prevent biological degradation
pending your inspection.

We
think the two hanging by their faces had something to do with the equipment
missing from Joshua Ang’s laboratory. They might have brought it here and used
a container to ship it. Cross and Dawkins are backtracking the paperwork with
Hawaii’s Department of Transportation which runs the facility. If it’s anything
like your typical bureaucracy, they’ll be a while. Honolulu Harbor processes
over a million cargo containers a year. It could be anywhere. I suspect they
won’t find anything. My nose tells me those two hangers-on weren’t the types to
leave paper trails. But we have to be thorough.”

“I’ve
heard that. Who discovered the bodies?”

“Dead
end. Routine security patrol wondered why the lights were on in the middle of
the night with no apparent activity. Anyhow, we’re about five minutes away.
Pier 2 is only fifteen minutes from Honolulu Aerospace.”

Wolford
signaled for the off-ramp under a sign pointing to Sand Island Access Road.
Neatly maintained, one-story storage and administrative buildings bordered both
sides of a well-marked road free of potholes. Only diners and support services
interrupted the bland, utilitarian structures that described any industrial
zone. Ben turned left into a narrow dead-end where two armed guards waved him
through a chain-link gate. Beyond the road’s end, the huge harbor’s blue water
gently rolled docked boats.

Another
armed guard stood aside to pass them through the main entrance. Inside, haste
had thrown together a crude prep area next to a zippered flap leading into the
sealed interior. Ben removed two boxes from a stack along the wall then sat on
a bench to remove his shoes and the box’s haz-mat suit. He grinned at her. “I’m
hoping you can figure it out. I’m not as practiced helping someone dress.”

Miranda
ignored him, pulled a perforated tab, and figured it out. She fluffed open a
one-piece, white suit. One zipper sealed the front and once she fitted the air
filter over her nose and mouth, another sealed the headpiece. Suited, Miranda
removed a leather-bound toolkit from her bag. Ben held a pencil and notepad in
one hand and opened the flap with the other. His muffled but audible voice bade
her enter. Inside, overhead fluorescent lights illuminated the ghastly setting
enlarged by its emptiness.

Please,
please don’t let me vomit in this thing, she prayed. A defiant stomach twisted
a tighter knot. Her hands trembled. Sweat beaded on her forehead, laughed at
the cold. She inhaled, concentrated, and began a slow survey.

Straight
ahead two short men hung about two feet off the ground. Both faced right. Her
head swiveled toward the right wall. Before it two pistols lay in four bloody
pools that had converged into one. Seven, small numbered papers lay in random
fashion atop the congealed blood. Seven numbered pock marks marred the left
wall.

“What
do those numbered markings signify?”

“Either
our two friends used the wall for target practice, or they tried to kill
whatever killed them. The numbered papers on the floor are where the shell
casings fell. They match the bullet holes in the wall. One gun clip is minus
two rounds, the other five. They must have missed. All the blood matches the
two victims.”

“How
do you know that?”

“Our
forensic team has already been through here. They’ve given me a heads up on
their preliminary findings. Cross and Dawkins should be receiving their final
report at any minute.” He smiled through his headpiece. “If you give me your
number, I’ll forward you a copy of mine.” Again Miranda ignored him.

“How
could they miss at that distance? What is it thirty, thirty-five feet?” Despite
the suit, Wolford shrugged.

“You’d
be surprised what nerves do to your aim in a gunfight. They can scatter shots
everywhere except at the target.”

“But
those shots aren’t scattered. All seven are in the same general area.” Wolford
turned toward the wall then turned back to Miranda with new-found respect. “I
didn’t think of that. You’re right.” He scribbled into his notebook then turned
back to stare at the wall. “How did they miss?”

