by Robin Cook
As soon as her feet touched the grass, she ran for the garage, arms swinging wildly. There was no way the men inside the house could not have heard the fire escape’s descent. In seconds they would be looking for her.
She ran to a side door to the garage, praying to heaven that it was not locked. It wasn’t. As she raced inside, she heard the back door of the house open. Desperately, she stepped into the dark interior, pulling the door shut behind her. Turning, she moved forward, colliding almost immediately with Ralph’s 300SDL sedan. Feeling for the car door, she opened it and slipped behind the wheel. She fumbled with the key until it slid into the ignition, and turned it. Several indicator lights flashed on, but the car didn’t start. Then she remembered Ralph explaining how you had to wait for the orange light to go out because the engine was a diesel. She switched the ignition back off, then turned the key part way. The orange light went on, and Marissa waited. She heard someone raise the garage door; frantically, she hit the button locking all four doors of the car.
“Come on!” she urged through clenched teeth. The orange light went out. She turned the key, and the car roared to life as she stomped on the gas. There was a series of loud thumps as someone pounded her window. She shifted to reverse and floored the accelerator. There was a second’s delay before the big car leaped backward with such force that she was flung against the wheel. She braced herself as the car shot out the door, sending two men diving sideways for safety.
The car careened wildly down the drive. Marissa jammed on the brakes as the car screeched around the front of the house, but it was too late. She rammed Jackson’s car with the back of hers. Shifting to forward, Marissa thought she was free, until one of the men, taking advantage of her momentary halt, flung himself across the hood. Marissa accelerated. The tires spun, but the car did not move. She was caught on the car behind. Putting the Mercedes into reverse, then into drive, she rocked the car as if she were stuck in snow. There was a scraping sound of metal; then she shot forward, dislodging her attacker as she careened down the drive.
“Forget it,” said Jake, crawling out from under Jackson’s car, wiping grease from his hands. “She busted your radiator,” he told the doctor. “There’s no coolant, so even if it started, you couldn’t drive it.”
“Damn,” said Jackson, getting out. “That woman lives a charmed life.” He looked furiously at Heberling. “This probably wouldn’t have happened if I’d come here directly instead of waiting for your goons to get in from the airport.”
“Yeah?” said Heberling. “And what would you have done? Reasoned with her? You needed Jake and George.”
“You can use my 450 SL,” offered Ralph. “But it’s only a two-seater.”
“She got too big a head start,” said George. “We’d never catch her.”
“I don’t know how she escaped,” said Ralph apologetically. “I’d just left her to sleep. She’s had ten milligrams of Valium, for Chrissake.” He noticed he felt a little dizzy himself.
“Any idea where she might go?” asked Jackson.
“I don’t think she’ll go to the police,” said Ralph. “She’s terrified of everyone, especially now. She might try the CDC. She said something about a package being there.”
Jackson looked at Heberling. They had the same thought: the vaccination gun.
“We may as well send Jake and George,” said Heberling. “We’re pretty sure she won’t go home, and after what she did to Al, the boys are most eager for revenge.”
Fifteen minutes from the house, Marissa began to calm down enough to worry about where she was. She had made so many random turns in case she was being pursued, she had lost all sense of direction. For all she knew, she could have driven in a full circle.
Ahead, she saw street lights and a gas station. Marissa pulled over, lowering her window. A young man came out wearing an Atlanta Braves baseball hat.
“Could you tell me where I am?” asked Marissa.
“This here’s a Shell station,” said the young man, eyeing the damage to Ralph’s car. “Did you know that both your taillights is busted?”
“I’m not surprised,” said Marissa. “How about Emory University. Could you tell me how to get there?”
“Lady, you look like you’ve been in a demolition derby,” he said, shaking his head in dismay.
Marissa repeated her question, and finally the man gave her some vague directions.
