"But I got sick as a dog, so that means my guns were not loaded for the Unity virus."
"Right. But unlike my immune system, yours got put on alert by something about the Unity virus. My guess is a minor antigenic similarity. Maybe because of a previous infection, it recognized just one or two base sequences in its protein coat; whatever it was was enough to trigger an immune response, and your T-cells declared war."
Love those T-cells, Jack thought, but why should mine be special?
"The thing is, Kate, I'm almost never sick. I don't even get the usual infections, let alone special ones."
"Gia told me you were terribly ill last summer—just as sick as you were yesterday."
"Oh, that. That wasn't a bug I caught, that was from some infected wounds."
"Wounds?" Kate's brow furrowed. "Who wounded you?"
Jack was about to say, Not who—what, when it all came together, whipping his head around like a backhanded bitchslap.
"Holy shit!"
"What?"
How could he tell her about the creatures that had almost killed him last August, about how the gouges one of them had torn across his chest became infected, leaving him fevered up for days after? If some contaminant from those things had primed his immune system, allowing it to recognize the Unity virus, then that meant the virus was linked to them.
Was the same power responsible for those creatures also behind the virus? Was that what was going on here? He needed more information but didn't know where to find it.
"Jack, what's wrong?"
Could he tell her? Nope. His story was even more fantastic than hers. Sound like he was playing Can You Top This? And how could he explain what he didn't understand himself? All he knew was that they were dealing with pure evil.
Used to be Jack didn't believe in evil as an entity. But he'd come to know it was out there—no belief necessary, he'd experienced it—and very real, very hungry.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes but it didn't slow his spinning mind. Couldn't worry about the big picture now. Had to stay focused on Kate and what was infecting her.
"Just a splitting headache," he lied.
"You were going to tell me about some wounds."
"There were nothing special."
"You don't know that. Something—"
"Please, Kate, we can worry about that later—"
"But I'm worried about it now, Jack!" she said and he saw tears filling her eyes. "I don't want to die."
"You're not going to die."
"Yes, I am! What's me, who I am…" She tapped her right temple as the tears spilled down her cheeks. "I'm dying in there, being eaten alive neuron by neuron. Soon I'll be gone, Jack, and I don't want to go. I've got too much left to do!"
Kate seemed to shrink, looking more like a frightened little girl than a professional and mother of two, and Jack's heart broke for her.
He struggled from the recliner. The effort, along with the change in position, made the room spin but he clenched his teeth and held on.
He dropped to his knees before his sister and put his arms around her, enfolding her in his blanket. She was trembling like a wounded thing.
He whispered in her ear. "I swear to you, Kate, that's not going to happen. I won't allow it."
"You don't know that. You can't say that."
"Yes, I can."
A cold resolve had taken shape within him, and Jack knew now what he had to do.
He waited till she'd composed herself, then sat back on his haunches, looking up at her.
"First we need to gather our facts. How many people in this Unity now—not including you?"
"Eight."
"Do you know their names and where they live?"
"No, I—" And then she stopped and cocked her head again. "I'll be darned. I do know."
"Great. Write them down and—"
"Why?" she said sharply. "So you can track them down and shoot them?"
Her words rocked him. "What makes you think I'd do something like that?"
"I found your guns, Jack."
Damn.
"That doesn't mean I'm planning to go out and shoot them."
But that was what was running through his head. Jack rarely believed in following the shortest course between two points, but with Kate at risk, the rules changed. He figured with Holdstock and the others dead there'd be no ubermind to control her. As the only surviving infected brain, Kate could remain Kate.
He hoped.
"Don't lie to me, Jack. And I don't know how you can even consider such a thing. They're not evil."
"Tell that to Fielding."
"The aggregate, yes—it's ruthless and will do anything to protect itself, but the individuals are innocent. They didn't ask to be infected. You heard Jeanette before she became fully integrated—she was terrified, pleading for help we couldn't give her. I'm sure they all felt that way but couldn't tell anyone. You can't kill innocent people, Jack."
