“That’s a lot of barbed wire for a mushroom lab,” Malcolm observed.
Tara was crouching in the woods with him, leaning against the mossy side of a tree that did little to protect them from the continuous drizzle. Dawn had to be out there somewhere, but the sun was hiding behind the dark gray cloak obscuring the sky; it was only the fact that some of the trees and bushes had grown distinguishable from the shadows that she knew morning had come.
“Jason heard there was high-tech equipment to protect,” Tara said.
The two-story corrugated metal building behind the tall barbed-wire-and-chain-link fence could have been anything. Vertical metal bars secured the infrequent windows, and they were all dark—or covered from within—save for one small one on the second floor at the back of the building. Something flickered behind the glass up there, a television or computer monitor. A single black SUV was parked on the gravel that surrounded the building, though a big roll-up door suggested a garage that might hide many more vehicles. A camera was mounted above the main door, trained on the front gate and entry area.
“Should we try now?” Tara waved at the sample in Malcolm’s hand—he hadn’t let it go for more than thirty seconds since she had given it to him, and that had only been to let her hold it while he donned a flannel shirt he had scrounged from a clothing donation bin. It had almost as many holes as her sheriff’s jacket, but it would keep him from having to explain why he had come to sell mushroom samples without a shirt on. It also lent him the scruffy air she remembered from Jason, and she could imagine him as a hard-on-his-luck forager, hoping to hit pay dirt. She could only imagine what she must look like by now. She was regretting that she hadn’t taken that shower the night before, though the rain would have soaked the clean out of her regardless.
“You might want to leave the jacket behind,” Malcolm said. “I doubt they’ll mistake you for an officer, but they might think you a kleptomaniac mushroom picker who can’t be trusted.”
The jacket was the only thing keeping the rain from burrowing into her core, so Tara was reluctant to take it off. “You don’t think I could pass as a law enforcement officer? Is it because of my bedraggled utterly wet state or because I lack an air of stern authority?”
“I doubt the purple fingernails are regulation.”
Tara examined her nails—they were badly in need of a buffing and new application of polish—then removed the jacket and hung it from a broken branch. “I concede to your point, but for the record, it’s lavender luster, not purple.”
“My mistake.” Malcolm bowed in mock apology, then led the way along the tree line, toward the front of the building.
Missing the jacket already, Tara strode after him. They picked their way past damp rhododendrons and out onto the gravel driveway. That driveway curved away, disappearing into the trees. The nearest road was a quarter a mile away and not visible through the vegetation. Just as these folks liked it, Tara guessed. An elk munching grass on the other side of the building watched them, but didn’t bother fleeing.
Malcolm pushed a button on an intercom in the stone pillars that framed the driveway. The wrought iron gate was sturdier than the chain link fencing on either side and might be easier to climb. It also lacked a barbed wire frosting, though the prongs at the top were quite pointy. Impaling oneself on them wouldn’t feel any better than scraping over metal thorns. It probably didn’t matter. The gate was in plain view of the front door, which had a window to its side, not to mention the camera perched above.
“What?” a grouchy voice asked. Its owner sounded like he had just woken up.
“Got something to sell,” Malcolm said.
“This Paul?”
“No.”
“Rodriguez?”
“No.”
Tara shifted her weight, the gravel crunching beneath her feet. She was tempted to tell Malcolm to talk a little more, to share whatever likely story he must have made up in anticipation of being questioned, but maybe brevity was good. Wasn’t there some quote about people talking too much when they had something to hide?
“Sell it to the buying stand in town,” the grouchy voice said. “We don’t deal direct.”
Buying stand? Had she missed that on their midnight drive through town?
“I’m not looking to deal with middle men,” Malcolm said. “Do you want the agarikon, or not?”
The intercom cut off, making it feel like they had been hung up on. Tara almost commented on the rudeness of mushroom buyers, but decided someone might still be listening.
“What now?” she mouthed when Malcolm met her eyes.
