Cutting Edge pp-6 Read online

  Thibodeau shifted in his chair. He was suddenly conscious of his uniform’s too-snug fit, of the too-tight waistband of his trousers around his middle, of the chair’s armrests pressing into his fleshy sides. If he pulled up his shirt, he would find little irritated patches of red on his flanks, wouldn’t he?

  He wondered what it was about Tom Ricci that had set off the heightened sense of his own ungainliness. Or maybe he was just projecting. Ricci hadn’t said or done anything that could be taken as a reaction to his size. But Ricci was also just as whipcord lean as he’d been a year ago. While he himself had put on half a hundred pounds.

  Thibodeau remembered the rattle and bang of the scale when he’d stepped off it. He adjusted his position behind the desk again.

  “The scanners,” he said. “They’re… how can I say it?… more discriminating. Walkthroughs we had before weren’t no better than what they using at commercial airports. You know the problems with them. Can’t tell the difference between an Uzi and a set of keys or some pocket change. Can’t find where something is on a person’s body. And they be screwed up easy by electrical fields. Too many computers or cell phones working around them, we get false alarms. Waste time and resources. These CWD systems we installed can tell the object’s size and shape, and pinpoint where it’s located. Whether it be under somebody’s left arm, strapped around his ankles, or stuffed where the sun don’t shine.”

  Ricci’s head went up and down.

  “All right,” he said. “What else is there?”

  “Hate to think about it, but we put a whole response system in place for biochemical incidents,” Thibodeau said. “This whole building been outfitted with sensors. Every room. Every office. Rooftop to basement.”

  Ricci looked at him.

  “Hell,” he said.

  “I know,” Thibodeau said. “Cost us a fortune.”

  Ricci kept looking steadily at him.

  “I wasn’t talking about what it cost,” he said. “I meant this world of ours is fucking hell.”

  Thibodeau was silent. He’d never much liked Ricci, but had developed a certain trust in him. In his abilities, his self-command in tough spots. Now he didn’t know what to think. Ricci hadn’t changed on the outside, it was true. Inside, though, something was very different. It was as if those hard, unsharing eyes of his were mirrored glass surfaces. Thibodeau didn’t know what was going on behind them.

  “The sensors,” Ricci said. “They mass spec?”

  Thibodeau nodded yes.

  “The spectrometry units I’ve seen look like U-Haul trailers,” Ricci said. “They’re too big to cart around offices — the military tows them around with Humvees.”

  Thibodeau shrugged.

  “Be true for most of them,” he said. “Think it’s because of all the air they got to suck in for accurate samples. There’s hoses, plus a vacuum collector and a separate laser chromatography unit in the housing. Adds up to a lot of space. The laser machine shoots beams of light through the air sample, and that light bends off whatever particles get caught with it. Then a computer tell us what those particles are, depending on the angle it bends at, sort of how our eyes see color.” He paused, pulling at his beard some more. “Far’s the system goes, you’d have to ask our R and D noggins for every detail of how it works. The handle I got is that it’s like an invisible electronic nose, sniffs for germs and chemicals just the way our noses… or to put it better, the nose of a trained bloodhound… can pick up the smell of things in the air. Special cells in the nose, what the noggins call receptors, they be connected to nerves that can tell the brain what those things are. Then the brain translates the info as smells. Our invisible nose, now, it uses them sensors I told you about—microsensors, they called, made of different polymers — exactly like the receptors. But instead of having nerve connections, they attach to optical fibers. Coat ’em, actually. One coated fiber maybe pick up anthrax or smallpox. Another can recognize the sleeper bug that almost killed the boss. A third can catch a whiff of cyanide, sarin gas, or some other nerve agent that been released—”

  Ricci made a slicing gesture to check him.

  “Let’s skip ahead,” he said. “Say we’re attacked. The invisible nose twitches, we evacuate, get emergency medical treatment for people we know were exposed, make sure everybody else that might’ve been affected is examined. That’s our immediate response. Now how do we conduct decontamination and site inspection? Who takes charge of the investigation? The feebs and CDC? FEMA? Or homeland security people? We supposed to let them walk right on in, go clomping all over each other’s tracks like they did at Gordian and his daughter’s homes a couple years ago? Or when they mucked up that anthrax mail probe in ’01?”

