Chapter 31
“FRIEDA SEPANSKI, PLEASE.”
“This is she.”
Finally . . . Chris had called twice the night after her first attempt in Michael’s office and had tried again three times today. “Mrs. Sepanski, my name is Chris Collins. I’m a physician in Atlanta, and I’d like to talk to you about Eric Ash, who I believe was employed by Iliad Pharmaceuticals when you were there.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“Because you were the one who reported the company to the FDA for falsifying their hepatitis vaccine data. And I was hoping you might know if Ash was involved.”
There was silence at the other end.
“Mrs. Sepanski . . .”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I know, but surely you remember the details.”
“That’s not what I meant. Why do you want to dredge all that up again?”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t be interested if it wasn’t very important.”
“That part of my life is over. I don’t want to relive it.”
“Could you just tell me if Ash was involved?”
“Take my advice and stay away from him.”
“Why?”
“I’ve said too much already. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
The line went dead.
Chris closed her phone and reflected on what Frieda Sepanski had said. There was clearly a lot she could tell about Ash, but for some reason, she was afraid. Something must have happened to her after she’d blown the whistle on Iliad. All this convinced Chris even more that Ash was involved in the Fairborn murders. But as Michael would say, “What’s the big picture here?”
And what to make of Lansden’s death? The autopsy had found nothing suspicious. Maybe it was simply a coincidence of timing. It would have helped a lot if her CDC contact had been able to find out who had been in Kazakhstan with Lansden, but he hadn’t. Needing to clear her head, she left her apartment and went to her car.
FORTY MINUTES LATER, Chris pulled to a stop at the entrance to Stone Mountain Park and rolled down her window. As usual, on weeknights, Bill Spain was on duty.
“Hello, Dr. Chris,” Spain said, coming out of his kiosk. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better, Bill.”
“Heard about all the trouble you been havin’ at that hospital. How’s that goin’?”
“No new cases for several days, so I think it’s over, but keep your fingers crossed for us.”
He showed her one gnarled hand, his long index and middle fingers overlapped. “I’ll do that.” His other hand held the customary bottle of apple juice, which he gave her without comment. “It’s been on the cool side here the last few nights, but I see you’re wearin’ a jacket, so you should be fine.”
“I’m sure I will. Have a good one.”
Chris had not noticed that a black Chrysler had been following her since she’d left her apartment building’s parking lot. When she was about fifty yards into the park, that car stopped at the entrance kiosk, where the driver paid Bill the admission fee and told him to keep the change.
It was still early in the year, and the park roads were as deserted as usual. Then a pair of headlights appeared behind Chris. She much preferred making the short drive to the mountaintop service road without the intrusion of any other vehicles. But at least she was in the lead, so if there was any wildlife by the roads, she’d be the one to see it. And a few seconds later, she did spot a rabbit that darted off into the woods.
When her lights picked up the old familiar oak tree she used for a landmark, she slowed the car. Just beyond the tree, she turned onto the unmarked service road. When she reached the gate and got out to open it, she saw the black car pass the service road and keep going.
IN THE BLACK car, Earl Garland, freshly in from New Jersey, was assessing the situation. He’d come to Atlanta to kill Chris, but after seeing her picture, he’d decided that a long-range shot to the head with his sniper’s rifle would be wasting a valuable resource. Exploit the resource, then kill her, was the way he looked at it.
Of course, this meant a considerable increase in risk, but it was the old cost-benefit ratio. And to Earl, the benefits in this case clearly outweighed the cost, especially if, as he suspected, she was a natural redhead.
Figuring he’d gone far enough, he pulled off the road onto a service path and put the car in neutral. He didn’t know where that side road she’d taken went, but as deserted as this place was, if he followed her onto it, she’d probably become suspicious.
He waited a couple of minutes, then backed onto the pavement and returned to the road the target had taken. When he reached the gate, he stopped to think.
Where did this thing lead? He could see in his headlights that beyond the gate, the road rose steeply. Was this the service road to the top of the mountain? If so, what was up there?
He always liked to have a second escape route, but this looked like it could be the only way up. All his experience told him to leave it alone, pick another time and place. But that red hair . . .
ON THE MOUNTAINTOP, sitting in her favorite niche in the granite, Chris sat looking over the lights of Atlanta, wondering what to do about Frieda Sepanski. Would another call to the woman do any good? Probably not.
Then Chris’s mind turned to the Fairborns, and a thought like fingernails against a blackboard clamored for her attention. If Ash did kill the Fairborns to get that tape, those deaths, too, were on her head, because if she had never contacted Fairborn, he and his wife would still be—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car. Turning and looking up, she saw the mountaintop bathed in light. She heard the car stop. A door opened and closed. Someone stepped into view.
“Excuse me, miss,” a man’s voice said. “This part of the park is closed.”
