The smell of lemon furniture polish hit Mick before he even turned into the room. “Dylan, the boys are all....” Mick stopped. “What are you doing?”
Dylan stood before her dresser. She wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt as she wiped the surface of her dresser. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Dylan, first viewing is in twenty minutes. You know we should be there. Get dressed.”
“I have to clean.”
“What?”
“Mick, do you know how many people are gonna come through my home tomorrow after the funeral? I can’t have them thinking I keep a messy house.”
“You do. Big deal.”
Dylan closed her eyes and shook her head. “Would you mind just taking the boys for me?”
“Are you coming?” Mick asked.
“I’ll be by later,” she said nonchalantly.
“You’ll…you’ll be by later?” Mick stepped to her. “Dylan, what the fuck?”
“Mick,” she snapped.
“Get dressed.”
“No.” Dylan picked up the can of polish.
“Then fine, you’ll go like this.” Mick took hold of her arm.
“I said...no!” Dylan whipped the furniture polish from his hand and, in the same motion, threw the can at Mick’s chest.
With a subdued grunt, Mick bit his bottom lip. He lifted his hand, took a breath and calmed himself. “That hurt.”
Dylan bent over and picked up the polish. “I’m sorry, that was wrong. I’m sorry.” She set the can on the dresser and looked up at Mick. “I can’t do it. I can’t go to that funeral home today.”
“I’m not gonna ask you why.”
“Then you know?”
Mick shook his head. “Haven’t a clue why.”
“Then why aren’t you asking me?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.” Mick shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what you want, why you don’t want to go.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No.” Mick stayed firm. “It doesn’t matter what you want. You have three sons down there who just lost their father. They want you there. You’ll go.” Mick moved to the door. “Get dressed. You have five minutes.”
The moment Mick was out the door, Dylan dropped the furniture polish. She wanted to scream and growl her frustration. But she didn’t. As much as she hated to admit it, Mick was right.
* * *
Anchorage, Alaska
The sound of the air passing through his bronchial tubes sounded like a sputtering engine, but Bill Daniels swore it sounded and felt better than it did twenty-four hours earlier.
“No,” he rasped into the phone while lying in his hospital bed. “Don’t be silly, Isabella.” Bill lifted his eyes to the doctor who stood at his bedside. “I’m doing better. My temperature dropped. You go. Go. Your mother needs you. Be careful.” The doctor took the phone from Bill and hung it up. “Well?” Bill asked the doctor.
“Well,” the doctor exhaled. “Definitely we’re seeing an improvement in the pneumonia.”
“This is the worst case I have ever had,” Bill stated. “I’ve gotten it be—”
The doctor waited. He noticed that Bill’s eyes shifted to the door. “Mr. Daniels, what’s wrong?”
“Oh, shit.” Bill looked panicked.
The doctor spun around. He recognized the biohazard suits of the four-person group that entered the room. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Lexi Martin,” the small black woman spoke through her suit. “I’m from the Centers for Disease Control.” She moved to the bed. “Bill Daniels?”
Bill, eyes wide, nodded.
“Sorry to alarm you. We’re going to need to run some tests.” She looked back at Bill’s physician. “Doctor, if you will go with my team, they’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”
Bill watched his doctor agree and walk out. “What about me?” Bill asked then coughed. “What about my questions?”
“I’ll get to them. I’ll get to them all,” Lexi said softly. “But there is something I need answered from you right now.” She lifted her clipboard. “Think, Mr. Daniels. I need names of all those you have been in direct contact with since your return from Barrow.”
CHAPTER NINE
Lodi, Ohio
What was it about Lars Rayburn? Patrick McCaffrey really wondered. He’d heard about the legendary man since his first day in Lodi; now the man himself had arrived. Patrick stood in front of what he thought was a rather cheesy flower arrangement and watched Lars. Physically, there was nothing outstanding about the man. He actually looked to Patrick like some middle aged man who didn’t realize he was no longer twenty. Lars smiled a lot, but that couldn’t be it. There was nothing familiar about Lars’ name, no famous ring to it. Yet when he walked into the packed funeral home, the waves of people parted to make room for his entrance. They flocked to the book where Lars signed his name; they made excuses to touch him as if he were the second coming of Jesus Christ.
