No Immunity

by Susan Dunlap

  “I only know he flew with them. He took the boys and Irene back to—”

  “Irene? Irene Hernandez?”

  “Who is she?”

  “Head of subsidiaries for Nihonco.”

  Kiernan sank against the seat back. Somehow it seemed more horrible that Irene Hernandez’s last day had been an extended business meeting. Maybe she liked the idea of a daylong trip to the tropical park, but chances were she’d have been happy signing the papers with Grady in the office. She’d have figured one more day was worth the millions Grady Hummacher’s strike would bring Nihonco. She’d have been picturing a promotion, greater stock options, a bigger office, whatever fills executives’ dreams. At thirty, maybe thirty-five, years old she had been a key executive with an international oil company, and once she died, Fox and the powers that be had taken a look at her Hispanic features and assumed she’d been merely a disease-carrying immigrant.

  It was an odd relief, Kiernan felt, knowing that Irene Hernandez was no longer a nameless corpse with a distorted face. She was not so dispensable no one missed her. In her job sudden business trips would be the norm. No one would worry for another week or two.

  Just as no one would worry about a private investigator gone from La Jolla.

  “So, O’Shaughnessy, how do I get those boys?”

  Over my dead body. “We’ve got a problem. Fox and the navy are looking for them. Fox let me escape. He’s watching me. When we get to Ninety-three, he’ll be there, or he’ll have someone keeping an eye on us.”

  “It’s not like we coulda turned off,” the Weasel said.

  Without bothering to brake, Adcock hung a U. Kiernan’s shoulder hit the door. Her feet didn’t reach all the way under the dash. To keep from being battered, she had to brace one foot awkwardly against the side panel and try to ram the other against the floor hard enough to get a purchase. Even the Weasel had stiffened his legs. Adcock’s hands were tight on the wheel, his eyes were straight ahead.

  “Adcock, that maneuver sums you up completely,” she said, giving the Weasel a shove.

  “Huh?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “There’s a parallel road back this way. I took it to the cafe.” He stepped on the gas. The old truck coughed and clattered.

  Kiernan shifted her weight but kept her legs braced. “What does Louisa Larson look like? Like me?”

  It was the Weasel who laughed. “Lady, she’s twice your size and blond. The only thing you two got in common is your sex.”

  “You were thinking of her as a decoy, O’Shaughnessy?”

  “I was. That won’t work. You’ll have to be the decoy.”

  “Hey, I’m the one paying you. I’m going with you to those boys.”

  “You know where they are?” the Weasel asked as Adcock struggled to keep the truck from stalling.

  “If I knew that, we’d all be back in Vegas. I have some leads, but I can’t do anything till I shake off Fox. For that I’m going to need Louisa Larson. You have any idea where we can find her?”

  She’d directed the question to Adcock, but it was the Weasel who nodded. “Gattozzi. That’s where she was headed.”

  CHAPTER 49

  THE FIRST THING KIERNAN spotted in Gattozzi was the sheriff’s car in front of the station. “Empty,” she said to Adcock and the Weasel, “but it didn’t get here by itself. Get down out of sight, Weasel.”

  “It’s McGuire, if you don’t mind,” he said as he slid down between the others on the old Chevy’s bench. “Hey, my back’s going into spasm. How long do you expect me to stay down here like a sack of groceries?”

  Ignoring him, Adcock demanded, “How’s this getting us to those boys, O’Shaughnessy?”

  The one commercial block in town was more crowded than at any other time she had seen it. At nine A.M. Sunday morning cars were lined up in front of the whimsically-named 47th Street Deli between Jeff Tremaine’s office and the mortuary. Gattozzians sat around the red-checked tablecloths, some solo behind a protective shield or newspaper, most clumped in animated discussion. Kiernan checked for Connie, Jeff, Fox, Milo—any familiar face. None.

  The road to Connie’s mine was so isolated, any vehicle would stand out. The only vehicular advantage would be a good engine and four-wheel drive. It would be ideal to be making the trip at dusk in Tchernak’s big new top-of-the-line Jeep. But there was no way she could stay out of sight till then. And Tchernak’s Jeep was miles away at the motel.

