Lethal Factor

by Gabrielle Lord

  Sister Felicitas bowed her head.

  ‘But all she could manage,’ I said, ‘was the first word or two.’

  Twenty-three

  I dropped Bob, who’d been doing almost as much travelling as I had over the last week, back in town with the prayer book in the envelope to give back to Brian Kruger. Then I drove to work. Human beings like Sister Gertrude are very rare, I thought. The world is filled with people like the Babics, the Gavrilovics and, I had to add, people like me. We believe in vengeance. And so it goes round and round.

  There was a pile of mail and other papers on the desk, twice the size it had been when I’d last looked, and I checked my email as a way of avoiding it a little longer. Whatever it was that had been niggling me over the last few days had taken up a position further towards the back of my mind, but it was still most definitely there, and I wished I could drag it out into the light and see what it was.

  On top of the pile was the print-out I’d requested from Security Services with the dates, times and names of everyone who’d accessed any of the secure laboratories, including the hot suite. I found the note Florence had given me, with her estimation of the days and times she’d discovered unauthorised use of the electron microscope. Around eleven am on a morning in May, and late afternoon one day last month. I scanned down the list of names. One jumped out at me. Vic Agnew had no reason to be going into the hot suite. I circled his name on the security print-out. He owed me an explanation.

  Among my email was one from TIGR—The Institute for Genomic Research—among the hundreds I’d failed to check over the last few days. A full report was following in the post, I was told, but the upshot of their tests into the genetic structure of the BA that had killed Tony Bonning and Livvy Worthington was this: neither samples were from either the Ames or Sterne strains. The capsules were highly resistant and toxicity of the virulence plasmids was extremely high. This highly dangerous variety, they added, was new to them—a brand new strain. They were very keen to discover its provenance and asked me to provide a full case report when I’d completed my work on this form of the pathogen. Even in his malice, I thought, Henry had been a consummate scientist. The scientists at Defence might be very interested.

  Twenty-four

  I was on the way back to Seven Oaks with supplies, and had turned off the highway onto the half-mile driveway when the nearside tyre went flat and my steering wobbled over the corrosions in the dirt. I swore and got out. My spare was in reasonable form and I was almost finished putting the hubcap screws into place when my mobile rang. It was Bob. I could hardly believe what he was telling me. I put the shifting spanner down and cursed again.

  ‘What do you mean escaped?’ I asked.

  ‘The bastard overpowered the officers who were putting him in the wagon to bring him in for our trip to Canberra,’ said Bob. ‘And that’s the last anyone’s seen of him.’

  ‘This is hopeless, Bob,’ I said, angry. ‘The cops up here let an important witness make a suicide bid while in custody, and now the Sydney detectives have lost a very dangerous suspect.’

  ‘We’ve got every command area looking out for him. We should pick him up.’

  I wasn’t so sure. Terrorist training comes in handy when a man needs to make a fast getaway from captivity.

  ‘He’ll leave the country,’ I said. ‘And we’ll never see him again.’

  ‘We’ve got people at the airport and railway,’ Bob said. ‘We’re getting assistance from interstate police in case he crosses a border.’

  ‘He’s been a soldier. He’s lived and fought in war zones. My bet is he’ll stay low, living off the land. Make his way to an airport. You’d better put out a warning to householders,’ I said. ‘Make sure vehicles are kept locked. Gavrilovic is a dangerous man.’ I rang off, gave the hubcap screws a final tighten, threw the shifter onto the floor, chucked the dead tyre in the boot and drove up towards the house.

  My frustration eased as I looked around at Seven Oaks, beautiful with the sun shining in long swathes through the grass. I could see Taffy and Duchess ambling along the river flat although the low river was almost invisible, its long brown ribbon only visible in short lengths between the rises. Flocks of galahs rose from the ground as I drove down the driveway to the house and Digby’s feathered puffballs were scratching around in the garden.

  I checked the house locks and found that they were satisfactory and as I packed tea and coffee and some of Jacinta’s favourite packets of corn chips and salsa dips away, I found myself hoping she’d come down soon. I’d feel happier with her out of Sydney altogether.

