Coming . . . closer . . . closer . . .
Now.
He let go of the rope, and the log swung down in a perfect arc, not even twisting. He’d remembered to tie the end of the fetching rope to a little branch so he wouldn’t lose it when he let the log go. This made it easy to pull it back into position for another trial.
He practiced for a few more minutes, until he had a good feel for the timing he’d need, then he pulled the log up and tied the fetching rope to a branch so the whole thing would be hidden from view.
Back on the ground, he approached the catalpa from both directions on the path to make sure the log couldn’t be seen. Of course he could see it through the leaves because he knew it was up there. But he didn’t think anyone else would. Before leaving, he cut down a small tree a good distance from the catalpa and used it like a big brush to freshen the trampled weeds around the old tree. He wiped his prints from the hatchet and wrapped it in the rag. On the way home, he threw the hatchet in a deep pool in Aker’s creek.
There was never much food in the house, so he was always hungry. Seven days a week, dinner consisted of white beans and cornbread, and in the summer, whatever vegetables his mother’s little garden produced. On Sunday, sometimes his mother would add a little chicken or pork to the beans if they could afford it. Breakfast was a piece of cornbread and a glass of water. Lunch was nonexistent. It was monotonous fare, but because he was perpetually hungry, he always looked forward to dinner. And with all the work he’d just done, he now felt as though there was a hole drilled completely through him where his stomach should be.
That night, in his dreams, he was in the tree practicing. But his mind never put Jimmy Demarco in the picture, so the big log always swung down and hit nothing.
Needing to be in the tree well before Demarco passed, he left the house the next morning a half hour early, telling his mother he’d promised his teacher he’d clean all her erasers before school.
Fifteen minutes later, he was in the old catalpa tree, poised and ready, the rope coiled in his hand so it wouldn’t catch on anything when he let it go. He heard the clatter of Demarco’s bike before he saw him. Then he came into view, standing up as he pedaled to get over the little hill leading to the old tree.
Having bested the hill, Demarco settled into his seat and pedaled on. It was all happening so fast there was no time to think or anticipate. Ash let the rope go, and the big log swung down.
When it hit Jimmy, his bicycle skittered off into the weeds. But Jimmy wasn’t with it, because he was stuck on the spikes bristling from the log. The Jimmy-log swung up and then reversed direction, retracing its original arc until Jimmy’s feet dragging on the ground brought it to a stop.
Ash watched from above for a few seconds to see what would happen next, but Jimmy just hung there, not moving.
Ash climbed down and looked at what he’d done. One spike had gone into Jimmy’s head just above his ear. The one below was in his neck. The upper wound wasn’t bleeding at all, but blood from his neck wound had already soaked his shirt all the way to the cuff on his sleeve. And it was still dribbling from around the spike.
Looking at him, Ash found the whole scene extremely interesting, like a white garter snake or a toad so flattened and dry on the road you could sail it like a Frisbee. It was already too late to stop the TR taunting. That would continue no matter what he did. But Jimmy Demarco wouldn’t ever do it again, or hit a baseball, or ride his bicycle, or drink lemonade. He had stopped Jimmy from doing all those things. He recognized the severity of the punishment he had inflicted on Jimmy, but felt no sorrow for the boy, because it had all been Jimmy’s fault.
LOOKING BACK ON it, sitting there against the Fairborns’ house, Ash was amazed at how inept the county sheriff had been in his investigation of Jimmy’s death. He had asked him a few questions along with all the other kids who knew Jimmy, but that was it. No one had even picked up on his lie about the erasers.
There’d been some kids knocking mailboxes over around that time, and everyone had come to believe that’s who killed Jimmy. But the sheriff never figured out who they were either.
But that was all in the past. And now there was work to do. Ash got to his feet, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves from his pants pocket, and crept around to the back of the house.
Chapter 27
WHEN HE’D SEARCHED the house earlier in the evening, Ash had opened the door into the laundry room with a credit card . . . a credit card, for Christ’s sake. So he couldn’t help but think that Fairborn wasn’t as smart as everybody said.
Gun in hand, he entered again through the same door. Guided by nightlights, he moved quietly through the kitchen and stepped into the carpeted hall that led to the study.
From his previous excursion through the house, he knew that the Fairborns’ bedroom was to his right at the end of the hall. Before proceeding, he looked at their closed door to make sure it wasn’t opening. Satisfied, he moved down the hall and went into the study, also dimly lit by a nightlight.
He went directly to the TV, which was still connected to the camcorder. Needing more illumination, he got out his penlight and played the beam over the area, looking for the tape.
Not there.
So it must still be in the camera. This was perfect. He’d been aware on his earlier visit that when the tape came up missing, it was likely Fairborn and Collins would realize why it had been stolen. And when they learned about the other job he had to do tonight, everybody would start digging harder. But he’d had no choice. He had to take the tape. But now, if he also took the camera, they might think it was just a simple burglary. He needed to be sure, though, that the tape really was in the camera.
