by Paul Seiple
A sudden thrust of pain pierced Norman just below his belly button. It dug into his stomach like a ten-inch blade gutting its kill. He let out a muffled moan and doubled over, clutching his side. The pain disappeared as fast as it came. It was a wake-up call — a subtle reminder to Norman that he was still alive, and there was still work to do. He let out a deep breath, took a sip of scotch, and smiled, before walking over to the stereo and putting in a CD of The Planets by Holst. He turned the volume up and closed his eyes as his favorite movement, “Mars, the Bringer of War” played.
War was indeed coming. Norman watched with a close eye as the events unfolded in Charlotte. The CDC fought valiantly against the fear mongering of the media. Fear equals ratings. It always has, and it always will. Cast a spell of danger and the public becomes a servant glued to the news for the latest update. The CDC preached the Cupcake Catastrophe was an isolated event while the media called it everything but the first sign of the apocalypse. A hack preacher on public access nailed that point home, begging people to repent as the end of days was upon us, but only after donating to the cause. Norman didn’t care about the outbreak or the sensationalism of the anonymous email taking credit for it. He was walking the last leg of the death sentence cancer served him.
Norman took a few days before responding to the person called pale_horse. Destroying the world was no longer his battle. He focused his attention on a personal war. Destroying his nemesis Reid Hoffman was the main agenda. This outbreak caused hysteria, and that worked for Norman. Hysteria provided the ultimate smokescreen.
Norman was a wanted man. There were no reward posters in post offices. He wasn’t on the FBI’s Top Ten Most Wanted List. Only a few people knew he was alive and they wanted him dead. Reid Hoffman chased Norman for well over thirty years. Hoffman retired from the FBI a few years earlier and that meant he had more time to devote to hunting his target. Time was no longer a luxury in the cat-and-mouse game Norman played with Hoffman. He had one shot left and Norman needed to aim for the heart. But standing in the way was James Beamer, the hot shot agent who picked up where Hoffman left off. Only Norman knew Beamer by his real name, Michael Callahan. It was a secret Hoffman buried so deep that one would have better chance at finding a sunken Minoan ship than discovering James Beamer was Norman’s biological son. Beamer had to die too. But just knowing his son wasn’t dead meant the one thing Norman treasured in this world was still alive — his granddaughter Michelle. From the first moment Norman learned he had a granddaughter; the plan had been to turn her into a monster like him. Female serial killers weren’t a new thing, but making Michelle the most feared would be Norman’s ultimate violent slap in the face to an ungrateful world.
He took the last sip of scotch from the crystal glass and sat it on the Cherry wood table. The music had softened as the movement “Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age” played on. Norman poured another scotch and walked over to the three floor-to-ceiling windows in the corner of his living room. From the high-rise view, people below looked like dark specs — subjects in Norman’s ant farm. He would miss the debauchery of the city, but the disease eating away at him from the inside left him no choice but to leave.
Dr. Monahan promised Norman that with a positive attitude he could beat cancer. Norman knew better. The familiar hand of Death that touched him when he was just a boy was now punching him in the gut. The one thing in this world you cannot outrun is Death. Its shape-shifting ways make it unpredictable. But over time Dr. Monahan’s pep talks convinced Norman that maybe, just maybe, the good doctor could bide him enough time to fulfill his prophecy.
Four
James Beamer
Atlanta, Georgia
Mack shoved a stick of Doublemint into his mouth and thumbed through the stack of folders on his lap. A sea of reporters circled us. Every one of them fidgeting in their seats, causing the metal chair legs to clank against the floor like an offbeat symphony.
“So, this must be what it feels like to be a fish nearing feeding time,” I said.
“More like a scourge of mosquitoes zeroing in on Bert,” Mack said without looking up from the papers.
“Bert?”
“Bert McGovern. He’s the spokesman for the CDC.”
I looked toward the empty podium imaging a swarm of mosquitoes circling. “Are you sure this was an act of terrorism?”
