by James Abel
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“What’s complicated about it?”
I heard him exhale. “We’re dealing with lots of parts. The East Coast cell doesn’t know you found the thread. So sure, we look for Fargo; talk to the mother. But go public too soon, we risk alerting the whole group.”
“There could be more attacks in the meantime.”
“Yeah, always the question. Balance. Give me a little time. Meanwhile, we’re on Fargo. Good job.”
An hour passed. Two dozen agents arrived at the shop, along with a van filled with lab technicians.
“The Director and the Attorney General are figuring out how to handle this,” Ray said, when I reached him an hour later. “Hold tight. We’re quietly distributing information. He gets stopped for speeding, even noticed on the highway, we have him. His name is available on certain lists.”
“Available isn’t the same thing. And what does ‘certain’ mean?”
“Do you want to panic these people just as we get an idea of who they are, Joe? Send them underground?”
“They are underground.”
“Look at the big picture for a change.”
“Then fill me in on the part I don’t know.”
“I’ll share one thing, Joe,” he said. “The Peace Corps has confirmed that Tom Fargo never joined it.”
“I told you that hours ago!”
“Just sit tight a little longer.”
“We sitting tight?” Eddie asked when I clicked off. I’d had the phone on speaker mode, so we could all hear Ray.
Izabel said, “Well? What now?”
TWENTY-FOUR
“Look at the car door, Ma! Mosquitoes!”
A small boy had spotted them. An eight- or nine-year-old kid wearing glasses, standing at eye level with the gash in the Subaru’s door. The kid was pointing. Onlookers turned to stare. They saw what Tom saw; mosquitoes clustered around the gash where the larger Chevy Tahoe had rammed into the side of Tom’s car.
“Ma, you said mosquitoes are dangerous!”
The cop in front of Tom glanced down and left and saw it. Another insect crawled from the hole. Tom had, at most, seconds before the looks of amusement or incomprehension turned to something far more dangerous. For the moment the accident was forgotten. The group focused on Tom’s door.
The boy pulled at his mother’s hand, tried to get her to leave. “You said they’re bad! They make people sick!”
Whap!
Tom felt the torn metal slice into his palm as he smashed the mound of crawling insects. One or two escaped, took to the air, wobbling off, absorbed into dusk. The folk music from the landing seemed to grow louder. The faces of the onlookers had gone slack. They’d been assured by authorities that there were no more mosquitoes here. Memphis was considered, so far, a disease-free zone.
He let his anger show, raised his voice above the murmur around him as he demanded of the cop, “Don’t you people spray in this town?”
The policemen had clearly been given instructions on how to soothe away fears of visitors to their city. The cop went automatic, spewed forth platitudes. “Sir, the health department has been spraying for days.”
“With what? Water?” Tom demanded, moving his rump over the gash in the door. He realized with relief that the onlookers had assumed the most logical explanation, at least for a moment. That the vectors had been attracted to something on the door. Sap. Something. It had not occurred to them that inside the door were containers swarming with vectors. It was too much of a leap to think that Tom was driving around, releasing them.
Some bystanders were moving back, away from the accident. They’d seen infection zone news and been warned to avoid mosquitoes on news programs, at schools, at work, in newspapers. Panic was close to the surface, even here.
Tom snapped at the cop, louder, “This place is dangerous! How do I know those mosquitoes aren’t infected?!”
He imagined hundreds of insects inside the door, crawling in the dark. He grabbed back his license and registration from the policeman, snatched the scrap of paper that the other driver offered, containing a home and insurance company number. The second cop was talking with urgency into his neck mike. Tom saw the man’s lips form the word mosquitoes. The closer cop now turned to soothing onlookers. Clearly, both men had it impressed upon them to reassure visitors that their local waterfront was safe.
Several people from the crowd were now in their cars, pulling off. Someone was taking photos of Tom’s car with a cell phone. He wanted to grab it away.