He held up a finger and tilted his head toward the front door. A dark curtain moved in the window. A moment later, the door opened and someone in a rain slicker came out. He had a pot belly and wispy gray hair that stuck out from beneath a Seahawks cap—not the most intimidating figure the security squad could have sent out. He had to be one of the mycologists. He glanced at her and gave Malcolm a longer look. Uh oh, this guy hadn’t been watching the late-night news, had he? Tara hadn’t seen a newspaper or television since this whole fiasco had started, so she had no idea if his face was plastered across the airwaves. He had a day’s worth of beard stubble, and his hair was matted to his skull, thanks to the rain. She hoped he wouldn’t look a lot like any pictures that might have been displayed.
“You’re not Jason either,” the man said, walking up to him. There was a bulge in the side pocket of his slicker.
A gun? What kind of mycologist toted a gun? Tara revised her opinion of the man’s intimidation factor.
“I know Jason,” Malcolm said.
“And her?” The man jerked his chin at Tara.
“She knows me.”
The man grunted. “You trying to be funny?”
Tara licked her lips—odd how they could feel dry with all the rain falling onto them.
“I just want to get paid.” Malcolm held up the petri dish, the yellowish-white plug of fungus visible in the core.
“That’s all you brought?”
“I wasn’t going to haul the entire conk over here.”
The man scowled.
“Jason said you only needed a sample.” Malcolm was talking more now. Did that mean he shared some of Tara’s nerves? Thus far, he had been far calmer than she. She was glad nobody was asking her to talk.
“That’s fine, but I’m going to have to take a look at it under the microscope to identify it and make sure it’s not a sample we’ve already got.”
Malcolm lowered the dish, a scowl of his own forming. “What do you mean, a sample you’ve already got? You accusing me of stealing from another picker?”
“You wouldn’t be the first to come in here with someone else’s leftovers.” The man snapped his fingers and held out his hand. He must have been comforted by the gun in his pocket, because he certainly didn’t look a physical match for Malcolm if they came to blows. Not that Tara expected Malcolm to start punching mycologists in the face, but he did play the act of surly asshat well.
“You’re not taking it and leaving us standing out here in the rain,” Malcolm growled.
“I’ve got to examine it.” The man snapped his fingers again.
“We’re coming with the sample then. For all we know, you’ll shut the door and we’ll never see you again. I want the five grand before you get the dish.”
“You’re not getting anything until I’ve had a look.”
“Please, sir,” Tara said, sensing a feminine plea might be more helpful than masculine threats, “we’ve been out in the rain all morning. If we could come inside, Bronco will give you the fungus to examine.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, doing her best to look pitiful. It had worked on the officer at the hotel, and she hadn’t been trying then, so maybe....
The man scowled at her, glanced at the second story window, and finally relented. “Fine. Come in. But don’t touch anything.” He turned his scowl on Malcolm when he added the last. Apparently, he looked like the sort to break things every time he turned around.
The mycologist led the way back to the door. He pushed it open and spoke to someone inside. “It’s all right. They can come in, but don’t let them wander off.”
Malcolm stepped inside before Tara, then held the door for her. As soon as she saw the hulking black man with the black t-shirt that read security, she was glad Malcolm hadn’t tried punching anyone. The guy carried a gun openly in a hip holster, though his brawn suggested he didn’t need it often. He easily had four inches and fifty pounds on Malcolm.
The wispy-haired mycologist plucked the petri dish from Malcolm’s fingers. “I’ll take a look. If everything turns out, you’ll have your five thousand.”
He disappeared through a side door, leaving Tara and Malcolm alone with the brute, a coffee machine, a water cooler, and a cart with a microwave on it. If Tara had expected to find the lab’s secrets revealed if only she could step inside... this room was surely a disappointment. It had two doors, but no windows offering views onto whatever nefarious activities were going on within. She poked at the coffee machine, as if she were interested in brewing a pot. After being up all night, she wouldn’t mind it, but they might only have a couple of minutes before the scientist returned. Besides, if she were going to raid the break room for anything, it would be food. The chocolate and wine from the night before had long since worn off, and the emergency rations Malcolm had pulled from his stash had been about as palatable as cardboard, promises of “beef stroganoff” flavor notwithstanding. She wished she hadn’t left that granola bar in the hotel.
“Bronco?” Malcolm murmured, coming up beside her.
“Malcolm doesn’t sound fierce and intimidating,” she whispered. “Bronco means savage.”
