“And if there isn’t?”
“Chris,” General Cummings speaks up “I don’t think we need to go down this road again. It’s highly unproductive.”
Chris relents on screen leaning back in his chair and waving his hands in front of him. Lynne turns to Henry Abbot asking, “How’s treatment coming along?”
Clearly exhausted, Henry shakes his head saying, “Streptomycin is still having no effect and Gentamicin is not working all that well either. With a few cases we’ve moved to Doxycycline; success yet to be determined. This bacterium definitely looks multi-drug resistant.”
“How are those kill curves coming along Roger?”
“We should have final results in a few hours.”
“How about preliminary results?” Lynne asks.
Grimacing Roger answers, “We had to restart the tests a few times. The bacterium was proving susceptible to every drug we threw at it.”
“That can’t be right!” Danny accuses “You must have fouled the tests somehow.”
“A conclusion we reached of our own accord,” Roger bristles, “Hence the retests.”
“Keep us posted,” Lynne says, “Moving on, Wendy do you have any results to report?”
“Nothing you’re going to want to hear, I’m afraid.” Typing on the keyboard in front of her Wendy continues, “I found something potentially explosive. This is preliminary data that I still need to confirm, but here goes.
“I worked with a sample of 154 cases—which was the total number yesterday—of which 93 were fatalities. I probed each of these cases looking for anything that they might’ve had in common. Environment, diet, age, all the normal patterns yielded nothing.
“Then I discovered this.”
Clicking her keyboard she brings up a set of graphs on the monitor for all to see.
“This is a breakdown of the known cases by age group. You’ll notice I’ve added another category—flu shots. And this is where things get potentially explosive. It’s not readily apparent on this graph, but when I change it like so what I’m talking about becomes incredibly obvious.”
“The line for fatalities and flu shots become one—a perfect one hundred percent correlation.”
The room collectively holds their breath as Wendy pauses to let the ramifications of what she’s said sink in.
“What does this prove?” General Cummings asks.
“Nothing right now, but it’s certainly persuasive.” Wendy explains, “From the cases I studied, everyone who got sick and also had a flu shot, failed to recover from the infection. Everyone who got sick and did not have a flu shot, recovered. Everyone.
“Now in order to prove that the flu shot is contributing to this infection I need more data. Specifically, if the batch of vaccinations was contaminated in some way, then every one of the 1,400 people in Stillness who got the shot will die if they also get the plague.
“If I find a single person who received the flu shot who recovers from the plague, then the vaccine is in the clear.”
“Who else knows about this?” Lynne asks.
“No one outside of this room, but to either prove or disprove this, the vaccine maker is going to have to be notified.”
“What are you thinking Lynne?” Roger asks.
“I’m thinking that until we know for certain that the flu vaccine has something to do with this outbreak, we should keep it quiet. Wendy’s right that this information could be explosive.
“Until we know more, flu vaccines should be halted as a safety precaution. Wendy, discreetly get in touch with the manufacturer and test samples of the vaccine administered.”
“This is how he did it.”
The room’s attention shifts to Chris Rahlings in Bethesda. “Don’t you see? Markov contaminated the vaccine to help spread his plague!”
After looking around at the shocked faces of her colleagues, Lynne turns to Chris saying, “Let’s hope you’re wrong because if the vaccine supply is unsafe than we are in big trouble.”
Chapter 25
October 20
Des Moines, Iowa
“I need a crash cart in here stat!”
Alarms blare all around the prone body of Cody Lincoln as his vitals drop precipitously fast. His room fills up with nurses and doctors furiously working to save his life.
Outside his room his family watches in horror as he crashes before their eyes. His pain is gone now—theirs is just beginning.
Paddles, needles, and determined hands are at the center of the maelstrom in his room. The fever pitch of voices rises above the shrill crying of the alarms.
It’s already too late though.
Cody sees the scene from a faraway place. He sees the doctors that have fought for days to bring him back to health. He sees the nurses that have whispered words of comfort to him—words that helped him cope.
And he sees his family.
He sees his mother crying and it tears at his heart. He loves her so much that he wants nothing more than to heal her pain. He wants to go back and tell her that everything will be all right. He wants to see her smile one more time.
He sees his father crying beside her and it startles him. He’s never seen his father cry before. He always thought of him as too strong to cry. He sees him now for what he really is—a scared man with so much to lose. He wants to hug him one last time.
He sees his sister crying and he wants to dry her tears. His beautiful sister shouldn’t have to bear this burden. They should’ve grown old together. If he had one wish, it would be to go back and watch over his big sister the way she always watched over him.
But these are all things that he cannot do. The light over his shoulder is pulling him away faster than he can hold on.
His time here is over.
“All right, that’s it.” Steven Kendrick glances at the clock on the wall saying, “I’m calling it. Time of death: three fifty-one in the morning.”
It’s time to go.
Stillness, Iowa
Walking into the local police station, Lynne Bosworth glances around the room. The front lobby—or what serves as the front lobby—is nothing more than three desks laid out along the walls.
No glass partition made from bullet proof Lucite separates the officers from those they are sworn to protect here. The whole décor is very retro and like everything else around here, very small town.
