Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “Mrs. Scarelli? You—”

  “Me? Oh, I don’t know. The Western obsession with ‘closure,’ I think. Americans are hung up on closure; so certain a measure of peace can be found in understanding who or what killed their loved ones that they cling to threads of hope so frayed they wouldn’t support a prayer. When I learned Mrs. Scarelli had contacted you—”

  “Anneliese? Anneliese told you?” Richard caught his breath. He was well aware he’d been poking at the edges of something dark and dangerous, but had no idea until this moment of the full depth and breadth of the conspiratorial swamp into which he’d waded.

  “Pay attention, Mr. Wainwright, we’re talking about Mrs. Scarelli. An anonymous call to her was all it took. A promise of stunning revelations about her husband’s plane crash, and she loses all caution; gets into a car with a complete stranger and ends up at the bottom of the Chattahoochee River. Hope, Mr. Wainwright, the undying hope for closure.” He clucked his tongue, a father saying Shame, shame. “But there is no real closure, is there? Only ongoing despair, ever-present sorrow.” He coughed, a smoker’s wheeze. “And maybe, if we’re lucky, revenge.”

  The pressure of the gun on Richard’s neck relaxed slightly as Barashi shifted his weight.

  “You killed her?”

  “I made her disappear. I thought that would be enough, that when you didn’t hear from her again, you’d brush her off as a flighty, confused widow. Instead, you just kept coming.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You lit a firecracker under my ass before I even stepped through the front door of BioDawn.”

  “Lit a firecracker under your ass?”

  “Not you specifically. Your lady intimidator, Veronica von Stade, waving a knife in my face and telling me not to get curious.”

  “You’re making stuff up, sir.”

  “She knew—”

  “She knew nothing. Because there is no such person.”

  The statement hammered Richard like a baseball bat to his forehead. It didn’t make any sense. Yet why would Barashi lie?

  “What about Anneliese?” Richard’s heart beat at an uncontrolled gallop.

  “What about her?”

  “Was she part of this? Was she working with you?” Somehow the question seemed more important than any of the others he’d asked.

  Barashi seemed to sense its gravity, too, for he delayed several moments before answering. When he finally did, it was with measured words. “She worked for me, not with me. And only for money, not ideology. She had no knowledge of my work. When she told me you were asking questions about what went on in the blockhouse, I knew I had to do something to slow you down—” He pressed the gun more forcefully into Richard’s neck. “—for all the good it did.”

  “But why kill her?”

  “Because she failed. All she had to do was get you into a compromising situation; you dip your wick, she cries rape. As blatantly trumped up as the charge would’ve been, it would’ve been enough to send you packing and get you out of the way. You’d have been disgraced, discredited and dismissed. Out the door with your tail between your legs. An anathema to the board of directors.

  “That didn’t work, but I realized your dalliance presented me with another opportunity: to frame you for murder. That would get you off my trail. But no, here you are, the relentless hunter.” Barashi snorted softly. Frustration.

  “Why did Anneliese think you wanted me out of the way?”

  Richard’s brain worked on two levels now: continuing to coax Barashi’s story into the open while at the same time trying to develop a lifesaving plan. One thing he knew, he had to get turned around. He could do nothing with his back to the man and a gun in his neck.

  “I told her I had reliable information that you were going to steal BioDawn’s proprietary technology, spirit it off to some other pharmaceutical corporation, the highest bidder. She bought it. The rush of a little danger, a little sex—”

  “And a lot of money.”

  “Ah, yes, there was that.”

  Richard’s thoughts spun through his mind like tumblers in the Cirque du Soleil. He had to keep the questions coming, keep stalling, check his burgeoning anger, hatch a plan however half-assed and futile it might prove.

  “But murder, why?” Richard asked. “Weren’t you concerned that would only shine a floodlight on BioDawn and your so-called research?” He spit the words out, struggling to hold his rage in check, wanting to spin around and pummel the piece of human trash behind him. But he knew Barashi would shoot him before he could turn even halfway.

  “My work here has been off the books, not directly connected to BioDawn,” Barashi answered. “No one knew what I was doing, and no one seemed to care as long as the money kept coming.” Barashi paused and sighed. “No one until you came along.”

