Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  Barashi slowed his vehicle. He’d lost his quarry. No traffic appeared ahead of him on the sparsely-traveled road. Not even the moving shadow of a fleeing car without headlights. There was only one place Wainwright could have turned off. Barashi spun his steering wheel, threw his vehicle into a lurching 180-degree turn and raced back toward the church.

  Once there, he circled the main building slowly, carefully, and found the shot-up Mini parked in back. He pulled in behind it, keeping his headlights on high beam. He slapped a fresh 17-round clip into his Glock and stepped from his vehicle. He approached the Mini from the rear, pistol extended in front of him. An empty car greeted him, but a smear of blood stained the driver’s seat. He checked his watch, cursed. Wainwright had gained a good five or six minutes on him.

  Barashi drove to the front of the church, parked and—holding the gun behind his back—entered the darkened vestibule. Several hallways fanned out from there. Down one corridor, a scrubwoman on her hands and knees, wielding a large brush, swiped it over the floor in broad, lazy circles. A ratty-looking baseball cap perched sideways on her head, and a tattered sweat suit hung on her like peeling wallpaper. She looked up as he approached. A bored stare.

  “Did a man just come in here?” Barashi asked. “A hurt man, maybe bleeding?” He kept the gun behind his back.

  She shrugged, went back to her scrubbing.

  Barashi stepped closer, put his foot on the brush.

  She stopped her work, looked up again. “Are you the police?” she said. A hesitant, tired voice. Maybe a little frightened.

  “Just tell me. Did a wounded man come into the church during the last five minutes or so?”

  She nodded, her eyes more alert, wider now. “He was shot in the shoulder. Reverend De la Serna called the police, then took him to the hospital. North Georgia Regional, I think.”

  “When?”

  “Maybe a couple of minutes ago.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I saw the man come in, he was hurt. I paged the reverend. I watched them leave.”

  “Where is the reverend’s office?”

  She inclined her head toward the far end of the hall. “Down there. Next left.”

  Barashi stuck the 9mm into the back of his trousers, covered it with his shirt and walked in the direction of her nod. The scrubwoman stood. “The reverend left. She’s not in.” Her voice seemed edged in panic.

  Barashi turned. “Her? A female?” He wasn’t a devout Muslim, but the idea of a female cleric was repugnant.

  The woman nodded.

  “Faah,” he snorted and stalked toward the office.

  Marty sensed her flimsy charade coming apart at the seams. Barashi was not going to take her word. “I told you they left,” she yelled after him, raising her voice to warn Richard who lay wounded in her office.

  Barashi wheeled, glared at her, raised a finger to his lips. He reached the door of her office, turned the knob, nudged the door partially open with his foot. He reached under the back of his shirt with his right hand and brought out a handgun. With his left, he switched on the office light. He took a two-handed grip on the pistol, crouched and kicked the door wide open. Still in a crouch, he burst into the office.

  Terrified, Marty found herself frozen in place, an impotent stalagmite in her own church, waiting for the explosion of Barashi’s gun.

  But then, nothing. Slowly, Barashi backed out of the office. Head down, pistol up, he appeared to be tracking something on the floor. He turned away from Marty and continued down the hallway, the 9mm extended in front of him.

  Marty trailed at a discreet distance, seeing the drops of blood on the carpet that Barashi followed. He reached a rear exit, pushed open the door and peered out into the darkness.

  He muttered an obscenity and yanked the door shut, sending a metallic reverberation careening through the empty corridors of the church. Wainwright had escaped. There was no point in pursuing him further. The lab was exposed, yes, but it made no difference now. Even though the authorities would be able to figure out what the facility had been used for—the pathogens handled in a Level-4 lab narrow the possibilities markedly—they still would be clueless regarding the time and targets of his attack.

  He tucked the gun back into his waistband and strode past the petrified charwoman. “Back to work,” he said, pointing at her brush.

