THE LAB INSTRUCTOR stood transfixed at the front of the room, his blanched face going livid as shock turned to outrage. He was in his thirties, balding, wearing a green cardigan and what looked like bedroom slippers under the cuffs of his trousers. He shoved his hands out in front of himself as if to push us out of his classroom. He announced his name - Dr. Neal Weinstein - and demanded, “What the hell? What the hell is this
If it weren’t so damned terrifying, it would’ve been almost funny to watch Weinstein, armed with only his flapping hands and his PhD, face down adrenaline-pumped federal law enforcement officers primed to blow the place apart.
I have a warrant for the arrest of Hans Vetter,” I said, holding both the warrant and my gun in front of me.
Weinstein shouted, “Hans isn’t here.
A white female student with black dreads, a ring in her lower lip, peeked out from behind an overturned table. “I spoke to Hans this morning,” she said. “He told me he was going away.
You saw him this morning?” I asked.
I talked to him on his cell.
Did he say where he was going
She shook her head. “He only told me because I wanted to borrow his car.
I left marshals behind to interview Weinstein and his students, but as Conklin and I left the building, I felt terra firma shimmy beneath my feet.
Hawk’s death last night had sent Pidge underground.
He could be anywhere in the world by now.
In the parking lot across from the Gates Building, some kids were clinging together in clumps, others dazed and wandering. Still others were laughing at the unexpected excitement. News choppers circled overhead, reporting to the world on an incident that was a total disaster.
I called Jacobi, covered one ear, and summed up the situation. I didn’t want him to know how scared I was that we’d blown it and that Vetter was still out there. I tried to keep my voice even, but there was no fooling Jacobi.
I heard him breathing in my ear as he took it all in.
Then he said, “So, what you’re saying, Boxer, is that Pidge has flown the coop.