  I sat on the back verandah with a cup of soup, although it was too cold to stay out there for long with the evening coming on. Against the wall, Digby’s ant farm went about its subterranean business. At least, I thought, he’d be happy about the publication of his latest research. That was some small light in his bereavement.

  I thought about Henry Dupont and how his hatred and resentment had created so much suffering for so many people.

  I went to the back shed and brought in an armload of firewood for the slow-combustion heater in the living room and stood a moment with the wood in my arms, watching the ants through the cross section created by their glass housing. Their teeming industry made a subtle sound, the hum of activity. There must have been thousands of them, streaming up and down their narrow channels, dragging bundles of food. I could see the strong stinging pincers that delivered their powerful venom. Their movements were nudging at whatever it was that was niggling me, but not enough for me to cry ‘Eureka’ like Archimedes. The wood was feeling heavier so I hurried inside and started the fire. I was thinking about dinner when my phone rang.

  ‘Henry Dupont was all over those handbags,’ Florence said. ‘A non-confrontational loner with a grudge and a weakness for handbags. And you should see the glassware from the cultures I grew from his tissue samples. Serves him right,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet we find he died from the same strain of the disease he used to murder other people.’

  I thought of the naked body, lying in its own corruption. ‘But Florence,’ I said, ‘like I told Harry Marshall, Henry had a receipt from Bioport.’

  There was a silence. ‘That’s a worry, then,’ said Florence.

  ‘You bet it’s a worry,’ I said. ‘If the batch he ordered isn’t effective, what the hell are we being injected with?’

  ‘He might have ordered it, but not used it,’ Florence suggested. That sounded unlikely, given that he had every intention of producing quantities of the pathogen in his home lab.

  ‘Maybe he ordered it thinking he could use it as a base for growing the stuff,’ said Florence.

  I doubted it. Henry’s experience in biochemistry was much more advanced than mine, and I knew you couldn’t get a living source of bacteria from a cell-free filtrate.

  ‘We’d better talk to Bioport,’ said Florence, ‘quick smart.’

  I was about to ring off, noticing that my battery was getting very low. ‘Oh,’ said Florence, ‘one more thing. That foreign order profile you requested.’ I remembered Alix’s lipstick print; her Judas kiss. ‘You’d better tell your friend that the person who left the gift for him on his desk bats for the same team. It’s a male profile.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ I said before I could stop myself. ‘I know where it came from. It’s a woman. There’s been a mistake.’

  ‘No mistake,’ said Florence, and I could hear the change in her voice that meant she was about to climb onto her high horse.

  ‘I didn’t mean you, Florence,’ I said, keen to maintain our improved working relationship. ‘It must have been a contaminated sample.’

  ‘I got epidermal cells from the lipstick kiss,’ she said in her stern, non-negotiable voice. ‘That kiss print, Jack, was made by an XY human being. Twin peaks.’

  There was no point in arguing the toss, so I rang
off. Florence Horsefall was just about the best analyst I knew. But something had gone terribly wrong. I tried to find ways to make sense of the male DNA result. Alix must have been kissing someone just seconds before pressing her lips against the envelope, I theorised. And we’ve got his cells instead.

  My mobile rang again as I was sliding a gourmet steak and kidney pie into the microwave. It was Bob. ‘Thought you’d like to know we’ve got a warrant out for Marty Cash,’ he said. ‘Colin Reeves has enough taped evidence to lock the bastard up for a good long time. Still no news on Gavrilovic, I’m sorry to say. And I think it would be a good idea . . .’ His voice broke off before returning, ‘for all concerned.’

  ‘Bob,’ I said. ‘You’re breaking up.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Bob?’ The line was dead.

  My battery was stuffed. I looked around for a place to recharge it and found a double adaptor in a power point just above the table where Livvy’s research folders had sat. I plugged the phone in. As I closed the flue on the heater, I accepted the fact that I’d just have to be satisfied with Cash being charged with conspiracy to kidnap rather than the crime itself. Sometimes, we don’t get what we want, I thought.

