Weapon of Choice (12 page)

“Chuckie, I'm talking to you, not the fucking wall.” Nobody but Banks ever called him “Chuckie” and then only to annoy him. “You gonna do this or not? I'm goin' in today. Meetin' with the leadership. You know what I'm talkin' about. These guys are the true patriots. I'm gonna tell them that you got the weapon they been lookin' for.”

“Me?” Last night, Banks had seemed to like Robertson's nuclear material better than Charles's staph organisms.

“Yeah, you, dickhead. You better not be shittin' me about how those germs can kill.”

Charles hated vulgar language. A Southern gentleman did not need to resort to such filth. “The cultures that I control are deadly, but Russell—”

“I don't give a fuck about Robertson and his shit. He was wafflin', couldn't commit. Besides, his radioactive nuclear goes missin', you got a real mess. I had to test him—he failed.”

Charles wondered what that meant.

“You got your test tube of bacteria,” Banks continued, “you let it out, you get yourself out, you are home free. Ain't that what you said, Chuckie? Ain't that what you were braggin' on last night?”

So Banks had been listening to his plan to exploit his research, to release his bioweapon to The Order.

“Hey, I just woke up, Will, I have to think this over, I mean—” What did he mean? Would he go through with this or not?

“No, Chuckie. You are called to action. Now. As of today, this cell is just you and me. Robertson's taken out.”

Taken out? The guy had been equivocating last night, had been like that for the past few months, but taken out? Sweet Jesus. He had a wife and two kids. Taken out?

“God,” Charles grappled with the reality of what he was about
to pledge. “I guess I can do it. I have to make a definite plan for how to get the bacteria out of the lab. The strain is extremely potent. You have to replate it every eighteen hours or it will just die. Like I told you last night. It acts ultrafast. Infects. Kills. Dies out. Unless it's passed on to a fresh host before it dies out. I mean, that's what we think. The only reason we grew it in the first place was so if we ever need to, we could come up with antidotes to mutations in the real world. But this strain has never been in a human.”

“Don't you worry about humans,” Banks said. “That's gonna be decided by The Order. The leadership will pick the right guinea pigs for your mean-ass little bugs.”

Charles had sunk back down on his plush king-size bed. So his time had come. He'd been selected for a job. This is what he'd wanted, but—“Russell?” Charles could not help but ask.

“Viewing is Friday night at Briarman Mortuary. You were such good Wednesday night buddies; you need to show your face. His missus will be expectin' you to show up, won't she?”

“God, Will, this is a lot—”

Banks took a step closer, anger flashing in his black eyes. “You tellin' me you gonna chicken out. Because if you do, you'll end where Robertson is. You hear me, Chuckie? We clear on that?”

Charles stood up, absorbing Russell Robertson's fate, stunned by Banks's unveiled threat.

“How will you let me know?” he asked. “Like, when do I need to produce it? Where?”

But maybe Charles wasn't scared. Maybe the shaky sensations traveling up and down his body signaled pure excitement. Isn't this what he'd wanted? A means to prove himself, finally?

“Today is Thanksgiving,” Banks mused, “yeah, The Order's leadership will be meeting. I will be back with the plan. Tonight. Be ready. Lot of shit going down—time's short for The Order. Got to make a stand soon, real soon.”

Charles remained sitting on the edge of the bed as Banks left. Not until he heard the roar of the Harley did he move. This was his chance. What he'd considered a demeaning assignment had turned to his advantage. He was the designated scientist in charge of the
department cultures today. Except for the usual security personnel manning the cameras, he'd be alone in the incubator. Not a major problem to duplicate a culture line and secrete it until The Order says Go. Banks had said
soon
. Charles would be ready.

Charles had been surprised at first that The Order had chosen him, not Robertson. Charles and Robertson had not been friends; Charles had no friends. But Russell had been a decent type, respectful, a Southern gentleman. Charles had sensed that Robertson had lost his passion for The Order, and Banks had picked that up, too. For certain Banks was The Order's enforcer. And now Russell Robertson was dead.

