Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “Yes, sir. Oh, and sir, I’ve set up a lunch reservation for you and Mrs. Scarelli at a place called Cortez’s. Noon. I’ll give you directions when you’re ready.”

  A few minutes later Anneliese rapped softly on his door and stuck her head into the office. “Sorry, sir. Dr. Gonzales is out of town until next Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Do you have his itinerary?”

  “No, sir. He typically operates on his own.”

  “So I’ve gathered.” Richard leaned back in his chair and studied Anneliese’s face for a moment, looking for some sign that last night’s encounter had been something other than incidental. There was none. He motioned for her to take a seat at the conference table that abutted his desk.

  “I understand you don’t know anything about Dr. Gonzales’ work,” he said, “but do you know anything about Dr. Gonzales himself? Have you overheard any stories? Picked up any rumors?”

  “Not much,” she said. She crossed her legs, allowing her skirt to edge up. “I’ve met him once or twice. Friendly enough, but he’s an odd duck, a loner. I think he might be from South America, but I’m not sure. He speaks excellent English. I heard he already had a top secret clearance when he arrived here.”

  Richard raised his eyebrows. “It’s kind of unusual for a foreigner to be running a classified military project, isn’t it?”

  Anneliese shrugged. “He’s a naturalized citizen. And I would think he’s been thoroughly vetted. I guess the project he’s working on is pretty important. I assume it was set up to piggyback on BioDawn’s capabilities.”

  “That’s probably not the only reason.” Richard recalled the large sums of money flowing in from the Caymans.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, sir.”

  “Every little piece of info I can pick up helps. Thanks. And if you have the directions to Cortez’s, I’ll take a look at them now.”

  Richard arrived at Cortez’s, an upscale Caribbean-Mexican-themed restaurant, about fifteen minutes before noon. He judged it would be easier for Mrs. Scarelli to spot him rather than vice versa. He peeked into the restaurant’s interior. Broad fans made of woven palm fronds and attached to long rods swept back and forth just below the ceiling. The usual buzz and muted clatter of a busy luncheon establishment was augmented by soft background music. A good environment for a private conversation.

  He returned to the restaurant’s alcove and seated himself, watching the lunchtime crowd stream in: business people from professional offices, and clerks and shoppers from a nearby mall. He eyed the women in particular, looking for a “plumpish middle-aged brunette”—Mrs. Scarelli’s words.

  In a way, he dreaded meeting her, having to look into the face of someone who’d lost a spouse, see the pain in her eyes, hear the despair in her voice, sense the hollowness of her soul. He never knew what to say, how to reach out to such people. Much as his friends had not known how to comfort him after Karen died. For many of them, he knew, it was easier just to stay away.

  As he sat, he remembered waiting for Karen one afternoon, maybe a decade ago, maybe a hundred years ago, in a shabby little seafood restaurant on the Oregon coast. Shabby, but given to superb food—grilled Chinook salmon, stuffed Dungeness crab, steamed razor clams—and prices to match. They were in Cannon Beach, once nothing more than a few weather-beaten buildings, now a crowded town of overpriced galleries, gift shops and craft stores.

  They’d spent the morning prowling the main street, admiring paintings of frothing oceans and rocky capes; decorations crafted of seashells, bone and driftwood; and handmade furniture hewn from indigenous spruce and fir. They’d laughed at the T-shirts and baseball hats available from the Bite Me Bait Company. And decided they didn’t have a clue how they might assemble a three-tailed kite that looked like a Spanish galleon.

  They had separated for awhile, each exploring stores of their own interest after agreeing to meet at the seafood place. Karen arrived late, clutching several shopping bags. There was a crowd of people waiting to be seated, but Richard already had claimed a small table. He waved at Karen.

  Karen, still turning heads in her forties. Tall, tan, fit. She took care of herself, not the bank account of a plastic surgeon. Her blond hair, French-braided, framed a face yet to be visited by the dreaded crow’s feet. Blue sunglasses hid big, brown eyes. A handsome young man in his twenties wearing a University of Washington sweatshirt and cut-off jeans walked over to her. Karen and the young man engaged in an earnest conversation; she laughing, he clutching his chest as though having a heart attack. Together, they walked over to Richard.