Nothing in particular struck Patrick about Lars, and when he asked people about Lars they gasped in offense and walked away. But there was definitely some sort of affect Lars had on people, because when Patrick saw Lars head his way, he actually felt a nervous twitch as if he were about to meet some tremendously important celebrity. Patrick perked up, stood up straight when Lars walked right to him.
Lars extended his hand to Patrick. “Are you blocking my flower arrangement on purpose?”
“Huh?” Patrick looked behind him. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Kidding.” Lars smiled. “That’s not mine. I wouldn’t send something so...cheesy.”
Patrick was about to agree, but he refrained just in case it was a trick of some sorts.
“Lars Rayburn,” he introduced himself. “Are you from Lodi?”
“Yes,” Patrick answered.
“I know everyone in Lodi. I don’t know you,” Lars said.
“Patrick McCaffrey. Nice to meet you.”
“You’re joking.”
“About?” Patrick asked.
“Your name. You’re getting me back for the flower remark.”
“No, that’s my name,” Patrick said.
“You’re of...” Lars waved a finger in the air as he stared at Patrick. “Hispanic descent. Your family came from southern Mexico, at least one of them is certainly from that region. Your other parent I am going to guess, mostly Hispanic, but partly Filipino? I definitely see Filipino. I’d know for sure if I saw your areola.”
“My-my areola?” Patrick stuttered out the word.
“Yes, the color portion that surrounds your nipple,” Lars stated. “Most people don’t realize that the breast can indicate one’s nationality.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Am I correct?”
Patrick shrugged. “You’d be the expert. I wasn’t even aware of the nipple thing.”
Lars snickered. “Not the nipple thing. Your descent.”
“As a matter of fact...” Patrick smiled, “yes. My mother was half Filipino.”
“Goddamn if it isn’t my favorite pastime. Some people guess weights, I guess nationality. So what’s with the name Patrick McCaffrey?”
Patrick, with an ornery grin, leaned closer to Lars, whispering. “It’s an alias.”
“Oh,” Lars nodded, “I see. Hiding from the law?”
“Absolutely.” Patrick grinned.
“Good. Good luck. And while you’re the master of hiding, keep hiding that plant, will ya?” Lars winked. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. McCaffrey. Hope to see you in town.” Lars shook hands once more, turned around, and called out as if he were at the social event of the season. “Rose, you’re looking wonderful.”
Laughing about his brief meeting with Lars, Patrick couldn’t help but think how nice the man seemed. But unless it was the nipple-nationality thing, Patrick still didn’t have a clue what the big deal was about Lars Rayburn.
Mick handed Dylan a sweater and a tiny paper cup of water as
she stood close to the coffin receiving visitors. He didn’t understand what the deal was on the shot’s worth of water. To Mick, the state regulations allowing no beverages in a funeral home was pretty stupid, especially when he and Sam would opt to have kegs set up next to the entrance.
He passed the water and sweater to Dylan with a gentle smile that conveyed if she needed him, he was there. Mick pretty much kept his distance, talking to those in the funeral home, watching the boys who tried, but couldn’t, hide the fact they felt extremely uncomfortable.
“Mick,” Dustin’s whispering voice called to him.
Thinking, ‘Thank God,’ the moment Mick heard his name, he excused himself from the conversation with Mrs. Rose, grateful he didn’t have to listen to another story about yet another one of her young relatives who had died prematurely due to bizarre, gross diseases.
Mick saw Dustin standing in the hallway just outside the arched entrance to the viewing room. Mick made his way over to him. “What’s up?”
