Infected

53.

Agent Otto handed Margaret his cell phone. The weight surprised her-the cell phone was larger than any she’d seen in years.

“Hello, Dew,” she said.

“I assume you’re calling because you have information for me, Doc,” he said. “I’m trying to run an op here.” Even through the cell phone, she could hear his annoyance. She didn’t have time for his attitude.

“We need satellite coverage,” Margaret said. “Can you get that?”

“Why do we need it?”

“You know what, Phillips? Answer the fucking question, okay? Can you or can you not get satellite coverage?”

There was a pause. “You might want to talk to me with a little more respect there, Doc.”

“Screw your respect. Answer the damn question or I hang up and go right to Murray. Can you, or can you not, get dedicated satellite coverage for the Ann Arbor area?”

“This isn’t the movies, Doc,” Dew said. “We can’t just dial in an address and see a full-color picture of Mister and Misses Jones doing it doggy-style. It will take some time, but we can get the coverage. Now, if you’re done with the potty mouth, you want to tell me why?”

Margaret held the phone with her right hand. With her left she rubbed her knuckles against her hair, so hard it hurt. None of this made any sense, none of this was science, but she knew what had to be done-she couldn’t explain why, yet it had to be done anyway.

“The paintings of Nguyen,” she said. “They had all the known victims, then eleven other people.”

“So?”

“So there are victims we haven’t found yet.”

“You know we’re working on that,” Dew said. “We have scans of the faces, all-points out on them, over the whole state and into Ohio and Indiana. We’re trying to track them down. Why is a satellite going to help with that?”

Margaret winced as her knuckles dug too deep. She forced herself to put her hand at her side.

“They’re building something,” Margaret said. “I think the victims are supposed to build something, something big.”

“What? What are they supposed to build?”

“Something in the woods, maybe. I think there are trees involved. Deep woods, even.”

“So then what shall I tell the satellite to look for?”

Margaret sighed. “I don’t know. Something with arches. Maybe twenty feet high.”

“And how long is this thing?”

“Dew, I just don’t know.”

“Margaret,” Dew said. He spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “Changing a satellite’s tracking is a big deal. We have to drop scheduled coverage from an area to redirect. Plus, we have to get squints assigned to look at the pictures, try and find what you’re looking for-and since you don’t really know what it is you’re looking for, and we’re covering a huge area, it’s a practically impossible job. Now, with all that in mind, is this just a hunch of yours, or do you have something real for me?”

Margaret thought about it. She had nothing solid, nothing to go on other than the painting of an insane, murdering artist.

“It’s a hunch,” she said. “But I feel it, Dew.”

Even through the rough connection, she heard Dew’s heavy sigh. “Fine, fuck it. What have we got to lose? So this will take four or five hours. I’m telling them to look for something unusual, with arches, twenty feet high, length unknown. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Margaret said. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“It will be done. And if you change your mind and want the satellite to look for unicorns or Santa’s sleigh, just let me know.” With that, Dew hung up.