The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Boyd screamed, a raw, throaty sound of anguish. When Weiss let go of him, Boyd’s head dropped to his chest and his body went limp.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Weiss said.

  “He’s telling the truth,” Truman said. “His passivity and objectivity readings show no deception. If I crank up the juice any more I’ll kill him. What do his vitals look like?” he asked Sergeant Corbin.

  “Two-sixty over one-eighty, sir.”

  As Weiss lifted his hand to strike Boyd again, Captain Lopez ran into the office, carrying a pile of what looked like human skin. “Sir, we found this in the doctor’s room.”

  Weiss grabbed the material out of Captain Lopez’s hands. “Neo-skin. So the doctor is involved. Perhaps the good sister is too.”

  Truman shook his head. “Sister Ezekiel didn’t lie.”

  Weiss turned his back on Truman, threw the neo-skin onto the desk and sighed heavily. “Probably not,” he finally said. “Still,” he turned back to face Truman with an embarrassed smile. “Wake him up, Colonel. I want to make sure.”

  Truman hesitated.

  “Now, Colonel,” Weiss commanded.

  Truman altered the mix of drugs slightly, decreasing the anti-resistance drugs but adding more narcotic to lessen the pain. He then increased the stimulant to bring Boyd out of his sleep. Boyd came awake groggily, his face still red, the mole looking bigger now, bulging out from his cheek.

  “Is Sister Ezekiel involved in this?” Weiss asked immediately. “Is Sister Ezekiel a Devereauxnian?”

  Suddenly, Boyd’s whole body twitched in a violent spasm. The chair wobbled as his feet pushed against the floor. On the BV monitor, Truman saw that the pain had spiked again. It was now reading well into the agony level. How could that be? The narcotic should have deadened the nerve endings.

  Sergeant Corbin said, “Blood pressure three-hundred over two-ten, sir.”

  Boyd’s jaw worked angrily as blood trickled from his nose. His arms fought against the restraints holding him to the chair. Cords of muscle rippled beneath the skin of his neck. He shouted, “I don’t know!”

  A beep sounded from Sergeant Corbin’s medical monitor, followed by the steady drone of flatlining. Boyd slumped in the chair. His bladder emptied, the acrid odor of urine reaching Truman’s nose. He cut the flow of drugs instantly as Sergeant Corbin pounded on Boyd’s chest.

  “Get him back,” Weiss said.

  Together, Truman and Sergeant Corbin removed the restraints and lowered Boyd to the floor, where they worked on him for long minutes, Sergeant Corbin administering the heart attack package of drugs. Weiss paced the room, watching anxiously. Finally, the medic stopped trying to revive Boyd. He straightened and shook his head. “He’s gone, sir.”

  “I can’t understand how this happened,” Truman said. “I was very careful. Plus I doubled the narcotic dosage. He shouldn’t have been in that much pain.”

  Weiss said, “Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake, Colonel?”

  Truman raised his hands and shook his head as if to say he couldn’t be certain, while Sergeant Corbin searched his monitor, looking for anything that might indicate cause of death. Finally, the medic said, “It was the ID chip, sir. The narcotics in the truth serum activated it. Nobody could have saved him.”

  Truman looked at Boyd’s face, where the mole no longer stood out on the pale skin. It was barely visible, as if it had contained the man’s life force and was now emptied. A heaviness welled up inside him. In his effort to be kind, he had killed Raddock Boyd.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sister Ezekiel stared at the dead man on her office floor, then looked from Weiss to Colonel Truman. Monsters, the both of them. She was beyond fury, almost in disbelief. How stupid could two men be? And yet, she’d seen too many similar instances over the years to be shocked. The unfortunate truth, the truth she still had trouble accepting, was that for men in power, life was cheap—and the poorer the victim, the cheaper the life. “He warned you,” she said. “He told you the truth drugs would kill him.”

  “It was an accident, Sister,” Weiss said. “An act of God. ID chip failure. Colonel Truman did everything in his power to save the man. It wasn’t his fault.”

  Colonel Truman’s eyes widened slightly at that.