“Can you do something about him?” Dustin griped.
“Who?” Mick asked.
Dustin pointed toward the main glass doors of the funeral home to Chris, who stood outside. “Him. Come on.”
Mick followed; he needed air anyhow. As soon as he stepped outside, he reached out to Tigger who was spinning over the railing of the porch. He set the small child upright on his feet while never taking his eyes off of Dustin. “Now, what’s going on?”
Chris turned sharply to his brother. “What? Is Mick gonna yell at me?”
“Yes,” Dustin said.
“Hold it.” Mick held up his hand then again reached over grabbing Tigger from the railing. “I’d like to know what I’m yelling about first.”
“Tell him.” Dustin pointed. “It isn’t right. And I bet it’s illegal. Is it illegal, Mick?”
Mick opened his mouth to speak, but Chris interrupted.
“It isn’t illegal,” Chris said. “Besides, I didn’t do it. So I don’t appreciate you yelling at me, Mick.”
“I didn’t—” Mick was soon cut off.
“Oh, he needs to be yelling harder at you,” Dustin said. “It isn’t right.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Stop.” Mick was firm. “What didn’t you do, Chris?”
Dustin answered. “Tell him, Mick. He’s signing bogus names in the register book. Mom’s gonna get all pissed. Tell him.”
“I didn’t.” Chris snapped in defense.
“Did too,” Dustin argued. “Mick, he wrote Stephen King in the book.”
“I did not,” Chris reiterated.
“Oh, yeah,” Dustin scoffed. “Like Stephen King was here.”
Mick jumped in. “He was.”
Both boys turned in shock to look at him.
“Yep.” Mick nodded. “Came in to pay his respects. If you two weren’t outside sneaking that cigarette you would have seen him.”
Dustin exclaimed, “Wow! Why is Stephen King visiting my dad?”
“Your dad knew him.” Mick answered. “In fact, we all went to high school together.”
A puzzled look crossed Dustin’s face. “I thought he was older than you guys.”
“Nah.” Mick shook his head. “Just looks it.”
“I don’t get it,” Chris said; confused. “If Dad knew him, why was he always busting on his books and movies?”
“Huh?” Mick asked then understood. “No. Not Stephen King the author. Steve King of King’s auto parts. Geez. And Tigger get your ass down from that railing.” Mick reached out and snatched him back. The second he did, all four of them, Mick, Tigger, Dustin and Chris, froze in place.
They heard a sound in the distance, soft, rumbling, like thunder rolling in. Louder and louder it became.
“Oh, cool.” Chris lunged for the railing.
“Wow.” Dustin stood next to him.
Lights danced toward them, a million stars headed their way, a blanket of light that paved the road, moving closer and closer, a wall of motorcycles that eventually blocked the entire street when all two hundred plus bikers stopped to pay their respects.
“For Dad?” Dustin asked Mick.
“Yep.” Mick nodded with a smile. “Your dad may have stopped hanging around with the guys a while back, but once a biker, always a biker. They all liked your dad. Gonna be one hell of a send-off tomorrow when they escort the procession.”
Proudly, Dustin gazed at the sight. “Dad would have loved it. Oh, hey, wait...Mick, is that your mom getting off that bike? Yeah, it is.” Dustin lifted his hand high in a wave. “Hey, Mrs. Owens.”
* * *
Anchorage, Alaska
Isabella could barely taste the menthol cough drop, but she thought she felt it somewhat penetrating the blockage, the stuffiness that filled her head. Moving slowly, arms folded tightly against her chilled body, she approached the gate at the airport. Turning her body to reach in the bag, Isabella felt the tightness hit her chest and the cough that emerged, thick and deep, literally sounded like a dog barking.
The ticket woman smiled politely. “Those summer colds are bad, aren’t they?”
“The worst.” Isabella coughed again and handed her the ticket.
