The Devil_s Workshop

HOBO FOUND DEAD

Under that was a brief description of Hollywood Mike's death. Admiral Zoll scanned the article, then read part of it aloud:

".. Twenty-two-year-old Michael Brazil, known among hobos as 'Hollywood Mike,' jumped aboard the Southern Pacific westbound freight to avoid the huge forest fire that was consuming Vanishing Lake. Yesterday, he and his companion were aboard the freight for the short distance to Badwater, Texas. Sometime after that ride, Hollywood Mike began having trouble swallowing, the Southern Pacific spokesman said. According to his hobo friend, he could have crushed his larynx getting on the train. They jumped off at the Badwater switching station to seek medical attention. Before they could get a doctor, Michael Brazil died.' "

Admiral Zoll looked up at the men standing in the makeup room. "Trouble swallowing… son-of-a-bitch! The bug is out of the containment area."

"Sir," Dr. Charles Lack said, "we need that body. If that dead hobo had the Pale Horse Prion, it's still inside him. It's a protein. It doesn't break down. It's like DNA-it'll still be there ten years from now. All our research, all the years of study, could be in jeopardy if somebody draws half a cc of blood or cerebrospinal fluid. If they know what to look for and get their hands on that body, we could lose control of this strategic weapon."

"Tell Lieutenant DeSilva to take his four men and get over to… where the hell is it?"

"Badwater, Texas," Captain Wilcox said.

"Badwater, Texas?" Admiral Zoll repeated softly. "Not a good omen."

"Are you Roscoe Moss?" Stacy Richardson asked when he opened the door of his motor home.

"Yes ma'am," he answered.

"I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute about this article that was in the newspaper." She showed him a copy of yesterday's Crier, which had the account of Michael Brazil's death.

He glanced at it. "Ain't much t'tell," Roscoe said. "Mostly it's all in there. He was supposed to be a big movie producer's son. I sent the body down to Government Camp and I heard they put it on a plane, sent it to the coroner in Santa Monica, California, this afternoon."

"Oh," she said, and seemed disappointed.

"I do something wrong?" he asked, momentarily stunned by her beauty.

"I was hoping it would still be up here, that's all."

"Well, it ain't." He smiled at her. "I got some coffee in the pot. It's just recooked grounds, but if you want some… it's hot."

"Thanks," she said.

He led her into the motor home, which was littered with souvenirs. He had dragged the old GMC bus all over West Texas during his three years on the rodeo circuit, right after he got out of the Marines. He had a few pictures on the walls, shots of him riding Brahma bulls. Bull-riding had been his best event until a two-ton monster named Evil Thunder had gored him, taking half of Roscoe's stomach and his short rodeo career in one gruesome moment.

"The article said that the train rider was having trouble swallowing/' Stacy said. "I was wondering, if you saw that, could you describe it to me?"

"He was dead by the time I got there," Roscoe said. "That's what the other guy said."

"The other guy?"

"The other hobo."

"Oh yeah, right. He's mentioned in here. Did he tell you anything else?" Stacy asked.

"He told me that the kid banged his throat getting on the train, but he was lying. Doc Fletcher down in Government Camp checked the larynx and he said nothing was broken."

"Why do you think he lied?"

"Don't know why. He was a scruffy-looking bird. Both a' them looked and smelled like hell. Just a minute, I'll show you. I think I got a picture a' the kid" He moved to a table and poked around in some papers. "I hadda send a picture by fax to his father's office at Paramount Pictures Corporation. Can you believe that? A movie producer's son livin' a hobo's life. Don't add up."

He turned away from the stack of papers he'd been looking through and went into the back of the motor home to continue his search.

Stacy had gone without sleep for almost twenty-four hours. After the hobo with the silver hair had killed the soldier on the baseball diamond, she had hidden in the hills around Vanishing Lake until morning. Then when the County Sheriff's helicopter came in with the news trucks, she had used the confusion to trek over the hills to Highway 16 and hike out. Stacy had been in Bracketville, drinking coffee at a diner, trying to figure out her next move, when she saw the article in the Crier. She rented a car and drove straight to Badwater. Now, as she waited for Roscoe to get Michael Brazil's picture, a wave of fatigue hit her. She shook it off, determined to go on.

Stacy was worried about a lot of things. She was sure Pale Horse Prion had escaped at Vanishing Lake, but she didn't know what the incubation period was. There was no way to tell when a mosquito vector had bitten an afflicted victim like Sid Saunders, so there was no way to set the clock. She also knew that if the Prion was in the blood there was the possibility of secondary infection. If, for instance, a noninfected mosquito bit an infected victim, by sucking up the blood and then injecting it into another healthy person, the Prion might be passed. During a medical procedure it could also be passed. For this reason, she wanted to warn any doctor attempting an autopsy, as well as warn the other hobo.