  Was that guilt or fear? Sister Ezekiel silently prayed for the power to calm herself before speaking. “It’s up to God to assign blame, Mr. Weiss. I just want the killing to stop.”

  “I’m trying, Sister. But first I have to find Devereaux. And your Dr. Mary.”

  “Dr. Mary? What does she have to do with this?”

  Weiss pointed to a pile of skin-colored material atop her desk. “You see this neo-skin? We found it in Dr. Mary’s room. She was using it to change her appearance. Did you know about that?”

  “What?” Sister Ezekiel took a step backward and bumped against the doorframe.

  “Here is her mask.” Weiss held it up—Dr. Mary’s face without the eyes. “I don’t yet know who the doctor really is but I’ll find out. Soon.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words.

  Weiss said, “We think she was involved with Raddock Boyd. She used the code word his contact at the shelter was supposed to give him. And now she’s disappeared. Do you have any idea where she’s gone?”

  Sister Ezekiel shook her head, swamped by anger, fear, sorrow. How could Dr. Mary have betrayed her? Was it simply to protect Devereaux? She’d never hidden her beliefs. And the fact that she was a Devereauxnian hadn’t taken away from her excellent healing arts. But why hadn’t she told Sister Ezekiel the truth? As for Devereaux—he must have known of the doctor’s false persona. Yet neither had trusted her. Her stomach roiled.

  She said, “Excuse me.”

  Hurrying from the room, she made it to the bathroom before the urge to vomit overwhelmed her. Afterwards, her stomach a little calmer, she rinsed out her mouth and patted her face with cool water. For a moment, she stared at herself in the mirror. The lines around the gray eyes in her thin, gray face announced her exhaustion. All the energy she had drawn from her talk with Devereaux had vaporized at the sight of Raddock Boyd dead on her floor.

  When she opened the door, Colonel Truman waited just outside. His eyes darted around before settling on hers. Then he swallowed and said, “You okay, Sister?”

  “Are you actually concerned, Colonel, or are you just making sure I don’t run?”

  “I’m sorry, Sister. I have my orders.”

  He escorted her back to her office, a hand on her arm. She walked stiffly, quietly—almost incapable of thought.

  “Well, Sister,” Weiss said after she took a chair, “I think you need to tell us everything you know about Devereaux, Dr. Mary and Raddock Boyd.”

  “Or you’ll give me the truth serum?” She tried to make it sound defiant but she heard only fear. Now that she knew who Devereaux was, she would certainly betray him under the influence of Weiss’ truth drugs. She issued a silent prayer to the Virgin Mother, then said, “I already told you I didn’t know anything about Devereaux being in the area. I didn’t know anything about Dr. Mary’s fake identity. And I didn’t know Raddock Boyd.”

  She stared at Weiss, part challenge, part question. Her heart beat in her chest as if she’d just run a mile. Her lungs refused to work properly too, taking in insufficient quantities of air for her needs. At least she was sitting. She doubted her knees would be able to support her if she were standing.

  “Shall I get another truth kit?” Colonel Truman asked in an overly loud voice.

  Weiss looked from him to Sister Ezekiel and said, “It may be the only way to get the whole truth.”

  Sister Ezekiel glanced down at Raddock Boyd’s body. Had they left it on the floor to scare her? It was working. Her stomach rebelled again. She clamped her jaws together as a bone-shivering chill came over her. She want
ed to make a grand sarcastic comment, the kind of thing Dr. Mary was so good at, but she didn’t trust her voice.

  “Well, Sister?” Weiss said.

  She cleared her throat, trying to call forth some moisture. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. You can inject me with your drugs. You can torture me if you like, but I can’t give you information I don’t have.”

  She closed her eyes as her body began to shake—small tremors, hopefully unnoticeable. A tic started in her left eyelid. Would the drugs kill her, or would she only betray Devereaux? And perhaps she should. After all, he’d been prepared to turn himself in just a short time ago. Yet, she realized as she sat there that if she did turn Devereaux in, he’d be subjected to the same kind of treatment Boyd had received. She had to try to protect him. As she prepared for the worst, miraculously, she heard Ahmad’s voice in the doorway. She opened her eyes.

