by Gary Glass
“Who’s that?” Benford said.
“Private Aikes,” said the commandant.
Aikes lowered his weapon, then dropped it on the pavement. He stepped backward, staggering slightly, till he came up against the wall of the guard booth.
Roger followed him, staying close to him. Then, as he had helped steady Partridge, he helped steady Aikes, and led him back into the guard booth.
The steel mesh gate slid aside. Roger walked Aikes out of the booth and helped him sit down on the ground. He left him there, leaning against the wall of the booth, and walked out through the gate and down the road, finally disappearing into the darkness beyond the camera’s reach.
“Well, shit.”
For half a second Marley didn’t realize that he was the one who’d said it first.
“The escape was not discovered until 0400 when Private Aikes’ relief came on duty,” the commandant said.
“Sergeant, didn’t you see those two men sitting on the ground outside?” Benford said.
“Yes, sir,” Sydney said. “I just thought they were loafing.”
“Patrols have been out since 0400,” the commandant said. “No trace of Sturgeon. We alerted the local police at 0630.”
“What did you tell them?” Marley said.
“We provided photographs and a physical description of the patient. We told them he was infected with a highly contagious disease. He should not be touched or approached or even, if possible, alerted to police interest. They should keep their distance and notify us the moment he turns up. We’ve also been trying to reach Sturgeon’s wife.”
“You haven’t been able to?” Benford said.
“Not yet. No answer.”
“Have the police send someone to her residence.”
“Will do, sir.”
A man in orange shirt and trousers walks along the sidewalk of a downtown street in the small hours of the night. He walks with shuffling steps, dragging the loose heels of his white plastic slippers. The night is chilly, but he wears no coat.
The empty street faintly echoes with the sound of music and laughter. Ahead of him he sees a couple emerge from a glass doorway under a violet neon sign. The couple turn toward him. With exaggerated grace the man catches the woman’s hand in his, and they dance their way out of the pool of purple light. After a few steps, they suddenly stop and embrace. They kiss each other passionately, but lose their balance and stagger over against a lamppost. Their laughter echoes noisily in the street.
The man in orange is quite close to them now.
The couple see him, and the man, while keeping hold of his partner’s arm, bows low, saying: “Evening, friend!”
The woman follows his lead and curtsies daintily, but stumbles a little.
The man in orange does not reply.
The couple laugh again and leaning together continue down the quiet street.
The man in orange continues to the doorway under the violet sign and goes inside.
There is a long bar, beginning near the door and extending away on the left side. A line of booth tables runs the length of the opposite wall. Most of the booths are empty. Recorded music is playing. Muted video screens suspended behind the bar flicker with sports programs. Banks of colorful liquor bottles flirt with the ever-changing light.
A tight knot of men are sitting and standing around the near end of the bar talking with the bartender. They turn when the man in orange enters. The man walks past them and takes the first open stool. They all track him. One of them says: “Evening, pardner.”
He doesn’t reply.
The bartender steps before him and looks at him dubiously. “Can I help you?” he says.
“Where am I?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where are we?”
“The Purple Pony. Did you want something?”
“What city is this?”
The bartender glances over at the knot of men and winks. “What’s wrong with you?” he says to the new customer.
“Do you have a phone?”
“No. Do you need a ride back to the ship?”
“He’s not on the ship — was’n on the ship,” says one of the men, seated on the nearest stool — an older man, bald and bleary-eyed. He leans closer.
“Where you come from, pal? Why you dressed up like that?”
The man in orange looks at him mildly. “Chicago,” he says.
Behind the bald man, the others in the group are whispering:
“I’ve seen him somewhere…”
“He looks like—”
“He’s that— Hey, Jake! Don’t he look like that guy on the news? That guy with the disease?”
Jake, the bartender, abruptly stands taller. “The IDD guy?” he says. “Shit, you’re right! — Ain’t you that IDD fella?”
“No.”
“Sure you are!” says the bald man. “You know:” [robotically] “I would-like-you to-ask-me what-I would-like-you to-ask-me what-I — Say, what’s your name, man?”
“Roger.”
“My name is Sal. — Imagine that happened right here in Alaska! — Jake, give the man a beer! — Shoot, we got a real live celebrity here!”
“He got money?” says the bartender.
“It’s on me, damnit!”
Then Sal throws an arm over Roger’s shoulders. “Why you dress like that? Did they let you out on a pass? You going on a bender?”
“I want to make a call,” Roger says. “I need a phone.”
“Sure you do. Sure you do. Who you wanna call, man?”
“My wife.”
Sal begins to root deeply into a pocket, searching for his phone. “She gonna come pick you up, is she?” he says. “But you should stay a while! You should stay and have a drink with us. It’s early!”
Not finding the phone, he begins searching another pocket.
“Anyway! I want to ask you something. What’s going on anyway? You don’t, you don’t seem too sick to me. I would like you to ask me what I would, I would — I would like you — I would like you to ask me — something.” Sal breaks up, laughing. “I would like you to ask me! I would like you to ask me!”
The bartender returns from the tap with a frosted mug of beer.
