“I know who and what you are,” Reisch said in a slightly threatening tone. He wanted to regain the upper hand. Amanda simply stared back at him with a questioning look. He repeated himself, only louder, and she still didn’t understand. She mouthed some words at him, and now it was Reisch who didn’t understand. Out of nowhere, a wave of hostility struck him, the heat of animosity prickling his skin. He looked back at Amanda, but her questioning expression hadn’t changed.
“Why did you do that?” he demanded, but her only answer was an even stronger wave. His face actually felt singed. This was getting out of hand. He took a step toward her, but she didn’t back away. She looked more than frustrated and started to speak again, but all he could hear was a screeching sound. The screeching only got worse as a third wave of hate hit him. He stumbled backward from the intensity of it. Somehow, she could cause him pain, a great deal of pain. A blinding rage overwhelmed him, and he lunged for her.
That was the last thing he remembered before waking up in his hotel room, blind, unable to move his right arm, and screaming. He was certain that somehow his arm had been torn off and that his upper body had been set on fire. He rolled to his left and continued rolling until he found himself on the floor entangled in the sheets, his maimed arm beneath him. He tried to move, but it only made the agony worse. He was going to die on the floor of a cheap hotel room, wrapped tight in bed linen, screaming in pain, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt the blackness starting to envelop him. He struggled with all his remaining strength, but the pain and the darkness overwhelmed him.
There was no doubt in Nathan Martin’s mind: EDH1 had mutated into a new virus, and now it was working its way through the population of Colorado. They would do more testing, get fresh specimens, and do their own cultures, but he knew in his heart that none of it would disprove what he already knew. It had taken the FBI less than an hour to determine that Amanda Flynn’s e-mails originated from an Internet café in Boulder, Colorado. There wasn’t much mystery in figuring out from where this new strain had come. Agents were looking for her all over Boulder and Denver; with a snowstorm stopping all travel, they had a reasonable shot of finding her. They had to find her; he didn’t even want to imagine the consequences if she remained at large.
“You’re late,” said his secretary, suddenly popping her head into his office and then just as suddenly disappearing. He had assembled most of his staff and all the department heads of his section for a meeting. It was the second one of the day; the first had been with his boss and the secretary of health by videophone. Both had listened to his hastily prepared presentation politely, but neither was overly impressed with his dire conclusions. He was told that if he wanted to mobilize his section, that was his prerogative, but until he had something more substantial, they were hesitant to provide more resources. Their response was eerily similar to the one he had given Amanda just a few hours earlier, and the irony did nothing to improve his mood.
“I know,” he said gruffly, in no mood to spar with his secretary. He spent several more minutes finishing his organizational plan, then stood and gathered his notes. No one was going to be happy with this, but that didn’t matter. All the pet projects, all the special interests were about to be put on hold until he said otherwise. This new virus was most definitely a special pathogen, and it was his responsibility to deal with it. The secretary had made that abundantly clear; he was to do whatever it took to investigate and eliminate the threat from this new virus, and he was going to do it without outside help. It had been an excellent political maneuver. Martin would receive all the blame for not preventing the disaster after being given a ”free hand,” and the secretary all the credit for having mobilized the Special Pathogen Section personally.
“Politicians,” he scoffed. He shut down his computer and grabbed his coat, hoping that after the meeting he would get a chance to get home before dark. Looking at his watch, he was surprised to see that it was already after six. He glanced out his window and watched as the final rays of the setting sun disappeared into the dusk. “So much for that hope,” he said as he left his office.
“Dr. Martin, these men are here to see you, and they are very persistent,” his secretary said while scowling at two tall and very determined-looking marines. Martin took the whole scene in at a glance and was reminded of a high-school principal being called upon to discipline two football players.
“At ease, gentlemen, and come back tomorrow, I don’t have time for the boy scouts.” Martin turned back to his secretary, who continued to glower at the soldiers. “Martha, I’m going home after the staff meeting. I sent all department heads an e-mail outlining their new responsibilities. I would like you to call each of their secretaries in the morning and get them to—”
“Excuse me, sir, but we need to speak with you. Now,” the nearest marine said, his last word spoken as an order. He turned to Martha and added, “Alone.”
Martha jumped to her feet, rising to her full five feet two inches. “Listen to me, corporal—”
“I am a captain, ma’am,” he responded with restraint. Martin couldn’t help but smile broadly. He knew what was about to happen.
“Well, I am a colonel in the Army Reserve, and if one of my officers addressed a civilian like that, they would be a corporal, but only after I made them a eunuch. Do you understand me, jarhead?” Her face had become scarlet, and Martin could easily imagine her on the parade grounds, scaring the hell out of new recruits.
“Yes, ma’am, I understand what you’re saying, but our orders come directly from Lieutenant-General McDaniels. I apologize for any inconvenience, but I must insist that we speak with Dr. Martin alone. If you would like to hear it from him directly, I can get him on the phone.” The captain was more than a foot taller than Martha was, and he stared down that long distance, not giving an inch.