  “Mr. Weiss,” he said, “are you planning to inject a potentially deadly substance into Sister Ezekiel? You’ve already killed one man tonight. Do you want to endanger the life of a nun who has devoted herself to helping the poor and disenfranchised? I’ll crucify you. I’ll contact every media outlet…”

  Weiss held out his hands. “Calm down. We simply want Sister Ezekiel to tell us what she knows about all this.” He pointed to the dead man and the neo-skin.

  “If Sister Ezekiel said she doesn’t know anything, then she doesn’t know anything. There’s not a more honest and honorable person in the world. To imply that she’s had anything to do with all this is to impugn her reputation. I could sue you for slander—Attorney General or not—and you would be ruined.”

  Weiss stepped over to Ahmad and put his finger in the lawyer’s chest. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper: “Don’t threaten me, Mr. Rashidi, or I’ll have you locked away for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?”

  Ahmad backed up a step. He said, “You can’t—”

  “And don’t tell me what I can’t do. You have no idea what pressures I face every day. I’m going to do what I have to and that includes making tough decisions. Unpopular decisions.” Weiss turned back to the desk and picked up Dr. Mary’s mask. He looked at Sister Ezekiel. “But in this case I suppose it’s possible you were duped—perhaps even likely. And though I’m quite certain the serum is safe, I’m going to assume that you’ve been telling the truth. I won’t force you to undergo the indignity of an injection. Let me make clear that this is not because of anything you said, Mr. Rashidi. And if you ever threaten me again, you will be arrested. Immediately. Understand?”

  Ahmad stared at him, unblinking.

  “I said, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Ahmad said.

  “Good. Now get out of here.”

  Sister Ezekiel let Ahmad help her to her feet. She felt unsteady, so she leaned on him as they walked, and after a few steps she was able to move under her own power. As they made their way down the hall, she said, “How did you happen to come by at just the right moment?”

  “Coincidence, Sister. I was heading for the kitchen when I heard Colonel Truman say something about another truth kit. Funny, he was looking right at me when he said it—like he wanted to make sure I heard him. I listened for a few seconds, then barged in.”

  So Colonel Truman wasn’t quite the monster Sister Ezekiel had thought he was. Still, intentionally or not, he’d killed Raddock Boyd. That was unforgivable. “Well,” she said, “I’m very grateful.”

  Together, they walked down the long hall past the dorm rooms where her guests prepared for bed. She was surprised at how fragile her emotional state was right now—still afraid and still furious over Boyd’s unnecessary death and Weiss’ casual acceptance of it. She could barely think straight. Calm down, she thought. The world is unfair and harsh, and you have to work to fix it the way you always have—one small deed at a time.

  The first thing she wanted to do was talk to Dr. Mary, find out what her story was. She wanted this to be a simple misunderstanding that could easily be cleared up, even though in her heart she knew it wasn’t. This was the end of Dr. Mary’s stay at the shelter. That saddened her immeasurably. Dr. Mary was part of some larger political intrigue involving Devereaux; and when Devereaux left, she would too. Sister Ezekiel sighed.

  Ahmad interrupted her thoughts. “You worried about Dr. Mary, Sister?”

  “Who do you think she is?”

  “Someone who wants to protect Devereaux. Perhaps she’s his personal doctor. Very sad. I never knew she was a Devereauxnian. I liked her.”

  “What are you upset about, Ahmad, the fact that she’s a Devereauxnian or the fact that she lied to us?”

  Ahmad’s face colored, his eyes blazed. “A lie is forgivable. Her betrayal of Allah is not.”

  “But you’ve promised to help me should Devereaux request my assistance. Wouldn’t you also have to betray Allah to do so?”

  In the distance, she heard a gunshot, then honking horns, more gunshots and yells coming from the street. They both stopped, listened for a few seconds, and then Ahmad turned to face her, his hands clenched into fists. “I have a legal and ethical duty to assist my client. I will not breach that duty.”