“Positive. I got my hands on a sample. They know too. That’s why they are confident when they say it’s an isolated incident. For now, it is.”
“But for how…” Before I could finish my sentence, the sound of metal clanking against the floor grew more rapid. Special Agent Miguel Rodriguez of the Atlanta field office walked into the room. A lanky man who looked to be barely in his twenties, wearing a white lab coat over a blue shirt and purple tie, followed Rodriguez. I nudged Mack.
He took his eyes away from a report long enough to say, “Yeah, that’s Bert.”
I nudged him again. “And that’s Rodriguez from the Atlanta office. What’s this press conference supposed to be about?”
“A briefing on the victims’ conditions and reassurance of containment.” Mack closed the folders.
“I feel it’s more to it than that. Come on.”
We walked over to Rodriguez who had his back to us talking to McGovern.
“Miguel,” I said.
Rodriguez faced me. “Beamer, what are you doing here? Not getting enough national face time?” He smiled and stuck out his hand to shake.
I grabbed Mack by his shoulder and pulled him forward. “This is my friend Dr. Mack Root. He’s been studying this case and thought I should check it out.”
“Did he now,” Rodriguez said. “Follow me.”
“But, what about the press conference?” Bert McGovern asked. The chattering reporters drowned out his words.
“Plan B,” Rodriguez said. “Give ’em the G-rated version for now.”
McGovern nodded and made his way to the podium. We slipped through a side door to a small office that looked to double as a broom closet.
“What do you know?” Rodriguez asked Mack.
“Not an awful lot. But, this isn’t your typical infectious outbreak. It’s man-made, and we dodged a bullet. The creator hasn’t figured out how to make it airborne yet. But, he will.”
“We’re calling it Exitium,” Rodriguez said.
“Latin for destruction,” I said.
“And beginner,” Mack added.
“Got a lead on where it came from?” I asked.
“Nothing yet. But just like Mack, these guys think it was a test run. I tend to agree with them.”
“So, why are you at this press conference? I thought this was just a routine ‘keep people in the know’ type thing,” Mack said.
“About an hour ago there was an incident at Emory University Hospital where the remaining victims are in treatment. Patient 5 lost his mind and murdered two nurses and a doctor who had the unfortunate timing of being in his room. Then he leapt to his death from the window. Fortunately for us, the isolation ward is in a secluded area. But with the dead nurses and doctor, we can’t keep this under wraps.”
“He murdered three people? How is that possible as sick as these people are?” I asked.
“That’s just it, James, not all of them are sick in the sense you and I would consider sick. Four died from the disease. Three committed suicide in their rooms. Make that four including the one today. One is on life-support. And one isn’t showing any symptoms at all.”
“That’s not possible,” Mack said.
“I’ve seen it with my own two eyes,” Rodriguez said. “This is so unpredictable that the doctors have no idea how to treat it. I’m not a religious man, but you’re going to have a hard time convincing me this isn’t a sign of the apocalypse.”
“Were the ones who committed suicide given different treatment than the ones who died from the pathogen?” Mack asked.
“You’ll have to ask McGovern. His guys are hung up on trying to cure it. I’m de
termined to find out the motives as to why it happened in the first place and to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
McGovern walked into the room looking like he had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. His glasses balanced in a crooked manner of the bridge of his nose. His hair was disheveled, and the tip of his purple tie hid in his lab coat pocket. “Wild animals. Just like a pack of wild animals.”
Rodriguez chuckled. “Did you ease their minds?”
“I placated them with white lies.” McGovern extended his hand. “Bert McGovern.”
“James Beamer,” I said, shaking his hand.
McGovern shook Mack’s hand. “Nice to see you again, friend, but what are you doing here?”
“I was just catching them up on what happened today,” Rodriguez said.
“One is not presenting, Bert?” Mack asked.
