Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “Bullshit,” Richard whispered. You know; you damn well know.

  Another shouted question: “Is there any danger to the public?”

  Another man stepped forward to answer. “I’m Special Agent Jeremy Babb of the Atlanta FBI office. I want to assure everyone that all necessary precautions and safeguards are being taken just in case there turns out to be a risk to the general public, although we feel that possibility is extremely remote. We’d be derelict in our duty, however, if we didn’t prepare for such a contingency. At the moment—and let me make this clear—we have no evidence of any imminent threat, either accidental or deliberate, to the citizens of Atlanta.”

  To Richard, the agent’s measured cadence and careful choice of words suggested otherwise. He was a man under stress.

  The reporters smelled blood. From the din of questions being launched, one landed precisely on target. “Deliberate threat? You mean this could involve terrorist activity?”

  Agent Babb ducked, figuratively. “Let me repeat, we have no hard evidence of any immediate threat to Atlantans. As we develop further information, we’ll release it in a timely and responsible fashion to the public, and, as necessary, take appropriate actions to ensure the safety of all citizens. Now, if you will excuse us, I’m sure you’ll understand we have a great deal of work to do.”

  He turned and spread his arms, herding Dr. Butler and the others gathered with him away from the phalanx of microphones and cameras. Questions continued to explode around the retreating men like a mortar barrage.

  They know, but they don’t know. Richard scribbled Butler’s name on a notepad. A possible ally. A person who knew what had been developed in that lab. A person who wasn’t a law enforcement official, who might be willing to listen to the one man who’d encountered Barashi face-to-face. Butler, he realized, could put into context Barashi’s rant that Americans would be terrified to step from their homes. Butler knew. What he didn’t know, what no one knew, was Barashi’s target.

  “Tent. What the hell is the tent?” Richard muttered.

  He continued to watch the news broadcast as it segued into a mind-numbing litany of traffic accidents, apartment fires, robberies and gang shootings. But the final story of the hour-long newscast loosed a dagger of lightning through him. It was a feature on something called Malacosoma americanum.

  Once the story was completed, he yanked a phone book from the drawer of the night stand and flipped to the Butlers, searching for Dwight or D. A long shot, but... There appeared to be about four pages of Butlers, including two dozen Butler, Ds, but only one Butler, Dwight.

  He punched in the number for Butler, Dwight, on his disposable cell and got a busy signal. He hung up. Then made another attempt. Same result. He tried repeatedly over the next half hour and repeatedly got a busy signal. He realized he probably was competing with the media. Or Butler had taken his phone off the hook.

  He decided instead to make another check on his brother, Jason. Jason’s cell rang but went through to voicemail. Richard left a message. Jason called back almost immediately.

  “Sorry, Dickie,” Jason said. “I didn’t recognize the number.”

  “New cell,” Richard said.

  “Okay. Now tell me what’s going on and don’t hoorah me this time. You don’t call me three times within a few days because everything’s copacetic. Let’s hear it.”

  “You’re right, kid. I’m in a bit of trouble here—”

  “I’m on my way if you need me, bro’. Just say the word.”

  “No, you can’t help. Not on this one. Look, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. At this point, I just need to know you’re safe. Tell me that.”

  “Of course I’m safe. Why wouldn’t I be? Damn it. Tell me what’s happening.”

  “Tomorrow. I promise. Look, I gotta go now. I’ll be in touch.” At least I hope I will. He said goodbye over Jason’s protestations.

  He tried Butler again and hit pay dirt.

  “Butler,” a curt voice said.

  “Dr. Dwight Butler, CDC?”

  “As I’ve explained to everyone who’s called this evening, I can’t answer any of your questions. You’ll have to go through CDC media relations or contact the FBI.”

  “I’m Richard Wainwright, the interim CEO at BioDawn.”

  A long silence ensued on Butler’s end of the line, then: “Jesus, man, you’re wanted for murder. Why the hell are you calling me?”