  Sister Ezekiel nodded as if she understood, but she realized she could no longer trust him. Too many people had lied to her, and Ahmad’s contradictory statements demonstrated that he wasn’t being fully honest with her, either. As she began walking again, she said, “This is such a mess. I heard several soldiers talking about the Elite Ops, saying they might be here by morning. They sounded afraid. Do you know who these Elite Ops are?”

  “They’re a sort of special forces times ten. When they put on their armor, they become ultimate warriers. I’m not sure how it all works but they use the newest technology to enhance their fighting ability—become cyborgs, essentially. They make the Army look like a Boy Scout troop.”

  “More men with guns.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Sister,” Ahmad said, “as long as you don’t know where Devereaux is. It would only be a problem if you had that information and tried to keep it from ‘em.”

  He stared at her. Did he suspect that she knew Devereaux’s true identity? Was he trying to encourage her to confide in him or was he simply giving her advice? Life was so much more complicated when everyone you knew engaged in lies and secrets and games. Frustrating. At any rate, she couldn’t hand Devereaux over—not to save one life, not to save a thousand.

  Ahmad grabbed her elbow. Leaning in close, he said, “What’s botherin’ you, Sister? Can I help?”

  Despite her thoughts, almost against her will, Sister Ezekiel blurted out: “What if I knew who Devereaux was?”

  Instantly she regretted her words.

  Ahmad, backing away from her, a look of shock on his face, said, “You know who he is!”

  Sister Ezekiel shook her head. “Forget what I said. I’m tired. I didn’t mean it.”

  “I knew he was here. Who is he?”

  She closed her eyes. How could she have done something so stupid? Was it just fatigue or did her subconscious mind want Devereaux caught?

  “Sister,” Ahmad said, “You gotta look after yourself and your shelter. Besides, the man ain’t exactly a saint.”

  “Have you ever considered the possibility that he might be right?”

  “Sister!” Ahmad looked at her in horror. “I never thought you’d have a crisis of faith. You see what he’s done? Even you’re havin’ doubts.”

  Sister Ezekiel smiled. “I may have doubts,” she said. “But I also have faith. My heart says God is using him to test us. I accept my doubts. They’re a weakness I haven’t completely overcome. I wish they didn’t exist, but they do. So I have to rely on my faith. That will have to be enough.”

  Ahmad swung his arm out. “Look what he’s done to your shelter.”

  “That reminds me,” Sister Ezekiel said.
“Would you deposit this in our account?” She held out the plastic card Devereaux had given her.

  Ahmad reached for it tentatively, as if it were covered in blood.

  “He gave you this?” he asked.

  “I got it from a friend,” Sister Ezekiel said.

  Ahmad held the card up in the air. “This don’t make up for everything he’s done, Sister. Not by a long ways.”

  “You may sleep in your usual guest room tonight, Ahmad,” Sister Ezekiel said.

  As she turned to go, Ahmad spoke:

  “Sister, I just wanna say that even though I disagree with you, I’ll honor your wishes. I’ll keep this conversation confidential because you’re my client and because I respect you. But I hope to Allah you know what you’re doing.”

  Sister Ezekiel bowed. “Good night, Ahmad.”

  The lawyer shook his head slowly and turned away.

  As she stood alone in the hallway, she felt a grim satisfaction at withholding the truth from him. Devereaux had been right to keep his presence a secret, even from her. When the stakes became this large, no one was trustworthy. What a leap of faith he had taken in exposing himself to her.

  A thought crept up on her: a tickling doubt. Why had she admitted to Ahmad the possibility that Devereaux was right? Did she really believe that? Would she have survived all these years without God in her life? Admittedly, she’d been an obstinate nun. She didn’t agree with many of the Church’s tenets and she’d never been completely comfortable with its male power structure—although she made allowances for the fact that her attitude towards men had been forever changed by that one shattering experience. She had to remind herself every morning that not all men were rapists. Still, some deep and largely hidden part of her flinched whenever she pictured them in positions of power. At times like this when her mind was troubled, she often retreated to the chapel for prayer. The repetition of Hail Marys and Our Fathers clarified her thinking, soothed her cares. But before she allowed herself that indulgence, she had one more thing to do.