Medusa (NUMA Files 8)

“It was limited at first,” Lee said. “The medusae toxin is incredibly unpredictable. Even a small amount could kill a human, and at first more lab animals died than were cured. Then we made a huge breakthrough in identifying the molecular makeup of the microbe that produces the toxin. We were on the verge of synthesis. And clinical tests would have been the next step.”

Song Lee’s eyelids had been drooping as she talked, and Gamay suggested she lie down on the sofa. Then she and Paul stepped out of the trailer into the warm Florida night.

“Thanks for coming to our rescue, Galahad,” Gamay said.

“Sorry if Sir Dooley and I cut it too close,” Paul said. “What’s your reaction to Song Lee’s story?”

“I know for a fact that she didn’t make up the man she killed or his trigger-happy pals, so I assume that everything else she said is true.”

“I’ll talk to Dooley. Maybe he can fill in the gaps.”

As Trout approached the dock, he smelled cigar smoke before he saw Dooley. Trout started to speak but Dooley shushed him. Trout listened, and he heard the murmur of an engine echoing off the canal. Dooley mashed his cigar out with his shoe, grabbed Trout, and pulled him down behind a pile of wooden fish boxes.

The engine sound came closer, and a boat nosed into the canal. It was moving at a crawl, its spotlight sweeping back and forth, until it came to the end of the canal, where it made a U-turn and headed back to open water.

Dooley’s 16-gauge followed the boat until the sound of its engine could no longer be heard. He lit up another cigar.

“I’ll keep watch, but I think maybe we’d better get Dr. Lee out of here,” he said.

“No argument there,” Trout agreed.

Trout went back to the trailer. As he was telling Gamay about the suspicious boat, his cell phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID. Austin was calling to check on Gamay.

“I’m in Florida now,” Trout said. “Gamay is all right. But we ran into trouble off Bonefish Key.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Gamay was attacked along with a Bonefish Key scientist named Dr. Song Lee, who was working on something called the blue medusa.”

“I want to talk to Dr. Lee in person,” Austin said. “Call NUMA and have them send a plane down right away to pick you up. Joe and I will be leaving town in a few hours. Meet me at the airport.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Thanks. I’ve got another favor.” He gave Trout a phone number. “Call Cate Lyons, Joe’s friend at the FBI, and extend my apologies for cutting her off. Tell her I’m heading for the Good Luck Fortune Cookie factory in Falls Church. Got to go.”

Moments later, Trout relayed Austin’s message to Lyons, who thanked him and hung up. As he tapped out the number to connect him with NUMA’s transportation department, he said, “We’re flying back to Washington tonight. Kurt wants to talk to Song Lee as soon as possible.”

Gamay shook her head.

“Kurt’s instincts were right on the mark as usual,” she said. “He said to look for something funny on Bonefish Key.”

“This is about as funny as it gets,” Paul said.

Gamay glanced over at the slumbering Chinese woman, thinking of their close call in the abandoned boat, and then looked at the serious expression on her husband’s face.

“If it’s so funny,” she said, “why isn’t anybody laughing?”

CHAPTER 28

A FEW MINUTES BEFORE AUSTIN CALLED THE TROUTS, HE had driven past the Corvette parked near the Eden Center clock tower and thought that Zavala must have had a good reason to leave his pride and joy unattended. He drove onto Wilson Boulevard and joined the traffic that moved at an agonizing crawl. Eventually, the suburban malls and neighborhoods petered out, and he was moving through an industrial-commercial area.

The GPS unit indicated that he was about a block from his goal. Reasoning that a turquoise Cherokee might attract unwanted attention, Austin parked it in an alley between two buildings. He made his way on foot to the front gate of the Good Luck Fortune Cookie Company. The parking lot was empty, and the only light came from above the door to the office.

The gate was locked. Austin walked the perimeter of the chain-link fence to the rear gate. He pushed the gate open and made his way to a rear loading dock lit by a single bulb. He kept to the shadows as much as possible.

He wondered if he had the right address. Those doubts vanished when a figure stepped out from behind a Dumpster and blinded Austin with a powerful flashlight.

A deep voice said, “Hold it right there, soldier. Put your hands in the air.”