Charles had no options. If he failed, he'd end up laid out at Briarman Mortuary. He wondered how his parents would feel. They might be ambivalent about whether he lived or died. But if he were dead, the manner of his death, death with honor or death as a coward, that would mean everything to them. For once, he would not disappoint them.

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
28
T
HANKSGIVING
D
AY

Laura sat in the back seat of the Oldsmobile wagon between Nicole and Patrick, letting Mike drive and Kevin ride shotgun. The four kids bantered as if the older boys never had gone away to college, but Laura felt uncomfortable. If she didn't have all five kids around her, she never felt quite right. She'd doubted she ever could shake the trauma of almost having lost her kids and her career seven years ago. But Steve, she had lost Steve. Now she questioned the wisdom of leaving Natalie behind. Her clinical instincts said Natalie did not have a surgical abdomen, yet the vomiting seemed excessive for a simple gastroenteritis.

“Mom?” Laura felt Nicole's elbow poke her in the ribs.

“What?” What had she missed?

“Mike said he wants to invite a friend from Notre Dame to come down over Christmas break.”

“Nicole's already salivating,” Kevin said. “Fresh meat—a Domer in the house.”

Nicole reached over the seat to punch Kevin in the shoulder. Kevin swiveled, fists in the air, mock boxing mode. Just like old times, Nicole and Kevin going at it.

“What friend, Mike?” Laura said. “I must have zoned out. I'm really worried about Natalie.”

How she missed life with all five kids at home. Would they ever be all together again; living together? Unlikely. She needed to reconcile herself to this. They'd finish college, maybe go to grad
school, then move into their own places, get married, have their own kids.

“A guy in my dorm. I want to invite him down for New Year's.” Mike made friends easily and used to fill her house with boisterous buddies. “His family lives in Grosse Point, near Detroit. Crappy weather there, so—”

“That'll suck,” said Patrick. “Kev will have to move into my room.”

“That's right, you spoiled little runt.” Patrick actually was bigger than Kevin now, but to Mike and Kevin, he'd always be the baby.

Patrick started to reach over the seat to pummel Kevin, but Laura pulled him back. “Of course that would be okay, Mike. What's your friend's name?”

“Paul Monroe. Nice guy. Patrick, he'll kick your butt on the baseball field. His brother is Scott Monroe. He's with the Yankees.”

“That'll be the day. I'll show—”

But Laura didn't hear the rest. Paul Monroe? Grosse Point? David's brother, Nick, had four sons. She knew their names: Scott, Jonathon, Paul, and Bobby. She'd seen pictures. She'd actually seen them, dressed in tan slacks and navy jackets, filing out of the church at David's funeral. Her son Mike had been seven years old, the same age as Paul, Nick's third son. And now they'd met at Notre Dame.

“Mom?” Nicole again, shaking her arm. “What's the matter with you? You're all sweaty.” Laura wiped her hands on her shorts. “You're sick, too?”

“Must have caught it from Natalie,” Kevin said. “I wondered what was wrong with her last night. Unlike you,” he touched Nicole's shoulder, “she's not a moody one.”

“Mom,” Mike interrupted, “do you have a problem with me bringing Paul home?”

“Maybe his brother can get us spring training tickets for the Yankees?” Patrick fantasized. “Oh, man, would I like to meet Scott Monroe!”

The drive from Tampa to Anna Maria Island took sixty-five
minutes. Mike drove while the others clowned around. Laura closed her eyes, hoping that they'd assume she'd fallen asleep. Mike's innocent request had reopened a closed chapter in her life. Inside that chapter was an explosive, destructive secret.

Once Mike pulled the Oldsmobile into her parents' driveway, Laura had no more time for reflection. So much catching up to do. She rushed into her parents' two-story Key West-style home on Key Royale. Charming, just the sight made her smile. She'd see her sister whom she hadn't seen for a year, her brother-in-law, and French-speaking seven-year-old nephew; her little brother, now a Jesuit missionary doing a stint in Rome, and her proud parents.

Amid the chatter of the family reunion, the phone rang. Her mom answered, “It's Tim,” she announced.

Laura jumped up from the chaise lounge on the patio to grab the phone.
Natalie
.

