by Scott Britz
Waggoner wrinkled his brow. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” he said in his typical mumbling monotone. “It turns out the Nemesis virus particles were just a little too heavy to spread by the airborne route. It took direct contact. Yolanda Carlson caught it from doing the nasty with the G-man. The dog got it from saliva from shared food. The chef, too—he and the G-man tasted food together all the time. Your daughter, of course, got it from that dog bite, which is why the disease took hold so fast in her. Direct entry into the bloodstream. The other three that died—Senator Libby, General Goddard, and that movie star—all ate tofu contaminated by blood when the chef cut his finger. The two houseboys ate that, too, except they didn’t die. You saved them with the antiserum from the G-man’s dog.”
“Dr. Waggoner is being too modest,” said Freiberg. “There was not enough antiserum for both the houseboys. The second was saved when Wig injected him with the soluble form of the MHC-1 molecule. It was a triumph of his viral receptor-decoy project.”
Wig looked at his shoes. “It was lucky that I had purified a bunch of it months ago, when I was running X-ray crystallography to map out the kyttaropylin binding site. After we tried it on the houseboy, there was just enough left to divide between you and Hank Wright.”
“The most pitiable case was Mr. Loscalzo,” added Freiberg. “When he awoke in Bellevue from the concussion Hank gave him, no one even suspected he’d been infected until it was too late.”
“I know. His mother told me.” Cricket twisted the cord of her earbuds around her finger. “What about Officer Dayton, the policeman who was shot?”
“He’s going home next week,” said Freiberg. “They had to take out a foot of his intestine, but apart from that he should recover completely.” Freiberg smiled and kissed the top of Cricket’s head as she gazed pensively at the floor. “Why don’t you pack your things, my dear?”
“I don’t have to. I’ve never really unpacked since I left Africa.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t offer you Weiszacker House as a place to stay,” said Freiberg. “We’ve had to seal it. We have no idea at this point how long Nemesis can live outside the body, and anything Charles touched could be infectious. However, I could offer you a guest room at my house—”
“No need.”
“No? Hank, then?” Freiberg raised an eyebrow. “I should warn you. You’ll be going out into a hailstorm. There’s a battalion of paparazzi camped out around the town house. They’ve literally been sleeping in tents and trailers, awaiting your release.”
“Why?”
Freiberg looked astonished. “My dear Cricket! At this moment, you are the most famous woman in the world.”
Cricket was sure he was joking.
Waggoner snickered. “There were reporters all over the place at Rockefeller Center. CNN had a camera crew on the roof of the Maison Française. They got pictures of everything you did.”
“You saved the world, my dear,” said Freiberg.
“I . . . I haven’t . . . saved anything. I don’t want to be famous.”
“Some have fame thrust upon ’em.” Freiberg chuckled, circling a finger in the air. “On a related subject, I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling a brief news conference in the Rensselaer auditorium.”
“No.”
Freiberg seemed surprised, perhaps even hurt. “It’s only half an hour. Throw them a little red meat and they’ll leave you alone.”
“No. I won’t do it.”
Freiberg continued to look perplexed. A long pause underscored the finality of Cricket’s answer. “As you wish,” said Freiberg at last.
“What are they saying . . . about Charles?”
“Ah, Charles. Well, for every hero there must be a villain, you know.”
“They haven’t been tough enough on him, to my mind,” said Waggoner.
Cricket was torn up inside about Charles. He had nearly killed her. He had buried Hannibal, her only hope to save Emmy’s life. That bleeding cadaver’s face of his still haunted her—not even Bach could drive the image from her mind. Yet even in his worst moments, she knew, Gifford had been motivated not by greed or vainglory, but by a desire to alleviate the suffering of mankind. If he was a monster, he was the noblest of all monsters.
“Erich, can you deliver a message from me at the news conference? It’s about Charles.” Cricket stood up from the cot. “Point out that those qualities that brought about his downfall—his obsessiveness, his self-certainty, his inability to accept defeat—were the same ones that made him a brilliant researcher. Had his life ended on that Monday afternoon on the track field behind Weiszacker House, the world would have idolized him as one of the great geniuses of history.” Cricket looked Freiberg in the eye. “Tell them that for me—will you, Erich?”
“As you wish. It may even play well on the six o’clock news. The public has had two full weeks of hating Charles Gifford. They are eager for something new. Maybe even sympathy.” Freiberg chuckled, then cleared his throat. “Oh, by the way—I had another call from Phillip Eden. He’s willing to fund continued work on the Methuselah Vector—provided that you head it up.”