Toward
the left Miranda noticed a glimmer from the floor. Her eyes widened then
narrowed as she squatted next to an iridescent feather. A ruled marker
alongside it indicated eight inches. She moved her head back and forth, left
and right. Its colors shifted and shimmered as she changed viewing angles. A
gasp escaped her throat. At certain angles it appeared to move. She stood.
Walked around it. Backtracked, leaned, then bent. At certain angles it appeared
to move only to reappear at its original position when the angle changed. The
scientist submerged the nervous, frightened woman.

“Did
the forensics team see this?”

“Yes,
but you’re the zoologist. They left it for you.”

She
reached to pick it up then stopped. “Wait a minute. This is evidence. Why
aren’t the police here?”

“National
security. This is federal property leased to the state. Although the local
police were first on site, they have no jurisdiction. As soon as the details
came to us we shut it down.”

Miranda
thought the contamination risk a calculated one. She picked it up. Holding her
hand steady, she leaned left. The feather disappeared from view yet she could
feel it between thumb and forefinger. “Remarkable.” she breathed. She pulled
out her communicator and videotaped the phenomenon.

“What
kind of bird is it?” Ben asked.

“Many
species have iridescent feathers. Ducks, hummingbirds, some starlings to name a
few. I don’t know any with eight-inch feathers.” She reflected for a moment
then made up her mind. “When we’re back outside, I want this specimen bagged
and shipped fastest means possible to an address I’ll give you.”

Miranda
turned her attention to the congealed blood pool. Hands on knees, a careful
examination along its edge ensued. She shifted her feet inch by inch until
satisfied with their position. Her index finger pointed to a smudged
indentation. “Whatever killed them stood right here. That mark there is its
right front toe.” She stopped and stared. Right front toe? Whatever stood here
had not worn shoes. Could that partial toe print be real or an elaborate
attempt to mislead?

Her
eyes closed as she strained to recall long ago Physics and Anatomy lessons.
Open again, Miranda leaned forward at various angles, arms straight out before
her or spread wide. A befuddled Wolford paused his note taking to watch her
walk over to the corpses, examine the ragged holes left by the torn arms, then
return before the blood pool.

“You
can see by the four somewhat rounded pools at the top this is where their arms
came off. Unlike the first incident there’s no clear footprint anywhere. If
whatever did this stood here it had to bend over far enough to reach their
shoulders. It also had to lift them cleanly, since the blood pool is
undisturbed, to carry them to the wall. At the point it bent forward, simple
lever physics tells me it would have tipped over when lifting either one.
Again, the undisturbed pool shows us it didn’t. Also, the angle formed when it
bent forward to remove the arms requires tremendous strength to do so and
remain balanced. Given the anatomical fulcrum necessary to brace and hinge that
strength, I calculate its height at around seven feet with its upper body
longer than its lower. Our suspect will not be hard to spot.”

Wolford
remained befuddled. “So? What does all that mean?”

Miranda’s
shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure. It gives us a fuzzy picture of what we’re
looking for. If a suspect matches all these characteristics, we’ll know we have
our maniac.”

Miranda
inhaled and turned to face what she’d been dreading. The two bodies formed a
mixture of parallels and contrasts. Their swelled lower legs had turned a
brown-red color from the pooled blood no longer able to circulate. Combined
with a fine frost, the blood-drained upper bodies had a translucent, alabaster
color that gave them the appearance of wax models. One had a peaceful
expression, almost as if he might awake at any moment. The other had a face
frozen in the horror of its final visage. An o-shaped mouth screamed a silent
warning. Of what?

An
oblique approach from the left prevented having to view the gruesome faces. She
leaned close to the man’s shoulder, studied the clear, plastic-like substance
bonding the arm to it. Even through the air filter, a faint whiff of decay
wrinkled her nose. She unzipped the tool case and scanned for something she
didn’t mind ruining. A five-inch long, flathead screwdriver came out. Like hard
rubber, the substance had a slight give. Why didn’t the screwdriver adhere? She
turned the tool and pressed its plastic end. Nothing. “Can I borrow your
pencil, please?” Again, nothing. Metal, plastic, lead, wood, and rubber did not
adhere.