Leaning closer, he examined the camera looking for . . .
There it was.
He put the penlight in his mouth and pressed the camera’s eject button. With a gentle whirr and a tiny click, the tape compartment popped open. And there was the tape. Leaving it in place, he closed the compartment and unplugged the audio and video cables from the TV.
SAM FAIRBORN HAD always possessed a remarkably acute sense of hearing. And while certain of his other faculties had eroded with age, that had not. The very slight sound of the laundry room door opening had not awakened him, but it had brought him from a deep sleep to a shallow slumber. When the tape compartment on the camera opened, so did his eyes, and he sat up.
WITH THE CAMERA cradled in one hand, his gun in the other, and his penlight still in his mouth, Ash looked around for more to take, something small and visible so he wouldn’t have to open a drawer or a cabinet.
IN THE BEDROOM, Fairborn listened for another noise, but he heard nothing. Nevertheless, he got out of bed, went to the closet, and got his shotgun. A shotgun was a great weapon for shooting rodents outside, but a clumsy one for defending yourself in the house. But it was all he had.
Always slow to wake, his wife slept on.
Sam went to the bedroom door, which was not latched, and slowly pulled it open, lifting the doorknob to lessen the chances of any hinge squeak. His finger on the shotgun’s trigger, he looked into the hallway. Seeing no one, he moved into the hall and started toward the study.
WHEN HE’D BEEN in the house earlier, Ash had been thinking only of the tape and hadn’t paid much attention to anything else. So he didn’t have any memory of what he might steal in addition to the camera. Certainly nothing on the mantel looked valuable enough to promote the fiction that the camera had been taken in a routine burglary.
FAIRBORN GLANCED INTO the kitchen.
Nothing there.
He crept forward along the hallway and looked into the study.
Oh my God. His legs grew weak. There . . . over by the mantel. Someone was in the house.
Sam suddenly began to tremble. Conflicting thoughts barked for his attention.
If Sam shot
into the study, the damage to the house from the blast would be horrendous. Better to warn the guy and hold him for the cops.
But the prowler was probably armed. Warning him would give him an opportunity to shoot first. Sam remembered reading an article that said crooks always have the advantage in a showdown because law-abiding people hesitate to shoot. Crooks don’t.
So Sam told himself to just fire the damn shotgun.
But he might kill the guy. At the very least, the prowler would be maimed. Could he do that?
Absolutely.
He raised the gun to aim it, but his elbow hit the wall behind him, and the gun fired before he was ready, filling the house with a deafening blast.
Chapter 28
“DR. MCKEE, THIS is Chris Collins. I was there yesterday with Sam Fairborn, talking to Bill Lansden. Is Dr. Lansden feeling well enough today for us to come back?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Collins, but Bill Lansden passed away last night.”
Though Chris hadn’t really known Lansden, having seen him alive just the day before, she was rocked by the news. “That’s terrible. What happened?”
“His heart stopped, and we couldn’t get it going again. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t think atrial fibrillation ever led to cardiac arrest.”
“That wasn’t the only heart problem he’d had in recent years,” McKee said.
“Was he married?”
“A widower, I believe.”
“At least that keeps his death from destroying another life,” Chris said.
“It’s sad, though, to die alone.”
“He didn’t have any relatives?”
“We found an aunt who’s handling the funeral arrangements, but they apparently weren’t close. If you’ll excuse me, I’m being paged.”
After hanging up, Chris sat for a moment reflecting on McKee’s comment about dying alone . . . It was more than sad, it was horrible to contemplate. To have your life mean so little that when you leave it, there’s no one to hold your hand or stroke your brow. It was her worst fear, and the way she was going, far too likely a prospect.
Shaking off those thoughts, she called Sam Fairborn’s number to tell him the news, but the line was busy.
Lansden dead. How were they going to get that name now? The CDC had more than eight thousand employees scattered all over the world. And Lansden was in Kazakhstan over a decade ago. Who else would know that name? If Lansden had been married, his wife might have known. Maybe Fairborn could come up with an idea.
She tried his number again, but it was still busy.
Though it was hard to concentrate, she reviewed the hospital’s infection reports for the last week, then tried Fairborn again.
Still busy.
Wanting badly to discuss their next move with him, she decided to just drive out to his home. Perhaps it was the conversation with McKee about Lansden dying alone, or maybe it was simply that she hadn’t spoken to Michael at all about Sam Fairborn and what he’d found. Whatever the reason, she paged Michael now, leaving the number of her cell phone.
Without waiting for him to respond, she headed for her car. He called back just as she slid behind the wheel.
“Hi, Chris. It’s funny you should call. I was just thinking that we hadn’t spoken for a couple days and needed to make contact.”
“Some things have happened you should know about. Are you free to take a ride?”
“Sure.”
“Where are you?”
“Monteagle, checking on one of my few remaining patients.”
“I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes out front.”
On the way to Monteagle, Chris tried Fairborn’s number again, but it was still busy.
Michael was waiting for her when she arrived. Despite the stress she was under, the sight of him lifted her spirits.