  “Hey, I’m dyin’ down here.”

  “There! That blue BMW. Is that Louisa Larson’s?”

  “Weasel?” Adcock elbowed him, and McGuire poked his head up, nodded, and sank back down.

  “She’s the blonde at the window table.”

  The question in Kiernan’s mind was—how to lure Louisa Larson out of the cafe and to a rendezvous.

  But Larson seemed to be solving that problem. Her jaw dropped when she spotted Adcock’s truck. She made for the door so abruptly, her napkin went flying. She had her keys out before she reached the car.

  “What’s with you guys and Louisa Larson?”

  “The Weasel worked her over a bit,” Adcock said matter-of-factly.

  “Worked her over? How?” When the Weasel didn’t answer, Kiernan rammed her elbow into his shoulder.

  “Hey, whatcha doin’? Jeez, it’s bad enough I’m ridin’ on the floorboards—”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “Just a nick, just to draw a little blood. Nothin’ a tea bag next to the eye wouldn’t take care of.”

  She jabbed him again, harder.

  “What’s that for?”

  “So you think twice before you cut a woman.” To Adcock she said, “Make a left. Up hill. See that old bucket house at the top of the hill?” She pointed to the spot where she’d won Jesse’s truck. “Head for that. As soon as you turn, hit the gas. That’ll give us an extra half minute before Fox starts tailing. He’ll be after us, but he won’t want to be obvious about it.”

  Larson was behind them, closing the gap. Farther back an old truck meandered up the street and paused in front of the cafe.

  “McGuire, when I’m gone, sit up just high enough so that your hair is visible.”

  “And you figure that’ll fool the sheriff?”

  “Only from a distance. It’s the best we can do.”

  Kiernan looked down at First Street. The hillside road was more exposed than she had realized. What had protected Connie, Jesse, and the group last night was not the spot itself but the dark. “Slow down at that flat stretch up there. Don’t stop. After I jump, pick up speed slowly.”

  “What about—”

  She opened the door, braced her feet on the sill, jumped, and rolled. The ground wasn’t as flat as it looked, and definitely not soft. Even after bracing for the fall, she hit her head on a rock. Sharp branches scratched her face and snagged her turtleneck. She pushed herself up in time to flag down Louisa Larson.

  “Make a right,” she said as she jumped in the BMW.

  “Who are you? How did that little thug get you?” Louisa Larson’s hand went to her face. She had straight blond hair and the kind of soft, even features that suggested concern. She would have been pretty had it not been for the ragged wound a fraction of an inch from her eye.

  “He did that? McGuire? The Weasel?”

  “Yeah, the little bastard. Took me by surprise. But go on about you.”

  Louisa Larson, the doctor who had provided the only consistent care for the boys, should be the one person to trust. But she didn’t trust her enough to let on about her own medical background. “I’m Kiernan O’Shaughnessy, private investigator.”

  Louisa shook her head. “What is this? You and the big guy in the Jeep and the Weasel, you guys having a convention out here? Or are you working for him?” She nodded at Adcock’s truck. Her voice was raw, her face lined with anger and exhaustion. She clutched the wheel too tightly and overcompensated on a curve. The woman was in over her head and too far gone to re
alize it.

  “Tchernak, the Jeep guy, works for me. The Weasel”— mimicking Larson’s tone—“I never heard of before I climbed into the truck. But you and I are both concerned about the boys. If we don’t get to them now, they could disappear forever.” With no trace of irony she added, “Trust me.”

  Between twists in the road Louisa Larson glanced over at her, automatically accompanying the movement with a social smile. “Tchernak I trusted. So I’m trusting you. I’m a doctor. I’ve got to find those boys before they’re beyond help. Where are they?”

  “Cut back to First Street. Make a right at the second corner past the sheriff’s department. I’ve got to keep out of sight.”

