The Immortalist (26 page)

HANK, IN KHAKI
SHORTS, TENNIS SHIRT,
and backward Red Sox cap, was rubbing his jaw in front of a computer screen in his study when he heard the front door slam. Wheeling back his chair, he leaned to catch a view. “Cricket? Is that you?”

No answer—but he saw a folder full of papers go fluttering through the air over the couch.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm leaving. Clearing out. This very minute.”

“Really?” Hank stood up and moved toward the living room.

“I'm persona non grata. Charles has made that perfectly clear.”

Hank peered around the doorpost and saw Cricket standing near the entryway, staring blankly into the center of the room. Her bangs jerked upward ever so slightly—a telltale sign that she was ready to explode. “Didn't you tell him what we saw?”

“He doesn't give a rat's ass what we saw—or what killed Yolanda or who may be the next to die on this godforsaken campus. All he cares about is the Methuselah Vector.”

“Did you show him the autopsy report?”

“I said he doesn't fucking care.” Cricket held her hands above her head, fingers spread wide, as though she were reaching for something to smash and throw. “Where is Emmy?”

“At work. The animal facility.”

“Do you have the number? I need her back here
now
.”

“For what? You're not going to force her to go with you, are you? Remember what we talked about.”

“She's what I came for—before I got caught up in all this . . . this . . .
insanity
.” Cricket bumped her shin against the coffee table as she stormed across the living room. “God, how did this happen? I've let two whole days go by. Two fucking days.”

“Can we talk about this?”

Cricket seemed not to hear him. “It isn't safe here anymore. Not with this virus unaccounted for. If you're smart, Hank, you'll clear out, too.” Pacing between the fireplace and the entryway, she took her cell phone out of her pocket and began wildly poking at keys. “Animal facility? Who's in charge of that?”

“Why don't you let me call her? You're going to scare her off with that tone of voice. Meanwhile, how about rebooting over a cup of coffee? There's a fresh pot of Colombian brew in the kitchen.”

Cricket shoved her cell phone back into her pocket and headed for the kitchen. Meanwhile, Hank picked up the wall phone and punched in the extension. He got Wade Hesebro, Emmy's supervisor. “Wade, is Emmy around? . . . Okay, could you tell her I need her to come home ASAP? . . . Yeah, something's come up. . . . Thanks, I'll catch you later. Bye.”

Cricket brushed past with her cup of coffee. Plopping down on the sofa, she immediately began to sip it, black and scalding.

Hank brought his own mug and sat down beside her, taking care not to crowd her. He knew that when she was angry, she guarded her space like a porcupine. “Maybe I should talk to Charles for you,” he said, setting his mug on the table.

Cricket shook her head vigorously. “He's trying to get me fired, Hank!” she exclaimed, spilling a swirl of coffee as she waved the cup around. “He had a United States senator complain to my boss at CDC. I'm unstable, he says. I'm ruining his insane Lottery scheme. Forget that he's the one who asked me to take Yolanda's case. I never asked for it. I'm glad to wash my hands of it. Fuck it all!”

She needs to let air out of that pressure cooker before it blows
. Venturing a teeny smile on his lips, Hank raised his eyebrows in mock bewilderment. “Whatever could have given him the idea you were unstable?”

“Oh, go to hell.” Cricket glared at him over the top of her coffee cup. Suddenly she burst out in a guffaw that shot a squirt of coffee from her nose. “I can't help it, Hank. I don't tolerate fools well, do I?”

“No.”

Hank leaned back in the sofa, resting his cheek against his hand. He sat, just watching Cricket. She seemed calmer now.

“Still, you know how serious this is. Mark my words, by this time tomorrow—”

“I know, Cricket. I know. I'll talk to Erich Freiberg and a few other good people, and we'll keep an eye out here. When you step off the plane in Atlanta tonight, I'm sure the very first thing you'll do will be to dump that autopsy report in your boss's lap.”

“I'll make him eat it.”