Still, despite the inviting openness of the station, she feels nervous making eye contact with the large man behind the desk on her left.
The nameplate on the desk and the hat hanging behind it identify the occupant as Sheriff Walter Anjou.
Looking away from his leering gaze she returns the warm smile she receives from the young looking officer with sandy brown hair and intelligent green eyes.
She decides her best bet is to talk with him.
“Good afternoon.”
“Afternoon ma’am,” Clark Starling asks, “How can I help you?”
“My name’s Lynne Bosworth with the CDC,” she fishes in her purse trying to find her identification to show him.
“That’s all right, I believe you. I know just about everyone in this town and since I don’t know you, I think you must be who you say you are.”
Lynne is taken aback for a moment at the backwards logic of the young deputy. Smiling coyly she asks, “Is Agent Caleb Fine here?”
“I do believe,” Walt begins his voice rough like hewn sandpaper “The agent is on a break—nothing new for a federal employee if you ask me. What do you need with him?”
Turning to face him Lynne does her best to hide her disgust at the hulking bulk of a man lounging on a chair far too small for his size. “I need to discuss William Sullivan with him.”
“What about Sullivan?” Walt asks sharply. The sound of creaking wood and grinding screws fills Lynne’s ears as the Sheriff leans forward.
“I want to understand his supposed connection with the outbreak I’m investigating here. So, when will Agent Fine be returning?”
&
nbsp; “Screw Fine,” Walt snorts, “I can take you back to the cages and we can hash out all your questions with Sullivan.” An iniquitous smile parts his lips as he adds, “I always say, no need to talk to the horse’s ass when the horse’s mouth is around.”
Growing uncomfortable in his presence, Lynne turns away from Walt and focuses on Clark. Sensing her discomfort Clark offers, “I think Agent Fine just went down the block to good old Mary’s for some coffee and pie. You might try checking for him there if you’d prefer not to wait here for him.”
Grateful for the information and the opportunity to exit the station house and get away from the Sheriff’s lecherous attitude, Lynne smiles at Clark and hastily beats her retreat. “Thanks Deputy.”
When she’s outside Walt leans back in his chair deriding Clark, “You’re too damn nice for your own good boy. She was a damn sight better to look at than you, and you rush her out the door.”
They exchange looks before Walt pushes his bulk up from the chair, “No matter, I’ve got to make a phone call anyway.”
Agent Fine is easy to recognize. In the middle of a Sunday afternoon the café is not exactly crawling with patrons. And even if it were, Caleb Fine is not the type to blend in.
From the doorway Lynne pegs the solitary man sitting by the window as Agent Fine. He’s wearing a finely tailored blue suit, pressed white shirt, and a checkered tie. Even sitting, Lynne can tell that Caleb Fine is an imposing figure of a man.
As she draws closer to his table he looks up at her, the light from the window revealing the scar on his cheek. Pausing for the briefest of steps, Lynne continues on to the table.
“Agent Fine?”
Nodding he responds “Yes, do I know you?”
Smiling Lynne asks, “Mind if I sit down?”
“Not at all,” Caleb returns the smile and waves for her to sit down across from him.
“I’m Dr. Lynne Bosworth Agent Fine. I need to talk to you.”
Recognition dawns in his brilliant green eyes as Caleb Fine reaches a hand across the table. The handshake is firm and strong. Inexplicably the touch causes Lynne’s cheeks to blush slightly.
“Please call me Caleb Dr. Bosworth. You’re in charge of the CDC investigation here right?”
“That’s right. And call me Lynne.”
Raising his cup of coffee he signals for a refill. “Can I get you a cup Lynne?”
“Please.”
After the coffee is served and Mary has drifted a sufficient distance away back to the counter, Caleb asks, “So what can I do for you Lynne?”
“I’d like to talk to you about William Sullivan. I’ve heard from Chris Rahlings at NIAID that he’s been tied to this outbreak through an association with Nikolai Markov.”
“We found evidence to that nature,” Caleb flashes a tiny half-smile that she finds herself thinking is almost cute. “Do you have something to add to the investigation?”
Looking away from him for a moment she stares down at the cup of coffee in front of her. Her fingers have nervously entwined themselves around the handle of the mug. Raising her eyes back to his she pronounces flatly “I met Nikolai Markov once.”
She takes Caleb’s silence as an invitation to continue. “He was a friend of my father—Edward Bosworth, the director of the Epidemic Intelligence Service. Nikolai Markov was a great scientist, he wasn’t a terrorist. And even if he became one, I assure you he wouldn’t have worked with William Sullivan.”
Intrigued by the confidence of the claim Caleb asks, “How could you know that?”
“Nikolai loved science and little else in this world. I don’t believe that he was a terrorist but I know he was a terror to any of his hapless lab assistants. If there was one thing Nikolai couldn’t stand it was incompetence.
“He wasn’t the type to suffer fools lightly. I don’t know William Sullivan, but he’s not a scientist is he Caleb? Nikolai despised working with people who were ignorant of science.”
