“I’m fine,” Stacey said, frowning. “We’re fine. We just want to get loaded and off to sea!”
“And you are married to Mister…Sorry, what was the name again?” he asked, glancing at Steve’s license.
“Oh,” Stacey said, laughing. “You mean Steven John Smith, my husband of seventeen years? Would you like to meet our two children, Sophia Lynn and Faith Marie? Yes, he’s my husband, these are our children and we’re all real people.”
“May I see some identification, ma’am?” the officer asked.
“It’s in my purse in the car…”
“Which I’d like to hold off opening until I’ve examined the weapons inside,” the officer said.
“You’re in for a treat then,” Faith said, stopping. “What’s this about?”
“Just keep loading, Faith,” Stacey said.
“What?” Faith said. “While you and Da stand around talking to the cop?”
“Just keep loading, Faith,” Stacey said evenly.
“What’s the rush?” the officer said.
“Trying to make the tide, Officer,” Stacey said.
She knew immediately she’d said something wrong.
“The outgoing tide?” the officer asked, suspiciously. Any cop on the coast knows the tides and the tide was currently inbound and would be for twelve hours. “Can I see the registration for the boat, please, ma’am?”
“I’ll have to ask Steve where it’s at,” Stacey said.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d stop loading until I can get this cleared up, ma’am,” the officer said.
“Of course, officer, if you insist,” Stacey said, trying not to curse. “Okay, Faith, Soph, you can knock off.”
“About time for a break!” Faith said.
* * *
“Problems, officer?” Steve asked as Young walked back to him.
“I’m trying to figure that out,” Young said. “There’s enough material here for an army, you’ve certainly got enough guns for one. You’re trespassing on private property and you’re in a hurry. And not, as your wife said, to make the tide. On the other hand, you don’t look like a drug gang and the material doesn’t look stolen. Nothing adds up. Call me suspicious.”
“The dock is convenient to load on,” Steve said. “Much more so than a marina.”
“How long have you had the boat?” Young asked.
“Just bought it,” Steve said. “This morning. Wire transfer from my brother’s corporation.”
“Okay, Mr. ‘Smith,’” Young said angrily. “Cut the crap. What the hell is going on? Really?”
“Mind if I pull out my cell?” Steve said carefully.
“Why?”
“I’d like to check the time,” Steve said. “Or you can give it to me.”
“Why?” Young asked.
“I need to know what time it is,” Steve said calmly.
Young stepped back and carefully, keeping half an eye on the man and group of women, checked his watch.
“Eleven forty-seven,” Young said.
“Long day,” Steve said ruefully. “I hadn’t realized it was that early. Can I wait…thirteen minutes to answer that question?”
“What happens at noon?” Young asked, his eyes narrowing.
“An announcement,” Steve said. “Probably a carefully worded one. Which will not give you enough information to protect yourself or your fellow officers. If we can continue loading until noon, and there is such an announcement, I can then give you more information. Information which may keep you alive. But I’m constrained not to until then. I will give you one piece of information. If you find yourself sometime in the next few days dealing with an incoherent naked person who is acting in a violent manner, my suggestion is to shoot him or her, dead if necessary, and avoid the blood splatter. That way you’ll be placed on administrative leave pending the shoot investigation. And that will significantly increase your chances of survival.”
Young stopped and thought about that. Guns. Supplies. Sailboat. In a hurry…
“You’re joking,” Young said. “That’s impossible.”
“Noon,” Steve said. “At least I was told there would be an initial announcement at noon-”
Young’s radio beeped urgently and he held it up to his ear.
“Ten Twenty-Seven! Ten Twenty-Seven! Multiple hostile three-” There was a series of shots, then the call cut off.
“Ten Twenty-Seven, Four-One-Three Elmshore Road. Ten Twenty-Seven, Four-One-Three Elmshore Road… Break, break. Ten Twenty-Seven. Seven Two Seven Six Waterson Avenue… Ten Twenty-Seven…”
“You need to go, Officer Young,” Steve said. “Do not let them bite you under any circumstances. The blood pathogen is particularly potent.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” Young said.
“Officers in trouble,” Steve said, thumbing at the cop’s car. “And good luck.”
CHAPTER 4
Young pealed out of the driveway and checked his car’s computer. He was designated to respond to the Waterson Avenue call. It was about six minutes ETA. He thumbed open his cell as he took the turn, blowing a stop sign and nearly getting t-boned by an Expedition, then hit his lights and sirens.
He hit speed dial three and waited impatiently.
“What? We’ve got multiple officers requesting back-up and youse got time for a personal call?”
Sergeant Joseph “Joey” Patterno would never have made sergeant in a previous Williamsburg administration. He had plenty of credentials. Fourteen years on SFPD in some of the toughest districts. He was physically fit, a short, barrel chested Jewish/Italian from New York with time not only as a beat and operations sergeant but leading one of SFPD’s premier SWAT teams. He’d moved to Williamsburg, which entailed a big pay cut, when his partner got a much better job offer than he’d had in Frisco, and the department here had, after much head scratching, taken Joey on.
The headscratching was pretty much covered by the word “partner.” In fact it was-legally in California-“husband.” In Virginia it was still a bit ambiguous. Joey had at least gotten over his tendency to freak people, intentionally, by talking with a lisp. And he took the occasional ribbing about his “preferences” pretty well. When it got to be too extreme he’d just do a little twist or a moue and the joker would generally shut right the hell up. And if that didn’t work, he had a font of other practical jokes-not to mention a right hook that was legendary.
“Not personal,” Young said. “The ten thirty-seven was a family using an abandoned dock to load a mass of guns, food and toilet paper onto a brand new boat.”
“Which has what to do with ten sixty-fours piling on officers?” Patterno asked.
“The husband, who was one cool cucumber, suggested to me, just before the eleven ninety-nine, that if I had a ten sixty-four acting in a hostile nature to shoot first and just take the admin leave. And avoid the blood spatter. When I got the call he added to absolutely under any circumstances avoid the bite. I quote, ‘the blood pathogen is particularly nasty.’”
“You’re shitting me,” Patterno said. “No way!”
“He mentioned ten sixty-fours before the call,” Young said. “Hostile ten sixty-fours. He said there was going to be some sort of announcement at noon.”
“Son of a… I’d heard about that,” Patterno said. “The CDC was scheduling a joint press conference with the Fibbies. Okay, meet you at Waterson… Shit, change in call…”
Young glanced at his board and shook his head. There were alarm calls going up all over the place. Including…
“I’ve got a…” he said, then braked, hard. A naked girl, teenager, had just run in front of his car. Her face was… He keyed his radio as the girl jumped onto his hood, then started smashing at the glass. Her face was distorted, insane. She looked pasty as if she’d been sick. Just…something wasn’t there.
“Unit Eight-Seven-Three to Base. Hostile Ten sixty-four. Female. Four Six Zero Butterworth Drive. Attacking my car. Request female officer assistance.”