Vector

by Robin Cook

  Yuri lifted the automatic out by its barrel. Dropping the paper bag, he examined the gun closely. He hefted it. “It’s lightweight,” he said.

  “It is,” Curt said. “It’s called a Glock. It’s a very good weapon. It’s the preferred handgun with the militias.”

  “Is there anything particular that I should know about it?” Yuri said. He released the magazine catch and slipped it out. He glanced at the bullets and counted them.

  “You just point it at your brother-in-law and pull the trigger,” Curt said. “The gun does the rest.”

  Yuri laughed. He slipped his finger within the trigger guard and pointed the gun at his refrigerator. “Bang!” he said and jerked the gun as if it had recoiled. He laughed again before placing the gun on the coffee table.

  Curt and Steve relaxed and sat back in their seats.

  “There’s something else in the bag,” Curt said.

  “There is?” Yuri questioned. He reached down and retrieved the package. He pulled out a cellophane bag that seemed to be filled with black hair. The corners of Yuri’s mouth drew up into a half smile. He thought it was some kind of joke. “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s something we picked up in a costume store on the way over here,” Curt said. “It’s a beard.”

  “What on earth for?” Yuri asked.

  “It’s to make a point,” Curt said. “The gun is only for an absolute emergency. We don’t want you using it. Stay away from your brother-in-law and take your phone off the hook. Don’t talk to him. When you go out, make sure he’s not around and wear the stupid beard. If he happens to come around, don’t let him in. Just get rid of him. The problem is, that if you use the gun, it’ll bring the police, and if the police come here and start snooping around, Operation Wolverine goes down the toilet. If that happens, Steve and I and the PAA troops are going to be very unhappy. Am I making myself clear?’

  “Don’t worry,” Yuri said with a wave of dismissal. “I’ll only use the gun to avoid being killed myself. It’s more to just make me feel safe.”

  “That’s what I was hoping,” Curt said.

  “After all,” Yuri added as he tore open the cellophane package, “Operation Wolverine is just as important to me as it is to you. The last thing I’d want to do is something that would interfere with it.”

  Yuri pulled out the fake beard and held it up against his face. “How do I look?”

  “Ridiculous,” Curt said.

  Yuri laughed and put the cellophane and the beard back into the paper bag.

  Curt stood up, and Steve and Yuri followed suit. Curt stuck out his hand and Yuri shook it enthusiastically.

  “So what time Thursday night?” Curt asked.

  “As you wish,” Yuri said. “It will be ready when you want.”

  “Excellent,” Curt said. “We’ll come by sometime after dark. I’ll have a firefighter’s rabbit tool bag. It’s about twenty inches by ten and about ten high. It’s like a small duffel bag. Will that be big enough for the plastic sausages?”

  “More than enough,” Yuri said. “The key thing is to make sure there are no sharp edges on the inside. In fact, I’ll give you a towel to roll them up in.”

  “Sounds good,” Curt said. He gave a halfhearted military salute. Self-consciously, Yuri returned the gesture.

  Curt preceded Steve out the door. They could hear Yuri bolt it as they descended the front walk. Reaching the truck they climbed in their respective sides.

  “So what was your take?” Curt questioned as he started the engine.

  “I was encouraged,” Steve said. “At first when he acted so nervous I had my doubts. I thought he was going to try to give us a hard time about getting the anthrax or maybe argue we should do Central Park rather than the federal building.”

  “I did, too,” Curt said. “But then it was like he suddenly saw the light and realized that Operation Wolverine had better be executed fast before something else goes wrong. Thank God we came out here and put pressure on him. I suppose we should have done it a week ago. But at the moment, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Operation Wolverine is going to happen, and come Friday all hell’s going to break loose here in the Big Apple.”

  “I’m glad he’s decided to be cooperative, but he’s still one weird duck,” Steve said. “Did it make you nervous when he took the gun out?”

