Fatal

by Michael Palmer

  Three percent.

  The figure reverberated in his mind. Three percent of tens of thousands—biological time bombs with an untreatable, communicable disease that had no diagnostic test and didn’t manifest itself for a decade or more.

  Three percent.

  “It’ll be close, but we’ll make it before that first shot is given,” he pledged.

  “Not if we try too hard and end up as roadkill.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll introduce myself to the speed limit. Have you ever been on a motorcycle?”

  “Once.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve been around for a long time, Doctor. Over those years, there have been plenty of motorcycling opportunities. Doesn’t my saying ‘once’ tell you anything?”

  Matt grinned.

  “You’ll love my bike, Ellen. I promise. Lyle, make the next left. My uncle’s road is about three miles from here.”

  “Ya got it,” Lyle said.

  Studying the man—thinning gray hair, aquiline nose, weathered skin, engaging, toothless smile—Matt wondered if Lyle, or any of the brothers, for that matter, had ever had a driver’s license. They were certainly a strange lot, but they also seemed to be living lives that were quite fulfilled on many levels. And now, once again, Matt owed them his life. Becoming their friend was certainly an unmerited gift of that bicycle ride to their house so many years ago.

  “Know whar the key ta yer bike is, Doc?” Lyle asked.

  “In the kitchen on the counter.”

  “Jes in case, Ah’ll wait round ’til Ah’m sure ya foun it.”

  “Thanks, pal. So, Ellen, what’s our plan once we get to D.C.?”

  “I don’t really know. The community health center is in the Anacostia section of the city. I suspect security will be exceedingly tight, what with the First Lady there and everything else that’s been going on since nine-eleven. I don’t know anyone I could call, and I don’t think phoning someone would accomplish anything in time. But once the people at the clinic see that I’m no menace and hear who I am, and assure themselves that the wild man who’s with me is no threat, I imagine they’ll let me speak with someone in authority. Whether whoever that is believes us in time or not is another story. There’s a heck of a lot of votes at stake here, and I’m sure the last thing the Marquand camp needs is something that looks like a screwup on their part.”

  “Maybe you can get in front of the cameras to explain what’s happening.”

  “I doubt it, but I suppose anything’s possible. The bottom line is, we’ve got to get there in time to find someone who’ll listen to me.”

  “If we don’t, doctors all over get the green light to start shooting Omnivax.”

  “Four days to two weeks old,” Ellen said. “That’s the age range where Secretary Bolton says they’re going to start administering the inoculations. But soon, Omnivax will be available to all.”

  “Oh, that’s just great.”

  “They’re justifying that decision by stating that except for those who are allergic, there’s no evidence that being overimmunized is dangerous.”

  “And every single man, woman, and child in this country should be grateful for the protection against Lassa fever.”

  Ellen laughed sardonically. “Exactly,” she said.

  “But nobody’s ever studied the adverse effects of vaccinations over the long term.”

  “Not in any organized study that I’m aware of.”

  “I feel like I’ve been such a medical ostrich about this stuff.”

  “Believe me, you have company. It’s not that on balance vaccinations do more harm than good. It’s just that no one really knows.”

  “Well, then, let’s get us to Washington. Lyle, that’s Grandview Road, right there. Hang a left. The house is at the very end. Wait until you guys see my uncle’s place. You won’t have any trouble understanding why they named the street Grandview.”

  The road remained paved throughout. Hal’s house was at the end of a long, gravel driveway that cut through a peninsula covered with low-lying shrubs and scattered pines.

  “I’m sure coming here like this will be hard for you,” Ellen said.

  “I still can’t believe this has happened. Hal’s always been very good to me and my mother. I’ll miss him, and I know she will, too.”

  Matt decided against going into any details about his mother’s deteriorating mental state.

  The thin woods gave way to a broad, beautifully landscaped lot, at the end of which was Hal’s expansive lodge, perched on a promontory two hundred feet above a large, pristine lake.

  “Magnificent,” Ellen whispered reverently. “Just beautiful.”

  “Wait! Stop!” Matt cried.