“I told you we shouldn’t have come,” he heard a woman snap at her husband. The man took her arm. They walked off.
Everyone was looking around, nervous, for more mosquitoes, peering at their bare arms, toward the trees and river. Danger could come from any direction. It was so small it might be invisible. Then, as if Allah himself helped Tom, the air—at dusk—began swarming with gnats.
“Something bit me,” the little boy cried.
“Those aren’t mosquitoes. Those are gnats,” the larger cop explained.
“It’s in my shirt!” a man called, slapping at it.
“They’re just gnats!”
It was no use. People were rushing off, to their cars, away from the riverfront. Tom saw the alarm spreading. Former gapers stopped strollers or bikers and pointed back toward the accident. Mosquitoes there!
Tom heard a crunching sound of metal hitting metal. He saw with satisfaction that a hundred feet away, two cars had backed into each other. The cops hurried toward the fender bender. No one watched Tom anymore. He climbed into the Subaru and started up and his lips formed a prayer: Thank you, Allah.
Tom joined the stream of cars exiting the lot. He headed toward his backup release point, hoping that only one container had opened inside the door. He imagined that insects were flying out of the hole in the door. But as he calmed and got farther from the river he realized that the hole had merely presented him with a different opportunity. Any insects escaping would still be hungry, would feed, would be attracted by perfume or human sweat. Driving, he was releasing the things to attack anyone nearby. Pedestrians. Dog walkers. Diners at outdoor restaurants.
Tom’s Subaru was like those vans back in Brazil from which biotech companies released genetically modified mosquitoes—sterile ones—to breed with local insects and kill the populations off. Those vans cruised around, windows open, as thousands of sterile male mosquitoes flew out. In Brazil the strategy halted disease. Here the opposite would occur.
Tom pulled into a closed Shell station, up to the air pump, as if to fill his tires. No one was watching. He pulled out the interior door panel and saw with relief that only one of the containers inside had opened, and only a little. Hundreds of mosquitoes crawled and flew in the space inside the door. He waved them from the car. They left in a small cloud that would not be visible from more than ten feet away. The cloud diminished as the vectors took off, many headed across the two-lane road, toward an open-air Mexican restaurant. Since the evening was hot, at least two hundred diners sat outside, enjoying margaritas, chimichangas, salsa dip, and happy talk.
Within a couple of days, some of you will be sick.
The release had not been planned, but it had worked.
Clouds were rapidly obscuring the moon. Heavy clouds.
The visit had been a success.
• • •
Back on I-78, Tom accelerated to check whether the car functioned normally after the accident as the first drops fell. There was no shimmy. No pull to left or right. Any damage had been cosmetic. And the last remaining sealed container still hung inside the door, ready for use.
Five hours to the final release point, 383 miles away, tomorrow night.
That final release point would be especially sweet. Even Dr. Cardozo did not know the real reason Tom had chosen
it.
Tom headed east and then south, crossing into rural Mississippi.
He turned on all-news radio, which reported heavy rain ahead, and even a possibility of tornadoes. The sky was suddenly roiling with rapidly moving clouds. The road lacked streetlights. His headlights probed dark. A first fat raindrop struck the glass, and a sudden gust buffeted the car. The rain, when it hit, came on in a wave. Suddenly it was hard to see.
“We now go to New York live, where the NYPD Counterterrorism Unit is about to make an announcement. New York’s Police Commissioner has just introduced Colonel Joe Rush, of the National Bioterror Task Force.”
Rush again, Tom thought with fury.
Ahead, the wind was tossing branches off roadside trees. A sheet of paper went flying past. A bird was trying to fly straight, but went sideways. A man walking on the roadside fell down, raincoat flapping. Tom had never seen weather this bad come up so fast.
“Thank you, Commissioner,” Rush was saying. “In conjunction with the New York Police Antiterrorism Unit and the Brazilian Federal Police, we are asking for help in locating a person of interest in our investigation. We are seeking a man named Thomas Fargo.”