  “I haven’t murdered anybody. But I’m aware there’s a warrant out for my arrest. That’s why I can’t approach any law enforcement officials. But I need help. I fought with Barashi—”

  “Who?”

  “Alnour Barashi. You know him as Dr. Alano Gonzales. I know him as a man who tried to kill me, who shot the security manager in BioDawn’s parking lot, who stabbed my executive assistant to death.”

  “Gonzales is Barashi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d he try to kill you?”

  “Because I stumbled onto the lab. I’m the one who discovered it and almost didn’t live to tell about it.”

  “You knew what was going on there, then.” More an accusation than a question.

  “I didn’t, and I don’t. But I do know how Barashi is going to disguise his attack, the subterfuge he’s going to use.” Malacosoma americanum. “And I’ve got some names I think might identify specific targets, but I don’t know what they are. I need your help.”

  “I’m not a detective.”

  “But you know what Barashi’s weapon is, don’t you? Despite what you said on TV this evening, you know. I know you know.”

  Butler didn’t respond. Only a faint clicking reached Richard’s ears, like Butler tapping his shoe on the floor.

  “We can put this together, Dr. Butler, you and me. We both have key parts to the puzzle. But neither one of us can complete it on his own.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you? What other reason would I call you for? Think about it.”

  Silence.

  “I’ll be blunt,” Richard said. I’m desperate. You’re my last hope. Look, meet with me. If you don’t think I’m on the up and up, you can walk away.”

  “Okay. Against my better judgment. There’s a new Cajun bar and grill, Hotmouth Harry’s, in Midtown off 14th Street. Meet me there at midnight. It’ll be crowded, but I’ll be on the patio.”

  “Good. I’ll find you,” Richard said.

  “Yeah? How will you know me?” Butler asked.

  “You’re a unique-looking gentleman. I don’t think I’ll have a problem. And Dr. Butler?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll come alone, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  Richard hung up, knowing full well that wouldn’t happen. If there was one thing he’d learned in the last few days, it was to trust no one.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  SOUTH METRO ATLANTA

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 23

  Richard, mentally and physically exhausted, stripped off his clothes, set the alarm for eleven p.m. and collapsed into the motel room’s cheesy bed. The last sound he heard before sinking into a state of narcolepsy was the weak, frantic scratching of the imprisoned cockroach.

  Sometime later—he had no idea if minutes or hours had passed—another sound penetrated the depths of his sleep: the soft opening and shutting of his door. Had he not locked it?

  “Shhh. It’s me. Marty,” a voice whispered. “I’m glad I found you.”

  “Marty?” A dense, swirling fog suffused his slumber.

  “Go back to sleep. I know you’re exhausted.”

  He sensed the gentle undulations of the mattress as she sat on the bed and undressed. She slipped under the covers beside him and they embraced, even as he spiraled back into his
black, silent world.

  He awoke again, this time more fully, with his arm draped over her shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of her body as she breathed softly and steadily, deep in sleep. His hand wandered to her naked breast. A frisson of arousal engulfed him. Had they made love earlier? He wasn’t sure. She didn’t respond as he shook her gently. From somewhere in the dark, someone laughed. A harsh cackle. Aimed at him? Aimed at them? A rising tide of guilt mixed with lust consumed him.

  Marty rolled over to face him. Despite the blackness in the room, he could see her clearly. She smiled with her eyes, seeming to approve of his own gaze fixed on the flowing contours of her rounded hills and smoothed valleys. She reached for his hand. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me again. He’ll kill me.”

  “Who?” he said. He jerked his gaze back to her face. He expelled an audible gasp and snapped upright into a sitting position. It wasn’t Marty. Instead, the pleading eyes of Anneliese Mierczak bore into him.

  “Be a man,” she said. A ring of crimson encircled her neck and rivulets of blood beaded into small pools on the bed sheet.

  He yanked himself free of her grasp and dashed for the door. But there was none. And no windows. He beat on the wall, but his fists made no sound. The cackling laughter filled the room now. Caught in an undertow of helplessness, he turned to face Anneliese. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I did what I thought was right.”

