In Death's Shadow

by Stephen Davidson

  “Superconductors?”

  “He said there was a big race on, and the one who won would be rich for life.”

  “Hmm, interesting. Luck to him, I guess,” Harry said. He then began asking a series of routine questions. The woman looked back once before she left the bar. She smiled.

  His heart racing, Harry went up to the room. If money was involved and it was big, that might explain some of the problem. Ree was still sitting in the chair when he opened the door. Her eyes were wide.

  “Listen, baby,” he said without thinking. “I learned something.”

  Ree came over and sat on the bed beside him while he reviewed what he had learned from the reporter.

  Finally, she gave him a puzzled look. “What’s so important about superconductors. I thought they already had them.”

  “Nobody can make one that works at room temperature. The one who does will be rich. They could use them for trains—hell, a lot of things. Big money, and where there’s big money, there’s the potential for trouble. Denny and Susie must have been involved in some kind of computer theft. The maniac’s trying to find out where they hid the stolen data. If he was really on to something, it could be worth millions.”

  “So we got to either find the people they were working with or find out where she hid it,” Ree said and, putting her hand to her mouth, sneezed.

  Harry took a deep breath. “Presuming they wouldn’t be looking for us if they knew where it was, then we don’t need to worry about their partners. We just need to find the stuff and get it to the maniac.” He found himself talking fast. It seemed there was an answer, a way out. “Let me call back to my phone and see if anyone’s called. There might be something there.” He called and learned that a Dr. Rendon had called and left a number. After a moment’s thought, Harry dialed the number.

  “This is Dr. Rendon.”

  “Doctor, this is Harry Adams. I’m returning your call.”

  “Oh, good. I’m looking for a girl, uh, Lee Abu, and the police said you were the last one to see her.”

  The man’s voice sounded excited. Harry looked over at Ree. She was still staring at him. It was a pleasant look. “I might be able to get a message to her. But, what is it you want?”

  “As you’ve probably heard, the CDC is investigating an outbreak of a virus or something like one. Her roommate was one of the first to die of it. We were afraid she might have it, and also, we had hoped she might be able to help us identify where her roommate might have picked it up.”

  “What are the symptoms,” Harry asked and rubbed at his chin worriedly.

  “Flu-like. If she had anything, we’d like to have her checked out by a doctor. Could be nothing.”

  “I’ll pass the word on to her if I see her,” Harry said and remembered her sneeze.

  “We’d sure appreciate it, Mr. Adams. Could save her a lot of trouble, and she might be able to help us.”

  Harry hung up the phone and looked at the knotted blue ridges on the bed spread. “He said your roommate died of a virus, and you might have it too. He wants you to get checked.”

  “Oh?” Ree’s face became taut for a moment and then relaxed.

  “The symptoms are like the flu.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “Well, maybe you should go see somebody.”

  “When, Harry? Right now, we gotta try to keep out of sight. Tomorrow, we should go up to Savannah. Susie had a friend there, and the more I think about it, the more I think he’d be a good place to start.”

  “Did you give his name to the maniac?”

  She shook her head. “Didn’t remember him until we were being driven back. But she did go down there one weekend last month, I think.”

  “Then we’ll have to shake loose from the people that are following us,” Harry said.

  She agreed. That night they planned their escape from surveillance at dinner; then they walked out to the pavilion to enjoy the sunset. The sky had that volcano-red look.

  Back in the room after walking awhile, she went to the bathroom while he settled in the bed. When she came back in, she was dressed in one of his T-shirts. She smiled at him and climbed in to cuddle up to him, her arm across his chest.

  “Does this keep you awake?” she asked.

  “No,” Harry said.

  “Would you tell me if it did?”

  This time Harry thought for a moment. “No,” he said.

  “Do you want me to move away?”

  That one he was sure of and pulled her closer to him. “No,” he replied. It was the only thing that kept him from thinking of someone bursting through the door and shooting them, and he held her a little tighter.

  Thirteen

  Rendon sat at his desk and felt guilty. Earlier, he’d sent Gaines’s diskette with the hidden files on it over to one of the computer whizzes. What if it contained a list of all the men she’d slept with? He should have taken the disk back to her house and left it there.

  He’d told Cougher about the incident, and the man had shrugged and said it was inadvertent, and as long as Rendon had it, he might as well…Damn. Cougher had been much more upset about going over there to begin with, saying that it was police work searching people’s apartments—not the CDC’s—than he had been at the accidental possession of the data disk.

  The halls were quiet outside his office. Most of the county workers had already gone home. The air felt warm against his skin—too warm. The building always kept the faint odor of human sweat, like an old abandoned gymnasium.

  The day had been going like the room smelled. Rendon wrinkled his nose, loosened his tie, and brushed the hair back from his forehead. He wished he’d gotten a number from the reporter, Harry Adams.

  The phone conversation with the man had not felt right to Rendon. Perhaps he should have told the reporter that the Abu woman was wanted by the police in connection with the murder of a cop. That might have brought on a different reaction. Or did he know already? Rendon brushed at his hair again. Surely the reporter already knew that the woman was wanted, but if he did, and he knew how to reach her, then Adams was harboring a suspect. Rendon reached for the phone to call the police.