“Weird, huh? Yeah, we’ve been running tests trying to figure out what the hell is going on. The logical explanation would be she didn’t eat a cupcake, but she did. So, the next logical thing would be that didn’t eat a contaminated cupcake. We tested all the remaining cupcakes. The agent was present. If she’s carrying it, the agent isn’t presenting yet. We need to keep running test but it will be hard now. No one is going to want to be around her after what happened earlier.”
“Can’t you restrain her?” I asked.
“If she flips like the guy today, that will do no good.”
“What?” I asked.
“You didn’t tell them?” McGovern asked, turning to Rodriguez.
“Didn’t have a chance.” Rodriguez took a deep breath. “Patient 5 went ballistic, tore through restraints, and murdered them with his bare hands.”
“And mouth. Don’t forget mouth,” McGovern said.
“He ripped Doctor Greene’s throat out with his teeth.”
“And killed one nurse by crushing her larynx on the bed rail. He slammed the other’s head against the wall,” McGovern said. “So, see, it could be a bit hard to get someone to volunteer to go into the room.”
“I’ll do it,” Mack said.
Five
James Beamer
Arlington, Virginia
The weather was turning cooler. Barring a warm spell, this would be the last fishing trip of the year for Reid and me. I never cared for fishing, but after his retirement, these excursions were the only quality time I got with Reid. He never bought that island he wanted to escape to after he retired. Mentally, he never left the job. Reid never caught Norman Wallace and until Wallace was six-feet in the ground, Reid couldn’t relax. I wrestled with telling him about the Exitium case. In Reid’s eyes Wallace would be behind it. Wallace was behind everything. The conversation would end with Reid locking himself in his basement shrine to the one that got away and then Barbara calling me to point out the reasons I should have kept my mouth shut.
The air around the Potomac was tranquil. A level of peace I rarely got the chance to see. The wind blew just enough to put a slight chill in the air, reminding me winter was coming. Reid dressed the part of a professional fisherman. A bucket hat decorated with lures, a tan vest that had enough pockets to store lunch for a week, and camouflage pants. I suppose so the fish couldn’t see him coming. My fishing uniform was jeans, a T-shirt, and an FBI hoodie. I suppose I was telling the fish not pull any funny stuff.
“You know, I bet human flesh would make good bait,” Reid said, casting his line.
“Excuse me.”
“Think about it. It would be the perfect crime. Kill someone, chop ’em up, and make fish bait. These little suckers would eat the body. No body, no crime.”
“You’ve got too much time on your hands these days, old man.”
Reid laughed. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“How’s Barbara?” I asked, casting my line, barely missing a tree branch.
“She’s good. Set up shop in an office downtown. She seems to like it there.”
“Is she finally over the lie you told her about buying an island when you retired?”
There was a tug on Reid’s line. He pulled in a small shad. “That’s not my fault. Blame my agent. He didn’t come through on that reality show.”
I felt my rod jerk. I reeled fast, bringing up nothing but a bare hook.
“It’s a good thing you’re better at catching criminals than fish,” Reid said, tossing his line back into the water.
“Speaking of criminals, heard anything from Jessie?” I asked.
“I haven’t heard from that little son-of-a-bitch since he bought those computers with my credit card.”
“It doesn’t worry you that the evil genius is out there free to hack into anyone’s life… or business? He could do some serious damage to banks.”
“That’s not the evil genius I’m worried about. Anything new on Wallace?”
I fidgeted with the worm, taking the time to feign an extra sense of concentration as I baited the hook. I was buying time — do I tell him or not? “Nothing concrete.” I tossed my line into the water. “Tell me are there any other cases you didn’t solve that you often wonder about?” I hoped the swift change of subject worked.
“There’s one,” Reid said, pausing to chug a can of Pepsi. “Around Halloween of ’79, there was a mass murder at an old farmhouse in Iowa. Never caught the killer. Twelve kids, ten died, one lived, and one disappeared never to be heard from again.” Reid took another swallow of Pepsi and reeled in his line. “The one that lived stayed in touch with me for about five years after. I think his name was Rory of Roky. Hell, I don’t know. He swore the killer was supernatural.”