  She sat with her face buried in her hands and spoke again, her voice muffled. “What you thought was right? Thought! There are no moral certitudes, you fool. Only what’s expedient. Good and evil are relative concepts, viewpoint-dependent.”

  “No. They’re absolute. They’re ordained to be.”

  Anneliese lifted her face from her hands. “Then evil is ordained as the victor.”

  She arose from the bed and stalked toward him, her blond hair shimmering in the dim light, a short-bladed combat knife held low in her right hand. Not Anneliese. Veronica von Stade.

  Frantic, he looked around the room for something to use as a weapon, something with which he could defend himself, but there was nothing.

  He flicked his gaze back to von Stade. But it was the blood-infused stare of Alnour Barashi that met him.

  Richard backed away.

  Barashi, holding a small glass vial in his hands, moved in slow, deliberate steps toward him. “Tell me what this is,” Barashi said, “good or evil? Life or death? Ballpark or airport? Suburbs or city? You don’t know anything, do you? Nothing.” He hurled the vial onto the floor. “Allahu Akbar,” he screamed. “I am the fifth angel.”

  The vial shattered. Richard looked down. The bled-out bodies of newborn babies littered a dirt surface. He screamed into a silent void and flailed his arms, trying to ward off whatever had been in the vial. An alarm sounded. Incessant ringing.

  Not an alarm. The telephone. He bolted upright, this time in reality and fully awake. He reached for the phone, yanked the receiver from its cradle.

  “Hello.”

  No response. A brooding silence filled the dark room. Richard, drenched in sweat, sucked shallow breaths in short gasps. He wiped the perspiration from around his eyes and checked the clock on the bedside table. Ten p.m. Too late to go back to sleep. Just as well; at least his nightmares would be held at bay.

  Who had called his room? Who knew he was here? And if somebody knew he was here and was after him, they wouldn’t have called, they’d have just come. So, a wrong number? Or someone warning him? And if someone warning him, of what?

  He walked to the window and cracked open the dust-encrusted venetian blinds. The street below was quiet. Only an occasional car drifted by. The delivery van no longer was double parked, but remained nestled next to the warehouse. Curious. A delivery van left unattended overnight in this neighborhood? Another car drove slowly past. Richard kept watch. Several minutes later, it returned. Scouting the truck? Or scouting the motel? Richard waited. The car came back. A dark-colored Ford Crown Victoria. A law enforcement favorite. He caught a glimpse of a face looking out the vehicle’s window toward the motel. Not scouting the truck then.

  Richard shut the blinds. The police were on to him. But how? The obvious way, he deduced, was through the kid who’d given him a ride from Diamond Cutters. Perhaps the $50 he’d given the boy had been a red flag. Or maybe the kid had seen something on TV or on the Internet: a picture of a wanted man. Whatever had happened, the cops, probably spearheaded by Detective Jackson, were here now. Richard guessed they were unsure which room he was in. Thank God, he’d registered under an alias.

  But nonetheless, he was trapped. The police were merely watching and waiting. The only way out was through the door, along the walkway that fronted the rooms, and down the stairs to the ground floor. Richard dressed, then sat on the bed and wondered how good of an actor he could be. He hoped the people who had him under surveillance were still looking for Richard Wainwright, a pony-tailed, well-postured, sober CEO.

  He stood, yanked the grill from the air vent and grabbed the SIG-Sauer. He jammed it into the rear waistband of his pants, covering the weapon with his untucked shirttail. He loaded both clips, then stuffed them along with a couple of dozen extra rounds into his pants pockets. Slapping the baseball hat askew on his head, he made sure the bill obscured the left side of his face. He strode to the dresser, removed the towel from the Mr. Coffee and turned the brewer upside down. The cockroach skittered free. “Run for it,” Richard whispered.