“Me?”
“You’re the only one he trusts at this point.”
“He ought not to.”
“What shall I tell him?”
“Don’t tell him anything.”
“And what about my offer? My dear, directorship does not agree with me. Paperwork, phone calls, interminable meetings. The Governing Board and I would much rather see you filling your father’s shoes. Acadia Springs ought to be yours.”
“I’m not ready to think about that.”
“When? When will you be ready?”
“After . . . I don’t know.” She plucked a blouse and a pair of shorts from where they hung draped over the top of one of the screens and tossed them into a half-open suitcase on the counter. An amber bottle of the little, shield-shaped pills sat beside the suitcase, and she was about to throw it in with the clothes when she had second thoughts and pitched it into the trash instead.
She zipped her suitcase shut and dropped it on the floor. Dragging it behind her, she followed Freiberg and Waggoner out the Bay 8 door and through the decontamination room and air lock. When they had reached the main lobby, she stopped. “I’d like to say good-bye to my neighbors, if I might.”
At Freiberg’s nod, Cricket walked down the observation corridor and knocked on the glass of Bay 7. After a moment, a folding screen moved aside, disclosing a mussy-haired Adam in pajama pants, with Maria Loscalzo, Dominick’s mother, hugging him from behind.
Adam hit the intercom button. “Hey, Doc! You’re outside.”
Cricket smiled. “They tell me I’m safe for the world now. I’m sorry you’re going to have to lose a pinochle player.”
“There’s always gin rummy. Only need two hands for that.”
Maria stepped forward and bumped Adam playfully with her hip. “Gin rummy, my ass! I wanna learn tennis.”
“You’re looking good, Maria,” said Cricket. It was astonishing how quickly the Methuselah Vector was taking effect on her. You could see the difference from one day to the next. She was still a little flabby in her arms and thighs, but her skin had the same ruddy tint as Adam’s, and her posture spoke of energy to spare.
Freiberg leaned into the intercom. “We’ve almost finished work on your old bungalow, Adam. Remodeled for two. There’ll be a few new security features, I’m afraid. But it’ll be much more homey.”
Cricket gave the two a sober look. “You do understand that you’ll both have to live under observation indefinitely, until the day comes that we can figure out how to fix what went wrong with the Methuselah Vector? Although neither of you caught Nemesis, there’s always the possibility of a new virus emerging inside you. It’s critical that you not be exposed to any infections—even the most common.”
“Ye
s, ma’am,” said Adam.
“I promise I’ll do what I can to help you,” added Cricket.
Adam shrugged. “I don’t mind it so much anymore. At least I’m not alone.”
Freiberg sighed and smiled. “Yes. Adam has his Eve.”
“Send me a postcard from Cancún,” said Adam.
Freiberg raised both eyebrows. “Cancún? What’s this?”
“I’m leaving . . . on the next boat,” said Cricket.
“When can we expect you back?”
“Who knows? Three months, a year. I’m overjoyed with the idea of not having to decide.”
Cricket pressed her palm against the glass in farewell and then started for the door, followed by Freiberg and Waggoner.
“Is it safe to go out?” she asked Freiberg. “The reporters?”
Freiberg chuckled. “They’re all down at Rensselaer and Wabanaki Cove, waiting for your press conference. Not a soul outside this door . . . well, almost none.”
Freiberg held out his arm to stop Waggoner, leaving Cricket to step outside alone.
She winced at the brightness of the sun, which she hadn’t seen in two weeks. Through the glare she made out Hank and Emmy sitting on the tailgate of Hank’s pickup.
Emmy jumped up and ran to throw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Oh, Mom! Mom! I couldn’t wait for them to let you out.”
It was the first they had touched since the night Emmy had gotten sick. Emmy was still pale and her lips were cracked, but Cricket could feel Emmy’s heart frisking through her ribs with all the vibrancy of youth. Her hair had its familiar lavender scent.
“My little girl. My princess. I was so afraid I was going to lose you.”
Emmy’s eyes welled up with tears that reflected Cricket’s own. “Oh, Mom, it’s gonna be the best trip ever. Dad and I loaded up the Bay Dreamer with food and gas and fishing tackle and suntan lotion and shampoo. We could live for a year without dropping anchor.”
“Not quite a year,” said Hank, who stood a foot or two away, smiling. There was a pink line over his left eyebrow where the stitches had just come out. “Emmy’s sick leave from school only covers one semester. We’ll need to have her back by Christmas.”