  “A little,” Curt admitted. “But it was more because of what you’d said before we went in. I actually think the guy’s pathetic. Pretending to shoot the gun like that was so juvenile. And when he put that beard on, I almost cracked up.”

  “I think it was a brilliant idea to ask him to write out how to make the anthrax powder,” Steve said.

  “It was a touch of genius,” Curt said with a wry smile as he made the turn onto Ocean Avenue. “The idea just came to me like a bolt out of the heavens. If this all goes as well as I’m sure it will, we’ll probably want to make future strikes.”

  ________

  FIFTEEN

  Tuesday, October 19

  7:30 P.M.

  Jack liked to work after hours. With few people in the building and no phone calls to distract him, he was able to get much more done than he could during the day. The only person he’d seen over the previous hour had been one of the janitors, who’d whisked by the door with a large dust mop.

  For efficiency’s sake, he’d spread himself all around the one office, bunching similar tasks for different cases in the same location. He’d even arrogated Chet’s desk, where he’d set up his microscope for examining the histology slides. Taking advantage of the wheels on his desk chair, he moved from station to station.

  “My God, I’m homeless,” a voice said, breaking the silence.

  Jack glanced up to see Chet looking forlornly at his commandeered desk.

  “Ah, the missing ME!” Jack said. “Talk about me going out in the field! Where on earth have you been? I haven’t seen you since early this morning.”

  “I told you I was going to the pathology conference,” Chet said.

  “You did?”

  “Of course I did,” Chet said. “In the ID room this morning over coffee.”

  “Sorry, I guess I forgot,” Jack said. He remembered being preoccupied about his planned apology to Laurie. “I’m kinda in a fog. A lot’s going on.”

  “It looks like a cyclone hit this office.”

  “I suppose it does,” Jack said. “Here, let me get my stuff off your desk.”

  “Hey, not on my account,” Chet said. “I’ve just stopped in to pick up my briefcase. It’s got my exercise clothes. I’m heading over to the gym.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to move my junk?”

  “Absolutely,” Chet said. He gingerly stepped over folders Jack had strategically placed around the floor. “You should have come to the conference. It was one of the best I’ve attended.”

  “Really?” Jack questioned without interest. He’d turned his attention back to the prisoner-in-custody case, whose slides had appeared in a miraculously short time from the histology lab.

  “The last seminar was particularly fantastic,” Chet continued. He pulled open the top drawer of his file cabinet and lifted out his briefcase. “It was on zoonoses. You know, diseases of animals that people can get.”

  “I know what zoonoses are,” Jack said absently.

  “What made it so good was that a number of city veterinarians were on the panel,” Chet said. “I was bowled over by the number of animal diseases which they’re constantly contending with. It’s incredible.”

  “No kidding,” Jack said vaguely. He was trying to find the slides of David Jefferson’s brain, particularly the sections of the temporal lobe.

  “And I’m not just talking about the ones you hear about in the media like rabies in raccoons. In fact, one of the guys said that just today there was a major die-off of sewer rats in Brooklyn way out in Brighton Beach.”

  Jack’s head popped up. “What was that?”

  “As
usual, you’re not listening to me,” Chet complained.

  “I just missed the last part.”

  Chet repeated what he’d said about the rats.

  “And this was in Brighton Beach?” Jack asked. He stared off.

  “Yes!” Chet said, mildly miffed. As usual it irritated him the way Jack could tune him out. “Why does Brighton Beach surprise you?”

  Jack didn’t answer. It was as if he was in a trance.

  “Hello!” Chet called, waving his hand in front of Jack’s face. “Earth to Jack! Come in please!” Chet shook his head. “God, I haven’t used that phrase since the third grade.”

  “What did the rats die of?” Jack asked. “Was it plague or something like that?”

  “No!” Chet said. “That’s the big mystery. They haven’t been able to come up with a cause yet. But they’re very concerned. And just to add to the mystery, two out of the hundreds of dead rats they’ve collected had cutaneous ulcers that turned out to be anthrax.”

  “Now that is weird!” Jack said. “Do they think the others had anthrax?”