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
28
T
HANKSGIVING
D
AY

Victor Worth surveyed the surgical ICU: seven beds, arranged in a semicircle. Behind each bed stood an array of equipment and monitors that emitted a cacophony of random rhythmic chirps. Movable partitions separated the patients. These patients had practically no privacy, but that would hardly matter for Victor's maneuver. Most everyone in the unit looked either unconscious or asleep.

An empty, straight-back chair stood next to each bed. During shift changes, Victor knew, no visitors were allowed inside the ICU, they were asked to relocate to the waiting room until the nurses finished report. Lucky opportunity for him; the holiday staff deficit and the clerk's obvious desire to dismiss him from her desk lent him freedom of movement. He needed to appear as if he belonged there so as to not attract the attention of the four staff still in the room: a cleaning lady, mopping in the far corner, three aides clustered around a young boy's bed, one fussing with his catheter bag, the other two changing the sheets.

But any minute the ICU would be teeming with personnel.
Better move now
.

Trying to avoid drawing attention with sudden gestures, Victor made for the nearest bed and took inventory. Norman's bed had been moved across the room, as far as it could be from where he stood—and right next to the boy's bed where the three aides were working. He had to stall a bit.

Victor inched his way into the chair by the nearest bed; he would sit quietly as if he were the patient's loved one. The patient was unconscious and hooked up to a noisy ventilator. The cleaning lady mopped with her back to him; for now, no one was paying him any attention. But he'd have to wait longer.

“Don't forget the patient in isolation,” he heard one of the aides say from across the room. “We still have him, and he takes three times as long as the others, what with putting on all that protective crap we have to wear.”

“He's got some horrible disease,” her coworker answered, “but now that he's awake and all, seems to be a nice guy.” The aides chatted, still oblivious to Victor.

He stiffened. They were talking about Matthew.
So he was awake?
Victor almost bolted out the door, across the hall into Matthew's isolation room, but he did not move. His goal was retribution. His resolve had not weakened. Another few minutes. Just a few more minutes. Victor eased down in his chair.

After stuffing soiled sheets into a laundry bag, the two aides moved toward the door.

Then a realization jolted Victor so violently that he felt lightheaded. What if somehow, the lethal bacteria could be tracked to him? He'd been seen in the ICU talking to Norman. Would somebody make the connection? Norman Kantor and Victor Worth: former colleagues; lethal staphylococci. If he was implicated—Matthew had no one but him. Victor could not take the chance of getting caught. Not now.

Just as suddenly, a solution suggested itself. Instantly, Victor acted on it. He had no time to analyze, to weigh the pros and cons. To consider anyone other than Matthew. He needed to proceed. He patted the pouch of his leather bag. Plenty. Not only enough culture material to kill Norman, but enough to kill every patient in the ICU. Infecting multiple patients would give him cover, camouflage. But he had to act. Now.

Hunching, he reached into his pocket, removed a pair of rubber gloves, and pulled them on. The old man in the bed closest to him
was not breathing on his own, either sedated or unconscious. He noted the name posted at the head of the bed: Bart Kelly. Physician: Dr. Nelson.

Victor calculated that the hospital would be so busy trying to figure out how their ICU became infected with such a deadly, resistant bacteria that nobody would remember him. Nobody would connect his history with that of Norman Kantor, the intended victim. By then, Matthew would be safe in D.C.

Gloves on, Victor reached into the culture transport pouch and deftly selected an impregnated swab from the secure carrier. He eased forward, inserted the saturated swab into the old man's nostrils, swiveled it, and for extra measure, wiped it around the exposed end of the tube coming out the man's nose. Done. Victor imagined himself looking like a concerned layman, just observing a patient.

He moved to the next patient, next bed. Still no one was paying him the slightest attention. He leaned over a middle-aged woman in a deep sleep—sedated, maybe—but he'd have to be careful. His gloved fingers pulled out a second swab and gently wiped it on the woman's cracked lips. She slept, and he applied as much pressure as he dared. The inoculum would be smaller, but surely enough to jump-start the noxious bacterium.

In the third bed, Victor found a younger woman. Tubes going everywhere, but the woman's eyes were open. Had she seen him with the swabs? Should he infect her—or just move on? Instant decision needed.