  Thibodeau blew a breath out his pursed lips. “Be quite a bunch of questions,” he said. “I guess what happens far as outside agencies depends on the particulars. If there’s a threat of public infection, we need to let them know… and where chembio’s the problem, you have to expect that’s going to be the case. But ain’t nobody can beat us comes to dealing with problems of multiple jurisdiction. So we try to coordinate, hope they have the sense to work with us and not around us. That way we don’t have hassle figuring out how to work around them.”

  “What about the first part of what I asked you?” Ricci said. “Same example. The sensors find a trace of something bad. A strain of virus. Bacteria. Is there some way we can clean the place up before it spreads?”

  Thibodeau expelled another breath. He really did hate to think about this subject.

  “We installed decon fog dispensers with the capacity to wipe out certain bugs,” he said. “Anthrax, that’s one of them. Got a long list of others I can show you… be dozens of others. Once we know the premises’re empty, the fog’s released, goes all the places the bioweapon would. Air vents, the spaces between computer keys, wherever. They tell me the fog particles are ultra-fine, smaller than the spores. Kills them by breaking ’em down right to their DNA.”

  “And the bugs it can’t kill?”

  “Brings us back around to the issue of readiness, an’ how we apply policies that’re already in place. Somebody walks into the building and we don’t like the looks of him, I want him checked out. That’s whether he’s wearin’ a mail deliverer’s uniform, got his name on a visitor list, or be the head of a senate delegation. He can walk on air right before our eyes, heal the blind and crippled, say he’s Jesus Christ himself in a hurry to announce his Second Coming. We think he looks suspicious, he ain’t getting past the guard station unless he’s ready to wait for us to feel convinced. And if that means we want to search-wand his robes and examine his sandals for plastic explosives, maybe ask him to give us phone numbers so we can call The Blessed Mother an’ Holy Father in Heaven to verify his identity, suite. So be it.”

  “There are going to be complaints,” Ricci said.

  Thibodeau shrugged.

  “Israeli security been handling things that way for years at their airports and main office buildings, and they don’t catch no grief,” he said. “Ain’t nobody’s freedoms bein’ violated. A person does want to object, it’s his or her right to leave. The fancy tech’s great. I’m glad we got it. But me, I’m lettin’ our people be guided by their own eyes, ears, and noses more’n any electronic ones. Puttin’ my stock in the human element.”

  “You didn’t hear me argue.” Ricci stared into his face. “I just want to know which element you mean.”

  The remark surprised Thibodeau, and his expression showed it.

  “Afraid I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I think maybe you do,” Ricci said. “We can pick and choose our options, or lay them out across the board. I’m curious how it’ll be for you when the heat’s on.”

  Thibodeau was silent. He wasn’t sure how to answer, truly wasn’t sure he’d even gotten Ricci’s inference. But his fixed stare and strange tone of voice were unsettling.

  Ricci sat watching him a while longer. Thibodeau was almost glad when
he finally rose in front of the desk.

  “I guess we’re done,” Ricci said.

  Thibodeau looked at him. Done sounds fine, he thought. Except they weren’t.

  “We never did talk about the personal field equipment,” he said.

  “No,” Ricci said. “Maybe we’ll make some time later.”

  Thibodeau wasn’t sure why he found himself opening his desk drawer and reaching into it. He supposed that uncertainty was, in its way, a fitting note on which to end their little let’s-get-reacquainted talk, which had left him wondering about a lot of things… foremost among them the point Ricci had been trying to make, and now his own.

  “Might want to keep these handy,” he said, and tossed a couple of aluminum squeeze tubes from the drawer onto his desktop. They were about two inches long — the size of toothpaste samplers.

  Ricci picked them up.

  “What’s inside?” he said.