“Atta girl! By then USAMRIID may have some preliminary tissue studies that will back up your interpretation. Not even a US senator will dare to interfere then. That'd be political suicide. Imagine the debate line: ‘My fellow Americans, my opponent personally and single-handedly let loose the worst plague to strike this country in a hundred years. Maybe since 1492!' ”

Cricket chuckled. “Okay. You may be right.” Hank went on gazing at her, so warmly that it seemed to make her self-conscious. To avert her eyes she took a long, double swallow of coffee. “I wish I had your equanimity, Hank.”

It crushed him to think that she was leaving now. He thought back to their abortive kiss from the night before. She had seemed so receptive then. Were there still sparks among the ashes? Certainly she was more beautiful than she had ever been—even now, or especially now, when anger had changed the color of her eyes a shade more red, from violet to pure purple. What if she had taken the directorship and stayed on? Would there have been a chance to start over?

His musing was interrupted by the sound of a key scratching against a lock. The front door opened, and Emmy, in a loose ponytail and hip-hugger jeans, stood in the entryway. There was something pale and haggard about her. Without her usual make-up, her freckles seemed splotchier than usual and the rims of her eyes looked red. She fixed her gaze immediately upon Cricket, looking every bit like a bird snared in a trap.

“Dad?” she said—a single syllable full of suspicion and the pain of betrayal.

“Something's come up, hon,” said Cricket. “I'll explain it later, but I need you to pack your things right away.”

“No! Can't you understand? I'm not going with you.”

Cricket almost broke her coffee cup as she slammed it down. “Don't make things more difficult than they already are. I haven't got the energy for this.”

“You can't make me go. You aren't fit. Everyone knows it.”

“I'm not—what?”

Hank sat up on the edge of the couch. “Time out, girls. Cricket, let me handle this.”

Emmy ignored him and glared at her mother. “Just go away, will you? I've got the worst headache of my life and the sight of you is making it worse.”

Cricket shot up from the couch and charged toward Emmy. “Young lady, get your ass upstairs and pack. Otherwise, I'll drag you into the car and we'll leave this very minute. This is not under discussion.”

Hank leaped over the coffee table to get between the two. “Easy, easy, Cricket.” He held his arms out like a point guard. “Emmy, sit down and listen. You do need to leave campus. There's a dangerous virus—”

“A virus? Jeez, Dad, let me guess who came up with that one.”

“Just hear her out, Emmy.”

“No! I'm calling Uncle Charles,” shrieked Emmy as she dashed for the wall phone.

“The hell you are!” exclaimed Cricket.

As Emmy grabbed the phone, Cricket made a dodge around Hank and yanked it from her bandaged fingers.

“Ow! You hurt my hand,” Emmy cried.

Cricket slammed the receiver back onto the hook and shoved Emmy toward the staircase. “Move it. Get up there and start packing—”

Then Hank heard a smack as Emmy delivered a hard roundhouse slap to Cricket's face. Cricket recoiled and glared in shock. “You spoiled little brat! Come here and try that again.”

“Stop it, both of you.” Hank had never seen them clash so fiercely before. He was afraid what might happen next. “Emmy, get back! Cricket—!” Cricket reached for Emmy's wrist, but Hank jumped in the way. When Cricket tried to duck around him, Hank lifted her by a bear hug under the armpits.

“Let go of me!” shouted Cricket.

“Not till you calm down. Count to ten, Cricket. Take a deep breath and count to ten.”

“Fuck you!”

Then both of them heard the front screen door bang shut. As Hank glanced toward the sound, Cricket wrenched free from his grasp.

Cricket was out the door like a bullet. Hank tore after her. Emmy was already halfway across the parking lot. Leaping down the front steps, Cricket closed the distance and got to the rear of Emmy's green Subaru before she could back it out. With loud thumps, Cricket beat her hands against Emmy's trunk to command her attention.

“Stop! Let me explain!”

