The Serpent's Kiss

5

Matt Gray, the Special Agent in Charge, glared at Jill Church as she walked over to where he stood. Gray was tall and thin with salt-and-pepper hair and had the pinched angry face of a toddler whose mother had told him no for the first time. Jill knew they were in big trouble because Gray was wearing combat boots with his suit. It was something she’d seen only in Baghdad, when politicos like Donald Rumsfeld or Paul Bremer were out and about, wearing their suits with army boots, like, I’m really a military tough guy, but the suit says I’m better than you.

“About time,” he growled.

Jill didn’t comment or try to explain that she lived in Troy, one of the northern suburbs. Gray knew it and he didn’t care. Gray, despite his position as SAC, didn’t handle tense situations diplomatically. Gray was also the FLA for this situation, which was the Federal Lead Agency in what was called the CONPLAN, or the United States Government Interagency Domestic Terrorism Concept of Operations Plan. That meant he coordinated all efforts in dealing with a domestic terrorism attack, working with the local police, emergency medical personnel and whoever else was involved until FEMA could be brought in, if necessary.

“Where are we?” she asked. Her gaze roved the scene. The Boulevard Café was peculiar. It appeared to be a two-story redbrick building, except the main floor jutted out by itself and had been painted a shade of off-white that resembled custard. There was an awning across the front done in bright green. Massive white pillars, doric or ionic, she didn’t know, rose up as if someone had wanted to make the place look like the White House. It didn’t. It just looked weird, not that it was all that strange in Detroit. This was a city whose major sculptural artwork was a big black fist.

On either side of the Boulevard Cafe were parking lots jammed with cars. She suspected they were used by Henry Ford Hospital employees.

The Detroit Fire Department’s Haz-Mat Team had set up a red and white inflatable tent resembled one of those blow-up jumping playgrounds for little kids. The scene was otherwise mobbed with ambulances, two fire engines and assorted cop cars. There was also the media. The satellite vans for channels 2, 4, 7, 50 and 62 were all present and accounted for. Above them helicopters jockeyed for space.

Gray said, “Fifty-two.”

Jill turned her attention away from the scene and focused on her boss. “What?”

“Fifty-two dead,” he said. “Everybody in the damned restaurant. No survivors. Kitchen staff, wait staff, customers.”

Jill felt something slide down her spine and curl into her stomach. Something that felt suspiciously like an electric eel. Fifty-two.

Swallowing back bile, she said, “Okay. What do you—”

”The HMRU are on their way, ETA fifteen minutes. They’re going to land at the pad behind the hospital.” He waved behind him. “They’ll be handling the scene processing. Nobody’s going anywhere until they go in, do their forensic thing as best they can.”

Gray craned his neck, his blue eyes popping in anger. His navy blue suit fit him poorly, baggy at the shoulders, the pants too long. His face flushed an unpleasant shade of red. “The Department of Homeland Security’s sending one of their troubleshooters over. Guy’s name is Derek Stillwater. Heard of him?”

“His name sounds familiar.”

“He was involved in that mess a while back.” Gray paused. “He’s still under investigation for that mess.”

“I thought he—”

”Secretary Johnston has reinstated him and we’re stuck with him. I don’t trust him. You’re assigned to him. Tell him you’re the FBI liaison to DHS. But your job is to keep an eye on him and make sure he stays out of our way.”

“I’m a babysitter,” Jill said, the bitterness there in her voice.

Gray scowled at her. “Yes, Church. You’re the babysitter. Get over it. I don’t trust Stillwater. Bullshit him. Keep him in the dark. Keep him out of the way. That’s your job. Do it.”