Ten minutes later Marissa cruised past the CDC. The building seemed quiet and deserted, but she still wasn’t sure what she should do or who she could trust. She would have preferred going to a good lawyer, but she had no idea how to choose one. Certainly McQuinllin was out of the question.
The only person she could envision approaching was Dr. Fakkry, from the World Health Organization. He certainly was above the conspiracy, and, conveniently, he was staying at the Peachtree Plaza. The problem was, would he believe her or would he just call Dubchek or someone else at the CDC, putting her back into the hands of her pursuers?
Fear forced her to do what she felt was her only logical choice. She had to get the vaccination gun. It was her only piece of hard evidence. Without it she doubted anyone would take her seriously. She still had Tad’s access card, and if he was not involved with PAC, the card might still be usable. Of course there was always the chance that security wouldn’t allow her into the building.
Boldly, Marissa turned into the driveway and pulled up just past the entrance to the CDC. She wanted the car handy in case anyone tried to stop her.
Looking in the front door, she saw the guard sitting at the desk, bent over a paperback novel. When he heard her come in, he looked up, his face expressionless.
Rolling her lower lip into her mouth and biting on it, Marissa walked deliberately, trying to hide her fear. She picked up the pen and scrawled her name in the sign-in book. Then she looked up, expecting some comment, but the man just stared impassively.
“What are you reading?” asked Marissa, nerves making her chatter.
“Camus.”
Well, she wasn’t about to ask if it was The Plague. She started for the main elevators, conscious of the man’s eyes on her back. She pushed the button to her floor, turned and looked at him. He was still watching her.
The moment the doors shut, he snatched up the phone and dialed. As soon as someone answered, he said, “Dr. Blumenthal just signed in. She went up in the elevator.”
“Wonderful, Jerome,” said Dubchek. His voice was hoarse, as if he were tired or sick. “We’ll be right there. Don’t let anyone else in.”
“Whatever you say, Dr. Dubchek.”
Marissa got off the elevator and stood for a few minutes, watching the floor indicators. Both elevators stayed where they were. The building was silent. Convinced that she wasn’t being followed, she went to the stairs and ran down a flight, then out into the catwalk. Inside the virology building, she hurried down the long cluttered hall, rounded the corner and confronted the steel security door. Holding her breath, she inserted Tad’s access card and tapped out his number.
There was a pause. For a moment she was afraid an alarm might sound. But all she heard was the sound of the latch releasing. The heavy door opened, and she was inside.
After flipping the circuit breakers, she twisted the wheel on the airtight door, climbed into the first room and, instead of donning a scrub suit, went directly into the next chamber. As she struggled into a plastic suit, she wondered where Tad might have hidden the contaminated vaccination gun.
Dubchek drove recklessly, braking for curves only when absolutely necessary, and running red lights. Two men had joined him; John, in the front seat, braced himself against the door; Mark, in the back, had more trouble avoiding being thrown from side to side. The expressions on all three faces were grim. They were afraid they would be too late.
“There it is,” said George, pointing at the sign that said Centers for Disease Control.
“And there’s Ralph’s car!” he added, pointing at the Mercedes in t
he semicircular driveway. “Looks like luck is finally on our side.” Making up his mind, he pulled into the Sheraton Motor Inn lot across the street.
George drew his S & W .356 Magnum, checking to see that all the chambers were filled. He opened the door and stepped out, holding the gun down along his hip. Light gleamed off the stainless-steel barrel.
“You sure you want to use that cannon?” asked Jake. “It makes so goddamn much noise.”
“I wish I had had this thing when she was driving around with you on the hood,” George snapped. “Come on!”
Jake shrugged and got out of the car. Patting the small of his back, he felt the butt of his own Beretta automatic. It was a much neater weapon.
Air line in hand, Marissa hastily climbed through the final door to the maximum containment lab. She plugged into the central manifold and looked around. The mess she’d helped create on that other fateful night had all been cleared away, but the memory of that episode flooded back with horrifying clarity. Marissa was shaking. All she wanted was to find her parcel and get the hell out. But that was easier said than done. As in any lab, there was a profusion of places where a package that size could be hidden.
