Fatal

by Michael Palmer

  She hesitated just a beat, then whirled theatrically and tugged on a long, tasseled gold cord, releasing a three-foot-wide scroll that unraveled from the ceiling. Printed boldly on the scroll, beginning with DIPHTHERIA and proceeding down to JAPANESE ENCEPHALITIS, was a list of the thirty diseases that were about to be prevented if not eradicated by Omnivax. Third from the bottom of the list, just after CHOLERA and before SHIGELLOSIS, was LASSA FEVER.

  Again, there was tumultuous applause.

  In a dynamic, well-crafted speech, the First Lady went down the list one by one, saying just enough about each condition to personalize it for the audience and to have every parent across the country sighing in relief that their children would be spared its horrible consequences.

  Ellen was impressed with the woman, even though she had voted against her husband in the last election and intended to do so again in this one. Still, with the end of almost three years of hard work at hand, and with Rudy still doing his research unaware that the vote had been moved up, she had trouble keeping her mind on the speech. In fact, she was so distracted that she very nearly missed the words from Lynette Marquand that would change her life forever.

  “. . . The President, Secretary Bolton, and I,” Marquand was saying, “are fully aware that there are those who are opposed to this project. Nothing of lasting value is ever accomplished without conflicting opinions and controversy. We are also aware of those who have tried to politicize this endeavor. Speaking for my husband and myself, I can say that is the last thing we wish to do. That is why the selection of the commission evaluating Omnivax was done with such care. In your programs is a list of the members of this commission and a few of the qualifications of each. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is quite a remarkable, independent, and trustworthy team, and I want to take this opportunity to thank Dr. Steinman and each and every one of them for their hard work and devotion to this project.”

  Marquand gestured to those commission members seated behind her, and also to those in the front row. Then she made them stand up as a group and led the audience in an enthusiastic round of applause. It was only as Ellen was settling back into her seat that her attention returned fully to the proceedings.

  “For nearly three years,” Marquand went on, “every single member of this august panel of world-renowned experts has studied Omnivax in detail from every angle. I have been briefed regularly on their progress. Soon they will be voting on whether or not to approve its distribution for general use. I promise you, the American public, that if even one, just one, of the twenty-three members of this commission votes against the release of Omnivax, we will hold up our inoculation program for as long as it takes to resolve any and all misgivings.”

  The pronouncement, enunciated as energetically as any campaign rhetoric, was greeted with an immediate, boisterous standing ovation. Ellen sat dumbfounded, staring up at the First Lady until she realized that all the others in the hall were on their feet. Slowly, somewhat unsteadily, she rose and brought her hands together. It was then she noticed that, from his place just behind and to the right of Lynette Marquand, George Poulos was staring directly down at her.

  CHAPTER 10

  MORE KEYED UP THAN HE HAD BEEN IN YEARS, Matt rolled the Kawasaki out of his garage. His 250cc Honda was better in the woods and the Harley was without peer cruising the roads, but the Kawasaki had the power to carry two and the suspension to handle most of what the off-road trails had to offer. It was a 900cc Vulcan, ebony and silver, with a four-stroke, five-speed, V-twin engine, and it was to the Harley what a Corvette was to a Lexus sedan.

  It was after one in the morning. There was a chill in the air dampened by a fine mist. The darkness was a good omen, Matt noted as he eased his bike down his gravel drive and onto the two-lane road. Somewhere beyond those dense clouds was a nearly full moon.

  This would be his second trip today out to the Slocumbs’ farm. The first was around four when he rode out to check on Kyle. After the youngest of the brothers had adamantly refused to allow the gastroenterologist to perform another rectal exam, it took some time for Matt to convince the specialist that it was still worth proceeding with a gastroscopy. The exam showed pretty much what Matt had expected, hemorrhagic gastritis, an erosive inflammation of the lining of Kyle’s stomach. It was hardly the worst case of the condition he had ever seen, though, so when Kyle’s vital signs and blood count had stabilized, he reluctantly agreed to discharge him on medication to block the production of acid, and antacids to soothe the damaged tissue. There was also a strict prohibition on alcohol of any kind, but especially the home-brewed, 150-proof rotgut produced by the brothers’ still. Surprisingly, as far as Matt could tell, Kyle had followed every one of his orders, and was actually doing quite well.