  While at Emory, he’d made a cursory study of the Christian religion and its strange abstract notions of love, tolerance and forgiveness. Yet the only verses of the Bible he’d bothered to memorize were two from Revelation, passages rife with images of horror and despair. He recalled them now, in this place of Christian worship, Christian hypocrisy: “The fifth angel poured out his bowl on the throne of the beast, and his kingdom was plunged into darkness. Men gnawed their tongues in agony and cursed the God of heaven...”

  He reached the front exit and paused, listening for the scrape and grate of the scrub brush to resume.

  Marty continued moving the brush in uneven circles long after she’d heard Barashi’s footfalls fade. Her arm trembled so badly she could barely control the motion of the brush. Her fear had subsumed her instinct to pray. Well, too late now. She stood on wobbly legs and dunked the brush into a bucket of gray water. She picked up the pail and walked to the vestibule. She stopped and listened. Nothing. Quiet. She moved to the exit. No one around. She opened the door and walked halfway down the sprawling stairs that fronted the church.

  Only a few cars remained in the parking lot, and she recognized all of them—hers and those of the few employees who normally worked late. She walked back to her office.

  She entered cautiously, not knowing what to expect. Certainly not what she found—Richard, his face pale, sitting on the floor behind her desk, looking up at her with dull eyes. She came around the desk and knelt by him. “Don’t tell me you were hiding under the rug,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “Where then?”

  “Kitchen.”

  “The blood?”

  “Nail polish. I found some in your desk drawer. Left a trail to the exit. Hid in the kitchen ’til I heard Barashi leave.”

  “Lucky for you I don’t use pink.”

  “Barashi might have thought I was anemic.” It seemed a struggle for him to get the words out.

  She didn’t laugh. “This scared the hell out of me, you know.”

  “Are ministers supposed to say that?”

  “What?”

  “That they’ve had the hell scared out of them?”

  “Only when they have.”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

  “Oh, fine, now you get a conscience.” She tried to make her words sound light, but wasn’t sure she succeeded. “Well,” she said, “let’s have a look at you.”

  She peeled off his jacket, then his bloodied shirt. It appeared as though the bullet had passed through his shoulder without hitting anything critical. There was a moderate amount of blood and bruising, but nothing that hinted at shattered bones or arterial bleeding. Tissue and muscle damage, yes, but nothing serious. Her biggest concern was that he seemed on the verge of shock.

  “Lie down,” she commanded. She grabbed a cushion off a nearby chair. “Here, put your feet on this.” She tucked the cushion under his heels.

  She probed his wound lightly with her fingers, her heart fluttering. She felt strangely, even guiltily, exhilarated. Perhaps from the sudden change of pace in her life, perhaps from having stared evil in the face and called its bluff, or maybe—and she tried to prevent herself from articulating the thought—from remembrances of winter nights in a steamed-up Chevy. Her fingers traced the firmness of his shoulders and back; something stirred deep within her, something that had lain dormant, suppressed for years. No. She withdrew her hand as though it had
been singed and ordered her thoughts back to the Biblical straight and narrow.

  “Let me get a washcloth and some bandages,” she said, “and I’ll patch you up. But maybe you should go to a hospital after that.”

  He shook his head. “I’m feeling a little less cobwebby now, nurse.” He attempted a grin, but failed. He winced in pain instead.

  She reached out and touched the side of his face. “Looks like the guy took a Louisville Slugger to you, too.”

  “Nine millimeter, actually.”

  “You ever think of going into a different line of work?”

  “Like CEOs run into this all the time.”

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, “I need to get a first-aid kit.”

  She returned shortly and began working on his shoulder, cleaning the wound and applying antiseptic. “You seem to have kept a pretty cool head through all of this,” she said. “Military? I seem to recall you were ROTC.”

  “Ouch,” he said, squirming. “I was commissioned by the Marines. Four years.”

  “Hold still.” She grasped his shoulder more firmly, swabbing its shredded flesh with determination. “Were you ever in combat? Ever shot at before?”

