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Red Tide by G.M. Ford Rating: ••• (Recommended)
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Unexpected G.M. Ford presents his fourth Frank Corso mystery in his new novel, Red Tide. A Seattle bus terminal is the site of a terrorist attack in the form of an Ebola-type virus that kills rapidly. The pace of this mystery thriller starts quickly and maintains momentum throughout. What many readers like in a mystery is unexpected plot twists and disclosure of unexpected motivations of the murderers. Those readers will be satisfied by Red Tide. Here’s an excerpt, all of Chapter 9, pp. 53-58: Corso rested his cheek on one of the rear tires and watched as the robot rolled back out onto the sidewalk. The fireman in the orange haz-mat suit and breathing apparatus waved his arms, signaling the operator to stop while he untangled the plastic from the rear of the device. Then waved again when the robot was free. The operator spoke into his microphone. His partner in the suit nodded that he’d heard and reached for the back of the robot, where he pulled open a panel and reached inside. Corso didn’t get a chance to see what the guy was removing. Up the street, where the cops had all the people collected, all hell suddenly broke loose. A woman screamed, not in agony, not in pain, but with a guttural bellow of outrage and hate. Corso rolled over twice and peered uphill between the front wheels. A riot had broken out. Hoarse shouts filled the night air. He inched forward for a better view. A deep voice was screaming the same thing over and over, something about fascist Nazi bastards. The crowd had pushed over the sawhorses and spilled out of the enclosure, battling the cops hand to hand in the street. At the front of the impromptu skirmish line, a middle-aged man wore a strip of yellow police tape across his chest like a beauty queen while swinging wildly with a briefcase, lashing back and forth, then finally coming straight down as if he were chopping wood, until the case shattered on the nearest cop’s plastic helmet, driving the cop to his knees with the force of the blow, breaking open the case, spewing the contents into the street, where the swirling breeze separated sheet from sheet until the spilled paperwork roiled around their ankles like an angry flock of pigeons. The cop was halfway back to his feet when an angular African-American woman threw herself onto his back, driving him down again, forcing him to duck and cover himself from the hail of fists and knees and elbows which she directed his way. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. Something about her children, Corso thought. Totally out of control, tight black skirt forced up over her ample hips, her pantyhose torn to pieces by the violence, she windmilled her fists and knees into the downed cop with a strength generally only seen in moments when maddened mothers summon sufficient adrenaline to lift automobiles from their stricken children. Corso pulled his eyes upward. The scene he’d been watching was being repeated all over the street as enraged citizens fought the police in a frenzy. He watched as another line of helmeted cops waded into the fray, holding their batons in front of them like steel offerings, only to be driven back by the frenzy of the mob. The nearest of the reinforcements spotted the downed cop and moved directly to the rescue. He threw his baton around the kneeling woman’s throat and lifted her completely off the ground. Her eyes bulged in her head as she clawed desperately at the steel shank crushing her throat. Her long legs flailed in the air as she fought for breath. Corso watched her eyes roll back in her head, and still the cop applied more pressure. He wanted to shout but stopped himself. He could see the moist pink interior of her mouth when, without willing it so, he found himself moving. Scuttling forward on his belly until he was out from under the front of the van and then on his feet. Took him three long strides to get to the barrier and another second to duck beneath. She hung limp now, only her twitching fingers in motion. That’s when things got dicey up on the hill, pulling the cop’s head around, loosening his choke hold until the woman dropped on the pavement in a heap and he hurried toward the riot. Corso slid to a stop. He felt the blood heat in his face. His breath was shallow and his hands were knotted so tightly his fingers ached. The woman had rolled to her knees and was puking in the street. In between heaves, she looked around uncomprehendingly and gasped for air. Corso pulled his eyes from her and looked up the hill toward the flailing mass of bodies filling Yesler Street. The crowd had taken the street. Outnumbered and outgunned, they were nonetheless pushing the line of cops backward. Batons swung wildly in the night. Screams and curses assaulted the ears. The crowd had taken on the look of a single beast, a throbbing collection of arms and legs moving to and fro and nowhere at all as the give and take surged from curb to curb and back again. An SFD SUV bounced over the curb, rocked to a halt on the sidewalk, wedged between the mammoth cop van and the boarded-up windows of a defunct bodega. The doors burst open and four firemen clomped up the hill to reinforce the cops. The sight of their brethren in motion sent the robot’s operator and his orange-clad partner hurrying up the street to join the fray. Corso watched as the arrival of the reinforcements stopped the retreat and, by sheer weight of numbers, began to force the crowd backward. At the crucial moment in the conflict, when things could have gone either way, something flickered in his peripheral vision. He swung a glance over in the direction of the robot. . . and there she was. Like she’d been beamed down from space. Stepping out of the mouth of an alley on the north side of Yesler Street. Maybe five-eight in her low heels. Striking features, blonde hair cut short, wearing a black raincoat that stopped just above her shapely ankles. Her eyes met his, sending