“Here, use mine.” She stepped away from the desk, pushing the phone towards him.
“Martha, I don’t have time for this,” Martin said. “Go home. I can handle it.” She glared back at him.
“Go, now.”
Very reluctantly, she gathered her purse and coat and stomped out of the office.
“Dr. Martin, I am Colonel Scott Simpson.” The second marine spoke for the first time. “Captain Winston and I have been ordered by Lieutenant-General McDaniels to invite you to accompany us to a meeting called by him.”
“And by invite, do you mean I have a choice?”
“No, sir. Our orders are quite clear that with or without your permission, you will come with us. I am hoping you make this easy on all of us.” Colonel Simpson was polite, but his tone made it clear that he would do whatever he had to.
“Let’s just say for argument’s sake that I don’t wish to accompany you. What do your orders tell you then?” Martin was half a foot shorter than the colonel and probably a hundred pounds lighter. A vision of being thrown over the marine’s shoulder and carried out kicking and screaming popped into his head.
“In that case, we were to give you this,” Simpson said. He extracted an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Martin.
“What’s this?” He opened the envelope and scanned the heading. “Impressive. The Office of President of the United States, and down at the bottom is his actual signature.”
“Perhaps you should read what’s in between, sir,” Simpson suggested.
Martin leaned back on Martha’s desk and looked up at the two marines. They were both staring at him, at attention. “I’m not going to like this, am I, Colonel?”
“No sir, I doubt you will,” Simpson said with a deadpan expression.
“To Lieutenant-General William McDaniels,” Martin began reading aloud. “Effective immediately, Captain Nathan Martin, M.D., is to be recalled to active duty, and is to be assigned responsibilities that require his unique talents and capabilities. Those exact duties are to be left to your discretion. He will continue to serve in the United States Army until all promised obligations made by Captain
Martin on July 12, 1974, have been met.” His mocking tone quickly changed into one of alarm, and he could almost imagine the two marines laughing inside. “This is bullshit!” Martin spat out the words. “This can’t be legal.”
“I am not a lawyer, Dr. Martin, so I will reserve comment. However, legal or not, you will be coming with us.” Simpson’s tone had developed some arrogance.
“Not before I talk with a lawyer.” Martin was back on his feet. He circled the desk and found Martha’s Rolodex.
“Please feel free, Doctor, but I have to ask you to hurry. We have a plane to catch.” Simpson took a step forward as Martin dropped into his secretary’s chair and started furiously dialing a number on the desk phone.
“Ira? It’s Nathan. Thank God, I caught you . . . No, I’m not in jail. I’ve been drafted, by order of the president . . . Yes, it’s very funny, and no, I’m not joking. There are two marines in my office right now . . . I served fourteen months on active duty after residency. I was supposed to be in for six years . . . Huh? They paid for medical school and gave me a stipend during residency.” His tone was becoming defensive as he listened to what his friend and lawyer were saying. “They let me go. I didn’t ask for it. I was offered an early out, forgiveness, they called it, and I took it. I don’t owe anyone anything . . .” Martin’s face was turning red as his lawyer talked. “What do you mean, ‘go with them’?” He jumped to his feet and shouted into the phone, “You can’t possibly be serious! They can hold me for the entire six years?” He listened with bulging eyes. “Screw their fine print, and screw the ‘balance of what’s left.’ This was over thirty years ago. There has to be a statute of limitation, or something!” Martin listened to his lawyer for another couple of minutes, and then collapsed back into the chair. “They want me to go somewhere with them and are using this as a threat.” His voice was now filled with resignation, the reality of his position becoming more obvious. He glanced up at Simpson, whose face remained completely impassive. “I haven’t asked.” There was another long pause as Ira outlined Martin’s options. “Okay, Ira,” he said, his voice filled with frustration. “Thanks.” He hung up.
The two marines waited while Martin took several moments to compose himself. “It seems, gentlemen, that you have me at a disadvantage,” he said finally.
“Yes, sir, we do. Unfortunately, we need a decision now. Are you coming along as Dr. Martin or Captain Martin?” As if by telepathic command, two MPs appeared in the doorway.
Defeated, Martin handed the presidential order back to Simpson. “I wouldn’t want you outranking me, colonel, so keep calling me doctor, and sir.” He slowly stood, then rounded the desk. “I have to address my staff first.”
“It’s already been taken care of, sir,” said Simpson, giving the last word a little more emphasis than necessary.
Martin looked up into the gray eyes of the marine. “I guess you guys have thought of everything,” he said sarcastically. He could face going with them to some secret meeting—that was intriguing and a little exciting, but interfering with his department was over the line.
“If we did, we wouldn’t need you,” Simpson said just as sarcastically and headed out the door.