“Dad and I went down to Freeport and bought you a whole new wardrobe. Sundresses, bathing suits, sandals, deck shoes—everything a beach girl could want.”
“What about Bonnie and Chuck?” asked Cricket.
“They’ll stay with my sister in Portland until we get back,” said Hank. “By then, the social worker says the adoption paperwork should be ready. Yolanda’s cousins back in Puerto Rico have agreed to everything.”
“Are you sure you’re ready? It’ll be like starting over.”
“I’m good with that.” Hank shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans. He glanced at Emmy. “Princess, could you put your mom’s suitcase in the back of the truck?”
Emmy pecked her mother on the cheek, then took the handle of the suitcase and dragged it away. Cricket heard the tailgate slam shut.
Hank took a deep breath and looked into Cricket’s eyes. “Did you mean what you said? About us?”
“Yes,” said Cricket, smiling shyly.
“Prove it?”
Cricket pressed her cheek against the bare V of skin inside his shirt collar. She felt his hands gliding up her back, pulling her in tighter. Then he tilted her chin back, and she found herself looking up into his dark brown eyes. His head blotted out the sun as he bent down and pressed his lips against hers. His mouth was soft and warm.
She felt weak in the knees, as she had when he had first kissed her so many years ago, when he was an unexplored wilderness to her. Now he was new to her again. He had shown courage and quick thinking and a fearsome fighter’s instinct that she had never had an inkling of before. She liked the new Hank.
She liked the new Cricket, too. Being able to melt at his kiss without holding back. Being able to need him. Not having to prove anything to him or to have him prove anything in return.
The kiss followed its course. She cradled her arms around Hank’s warm chest, her eyes just high enough to look over his shoulder and see Emmy leaning against the pickup, studying her fingernails in the sunlight.
Hank grunted. Cricket was embarrassed to realize that she was squeezing his broken ribs. “S-s-sorry,” she mumbled as she broke away from him. Hank made no complaint—just stood smiling, with his head cocked.
Hank held out his hand. She extended her own, then drew it back at the last moment with a little girl’s laugh. Hank laughed, too. But when she offered it a second time, he seized it as if he would never let it go. He led Cricket toward the open door of the pickup. Emmy already sat beaming in the middle of the seat, her hair shining platinum in the light that blazed through the windshield.
Why did it take me so long to come home?
S.D.G.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nowadays the creation of even a thriller novel is a team effort. Any attempt to list those who had a hand in this book must wind up overlooking someone, a fact of life for which I can do little except offer the most heartfelt apologies. Nonetheless, special note should go to my agent, Al Zuckerman at Writers House, who stuck with me through the arduous process of outlining and revising, and who kept me honest at every step of the way. Sarah Knight, my editor at Simon451, was quick to grasp the concept of the book and showed an almost uncanny instinct for focusing the story on what counts. Thanks should also go to Kaitlin at Simon & Schuster and Nora and Mickey at Writers House, who all did a great deal to get the book in shape. Leo, Olga, and Sasha (in Boston) and Pat and Nicole (in California) did service beyond the call of duty in reading the earliest (and messiest) drafts of the story. Their feedback has always been of inestimable value. Finally, I scarcely know how to begin to thank my wife, Evelyn, who has given me precious input from the beginning. She graciously put up with the mood swings and obsessions that necessarily accompany a project such as this and guarded my time like a pit bull so I could keep working.
The cover design by Julius Reyes combines a double-helical DNA motif with elements from Laocoon, a celebrated Hellenistic Greek sculpture. In Virgil’s Aeneid, it was Laocoon who warned the Trojans against accepting the infamous Trojan Horse. His warning went unheeded, leading to the downfall of the city—but not before the gods, who inclined toward the Greek side in the war, had sent a serpent to punish him and his sons for sacrilege.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photograph by Scott Britz-Cunningham
Scott Britz, MD, PhD, an Associate Professor at Harvard Medical School, is a faculty member in the Joint Program in Nuclear Medicine. He was also trained in Pathology, performing over seventy autopsies, some under infectious disease precautions, although none as death-defying as the one performed in The Immortalist. His research interests are in the field of molecular imaging.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
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authors.simonandschuster.com/Scott-Britz
Also by SCOTT BRITZ
Code White (as Scott Britz-Cunningham)
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living
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Copyright © 2015 by Scott Britz-Cunningham
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First Simon451 ebook edition April 2015
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ISBN 978-1-5011-0236-3