James Swain - Dark Magic

“Jose said that?”

“Yes. He told me he found them in the garbage. What have you been up to?”

“Nothing, Stan. I have no idea what Jose is talking about. I need to go.”

Carr started to drive away. Skarda reached through the open window, and grabbed his colleague by the arm.

“You’re not acting right, Lucas. Tell me what’s going on. I’m your friend.”

“Let go of me.”

“Not until you explain. I want to help.”

Carr’s rage bubbled up inside of him like so much poison. He threw the Windstar into park, and drew the Sig. It felt powerful in his hand, and he aimed at Skarda’s forearm.

“This is what’s going on, Stan.”

He squeezed the trigger. Blood splattered the windshield and the wheel. Skarda grabbed his arm and staggered back. His face was a mixture of pain and surprise.

“You shot me,” Skarda gasped.

Carr stared at the gaping wound that he had caused. The bullet had taken a small piece out of Skarda’s arm, and the wound was bleeding profusely. Not that long ago, the sight of blood had sickened him. Now, it had the opposite effect, and sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. He pointed the Sig and took careful aim.

“What are you doing?” Skarda gasped.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Please, Lucas. Don’t do it.”

“I read that there are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment in the future when your name is spoken for the last time. Do you believe that, Stan?”

“I’m begging you.”

“Is that a yes, or a no?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think it’s true. Let’s find out.”

Skarda tried to run away. Carr pumped three bullets into the man he’d once called his friend. The gunshots echoed across the property long after the Sig had gone silent.

Carr gazed at the dead man lying on the driveway with a strange sense of detachment. He waited for some feeling of remorse, or regret. There was none.

He was doing sixty when he took down the front gate. Five minutes later, he was weaving through traffic on the westbound LIE, his vehicle pointed toward the city.

Long Island was one hundred and forty miles in length. The distance from the city to the Shoreham nuclear plant was half that length, and took ninety minutes to reach without traffic. Or, you could take a helicopter, as Garrison chose to do, and land on the lawn in just forty minutes. Garrison exited the chopper wearing a navy windbreaker with the letters FBI stenciled prominently across the back. A Suffolk county homicide detective ran out to greet him.

“Any reporters snooping around?” Garrison shouted over the engine.

“There’s a pack of them on the other side of the building, including a team from CNN,” the detective shouted back. “The story hit the wires thirty minutes ago.”

“Can you keep them contained? I don’t want them photographing us.”

“Not a problem,” the detective said.

Garrison cupped his hand over his mouth. “Coast is clear. You can come out.”

Peter climbed out of the backseat of the chopper. Garrison had asked him to come to see if he could determine if Dr. Carr was their attacker. Peter didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for, but felt compelled to help, no matter where it took him. To protect his identity, he wore a baseball cap, Ray-Bans, and an identical windbreaker.

“Lead the way,” Garrison said.

The detective escorted them inside the plant. It was the size of a large warehouse, and had tiled floors that magnified the sound of their footsteps. During the flight, Garrison had explained to Peter how Carr had shot a co-worker to death an hour ago, and that Carr had been acting suspiciously for quite some time. It sounded as if Carr had lost his mind. Worse, Carr was a physicist, and had access to a variety of dangerous materials.

They entered the lab. Desks and computers took up most of the space. A team of CSI techs were searching Carr’s equipment. Garrison pulled aside the tech in charge, a moustachioed man named Tricarico. Tricarico was sweating, and appeared to know the danger Carr posed.

“FBI,” Garrison said, flashing his badge. “Show me what you got.”

Tricarico pointed at a table covered in plastic evidence bags. “Carr’s garbage can had plenty of good information in it. We found a map of Manhattan with a bull’s-eye painted on Broome Street, near the heart of the financial district. A coworker said Carr has been acting weird lately. This morning, Carr came to work with a child’s knapsack, which he put into the refrigerator, and asked everyone not to touch.”

“Is there nuclear material stored here?” Garrison asked.

“Yes, there is,” Tricarico replied. “They keep the generators operational. From what one of the physicists told me, you can never really shut one of these babies down. I guess there’s always some residue of nuclear power left.”

“What’s Carr’s motive?”

“Carr lost his wife and daughter after a drunk teenager hit them one Saturday night,” Tricarico said. “Seems the kid’s lawyer conned the judge into putting him on probation. Carr was dragged out of the courtroom, vowing revenge.”

“On who?”

“The system. Today’s the two-year anniversary of the accident.”

“Show me his desk.”

Carr’s desk was in the corner, covered in framed photos of his family in happier times. He’d left his laptop. It was powered up, the screen saver showing a picturesque shot of Long Island Sound at dusk. Garrison touched the keyboard, bringing the screen to life. He dragged the mouse over the Favorites tab below the browser, and clicked on it. The tab scrolled down to reveal the different Web sites that Carr liked to visit. The site at the top of the list said RDD. Garrison clicked on it. A drawing of a homemade bomb filled the screen.

“For the love of Christ,” the FBI agent said.

Garrison ripped out his cell phone. Unable to get reception, he hurried out of the lab. Tricarico crossed the room and spoke in a hushed voice to the other techs.

Peter had never heard of an RDD before, and studied the picture on the screen. It had six sticks of dynamite wrapped together along with a crude timing device. He read the accompanying text. An RDD, also called a dirty bomb, was a powerful explosive used to disperse radioactive material on densely populated areas. Although the dispersal of radiation wouldn’t kill many people, it would cause a huge public disruption, and destroy the economy and living conditions in the contaminated area, with radioactive dust spreading on people, buildings, and roads. Life in the contaminated area would cease to exist as we know it.

He thought back to the Friday night seance. Whatever had caused all those people to perish in Times Square hadn’t been radioactive material. They had died too quickly for it to have been that. Something else was going on here.

His eyes fell on the photos of Carr’s wife and daughter, both of whom were strikingly beautiful. They’d been gone two years. Had Carr been plotting his revenge all that time? Something told him that the demented physicist had, and this was all a trick.

He ran out of the lab.

Garrison was on the lawn, talking on his cell phone. During the chopper ride in, Garrison had stationed teams of FBI agents at the entrances to all the bridges, tunnels, and railroad stations into the city. Garrison was now alerting those teams to the deadly package that Carr was carrying. Peter grabbed the FBI agent’s arm, causing him to jump.

“Don’t do that!” Garrison said.

“Sorry. You need to hear this.”

“You found something?”