Interference Read online

  Underneath were Matt’s portrait and a dark, grainy picture of the abandoned ambulance, cocked sideways and half-buried in the brush.

  My hand shot to the side of the doorframe and gripped tight. Few people realize how much we use our hearing to locate ourselves in space. It’s part of the reason old people fall so much—it’s actually their ears failing them as much as their legs. An unexpected part of my disability was how bad my balance had become, and this was almost enough to knock me off my feet.

  I knew Aimee had shooed away those television reporters the previous night, but . . . to see this now, splattered across the front page; to be forced to objectively acknowledge the horror of what was happening; to realize my family had become a lurid headline for the consumption of drowsy voyeurs over their breakfasts.

  If I was going to get jarred off the rails, this was when it would happen.

  Instead, I refolded the paper, shoved it back in its plastic sleeve, and tossed it in the snow under the shrubs.

  For Morgan’s sake, I told myself.

  Then I was going again. After I dressed, I walked Morgan to the bus stop, watched him climb aboard. I returned to the house, told Aimee I had some errands to run, and was soon underway toward Dartmouth and Wilder Hall.

  Detective Webster had his investigation, and I’m sure he would do it well. I had my own questions, things I wanted to see for myself.

  I couldn’t even say exactly what I was looking for. I just had this feeling I would know when I found it.

  Besides, anything was better than standing still.

  I parked in my usual spot near Baker Library, then made that familiar walk to Wilder. Except as I made the final turn, I saw two decidedly unfamiliar trucks stopped outside the building in a no-parking zone—two trucks that, in combination, had surely never graced Dartmouth’s campus during its quarter millennium of operations.

  The first was shiny and black. It had STATE POLICE and MAJOR CRIME UNIT stamped prominently on its side.

  The second was more mysterious. It was a boxy thing with heavy tires, maybe twenty feet long, and painted in drab olive. Like it belonged to the military.

  Its diesel engine was running. Leaning against the front bumper, smoking a cigarette, was a man with buzz-cut hair and army fatigues. I counted three stripes on his sleeve. A sergeant.

  He paid no particular mind to the middle-aged lady coming his way.

  I walked, tentatively now, a little closer.

  On the side of the second cab was a seal that consisted of the medical symbol—two snakes intertwined around a torch—and the words Protect Project Sustain.

  Stenciled underneath was the acronym USAMRMC.

  One Google search later, I was on the website for the US Army Medical Research and Materiel Command.

  Obviously, the army had been alerted Matt was missing.

  I continued toward Wilder. Behind the two trucks were a pair of American-made sedans, both black.

  Inside the first car, resting on top of the dashboard, was a folder with a sticker on it. Another acronym. NICBR, with the I represented as a DNA-style double helix.

  Once I entered Wilder, I pulled out my phone again. I was soon on the website for the National Interagency Confederation for Biological Research.

  It was bare bones, calling the confederation “a consortium of eight agencies with a common vision of Federal research partners working in synergy to achieve a healthier and more secure nation.”

  Wikipedia was slightly more forthcoming. It described the National Interagency Confederation for Biological Research as “a biotechnology and biodefense partnership.”

  Biodefense.

  Because Matt’s virus could be used as a weapon?

  I resumed my journey, climbing the wooden staircase that dominated the middle of Wilder, trying not to think about how Matt had been brought down these steps, strapped to a stretcher, a mere eighteen hours earlier.

  When I reached the second floor, I was confronted with yellow crime scene tape stretched across the entrance to the Physics and Astronomy Department. Taped to the middle, like a fly caught in a spider’s web, was a printed sign:

  DO NOT ENTER

  AREA SEALED

  UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

  BY ORDER OF

  THE DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE

  I paused, a little stupefied. The Department of Defense was really sealing off the entire department?

  A quick jog up to the third floor confirmed that yes, it was trying; but someone else didn’t like it very much.

  The yellow tape hung in tatters. The DO NOT ENTER sign lay on the floor, partially crumpled.

  I walked toward Matt’s lab without seeing anyone. The third floor of Wilder Hall was a disjointed rabbit warren of hallways and offices, having been added to, subtracted from, and reconfigured far too many times to retain any logic. It had been built in an era long before central air. The retrofitting of that particular advance had involved adding ducts that hung from the ceiling and were roomy enough for a large child to crawl through, which only added to the blocky, haphazard feel of the place.

  The offices were all dark and closed. There was shouting coming from somewhere farther down, but I had no chance of discerning the substance of it.

  Still, I thought I heard the word colonel. And general. And—

  “Ma’am, ma’am, ma’am.”

  The words came out like the barks of a small insistent dog. The man who uttered them was approaching fast. He was anywhere from midthirties to midforties, with vampirically pale skin, a Young Republican haircut, and an Old Republican dark suit. A curly cord of some sort protruded from his ear and snaked down the back of his shirt.

  “You can’t be here,” he said. “This area is sealed.”

  The shouting down the hall was continuing, but I did my best to tune it out so I could focus on the man in front of me.

  “I’m . . . I’m Brigid Bronik. Matt’s wife.”

