Before they reached it, the Red Baron came out with an old sword in one hand.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he said, squinting in the lights from the car.
“I’m Chris, and this is Michael. We met earlier today around the corner in front of the Iliad plant. I gave you five dollars.”
“What’s the matter, you want it back?”
“We want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Iliad Pharmaceuticals and anything you might be able to tell us about them.”
“What made you think of me?”
“You seem like someone who would have an observant eye.”
“Did Frieda send you?”
Remembering her promise to Frieda, Chris lied. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, I guess that’s right,” the old man said more to himself than to Chris. “I embarrass her, so she probably wouldn’t admit knowin’ me.” Then, back in the moment, he said, “Why are you askin’ about Iliad?”
“It’s a long story. One I’d rather not discuss.”
“Well, I don’t know anything. You wasted your time by comin’.”
Believing he might be afraid he was talking to someone with ties to Iliad, Chris said, “We don’t work for them. We’re doctors in Atlanta.”
“You could be from the Mayo Clinic, and it wouldn’t make any difference. I have nothin’ to tell.”
Chris produced her Good Samaritan ID and held it out so he could read it in the lights from the car. He leaned forward and took a good look.
Following Chris’s lead, Michael showed the old man his Monteagle ID.
“Atlanta, huh?” the old man said. “I lived there once. Had pneumonia and spent a week in the hospital. Wasn’t either one of those you work for. Can’t remember the name. I think it started with a G.”
“Grady?” Chris asked.
For the first time, the old man relaxed. “Suppose I did know somethin’. My time is valuable.”
“We’ll pay you, of course.”
“Then turn off those damn car lights and come here and sit.”
Beside his culvert, the old man had constructed a second room that consisted primarily of a roof of corrugated metal supported on one end by the top of the culvert, and on the other by two side-by-side fifty-five-gallon drums. Three strategically placed cement blocks held the roof in place. In this room, Chris saw his grocery cart.
Far back in the culvert, some short boards on more cement blocks served as a makeshift table. On the table, a little lamp with a heat-stained shade emitted a warm yellow glow. The floor of the culvert was lined by a rumpled sleeping bag on which there were a couple of paperbacks.
While Michael went back to the car to shut off the lights, the old man ducked into his storage room, where he got another cement block, which he brought out and stood on end in front of the culvert. By the time Michael had returned, the old man had brought out a second block and placed it a few feet from the first.
“It’s those or the ground,” he said, gesturing to the cement blocks.
While Chris and Michael squatted on their blocks, the old man took one off the roof and set it down for his own use.
“Where do you get the electricity for your lamp?” Chris asked.
“I tapped into a circuit on the outside of the buildin’ behind us. It wasn’t hard.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“I thought you wanted to talk about Iliad.”
“I do, but I’m curious about you as well.”
“Because I’m a freak?”
“No. I just find you interesting.”
“I don’t want to be interestin’. I just want to be left alone.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. What happened to your nose and hand?” he asked, referring to the bandages over the grazing bullet wounds she’d received.
“A little accident.”
“Another story you’d rather not discuss, I guess. You said you’d pay for information. How much?”
“Twenty dollars.”
The old man stood and picked up his cement block. “Good-bye.”
“Wait a minute . . . I thought you appreciated the art of negotiation.”
He put the block down. “I do. What’s the new offer?”
“It’s hard to put a price on something when you don’t know what you’re going to get.”
“Not my problem.”
“So you do know something interesting about Iliad?”
“You like the word interestin’, don’t you?”
“I find it interesting.”
The old man smiled. He looked at Michael. “You don’t talk much.”
“Depends on the circumstances.”
The old man gestured at Chris with his head. “You two sleepin’ together?”
“That’s none of your business,” Michael said.
“I suppose not.” He turned to Chris. “How much did you say?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Sixty.”
“All right.”
“Seventy.”
“No. You said sixty, and I agreed. At that point we had a deal. Unless you’re a man whose word doesn’t mean anything.”
“Okay, sixty. In cash. I don’t take checks or credit cards.”
Chris got three twenties from her wallet and handed them over.
The old man folded them into a tight rectangle and shoved them into his right shoe. “I’ll see you here tomorrow night at eight forty-five. Don’t be late.”
“What do you mean?” Chris said. “Why can’t we talk now?”
“I want to show you somethin’, and I can’t do it now.”
“Why not?” Michael said.
“I liked you better when you didn’t talk,” the old man said. “Could it be because there’s nothin’ to see now?”
“How do we know you’ll be here?” Michael asked.
“Yeah, I might take your friend’s sixty dollars and start a new life in another state.” He looked at Chris. “You have my word.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Chris said, standing. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
IN THE CAR, on their way to a more inhabited part of the world, Michael said, “I don’t like the idea of going back there at night. He could be arranging an ambush with some of his friends.”