  “I apologize for hitting on your wife,” the man said. “But I thought maybe if I shook hands with the luckiest guy in the world, some of his luck might rub off on me.” They shook hands.

  Karen smiled and said, “It’s more than luck, junior. He’s good. That’s why I love him.”

  After her sudden suitor departed, Karen pulled a baseball hat from one of her bags. “Here,” she said, “entirely inappropriate for a CEO.” BITE ME in big letters on the front of it, BAIT COMPANY in tiny letters underneath.

  “Entirely,” he said. “I love it.” He slapped it on.

  It remained there the rest of the day. It was the only thing he wore that evening as he dived under the covers of their bed, the slider of their condo wide open to the thundering Pacific surf and chilly, drifting mist. They made love to the rhythm of the swells, a slow wash of passion building to a crescendo, exploding like breakers crashing on a beach, then sliding peacefully away, a receding sheen of sea foam, to return again.

  He looked at his watch. A quarter after. Mrs. Scarelli was late. He stood and paced the alcove, thoughts of Karen trailing after him as though tethered to his soul like a numinous anchor.

  By 12:30, he grew apprehensive. Had he shown up at the wrong restaurant? Had there been a mix-up on the time? He called Anneliese on his cell phone. Yes, he had the location and time right. No, Mrs. Scarelli hadn’t contacted the office.

  He asked for her phone number and called it. An answering machine with a man’s voice—her late husband’s?—informed him he’d reached the Scarelli residence, please leave a message. He didn’t. At 12:45 he called Anneliese again. She still hadn’t heard from Mrs. Scarelli.

  “Get her address for me, please, Anneliese. I’m going to drive over there and make sure everything is okay.”

  Twenty minutes later, Richard, following the directions Anneliese had given him over the phone, turned his Mini into Mrs. Scarelli’s subdivision, Appalachian Chase. It was an upscale community, not the peak of the register, but very well-to-do. Homes in the half-million- to million-dollar range, he judged. Large, neo-Southern traditional. Stone and stucco, huge decks, three-car garages. Nice, but lacking the architectural imagination and diversity found in the Northwest. A number of the houses abutted a golf course, others overlooked a lake that appeared to be of substantial size.

  He wound his way along the twisting main road, one intersected by lanes, cul-de-sacs and courts. Magnolias, sweet gums and Bradford pears draped over the road, providing a verdant, sheltering canopy. Thick layers of Bermuda grass and Emerald Zoysia carpeted sprawling front yards.

  Traffic along the road was sparse. Just a few kids home from school for the summer borrowing dad’s BMW, one or two moms herding the family SUVs to the grocery store, a handful of repairmen and yard workers clattering along in scarred pickups and vans.

  Turning left on Fox Run, he pulled up to 345, the Scarelli address, and paused at the foot of a modestly sloped driveway. He looked for signs of activity around the home. There appeared to be none. He wondered if Mrs. Scarelli had perhaps forgotten their appointment, lured instead to the mall by lady friends for lunchtime gossip over soup and sandwiches. Not likely, it seemed, considering she herself had suggested their meeting.

  He drove to the top of the driveway, stopped
the car and got out. The muted cries and laughter of children filled the air, probably emanating from a backyard pool farther down the street. The desultory rasp of a cicada floated by on a humid zephyr. Richard waited a moment, then strode to the beveled-glass front door and rang the doorbell. From inside came soft chiming in response. But nothing else. No sounds of movement, music or voices.

  Stepping back from the door, out of the alcove that sheltered it, he examined the house. It boasted two stories and a meticulously-rendered gray flagstone exterior. Three huge picture windows, accentuated by white plantation blinds, dominated the front. Well-manicured crape myrtles, Japanese hollies, azaleas and rhododendrons stood guard along the perimeter of the home. Small, solar-powered lanterns lined the walkway from the driveway to the front door.