Oh, yes, Kate, he thought, in this case I can. They threaten your existence. A choice between eight of them and one of you is no choice at all.
"Are you worried about them all, or just one?"
"Maybe I'm especially worried for Jeanette—I've lost her and I want her back. And I know her well enough to know she'd rather be dead than exist as she is now. But think, Jack: What if CDC or NIH test the virus and discover what to do? Jeanette and Holdstock and the rest can all be returned to their former selves. But not if they're dead. Could you live with that on your conscience, Jack?"
"One hell of a what-if, don't you think?"
"Maybe. But I know this, Jack: If you do something awful to them I will never speak to you again."
And if I don't, he thought with a deep pang of worry, you might never speak to me again anyway… because you'll be gone.
But to save her and then face her loathing…
At least she was sounding more like herself. She'd regained her composure, and the moral authority of an older sister.
Jack sighed. Might as well temporize. As if he had a choice. He was in no condition now to take any sort of action. In fact, just walking himself back to his bed would be an accomplishment. He'd need a day, maybe two to get his legs back. Question was, What could he do in the meantime?
"All right," he said. "I promise, nothing 'awful,' okay? But I've got to do something."
"Leave that to NIH and CDC."
Yeah, right.
"Holdstock seems to be the leader," he said. "Maybe—"
"You have to understand, Jack, there is no leader. That's why it calls itself the Unity—it's one mind and… oh dear, I just realized something. I had a dream shortly after I was infected, a landscape of coins with only the tail sides showing."
"Reverse—the head is the obverse side, the tail is the reverse." He stopped as he noticed her staring at him. "I know coins."
"Okay, only reverse sides showing, so that everywhere I looked I saw 'e pluribus unum'."
"'One from many'."
"Yes. I guess something in me knew what was happening even then."
"Back to Holdstock: you say he's not the leader, but he is the one who killed Fielding."
"His body was sent to kill Fielding. He had no say. He's an appendage, a tentacle on an octopus."
"Okay." He held up his hands, palms out. "You've made your point. What I want to know is why him?"
Kate opened her mouth, then closed it. She bared her teeth as if in pain.
"Kate! Are you all right?"
"The Unity… doesn't want me… tell you about this."
"What can I do?"
Jack held back a roar of frustration, wanting to grab and throttle whatever was mauling Kate's mind. But how do you tackle something you can't see?
"Because physically he's the largest member," she blurted, then gasped before continuing. "I've got it now."
"You're sure?"
She nodded jerkily. "Yes. They needed a body with the strength to overpower Fielding, and Holdstock was it.
"
"Why not just shoot him or stab him?"
"The idea was to leave as little evidence as possible. No noise, no bullet, no weapon, no bloodstains. Arrive, strangle him, leave, dispose of the electrical cord and wooden handles in separate locations on the way home."
"They told you all this?"
Kate shook her head, her expression bleak. "No. They didn't have to. I just… know."
Good plan… simple… grimly efficient. If the target knows you and doesn't fear you, it's perfect.
"Holdstock didn't touch anything?"
"No. Fielding opened the doors for him going in and he put on a glove going out."
"Think carefully, Kate. He touched nothing?''''
"It all happened so quickly, I don't—wait." She winced and closed her eyes for a few seconds, then spoke through her teeth. "When he rose from the floor after the struggle with Fielding, he used the dining room table for support."
"Touched it with his bare hand, not his forearm or his elbow?"
"Put his hand flat on the tabletop—I'm sure."
"Well, well, well," Jack said.
A whole handprint, fingers and palm. Beautiful.
"Can you use that?"
"Can't say just yet." Telling Kate would be telling the Unity.
Jack couldn't guarantee that his newly conceived scheme would work but, short of executing eight people, it was all he had right now. Holdstock might not be the leader, but his murdering Fielding made him vulnerable. If Jack couldn't eliminate the Unity, maybe he could distract it, and maybe that would buy Kate time.