“Supernatural?”
“Like that guy with the hockey mask in those horror movies,” Reid said, baiting another hook.
“Jason.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, the kid believed something from another world was the killer.”
“Did you believe him?” I asked, reeling in my line with an empty hook again.
“Not then, but I’ve seen so much in my life, the only explanation for some of it is supernatural.” Reid opened another can of Pepsi. “So, nothing on Wallace?”
This time I didn’t hesitate. Reid deserved to know if there was even the slightest chance Wallace was involved. This was the fight that consumed his whole life. The man couldn’t even enjoy an afternoon of fishing without thinking about Wallace. “Have you heard about that case in Charlotte? The people getting sick in that coffee shop?”
“A little,” Reid sat the can of soda on the ground and placed his rod next to it. “You think Wallace is behind it?”
“I haven’t ruled it out. One thing’s for sure. Someone is planning on hurting a lot of people.”
Reid stood up, reeled in his line, and closed the lid of his tackle box with his foot.
“What are you doing, old man?”
“Looks like you got a lead. Only one thing to do. Let’s go catch this son-of-a-bitch.” Reid tossed his fishing rod over his shoulder.
I shook my head and watched Reid beeline to my SUV. Something tugged my line. I reeled in. Another empty hook. I laughed. Empty hooks were like empty leads in the Wallace close. So close, yet so far away. Something about the Exitium case bothered me on a level that went deeper than a madman poisoning innocent people. I didn’t think Wallace was behind it, but it was perfect bait to bring the big fish around. And that left me feeling uneasy.
“Are you coming, or I’m going to have to steal your keys and leave you here?” Reid tapped his fishing pole against the driver side window of the SUV.
Six
Mack Root
Atlanta, Georgia
“Listen, Mack, she isn’t presenting and we cannot find a trace of the agent in her system, but she still could be dangerous. There is no predictability to this disease. She could be infected. Be on guard,” Bert said, clicking his fingertips against a clipboard.
“What’s her name?” Mack tossed a piece of Doublemint into his mouth.
“Are you listening to me, Mack? This is serious. The
kid who murdered those people in his room yesterday was five-feet-five and weighed one-thirty-five…wet.” Bert let out a deep sigh. “He was sixteen and had the strength of Hercules.”
Mack tapped Bert’s shoulder and smiled. “Calm down, buddy. We are all good. There was a Bruce Lee marathon on the other night. I picked up a few moves. Now, what’s her name?”
Bert shook his head and spoke barely above a whisper. “Tabitha Giles.”
“Bert, I’m not taking this lightly. I’m fully aware of what could happen in there. I also know it’s important to stay calm when facing the unknown. Never show fear when confronted by a wild beast. Didn’t you ever watch Wild Kingdom?” Mack winked.
“She’s down that corridor. To the left. Can’t miss her.” Bert turned to walk away.
“You’re not coming?”
“Nope. I watched Jaws this weekend, Quint.”
Mack laughed and faced the long, narrow hallway. The white walls spoke of purity, but the overwhelming scent of ammonia wafting through the air screamed cover-up. Tabitha didn’t scare Mack. The massacre at the hospital didn’t rattle him. Mack was a man of science. He knew the person behind the attack was experimenting. Another trial would come soon. Someone had to be Quint and stare into the jaws of death.
He rounded the corner. Four uniformed officers in riot gear greeted him. Mack chuckled under his breath, thinking about Bert’s words. “Can’t miss it.” A cop, about six-feet-four, placed his hand on Mack’s chest.
“Whoa, guy, stop right there. You lost?”
Mack turned to his left, turned to his right, and then spun around. “I don’t think so. I mean sometimes people accuse me of losing my mind. But, I think I’m in the right place. The directions said follow the corridor until you come up on an overzealous cop. That would be you…right…guy?” Mack showed the officer his all-clearance badge.