  “The plane? Your work, too?” Richard asked.

  “Enough, Mr. Wainwright. I’m going to give you a code for the keypad. After I give it to you, move your hand slowly to the pad and enter it.”

  “And Colonel Landry? On your team?”

  “Eight. Five. Zero. Seven. Seven. Three. Punch it in. Please.”

  He doesn’t want to kill me out here, Richard realized. Too open to discovery. He wants me in that lab, in the lion’s den, his lair. No fucking way I’m going through that door.

  “Come on, the colonel? I know he’s a phony.”

  “An actor. A paid actor. Another effort to slow you down. Now punch in the goddamn code. I won’t ask again.” Barashi’s voice rang with anger.

  “No.”

  The gun moved to his spine, pressed more firmly. “No?”

  “No.” Time to call his bluff. “I’m turning around. I’ll do it slowly.”

  The biggest gamble of my life. Maybe my last. He moved his feet together, dropped his arms and stood erect, his back still to Barashi. He decided if Barashi pulled the trigger, if his life ended here, he would never feel it. Thus he dismissed his terror. He began to pivot. A degree at a time. The pressure of the gun relented.

  He completed his turn and looked into the eyes of Alnour Barashi. Wolfish. Dark. Cold. Yet burning with the intensity of lasers. They seemed to radiate something primitive, carefully cultured, nurtured from generation to generation—if not genetically, then certainly socially: unrelenting, unapologetic hatred.

  Richard returned Barashi’s gaze, knowing it was no match for the Arab’s sociopathic stare. The small, olive-skinned man watched him without speaking, his pistol leveled at Richard’s nose.

  “Fool,” Barashi said finally.

  “Me, a fool? I don’t think so. I’m not the one who slits the throats of women, preys on the losses of widows, brings down the airplanes of innocent men. The acts of a coward. A fool.”

  Barashi’s eyes flickered.

  “Then you make a fool’s mistake.” Richard paused.

  Barashi cocked his head slightly, a quick movement. His eyes on fire. Lips dry.

  “A fool’s mistake,” Richard went on, “thinking I came here alone.”

  “You did.”

  “You forget BioDawn has a corporate security manager.”

  “He left at five o’clock.”

  “Of course he did.” Richard smiled. Condescendingly. A seed of doubt planted, he hoped.

  A bead of sweat traced a trail of uncertainty across the bridge of Barashi’s nose.

  “You surely didn’t think you’d get away with this?” Richard inclined his head in the direction of the lab. Whatever “this” was.

  Barashi’s mouth curved into a thin-lipped grin. “You don’t know, do you? You don’t know anything.”

  His eyes narrowed to pinpricks of darkness as he continued to speak. “What it’s like to live your life in degradation, humiliation, hopelessness. What it’s like to coexist with terror in your ow
n home, trembling under the constant threat of American or Zionist bombs plunging through your roof.” His words came out clipped and sharp, like jabs of a spear. “Well, America will know. Know the despair of realizing not even their homes are safe. Terrified to step from their doors. To draw a breath.” His chest heaved, his gun-hand trembled.

  Now, Richard thought, now. He looked directly behind Barashi, as though spotting someone, then let his gaze drop quickly, as if trying to hide a mistake.

  Barashi caught the look, uncertain what to do, what it meant. A bluff? Or someone behind him? He jerked his head around in a snap movement to glance to his rear.

  Richard launched himself, aiming his head at Barashi’s chest, just below the upraised pistol. Barashi already was turning back, saw Richard coming, squeezed the trigger. The blast from the gun deafened Richard, and he felt rather than heard the air erupt from Barashi’s lungs as he nailed the Arab dead-center in his sternum.

  Both men crashed to the floor, Richard on top, his arms wrapped around Barashi in a bear hug. But Barashi’s gun arm was unencumbered. He wielded the 9mm like a club, slamming it against the side of Richard’s head.