"Can I ask you, Jack," Kate said, her face grave as she stared at him, "why you have so many guns?"
"Because I can. Because I want to. Because they expand my comfort zone."
"You're not one of those NRA gun nuts, are you?"
"No." He smiled. "Those are citizens."
"I hate guns. Ron bought one back when we were still together. He said he hated them too but he figured some day he might not be allowed to buy one, so…" She shrugged.
"Smart man. I don't pretend to know the answers, Kate. I'm not in the business of solving society's problems, but trying to control violence by disarming potential victims strikes me as whacked-out insane."
"Is this some sort of Second Amendment thing with you?"
Almost laughed. "Not likely. Amendments, Second or otherwise, don't apply much to me. If it's any sort of 'thing,' Kate, it's a bad-guy/ good-guy thing. As long as there's bad guys out there ready to stab, rape, shoot, bludgeon, and torture to get what they want, then their potential victims need a decisive way to respond. Guns weren't called 'equalizers' for nothing. The frailest woman with a gun in her hand is a match for any rapist."
"So I take it, then," Kate said slowly, "that if all the bad guys went away, magically disappeared, you'd give up your guns?"
"Not a chance."
Kate nodded. Didn't smile, but her eyes said, Gotcha.
Using an arm of the recliner for support, Jack pushed himself to his feet.
"Right now I'm too pooped to argue. Maybe after a nap…" Shuffled back to his bedroom and collapsed on the bed. After resting a moment, he picked up the phone and punched in a number. He'd checked his voicemail before leaving the bedroom and found two messages from Sandy Palmer, boy reporter. Jack would call Gia, let her know he was feeling better and see how she was doing, then it would be time for Superman to call Jimmy Olsen and get him involved in something more productive than amnesty for the Savior…
4
Meet me at noon at the bar where you were told how to find me. I need your help.
The words bounced around the inside of Sandy's head. Especially the last four: I need your help.
He felt light and giddy, ready to laugh aloud as he hurried up Broadway. The Upper West Side was taking advantage of the sunny Sunday morning: dinks brunching al fresco, yuppie couples herding their kids along the sidewalk toward church or the latest IMAX offering.
Look at me! he wanted to shout. Last night I was shoulder to shoulder with the ultraglitterati, and this morning I'm answering a call from the mystery man the whole country is talking about, and he wants me to help him out. Don't you wish you were me? You all know you do! Say it!
This was so cool. Who'd ever dream life could be this cool.
The call had been a surprise. After Sandy had all but given up hope of hearing from the Savior, the man phones and he wants to meet. Because he needs help.
Help with what? Amnesty wasn't mentioned. Could he be in some sort of jam?
But back to cool: that was how Sandy was determined to be at this meet. Cool. Ultracool. Don't let the excitement show, don't buy right away into whatever he wants you to do. Think about it… check it out from all angles… weigh all the pluses and minuses…
Then jump in with both feet.
He grinned. Yes!
He'd forgotten the exact location of Julio's and made a couple of wrong turns before he found it. He stepped inside and it was deja vu all over again: the dead plants in the window, the dark interior, the musty smell of stale beer, and at the bar, the same two hard drinkers who'd given him a hard time before. What were their names? Barney and Lou. Right. Everything exactly the same, like he'd stepped back in time: the same shots and drafts on the bar, and Sandy could swear Barney was wearing the same faded T-shirt. Did these two live here?
"Hey, meng."
Sandy glanced right to see the muscular little Hispanic owner strolling his way.
Julio said, "You've come to give me my share of the inheritance, eh?"
"What?" Sandy said, baffled.
Julio held up Sandy's original Identi-Kit printout and waved it in his face.
"The guy you were looking for, meng! I toF you where he was, so now you give me my cut, right?"
What was this—some kind of shakedown?
"Th-that was just a joke."