There was merit in Michael’s concern, so Chris took it seriously. “Remember him asking me if Frieda sent us? Right after that he said he embarrassed her. That sounds like he’s more to her than just some bum she met. Let’s go see her again.”
CHRIS WAS AFRAID that when Frieda saw them on the porch she wouldn’t open the door. But she did.
“Mrs. Sepanski, I’m sorry to bother you again, but we spoke to the Red Baron and made an appointment to meet him tomorrow night where he lives.” Considering the Red Baron’s place on the social ladder, the word appointment seemed odd even to Chris. “And we’re wondering if that’s a safe thing to do. I didn’t tell him you sent us, but he guessed it, and then he said he embarrasses you. Why did he say that?”
A look of resignation crept over Frieda’s face. “Because he’s my father’s brother, Gene. And he does embarrass me, even though I can understand what happened to him.”
“Which was?”
“Years and years ago, his wife and daughter were killed in a plane crash, and he’s never recovered. He’s an intelligent, educated man, who could have done so much with his life, but he’s never found his way out of the grief of their deaths. I can appreciate that to a point, but it’s been so long.”
Frieda’s story went straight to Chris’s heart. Where Frieda saw Gene as a tragic figure, Chris saw him as a hero. To have l
oved his family so much that he’d lost all incentive in life after their deaths made such a statement. And surely when they were alive, he’d shown them how he felt. What must that have been like for them to know they were loved so much?
“Frankly, Mrs. Sepanski,” Michael said, stepping into the void Chris’s reflections left in the conversation. “We’re worried about meeting him at night down there with no one else around.”
“You can’t believe he’d harm you.”
“We didn’t know what to think.”
“Despite the way he lives, he’s a good man. You have nothing to fear from him.”
“WELL, SHE CONVINCED me,” Chris said, as Michael backed out of the Sepanski driveway.
“I still wish we were meeting him during the day. But I guess he sounds okay. We should stay alert, though, when we see him, and keep our cell phones within easy reach.”
CHRIS HAD NOT slept at all the previous night, and by the time her head hit the Hampton Inn pillow, her brain was already closing up shop. But sleep would not come that easily, for she suddenly heard the muffled ring of her cell phone.
Forcing herself onto her feet, she turned on a light. She padded over to her handbag, opened it, and retrieved the phone. “Chris Collins.”
“This is Wayne. I just saw on the news what happened to you last night on Stone Mountain. Are you okay?”
“I’m a little bruised, but otherwise fine.”
“You shouldn’t have been up there all alone.”
It was a comment from a worried parent, but Chris was still so wary of him she didn’t hear it that way. And she didn’t entertain for a second any thought of telling him what was behind the attack on her. Instead, she just said, “I’ve been doing it for years with no problem.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. But I guess you know that now. I’m glad you’re not hurt.”
“Thanks.”
“I haven’t seen you in a while. Could we get together tomorrow for lunch?”
“I can’t. I’m out of town and won’t be back by then.”
“Where are you?”
“On a business trip. I’ll call you when I get home. We’ll arrange something.”
“That sounds great. Have a good trip. I’ll talk to you later.”
Under other circumstances Chris would have spent at least a few minutes thinking about Wayne’s call and their situation. But tonight, she just returned to bed, flicked off the light, and fell asleep.
THE NEXT MORNING, Chris and Michael drove over to Manhattan and spent the day as tourists at the Museum of Natural History. Despite seeing many marvelous things there, they often found themselves standing in front of a display and wondering what Gene was going to show them.
That afternoon, at the woolly mammoth exhibit, Chris had a flashback to Stone Mountain, when the hit man’s gun was pressed against her head. For a moment, it seemed so real she was sure that if she reached up, she’d be able to wrap her fingers around the gun’s muzzle. But she didn’t dare reach up or she’d fall. Suddenly, the pain in her shoulders returned, aching from the weight of her body pulling on them. As it had that night, the hand of death stroked her hair, and she heard the black courier whisper her name with a sibilant s: Chrisss . . . Chrisss . . .
This time the sound of Michael’s voice rescued her. “Chris, are you in there?”
“Sorry. My mind wandered for a minute. Michael . . . Thank you for coming with me to Newark and for not taking advantage of us being on this trip together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not trying to talk your way into my bed last night.”
“Chris, I won’t deny that the thought occurred to me, but I don’t want it to happen that way. I want all of you. I want to share your hopes and your fears. I want to help celebrate your successes and be there for your disappointments. Sure, I want the physical part, but only with everything else.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“That says it.” He turned and looked at the mammoth.
She put her hand over his, where it rested on the exhibit railing. “I thought you understood. We spoke about this on Stone Mountain . . .”
He turned to look at her. “I remember. I’m sorry. Sometimes my ego talks before I can censor it.”