“Are you still sick, man?” he says.
“I’m not sick,” Roger says.
“They figured out how to fix it?—” Sal locates his phone at last: “Here it is!” He presents the little phone to Roger.
“Here, use my phone. Check in with the wife. Just tell her you’re just gonna have a couple more beers, OK? We’ll get you home OK. Don’t worry about that. All right? Where you live?”
“Chicago.”
“Chicago!” Sal cries. “Well, I don’t know. Dontcha know nobody here?”
“I don’t want to call them. I want to call my wife. I want to go home.”
“Doesn’t your wife know you’re here?” Jake says.
“Wait a second,” Sal says, pulling back the cuff of his left sleeve. “Wait a second now.”
He consults his watch, but finds himself unable to read it.
“Roger, buddy,” he says, “s’awful late in Chicago anyway. — No, it’s morning. — What time’s it in Chicago, Jake?”
“How should I know?” Jake says. “It’s past three here. So that’s about—”
“Right. Muss be near daylight there. Never mind.” Sal pushes the little phone into Roger’s hands. “Go on use my phone. Go ahead.”
Roger opens it and carefully punches in a number.
Sal is anxious. “Is she there?” he says.
Roger listens to it ring. No one answers.
“Keep trying,” Sal says. “She’s prolly sleepn.”
The ringing stops and a male voice answers: “Hello?”
“Hello?” Roger says. “Who’s this?”
“This is Bud,” says the voice, with a smile. “Who’s that?”
“This is Roger.”
“This your phone, Roger?”
“This i
s Karen’s phone. Where are you?”
“I’m in Wisconsin. Where are you?”
“I’m in the Purple Pony. Is Karen there?”
“Who’s Karen?”
“My wife.”
“Your wife?” Bud is very amused. “This is your wife’s phone?”
“Yes,” Roger says.
“Well, my friend, I got some bad news for you. Your wife done throwed her phone into a dumpster back of a charge station. I know cause I just fished it out of my truck to answer it.”
Roger didn’t say anything for a long moment.
In the bar, the whole group is standing over Roger in suspense.
“What’s wrong?” Sal says. “Not her? Who is it?”
Sal and the bartender exchange a knowing look.
Bud is laughing on the phone now. “You still there, man?”
“You are in Wisconsin?” Roger says.
“I am in Wisconsin,” Bud says, chuckling. “Black River Falls, Wisconsin. Anything else you want to know?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s been real good talking to you, pal. Gotta get back to work now. Got a lot more stops to make yet. But best of luck finding the old lady again! Bye!”
There is a crunching sound. Then the line is dead.
Chapter 33
Benford assembled the project team leads in the main conference room. She was at the lectern. Secretary Pritzker and General Harden were on the wall screens behind her, along with a few of their staffers and assistants. Marley and Delacourt were seated together in the front row, near the lectern.
Benford had had the security commandant cut the various views together into a continuous film of Roger’s escape. She opened the meeting with it.
When it was over, Pritzker’s response was succinct: “Holy Christ.”
“We’ve told the local police as little as possible,” Benford said. “We’ve impressed upon them that Sturgeon is extremely dangerous, but only because he has a dangerously infectious disease. They don’t need to know what disease or what’s dangerous about it.”
“I wish we knew the answer to that ourselves,” someone said.
“Save the wisecracks,” Benford snapped.
“I’m sure they’ll put two and two together,” Pritzker said. “They’ll assume it’s IDD. It’s been the only thing on the news for a week.”
“Yes, sir,” Benford said.
“Do the police have permission to shoot?” someone else asked.
“No, they do not.”
“I don’t want any intervention of that kind,” General Harden said from the Pentagon, “without my express permission.”
“Yes, sir,” Benford said.
“All right,” she continued, looking around the room, “now we have to assume that anybody who tries to apprehend Sturgeon will suffer the same fate as Corporal Partridge and Private Aikes. They’re both now in isolation rooms on Unit A.”
“What about using a tranquilizer dart?” someone suggested.
“I thought of that too,” Benford said. “We’re trying to locate one. Not standard military equipment, of course. Hopefully someone at state wildlife management has something available, and someone who can do the shooting.”
Benford waved her hand to forestall any further discussion along these lines.
“Sturgeon will show up sooner or later,” she said, “and when he does, we’ll apprehend him. I’m not concerned about that. I want to discuss the new issue that the manner of his escape raises. It’s obvious from the tapes that he was able to deliberately infect two healthy, relatively unstressed individuals with IDD. What does—”
“Do we know that they really have IDD?” someone said. “We can see he did something to them, but—”
Benford cut him off. “Dave, can you show us the feeds from their rooms, please?”
Tyminski was running the media windows from his tablet at the back of the room. In a few seconds, views of both rooms came up on the wall behind Benford.
Partridge, the orderly, was curled up in a fetal position on the white floor of his white room, shivering and whimpering.
Aikes, the gate guard, sans weaponry but still in duty dress, was stalking up and down his identical room, twitching and grunting and hissing. Every few seconds he emitted a “Shhh!” Either he was trying to calm himself or he couldn’t finish the word shit.