“Can I have your attention please?” A male voice spoke over the loudspeaker system. “Will passenger Isabella Lyons please report to Passenger Services. Isabella Lyons, please report to Passenger Services.”
The clerk behind the counter gave her a peculiar look and handed the ticket holder back. “That’s you.”
“Wonder what that’s a...oh, God.” Panic hit Isabella as she took the ticket back. “I hope nothing’s wrong with my boyfriend. He’s in the hospital.”
“Good luck. Passenger Services is at the main terminal.”
“Thanks.” Isabella turned, and with little energy she began her journey back to the other end of the terminal.
Dead.
Even though Passengers Services was located at the end of the airline counters, Isabella still expected to see people. In fact, she didn’t see a soul walking about the main terminal. No passengers, ticket clerks, sky caps, no one. It was so quiet that she actually wondered if she’d stepped into some weird dream sequence, which wouldn’t be farfetched considering how much cold medication she had taken.
She could see the offices of her destination, with the light on inside. Slowly, apprehensively, she walked toward the far wall.
If the emptiness of the terminal didn’t frighten her enough, the sight of the people in the office did.
Three people in what looked to her like yellow radiation suits stood before her, and the moment she stepped in, the door closed behind her. She looked around to see yet another yellow suit. They all looked the same size, and through the tinted face masks she had a hard time determining their gender.
If her head wasn’t stuffed and fogged enough, confusion added to it.
“What…what’s going on?” she asked.
The big brown eyes peered at her through the faceplate of the suit before he spoke. “Are you Isabella Lyons?”
“Yes,” Isabella answered.
“You’ve been in close contact with William Daniels?”
“He’s my boyfriend, yes. What…what is....” Isabella held up her hand, covered her mouth and coughed. She coughed again, deep and rattling.
The man’s eyes widened even more, and he spun with a vengeance and pointed to his coworker behind him. “Confirmed. Get them back on the phone, inform them we have an affirmative and tell them to seal it up,” he said, his voice authoritative. “Seal it up and shut the entire airport down…now.”
* * *
Reston, Virginia
After hanging up the telephone, Kurt made his way to the coffee pot and poured the last of the contents into his cup.
“Well?” Henry asked.
“Shut down,” Kurt answered. “No one gets out. Hospital, too. They have twelve flights on the runway, seven scheduled to return, and six that will be quarantined upon landing.”
“No, it’s a possibility,” Kurt said. “Bill Daniels flew home on a corporate jet. The pilot is not ill. That is good. The girlfriend and Bill both confirmed he got into his car, went straight home and didn’t leave until she brought him to the emergency room.” Kurt took a sip of his coffee. “We’re just waiting for federal approval from FEMA to—”
“Don’t say it.” Henry chuckled in disbelief. “Quarantine Anchorage?”
“Yes.”
Henry laughed again. “Why not the state?”
“If we have to.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“No!” Kurt finally showed emotion. “You were the one not twelve hours earlier trying to get across how deadly this is, how we shouldn’t tag it contained, and now listen to you.”
“I think we should be looking at other options,” Henry stated.
It was Kurt’s turn to scoff. “What other options? You were right. It’s not over. So what other options do we have? How many years, Henry? How many years have eighteen research institutes been trying to beat this virus? How long? And nothing....” Kurt’s hand shot through the air. “Not a whisper of a vaccine has been heard of. Nothing. So we do what we can to contain it. One city, two, a state? Doesn’t matter; if we have to shut down one half of the world to save the other half from dying....” He paused when the phone rang. “Then we will. We have a shot. We really have a shot of keeping this thing under control.”
Henry picked up the phone. “Yeah,” he answered and his eyes lifted, then he rubbed them with a heavy hand. “All right. Get back to me.” He hung up. He stared down at the phone as he talked. “What were you saying about having this under control?”
“That we have a shot.” After realizing that Henry wasn’t asking for a repeat of his earlier comments, Kurt grew concerned. “What? What happened?”
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