Tom Fargo almost drove into a ditch but straightened on the four-lane road. It was hard to see in the downpour. He came up fast on a big lumber truck with a DONALD TRUMP sticker on back. He slammed on the brakes and slid but kept control. Heart hammering, he crawled through violent hail, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. He understood why the New York police might want to talk to him about the murders of his neighbors. He could not fathom how Rush had gotten his name or connected him to anything else.
Rush is a jinni, a demon.
The hated voice said, “The passport photo you see is Tom Fargo, wanted for questioning in connection with a double murder in Brooklyn, and to the bio-attacks. Fargo may not be in New York. This is his car. And license plate. The information has been distributed to police across the country, but we are also asking you to help. If you see this man or this car, call the 800 number on your screen. Detectives are standing by.”
Ya Ka-lib! Those Memphis cops will remember me.
Rush said, “I want to stress that Tom Fargo is a person of interest only. He has not been convicted of a crime. He may simply be traveling, unaware that we need to talk to him. I will take questions now.”
Those cops will remember the mosquitoes and check their report and match up my car! And the people in the crowd took photos!
Tom turned on the defogger. Sending up sheets of spray, he drove through a four-inch lake covering a depressed area of road. Back when he had scouted the way east, months ago, he had often seen police cars on the side of this road. Speed traps. He had no way of knowing whether such cars lay ahead, even in the storm. He had to get off this road and get rid of this car. He needed to find a big enough town for that. He had no idea how long ago the initial alert from the NYPD had gone out, whether it had been distributed in Mississippi, whether cops here knew about him.
Allah, make the storm shield me.
The radio was getting staticky. He was almost out of range of the station. But the press conference wasn’t over. He switched channels and heard snatches of Christian radio, gospel music, Broadway show tunes, Annie, a commercial for a Triple-A league baseball game. He hit a clear station out of New Albany, Mississippi. Rush was back in the car. Rush would be in cars all over the country. And on TV screens in bars and restaurants and in millions of homes. Tom’s photo, car, and license plate would be on-screen, too.
Tozz Feek, Tom thought, cursing in Arabic, fighting an urge to hit the accelerator just as he spotted a shadowy rectangular shape . . . Mississippi state police car . . . parked in the grassy median strip. Tom passed before the cop as a sheep passes the slaughterer. Tom looked into his rearview mirror. All he saw was rain streaking the back window in sheets. And then he saw headlights two hundred yards behind him. But he didn’t see revolving dome lights. Was the car closing in on him a civilian one, or the cop?
Allah, I do your bidding. Make me invisible for a little while longer.
Tom did not see the headlights anymore. Suddenly the immense rear of a tractor trailer truck loomed inches from his grill. He swung the wheel and rammed his right foot into the accelerator and took a chance on passing the slow-moving truck. He had to reach the next town before the Memphis police spread information on him, He was here an hour ago . . . before cops in Mississippi dispatched squad cars to intersections and roads. He was whooshing past the heaving truck on a hill. Headlights rushed toward him. He hit the brakes and fell back too late but then jerked the car into place just before another lumber truck sailed past, heaving rain off the immense logs in back. The driver sounded his horn in a long, angry protest.
On the radio, Rush was taking questions from reporters. It was clear from the shouting that the journalists were excited. Tom pictured a briefing area at One Police Plaza, Rush at a podium, detectives there, too, reporters standing along walls and crammed into rows of metal folding chairs.
An NBC reporter, a woman, asked, “Colonel Rush, is Tom Fargo an American-born terrorist?”
“He is a person of interest only at this point.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“We believe that items found on his property are related to the transport of mosquitoes.”
“Colonel, why isn’t the FBI making this announcement? Why is it coming from the New York police?”
“We’ve coordinated with them,” Rush responded tersely.
“Colonel, if the FBI shared your feelings, wouldn’t they as lead investigators be here, too? Do the FBI and NYPD disagree over whether Tom Fargo is involved?”