The car shook as it started and it immediately lurched forward over a concrete wheel stop. With a sharp squeal and a bounce the rear wheels cleared the stop, too. Then the little Subaru shot across the lawn, tearing twin tracks through the grass and narrowly missing a Japanese maple. Momentarily airborne at the bottom of the sloped lawn, the car landed on the roadway with a thud, then sped off in a cloud of tire smoke.

Cricket gaped in shock. “Oh, God, Hank, I should have listened to you. I lost it.”

“Well, you didn't do yourself any favors.”

While Hank speed-dialed Emmy's circle of friends on his cell phone, Cricket watched Emmy's brake lights disappear into the distance. “I've blown it. I've really fucking blown it,” she moaned.

“Relax. She's got a short fuse like you, but she cools down fast.”

“No. No, it's more than that.” Cricket kept looking down the road. Hank was surprised to see tears running down her cheek, still rose-colored where Emmy had slapped her. “I've got a sickening feeling I'll never see her again.”

Four

NIEDERMANN COULD HAVE
PICKED BYRON BOOTHE
out of a crowd in Times Square by moonlight. There he was, director of public relations for Eden Pharmaceuticals, waiting under the brass bas-relief of the Maison Française at Rockefeller Center, wearing a teal-blue suit, open-necked white shirt, lavender silk waistcoat, yellow socks, and black patent-leather shoes. His dark brown hair was tipped with peroxide and artfully tousled. He hunkered under his umbrella as though the rain would melt him.

“Jack!” he shouted, as Niedermann got out of the cab. “Over here.”

Niedermann darted across the sidewalk.

“Phillip sent me to bring you in,” said Boothe, offering one-third of the umbrella. Boothe's breath smelled like peppermint, which suited his pastel getup and all-around perkiness. But Niedermann found it a bit too much for his stomach.

“Kind of cloak-and-dagger for you to fly in all of a sudden like this,” Boothe said, as he escorted Niedermann down the Promenade between the Maison Française and its sister building, the British Empire House.

“Just needed a little face time with Phillip.”

“You don't know how lucky you are out there in your Arcadian Springs. This is the Colosseum, Jack. This is the zoo. Already over twenty thousand entries for the Lottery. More every minute. We're way beyond what we planned for. The Promenade and the Lower Plaza can only hold so many. The place is hemmed in by walls of stone. What are we going to do if thirty thousand show up? Or fifty thousand? Move to Yankee Stadium?”

“I wouldn't worry. Gifford thinks it's a stroke of publicity genius.”

“It may be that, Jack. It may be genius. But think of the logistics. Simple things, like taking a dump. You see all these green Porta Potties? I ordered a hundred, counting on a party of maybe five thousand. Now I'll need four times as many. Where am I going to put them, for chrissake? Look around you, Jack. Where?”

They had reached the Lower Plaza, a deep, stone-walled depression at the end of the Promenade. Niedermann stepped out from under Boothe's umbrella to look over the parapet. Down below, a dozen workmen were struggling in the wind and rain to put up an awning over the main stage.

A sudden gust came up and turned Boothe's umbrella inside out. “Oh, crap!” he exclaimed, frantically trying to push the ribs back into place.

“They're gonna lose that awning, Byron,” said Niedermann, as he watched the fifty-foot piece of canvas billowing out of control.

Boothe looked. “Good God! Where's your tie-downs?” he screamed. “Boys! Boys! Don't worry about those poles. Get the edges tied down.”

A couple of the men looked up toward the parapet as though Boothe were speaking pig latin. Just then, in fulfillment of prophecy, a big squall came funneling down the Promenade and tore one side of the awning from its moorings. Niedermann heard a crack like a bullwhip, accompanied by the sound of ripping canvas.

“Oh, hell,” cried Boothe. “I can't even bear to look at this. Let's get out of here, Jack.”

They hastened across the Upper Plaza. Entering the black and white marble foyer of the 30 Rock tower, they passed through the turnstiles and got into an express elevator.