  “Guy from special development got them to me a couple days ago,” Thibodeau said. “It’s wound closure gel. We’re getting ready to deliver a ton of it to the military — they already issue something like it to their forward combat troops, but this’s supposed to seal the skin better’n any other kind of dressing, keep it clean and breathing until an injured soldier get to a MASH unit. The idea’s for all our field personnel to carry the stuff, too. Case somebody gets his hide perforated way I did a few years back.”

  “How come you’re giving them to me now?”

  “I got to read over the test reports this week, decide whether to approve ’em for issue,” Thibodeau said. It was a truth that felt like a lie. “Thought you might want to have your say.”

  Ricci examined the tubes in his palm a moment, then dropped them indifferently into the pocket of his sport jacket.

  “Decide whatever you want,” he said. “I’ll stick them inside my shaving kit in case I nick myself.”

  Thibodeau shrugged without response, watched Ricci leave the office, then sat looking at its closed door in silence for long minutes afterward, trying to figure out for sure what had passed between them.

  In the end, however, he was only positive that it scared the living daylights out of him.

  * * *

  “Looks like we’re ready to go,” Julia Gordian was saying. “If anyone has questions for me, I’ll be glad to answer them after explaining how this works.”

  This being the cat test, which was about to commence in a restrictively small back room at the Peninsula Adoption Center. Besides a couple of plastic chairs and wicker kitty bed in which Leona the Grouch was now curled, it was occupied by Vivian the Grey, the Wurmans, and Julia herself — a close-quarters environment that was no fluke whatsoever, since forcing Viv and Leona to invade each other’s private space would give Julia a very good idea how the dog would behave in a similar, but uncontrolled, household situation.

  “There are two parts to the test,” Julia continued, holding Viv close beside her on a short leash. She looked alternately from Mr. Wurman to Mrs. Wurman. “In the first, I’m going to bring Vivian right up to the kitty bed and see whether she displays any aggressive tendencies toward cats, which is pretty rare. Most greys are either curious, indifferent, or, believe it or not, even afraid of them, like my own two babies at home. Occasionally they even get frisky—”

  “How come you put that bad thing on Vivian’s mouth so she can’t open it or breathe?” said Junior Wurman… whose name, Julia had learned, was actually Thomas.

  Julia glanced over at his accusing face.

  “A muzzle isn’t really a bad thing, and Viv can breathe through it just fine,” she said. “Greyhounds are used to wearing them when they race, and I’ve only put it on now to make sure Leona doesn’t get hurt in case she’s snapped at.”

  Thomas looked mistrustful. “But you told us that wasn’t gonna happen.”

  “I said it probably won’t,” Julia said, and offered a reassuring smile. “We need to be careful, ’kay?”

  A halfhearted nod from Thomas. He wedged himself back against his seated parents, still regarding Julia with critical mistrust.

  She returned her attention to the adults, feeling a bit like Cruella DeVille. With vampire fangs.

  “If all goes well, our next step is to see whether Vivian shows overly possessive traits when one of you holds the cat,” she said. “Some jealousy’s normal between them, and no different, really, from human sibling rivalry. Viv might show it by starting to whimper or getting down in a play position to catch your eye. If that happens, you need to be aware of it, spread around the affection, and everybody’s going to be happy. But it’s important to realize we’re talking about a big, muscular seventy-five-pound dog that can sprint almost as fast as a Thoroughbred horse, compared to an animal that weighs maybe a tenth as much, and is also a whole lot smaller. A cat that gets caught in a dog’s jaws is in serious trouble, and we want to help spare you that kind of unhappy incident—”

  “Can I hold Leona when we do it?” Thomas said. Which made it twice now that he’d interrupted.

  Julia looked at him. Hadn’t she mentioned she’d take questions after her explanation was finished?

  “I think it’s best we leave it to your mom or dad,” she said. “To be on the safe side—”

  “But you said that thing’s supposed to be on Vivian’s mouth to stop her from biting anybody!”

  “That’s true.” Julia was wishing the kid’s mother or father would chime in and help her out here. “She can jump at Leona, though, and you might get a little startled—”

  “What’s startled mean?”

  “Ah, a little upset, in other words—”

  “Won’t you have her on a leash?”

  “Well, yes—”

  “Why’d I be upset if Vivian’s on a leash and can’t bite anybody—?”