Chris stood up. Though it was difficult to see much about the man because he was standing in the glow of his car headlights, he appeared to be dressed in jeans and a leather jacket.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m Chris Collins. I used to work at the park and have permission to be up here.”
“If you’re accustomed to visiting places like this at night, I hope you’re carrying something to protect yourself.”
“I have a little mace canister on my key ring. But I’ve been coming up here for years and have never had a problem.”
“Would you mind showing me some identification, please?”
Chris left the ledge and made her way up to where he was waiting. “My bag is in my car.” She gestured to her car and started toward it.
Suddenly, the man grabbed her from behind, and she felt something cold against her neck just below her chin. “Stay calm or I’ll bleed you out,” he hissed into her ear. “Where are your car keys?”
This can’t be happening, Chris thought. This wasn’t Metropolitan Boulevard. It was safe up here. And always had been.
But it was happening, and she was so scared she couldn’t remember where her keys were.
The arm across her chest tightened. “Keys.”
Where were they?
She remembered. “My jacket,” she croaked, her voice unrecognizable.
“Remove them slowly and throw them on the ground.”
Chris reached into her right pocket and found the keys.
“Slowly,” he reminded her. “If I feel your muscles tense, I’ll slit your throat.”
She removed the keys and held them up so he could see them. “I’m going to throw them now.”
“Just with your wrist.”
She flicked her wrist, sending her keys and her mace canister jangling to the pavement.
“Now drop your pants.”
No, not that, her brain howled. She’d once lost control of her car on
an icy patch and had believed she was about to hit another car head-on. Until now, that was the most frightened she’d ever been.
But this was worse.
Far worse.
And knowing that, her heart, her breathing, her brain, every system in her body, deserted her, unwilling to be a witness to this.
“I’m not a patient man,” he said, sliding the knife slightly against her skin. The resulting flow of warm blood forced her senses back to work. She undid her belt and her zipper and let her pants drop to her ankles, allowing the cool night air to assault her skin.
“All the way off.”
Holding the heels down with the opposite foot, she slid out of her cross trainers and stepped out of her pants.
“Now your panties.”
Unable to do otherwise, she followed his order . . . and stood there on the top of Stone Mountain half-naked.
He began pulling her toward her car, dragging her so fast her feet scraped the asphalt. Reaching her car, he pushed her face down onto the hood. Most of her mind tried once more to board a ship for distant ports, but a tiny part of it resisted. And that opposition spread, so she was soon able to think.
“Now I want you to turn over,” he said. “I’m going to remove the knife from your throat so you can do that. But if you make any sudden moves, I will cut you.”
She felt the knife withdraw.
“Slowly now . . . very slowly,” he said.
She turned onto her back and finally saw his face—an ordinary face, not that of a monster. And she knew then, because he’d made no attempt to hide his identity, that after he raped her, he planned to kill her. Eyes glittering in the penumbra of his car’s headlights, he stared at her coppery triangle.
“I knew it,” he said. He unzipped his pants, freed himself, and leaned onto her, the knife again at her throat.
In the instant before the act began, she knew what she had to do. Her hand slid into her jacket pocket, and her fingers curled around the small bottle of juice she hadn’t yet opened. She’d only have one chance, so she had to make it count.
Her assailant was so occupied with locating his destination he didn’t sense the movement of her arm as she pulled the bottle from her pocket and raised it as far as she could. Pouring all her fear into the stroke, she brought the bottle down, bottom first, in a powerful arc onto the back of his head. A breaking egg sensation ran up her arm, and without making a sound, he went limp on top of her.
Wanting to howl and beat her chest like an alpha gorilla, she shoved his knife hand away from her, disarmed him, and pushed him aside so he rolled off her and cascaded to the asphalt.
She got off the hood and put her foot heavily on the front of the man’s neck. “Now who’s got the upper hand, asshole.”
Having taking the edge off her need to gloat, she grabbed her clothes and pulled them on. She scooped up her keys, hurried around to the driver’s side of her car, and with a shaking hand, jammed the key in the lock. She wrenched the door open, tossed the knife onto the passenger seat, and threw herself behind the wheel. Quickly, she locked herself in.
From the moment she’d taken her foot off her attacker’s neck, her goal had been to just get dressed and get out of there. Now, as her car’s engine roared to life, and she pulled on the lights, she hesitated.
How easy it would be to put it in drive “by mistake” and run over this bastard as a parting gift. Resting on the transmission lever, her hand quivered with the desire to do that.
But she couldn’t, for she’d spent too many years saving lives to so easily take one—if he was even still alive.
She yanked the transmission into reverse, made a tight turn, and headed for the service road, her right hand digging in her bag for her cell phone. Finding the phone by touch, she slowed under a light pole so she could locate the button for the preset number of the park police.
