Douglas Preston - Impact

"Why didn't it blow a bigger exit hole, cause a volcano or some kind of eruption?"

"Good question. A strangelet wouldn't build up a shockwave because it's absorbing all the matter it touches. It gobbles up matter as it goes along, leaving a tunnel in a vacuum which would immediately be sealed up behind by geologic pressure as it passed through. The only evidence of its passage would be a small entrance hole, a larger exit hole, and an unusual seismic signature."

Abbey whistled. "All this just reinforces my theory. A strangelet would be the ultimate weapon--think about it."

He rose, setting down the cup. "I don't know how much they know of this in Washington but I've got to get down there with that drive. I'll have to leave you here. I don't dare put you in protective custody at the CIA or even the local police, because I don't know who's after us. There's a possibility we're dealing with a rogue agency in our own government."

"But what about you? You go to Washington, they might just send you to Guantanamo or something."

"I've no choice. Because I think you may be right--that thing could be a weapon. The fate of the Earth might be at stake."

Abbey nodded.

"This island's as safe as any place for you now. Just lie low and I'll be back in contact with you in five days or less. You'll be okay?"

"Don't worry, we'll be fine."

He turned and grasped her arms. "You'll take me to the mainland this evening, at dusk, when the boat is less likely to be spotted." He paused, murmured, "A weapon . . . that's exactly what it is."

64

Harry Burr parked his New Beetle in front of the Wand-o-Matic Laundromat and stepped out of the car. It was one of those shabby mini-malls with a dozen storefronts, half of them empty, no security, a hangout for teen punks. A good place to ditch a stolen car; no security, few shoppers, and lots of empty storefronts. It might have been weeks before someone finally noticed. It was Ford's bad luck--and Burr's good--that some dumb-ass kid doing donuts had clipped the truck.

He strolled around the parking lot, getting a feel for the place. The white pickup was gone, of course, hauled off. The question was, where had Ford and the girl gone from here? Thanks to the Web he had a pretty good idea of where to find out. The girl was from these parts and her father lived nearby. Burr figured he was as good a place as any to start.

He gave a little laugh and lit up an American Spirit, inhaling deeply. Things seemed to be falling his way after all.

He finished the cigarette and tossed it on the ground, got back in the Beetle. The town of Round Pond--what a jerkwater name!--could be found about twelve miles down the road, according to his GPS. He was pretty sure good old George Straw could tell him something useful about his daughter's whereabouts.

The road to Round Pond wound this way and that through woods and past farms until a few glimpses of a harbor appeared on the right, along with a bunch of old white houses. As he pulled into a small farmhouse set back from the harbor, the GPS informed him, in a clipped British accent, that he had arrived at his destination. He parked behind a red pickup truck. Shoving the Desert Eagle into a briefcase, he exited the car and went up on the porch, rang the doorbell.

He heard heavy footfalls and soon the door opened. You could tell this was country, he thought, when the dumb-asses opened the door without even bothering to check who it was. Burr was surprised to find a white man standing at the door, a truculent-looking fellow with a weatherbeaten face and pale blue eyes, dressed in a checked shirt, suspenders, and jeans. Girl must've been adopted--or maybe it was a mixed marriage.

"What can I do for you?" he said, in a friendly way.

He held up his shield. "Mr. George Straw?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Lieutenant Moore of D.C. police, homicide division. I wonder if I could take up a minute of your time."

The face shut down. "What's it about, Officer?"

Burr liked that "officer" bit. It showed the man had respect for the law.

"It's about your daughter, Abbey."

The shut-down look vanished and Straw's face betrayed the fear of a father for his child. Good. "What about my daughter? Is she okay?"

Burr adopted a deep, concerned tone. "May I come in?"

Straw stepped away from the door. He was already shaking. "Yes. Please."

He followed Straw into the living room and took a seat, unbidden.

"My daughter, is she all right?" Straw asked again.

Instead of answering, Burr let an excruciating amount of time pass and then said: "Mr. Straw, what I have to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but I need your help. This is all strictly confidential, and you'll soon understand why."

Straw's face had lost all its color. But he held his composure.

"I'm in charge of a case involving a serial killer who's preyed on young women for years, mostly in the D.C. area but also in parts of New England. His name is Wyman Ford. He's very polished. He's good. He's got a lot of money and dresses well."

"Ford? Wyman Ford ? My daughter just took a job with a man by that name!" He rose from his chair.

"I know that. Let me finish. What this particular perpetrator does is persuade young ladies to accept a job as his assistant. The employment is vague but involves some sort of government secrecy or classified work. He keeps them around for several weeks and then he kills them."

"Good God, he's got my daughter!"

"We believe she's fine. She's not in immediate danger. But we have to find her. And we have to do it quickly and quietly. When this killer has the slightest inkling someone's on to him, he kills and disappears. It's happened to me before. So we've got to be absolutely quiet and cool and move with exceeding care."

"Oh my God, my God !" Straw paced the room, fists clenched, knuckles white. "That man gave her a job about a week ago. She went off to Washington. Then they came back and borrowed my boat. I'll kill him, the bastard."

Pay dirt . "Borrowed your boat? Where did they go?"

"I don't know! They took it and left me a note. I didn't actually see her. Oh my God." He clutched his head in his hands.

"May I see the note?"

Straw rushed into the kitchen and came back out with a piece of paper, handing it to Burr.

Dear Dad,

I don't quite know how to write this but I've borrowed your boat. Again. I'm really sorry. I know it doesn't sound good, but believe me it's necessary. I can't tell you where we're going but I should be back in a week or two, I hope. I'll be out of cell range but if I get a chance I'll give you a call. I'm fine, everything's fine, don't worry. Please don't tell anyone we're on the boat. I'll take good care of it.

Love,

Abbey

He read the note with a furrowed brow, placed it on the side table. "That's him, all right. Do you have any guesses as to where they might have gone, or why?"

Straw's face was contorted as he tried to speak. "North. She would have gone north. Fewer people, more islands. They have to be somewhat offshore, out in the islands, because she said they've got no cell reception. Close to shore the phones work."

"But why? What are they doing with the boat?"

"God only knows--you probably have a better idea than me!"

Burr checked himself.

"Oh my God, I can't lose my daughter!" His voice cracked. "I can't! I already lost my wife--!" He made a choking sound, coughed, trembled violently.

Burr rose and grasped his arm. "Mr. Straw, you've got to get ahold of yourself."

Straw nodded, swallowed.

"You've got to trust me that I know what I'm doing. Can you do that?"

Straw nodded dumbly.

"Here's what we're going to do. You're going to engage us another boat--a really good one. You're going to captain it, and we'll go out there and find her together."