  I looked outside and noticed that the hens had suddenly vanished from clucking round the garden, signalled by the fading light, and told myself I mustn’t forget to lock them into their luxury henhouse. I wouldn’t be able to face my boss if I had to tell him I’d let a fox take his precious puffballs as they roosted in their luxury accommodation.

  I walked outside and the second I did, my early warning system sounded an alarm. A cold little wind rustled the few stubborn leaves remaining on the nearby oak tree and against the dark pewter sky I could make out the dark blotches of a couple of deserted nests in its branches.

  ‘Hello?’ I called. ‘Who’s there?’

  The wind stopped and now the place was completely silent. Half a mile away, I could see the headlights of the occasional car driving past, the sound of their distant, receding engines the only noise. The same small cold wind lifted the ivy vines that hung from the trellis hiding the garbage bins before dying again. I walked over there, almost certain there was another presence.

  I imagined Gavrilovic with his assassin’s knife and wished I had something with me that might serve as a weapon. But the continuing silence eventually convinced me that I was merely being paranoid and I headed over to the henhouse. Bob’s words from years ago came to mind: just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean the bastards aren’t out to get you.

  I stepped inside and felt for a light, grateful when it came on. For a second, I thought an intruder might be hiding in here, but when I looked around, spooked at the idea, I realised there was nowhere to hide. A few of the hens squawked at this intrusion then resettled. They were all fluffed up together against the cold, although the temperature in here was very mild. I knew that Digby took no chances with the health of his precious puffballs; it must have been the only air-conditioned henhouse in the ACT, although the air-conditioning wasn’t on at the moment. I walked along the roosting boxes, making sure they were all snuggled up. I was just about to turn around and lock up, when a loud noise made me jump in fear. I swung round. When I saw what had happened, I swore out loud. Digby had warned me to prop the door open. It had swung shut in that light wind and I was stuck in the bloody chookhouse.

  I felt like a real dill, and even more so when I reached for my mobile and remembered it was inside the house, recharging. I swore again, and the hens clucked in disapproval. It was almost funny. But it wasn’t long before the joke wore very thin as I wondered what the hell I was going to do.

  Hey!’ I yelled, stupidly. ‘I’m stuck in here. Open the door!’

  I stood in the centre of the spacious henhouse, with the roosting boxes lining the wall behind me and the wretched door ahead tightly closed and only a small round hole where the lock should have been. I had no idea how long it might be before another person came out here. I searched around for another way out. The windows were twelve feet or so up the wall, just below the ceiling and there was no way to get up to them. And they were glazed anyway because of the air-conditioning. Even if I managed somehow to get up there, and smash the glass, I doubted if I could fit through the horizontal apertures. I looked around to see if there was anything that I could use as a jemmy. Maybe I could prise the door open. The walls were cement-rendered brick and the doorframe, set in its metal housing, showed no chinks or weakness. It was sealed tight as any crash door. How the hell was I going to get out of here?

  I just had to face the fact that the whole place was sealed up tight and it looked like there was no way out. I was stuck here and it could be for some time. I wasn’t looking forward to being cooped up here with the damn Chinese silkies for too long, with their ammonia wastes fouling the straw bedding and the air. Air, I thought. That might become problematical. I switched on the air-conditioner and nothing happened. Either it was broken, or the power point had failed. I flicked the switch on and off. I fiddled with the controls on the front of the air-conditioner. Still nothing happened. Great, I thought. I’ve not only locked myself in, but put myself in danger of asphyxiation. Usually, there were only chickens in here during the night and not an adult male human using up the available oxygen as well. I searched around again. Behind the incubator was a glassed-in cabinet, and I peered to see if there was anything helpful. But it was just an array of veterinary remedies, for the horses and the hens, various antibiotics, vaccines and vitamin drops, additives, no doubt, to the hens’ mash. In the cupboard underneath were stacks of old research notes and the orange and red sports bag with its more recent contents that Digby had put in for safekeeping when last we were here.