  Keeping his engine noise to a minimum, Matt slowly made his way along the last quarter mile of rutted road to the Slocumb farmhouse. Lewis was waiting on the porch. A grizzled, sinewy man in his early sixties, he was wearing denim overalls, a tattered black WVU sweatshirt, work boots, and a black watch cap. He had blackened his face and hands with some sort of greasepaint.

  “Here,” he said, holding out a small jar of the stuff, “lemme smear some a this on yer face.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s black,” Lewis said.

  “Ugh! It smells like . . . Lewis?”

  “Put some on yer hands, too.”

  “I don’t believe I let you do this,” Matt said. “Are you expecting trouble? Is that why we’re dressing up like farmer commandos?”

  “Don’ rotly know what ta expect. The people what run thet mine ain’t survived the way they have by bein’ stupid. Ya bring everthin’ Ah ast ya to?”

  Matt patted his backpack. “Rope, hunting knife, camera, flashlights, flares, a compass, and some jars for bringing out samples.”

  “If’n we get thet close,” Lewis muttered.

  “You’re a cheery one.”

  Lewis just snorted and mounted the passenger seat of the Kawasaki.

  “Go thet way,” he said, motioning to a muddy track that ran straight through the pitch-black field behind the house.

  “This isn’t really a dirt bike, you know,” Matt said. “It’s not built for driving through cow shit, either.”

  “They’s a path out there,” Lewis said. “Good-size shortcut. Jes keep on goin’ straight.”

  Following the bike’s slashing high beam, they jounced across the field and into the woods. For nearly twenty minutes they rode in silence, following what might have been an old logging road. It was difficult going with two, but Lewis was a surprisingly good passenger. He stayed centered and relaxed in his seat, and didn’t try to help by leaning into turns.

  The tar-black woods were eerie. Once a gigantic owl, probably a great horned, swooped through the high beam not ten feet ahead of them. The specter nearly stopped Matt’s heart cold.

  “A little chick,” Lewis chuckled.

  As best Matt could guess, they were traveling due west, paralleling the tall hills that housed the mine on the other side. He expected the narrow track to vanish any moment, but it continued straight as a ruler through the dense forest. The mist was making it difficult to see through his Plexiglas visor, so he hooked his helmet to the handlebar.

  “You sure you know where you’re going?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Oh, Ah know.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Wer here. Cut the light.”

  Matt did as he was told. Instantly, the ebony night enfolded them. Lewis held a finger to his lips. For several minutes they sat in what seemed to be a small clearing, and listened.

  “From here on out we whisper,” Lewis said. “Ah don’ know if’n the mine’s got people out here’r not, but Ah wouldn’ be supprised. Their security men are the nastiest summabitches ya’d ever wanna meet.”

  “Tell me about it. How far is the cleft?”

  “A ways. That motorbike a yourn ain’t exactly sneaky quiet.”

  Ma
tt pulled the bike off into the woods and secured it to a tree. Then he took his compass out of his jeans pocket and checked it with a penlight.

  “Which direction’s your farm?”

  “Back thar.”

  Southeast, Matt noted, maybe five miles.

  “We go thet way,” Lewis said, motioning along the track.

  They walked for ten minutes—about half a mile. From somewhere to the right they had begun to hear running water. Overlaying it were the noises of insects and peepers, and the occasional call of an owl. The forest at night.

  “Where’s that stream go?” Matt asked.

  “It cuts down inta the hill rot whar wer headed. Runs unnergroun’ fer quite a ways, then comes out in the valley.”

  “Where’s it come from?”

  “Runs past the farm. Thas all Ah know. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Lewis indicated a spot up ahead. Matt could make out a change in the darkness, but little else. Moments later he realized the change in shading was the steep side of a rocky hill. From their right, the stream, perhaps eight feet wide, raced into an opening in the rock.