  “No, not at all,” Chet said. “They’ve pretty much ruled out bacteria as the culprit, including anthrax. Now they’re focusing mostly on some kind of virus. The anthrax is just a curious corollary.”

  “This is the second time I’ve heard about Brighton Beach today,” Jack said. “And before that, I never knew it existed.”

  “What amazed me was to learn that this kind of problem, maybe not quite as dramatic as with the rats, occurs all the time. We just don’t hear about it. These veterinary epidemiologists are busy guys.”

  “Do they have any idea where the anthrax came from?” Jack asked.

  “Nope,” Chet said. “But it has them thinking that maybe some of the rats are hosts, which is not what the textbooks say. I tell you, it’s fascinating stuff.”

  “Let me tell you about my Brighton Beach case,” Jack said. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Provided it doesn’t take too long,” Chet said while peeking at his watch. “I don’t want to miss this particular aerobics class. There’s this one girl with a figure to die for who only comes on Tuesday nights.”

  Jack gave a quick synopsis of Connie Davydov, focusing on the diagnostic mystery. Jack listed all the agents he’d been considering. Then he asked Chet if he had any ideas.

  Chet screwed up his face and pondered for a few moments. He shook his head. “I think you’ve pretty well covered the landscape.”

  “It is kinda curious that Connie Davydov suddenly dies from what I think was a mysterious poisoning the day there’s a major rat die-off in the same town.”

  “Whoa!” Chet said with a smile. “That’s a giant leap of association, unless, of course, Ms. Davydov spent some quality time during the previous twenty-four hours in the sewer or a portion of the town’s rat population hung out in her apartment.”

  Jack ran the fingers of both hands through his hair while laughing at Chet’s absurd suggestions. “Of course you’re right! But what a strange coincidence, especially when you add the anthrax to the picture, and the case of human anthrax I had yesterday here in Manhattan. What a couple of days!”

  “Well, I’m going to leave you to ponder these mysteries,” Chet said. “While I go ponder another more enjoyable one in aerobics class.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Stapleton!”

  Jack and Chet turned to see Peter Letterman standing in the doorway in his long white coat with its inevitable pattern of colorful stains. He was holding a computer printout.

  “Peter!” Jack said eagerly. He searched the man’s face for a hint of his news, but Peter’s delicate features were unrevealing.

  “I’ve run all the assays you suggested,” Peter said.

  “And?” Jack questioned expectantly. It was like waiting for the envelope to be opened at the Academy Awards.

  Peter handed Jack the printout. Jack scanned it. He had no idea what he was looking at.

  “Everything came out negative,” Peter said guiltily. “I haven’t found anything.”

  “Nothing?” Jack questioned. He looked up. He was dismayed.

  Peter shook his head. “I’m sorry. I know you were counting on a positive, so I ran some of the assays several times. Everything came back negative.”

  “Oh, crap!” Jack said. He threw up his hands. “So much for my intuition. Maybe even my job.”

  “You checked for carbon monoxide?” Chet asked.

  “Absolutely,” Peter said.

  “And cyanide?” Chet asked.

  “Everything that Dr. Stapleton requested plus a few drugs he didn’t mention.”

  “Thank you very much,” Jack said. “At the moment I might not sound as appreciative as I should, but I am thankful for you staying late and doing this.”

  “If you can think of anything else you want me to test for, give me a call.”

  “Right,” Jack said.

  Peter left.

  “Oh, well,” Jack said. He threw his pen onto his desk. Then he started gathering together all the disparate papers from the various cases and jamming them into their folders.

  Chet watched for a few minutes. “If I can think of anything else to test for, I’ll give you a call.”

  Jack gave him a weak smile and continued straightening up.

  “Are you heading home?” Chet asked.

  “Yup,” Jack said. “I think I need a little physical activity myself.”

  After saying goodbye, Chet left. As Jack moved his microscope over onto his own desk, he thought about all the strange events over the previous twenty-four hours. It was all a mystery, yet he had to smile. Such conundrums were, after all, what he liked about the job.