Marissa started on the right, working her way back, opening cabinet doors and pulling out drawers. She got about halfway down the room, when she straightened up. There had to be a better way. At the central island, she went to the containment hood that Tad considered his own. In the cupboards below, she found bottles of reagents, paper towels, plastic garbage bags, boxes of new glassware and an abundance of other supplies. But there was no package resembling hers. She was about to move on when she looked through the glass of the containment hood itself. Behind Tad’s equipment, she could just barely make out the dark green of a plastic garbage bag.
Turning on the fan over the hood, Marissa pulled up the glass front. Then, careful not to touch Tad’s setup, she lifted out the bag. Inside was the Federal Express package. To be sure, she checked the label. It was addressed to Tad in her handwriting.
Marissa put the package in a new garbage bag, sealing it carefully. Then she put the used bag back inside the containment hood and pulled the glass front into place. At the central manifold, she hurriedly detached her air hose, then headed for the door. It was time to find Dr. Fakkry or someone else in authority she could trust.
Standing under the shower of phenolic disinfectant, Marissa tried to be patient. There was an automated timing device, so she had to wait for the process to finish before she could open the door. Once in the next room, she struggled out of her plastic suit, pulling frantically each time the zipper stuck. When she finally got it off, her street clothes were drenched with sweat.
Dubchek came to a screeching halt directly in front of the CDC entrance. The three men piled out of the car. Jerome was already holding open one of the glass doors.
Dubchek didn’t wait to ask questions, certain that the guard would tell them if Marissa had left. He ran into the waiting elevator with the other two men on his heels, and pressed the button for the third floor.
Marissa had just started across the catwalk when the door to the main building opened and three men burst out. Spinning around, she ran back into virology.
“Stop, Marissa,” someone yelled. It sounded like Dubchek. Oh, God, was he chasing her too?
She latched the door behind her and looked about for a place to hide. To her right was an elevator, to her left, a stairwell. There was no time to debate.
By the time Dubchek forced open the door, all he could see was the elevator light pointing down. Marissa was already on the lobby level as the three men began pounding down the stairs.
Knowing Dubchek was close behind, Marissa knew she had no time to slow down to avoid alerting the security guard when she’d reached the main building. His head popped up from his book, just in time to catch her streaking past. He stood up but that was all, and she was already gone when he decided that Dr. Dubchek might have wanted her stopped by force.
Outside, she fumbled for the keys to Ralph’s car, switching her parcel to her left hand. She heard shouts and then the doors to the CDC crash open. Wrestling the car door open, she started to slide behind the wheel. She was so programmed for flight that it took a minute for her to realize that the passenger seat was occupied. There was also someone in the back. But worse was the sight of an enormous revolver pointing at her.
Marissa tried to reverse her direction, but it was as if she were caught in a heavy, viscous fluid. Her body wouldn’t respond. She saw the gun coming up at her, but she could do nothing. She saw a face in the half-light, and she heard someone start to say “good-bye.” But the gun went off with a fearful concussion, and time stopped.
When Marissa regained consciousness, she was lying on something soft. Someone was calling her name. Slowly opening her eyes, she realized that she’d been carried back inside to the couch in the CDC lobby.
Flashing red and blue lights washed the room like a tawdry, punk discotheque. There seemed to be many people coming in and out of the room. It was too confusing. She closed her eyes again and wondered what had happened to the men with the guns.
“Marissa, are you all right?”
Her lids fluttered open, and she saw Dubchek bending over her, his dark eyes almost black with fear.
“Marissa,” he said again. “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried. When you finally made us realize what was going on, we were afraid they’d try to kill you. But you never stayed still long enough for us to find you.”
Marissa was still too shocked to speak.
“Please say something,” Dubchek pleaded. “Did they hurt you?”
“I thought you were part of it. Part of the conspiracy,” was all she could manage to utter.