  I slid down the wall and sat in complete dejection. Why on earth hadn’t I been more careful? I looked around the fancy henhouse. It was more like a bunker, I thought, cursing Digby for this absurd overprotection of his goddamned chickens. I leaned back against the wall and glanced at my watch. It wasn’t even eight pm. No one might come near this place for days. The people at work would think I was on the road, or in Sydney. The people in Sydney would think I was at work. Jacinta had said she’d be up some time, but it might be several days before she arrived. Cecil from down the road would assume I was looking after everything on the property now. There was no reason he should visit.

  I swore again, furious at myself, and paced some more, trying to find a plan, a way out of this impossible situation. Round and round I went, the powder puffs softly clucking at my passing, unused to human company at night. I searched the place from top to bottom with increasing desperation but found nothing helpful. I was getting hungry, too. Again, I checked the glass cabinet, thinking that if the worst came to the worst, I’d have to drink water from the puffballs’ hopper, and share bran mash and vitamins with them. I slid down the wall again, in the space between the water hopper and the bran processor, feeling. I noticed a strip of anti-skid tape under the dusty floor and wondered why it was there. Then I looked closer and saw that it wasn’t anti-skid tape, but a grounding strip. To keep the dust down, I thought.

  I leaned back against the wall, considering my next move. If I hadn’t been so tired I might have been more conscious, more careful, and followed Digby’s instructions concerning the broken lock. I pulled out the box of notes to see if there was anything even half-interesting that might help me while away the time. Most of it was Digby’s print-outs and handwritten papers on Myrmecia pilosula. Livvy’s notes on the protein-snipping chemical in the red and orange sports bag failed to fascinate me, although I noticed that she’d trialled some of the possibilities from the distributed computing program that ran twenty-four hours a day in the storeroom near Digby’s laboratory. I kept searching, hoping to find a secret stash of pulp fiction, or porn, or anything. No such luck. All I found was a key on a key ring with ‘Lab 13’ written on it in Henry Dupont’s spidery wri
ting. I frowned. We don’t have a Lab 13, I thought, as I chucked it back into the bag.

  I went back to Livvy’s work, my eyes barely engaging with the text. One small molecule she’d tested had actually neutralised certain toxic proteins produced by tumour cells. I looked up from my reading and thought again what a disaster it had been to lose Livvy Worthington in the prime of her research. It wasn’t just the humanitarian aspect of her work. The pragmatist in me could see the potential for a multi-million-dollar deal with a drug company, and the boost that would be to Australian scientists, too often forced overseas by government shortsightedness and cuts to universities and dedicated research institutions. I didn’t have the chemistry skills to make sense of all of it, and I would have much rather been reading a good Peter Corris or Jeffrey Deaver. I pushed the notes back into the sports bag and decided to try to catch some sleep. Maybe after a nap I’d have a clearer mind. I made myself as comfortable as I could and lay down against the feed hopper. The body warmth from the sleeping hens kept the cold at bay and I had plenty of clothes on. I dozed on and off. Maybe someone would notice the lights still on in the chookhouse late at night and come and check up. Maybe pigs might fly, I thought, or these bloody puffballs would get organised and dig me out of here.

  I must have slept deeply and it was four am when I woke, cramped, alarmed, not knowing where I was. I sat there, with the chickens, trying to laugh at myself, pushing away the thought that it might be a week before anyone found me here. I heard the magpies carolling. Who’s the dickhead in the chookhouse? they chorused with their pretty upwards inflexion. There was nothing to do except sit or walk around as the hours crawled by and the sun came up. The puffballs started fussing and clucking around, knowing they should be outside by now, pecking for green treats and insects. I saw the sunlight through the high windows move down the walls until it was high in the sky again. The puffballs pecked around me, and I saw that the water level in the hopper was dropping fast. A couple of times, I held my breath because it sounded as if a car were coming down the driveway, but it must have been a neighbour because no one came. I heard the phone ringing inside the house. I walked around again, trying to find something to use to get the hook off the door. If I could do that, I might be able to chip away at the render and make a hole in the brickwork. But there was nothing useful. All the hoppers were made of easy-clean plastics.