  Lyle skidded to a halt.

  “What is it?” Ellen asked.

  “There, parked in the driveway on the side. That’s my uncle’s car.”

  “So?”

  “Something’s wrong. He drove us to the mine last night. If he’s buried there, how did the car get back here? Lyle, do you have your gun? I left mine with Lewis so that we wouldn’t have any trouble with the security people in D.C.”

  “Frank’s got m’ pistol, but they’s a shotgun in the back.”

  “Bring it, please.”

  Cautiously, the three of them approached the lodge.

  “Look!” Ellen exclaimed in a loud whisper.

  Through the broad living room window, they could see a man polishing a vase.

  “That’s Hal! That’s my uncle,” Matt said. “Lyle, stand over there and keep the door covered. I . . . don’t know what’s going on.”

  His confusion did not last long.

  He was moving toward the front door when it opened. Hal, nattily dressed in white trousers and a light blue button-down shirt, stepped out onto the low front porch. At the sight of the man, showered, relaxed, and clear-eyed, Matt knew.

  “Matthew! God, I’m so relieved to see you. I’ve been worried sick about you since the explosion. I’ve called the police and—”

  “Pardon me for saying it, Hal, but you don’t seem very frantic. In fact, you look downright rested—not at all like someone who’s spent the last twelve hours trying to get his nephew rescued from a mine explosion.”

  “I’ve made many desperate phone calls for help, Matthew. I—”

  There was no sincerity in his words. Matt’s lingering disbelief vanished.

  “Can it, Hal,” he snapped. “You’re demeaning yourself. You know what’s been bothering me ever since we figured out that the Lassa vaccine was really behind those deaths? Grimes. That’s what’s been bothering me, Hal. He’s not exactly a dope, but he’s no Einstein, either. I couldn’t understand how a man like that could have gotten involved with the manufacture of Lasaject in the first place. Then he goes and masterminds an epidemic to get his vaccine included in Omnivax; then he discovers that the vaccine has a fatal flaw; and finally, he sets about systematically destroying all the evidence of that flaw. That make any sense to you, Hal, that he was capable of doing that?”

  Hal looked as if he was about to issue another denial, then he shrugged nonchalantly.

  “Grimes is a jerk,” he said. “A violent and avaricious jerk, and therefore quite useful to me, but a jerk nonetheless.”

  Hearing his uncle openly admit what he had done brought Matt a wave of sadness. “When did you first learn about the prion disease?” he asked.

  “Not that long ago, really. Would you please tell your friend to stop pointing that thing at me?”

  “No. Go on.”

  “Well, two cases were brought to me for autopsy a couple of weeks apart. One had killed herself, the other had been shot in a bar fight. I recognized the names from our initial field trials and began to suspect that was the connection. Then you got involved with that miner, Rideout, and I was certain. Lasaject was too close to being included in the supervaccine to allow anyone to stumble on the connection, so I simply had to identify those unfortunates who had the side effect and send
the late Mr. Grimes and his people to deal with them. I assume he is late.”

  “Actually, he’s very much alive and talking to the state police right now.”

  “Nephew, nephew, you never were a very good liar. And Mr. Sutcher?”

  “Well, let’s just say things got a little rocky for him.”

  Matt glanced over at Ellen.

  “Ah,” said Hal, “the redoubtable Mrs. Kroft, yes?”

  “A lot of people are dead because of you,” Ellen said icily.

  “Life can be very hard sometimes.”

  “Jesus, Hal, who in the hell are you?”

  “Just a guy trying to make ends meet. You want to come in for some tea? Of course, I don’t allow shotguns in the house. Or better still, why don’t you all just leave.”

  “Hal, we’re not going anyplace until you’re tied up and waiting for the state police.”

  “Well, I simply can’t permit that,” Hall said, with disturbing, singsong confidence. “So I suppose I’m going to have to dispose of you all, beginning with your friend who insists on pointing that gun at me. You’re a Slocumb, I presume?”

  “Ah surely am,” Lyle said proudly.