“I was afraid of that,” groaned Dubchek. “Not that I didn’t deserve it. I was so busy protecting the CDC, I just dismissed your theories. But believe me, I had nothing to do with any of it.”
Marissa reached for his hand. “I guess I never gave you much chance to explain, either. I was so busy breaking all the rules.”
An ambulance attendant came up to them. “Does the lady want to go to the hospital?”
“Do you, Marissa?” asked Dubchek.
“I guess so, but I think I’m okay.”
As another attendant came up to help lift her onto a stretcher, she said, “When I heard the first bang, I thought I’d been shot.”
“No, one of the FBI men I’d alerted shot your would-be killer instead.”
Marissa shuddered. Dubchek walked beside the stretcher as they took her to the ambulance. She reached out and took his hand.
Epilogue
MARISSA WAS UNPACKING FROM a two-week vacation, taken at Dr. Carbonara’s insistence, when the doorbell rang. She had just returned from Virginia, where her family had done everything they could to spoil her, even giving her a new puppy that she’d immediately named Taffy Two.
As she walked downstairs, she couldn’t imagine who might be at the door. She hadn’t told anyone the exact date of her return. When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Cyrill Dubchek and a stranger.
“I hope you don’t mind our turning up like this, but Dr. Carbonara said you might be home, and Dr. Fakkry from World Health wanted to meet you. This is his last day in America. Tonight he is flying back to Geneva.”
The stranger stepped forward and dipped his head. Then he looked directly at Marissa. His eyes reminded her of Dubchek’s: dark and liquid.
“I am deeply honored,” said Dr. Fakkry, with a crisp, English accent. “I wanted to thank you personally for your brilliant detective work.”
“And with no help from us,” admitted Dubchek.
“I’m flattered,” said Marissa, at a loss for words.
Dubchek cleared his throat. Marissa found his new lack of confidence appealing. When he wasn’t making her furious, she could admit that he was actually very handsome.
“We thought you’d like to know what’s been happening,” he
said. “The press has been given as little detail as possible, but even the police agree you are entitled to the truth.”
“I’d love to hear everything,” said Marissa. “But please come in and sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”
When they were settled, Dr. Fakkry said, “Thanks to you, almost everyone connected to the Ebola conspiracy has been arrested. The man you stabbed in San Francisco implicated Dr. Heberling the minute he recovered from surgery.”
“The police think he wanted to be sent to jail so you couldn’t find him again,” said Dubchek, with a hint of his old sardonic grin.
Marissa shivered, remembering the terrible episode of stabbing the man in the bathroom at the Fairmont. For a moment the image of his ice-blue eyes froze her. Then, pulling herself together, she asked what had happened to Heberling.
“He’ll be going before a grand jury on multiple counts of murder with intent,” said Dubchek. “The judge refused to set bail, no matter how high, saying that he was as dangerous to society as the Nazi war criminals.”
“And the man I hit with the vaccination gun?” Marissa had been afraid to ask this question. She didn’t want to be responsible for killing anyone or for spreading Ebola.
“He’ll live to stand trial. He did use the serum in time, and it proved effective, but he came down with a severe case of serum sickness. As soon as he’s better, he’ll also be off to jail.”
“What about the other officers of the Physicians’ Action Congress?” asked Marissa.
“A number of them have offered to turn state’s evidence,” said Dubchek. “It’s making the investigation inordinately easy. We are beginning to believe that the regular members of the organization thought they were supporting just an ordinary lobbying campaign.”
“What about Tieman? He certainly didn’t seem the type to be mixed up in such an affair. Or at least his conscience really seemed to bother him.”
“His lawyer has been making arrangements for a lighter sentence in return for his cooperation. As for PAC itself, the group’s bankrupt. The families of the victims have almost all filed suit. They’re also suing the doctors individually. Most of the officers are being prosecuted as criminals. So they should be behind bars a good while, particularly Jackson.”