  Red and white arcs of lightning, manifest agony, exploded through Richard’s skull. Instinctively, he rolled off Barashi, away from the threat of another crushing blow. As he did, Barashi, still fighting for breath, twisted his body, struggled to bring the pistol to bear on his attacker.

  In Richard’s pain-infused vision, Barashi shimmied and wobbled like a summer mirage, yet the larger man sensed an advantage: his greater reach. He shot his right hand in the direction of Barashi’s gun arm and found it just as Barashi yanked the trigger. Richard’s flailing swat altered the trajectory of the bullet just enough. A rush of compressed air, the bow-wave of the shell, swept across his forehead.

  Richard’s ears rang in a cacophony of deafening thunder as Barashi screamed unheard curses. The two men, still prone, faced each other, Richard’s hand grasping Barashi’s wrist with the force of a steel-jawed bear trap. Barashi, unable to aim his gun at Richard, contorted his body violently, trying to extricate himself from Richard’s grip. Richard jammed a knee into Barashi’s midsection, hoping to catch his crotch. He missed, smashing it into his abdomen instead.

  Barashi’s mouth sprang open, an “O” of surprise, as the force of Richard’s attack propelled him backward. Richard flung his body across Barashi’s, smashing the Arab’s gun arm down hard, onto the tile. The 9mm tumbled from his hand, skittered across the floor toward the far wall.

  Richard, dizzy, temporarily deaf, half blinded, struggled to stand, eyes on the gun. He rose unsteadily, but Barashi lashed out with his legs, knocking Richard’s out from under him. He toppled. Barashi turned away, scrambled toward the pistol on his hands and knees.

  Richard tried to focus, spot the gun, judge the distance. It was a race he couldn’t win. Barashi would reach it first. There was only one option. Get out. He staggered to his feet, searched for the exit. There. It swam distorted in his vision, as if under water. He forced his feet to move toward it. He thought he was running, but wasn’t sure. He reached the door.

  An indistinct explosion registered in his brain. Something smacked into his shoulder, stinging, bruising. He reached the door, extended both hands and hit its crossbar release. He stumbled into the hallway and kept going. Waves of pain radiated from his shoulder. He reached the main corridor, turned, kept running. He was surprised he was moving so fast, no longer young, no longer in the best of shape. But fear and pain are great motivators, superb adrenaline producers. He didn’t turn to see if Barashi were pursuing. He didn’t have to. He knew he was.

  He saw the building’s exit ahead and sprinted even harder, zigzagging as he approached it. A spray of wood erupted from one of the laboratory doors. Plaster geysered from a wall. The only way Barashi could get a clean shot, Richard realized, would be if he stopped his pursuit and fired from a static position. But if he stopped, that would give Richard the few seconds he needed to escape. Either way, Richard figured he had the edge now. The wild firing ceased, and Richard assumed Barashi had opted to stop and steady himself for a final shot.

  Richard hit the door at full velocity. His hearing had partially returned; something cracked past his head, the near miss of a bullet, a sound he hadn’t heard since live-fire training in the Marines. He hurled himself into the floodlight-lit yard. His only impediment now was the sliding gate in the fence. He dashed toward it, saw a green-glowing button adjacent to it, hammered it with his fist. With agonizing slowness, the gate yawned open. He looked back. Barashi appeared at the door of the blockhouse. As soon as the gate had pulled back mere inches, Richard squeezed through, ripping his suit jacket on a metal prong.

  He bolted toward his Mini, saw the headlights of a vehicle approaching him, flagged it down.

  The driver, Trey Robinson, stuck his head out the window. “What the hell’s going on here? Pepperill phoned, said—”

  “Call the police,” Richard panted. “Barashi has a gun.” He pointed toward the blockhouse as Barashi charged through the gate.

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Gonzales. He’s armed. Shooting. Gone nuts. The police, call the police.” Richard hoped to hell Robinson had a cell phone with him.

  Robinson’s eyes widened to the size of tennis balls. He became a bobble-head doll, his gaze jerking from Richard to Barashi and back again.

