The Night Season by Chelsea Cain Page A

the floor. She emphatically moved the purse to the other side of her keyboard. “You write a two-thousand-word column on some old skeleton they found at a dog park, and I get three hundred words on a half-murdered cop?” Ian said.
    “Derek already wrote the news story.”
    “You were there when he was found. I want to know what he looked like. I want to feel him dying on the page.”
    “He’s my friend,” Susan said.
    “You’re a journalist. Act like one. I want a rewrite in twenty minutes.”
    “No.”
    “I can fire you.”
    Susan ignored him.
    Ian threw his hands in the air. “You know what?” He sputtered for a few seconds and then pointed at her. “You’re fired.”
    Susan looked at him sideways. Was he kidding? “You can’t do that.”
    “Ian,” Derek said.
    Ian jabbed his thumb at Derek. “I can buy two of him to replace one of you,” Ian said to Susan. “You’re not that special.” He smoothed his ponytail back into place. “Pack a box,” he said. “I’m calling HR.” And he walked away.
    He was serious.
    This wasn’t happening. This was all a Chinese-speed-induced hallucination. This was why people shouldn’t do drugs.
    She moved her purse onto her lap and held it there.
    “Do you want me to help you find a box?” Derek asked.

CHAPTER
    19

    “Tetrodotoxin,” Robbins said.
    Archie had no idea what that was, but Robbins had been right—he didn’t like the sound of it. Chief Eaton evidently didn’t, either, because he immediately put a hand on Robbins’s shoulder, motioned for Archie with the other, and steered them both away from the others, back toward the mobile command center. Up close it looked even bigger and newer, not a scratch on its shiny black paint job. Eaton led them around the back of the vehicle. Archie had never been inside. But he imagined rows of flat-screen monitors and red telephones. Lights surrounded the trailer, like it was for sale as part of some showroom display. But at least they could see each other.
    Eaton lowered his voice: “Tetro-what?” he asked Robbins.
    The truck was idling and diesel fumes were thick in the air. Eaton coughed and loosened his tie.
    Bioterrorism. Archie knew that’s what the chief was thinking. It’s where the mind went these days. Archie didn’t know what tetrodotoxin was, and he didn’t care. They’d identified it. They’d found what was poisoning Henry. Now they could help him.
    “Tetrodotoxin,” Robbins said. “It’s a neurotoxin produced by a bacteria. TTX for short.”
    Neurotoxin. That didn’t sound good.
    “What are we talking about here?” Archie asked.
    Robbins hesitated, then reached inside his jacket, retrieved a folded piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Archie. Archie recognized the format. It was a Wikipedia page.
    Archie scanned the headers: Classification, Behavior, Feeding, Breeding, Venom. An image to the right showed a fleshy spade-shaped creature with soft tentacles. It was beige, and spotted with incredibly bright blue rings. Eaton leaned close, squinting to see the page over Archie’s shoulder.
    “What is it?” Eaton asked.
    Archie looked up at Robbins. Was this a joke? Robbins met Archie’s gaze without a trace of levity.
    “A blue-ringed octopus,” Robbins said.
    “An octopus,” Archie repeated. It sounded as ridiculous said aloud as it did when he said it in his head.
    No one spoke for a moment. There was noise. Voices around them, idling diesel engines, radios crackling, orders being barked, the constant hum of the rain, the rushing river—but it was also oddly silent, the noises that were supposed to surround them absent. The Burnside Bridge was up, so there were no cars driving overhead. Naito Parkway, which ran parallel to the park, was closed to all but emergency personnel. No squawk of birds or kids laughing or dogs barking.
    “Detective Sobol was attacked by an octopus?” Eaton said. There was no judgment to it; just a man in charge repeating information he’d