  Richard continued listening, but heard only the frolicking children and lonely cicada. He walked back into the alcove and rang the bell again. Next door, a gasoline-engined lawnmower sputtered to life, its mechanical growl drowning out everything else. A dense growth of bushes and trees partitioned the homesites, so Richard was unable to see who might be operating the mower. Maybe a neighbor who knew something. He’d check later, if necessary.

  He pressed his face against a small pane of octagonal glass in the front door, placed his hands on either side of his head, making blinders for his eyes, and tried to peer in. But the glass was too thick to allow him to see anything clearly. He stepped away and moved to what looked like a living room or family room window. To reach the window, he ducked under a crape myrtle heavy with red blossoms. In doing so, he startled a party of honey bees into hyperactivity. He sprang backward. But the bees made only diplomatic protests before buzzing off to more tranquil flora. He moved forward and once again formed blinders with his hands and pressed his nose to the window. The blinds on the interior were tilted up to ward off the afternoon sun; he couldn’t see in.

  Backing out from underneath the crape myrtle, he walked to the side of the house. The lot on which the home sat sloped down toward its rear, so the only windows in view were too high to reach except by ladder. He unlatched a gate in a waist-high picket fence and entered a heavily-wooded back yard. The ground was spongy and moist, and the vague odor of decaying leaves and pine needles hung in the air. At the rear of the house, a concrete patio sat underneath a wooden deck that ran half the length of the home. Sliding glass doors gave access from the house to the patio. Curtains were drawn across the sliders, so he couldn’t see in. He rapped sharply on the glass and listened, but the only thing he heard was the raucous lawnmower next door. Cautiously, he tried to open the slider. Much to his relief, it didn’t move.

  He walked up onto the deck. Wicker furniture, two large sun umbrellas and a gas grill with more gadgets and dials than his car sat on the structure. Two sets of sliders opened onto the deck from the house. Since there were no curtains or blinds to contend with, Richard worked his way along the porch, stopping every few feet to plaster his face against the glass and stare into the interior of the home like some mid-afternoon voyeur. He could see the headlines now: Biotech CEO Arrested as Peeping Tom. But the inside of the house was dark and still. Uninhabited. He knocked on the glass and attempted to open the sliders. Neither brought results.

  As he descended the steps of the deck and approached the rear of the garage, the grating roar of the lawnmower grew louder. It never seemed to fade. You’d think the guy would be pushing it around, not letting the damn thing stand in one spot. There was a door leading into the garage, and Richard tried that, too. Locked. He spotted a window and wriggled behind a holly tree to reach it. The holly’s leaves bit into his face and hands. His suit jacket protected his upper body, but he was paying a price for wearing it, sweating profusely. He stood on his tiptoes and looked through the window. There didn’t seem to be a car missing. He could see a Lexus, a Mercedes and a new Volkswagen Beetle.

  Oh, shit. He realized suddenly why the mower hadn’t moved. Too late. He whirled.

  Chapter Eight

  NORTH METRO ATLANTA

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 20

  Richard’s spiky-haired parking lot greeter from his first day on the job stood only five feet away. Using the noise of the lawnmower as cover, she had crept up behind him. She held the black-bladed Microtech knife low, near her right hip, ready to slash. Her left arm was cocked in a defensive position across her abdomen. Crouched slightly, she glared at Richard with the intensity of a tigress about to charge.

  Richard eased himself out from behind the holly. He fixed his gaze on the knife, ready to spin and dodge if the weapon were thrust at him.

  “The intimidation business a little slow?” he asked. “A few extra bucks helping Hispanics cut grass?”

  The woman managed a thin smile. “Other way around. I give them a few extra bucks, and they’re off like the Road Runner for a long lunch at Taco Bell.” She retreated a step or two and motioned for Richard to follow. “I take back what I said yesterday morning.”

  “Which part of what you said?”

  Richard attempted to run through a mental checklist of the military hand-to-hand combat moves he once knew, but it was a futile effort. The list was tattered and incoherent, a victim of time and disuse. Besides, he realized he was no match for a professional killer, which this woman obviously was.

  “The part about you being a quick study. I tell you not to get too curious, to head for the golf course, lay low, and here you are peeking through windows in broad daylight. Looking for a little afternoon delight?”