  Richard realized Robinson’s ambivalence could cost him his life. “Get out of here,” he yelled, “go, go.” He resumed his sprint and looked over his shoulder. Barashi, gun shielded behind his back, strolled casually toward Robinson, waving a greeting. Robinson opened the door of his car. Richard stopped, wheeled. “Don’t get out,” he screamed. “Stay in the car.”

  Robinson hesitated, one foot out the door, did his bobble-head routine again. Barashi approached, raised the gun, fired two rounds into the security manager’s head. Robinson toppled back into the car, then slid out, feet first, crumpling onto the pavement. Barashi stepped over him, reached into the car, turned off the lights and ignition.

  Richard turned and ran. He reached the Mini, fumbled for his keys, thumbed the remote unlock, scrambled into the car. He cranked the engine and rammed the gearshift lever into reverse, screaming in pain as he did so. A lava flow of agony knifed through his shoulder. The tires squealed in shock as the Mini leapt backward, then forward. Richard accelerated out of the lot, wincing in pain and yelling as catharsis each time he shifted. In his rearview mirror, he spotted a volley of muzzle flashes. A blizzard of glass and plastic blew through the car.

  Richard reached the exit onto the main road, the Mini still sounding healthy, but probably not looking that way. The searing in his shoulder bordered on excruciating. Sweat poured off him in thick rivulets, whether because of the pain, shock or fear—or all three—he didn’t know. He forced himself to focus on his escape and bulled the Mini into traffic, incurring the wrath of at least half-a-dozen drivers, all of whom laid on their horns. Oncoming cars flashed their headlights at him, and he realized his were off. He switched them on, glanced in his side mirror, saw headlights coming out of BioDawn. Barashi.

  Chapter Seventeen

  NORTH METRO ATLANTA

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 22

  A distorted storm of color—sodium lights, traffic signals, neon signs—whirled in Richard’s vision. Using his rearview mirror, he tracked Barashi’s headlights through the swarm of traffic that buzzed along the busy multi-laned road. The boulevard, lined with strip malls, car dealerships and gas stations, offered no escape routes. He had no idea where he was running to; didn’t know where the police station or hospital was; knew there was nothing to be gained by dashing for his apartment. He fumbled for the cell phone in his suit jacket, thinking 911. But it was too dark, and he was too rushed to operate it. He left it where it was.

  Up ahead, a red traffic light. He slammed on t
he Mini’s brakes. The traffic behind him compressed, Barashi four or five vehicles back. Richard saw an opportunity. To avoid using his right arm, he reached across his body with his left and slipped the gearshift lever into first. The Mini was the lead car in its lane. Before the traffic signal changed back to green, there would be a green arrow for left turning vehicles in both directions. That would be his opening, his chance.

  He revved the engine. Cross-traffic cleared, but not before three cars ran the red. He popped the clutch, peeled straight through the intersection, darting directly in front of a dual-lane phalanx of turning vehicles. He searched for flashing blue lights. Nothing. Of course not, not when I really need a cop. He shifted into second gear, winced, nailed the accelerator to the floor and wove through traffic with Go-Kart aplomb. Albeit sloppily. He wasn’t a skilled driver to begin with and now was hurting badly. At least the Mini was forgiving.

  The pain in his arm spread, metastasizing throughout his body. His vision tunneled. His thoughts narrowed. His mind focused solely on survival, on fleeing to a place of safety, a familiar haven. Here, where he was an outlander, he knew of only one.

  A minute or two later he blew into an intersection he was certain he had come through earlier in the day. He snapped the steering wheel to the right and accelerated down a dark lane shrouded in drooping trees. Thankfully, not much traffic. A good thing, for the yellow center line on the road blurred and wiggled in his sight. Waves of pain rippled through his body.

  Perhaps a quarter mile behind him, headlights appeared, moving fast. He rounded a bend in the road, saw the entrance to the parking lot of Marty’s church. Think, he told himself, Think. Must lose Barashi. He switched off the Mini’s lights. He depressed the clutch, coasted into the lot and, not wanting his brake lights to be seen, pulled gently on the parking brake to slow the car. The pursuing headlights raced past the church. But Richard knew they’d be back. Still, there’d be enough time to warn Marty, keep her safe... if he could.

  He staggered from the car.