  “They’s a bunch a ways inta the caves,” Lewis said. “But this un’s the cleft, an’ that’s what yer mystry man writ. It’s also the one ain’t likely ta be watched. Don’ seem lak nobody’s about, but we’d best keep it down jes the same.”

  They stepped into the stream and ducked beneath a ledge to enter the hill through an opening that was about five feet high and three feet wide—the cleft. The water churned and deepened to their knees as it rolled through with them, then broke sharply to the right and over a foot-high drop to a long, dark pool.

  “Lak Ah done said, this is jes one a the ways inta the hill,” Lewis whispered. “They cain’t brang the barrels in by this way, though. Too narrah with too many drop-offs.”

  “Then how?”

  “Some a t’other paths are wider, else they jes haul ’em back through the mine.”

  “This tunnel goes all the way through the hill to the mine?”

  “It does jes thet. Downhill all the way. The mine entrance is way below whar we are. The storage cave’s plumb in the middle.”

  “Lewis, how long has it been since you worked for the mine?”

  “Well . . . we ain’t done none for ten year or more.”

  “I’m surprised they let you live, knowing what you do.”

  “Oh, they considered sendin’ men out, all rot, but then they got smart an’ sent money instead.”

  “They’ve been bribing you for ten years?”

  “Ah s’pose ya could say that, yes.”

  “Lewis, you know I’m going to close that dump down, if it takes the rest of my life.”

  “Ah know.”

  “Well, I don’t know how much money you guys will lose when your payments stop, but I want to tell you how much I appreciate your doing this.”

  “Ya bin good ta us,” Lewis said simply.

  Matt panned his flash over the tunnel ahead. The walls, ceiling, and floor appeared to narrow like a corridor in Alice in Wonderland.

  “How low and narrow does this get?” he whispered.

  “Ya kin make it through,” Lewis said. “Jes don’t take no deep breaths.” He snickered.

  “Lewis, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I . . . I have trouble with tight, enclosed places. Always have. I get, like, panicky in them.”

  “Now, whar in the hell did a Wes Verginny boy come up with thet? Ya gonna make it jes fine, Doc. They’s only a few places whar yer gonna have ta crawl an’ squeeze through.”

  “Jesus,” Matt muttered.

  “It’s bin a while since Ah bin in here, so we’d best move slowly. Tain’t the tight places ya got ta worry about. It’s the drop-offs.”

  Keeping their lights fixed on the damp stone floor, the two of them headed steadily downward into the mountain. The sound of running or falling water was a constant, at times seeming quite close, at times echoing through a side tunnel. Twice they had to press against a wall and walk sideways along the edge of a precipice. Once, Matt deliberately kicked some pebbles into the dark maw. The splash was barely audible.

  “Ah don’ thank y’ wanna fall down thar,” Lewis said.

  The narrow tunnel took a number of turns, and Matt began to wonder if they would have trouble making their way out again. But Lewis seemed to be moving with confidence through the stale, heavy air. Once, an especially low, tight passage forced him to his knees. Matt could not get down low enough and had to negotiate ten or twelve feet wriggling along on his belly, Marine style. His pulse instantly began pounding. He found himself thinking about cave hunters and wondering how they could possibly experience anything but terror traversing narrow slits in rock with no hope of being able to kneel, turn around, or even roll over, and no certainty that the way wouldn’t suddenly end. The notion made him queasy and tightened the muscles between his shoulder blades.

  Shortly after they were able to stand, the tunnel widened and began to receive broad tributaries from the left. The air became less oppressively heavy.

  “Thar,” Lewis whispered, pointing down one such tunnel. “Thet’s one a the ways we brung the barrels in. Hauled ’em on dollies, we did.”

  “Who does it now?” Matt asked.

  “Beats me. Fer all Ah know, they done stopped.”

  “I don’t think so. . . . Wait. Do you smell that?”

  “Ah do. The cave wer after ain’t too far ahead.”