  The door to the office swung open and crashed against the wall. Cougher strode through, his face red, his breathing loud. “There’s been another death. And this time it was an athlete—a second-string guy from one of the pro teams.”

  “What?” Rendon dropped his hand from the phone.

  “Don’t know his name, but we got a call. The man keeled over at one of the tryouts. Died just like that. The ambulance was called but couldn’t save him. Newspaper must have picked up on the call, ’cause one of the reporters is on his way down here at this moment.”

  Rendon clenched his hands. “What do we have to do? We’re moving as fast as we can.”

  Cougher shook his head. “I’ve got somebody going down to the hospital where they took the man. We’ll get a complete report by tomorrow, but it sounds the same. I’ll have them check for drugs too, just in case. Any word on those missing files on that diskette of yours?”

  “Not yet,” Rendon said. “If it was a list of people Gaines had invited to parties, it would be a miracle. And if the athlete’s name was on it…”

  “Well, hurry them up. We need something. The press is going to be on us like fleas on fur, and right behind them will be the Georgia Games Committee and the director behind all of them. Oh hell.”

  The old office chair squeaked when Rendon leaned back. “Did the athlete have any prior complaints?”

  “None that we know of, but he was going to a tryout for the team. He probably wouldn’t have told anybody if he did.” Cougher paused and rubbed his jaw. “Wonder if they gave him a physical and took some blood? Check on that, will you?”

  “Right away and I’ll call about the diskette.”

  Cougher walked o
ff without closing the door. Rendon sat in stunned silence. It had started again.

  Andrews ran down the street, pushing people out of the way and cursing under his breath. Someone had picked him up. When? His heart pounded, and though the air was cool, sweat poured down his brow. If anyone from the agency knew of his meeting with Robb, there would be trouble. He grimaced at the thought. He would have to disappear.

  He turned down a side street and continued to jog along as he passed the side of a hotel. With a quick look behind him, he ducked into the darkened entranceway marked for deliveries and then pushed his way into the freight entrance for the hotel. Levering open the heavy door and slowing his pace to not attract attention, he worked his way to the public levels. The escalator was crowded. He hurried through the lobby and did not look back. The doorman flagged him a cab, and leaning down low, he instructed the driver to take him to the Hyatt.

  Once there, Andrews worked his way to the restaurants, through the kitchens, and then slipped out with a delivery of bread, convincing the driver to give him a ride to the next stop. It cost a hundred dollars and a story about a beautiful woman and an angry husband.

  The driver sympathized and gave advice. Never stay at the same hotel twice. Andrews thanked him, assured the man that he never would again, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  Another cab took Andrews back to his motel. There he settled into a chair and stared at the concrete walls.

  What was he doing? Risking his career and retirement, his life possibly—on what? A slender intuition that the agency was involved in the production of a virus that was killing people in Atlanta and was covering it up while people died?

  Why should he care if they were involved? It wasn’t his business to clean up after the agency.

  He stood up and paced across the threadbare royal-red carpet. What he really should do is take what he learned from the lab, give it to the new control, and then back out. Let them handle it. There was no use losing everything on a whim.

  If he was right, the agency would find a way to contain the virus, now that they had learned it had broken loose. There was no bringing back the dead. He stopped. That was always the way it was: the dead were gone, the living more important, one life less important than two. Decisions were made. People died.

  Others lived on in ignorance that their existence had been threatened. Chance had pervaded in their favor. If the decision was wrong? There was no accountability. It was just another mistake. Nothing was changed.

  He went back to his chair and sat down. The finish on the arm of the chair was half rubbed off. He glared at it momentarily. Despite what many thought, there were very few widespread conspiracies, just individuals in hierarchies who made decisions. Sometimes the motives were good, but when did the ends ever justify the means? The phone rang, and he picked it up. On the other end, the voice was deeply accented.

  “Will Andrews?”

  “Yes.” Andrews got out a pencil and started to write. The only ones who knew the number were the Israelis. They had found out what he wanted to know. Dr. Hollinghurst had been involved in an agency project to develop a biological weapon. It had been a joint effort with the Russians located down in the South American rain forest. Something had gone wrong. The project director had disappeared. It was being investigated. There was a team down in South America already. It had been one of the first such joint projects. There was no other information. Andrews thanked the man and hung up the phone.

  Ree narrowed her eyes until all that showed was dark. She stared at him a moment and then went out the door, closing it softly. The room was warm, and the table light lit all but the farthest corners. The smell of dust pervaded the room.

  Harry sighed. There it was again—that look of hers. What was she asking with those eyes? Why did he have to want her so bad?

  Her behavior had changed. Last night, this morning, she had suddenly become much more like the girl he had met in the club. She’d even started calling him “sweet” again. Was this the real Kara-Ree Andrews? He had come to believe that Kara-Ree Andrews was her real name.

