back in the '60s, as part of some PR thing. Her name rang a bell."
"Not with me," Gail admitted. He could hear her moving about, presumably searching for a pad or a pen. He imagined her in her pajamas. The image wasn't a stretch—he'd seen her dozens of times, having turned her bed into an office.
"How do you spell her name?" she asked him. "I'll look into it. The whole thing sounds weird, having a governor nobody knows confined to the state hospital? It's got to be something else."
Joe slowly pegged on what she was implying, and felt a little slow for not having considered it earlier. Governors — even sham ones — were not regular folks from off the sidewalk. Along with creating a gimmick like Governor-for-a-Day, consideration had to have been given to the individual chosen. It wouldn't have been a random selection. That would have been too politically risky.
Carolyn Barber's status was abruptly bumped up the ladder in his mind.
"Thanks, Gail," he told her. "I appreciate it."
"How many people know about this?" she asked.
An interesting, slightly paranoid question, he thought, probably typical of any politician. "Only a few," he reassured her. "We want to find out what we've got first. The tunnels they think she used should be accessible tomorrow. For all I know, we'll find her drowned right there, and that'll be the end of it."
"It's never that easy, Joe," Gail said with a conviction born of knowledge.
He didn't doubt the truth of that. But the source of the prophecy was interesting. Did Gail suspect something she wasn't admitting to? Or was she simply being watchful?
"Let me know as soon as you get anything, okay?" he asked. "It might really help me in locating her."
Their point of departure was a large, unmarked white truck, parked just outside the former admissions entrance to the state hospital. As Joe, Lester, and the two HazMat technicians they'd been assigned clumsily emerged from the back and stepped cautiously onto the slippery mud coating the parking lot, Joe couldn't help thinking of so many postapocalyptic movies, where the irradiated remnants of buildings, streets, and playgrounds lay abandoned and eerily silent. All around him, he could see only a wet and soiled urban wilderness, bereft of movement or sound.
He flexed and moved his limbs, adjusting to the bulky Tyvek outfit, rubber boots and gloves, and mostly, the tight-fitting respirator and confining helmet.
"Comfy?" the senior tech asked in a muffled voice, a man named Kevin Teater.
"I feel like I'm inside a body bag."
Teater's laughter sounded odd, unaccompanied by any visual clues beyond a slight crinkling around his eyes. "You'll get used to it fast," he reassured the two cops. "It's the same for all of us."
They proceeded toward the building's front door in a shambling herd, churning up the slime beneath their treaded feet and feeling the weight of it clinging to their boots.
"You can see how high it got," Teater pointed out with one gloved hand, waving at a distinct waterline some seven feet off the ground. "The whole first floor was wiped out."
Knowing of the devastation and seeing the dampness still glistening attractively in the morning sun, however, Joe was struck by how normal everything looked.
It didn't last. As they filed deeper inside, even the respirator couldn't block the smell of dampness, chemicals, and something more primordial — something hinting at the earth's very fundament.
The walls were stained and smeared, the furniture moved helter-skelter, and the whole littered with a madcap tossing of files, papers, documents, and books, along with dozens of less recognizable items, making it look like the soggy remains of a tornado's passage.
Kevin Teater slowly led them down a dark hallway, the sun outside having little influence in this grottolike environment.
"The entrance to the tunnels is this way — at least the one we're thinking she used." He twisted around stiffly to address them directly. "You hear
"Not with me," Gail admitted. He could hear her moving about, presumably searching for a pad or a pen. He imagined her in her pajamas. The image wasn't a stretch—he'd seen her dozens of times, having turned her bed into an office.
"How do you spell her name?" she asked him. "I'll look into it. The whole thing sounds weird, having a governor nobody knows confined to the state hospital? It's got to be something else."
Joe slowly pegged on what she was implying, and felt a little slow for not having considered it earlier. Governors — even sham ones — were not regular folks from off the sidewalk. Along with creating a gimmick like Governor-for-a-Day, consideration had to have been given to the individual chosen. It wouldn't have been a random selection. That would have been too politically risky.
Carolyn Barber's status was abruptly bumped up the ladder in his mind.
"Thanks, Gail," he told her. "I appreciate it."
"How many people know about this?" she asked.
An interesting, slightly paranoid question, he thought, probably typical of any politician. "Only a few," he reassured her. "We want to find out what we've got first. The tunnels they think she used should be accessible tomorrow. For all I know, we'll find her drowned right there, and that'll be the end of it."
"It's never that easy, Joe," Gail said with a conviction born of knowledge.
He didn't doubt the truth of that. But the source of the prophecy was interesting. Did Gail suspect something she wasn't admitting to? Or was she simply being watchful?
"Let me know as soon as you get anything, okay?" he asked. "It might really help me in locating her."
Their point of departure was a large, unmarked white truck, parked just outside the former admissions entrance to the state hospital. As Joe, Lester, and the two HazMat technicians they'd been assigned clumsily emerged from the back and stepped cautiously onto the slippery mud coating the parking lot, Joe couldn't help thinking of so many postapocalyptic movies, where the irradiated remnants of buildings, streets, and playgrounds lay abandoned and eerily silent. All around him, he could see only a wet and soiled urban wilderness, bereft of movement or sound.
He flexed and moved his limbs, adjusting to the bulky Tyvek outfit, rubber boots and gloves, and mostly, the tight-fitting respirator and confining helmet.
"Comfy?" the senior tech asked in a muffled voice, a man named Kevin Teater.
"I feel like I'm inside a body bag."
Teater's laughter sounded odd, unaccompanied by any visual clues beyond a slight crinkling around his eyes. "You'll get used to it fast," he reassured the two cops. "It's the same for all of us."
They proceeded toward the building's front door in a shambling herd, churning up the slime beneath their treaded feet and feeling the weight of it clinging to their boots.
"You can see how high it got," Teater pointed out with one gloved hand, waving at a distinct waterline some seven feet off the ground. "The whole first floor was wiped out."
Knowing of the devastation and seeing the dampness still glistening attractively in the morning sun, however, Joe was struck by how normal everything looked.
It didn't last. As they filed deeper inside, even the respirator couldn't block the smell of dampness, chemicals, and something more primordial — something hinting at the earth's very fundament.
The walls were stained and smeared, the furniture moved helter-skelter, and the whole littered with a madcap tossing of files, papers, documents, and books, along with dozens of less recognizable items, making it look like the soggy remains of a tornado's passage.
Kevin Teater slowly led them down a dark hallway, the sun outside having little influence in this grottolike environment.
"The entrance to the tunnels is this way — at least the one we're thinking she used." He twisted around stiffly to address them directly. "You hear
Similar Books