  “Where are we going? The Weasel’s still here, right? I’ve got a gun.” No social smile here. “I followed that little thug as far as that miserable motel. I thought Grady and the boys would be there. I thought he might be sick by now but that he’d just be in the beginning stages. I was going to scoop up the three of them and drive like hell back to Las Vegas.” She swallowed, her hands shaking so hard on the wheel, the car shimmied. “I never dreamed Grady would be dead. Or that someone would have kidnapped the boys. I mean, why, for heaven’s sake? I took care of those kids. They’re sweet, sad, wonderful, but let me tell you, they are one ton of work. They’re like having puppies with hands. Whoever took them didn’t know what they were getting into.”

  “They are deaf and mute? No sign language, right?”

  “Backroom kids, that’s what Grady called them. They may have had skills in their tribe, but it’s all useless outside a rain forest, and, you know, we don’t have much in the way of big leaves and humidity here in the Silver State.”

  “So even if they were healthy, instead of being so sick they’re throwing up blood, they’d still be useless, right?”

  “Like I said, puppies with hands.”

  “Could you communicate with them? Get them to lead you somewhere?”

  Louisa shook her head. “I don’t know, or care. The bottom line is they’re going to die without help, and it looks like I’m the only one who gives a damn. Well, you and me.”

  The BMW swung right onto the top of First Street. Kiernan slipped down onto the floor pad, feeling more vulnerable there where she could see nothing but Louisa Larson’s inadequate shoes. If there was an “overland” to be done, Larson would not be the one doing it. “Are we past the sheriff’s office yet? Any movement there?”

  “No one coming out.”

  “How about standing inside the window, casually reading a map or talking or—”

  “Oh, yeah. Big guy, drinking a cup of coffee.”

  “See if he comes out and gets in his car.”

  “Nope. This is the turn. Right, you said?”

  “Right. The street looks like it dead-ends. Go all the way, the sharp right uphill. It’s a road you’d never take unless you were headed for back country. Keep checking the rearview mirror.”

  “Are you on the run from everyone?”

  “So it seems, huh?” She waited till she felt the vehicle turn and start uphill before pushing up onto the seat. “Louisa, you’re a doctor. You’ve come all this way to save the boys. When you find them, what is it you’re going to do for them? I saw Grady. He had already started bleeding out. What virus do they have? Is there any treatment?”

  Louisa gave a little cry, and when she spoke, it was so softly, Kiernan almost missed her words. “Poor kids. I can’t believe after all they’ve been through they can just die now. I was treating them, and their fevers were lowering.”

  “Treating them with what?”

  “A derivative of ribavirin. I’ve got some in a freezer case in the trunk. If I can get to the boys in time, it could make the difference.”

  “This late?”

  “The latest research indicates at least an ameliorative effect. Mixed with a drug called Cyro—But this is getting too technical. Trust me, what I’ve got is the best treatment there is. Whether it will be enough, I don’t know.”

  Yeah, well, I do know. Ribavirin enhanced survival rates only if it was given early on. And only in specific arenaviruses. For Lassa fever it was a godsend. For Ebola, useless. In the case of an idiopathic condition, how could Louisa be doing any more than taking a stab and hoping? Why this particular combination—unless she knew the strains of virus that had infected the boys?

  Louisa eyed the narrow, windy road, shot a glance at the gray soil and low prickly wild plants. “Just where are the boys?”

  “A couple hours out of town.”

  “On a road like this?”

  “Worse.”

  “But where?”

  “I’ll direct you, Louisa.”

  “I’m not a chauffeur! Tell me or—”

  “Or what?” Purposely Kiernan kept her voice light and the aura of collegiality in place. “What do you want? I’m the only one who knows where they are. I’m taking you there. But it’s not like there are street signs. I’ll know the turns when I see them—I hope.” She forced herself to add plaintively, “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Sorry. Of course. I’m just edgy.”

  Plaintive always worked. It just galled her to use it.

  Already the town was barely visible. The landscape, which she had seen only in the dark, was green and gray in all directions, dry and endless. She checked the rearview mirror again, but by now she expected the road behind to be empty. With all the resources of the county sheriff’s department and the United States Navy, Fox wouldn’t have to tail them. And if he did choose that low-tech method, he had plenty of time before there were any turn-offs.