  The words were barely past his lips when a shot exploded from where Hal’s car was parked, driving Lyle backward into the fender of the truck, clutching his belly. He managed a single, wild shot before he dropped the shotgun, stumbled, and fell heavily on his side.

  Standing by the garage, smirking, was Larry, the massive killer Matt was supposed to have murdered, then incinerated.

  Matt was just turning to help Lyle when Larry shot the man again, this time in the chest. Lyle, who had been up on one elbow, slumped back onto the gravel and was still. Comfortable with his handiwork, the killer turned the gun on Matt.

  “I’ve been waiting for this chance,” he said. “You’ll never know how much I’ve been waiting.”

  Matt felt his heart stop as he saw the man’s sausagelike finger tighten on the trigger.

  “No!” he cried.

  “Larry, wait!” Hal ordered. “I’ll tell you when.”

  Matt felt his knees about to buckle, but beside him, Ellen stood her ground defiantly and even put her arm through his.

  “Killing us won’t solve any of your problems,” she said to Hal. “Too many people know.”

  “Would you care to give me a list of them, Mrs. Kroft? I didn’t think so. But please, don’t worry. I can take care of myself. Matthew, I’m sorry about this, really I am. You know I care for you a great deal. Always have. But this is business, and you have become a definite liability. As you see, my man Larry, here, is very much alive. Believe it or not, I conjured up that murder-incineration story on the spot, with you hanging on the other end of the line and Dr. Solari about to visit the FBI. Brilliant, don’t you think?”

  “You’re sick,” Matt said.

  “Now, Larry, here, is very anxious to shoot you, but I am a sporting man, as well as one who doesn’t want bodies with bullet holes floating around in the lake. That wouldn’t appear very accidental. So, I am perfectly willing to have you and Mrs. Kroft step over that fence”—he indicated the split-rail fencing that paralleled the side of the drive—“and step off the edge. Who knows, maybe you’ll miss the rocks.”

  “Give it up, Hal,” Matt said, regaining a modicum of composure. “There’re way too many loose ends that are all tied to you. You know, you can still come off looking like a hero in this business by telling the police you are blowing the whistle on Lasaject in order to save all those unborn children from spongiform encephalopathy.”

  At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw movement from the direction of the truck. Lyle!

  “The bullet or the drop, Matthew?” Hal was asking. “Your choice.”

  Frantic to stall and keep Hal’s and Larry’s attention fixed on him, Matt rejected the notion of some sort of outburst in favor of pandering to Hal’s ego.

  “Hal, tell me one thing,” he said, “that was you who slipped that note about the toxic dump under my door, wasn’t it?”

  Hal sighed and nodded with exaggerated modesty.

  “If you really must know, yes. I am aware of pretty much everything that goes on around here, and I knew about that unusual—um—storage facility almost as soon as it was established. I sent the note to you figuring that as long as you were chasing after your vendetta against the mine, you were no threat to my interests. Brilliant, no?”

  Lyle had moved under the open door of the truck and was pulling himself inside. Matt took a step toward his uncle. Larry moved forward to intervene, his pistol ready.

  “Oh, give me a break,” Matt cried, raising his voice angrily. “You’re not nearly as brilliant as you think. You’ve made one miscalculation after another.” He laughed loudly. “Man, you must have swallowed your gum when Nikki Solari arrived in town. That’s where you and Grimes blew it. You should have just let her go back to Boston. You got worried that if somehow word got to me about Kathy Wilson, there was every chance I’d start looking for explanations other than the mine, and figure out the truth. So you went after her. That was a mistake, Hal. A big mistake.”

  More movement. Somehow Lyle had found the strength to drag himself inside the cab.

  “Big words for someone in your position,” Hal said, no longer cheery, “but words for which I have no patience. Now make your choice. Larry, if they don’t choose the drop, I want Mrs. Kroft shot first, please.” He pointed to a spot just above his own ear. “Right here from two feet.”

  “You killed all those people for money?” Matt asked stridently, wondering if Lyle was lying dead on the seat of the Ford.

  His uncle’s smile was coldly patronizing.