  “I was never under fire for real. Lots of live-fire exercises though.” He flinched as she sprayed antiseptic onto his wound.

  “I was terrified tonight, you know,” she said.

  “Join the crowd.”

  “But you did something, you reacted. I was paralyzed, a total wimp.”

  “No, you did just fine. I didn’t expect you to leap on his back and hammer him with a scrub brush.”

  “Ministers aren’t supposed to do that.” She placed the antiseptic back into the first-aid kit.

  “That’s my point. Under the constraints of your calling, you did just fine. You held your poise.”

  “I lied.”

  “I think God will forgive you.”

  “I know. But what... what if I’d had to shoot him or something?” She swallowed hard, unsettled by the thought. “I don’t think I could have done that.”

  “Oh, I’m not so sure. If someone were threatening to kill you, it might come pretty naturally.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m afraid I’m strictly a Matthew 5:39 gal.” She examined his wound closely, dabbing at it with a piece of gauze.

  “A what kind of gal?”

  “Matthew 5:39. ‘If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.’”

  “Our modern world is way beyond cheek-slapping. Think bullets and bombs.”

  “Even so. I don’t know. Long before I had a calling to enter the ministry I couldn’t kill anything. Sort of inherent, I guess. My brothers used to take me rabbit hunting in the North Carolina mountains. I always aimed high if I saw a bunny. My brothers thought I was just a lousy shot.” She began swathing his shoulder in a bandage. “I’m not sure I know how to do this.”

  “Here, help me sit up.” He extended his uninjured arm to her. “It’ll make it easier for you.”

  She pulled him into a sitting position, then continued to wrap his shoulder. Still, she struggled with the task. “Good thing I’m into saving souls, not bodies,” she muttered.

  He attempted to raise his arm to make her work less of a challenge, but was unable lift it. “That’s pretty sore,” he said, “I don’t know how in the hell—heck—I’m going to be able to drive. Can’t shift.”

  “Don’t worry. I can chauffeur you around for awhile.”

  “Not a chance. I need to get out of here. I’ve already put you in danger.”

  “‘Yea though I walk through the Valley...’ I’ll be fine. I’ve got a .38 in my desk.”

  “That doesn’t track very well with Matthew.”

  “I have an alter ego: a hit woman.” She instantly regretted her flippancy. “Sorry, not funny. I forgot you actually encountered one.”

  “That’s okay. She’s apparently more of a slicer than a shooter.”

  “Nice you can find humor in that.”

  “Well, I know turning the other cheek wouldn’t have worked.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “With all due respect, Marty, most ministers never come face-to-face with someone who wants to relieve them of body parts or put holes in them.”

  She finished binding Richard’s shoulder, then sat next to him. “You’re probably right,” she said. “Ministers, priests, rabbis, most of us live lives that are largely insular and isolated. But maybe we have to. Maybe that’s what keeps us in touch with God.”

  “And the rest of us? We aren’t?”

  She dismissed his question with a flick of her head. “Your contact with Him can be as close or distant as you want. My colleagues and I just have different job requirements, that’s all.” She stood up and looked down at Richard. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Hurts. But at least the rest of me is feeling better.” He put his left hand on the carpet, preparing to push himself up, then stopped. He looked up at her. “Do your job requirements parallel your personal beliefs?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. She’d always thought of her response as being polished and subtle. No one before had ever picked up on the personal evasiveness embedded in it. “Why do you ask?” she said, her words hesitant.

  “You made a point of separating the two: job requirements and personal choices regarding God.”

  She bent to help him up. “It was just an academic distinction.”

  He stood and stared directly at her with the same intelligent, compassionate gaze that had made her tremble with infatuation over twenty years ago.

  “Bullshit,” he said softly. “You said earlier you know me. Well, I know you, too. There’s something you’re hiding from me. Maybe from everyone. Something that happened—”

  “I’m the minister,” she interrupted, “you confess to me, not vice versa.”

  “Don’t hide behind your ecclesiastical skirts, Marty.”