Julio's expression was grim. "You see me smiling, meng? You hear me laughing?"
"Maybe this was a mistake," Sandy said, turning toward the door. "I think I'd better—"
Julio's sudden grip on his arm was like a steel manacle. "He's waiting for you in the back."
He gave Sandy a push toward the shadowed rear section; nothing rough about it, but firm enough to let him know which way he was going whether he liked it or not.
Behind him Sandy heard Barney and Lou snigger. Joke's on me, I guess. Ha-ha. Everyone's a comedian.
As he wound his way among tables laden with upended chairs, a pale form began to take shape behind a cleared table set with a large bottle of orange Gatorade. The Savior… his back against the rear wall. But he looked terrible. Even in this murky light Sandy could make out his sunken, half-glazed eyes and sallow skin.
"My God, what happened?" Sandy asked.
"Sit down." The voice was a weak rasp.
Sandy pulled out a chair and settled opposite him, as far away as possible while still at the same table. Whatever he had, Sandy didn't want it.
"Are you sick?"
The Savior shook his head. He seemed barely able to stay upright. "I was poisoned."
It took Sandy a few seconds to process the words. Poisoned? Poisoned?
"No shit! Who? Why?"
"Let me start at the beginning. You were right to doubt what I told you about doing undercover work for the government: all bullshit."
Am I good or am I good, Sandy thought with a surge of pride. He suppressed a grin and let a sage nod suffice.
"I make ends meet," the Savior went on, "by doing odd jobs for cash. One of those jobs is bodyguarding. Sort of a freelance thing, you know? Last week a certain Dr. James Fielding was referred to me. You recognize the name?"
Sandy had never heard of the man but didn't want to look dumb. "Sounds familiar but I can't place him."
The Savior sipped from his Gatorade bottle. "You may have heard it on the news this morning: he was murdered last night."
"Oh, man! And you were supposed to protect him!" Sandy put two and
two together. "Is that why you were poisoned?"
The Savior nodded. "Fielding wouldn't tell me why, but for some reason he was afraid of a former patient named Terrence Holdstock. He said he didn't have enough to go to the police, but he feared for his life."
"Some sort of malpractice thing?"
"I'm not sure. I did a little investigating—in fact I was on my way back from doing just that when our friend on the Nine started shooting. What I learned is that this Holdstock is the leader of some sort of cult."
"A cult? I helped research a feature we did on local cults a while back but I never heard of him."
"It's a small cult, and relatively new. And get this: all members are former patients of Dr. Fielding."
"Oh, that's weird. That's really weird."
"Wait. It gets weirder. They drew lots and Holdstock won: he got the honor of murdering Fielding. And not by just any means—by strangulation."
Sandy leaned back and stared at this man. Yes, he'd saved Sandy's life, but he'd also lied to him. Was he lying again? Sandy prayed not. Few things on earth were sexier—news-wise, of course—than a murder cult.
"How do you know all this?"
"I can fill you in on the how later. What matters is Holdstock succeeded, and damn near offed me in the process." He lifted his Gatorade bottle. "I tend to drink this like water. But yesterday they spiked it with something that was supposed to kill me."
"Why kill you?"
"Because I knew too much. And I stood between Fielding and the cult. But they must have miscalculated the dose because it only put me down, way down, but not out. I couldn't move but I could still see, and I watched Holdstock strangle Fielding with an electrical wire garrote."
"You're an eyewitness? Oh, man! Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man! You can put this guy away!"
Sandy's mind was ranging back and forth, inspecting the story from all angles. If it was true—and please, please, please, God, let it be true!—and if Sandy could break the story…
But the Savior was shaking his head. "Not me. I'm not putting anyone away."
"Why not?" And then he remembered. "Oh, shit, yes. You're wanted."
"Right. And as if that's not bad enough, I left the scene—dragged myself away is more like it—and didn't report it. If I open my mouth I'm open to even more charges. That's where you come in."
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