  He picked up a cardboard ice bucket, made a quick check of the room and opened the door. Weaving slightly, he hesitated for a moment, then turned right, slouching and staggering along the walkway toward the ice machine. He took his time. Just a drunk on his way to get more ice. He didn’t look toward the street. At one point he stopped and rested his forehead against the building—a guy who’d indulged way too much in demon rum. He resumed his zigzag course and reached the ice maker sequestered in a 90-degree “L” angle formed by the motel’s two wings. The machine, he’d calculated, would be out of sight to anyone watching from below.

  A car—truck?—door slammed. Someone shouted. His watchers getting curious? He’d have to move fast now. The end of the walkway opened onto an alley below and was guarded only by a low iron railing. Richard clambered over the railing and, with a one-armed grip on a crossbar near its bottom, dangled his feet toward the first-floor landing. He released his grip and dropped. He hit the concrete floor, flexing his knees to take the impact.

  He tensed, still in a half crouch. Voices from the direction of the street drew nearer. And although they seemed to lack urgency, Richard knew he’d elicited the watchers’ curiosity and that they were coming to investigate. He turned and vaulted over a low fence into the alley.

  He spun and sprinted down the alley, away from the street that fronted the motel. The passageway, dark and cobbled, reeked of decaying trash. He feared sprawling over a passed-out drunk or a scrawny cat searching for a five-star garbage can. A street lamp with a shattered lens marked the end of the alley where it intersected a sparsely-traveled boulevard. Richard reached the intersection, panted to a stop and checked in both directions along the street. He didn’t like what he saw. A dark Lincoln Town Car, perhaps the one that had followed him and Marty earlier—he couldn’t be sure—idled near the curb about twenty yards to his right. But one thing of which he could be sure, the Lincoln’s driver, a female, sported a spiky blond hairdo.

  So, he’d blundered into a trap: the police behind him and von Stade ahead of him. How the hell had she gotten here? Working with the police? That seemed unlikely. A better bet was she’d monitored police radio frequencies and picked up chatter regarding a murder suspect at the James Street Motor Hotel.

  He computed the odds of making a run for it. Not good. Even though the Town Car faced away from him, von Stade would spot him in her rearview mirror. Could he employ the drunk shtick a
gain? No, at best that would be a delaying action. Von Stade, pro that she was, would get curious and approach him to investigate.

  Well, sometimes the best defense...

  Using his thigh to help him instead of his nearly useless right hand, Richard rammed a loaded clip into the SIG-Sauer, chambered a round and tucked the weapon back into his waistband. A virtually empty city bus buzzed by on the boulevard. After it passed, Richard checked to make certain there was no more traffic, then sauntered up behind the Town Car, his hands dangling at his sides, non-threatening. Von Stade’s head turned slightly to the right, checking the passenger-side mirror as he approached.

  Richard hoped her hubris allowed her to overlook such mundane tasks as locking car doors in dangerous neighborhoods. If not, there’d be gunfire in the night, probably not unusual in this part of the city.

  He ambled along side of the Lincoln. Head down, he coughed into his fist. Then almost in one motion he straightened, wheeled and grabbed the rear door handle. The door opened. He yanked the gun from the rear of his trousers and leveled it at von Stade as her hand dived for something between the seat and center console.

  “Don’t,” he said as he sank into the back seat.

  Von Stade obeyed. She locked him in a fierce, predatory glare. Under the glow of the sodium-vapor lamps lining the street, her emerald irises seemed to launch tiny bolts of lightning.

  “I’m impressed,” she said. “A man not to be dissuaded or intimidated. Gets a gun, slips the police, takes the initiative against me. What next?”

  “How about a date?”

  “At gunpoint? What kind of woman do you think I am?”

  “One who would kill me if I didn’t have a 9mm pointed at her head.”

  “Well, you aren’t totally stupid.”

  A police car turned the corner at the intersection ahead of them and moved slowly in their direction. Richard guessed it contained patrolmen looking for him. He lowered himself behind the seat back, keeping his gun trained on von Stade. “Drive,” he said.