His apology made Chris feel only marginally better. She knew she couldn’t hold him in storage forever. There would come a time when he would give up on her. His reaction a moment ago was proof that even now he was fighting that decision. Damn it. She wanted to trust him. How she longed to just be normal.
Not even the museum could compete with all that was galloping around in Chris’s head, so by the time they reached their car at the end of the day, she couldn’t remember much that they’d seen. But at least they were now only a few hours away from learning what Gene had for them.
THEIR HEADLIGHTS ONCE again brought Gene out of his culvert, except it wasn’t him.
But then Chris realized that he simply looked different, for he was now clean-shaven, his hair was combed, and he was dressed in clean clothes—a pair of dark-blue pants and a fashionable patterned sport shirt. But he was still wearing black sneakers.
Michael switched off the headlights and cut the engine. As they got out, Gene said, “Thought you might not come.”
“Had to,” Chris said. “I’ve got money invested here.”
“Let me lock up, and I’ll be ready to go.”
“Go where?” Chris asked.
“You’ll see.”
What he meant by “lock up” wasn’t clear, but he went into his grocery cart garage and pushed the cart more deeply into the shadows. For a few seconds they heard the sound of clanking chains, then Gene reappeared.
“Let’s hit the road,” he said, heading for the car.
With Gene in the backseat issuing directions, they drove through the empty streets, both Michael and Chris grateful that he’d bathed.
After they’d gone about ten blocks, he pointed to a side street. “Park there.”
When Michael had done that, Gene opened his door. “Now we walk.”
Worried about the area they were in, Michael suggested to Chris that they check their phones to make sure they were getting a signal.
“I’m good,” Chris said a moment later.
“Mine’s dead,” Michael said, smacking his phone into his hand. He looked at the screen again. “When I charged it last night, it was fine. And it’s only a month old.”
“We won’t need two,” Chris said. “Let’s go.”
They followed Gene farther down the side street and then into an alley, where broken glass glittered in the glare from an occasional bare lightbulb over a loading dock, and little clusters of spring weeds were gathering strength for a summer offensive against the deteriorating asphalt. Gene moved surprisingly fast, and they had to hustle to keep up. They followed the alley to its end, where it opened onto a street that, on its far side, ran along a set of railroad tracks. Beyond the tracks, there was an almost unbroken line of corrugated metal buildings with loading docks every fifteen yards or so.
Gene put out his arms to keep Chris and Michael back, then he checked in both directions. Satisfied that no one was around, he said, “Now we go fast.”
He took off across the street and over the railroad tracks, with Chris and Michael following single file, so that they resembled a small family of urban raccoons. Blending into the shadows of the raised concrete foundation for the metal buildings, Gene turned left and headed for a spot about forty yards away, where, presumably, the same street they’d been on before they’d parked the car passed over the tracks and disappeared between the buildings.
When they reached the street, it became obvious that there was a tall chain-link gate across it. Unlike the gate at the service road on Stone Mountain, this
one was padlocked. Without hesitating, Gene crossed the street and squeezed through the narrow opening between the left gate support and the adjacent building. He looked back and motioned for Chris and Michael to follow.
Despite her admiration for the sacrifices Gene had made in the name of love, Chris was growing uncomfortable with all this. “What are we doing here?”
“You want to learn somethin’ about Iliad or not?” Gene said. “If you don’t, we’ll leave. Makes no difference to me.”
Chris looked at Michael.
“Just explain what we’re here for,” Michael said.
“I’d rather show you.”
“And I’d rather you tell us,” Michael said.
“We’re wastin’ time,” Gene said. “We stand here arguin’, we’ll see nothin’.”
“We’ve come this far,” Chris said to Michael. “Let’s just go with him.”
After the big speech he’d made at the museum about wanting to share Chris’s life, Michael felt that this was no time to be pulling back. “I’m right behind you.”
There was plenty of room for even Michael to slip through the opening, and soon they were both inside. As Gene led them forward in the shadows along the side of the adjacent building, the air freshened into a light breeze that carried the odor of brine and creosote. Chris could hear the faint sound of lapping water. For some reason, he’d brought them to the waterfront.
They emerged onto a long wooden dock that stretched along the bay in both directions for as far as they could see in the dim illumination cast by the occasional light fixtures on the dock warehouses. Across an expanse of black water, pinpoints of light marked the opposite shore. In the sky to the right, planes were making their approach to Newark Airport, taking some people home, others to their hotels before their business meeting in the morning. None of the passengers, Chris thought, were here to skulk through the city’s deserted streets at night with a vagrant for a leader.
“This way,” Gene said, heading left, toward a tall stack of black ribbed drainage culverts strapped together to keep them from rolling. Farther out on the dock, there was a cluster of big wooden crates, each with a plastic shroud stapled to the upper half.
As they followed Gene between the black culverts and the adjacent building, Chris said, “Don’t they have a night watchman here to protect all this stuff on the dock?”
The Judas Virus Page 29