“This is Chris Collins, I’ve been assaulted on the mountaintop, and you need to send someone up here. No . . . he’s unconscious, but I’m not staying here. I’m coming down to the station house.” She hit the disconnect button and headed for the service road.
A few seconds later, as she entered the mouth of the road, she looked in the mirror, and the joy of survival she’d felt a moment earlier was tainted by the sight of her attacker, barreling toward her in his car.
The slope of the road was steep and could not be traversed safely at high speed. Nevertheless, she poured on the gas.
For a couple of swift heartbeats, the road’s sharp descent hid the pursuing car from view, then it popped into sight, still coming fast. The only illumination of the pavement was her headlights, which, even on high, didn’t let Chris see far enough ahead to feel comfortable. And the thin metal rails lining the road were flashing by at a disturbing rate. One mistake at this speed, and she’d be into those rails and probably through them into the abyss beyond.
She was going far too fast, but absolutely didn’t want her assailant to catch her. She had no idea what he intended now and didn’t want to find out.
Too fast. Damn it, this wasn’t good.
But the car behind was slowly getting closer.
The gate below . . . It was closed. What would she do when she reached it? She couldn’t get out and open it. Her eyes strained to see beyond the limits of her lights. Where the hell were the park police?
As worried as she was about the car behind, she couldn’t make herself go any faster. She began to reason with herself. He just wants to escape, that’s all. If he catches up, he’ll simply pass on by, and it’ll be over.
Behind her, the pursuing vehicle was only a few car lengths back. It swung into the adjacent lane.
And still Chris didn’t see any sign of the cops.
The headlights of the other car pulled even with her rear bumper.
THE SEEPAGE FROM Garland’s head wound had now stopped, and the blood in his hair was beginning to clot. But it still felt like someone was using his brain as a polo ball. His eyesight was fine, though, and his hands were steady. He pressed the button that controlled the passenger window, and it disappeared into the door, letting in a hurricane. He picked up the silenced automatic in his lap and got ready, aware that he’d have only one shot.
He knew he should be concentrating on escape, but the bitch had hurt him, and now she had to pay.
CHRIS GLANCED QUICKLY to the left and saw that the black car was nearly even with her, but it was dark inside it, so she didn’t see the gun.
JUST A SECOND or two more, Garland thought.
Chapter 32
SEE, HE JUST wants to pass and get away safely, Chris thought. So just ease up on the gas and let him by, that same voice urged. Then another, more suspicious quarter was heard from. You nearly killed him. He has to be upset about that. What if he’s got a gun, and when your window is lined up with his . . .?
Her foot came off the gas and hit the brakes.
THERE WAS NO doubt in Garland’s mind the instant before he fired that the upholstery in the lousy slut’s car was about to be decorated with little pieces of her brain. But as the gun bucked in his hand, her car was suddenly yanked backward.
THE GLASS BESIDE Chris shattered, and she felt a burning sensation across the bridge of her nose. At almost the same instant, the window on the passenger side crystallized around a hole blasted through it. Stunned by all this, she flinched. The resulting tug on the steering wheel accentuated the rear-end slide her panic stop had induced, and her right rear wheel left the pavement.
Before she could react, the back half of her car collided with the metal rail, taking out one support after another, each second bringing her closer to the beckoning abyss. So disoriented she had no idea how to stop this deadly progression, she fought the steering wheel, spinning it one way then the other in mad confusion, out of control, out of luck.
HE’D MISSED, GARLAND was sure of it. He stomped on his brakes and slid to a stop, his car blocking the road. She’d destroyed a big section of the guard rail, and the ass end of her car was now hanging out in space, but it didn’t look like it was going over. He glanced down the road, toward the gate. If she had a phone in her car, she could have called for help by now.
A part of him urged that he accept the call as a fact and save himself. But she’d hurt him, and he still hurt. You just can’t let something like that pass. He pulled forward as much as he could, then put the car in reverse and backed up, bringing his headlights around to where they illuminated Chris’s car. Automatic in hand, he got out and ran toward her.
NO, CHRIS THOUGHT. Here he comes. She gunned her engine, but there was nothing for her tires to bite into.
Where were those cops?
Running was a horrible idea. Sitting there waiting for him was worse. She looked for the knife, but it had fallen off the seat and was hidden from her. With no time to look for it, she threw her door open and attempted to get out, the steep angle of the road making what should have been a simple act a fight.
She struggled onto the pavement and tried to get moving up the road, but the incline made her feel as though there were heavy rubber straps on her legs holding her back. At least that was also slowing the guy coming for her. She heard a sound like a willow switch being whisked through the air, and something ticked the sleeve of her jacket.
This was no good. She was making it too easy for him. She tried to run harder, but the fronts of her thighs were already burning. There was no way to escape. The mountaintop was too far away, and there was nothing there to save her even if she could reach it.
The Judas Virus Page 26