  After locking his office door, Jack glanced down the hall toward Laurie’s. It was closed. Obviously, Laurie had left without saying goodbye. Jack shrugged. He really didn’t know what to do about her.

  Downstairs, Jack unlocked his bike and rolled it out of the receiving dock. After getting it down to the pavement, he got on and cycled out onto First Avenue.

  As usual, the ride home was an opportunity for Jack to break away literally and figuratively. Rush-hour traffic had already abated, and he flew. The sun had set an hour or so earlier and the sky was a silvery blue-violet that deepened to indigo with every passing moment. In the middle of the darkened park he even got to see stars twinkling in the firmament.

  Entering his own street, Jack headed directly for the chain-link fence separating the basketball court from the sidewalk. As he pulled to a stop, he saw what he wanted to see: a game in progress. As the men swept down the court in his direction, he noticed that Warren and Flash were already playing, although on opposing teams.

  With a sense of urgency, Jack carried his bike up to his apartment and tore off his clothes. Redressed in his basketball gear, he thundered down the stairs and out across the street. When he arrived at the game’s sidelines, he was slightly out of breath.

  Unfortunately, another game had started in the time Jack had taken to get on his togs, which meant he’d have to wait one or maybe two games to get into the friendly fray. As usual, Warren’s team had won-so he was still on the court. Flash, on the other hand, was standing in the midst of those waiting to play. Jack walked over to him.

  “Hey, man, how’s it going?” Flash said when he caught sight of Jack. It was the typical B-ball-court, offhand manner of greeting, even though they’d spent a good part of the afternoon together.

  “It’s going fine,” Jack said. “You doing okay?”

  “So far,” Flash said. He didn’t look at Jack but rather kept his eyes glued to the game in progress. “I’d be better if we’d won the last game.”

  “Listen,” Jack said. “I gave the laboratory all the samples I took from your sister today. So they’re in the works. I want to make sure you’re going to be patient and not do anything rash.”

  “I’m cool,” Flash said.

  “Glad to hear it,” Jack said. He was reluctant to tell Flash about the
lab results just yet. Despite the negative results on the assays Peter had run, Jack was still inclined to intuit that Connie had been poisoned in some way or another.

  “I’m curious about where she lived,” Jack said. “You mentioned it was in an area with small wooden cottages. Is it an historic area?”

  “I don’t think it’s historic,” Flash said. “But it’s old.”

  “How old?”

  “Man, I don’t know,” Flash said. “What are you asking me this for?”

  Jack shrugged. “Like I said, I’m curious. There aren’t too many parts of New York City that still have cottages. Could they be a hundred years old?”

  “Something like that, I suppose,” Flash said. “I think they must have been summer cottages at some point.”

  Jack nodded as he tried mentally to visualize a group of old wood-framed houses built as summer cottages a hundred years ago. What immediately came to mind was that their plumbing might be rudimentary at best. In fact, they might even have septic systems instead of being connected to the city sewer.

  “What was the address again?” Jack asked. “Was it Fifteen Oceanview Lane?”

  “Yeah, that was it,” Flash said. “Why do you ask? Are you going to go out there?”

  “I might,” Jack said. “Sometimes medical examiners have to visit the site of the death in order to reconstruct the series of events preceding it. But, of course, that’s usually when the body is still where it was found.”

  “But I was told she died at Coney Island Hospital,” Flash said.

  “That’s very true,” Jack said. He gave Flash a pat on the back. “But it was supposedly in her bathroom where she got into trouble. Anyway, I’ll keep you informed about whatever I learn.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Flash said.

  Jack picked up one of the loose basketballs and took it over to one of the side baskets. He thought he’d warm up by taking a few jump shots. While he did, he mulled over the coincidence of Connie Davydov’s dying from some unknown poison, possibly in her bathroom in the same town where there was a die-off of sewer rats, also caused by some unknown agent.