  “Don’t overstep your bounds,” she snapped.

  He held up his good arm and backed off. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.” She bowed her head. She’d overreacted when someone had been only trying to reach out to her.

  “Truce?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She shifted her thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Let me call the cops. Get some EMTs here. My nurse work was pretty sloppy.”

  “Just help me on with my shirt,” he said. “I need to get out of here.”

  “Read my lips: You. Are. Not. Leaving. You just told me you can’t drive.” She stepped to her desk and picked up her phone.

  “No,” he ordered. “No police. I... let me gather my thoughts.”

  “About what? Someone tried to kill you.”

  “I know, but law enforcement agencies will have flooded BioDawn by now. Security will have told them I was there. This guy Barashi they may not even know about. Then there’s the matter of me being a ‘person of interest’ in the murder of my executive assistant. I’m thinking I may want to talk to a lawyer before I talk to the cops again.”

  A phone rang, the soft chime of a cell.

  Richard looked at Marty.

  “I don’t have one,” she said.

  He reached for his jacket, extracted his iPhone.

  “Wainwright,” he barked, answering the call.

  Marty watched the color, what little was left, drain from his face as he listened to whomever was on the other end.

  Chapter Eighteen

  NORTH METRO ATLANTA

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 22

  The BioDawn parking lot shimmered in baseball-stadium brilliance as floodlights pierced the night, illuminating static herds of law enforcement vehicles. Cavorting moths and darting night birds performed an ageless
ballet in the incandescent glow. Half-a-dozen TV satellite trucks, like electronic gargoyles, squatted along a perimeter defined by yellow crime-scene tape, a boundary beyond which the media were not to venture. Police stood in small groups carrying on animated conversations. They stopped and watched as Dwight Butler, dressed as if he were arriving in Margaritaville, not at a killing ground, strode past, heading for the blockhouse. His sandals clip-clopped in counterpoint rhythm to a timpani of crickets.

  Within the restricted zone, a sheet covered the body of what the virologist presumed was the murdered security manager. A dark pool of liquid exuding a slight coppery odor oozed from beneath the sheet. Next to the victim’s automobile, a handful of investigators plied their trade, searching for the minutiae of physical evidence.

  Near the blockhouse, bomb-sniffing dogs and FBI experts using electronic probes scoured the exterior of the illegal lab, searching for booby traps, he guessed. After they finished, Dwight, not trusting the Chemturion gear left behind by Dr. Gonzales, donned a CDC protective suit with self-contained breathing apparatus. He drew a number of deep breaths to slow his respiration rate, then entered the terrorist’s lair. As he pushed through the airlock door, he caught his reflection in the door’s window. He thought he looked slightly ridiculous, something akin to the Pillsbury Doughboy wearing a bee keeper’s hood. He didn’t laugh.

  The door hissed shut behind him, and he waddled slowly, carefully into the bowels of the Level-4 containment facility. It was obvious it had been used for bioengineering. Two electron microscopes and their ancillary computer equipment dominated the lab. Stainless steel counters, sinks and storage racks lined the walls. A proliferation of wires and hoses, like high-tech jungle vines, dangled from the ceiling. Specimen slides, clean, sat next to the microscopes. Small cages, empty, rested in a dark corner; they obviously had housed test animals of some sort. Probably very unfortunate test animals.

  A chill slithered up the back of Dwight’s neck. He intuitively sensed what had gone on in here; he’d seen it at the CDC—magnified 150,000 times. He didn’t touch anything for he knew FBI and CDC investigators still needed to gather evidence. It probably would be a wasted effort, for he was virtually certain they would find a sterile lab, devoid of any trace of Ebola. CDC’s Special Pathogens Branch would have to confirm that, but whether it found anything or not would be academic. There was not an iota of doubt in his mind he was standing at ground zero of the 21st century equivalent of Trinity in the New Mexico desert, 1945. He thought of what J. Robert Oppenheimer had said then, recalling a line from a Hindu poem: “I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds.”