  He took his clothes, what few he had, and hers and put them into her pink bag. The thing was loaded with makeup bottles, razors, perfumes, and plastic containers of unrecognizable substances. The technology of dance.

  He pulled the zipper across and then went to the bed and lay down. Outside, he could hear the sounds of the day beginning. Cars crossed the intersection below. No one beeped their horn. It was not Atlanta. The white-painted plaster walls grew brighter as the sun rose.

  Ree had ostensibly gone on a walk. In truth, she would walk one of the side streets that ran parallel to the main street. When she had walked a half hour and past the police station, she would break across yards, making her way over to the main street. Harry would pick her up there, presumably leaving the person who was following her back on the side street, far from their car and the possibility of quick pursuit. It seemed a good enough plan.

  Thirty minutes later, he got into the Chevy, looked around, and then pulled a U-turn. He drove down the road, barely able to keep his speed within the limit.

  Moments later, Ree emerged from the bushes on the side of the road just as Harry drove past. He slammed the brakes, the car came to a halt, and she jumped inside. Squealing the wheels, he accelerated off and took the next main road south.

  There seemed to be no one following them. Ree kept her gaze to the rear. They turned east and soon entered on to the interstate. Still, no one behind them.

  The trip to Savannah lasted around ninety minutes. It was uneventful except for three radar traps, cleverly disguised as state patrol cars hidden behind bushes. Harry eluded the radar traps easily. He drove the speed limit.

  When I-16 ended, he continued on through the Savannah city streets until he reached the Riverfront area. It was a tourist trap with many victims. They could easily lose themselves in the crowd. Besides, he liked the area. He turned left and then drove through the underground entrance to the Hyatt. He found a parking space across from the elevators, and they were soon registering at the hotel, Mr. and Mrs. Harry Adams. Ree took his arm as they went up the glassed-in elevator. Below, the people in the lobby rapidly grew small.

  Their room looked out onto the river. A brownish green, it hardly looked wide enough for ships, yet upriver, he could see huge tankers at dock. A few tourists strolled down the cobbled street below. A car bumped by them. He’d read the story. The stones that made the road were the ballast from ships that had come over from England or Europe. England, he guessed.

  Ree sat behind him on the bed. When he turned to look at her, he found her gaze riveted to his. He looked away, uncomfortable and fascinated with the intensity of her look. “Would you like to go out to the stores?” he said.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “I need to get some more clothes, I guess.”

  “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I do…sweet. Let’s go.” She got up with a characteristically sinuous movement, half unwinding, half standing. The black leggings looked to have no end. Harry took her hand, and they walked back to the elevators, down five floors, and then out through the lobby. The air outside was brisk. The sun shone.

  The clothes stores were in the market area, some blocks away. Ree walked close to him. She was just tall enough to fit under his arm. She curled close and walked in rhythm to his steps. He shortened his stride. The blocks passed quickly.

  Stores and outdoor cafes with their chairs packed inside for the winter lined the pedestrian walkway. Ree bought several pairs of jeans. They were expensive.

  He bought one. She bought him two more T-shirts and then smiled when she held them up to his shoulders to check the size. He felt domestic. Mr. and Mrs. Harry Adams go shopping in Savannah. It felt a relief from Mr. and Mrs. H. Adams, desperadoes on the run.

  She purchased several blouses, assorted underwear, and i
nsisted on going back to places they had been before where she would pick over the same clothes she had previously looked at. When she was through, Harry was loaded with five bags, none heavy, just bulky. She had bought them both jackets, which they both wore. It was getting cooler. They looked like twins.

  The afternoon soon to be gone, they entered one of the small cafes. Ree sat across from him.

  She ordered a burger and reached out for his hand when the waitress left. “Do you eat at restaurants when you’re at home?”

  He grimaced. “Yeah. I do. I don’t cook too much.”

  “Mostly fry TV dinners, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. Would she give him a lecture on how when two people lived together they should share everything, including the cooking? And why? Didn’t he know how to cook, or was he too lazy? And why not, he thought. If they both worked, why should the woman do all the cooking and cleaning? He didn’t know.

  “I like to cook,” she said, surprising him from his musings. “I like to go out, too.”

  “Do you really like to cook?”

  “Yes. I don’t like to clean up, though.”

  “That’s OK. That’s what dishwashers are for.”

  She smiled. “You’re a regular chauvinist pig, aren’t you, Mr. Harry?”

  His eyes widened. She squeezed his hand, her smile not changing at all.

  He blinked. “Well, no. I, uh, I mean, I believe people should be allowed to work to their ability and get paid based on that, not their sex or—”

  “Not that, in the house,” she said, interrupting.

  “I’d be willing to help.”

  “You are, aren’t you?” The smile was still there.

  “O-OK. I am. Oink, oink.”

  “I just want to be treated like a person, Harry. Like Kara-Ree.” She took back her hand.

  “And do I?”

  “Very much. That’s what I…like about you. You respect me, listen to me.” She paused a second. “Wait for me.”

  “I try to.”