Stephen Cannell - The Devil_s Workshop

"Jesus, it's a fucking malt shop," Cris said. "Let's go someplace that at least has a bar."

"Order anything you want," Stacy said, ignoring that, as a waitress handed them menus and moved off. "You and Mike did a good job around that Dumpster," she smiled. "This is on me."

He took the menu and held it without opening it. "Why did you go to all the trouble of finding me?" His suspicious, feral eyes studied her, eyes that had lost their trust in humanity. "You wanna tell me what's really going on here?"

"You're right, I came a long way looking for you," she admitted, then dug into her purse and pulled out the rolls of developed pictures she had taken at Vanishing Lake. She slid them across the table toward him. "Do you recognize him?" she said, pointing to a shot of Fannon Kincaid taken moments after he had murdered the troops on the baseball diamond. "Most of the men with him had 'F. T. R. A.' tattooed on their arm."

Cris looked at the picture for a long time, weighing his jeopardy before answering. It was the same man he'd seen shoot the two soldiers. When she mentioned the tattoos, he suddenly knew who he was. He'd heard stories whispered over jungle campfires.

"F. T. R. A. stands for 'Freight Train Riders of America,' " Cris said. "I think his name is Fannon Kincaid. He runs some White supremacist church. Rides the rails to stay underground. He's killed hobos for just being on the same train. Legend says, if you see a crazy silver-haired fanatic that looks like the abolitionist John Brown, run like hell."

"Great," she said. "He's got Dexter DeMille. God only knows what that means."

"Who's Dexter DeMille?"

"He's the other reason I came looking for you. You need to go to the hospital," she said. "I'll set it up, but you need to get checked over immediately."

"Why?"

"Hollywood Mike didn't die from a crushed larynx." She watched as his eyes shifted slightly, then came back and found hers.

"Who said he had a crushed larynx?"

"You did. You told Roscoe Moss in Badwater."

"Christ, lady, you've been covering a lot of ground."

"Roscoe Moss sent the body to someplace called Government Camp, and they looked it over. The doc there said there was nothing wrong with Mike's throat. That's not what killed him."

Cris hesitated, then let out a long, slow breath. "I thought I'd killed him," he finally admitted.

"You didn't. Something else did."

When the waitress reappeared they both ordered full house Big Boy burgers and vanilla shakes. When she left, Cris looked back at Stacy.

"That still doesn't explain why you want me to go to a hospital."

Stacy looked across the table at Cris and decided that the best way to get him to cooperate was to level with him. Despite his scrawny, alcohol-ravaged state, he was still a college graduate and a Silver Star winner. She hoped the truth would motivate him.

"I think Mike died because of exposure to a new kind of bio-weapon designed by Dexter DeMille," she finally said. Then she filled him in on the bio-weapons program headquartered at Fort Detrick, Maryland, including Admiral Zoll and Dexter DeMille's work at Vanishing Lake Prison, and lastly describing the Prion illness. "He's designing killer proteins that attack the mood center, causing rage, then they destroy the midbrain, which controls swallowing and the other reflex actions. In the final stage there are violent seizures."

"That's what happened to Mike," Cris said softly.

"Mosquitoes were the delivery agents up there," she said. "I think Mike was bitten by escaped mosquitoes that got away from them at Vanishing Lake. It's possible you were bitten too."

"Wouldn't I have it by now? He's been dead two days."

"You may have antibodies in your system that are able to slow it down. You might be somehow immune, or you could become a carrier without exhibiting any of the symptoms yourself. If that's the case, your blood could be invaluable in helping us develop an antibody."

The hamburgers and shakes were delivered, and the waitress left. In the few seconds it took for this to happen, Cris seemed to change slightly. His posture straightened; his chin came up; anger now burned in his blue eyes. "My daughter, Kennidi, died from something I picked up in the Gulf, some chemical mix," he said. "I was a carrier. It didn't affect me at all, but Kennidi was born with her body full of…" He stopped, took a deep breath. "Tumors. She had hundreds of tumors. They grew everywhere inside her, until finally they killed her."

"I'm sorry," Stacy said gently. He nodded, and seemed momentarily overcome by the memory.

As Stacy waited for him to regain his composure, she suddenly remembered something Max had once told her about a strange incidence of Gulf War Syndrome. It defied all current explanation. "In Huntsville, Texas," she began slowly, "there was an outbreak of what looked like Gulf War Syndrome. Over twenty people were infected. There was a prison there, just like at Vanishing Lake, and there was also a science pod that was funded by Sam Houston University, just like at Vanishing Lake. According to the news articles that I read, the prison medical personnel were suddenly moved out, and doctors from Sam Houston University restaffed the prison overnight. These new doctors were all former military personnel. Apparently, some top-secret scientific tests were performed on the prisoners. All of this would have gone unreported except quite a few of the civilian workers at the prison started coming down with the same symptoms as the prisoners and had to be rushed to local hospitals. Several civilians died. The disease they all had tracked exactly like Gulf War Syndrome: muscle aches, vomiting, malaise, and fatigue. Some had horrible rashes and body sores. What makes this so strange is it happened in 1985, a full six years before the Gulf War."

"How could that be?" he asked.

"In 1985, Saddam Hussein was our ally. Iraq was at war with Iran, and Iran was holding our hostages. We know there were ex-military types in Iraq serving as 'advisors.' Maybe we also shipped chemical weapons to Saddam, for use against the Iranians. Six years later, he could've turned around and used them on us. At the very least, we know Pentagon higher-ups had our troops blowing up Iraqi bio-weapons depots at the end of the Gulf War, then claimed ignorance when they came home with Gulf War Syndrome."

He seemed to consider that for a moment. He had only eaten one bite of his hamburger, and now he put it down and pushed the plate away. "Let's get this food wrapped to go. I'm not really hungry," he said, wishing he could get a drink to calm his nerves.

She waved a waitress over, and the burgers were whisked off the table and back to the kitchen for packaging.

"So, who are you? You're obviously not just some little country girl flipping burgers in a mountain restaurant. You a government spy or something?"

"No," she smiled. "I was almost a doctor of microbiology." She held up her thumb and index finger. "I came that close."

"And didn't finish?" he said.

"Long story," she said curtly.

He didn't speak or pursue it. Instead, he sat in absolute stillness, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes. He was very far away. Suddenly, Stacy remembered Dr. Martin Due at Fort Detrick and the autopsy he was performing on the baby female chimp with the clusters of hemangiomic tumors. "We're testing pyridostigmine bromide with some of the Gulf War insect repellent we used. I think, by mistake, there was a bad chemical cocktail over there… It resembles a condition we're studying in children of Gulf War vets," he had told her.

The waitress returned with the wrapped hamburgers and put them down in front of them. Stacy paid the bill, and they stood.

"Let's go," she said. "We've got a lot to do."

Wendell arrived at the Santa Monica morgue at a little past nine.