“It’s all the same investigation,” Rush said doggedly, but Tom Fargo saw that the reporter might be right.
“Colonel Rush, do you disagree with the direction that the FBI has taken in Chicago?”
“No. Does anyone have a question about Tom Fargo?”
“Would you characterize the different priorities as a fight between the NYPD and FBI?”
“The country is facing an unprecedented emergency. We’re trying to locate someone who may help save lives. I find your insistence on looking for differences between law enforcement agencies disgusting,” Rush snapped.
“So you admit there are differences?”
Rush was silent for a moment. Tom could feel the man’s anger over the miles. Rush’s urgency was like a radar probe sweeping invisibly over the atmosphere. Rush snapped back at the relentless NBC reporter, “Have you taken your antimalarial pills this week?”
A pause. Then, taken aback, “Yes. Of course.”
“Well, two hundred million Americans don’t have access to them. So sit down and shut up and run the story. And if you want to be useful, put the goddamn photos of Tom Fargo on your news bulletins. Next?”
• • •
Colorado license plates were green and white. Mississippi plates were light beige or white. Tom’s plate might as well be a beacon shining out from the car.
Tom was moving at forty miles an hour, ten below the speed limit, but in the storm it felt too fast.
WELCOME TO NEW ALBANY, MISSISSIPPI, BIRTHPLACE OF WILLIAM FAULKNER. GATEWAY TO THE TANGLEFOOT TRAIL!
The rain, as he turned off the main highway, fell harder. Ahead a fallen tree half blocked the road. A power line was down. He passed what looked like a small campfire but saw it was a sparking wire. Home lights were off.
The better part was that what showed in his headlights told him that New Albany was a tourist town, judging from signs advertising a Hampton Inn, Miss Sarah’s Inn, Magnolia Knoll Guest House. There were signs for July baseball games in the Cotton States League. William Faulkner was NEW ALBANY’S FAVORITE SON. In the wild storm, traffic was almost nonexistent, which meant that any car out would be more noticeable to police.
The periphery
of the city looked similar to others Tom had scouted in the Southeast. The land was slightly rolling and green, forest once, the air perfect for mosquitoes. Mississippi and Alabama had been two of three U.S. states worst afflicted when malaria was rampant in the country. It wasn’t until the 1940s that the disease was eradicated in the Deep South, by DDT.
It’s back, he thought, driving past a utility truck and men on a telescoping ladder, in the downpour, wearing yellow slickers, working on restoring power. The town had a spread-out feel. He passed empty strip malls and closed-up gas stations. The roads were mostly two lanes wide, with a middle turn lane by shopping centers.
He knew what he was looking for but not where to find it. He drove by the feel of neighborhoods, figuring that what he needed would not be downtown, too geared for tourists and business, and not in a wealthy residential area, but somewhere in between. He was looking for a no-man’s-land of strip malls and low-end swap shops, hockshops, and, he hoped, auto-repair shops. He’d noticed in his zigzag route east earlier this summer that these areas marked most American towns.
He passed a Walmart and Food Lion with big, empty parking lots, car dealerships, a seafood restaurant, a raised rail bed where freight slow-rolled by. He saw a Sonic restaurant. It was too risky to go into a bar—if one was even open—and ask directions.
Come on . . . come on . . . It has to be here.
He was on Bankhead Street, a main drag, when he saw a red dome light racing toward him in the rearview mirror. An ambulance passed, heading for an accident, or taking victims to a hospital.
More lights came up behind him.
A police car shot past, following the ambulance.
There! He saw it, with triumph and relief!
• • •
The repair shop was wedged between a Pep Boys and a Kentucky Fried Chicken. He made a right turn into a small parking lot, beneath the BOB BENTLEY’S FOREIGN AUTO sign. His mom used to go to a shop like this for car repairs, leave her Nissan overnight, with keys above the visor. Tom did the same thing when in his late teens, before going overseas.