He shot her a dirty look. “My mother named me after the Malcolm in Macbeth, a noble and rightful king.”
“Malcolm ran away like a big wussy at the beginning of that play. You better stick with Bronco.”
Tara had meant it as a joke, but she had never seen a man’s face grow ashen so quickly. For a moment, she didn’t understand the reaction, but then it dawned on her, far too late to take back the comment. He must blame himself—maybe hate himself—for surviving when his comrades hadn’t. Had he run? Surely they all had in the end. In the face of a towering inferno of flame, it would be insane not to. But he had made it, and they hadn’t. Luck, the newspapers had said. There had been no accusations of cowardice or negligence, and even if there had been, she wouldn’t have believed them. She couldn’t see that in him.
Yeah, but what did he see in himself?
“I’m sorry,” Tara whispered. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Malcolm said, his tone clipped. And she knew it wasn’t.
Aware of the security guard’s watchful eyes, she didn’t try to apologize again, but she lamented the cold distant expression that had taken over his face. It reminded her too much of the first day she had encountered him.
Tara left the coffee maker to peer out a window. A stream of water trickled down from the flooded gutters. She had a feeling nobody was going to invite them on a tour, or let them leave the break room. Not unless she made something happen.
“Nothing like the sound of rain to make you need to use the facilities. Uhm, Mister Security guard, sir?” Tara could feel Malcolm watching her, wondering what the heck she was doing. Well, he knew she was a snoop. He would figure it out. “Are there facilities?”
“None that you’ll be using,” the guard rumbled.
“Ah. So where can I go?” Tara peered into a trash bin by the coffee maker.
“Outside.”
“Are you sure there’s not a—”
“No.”
Tara sighed dramatically and headed for the door.
Malcolm caught her arm, frowning. “You’re really going to go?”
“I have to pee, and the facilities here apparently aren’t suitable for guest butts.” She gazed up at the big security guard again, batting her eyelashes and hoping he would change his mind.
He glared back like a statue made from granite. Oh, well. If she could wander around outside the building but inside the fence, she might find something interesting by peeking into windows. They couldn’t all be curtained up from the inside. At the least, that second story window had fronted a lighted room, and no curtains had blocked the view.
Malcolm released her, and Tara slipped outside, not surprised to find it raining harder than before. She was beginning to miss the desert dryness of Seattle, comparatively speaking of course.
Knowing she wouldn’t have much time, Tara strode along the perimeter of the building, pausing at each window, hoping for a view inside. The first two were blocked with black curtains and revealed nothing. The third had a black curtain, too, but with a two-inch gap in the middle. A light was on inside. She leaned in as close as the security bars would let her.
The gap didn’t provide a panoramic view, but she glimpsed tables filled with sample dishes, bottles of solutions, and equipment she couldn’t name but that reminded her of a high school chemistry lab. Someone moved into view, and she almost jumped back, but the man’s back was to the window, so she caught herself. She would have expected someone in a white lab coat, but he wore stained baggy sweats. His brown-gray hair stuck up in spicules, and the several days’ worth of beard growth suggested neglect rather than an attempt to cultivate the Grizzly Adams look for the summer.
The man was carrying a petri dish, and Tara wondered if it was their sample. The window was closed—the bars across the outside suggested closed was its permanent state—but soft clinks permeated the barrier. It sounded like metal banging on something, though she couldn’t imagine what in the glass-filled lab would be making that noise. Until she noticed the chain shackled to the man’s ankle. Her mouth dropped open. She couldn’t see what the other end was attached to, but what could it mean besides that he was a prisoner? Surely he wasn’t wearing leg iron to strengthen his muscles and burn more calories as he worked.
The man shifted, and Tara jerked away from the window, putting her back against the wall. She didn’t think he could have seen her, but she didn’t want to risk looking in again, not when he might be facing in her direction.
She crouched low and crawled beneath the window so she could continuing checking the rest of the ground floor, though she needed to hurry. Sooner or later, the guard would wonder what was taking her so long. Hustling now, she strode around the perimeter of the building, pausing only if a window wasn’t blocked. A few more had curtains that weren’t closed completely, but the rooms were dark, with nothing going on inside them. Most appeared to be labs, though some of them had more of a medical flavor than a science flavor, and one was full of industrial refrigerators. As she came full circle, she had a glimpse of a garage and spotted three vehicles inside. That must mean there were more people than the two scientists and the guard.