She could hear a drawer opening and closing in the bedroom of the motor home. While she waited, she wandered around and looked at the rodeo pictures that were up on the walls. Shots of a younger Roscoe Moss, one hand high over his head, the other holding the bull knot. They were impressive photographs. She turned as he reentered and handed her a Polaroid headshot of Michael Brazil. The hobo's eyes were open, but he was dead.

"There it is," he said.

She looked at the picture and immediately recognized him as one of the hobos who had cleaned up the raccoon mess at the Bucket a' Bait. "I'll be damned," she said.

"You know him?" Roscoe asked.

"Not really," she replied. "The other one was named Lucky?"

"Yes ma'am. Had the D. T. S right in my office. Not much left there, I'm afraid. Long hair, busted-out tooth. Wouldn't tell me his last name, just wanted to get the hell out of here 'fore the cops showed up."

She tapped the Polaroid against her thumb. "You mind if I keep this?"

"Sure, help yourself. I was just gonna throw it out. Don't even know why I brought it home with me-just had it in my pocket."

"Lucky didn't happen to say where he was going…?"

"Home to Pasadena, California. That's all."

"Where's the closest airport?"

"Sierra Blanca, 'bout fifteen miles down the road. But they don't have no commercial flights outta there. T'get a commercial, you gotta go to Waco."

"Thanks," she said, and hurried out of the trailer. First she had to call Wendell at USC and get him to warn the coroner in Santa Monica that Mike Brazil's body was "hot." Any accidental blood or fluid transfer during the autopsy procedure could pass the deadly Prion to the Medical Examiner. Then she had to find Lucky. Despite his D. T.-ravaged condition, she had to find out if he, too, was infected. She got into her rented car and pulled away from Roscoe's motor home, sending a dusty plume up against the cold blue Texas sky.

That night, Roscoe changed into his crisply ironed blue-and-red saddleback cowboy shirt with the arrow pockets. He put on his new Tony Lama boots with the fancy leather inset on the toe. Then he got into his pickup and headed toward town. He decided to eat at the Sierra Blanca Bar and Grill, maybe play some pool with the farmers who always spent their Friday nights there. He was going almost seventy, so he was surprised to see a car speeding up behind him, closing so fast it was almost as if he were standing still. He pulled the truck to the side to let the speeding car pass. Suddenly, it swerved to the left, pulled alongside of him, then started to run him off the road.

"The fuck you doin'?" Roscoe yelled at the gray sedan with the tinted windows. Then, without warning, it smashed his left fender, and the truck was off on the shoulder, skidding badly. He hit the brakes and fought to stay in control. Before he even came to a stop his driver's-side door was yanked open and three men in ski masks dragged him out of the truck into a choking cloud of billowing dust. They were all armed. One of them stuck a gun into Roscoe's face and thumbed back the hammer.

"What's the problem?" Roscoe stammered. "Whatta you want?"

"Get him up there," one of the men said, pointing to some brush away from the road.

They yanked Roscoe up the hillside and into the dense foliage.

"What's going on? I ain't got much money, just a few bucks. It's yers."

Once they were a few hundred yards off the road, they spun him around and pushed him down into the dirt. Again, the gun was in his face, pressed against his forehead by Lieutenant Nino DeSilva, who was wearing a ski mask.

"Where's the body? The hobo's body?" DeSilva demanded.

"Gone… to Santa Monica, California. I drove it down to Government Camp this afternoon. They took it to the airport."

"Shit," DeSilva said, spitting the word out with venom. "When? What time this afternoon?"

"It left the airport 'bout four. Why is everybody so interested in that dead bum?" Roscoe asked.

"Somebody else was askin' about him?" another commando in a ski mask said.

"Yeah."

"Who?"

"I didn't get her name. She said she knew him from before. That's all."

"And you told her where the body went?" Lieutenant DeSilva asked through the ski mask.

"Why not? She wanted to know. What's this all about?"

"Luke, get on the phone," DeSilva said to one of the masked commandos. "Tell Colonel Chittick where we're going." Then he shifted the nine-millimeter directly between Roscoe Moss's eyes.

It happened so fast Roscoe never heard the gunfire or felt the bullet that exploded his head. One moment Roscoe Moss, Jr., was there, the next he was gone.

Part Three