  “Looking for Mrs. Scarelli.”

  “A married woman. Shame on you, Herr Wainwright. You could have done better with me.” She brought her left arm up and casually unbuttoned the top of her blouse, exposing a deep, tanned cleavage. She stepped closer to Richard. “See what you missed.” She moved the knife back and forth in a slow, threatening motion. “Too bad. Next thing you know, your voice is three octaves higher. And nookie will be something you only dream about. Men can be such slow learners.”

  Richard decided he had one chance. One moment. The woman had moved her defensive arm out of position. Overmatched or not, he would not go gently. He launched a furious kick at the knife. The weapon flipped into the air, and the woman staggered backward, cursing. He propelled himself forward; a defensive end sacking a quarterback. An explosion of breath burst from her lungs as they both went down. He ended up on top of her, his knee in her gut. He drew his fist back for a coup de grâce to her face but wasn’t quick enough. In an overwhelming blur of motion, she was on top of him, straddling his prone body.

  The roar of the mower abruptly ceased, and the ambient cadence of a quiet afternoon in suburbia returned. “Well,” the woman panted, “Mexicans back from lunch. Your lucky day. A little awkward for slicing and dicing now. Too many witnesses.”

  She ground her pelvis slowly against his. “And maybe you wouldn’t have done better with me than Mrs. Scarelli.” She leaned forward until her mouth was inches from his face. “I have a weakness for sex. I have a penchant for killing. It makes for a strange combination. More than one of my... acquaintances, shall we say... was coming and going at the same time.”

  He stared at her, her words not quite registering.

  “Think about it,” she said.

  “Jesus.”

  She stood, brushed herself off, retrieved her knife. “Your lucky day,” she said again. She extended her hand, offering to help Richard up.

  He knew the battle was in abeyance, but refused to accept her assistance. He scrambled to his feet on his own. “Mrs. Scarelli,” he demanded, now more angry than intimidated, “what happened to Mrs. Scarelli?” He took a step toward his attacker.

  She backed off slightly, raised the knife. “You really are ein Dummkopf, aren’t you? Why won’t you give it up? Stop poking around?” She locked her gaze on his, the victor staring down the vanquished. “If I’m forced to, shall we say, r
eiterate my position, you won’t have a fighting chance. Next time you’ll never see me coming.”

  She lowered the knife, retracted the blade and slipped the weapon into a pocket of her slacks. She started to walk away, but turned and answered the question he’d asked originally. “I know you won’t believe me, but I have no idea what happened to Mrs. Scarelli. Like you, I’m just a hired hand.”

  “And still no business card?”

  “Veronica von Stade,” she said. “Interpol has files on me. But don’t believe everything you read. Just believe in me. I do what I’m contracted to do, and I do it very well. Remember that if nothing else.”

  “Emergency room, please. This is Dr. Adams at the CDC.” Alnour Barashi waited for his call to North Georgia Regional Hospital to be forwarded.

  “E. R.,” a voice responded.

  “Yes, hello,” Barashi said. “This is Dr. Isaiah Adams at the CDC. I’m following up on some earlier contacts we had regarding a patient who was admitted to North Georgia a day or two ago, a Mr. David Gullison.” Barashi tried to sound confident and convincing. He was only assuming that North Georgia and the CDC had had contact by now. Isaiah Adams was a name he’d selected at random off a CDC roster.

  “A moment, Dr. Adams. Let me get Dr. Wells, I believe he talked with the CDC earlier.”

  Dr. Wells came on the line.

  “I hate to bother you again,” Barashi said, “but there’s been some confusion here at the CDC regarding the status of Mr. Gullison. You know how it is in government bureaucracies, one hand doesn’t know what the other—”

  “No problem, my friend, no problem. I know what you’re talking about. Spent six years in the Air Force. It’s a goddamned wonder we ever won any wars. Yeah, poor Gullison, passed away yesterday.” He lowered his voice. “So you guys think it might be Ebola. Jesus, talk about gettin’ our floppers caught in the ringer. How on earth do you think Gullison got Ebola? Or vice versa.”