“These are the most immediate cases we’ve had here,” Benford said. “Except for Dr. Marley most of us haven’t seen any cases this soon after breaking.” She looked at Marley. “Dr. Marley, your no-meds experiment is over. I’ve already had your other two subjects put back on their previous regimens. Obviously, as of 0400 this morning, we entered into a whole new phase of our war against IDD.”
Pritzker stirred on screen. “Exactly,” he said with emphasis. “This thing has just taken on a whole new complexion.”
“Yes, sir. And our posture toward it has to change accordingly. I suggest that we address ourselves to that issue in this meeting.”
“Agreed. So far we’ve been focused on containment. A lot of people in this country think we’ve gone too far already. Well, it’s clear now that we haven’t gone nearly far enough. How do you know this man isn’t walking around Juneau right now infecting people?”
“We don’t, Mr. Secretary. Though if he was, I assume we’d have been notified by the police.”
“Have there been any other reports of deliberate — I guess we’ll have to call them attacks? From anywhere else?”
“No, sir,” Harden said. “Nothing. This is the first so far as I know.”
At that moment Benford was buzzed on comm. The meeting stopped as she put her phone to her ear, listened for five seconds, acknowledged the information, then clicked off.
“The police have spotted Sturgeon in Juneau,” she said to the room. Turning to Marley, she said, “Dr. Marley, you’re with me. Dr. Delacourt, why don’t you come along as well.”
A small motorcade of Humvees carried Marley, Benford, Delacourt, and several aides and support personnel from Abrams. The local police sent a car to escort them to the scene. It met them at the bottom of Abrams Hill outside Douglas, and led them, sirens blaring, up Douglas Road along the shore of Gastineau Channel. The weather was chilly and damp. A shroud of heavy fog hung low over sea and shore. The lights of Juneau on the opposite shore shone feebly through the mist.
In the back of the last Humvee in the motorcade, Benford discussed tactics with Marley and Delacourt.
“Infecting those two enlisted men was a deliberate act,” Benford said. “It was hostile.”
“It could be argued it was self-defense,” Marley said, “considering that Roger is being held against his—”
“Everybody acts in what they perceive to be their own best interests. That doesn’t—”
“What about altruism?” Delacourt said.
“That doesn’t change the fact that the act itself was a hostile act,” Benford said. “It doesn’t change the fact that Sturgeon is capable of deliberately infecting other people with IDD, and that he will do so as a means of attaining his own ends. That makes him dangerous.”
“All right,” Marley said, hoping to de-escalate the dramatics. “Where is he?”
“He’s in a restaurant having breakfast.”
Marley smiled. Had Roger effected his escape from the hospital just so he could get a decent breakfast?
Benford continued: “You’re going to have to go in and talk to him and convince him to return to the hospital voluntarily.”
“Yes.”
Marley saw through the mist the elegant span of a bridge approaching. It was the bridge over the channel, connecting Juneau to West Juneau. The streetlights along the top of it hung like silver-blue flares in the misty air.
“We have to assume at this point,” Benford was saying, “that interfering with Sturgeon entails some degree of risk. I don’t want you going in alone, Carl.”
Everyone assumed from the first that Marley would act as n
egotiator.
“I don’t think you should go in with me, colonel,” he said. “He would find your presence too antagonistic.”
“Agreed. That’s why I asked Dr. Delacourt to come along.”
As usual, Benford was three steps ahead of everyone else.
“Are you up to it?” she said.
“Of course,” Delacourt said, cheerfully. “Ready for anything.”
“All right, good. Now—” Benford broke off to take another call.
The police escort led the little motorcade through the roundabout at the foot of the bridge and out onto it.
The mountains around the city stood like dark walls, holding up the heavy canopy of fog. Fishermen were heading out in their trawlers despite the weather, their running lights winking red and white out on the water.
Coming down off the bridge on the mainland side, the motorcade turned down Egan Drive, along the Juneau waterfront, heading downtown. While Benford talked on the phone — “Where was that?” “What time?” “Anything else?” — Marley studied the world beyond the window. It was good finally to be outside the Abrams compound. A fat white cruise ship lay wallowing at anchor before the city, its sharp snout seeming to loom over them, sniffing the town — Is it safe?
“What is it?” Delacourt said.
Marley turned his attention back inside the vehicle.
“Cruise ship,” he said.
“I meant the colonel’s call.”
Benford had just hung up.
“Nothing,” she said. “We’re almost there.”
They came to a stop on Main Street at the back of a crowd of people. The street was cordoned off fifty meters either side of The Purple Pony Tavern. There were dozens of local and state police in place, and swarms of curious locals and tourists milling about behind them.
They left their vehicles, and the police cleared a lane through the crowd for them. In the midst of it all, a local news crew was trolling for interviews. Marley overheard someone say, “I was there. I lettem use my phone.”
Inside the cordon they were greeted by a uniformed police officer.
“Colonel Benford?”
He shook her hand.
“I’m the officer in charge. Lieutenant Robinson.”
“Any change?” Benford said.