  “It’s okay with us if Thomas wants to hold the cat,” said Papa Wurman, whose first name was Stanley. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and gave it a doting squeeze. “Desmond, that’s our house cat, belongs to him. And Vivian’s going to be his new best friend. So how about we let him make the choice.”

  Julia looked at Stanley. This was not quite the brand of parental mediation she’d had in mind. In fact, the euphonious cosmic vibe Julia had thought she detected in the air earlier was starting to seem more and more like a wild-flying spray of sour notes. She was thinking her emotions might have led her into the very sort of pitfall Rob had warned against — namely getting too enthusiastic about the prospect of finding a home for one of their rescues.

  She was quiet a moment. It was Rob who made the final call in a dog’s placement. Standard operating procedure was for Julia to consult with him at the windup of every orientation she supervised and give her positive or negative impressions of how it went. Any doubts she might have about people would measure significantly into his own evaluation, and if need be he’d play the stern heavy, explain why a greyhound wasn’t a suitable pet for them, and send them on their merry ways. But Julia hadn’t completely ixnayed the Wurmans, not yet, and saw no harm in going ahead with the cat test. Nor was there any hard-and-fast rule to prevent the kid from being the cat bearer. Assuming the test got that far, the way he conducted himself might even figure into her recommendation.

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s get started.”

  Vivian passed step one of the test with flying colors. Her eyes anxious circles, her long tail tucked between haunches still bald and rash-inflamed from crate burn at the track, Vivian stiffened with resistence as Julia led her over to the slumbering Leona’s bed and acquiesced only after some soothing words, a pat on the head, and a couple of firm but gentle tugs of the leash. When Julia unwound the leash from around her hand to give it extra slack, Vivian opted to retreat from the bed rather than approach any farther. When Julia pulled her closer to it, and Leona stirred to give the grey a dozy, half-lidded, let’s-get-this-drill-over-with-so-I-can-get-back-to-my-catnap look, Viv shied off again, turning her head slightly to avert he
r gaze.

  Julia moved away from the bed and the nervous grey eagerly joined her, shivering a little, leaning against her legs for reassurance.

  “As everyone could see from her body language, Viv’s reaction to Leona fell somewhere between timid and downright afraid,” Julia said. She stroked the dog’s neck and flank to calm her. “Obviously, that beats aggressive. Now Thomas—”

  “Do I get to hold the cat?”

  Julia looked at him, bit the inside of her lower lip.

  “Yes,” she said, whooshing out a breath. “You get to hold her. What I’d like you to do is carefully pick Leona up, then trade places with one of your parents so you can sit and cuddle her on your lap. When I bring Viv over to you, pretend not to notice us. Just keep petting and talking to Leona. Sound good?”

  Thomas responded with one of his impatient, borderline rude half-nods, bent to lift the cat out of her basket, and then sat with it as Mama Wurman — introduced as Ellen — vacated her chair.

  Julia shot Thomas’s father a glance. She wasn’t sure why she’d expected Stanley to be the parent to stand up, but he remained glued to his seat, arms crossed over his chest. And though it had nothing at all to do with their eligibility for greyhound ownership, Julia couldn’t help but note that chivalry wasn’t a point of emphasis for the Wurman brood.

  She stepped forward again, letting out the leash, guiding Viv toward Thomas.

  The kid was a natural for the role of animal provocateur, she had to give that to him.

  “I love you, kitty-cat,” Thomas cooed. He nestled Leona in his arms, scratched behind her ear, buried his face in the thick fur of her nape, and gave her a series of smoochy lip-smacking kisses. “I love you best of all, love you so, soooo much—”

  All in an instant Vivian launched forward, straining at the leash. She was growling, her teeth gnashing inside the muzzle as she thrust her long snout at the cat. Before Julia could yank her away from him, Thomas screamed and flinched back in his chair, slamming it hard against the wall. Hissing, spitting, her fur on end, Leona took a defensive swat at Viv. Then she sprang out of Thomas’s arms to the floor, went scrambling wildly across the room, and bolted out the doorless entry to the storefront with a loud mewling screech.