  This halted the man’s progress. Shocked him, even. Made him momentarily forget his purpose.

  Then he quickly rediscovered it.

  “And I’m—”

  He said his name too indistinctly. People do that all the time. They assume that because they know their name, I must know it too.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Could you say that again?”

  I turned one of my ears slightly toward him, so he wouldn’t miss my hearing aid. It was something I hated having to do—directing people’s attention to my impairment—but this was too important to get hung up on my usual vanity.

  “Gary Evans,” he said more slowly and distinctly. “I’m with US Army Counterintelligence.”

  I could feel my mouth hanging open.

  “I’m sorry for . . . for what happened to your husband,” he continued. “But you still can’t be here. We’ve sealed off the entire second and third floors until further notice. I’m afraid you have to leave.”

  Whether consciously or not, he had spread his suit jacket just slightly, giving me a glimpse of the sidearm he had tucked in his shoulder holster.

  “Please, ma’am. This way,” he said, and was now herding me away from the shouting, back down the hallway from where I had come.

  “Do you know anything about where Matt is?” I asked, allowing myself to be guided away.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t answer any questions right now. You have to leave.”

  I slowed down so I could turn and look at his mouth as he spoke. He clearly didn’t like this. He hadn’t actually touched me yet, but I had the sense his next step would be to grab my arm if he felt he needed to.

  We had reached the staircase, and he kept right on herding. It was only at the landing to the second floor that he stopped.

  “Can you find your way out?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said meekly.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Then he added, “I’m sorry about your husband.”

  “Thank you,” I said, then continued back out of the building, p
ast the sedans and trucks.

  The sergeant, having finished his cigarette, was now back in the cab, the engine still running. I continued my retreat all the way back to Baker Library.

  Once in my office, I closed the door and sat at my desk, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  National security? Biodefense? What kind of tiny Frankenstein have you created, Matt?

  Using my desk phone, I called Beppe Valentino, hoping he might have more answers than I did at the moment.

  “Brigid. How are you doing?” I heard/read.

  “Awful. Why has the Department of Defense sealed off the physics department?”

  “That’s complicated,” Beppe said. “I’m at the house right now. Why don’t you come over? We probably need to talk.”

  CHAPTER 16

  It was Sean Plottner’s favorite feature—the house’s real selling point, though it hadn’t been included in the multiple listing service report because, as the agent discreetly explained, revealing it publicly “wouldn’t be prudent.”

  That’s because it wasn’t on top of the mountain but, rather, inside it: a 2,400-square-foot apartment, accessible from the main house via a secret door and an elevator, some thirty feet farther down.

  The space was comfortable, well appointed. It had its own natural source of water—a spring that came from deep underground—and a generator that could fully power operations even if cut off from the solar panels on the surface. A third of the space was dedicated to food storage and stocked with MREs and other nonperishables.

  Bombproof? Check.

  Radiationproof? Check.

  Soundproof? But of course.

  The agent had been careful not to describe it as a “bunker,” because that word upset some people. Instead, he deemed it “an ideal feature for the security-conscious owner.”

  It was certainly an ideal spot for some of the property’s more sensitive security apparatuses—the monitoring of all the hidden cameras, motion-sensing devices, and microphones that littered the estate. Guests could be spied on from virtually any nook or cranny of the house, not to mention much of the 850 acres around them.

  This was where Plottner had retreated not long after the detective had made his departure. He went straight to a room with three large screens and an even larger man stationed in front of them. Ramrod straight in the command chair, Lee Michaelides was almost as tall sitting as Plottner was standing.

  “Is he gone?” Plottner asked.

  Lee, never one to use words when gestures would do, merely nodded.

  “Did he stop on the way? Try to snoop around at all?”

  Lee shook his head.

  “Were you listening to our conversation in the living room?”

  Another nod.

  “Why do you think he suspects me? Just because of the job offer? Or is there something else?”

  Lee didn’t bother replying to a question he couldn’t answer.

  “Why do people always suspect me of things?” Plottner said.

  The question was half-rhetorical, half-whining. So, again, Lee stayed quiet.

  “Show me him leaving, please,” Plottner said.

  Lee quickly cued up the footage: First Plottner getting into his car, a dark-gray unmarked police sedan. Then the sedan pulling away. Then the car at various spots as it snaked down the mountain.

  And, no. No stops.

  “Okay, thanks,” Plottner said.

  He puckered his face for a moment, then said, “I think this detective needs some fresh leads. Let’s make sure he has more than he can handle.”

  Without wasted movement, he walked over to a nearby desk, placed his laptop on it, opened the lid, then clicked on the Facebook icon.

  Plottner loved Facebook, and not just because he had bought a pile of its stock at its IPO—another brilliant investment that would net him several hundred million dollars whenever he chose to cash out.

  No, he loved it because the Plottner Investments Facebook account had hundreds of thousands of followers—from professional money managers to day traders and amateur investors—all of whom wanted to know what Sean Plottner was going to do next.

  Plottner enjoyed being able to speak to them directly, without the obfuscation of traditional media.

  He clicked “Live.” After a brief countdown, he was soon looking at his own image on the screen.