Shifting in his seat Caleb replies, “You seem to be a pretty adept detective Lynne. William Sullivan has been cleared in this investigation.”
Perplexed by the announcement Lynne asks, “When did that happen?”
“Within the past few days. Don’t ask me how they did it, but our techies at Quantico determined that the evidence we had was fabricated. We had e-mails recovered from Markov’s hard drive that tied him to William.
“Turns out the hard drive was planted. It wasn’t Markov’s actual hard drive.”
“But that means…”
“Right,” Caleb sips his coffee saying, “Someone tried to frame William Sullivan.”
“But who? Why?”
Sighing heavily Caleb answers “Both excellent questions.”
Tulsa, Oklahoma
“Something’s wrong here.”
“What?! What in god’s name is wrong now?”
The snarling voice across the hood of the Suburban from Kazim belongs to Eric Lydekker. He’s a large muscular man in his late forties. Wisps of silver have already begun to creep into his once jet black hair. Hair that no longer adheres to the rigid military crew cut of his youth, but flows freely on top of his square shaped head. He’s possessed of a powerful jawbone, a flat fleshy nose, and diabolically dark eyes.
“I needn’t tolerate your insolent attitude Eric.”
A placating grin creasing his features, Eric dismissively waves at Kazim saying, “Whatever you say Kaz. But seems like all you’ve done on this little road trip is bitch.”
“Kazim,” he corrects him. “And are you going to tell me that you don’t find it odd that Tesla has left his cell phone on? Or that he made calls at all? Who could he have called?”
“No I don’t find it odd. Jesus, he’s a scientist,” Eric points out “He’s not some James Bond secret agent. He has no clue how to avoid detection.”
“But he does. He paid cash for his motel room and paid the clerk to keep quiet.”
“Maybe he just got lucky and had cash on hand.”
“Why did he pay the clerk?” Kazim asks.
“Who cares?” Eric slams his fist down on the hood of the Suburban. “Maybe he’s a big tipper or just bad with money. What does it matter anyway?”
“Because it proves he knows how to stay hidden!”
“He used a fucking credit card to buy a car!”
“Nothing before that and nothing since,” Kazim counters, “So why would he use the credit card and then the phone and lead us right to him?”
“You’re impossible Kazim.”
Turning away from him, Eric stalks back towards his own vehicle. As he does the man behind the wheel calls to him, “Latest satellite tracking shows the Civic heading out of town.”
“We end this now,” Eric turns back to Kazim yelling, “Get in your car and follow us. It’s time to put the rabbit back in his cage!”
Driving along the mostly deserted highway, the Civic tops speeds of 60 miles an hour. The music is blaring from the speakers in the front and back. It’s so loud that the windows need to be down to tolerate the noise. It’s so loud to keep the driver from falling asleep. It’s so loud he doesn’t hear the roar of engines closing in on him from behind.
“There he is!”
Eric’s voice crackles over the CB radio on the dash in front of Kazim. “We’re going to pass him and block the road. You keep him from turning around.”
Kazim watches with intense interest as Eric’s SUV pulls out into the passing lane flying by the Civic now ten car lengths in front of him.
Watching the Civic something still bothers Kazim about the whole situation. Something is definitely wrong here.
The sound of protesting brakes and squealing rubber in front of him causes Kazim to start. He slams his foot down on the brake and turns the wheel ninety degrees to his right to block the road.
The Civic barely stops before crashing into the black SUV.
Eric and Kazim are out of their vehicles and pointing firearms at the car before the driver can even
unbuckle his seatbelt.
The rest of Eric’s team keeps a watchful eye on the road for any unwanted passersby.
“Out of the car Tesla!” Eric screams, “It’s over!”
“Hands where we can see them!” Kazim adds as the door slowly opens. Being slightly behind the car Kazim sees the driver seconds before Eric does. He also sees that there’s another occupant in the passenger seat.
Most importantly though he sees that neither one is Vladimir Tesla.
“What the…?”
Kazim turns angrily on Eric. If looks could kill Eric Lydekker would be a dead man.
“L-l-look guys,” the teenage driver stammers, “T-t-take the c-c-c-car. It’s c-c-cool.”
Grabbing him by the collar Kazim slams him against the car. “Where did you get this car?”
“Some guy left it running,” the second kid says, “He went into a store, so we jacked his ride.”
Kazim violently releases the driver as he holsters his weapon. “Get out of here,” he hisses at them through clenched teeth.
Glaring at Eric standing with his gun hanging at his side he says, “Nothing wrong huh? He used his credit card to buy a car to let it be stolen. He left his cell phone in it so we’d waste time tracking a ghost!”
Bumping his chest against Eric’s he roars “Still think he doesn’t know how to hide! We are officially back to square one. You want to tell the boss, or should I?”
Watching the teenage car thieves scamper away down the road Kazim is fuming.
Where are you Tesla?
Chapter 26
October 22
Stillness, Iowa
“How could you print this?”
Unscrewing the cap of a thin metal flask, Jacob Castle pours its contents into his coffee mug. His hair is messed while his clothes look disheveled and wrinkled. He looks like he’s gone weeks without sleep.
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