She nibbled on her lip and eyed that lit second-story window. It would take Spiderman to climb those corrugated metal walls, especially with them slick from the rain, but there was a drainpipe at the corner of the building. She might be able to lean away from it and see in the window. If she could climb it.
Tara touched the metal drainpipe. It was a little sturdier than the types she usually saw on houses, but not much. Would it hold her weight? She imagined herself climbing to the second story, only to have it pull away with a great tearing of metal and popping of bolts. Then she imagined the security guard charging out to find her hanging on as it sagged farther and farther away from the building. While dangling, she would ask, “Oh, is this not an appropriate place to tinkle?”
“Quit dawdling,” she whispered. “Either do it, or don’t.”
Setting her jaw, Tara grabbed either side of the drainpipe as high up as she could and jumped, trying to lock the sides of her feet to it. She banged her knee on the wall and slid almost all the way back to the ground before her soles caught.
“Looks so easy in the movies...” Tara tilted her head back, reassessing the height to the window and the likelihood of whether she would be able to climb up there. If she could reach the first of the brackets holding the pipe against the wall, it ought to get easier. Or at least less impossible.
She marshaled her strength and threw an arm up, grabbing higher. She pulled the second one up, then held on tightly as she tried to bring both feet up at the same time. Again, she slid down, but again she made some progress. On the next lunge, she reached the first bracket. The metal band cut into her fingers, but gave her more of a handhold, and she worked herself higher. Eventually she had her feet on it. If she stretched her neck, her chin would almost be level with the bottom of the window. She pulled herself a little higher, though her hands were already raw from the experience. She made it two more feet, then tried to shift her weight so she could lean off the pipe without falling. A thoughtful architect would have put a ledge on the window, but this one didn’t offer anything so convenient. She leaned right and back... and could make out a few details inside the room. Her forearms already shook from holding onto the pipe, so she would need to make her survey quick. There was no way she could climb inside to investigate more closely.
A computer and television stood out on an inside wall, with the latter responsible for the flickering lighting. Some Wall Street news report was on. The end of a bed and a wardrobe were also in sight, and Tara grunted with disappointment. This was probably just the boss’s bedroom, whoever that boss was. The mycologist who had answered the door? No, not likely—one of the wardrobe doors was open, and a row of crisp black suits hung inside. Ties hung on a rack as well, and she wondered if she had caught someone dressing for the day.
Her fingers slipped an inch. By now, her forearms were trembling with the ferocity of a California earthquake. Time to climb down. But she lingered, leaning out farther, hoping she would find something more illuminating than televisions and suits. There was a picture frame on the computer desk. She squinted, trying to make out the subject matter. Two men, one middle-aged and one a generation older, stood with their arms around each other’s shoulders in front of an airplane.
Someone walked into view. Tara jerked back toward the pipe and, in doing so, lost her grip. She tried to catch herself, but her fingers only brushed the corrugated wall. She plunged to the ground, landing on her heels in the gravel and tumbling to her back. Pain shot up her ankles, and she gasped and lay there for a stunned moment, fearing she had hurt herself—and also fearing someone would have heard her. Like the guy who had been roaming around inside the room. She had caught a glimpse of sparse white hair as she had fallen and thought it might be the older man from the picture, but from such a poor vantage point, she couldn’t be sure. The only good thing was that he had been walking toward the door, not facing the window. She hoped he hadn’t glimpsed her—or heard her.
Tara rolled to her hands and knees, hugging the side of the building so she wouldn’t be visible if someone looked out from up there. Any second, she expected the security guard to charge out. With the initial burst of pain fading, she realized she hadn’t broken anything, so she tested her weight on one foot. It held. She got the other under her, and headed for the front door, only hobbling slightly. There still wasn’t anyone racing out to check on the noise she had made.
She grabbed the handle, brushed a few loose hairs behind her ears—someone who had popped out to use nature’s loo probably shouldn’t look like she had fallen off the roof of a building—and walked inside.
The break room was empty.