a chill down his spine. Even at a distance, something cold and disinterested rolled from her gaze. A gaze that made it clear. . . if it was mercy you were looking for, you’d better look someplace else because around here that shit was in short supply. She looked him over like a lunch menu. As her eyes crawled over him, he thought he saw a slight flicker, as if in recognition, before she began to move, covering the ten yards to the mouth of the bus tunnel, where she pushed the plastic back, threw Corso one last look and stepped inside. Corso watched dumbfounded as the apparition slid across the concourse, hesitated for a moment at the top of the stairs and then disappeared from view. He never got a chance to decide what came next. “You,” the rough voice boomed. “Over against the wall. Now! Move it.” Another half dozen officers had abandoned their motorcycles and squad cars to help with the battle in the street. A burly motorcycle cop pointed a black glove at Corso. “Get up there with the others,” he screamed. Corso gestured toward the puking woman, whose lower lip was now joined to the pavement by a silver filament of spit. “Sh&s hurt,” he said. He fixed Corso with an angry stare. The cop was torn. Part of him wanted to vent his rage. . . right there . . . right then. Another part wanted to throw his anger into the surging crowd. A sudden series of shouts and curses and a final surge from the crowd helped him make up his mind. “You stay right here,” he yelled, shaking a fist at Corso. “You hear me?” He was already running uphill by the time Corso assured him he wasn’t going anywhere. Corso stepped over and went to one knee at the woman’s side. Uphill. . . away from the path of the thick stream of vomit. She twisted her neck far enough to look into his eyes. Beneath the dark roast brown, her complexion had taken on a burgundy tinge, as if the skin were merely floating on an ocean of blood. Her eyes had leaked water down her cheeks, and she’d lost one of her gold hoop earrings. “You gonna be okay?” Corso asked. She gave a small nod and then reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “My. . .“ she croaked. Swallowed twice and tried again. “My children. . .“ Corso put his hand on her shoulder. She was trembling like an idling engine. “I gotta go,” he said. “Everything’s gonna be all right.” She reached for him again, as he got to his feet. He took a step back and looked around. The crowd had turned its collective shoulder and was grudgingly giving ground. An umbrella lashed out from the crowd, its wicked point deflected by a black visor. Out in the middle of the melee somebody bull-rushed the officers and was quickly thrown back. Corso groped in his pocket and found Slobodan Nisovic’s key. Satisfied, he ducked under the barrier and veered left, heading for the door to the Underground. The second he stepped out from behind the SUV a shout stopped him in his tracks. “You there,” the voice boomed. He didn’t stick around to check out the source. Instead, he turned on his heel and retreated down the narrow alley between the vehicles. When he looked uphill again, the woman had risen to one knee and was looking directly at him as he lifted his foot and stepped up into the huge van. Bigger than the biggest motor home, the Critical Incident Mobile Squad Room was a cornucopia of cop equipment. On the left, a compact communications center ran a third of the way along the wall. Lots of colored lights. Every kind of radio and telephone known to man. Across the aisle, half a dozen orange haz-mat suits hung on a steel bar, black breathing devices on a narrow shelf above. On the left, a series of shelves and bins bursting with god knows what. On the right, four closets about the size of airplane bathrooms. The rear of the coach consisted of four individual holding cells, each with its own little seat allowing the occupant to rest in relative comfort. The sound of scuffing feet sent Corso across the aisle to the closet doors. He went down the line, trying the doors. Locked. Locked. “Shit.” Here they come. Locked. “Fuck.” The fourth door wasn’t quite latched. It swung open at a touch. The walls were covered with tools. Picks, shovels, axes. . . a winch hung from the back panel. In the center of the floor sat a wicked-looking device Corso thought he recognized as the Jaws of Life. He fit his legs around the mechanical pincers, wiggled his shoulders inside and closed the door. Five seconds and the van rocked hard. Heavy breathing. Corso listened as an arm rifled through the orange coveralls, sending the suits swinging and squeaking on their metal hangers. Then the rattle of the first closet door and then the next and the next and then, finally, the one he was in. The door had locked itself. Corso held his breath. The van rocked again. “What the hell are you doing in here?” came a voice. Corso heard somebody swallow hard. “Thought I saw one of them duck in here, Captain. I was. . “Everything locked?” the captain asked. “Yessir.” A short silence ensued. “They need you up the street,” was all he said, but the sense of disapproval was palpable. “Yessir.” Footsteps and the clank of boots on the metal stairs. The squeak of a chair and the flat click of a button. “Patch me through to the chief,” the captain said. Didn’t take but half a minute. “Harry. . . it’s George. Yeah. . . but listen. . . we’re stretched way too thin. I need another. . .“ Corso could hear the scratch of conversation coming through the line, but could not make out the words. “I’m not kidding, Harry. . . I’ve got a serious problem down here. I don’t get some help. . .“ The scratching interrupted him again. This time for good. “Yes. Yes sir. Yes I do.” Ten seconds passed. Long enough to be sure the circuit was broken. “Goddammit,” the captain bellowed. Red Tide isn’t one of those mysteries that a reader just can’t put down, but the reading is quick, and Ford continues to establish Frank Corso as a character that readers want to know better. Steve Hopkins, October 25, 2004
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