Oliver sat across the table from Father Coyle and Bishop McCarthy; both men had similar looks of confusion.
“Let me guess. You don’t know whether to have me exorcised or committed.” He meant it as a joke, but it hit embarrassingly close to home. “To be honest, up until this morning, I wouldn’t have objected to either.”
McCarthy and Coyle looked at each other and then back at Oliver. It was Coyle who spoke first. “That’s quite a story, John. I have to admit, it’s not what I expected. I knew something was wrong, you’ve been withdrawn and not yourself since you came home, but I assumed it was about your sister’s passing.”
“I had similar thoughts,” the bishop said and then nosily began searching through his briefcase. He retrieved a large manila folder, placed it on the table between them, and looked back up at Oliver.
“What’s that?” Oliver asked.
“This is your life, at least your professional life, John. Your legacy. I brought it here so you could read through it before you made a decision.” Oliver reached for the folder. “The church has received a hundred or so letters and commendations from various government officials and charitable organizations all praising your work. There is probably twice that number from parishioners, some dating as far back as thirty-four years. And if that didn’t convince you,” Bishop McCarthy extracted a thin folder with a single sheet of parchment. “I brought along this.”
Oliver knew what it was the instant he saw the cream-colored paper. It was a special note, handwritten by Pope John Paul II himself, thanking Oliver for all his work and congratulating him on the creation of his twentieth parish. “I appreciate your effort, but this is not a crisis of faith. I will admit that as I watched Mary die my faith was shaken, but this has nothing to do with that. What happened this morning with Mr. Flynn was real and verifiable. It was not a manifestation of a psychiatric or personal disturbance, nor was it demonic possession. The visions are related—I’m convinced of that.”
“John, I don’t want you to take offense, but you know my background is in psychiatry,” the bishop started. “Everything that you’ve shared with us could have a psychiatric explanation, including your encounter with Mr. Flynn.”
“So you think I have a dissociative disorder severe enough that my perceptions are being altered, but not so severe that it disables me,” Oliver tried to keep his tone neutral, but his frustration was embarrassingly evident.
“I realize that you truly believe what you are saying, but that’s the way . . .”
Bishop McCarthy didn’t finish his sentence because Oliver had seized his wrist. For the third time this morning, Oliver felt his consciousness flow into and mix with another. His body felt light and his mind free; he wanted nothing more than to stay in this particular moment, but he knew he couldn’t. Reluctantly, he let his bishop’s wrist go and the connection was broken. He fell back into his chair exhausted, and it took several moments for him to realize that Francis was standing over the prostrate form of Bishop McCarthy.
“What did you do, John?” He was yelling, but Oliver was having a hard time coordinating his movements and processing what he was seeing.
“I’m all right,” a voice said from the floor, and it took Oliver a moment to realize that it was McCarthy.
Francis helped his bishop back to his feet and then into a chair. Oliver watched the two men get resituated. His breathing was still heavy, but his mind was clearing. “Still think it’s a dissociative disorder?” He said as both of the two men facing him wore expressions of fear and anger.
“That was hardly necessary, John,” Francis said. “You could have killed him.”
“I think you’re probably right. I’m sorry Steven, are you okay?”
“Nasty headache, and a bump on my head, but otherwise I’m fine.” The bishop rubbed the back of his head and Oliver could distantly feel the pain. “I think you have proven your point.”
“What did you see, if I may be so bold?” Oliver asked and Francis Coyle shot him an angry look.
“All of it. Flynn, your sister, a burning arm,” McCarthy stopped and examined his hand. “I felt it as well.” He flexed his fingers and worked his wrist. “You’re right; this is no dissociative disorder, or any kind of disorder.” McCarthy looked at Oliver and saw him in a new light. “Who was the tall man?”
Oliver looked confused. “What tall man?”
Now the bishop looked confused. “The one with the British accent.”
Oliver searched his memory, but came up empty. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about.”
The three men waited a moment as the subject changed. “What are we going to do with you, John?” the bishop asked.
“I’m sorry to say that things can’t stay the way they have been. I don’t think I can continue to be the associate past
or anymore. It would be somewhat unethical.”
“It would make confession go a whole lot faster,” Coyle said to lighten the mood.
Oliver smiled. “Probably. I would like to stay here until we figure this out, if that’s okay with both of you?”
“Of course you will stay here,” Father Coyle said. “We are all going to help you through this, and when you’re ready, you pick up just where you left off.”
“This is going to be a major hardship on you, Francis. The parish has grown beyond one priest,” Oliver said.
“I’ll manage.” Father Coyle smiled and reached for Oliver’s hand. Then he snapped his hand back, and his face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, John,” he said, but didn’t offer his hand again.
“Don’t worry about Sacred Heart,” the bishop said quickly, trying to get past the uncomfortable moment. “You know I’m going to have to talk with the cardinal about this John. Would you be available to go with me?”
“I’m at your disposal.”
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