When he got in, he banged his knee on the dash.
“Sorry.”
“I’m okay. Where are we going?” he asked, sliding his seat back.
“Ever heard of Sam Fairborn?”
“From the CDC? Sure.”
For the next few miles Chris related what Fairborn had discovered, and their visit with Lansden. “But when I called the hospital this morning, I learned that Lansden died last night.”
“That is one weird story. And you think the Kazak virus is what killed our nurses and the others?”
“How could it not be involved? But Lansden said none of the blood and tissue samples he took in the field ever got to the States.”
“What happened to them?”
“It was so hard to communicate with him, we didn’t even try to pursue that, but he indicated there was another man from the CDC in Kazakhstan with him. So we went after that name, thinking he’d be a lot easier to talk to. Lansden kept calling him Ember, but when we asked him if that was what he really meant, he said no. Or rather, he blinked no. When he spoke, he often used the wrong words.”
“Was he married?”
“No. I thought of that, too.”
“Maybe someone at the CDC, who was there when Lansden was in Kazakhstan, would remember who was with him. Or there could be some old records that would tell us.”
“That’s why we’re going to see Fairborn. It’s his territory. And he’s someone you should meet anyway.”
For the next couple of miles, Michael quietly mulled over everything Chris had told him. Then he said, “Suppose we do find this guy. What could he possibly say that would explain what happened? If the samples never got to the States, they couldn’t be the source of the virus that killed those people. Why does the lethal virus appear to be tied to the transplant virus? And why is your father still alive?”
“Can’t answer your first two questions, but as for my father, we think the respiratory illness he had in New Mexico was a hanta infection. Antibodies to that organism probably protected him from the Kazak hanta.”
“Ash could tell us if that’s true.”
“He’s already working on it.”
“Boy, I have been out of the loop.”
“It wasn’t intentional. There was just so much happening.”
“It’s okay.”
“We better make sure Fairborn doesn’t leave before we arrive. Get my cell phone out of my bag, will you, and call him. Just hit redial.”
“He doesn’t know we’re coming?”
“His phone’s been busy all morning.”
And it was again.
“At least he’s still there,” Chris said.
Just before they reached the Fairborns’ cottage, Chris realized it might be Ann on the phone and that Sam could be away. But no, their car was in the drive.
“Pretty place,” Michael said as Chris pulled to a stop.
“He’s a gardener.”
They got out, and Chris led the way to the porch, where she rang the bell. While they waited, a mockingbird in a flowering cherry showed them what he could do, his song setting his whole body in motion like a little bellows.
Chris rang the bell again.
“Hope he doesn’t come to the door in his pajamas,” Michael said.
“He doesn’t strike me as a man who sleeps late.”
They stood there for another minute, then Michael said, “Maybe the bell isn’t working.”
This time Chris knocked.
Still no answer.
“They could be out back,” Chris said.
Michael followed her to the wrought iron gate that led to the rear of the house.
“Dr. Fairborn . . . it’s Chris Collins. Are you there?”
But they heard only the buzz of a nearby bee.
“Dr. Fairborn?”
Chris opened the gate, went inside, and followed the brick walkway to the rea
r patio and garden. Seeing no one, she continued through the garden to the potting bench which, as Fairborn mentioned earlier, had recently been given a fresh coat of brown paint. But he wasn’t there.
Michael walked back to the house and tried to look inside through the drape over the sliding glass doors to the study. Unable to see anything, he knocked on the glass.
No answer.
He looked at Chris. “Let’s try the phone again.”
They went back out front, and Chris gave that another try.
“Still busy.”
Michael scowled. “This is weird.” He walked back onto the porch and tried the door.
It wasn’t locked. He pushed the door open and put his head inside. “Dr. Fairborn . . . is anyone home?”
He went into the little foyer and started to call out again, but all he got out was “Doc—” for on the floor, where a hallway led to the left, he saw a slippered foot and part of a leg.
Thinking that Fairborn might have had a heart attack and was still alive, Michael rushed forward. When he saw the entire situation, he froze. Fairborn was lying on his left side, facing away from him. His scalp was torn into twin starbursts from two gunshots delivered with the muzzle of the gun so close to his head the gases had exploded the skin. There wasn’t much blood associated with those wounds, but the front of his pajamas looked to be soaked with it. Behind Michael, from where she saw the body as clearly as he, Chris’s legs grew weak.
Michael knelt and put a finger on Fairborn’s neck to feel for a pulse, then quickly pulled back. “He’s already cold. We need to call the police.”
Chris looked into the study. Seeing a lot of damage over by the fireplace, she went inside to inspect it more closely.
“I don’t think we should be doing that,” Michael said.
Ignoring him, Chris surveyed the wreckage of a TV and a splintered magazine rack. “This looks like shotgun damage,” she said. “He must have fired on whoever did that to him. But where’s the gun?” Then she got an ugly premonition that things were even worse than they looked. “Oh God . . . his wife, Ann.”
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