  She thought of the boys, but it was Louisa who put words to the worry. “Even in Vegas, where there’s grass and shrubs and potted palms, Juan and Carlos looked stunned. What were they thinking—how do you think without words? But that’s another issue. They looked as if a spaceship had abandoned them on Mars. To them this dirt and sand and air so dry it cuts your skin was as incomprehensible as living in outer space. I wanted to ask … everything.” She sucked in breath, staring ahead at the empty road, hands white on the wheel. “And in the end I could do nothing for them.”

  “But you did arrange for them to go to the tropical park, didn’t you. Grady said a friend told him about it.”

  Louisa’s jaw tightened before she could smile. She clasped the steering wheel harder. “One of my professors in college had a project with government funding and he had to bring some of the specimens up here. He used to tell me about the park. It sounded so perfect for the boys.”

  “When was the last time you were there?”

  “Never. I just heard. Why?”

  “Because, Louisa, the park is downwind of the naval testing facility. They shoot viruses and bacteria into the air to see if they can identify them.”

  She gasped. “Microbes? In the air?” Her foot came off the gas pedal; the car coughed; she fumbled with the gearshift and barely downshifted before the engine stalled. “It used to be a park. That’s what my professor said. It was wonderful. And now it’s what—poison?” She was shaking her head. “Oh, God, you can’t be right.”

  “I am.”

  “Oh, no. Is that where the boys got infected?”

  Kiernan nodded.

  Louisa was still shaking her head. She turned to Kiernan, beseeching. “I thought … I thought it would be nice for them. I sent them there, and now they’re … dying.” As she swiped at her damp cheek, she scraped the scar beside her eye and gasped. “I was only trying to do something nice for them. You understand, don’t you?”

  Kiernan could have nodded and let her off the hook. She didn’t. She knew this type of woman who needed to be liked and who used her charm as means of entree. Without that acceptance she would be helpless, and desperate. Louisa Larson would have to work for approval this time. First off, she’d have to answer questions. “The woman who’s caring for the boys was sweating, feverish. Was that how it started with the boys?”

  “I think so.
By the time the neighbors called me they were too weak to stand. They were having trouble swallowing. If they’d gotten to me earlier—”

  “That was the fourth or fifth day?”

  She hesitated. “Could be.”

  “How long have they been symptomatic by now?” Kiernan prodded. “A week, ten days?”

  “Maybe a week I don’t know. Eight or nine days.”

  In eight or nine days Lassa patients were dead. Let her be right about her treatment.

  Louisa pulled the wheel hard, taking the BMW into a curve, and let the wheel slide back in the loop of her fingers and thumb. The familiar movements of driving seemed to pull her out of her shock.

  She had to keep Louisa on edge. “The woman is dead. The boys were exposed at the same time—”

  “No! Not necessarily. When Grady called that night—he wanted me to check on the boys—he told me he had car trouble. He found a sheltered spot, a sort of lean-to, he said. And for a couple of hours he fiddled with the engine before he finally gave up and limped the car to the gas station. He said the boys watched him, but he left them picnicking when he made the run to the mechanic.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Of course Grady didn’t mention her to me. But she could have been picnicking or exploring the whole time. How would I know?” She shot a glance at Kiernan. Checking for her reaction, Kiernan noted. Purposely she showed none.

  “A week ago it was still hot here,” Louisa hurried on. “In a desert like this it’s summer for a long, long time, and then one day you wake up and it’s winter. No fall, no warning.”

  Faye at the Doll’s House had said the woman was already annoyed. Not the state of mind to spend hours handing Grady a wrench or a rag. Not when she could wander through southwest Nevada’s botanical wonder—and never guess she was breathing in toxic particles. Did the boys get a smaller dose? Did they have a natural immunity? Or were they the first victims of person-to-person transmission from the index case?

  It wasn’t my fault! Louisa had insisted with each answer. Trust me! Think well of me! But that Kiernan could not do.