  “Good morning. I have an important announcement to make, and I’d ask that you all share it as widely as possible.”

  He paused very briefly, watching the visitor count quickly grow from a few hundred to a few thousand before resuming.

  “A friend of mine, Dr. Matthew Bronik, has been abducted from his lab at Dartmouth College. I will offer a million dollars to anyone who provides the New Hampshire State Police information that helps ensure his safe return.”

  CHAPTER 17

  By the time he cleared the cell phone dead zone that covered the outskirts of Orford, Emmett Webster had six missed calls.

  All from Haver Markham, the head of the Crime Scene Unit.

  Emmett highlighted her number, hit send, and almost immediately heard: “Where are you?”

  “I was interviewing a suspect.”

  “How far are you from Hanover?”

  “About twenty minutes, give or take.”

  “Okay. We need you here. I’m at Dartmouth, in Wilder Hall. You might want to hurry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s this guy named Gary Evans who has become a real pain in my ass. I don’t know if I want to arrest him or shoot him. Maybe both.”

  “Be right there,” Emmett said, and put the pedal down.

  Eighteen minutes later, he knew he had found the right spot when he saw the Crime Scene Unit’s shiny black truck.

  Just off its bumper, pacing, was Haver Markham.

  To Emmett, Markham wasn’t just a different generation. She was a different breed entirely: five feet three, strawberry blonde, and, not to put too fine a point on it, female. And unlike Emmett, who had learned crime scene analysis haphazardly, on the job, Markham had gone to school for it specifically. And Emmett had no problem admitting she was far better at it than he ever would or could be. Specialization had its benefits.

  Except right now, the specialist was fuming.

  “I was waiting on you before we escalated this thing,” Markham began as Emmett approached. “This is your investigation, so it’s not my call. But for the record, I say we escalate.”

  “What’s going on exactly?” Emmett asked.

  “These G.I. Joe jackasses upstairs won’t let us into Bronik’s lab, that’s what,” she spat, gesturing toward a drab-olive truck parked nearby.

  “Why not?”

  “Why don’t you ask them?” she said hotly. “They’re up on the third floor doing a circle jerk. Maybe they’ll let you in on it. They didn’t seem to want to invite me.”

  “Ah,” Emmett said.

  He entered Wilder and climbed the stairs. Markham was smart and skilled. But she was also young and easily addled. There were times when a veteran’s touch was needed.

  At both the second and third floors, he encountered crime scene tape and signs telling him the area had been sealed by the Department of Defense. The sign on the upper floor was spiderwebbed with lines, having apparently been balled up and then flattened back out.

  “Hello?” Emmett called out. “Anyone here?”

  Nothing happened for about thirty seconds, so Emmett repeated himself, a little louder. That prompted a man with short hair and a dark suit to appear. Before Emmett could say anything more, the man preempted him by barking, “You can’t be here, sir.”

  Emmett held up his shield and spoke softly. “I’m Emmett Webster, New Hampshire State Police Missing Persons. I’m the lead investigator into the abduction of Matthew Bronik. Who are you?”

  The man stopped on the other side of the police tape.

  “Gary Evans, United States Army Counterintelligence.”

  �
�Thank you . . . Mr. Evans? Major Evans? I’m sorry, I—”

  “Agent Evans.”

  “My apologies. Can I ask why you aren’t giving my Crime Scene Unit access to Dr. Bronik’s lab?”

  “You can ask, but it’s not something I can answer. I’ve already told your colleague this area is off limits until further notice. It’s a matter of national security, which supersedes any and every reason the New Hampshire State Police might have for getting into it.”

  Emmett accepted this placidly. While there could be exceptions, the very simple jurisdictional hierarchy was that state beat local, and federal beat state.

  There was no fighting the feds, as Haver Markham had learned. There was also no escalating against the feds, as Markham was also perhaps beginning to appreciate.

  But maybe there was a chance to finesse them.

  “Look, we’re all on the same team here,” Emmett said. “I’m trying to figure out what happened, and I’m sure you are too. Let’s work together. My people are pros. They’ll be very careful. If you need to be in there with them to oversee what they’re doing or set limits on—”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “I understand you have a job to do, but so—”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “There has to be some kind of—”

  “I can’t let you into that lab under any circumstances.”

  “This guy has a wife, a kid,” Emmett pleaded. “We’re—”

  “Sir, I have work to do, and you’re preventing me from doing it. I’m asking you nicely to leave. If you refuse that order, I will take action and have you detained.”

  Emmett was starting to understand why Markham yearned to resort to gunplay.

  “Very well,” he said, then retreated back down the stairs.

  So much for the veteran’s touch.

  He delivered the news to Markham that they were stymied for the moment. She just grumbled about how the feds had probably ruined the crime scene anyway, then got her crew back in the truck.

  Meanwhile, Emmett’s phone told him he had missed another call.

  A few button pushes later, he heard, “Detective Webster, this is Steve Dahan”—the Dartmouth College Safety and Security director Emmett had spoken with the previous evening. “I’ve found some footage that I think you’re going to want to see.”