  “Not for money, nephew,” he said. “For a great deal of money. I have owned more than forty percent of Columbia Pharmaceuticals for years and I was running out of funds to continue losing on the accursed company. Can you imagine what it’s like being my age with my tastes and no money? With what we’re being paid per dose of Lasaject, my financial concerns are about to be over. That’s over with a capital ‘O.’ Now, sir, I have things to do. You have not behaved at all like a respectful godson, and so, from this moment, you have ten seconds to choose your punishment . . . nine.”

  “Hal, no, please!” Matt screamed at the moment the truck’s engine rumbled to life. “Stop!”

  Larry and Hal whirled toward the noise. Lyle, his eyes virtually closed, the bridge of his nose resting on the steering wheel, threw the Ford into first, floored the accelerator, and popped the clutch. Spewing gravel, the truck shot ahead, straight at Larry. Mouth agape, the massive gunman fired off three shots. The Ford’s windshield shattered, and it looked to Matt as if at least one of the bullets had hit Lyle in the forehead. But nothing short of a cement wall was going to stop the truck now. The front bumper caught Larry at the knees. His gun spun to the ground as he was lifted up onto the hood, his moon face not two feet from Lyle, who looked to Matt to be unconscious or dead. Still, Lyle’s foot held the gas. The Ford shattered the rail fence, sped through ten feet of shrubbery, and hurtled off the edge of the precipice like a hang glider taking flight. Then, in what seemed like slow motion, the nose of the truck tilted downward, spilling Larry into the void before disappearing. Moments later there was a loud explosion from the rocks below.

  By the time Hal Sawyer turned back from the scene, his godson was standing there calmly, with Larry’s gun leveled at him.

  “Business is very bad, Uncle,” Matt said.

  CHAPTER 37

  MATTHEW, PLEASE, YOU’RE NOT THINKING OF THE greater good. Omnivax will save hundreds of thousands of lives every year. If you block the release of the vaccine, think of all the blood that will be on your hands. Why, you don’t even know for certain that Lasaject caused any of those deformities. You’re guessing, assuming. . . .”

  Hal Sawyer ranted on nonstop as Matt and Ellen used lengths of clothesline to lash him tightly, facedown, on his bed. If someone happened to s
how up at his home and release him before they had the chance to report things to the state police, so be it. Grimes was gone for good, so were Sutcher and the other killers, Larry and Verne. Hal might try to run, but he wouldn’t get very far.

  “Darn it, Matthew, this is no way to treat your own flesh and blood! . . . Who’s going to visit your mother if I’m not around? . . . Your mother! . . . This is going to break her heart, and it’s all your fault. . . . For crying out loud, Matthew, I’m your godfather. . . . Ellen, Ellen, you’re more my generation, explain to my nephew the importance of family. I’m his uncle—genetically, that makes us twenty-five percent of each other. Twenty-five percent! That’s like selling out a quarter of yourself. . . .”

  “We can’t make it,” Ellen said, checking Matt’s watch. “We’re not even going to be close.”

  “We can only do our best,” Matt replied, tightening the cord a bit more than it needed to be. “We have a shot, depending on the traffic. It’ll be closer than you think.”

  “Can you do the rest of this yourself?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “I need to make a phone call before we leave. My friend Rudy will be worried sick about me. Also, he knows people. Maybe there’s someone he can call.”

  “Quickly, though. I have just another minute or two here, then I want to be on the road. Listen, Hal’s girlfriend, Heidi, lives here. Why don’t you make a quick rummage through her things for some warm clothes. It can get chilly on the bike.”

  It took just seconds for Ellen to appropriate a pair of dark slacks, a sweatshirt, and a leather jacket. She dashed to the kitchen while Matt looped the last length of rope around Hal’s ankle, then around the leg at the foot of the bed. He was badly shaken by Lyle Slocumb’s death and also by his uncle’s remorseless confession. His mother’s Alzheimer’s disease made her less aware of some things than she once might have been, but she would certainly be aware that her brother no longer came to see her—aware and deeply hurt. In spite of the situation and the urgency of their getting to Washington, he found himself composing explanations that would be gentler on her than the horrible truth.