  The odor was of chemicals—sweet, pungent, and slightly nauseating. Gasoline, toluene—Matt tried to pin it down, but couldn’t with certainty. Gotcha! he thought. The frustrating years of trying to show the public what sort of morality was running Belinda Coal and Coke were about to bear fruit. In addition to the chemical smell, the sound of rushing water was again echoing off the damp stone walls. To their left, just beyond where Lewis was standing, Matt could make out a small river, bursting through a wide rent in the rock. His flashlight beam reflected off the dark water and lit the open space beyond. Overhead, the ceiling sloped upward. The organic odor was now intense. Whatever sorts of chemicals were up ahead certainly weren’t well contained.

  “Lewis,” he whispered, “is this it?”

  “Rot thar,” Lewis said, waving his light ahead, then cutting it off.

  For nearly a minute, the two men stood together in the darkness. The sound of the rushing river filled the cavern, which Matt now sensed was quite vast.

  “Go easy, an’ move right,” Lewis ordered. “No more light ’til wer sure we got no compny.”

  “I can see them, Lewis,” Matt said excitedly. “I can see the barrels!”

  Looming ahead, filling only a fraction of the chamber, were two huge pyramids of oil drums, twenty feet across at the base and ten feet high. A third stack was just taking shape. Beyond the barrels, almost 180 degrees from the tunnel through which they had entered, was another, wider access, probably coming from the mine. A pale film of light, filtering in from somewhere deep in that tunnel, was what was backlighting the barrels.

  They remained pressed against the chamber wall, still some distance from the barrels. Lewis switched on his flash, which was considerably more powerful than Matt’s, and handed it over. The sight in front of them brought a knot of anger and sadness to Matt’s chest. Many of the oil drums appeared to be in decent shape, but some of them were corroded. Several of those—six or seven that he could see from where they stood—had emptied onto the stone floor. Not ten yards behind the stacks, a broad stream was rippling through the cavern, headed in the general direction of the mine. It was impossible to believe the toxins weren’t passing through major work areas, and from there into the environment.

  “Son of a bitch,” he murmured. “We’d best move quickly, Lewis, I have no idea what these fumes are doing to our lungs or brains.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ that kin mess my brain up more’n it already is,” Lewis replied, punctuating the remark with a raspy laugh.

&nbs
p; Matt slipped off his backpack, knelt down, and opened it. He removed his camera and took a half a dozen flash shots. Then he extracted a plastic bag with specimen collection bottles in it and took several tentative steps toward the barrels. He was about six feet away from them when floodlights mounted high on the walls snapped on, illuminating most of the cavern with midday brightness.

  Matt caught a glimpse of gas masks and zip-up coveralls hanging from a rack nearby. Instinctively he dropped onto the damp floor just as two security men entered from the other tunnel. Their exact words were lost in the echoes of churning water, but he could tell they were laughing and joking. One of them keyed a security check box mounted on the rock wall.

  Quickly, Matt scrambled on all fours toward Lewis, who was pressed back against the wall in a pocket of shadow.

  “Hurry!” Lewis whispered urgently.

  Moving as quickly as he dared, Matt was just a few feet from the shadows when one of the guards spotted him.

  “Shit, Tommy, look! Over there!”

  Matt could see the man drawing his gun.

  “Run!” Lewis cried, already racing toward the tunnel.

  Matt followed.

  “Do you think we should just tell them who we are and that we don’t want any trouble?” he asked as they ran.

  “They ain’t intrested in nothin’ but makin’ sure we don’t leave this cave alive,” Lewis answered. “Truss me on thet.”

  At that instant, gunfire erupted from behind them, and bullets ricocheted off the rocks.

  “Jesus!” Matt cried, hunching down.

  He had left his backpack and camera behind, but by sheer providence still held on to Lewis’s flashlight. He passed the light to Lewis and, following the beam, they plunged into the gloom of the passageway.

  Initially, Lewis moved with surprising speed and agility. Quickly, though, his age and years of smoking took hold. By the time they reached the first narrowing of the tunnel, he was gasping. Matt knew he could have moved much faster alone, but even if he had known the tunnels, there was no way he would have left the man behind. He cursed himself for impetuously putting them in such a spot. He could have waited, maybe tried to go to the authorities with the mysterious note.