Part 15 (2/2)

But Tommy had known from experience that simply drying and grinding would not prevent clumping. The problem had then become to re-deposit the anthrax in very fine grains, already separated and containing fewer than four or five spores per grain. His brilliant answer: common inkjet printers. He had replaced the ink in the disposable printer cartridges with his special solution of chemicals and, at first, brewer's yeast as a subst.i.tute for anthrax. (Once again, Tommy had suspected that using anthrax's close relation, BT or Bacillus thuringiensis, Bacillus thuringiensis, ordered from a garden supply store, might result in his being tracked. Yeast, however, he had in abundance-left over from the winery.) ordered from a garden supply store, might result in his being tracked. Yeast, however, he had in abundance-left over from the winery.) First on heavy paper, then on eight-by-ten-inch gla.s.s plates, Tommy had printed out millions of dots of dry solution-tiny granules containing only one or two spores, far finer than he had believed possible. The solution, when expelled through the printer cartridge nozzles, produced a microscopic, silica-wrapped bead that sat high on the gla.s.s plate when dry, but strongly resisted mechanical dislodging. The plates could in theory be carried around with minimum precautions, separated only by waxed paper.

Tommy had worked through ten pairs of glove holes arranged in two levels, front and back. A rolling stepped platform once used to stack barrels had allowed him to reach the upper level.

His next act of genius had been to array the plates on a rack in a vacuum chamber at the right end of his large hot box and statically charge them using an apparatus he had borrowed from an old office Xerox machine. The microscopic granules had lifted free and flown to a grid of tiny wires where they had discharged, flocked up briefly, and then been drawn by gravity to a Teflon-lined chute and into small jars. He had kept a long brush in the box, just in case the spores stuck on the wires or in the chute.

He had then networked six printers, so modified, and had finally begun depositing the real thing: weapons-grade, aerosolized Bacillus anthracis Bacillus anthracis. Throughout, he had kept everything sealed in his hot box factory, even the gla.s.s plates, which he recycled.

If there had been accidents he had not told Sam-but despite never having been vaccinated or taken antibiotics, both of which could also have been traced, Tommy was still among the living.

After filling two jars with superfine spores, he had capped them, sealed them with caulk, and soaked their exteriors in bleach to destroy any residue.

He had finished in early 2001, just as his aunt had moved into the house. This first lot-fifty grams-had taken Tommy six months of hard, steady labor.

For a complete amateur, working alone, he had done very well indeed.

A year after starting his project, in the company of Aunt Tricia, Tommy had traveled to visit relatives in New Jersey and Florida. Along the way, he had insisted on dropping by local post offices to buy commemorative stamps. Taking walks alone at dusk, he had visited public mail boxes, carrying his specially prepared envelopes in plastic bags within a larger bag. From these boxes Tommy had injected fifteen light, deadly packages into the bloodstream of the U.S. mail.

Five had eventually been discovered.

He had no idea where the other ten were.

Tommy was one of the most wanted people on Earth. In the summer and fall of 2001, his hobby had shut down the U.S. postal system and much of the American government. He had killed five people, sickened dozens, and terrorized tens of millions.

By fitting n.o.body's profile, he had eluded the greatest manhunt in domestic American history.

Tommy Juan Battista Juarez was the Amerithrax killer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

Seattle.

William Griffin sat at the tiny table in the old coffee shop on Broadway and waited for his coffee to come up. He rubbed one eye with a knuckle and stared through the window at the rainy street. Last night had been rough and he had not been able to get to sleep until four a.m. Griff's heart had stopped for the ninth time. The doctors had expertly re-started it, then continued surgery.

Six days of surgical procedures. Maybe Griff's spirit was already downing drinks with the old boys up in Omega Precinct. Maybe they were laughing and laying bets on how long it would take Griff's body to realize the owner had gone AWOL.

William pursed his lips and felt his eyes go out of focus.

Hey, Griff, time to choose your heavenly name.

Heaven? Christ, boys, I a.s.sumed...I mean, the liquor in this bar is terrible.

a.s.sume nothing. We make the booze ourselves. G.o.d likes cops, Griff.

Bulls.h.i.+t. G.o.d's a judge, not a cop.

Then what are angels? You come up here, join our precinct, pick up your flaming sword, and you go back down, invisible like, and kick some a.s.s. Never have to Mirandize anybody. And the judge never denies a warrant.

'Americano, no sugar?' the waitress asked.

William accepted the cup. Taking his first sip, he saw a slender woman with a bandaged cheek, intense hazel eyes, and auburn hair peering through the window. She was wearing a gray pantsuit and a peach-colored blouse with a loose ruffled collar. Another bandage covered her right hand. She gave him a small wave, then opened the door, setting off a clang of cowbells.

'Mind if I join you?'

'Excuse me?' William asked. He was in no mood for conversation.

'My name is Rose. Rebecca Rose.'

Now he placed the face and he certainly knew the name. 'Sorry,' William said, transferring his cup and holding out his hand. 'I'm William Griffin.'

'So I guessed,' Rebecca said. 'Pardon me if I shake southpaw. Sprockett told me you'd be here. I'm your driver.'

William looked incredulous and pulled out a chair.

She sat. 'I'm taking you with me to the farm.'

'Thanks, but I'd like to stay here until they know something for sure.'

'You're on FBI time. Keller thinks you need a break from the hospital, and so do I. They checked me out an hour ago. Then they let me see Griff. Your father's not going to recognize anyone for days, maybe weeks.' Rebecca stretched out her long legs. She had a third bandage around her left ankle. 'Hiram Newsome thinks Griff might have broken open an important case. Maybe two cases, one old, one new. He asked Keller for you to be temporarily a.s.signed to the taskforce.'

Newsome was another legend. William had met him once in a hallway at the Q, a big, bear-like man with a square face and large, sympathetic eyes. Despite his exhaustion, William's pulse quickened. He looked around the coffee shop. There were two other customers, both in a far corner, and the barista was busy grinding beans. 'I'm listening,' he said.

Rebecca leaned forward, drawing in one leg. 'The h.e.l.l you say.' She tapped the table with a long fingernail, freshly polished. Some of the polish had smeared beyond the cuticles. She had applied the polish herself, William judged, with her bandaged hand. 'You are about to pa.s.s Go and dance straight on over to Park Place. You'd better do a h.e.l.l of a lot more than just listen listen.'

William felt the coffee kicking in. 'Is this for my sake, or for Griff's?'

Rebecca leaned her head to one side. 'Right. Someone will tell Griff we're giving his son a free pa.s.s, a terrific case, outside of the rules, and that will give him the will to live. That will perk him right up.' She raised her eyebrows.

'Sorry,' William said.

'Farrow recommended you.'

'He did?'

'That puts three aces up your sleeve.' Rebecca shaped her hands into cups, then pretended to mold something in the air over the table. William watched her bright eyes. She had the tightest little dimples. 'When Griff is himself again, we'll bring him back in-and you will brief him. Four aces. It doesn't get any better than that for a junior G-man.'

Rebecca finished molding and tossed him an invisible ball.

He held up one hand and caught it.

'There you go,' she said. 'Simpatico.'

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