by Sean Platt
“You’ve asked?”
Ian looked caught. But what the hell; he’d come here to talk of his own free will.
“One of the bits my anonymous tipster was pushing at me had to do with viruses. So yes, I asked.”
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing.”
“You must have learned something.”
“No, nothing!” Ian tipped his head back and peered at the ceiling, looking for all the world like a man resisting an outburst of temper. He looked back over. “I didn’t even know what to ask — virology was all I had. Shit, I don’t know about any of this. I was just sitting in my office, and someone started pushing shit at me. Stuff I didn’t understand. Told me to copy it, so I did. Told me to read it, so I did that, too. But none of it made sense. The stuff I could understand was all basic company information. Not even confidential.”
That sounded familiar. Whoever was playing Deep Throat for them both was inexplicably cagey. He or she seemed unwilling to come out and say what the hell either of them needed to know. Instead, they were being led on scavenger hunts that seemed to be on a collision course … with no useful results.
“All of it? It was all public?”
“What I could understand, yes.”
“What about the stuff you couldn’t understand?”
Ian looked back at Alice, seeming ready to shout and drive away. “I couldn’t understand it,” he said slowly, as if she were a late-stage necrotic, barely able to tie her shoes.
“Was it about BioFuse?”
“I don’t know. Some was about Sherman Pope. Studies on its structure.”
“Its structure is established, I thought,” Alice said.
“Right. So why give it to me?”
“Maybe someone’s trying to get us to connect the dots.”
“Well, are your dots connecting at all?” Ian spat.
Alice paused, feeling stung, knowing Ian’s anger wasn’t really for her. And even if it was, she was used to being yelled at, and could take it.
“Okay,” Alice said carefully. “I’ve got the public platform. You have the access. Forget trying to figure out why Deep Throat won’t get to the point for a minute, and forget about why he didn’t come to me. That itself feels like an incomplete puzzle, if it’s a puzzle. I feel like I’m being led to BioFuse. You can’t tell me about BioFuse, but you could find out. You could ask.”
“Ask whom? And what the hell am I supposed to do with whatever long-winded bullshit I hear that I won’t be able to make sense of even if I get it without raising a ton of suspicion … when, I’ll remind you, I’ve already been warned? Burgess sounded like he was making a threat. He had two goddamned goons drag me into his office for a lecture on evolution and mission and purpose. Now my wife tells me we’re getting strange calls, and there are people watching my house. My family. I’m not here because I’m a fan of your work or want to expose the truth, as you seem so eager to do. I’m here because I didn’t start any of this, and this feels like the most likely way to make it stop.”
Alice thought. Ian was being driven by fear. Alice was responsible for a few of those hang-up calls to Mrs. Keys, but the rest sounded like threats, sure and true. Fear for himself and his family would motivate him, but altruism wouldn’t. If she wanted Ian’s help, the right levers would need to be applied.
“We need someone who can make sense of whatever you find,” Alice said. “The missing piece of this puzzle, between the mouthpiece and the guy with access.”
“What are you talking about?” Ian asked.
Alice told him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
PLAYING POSSUM
DAMON KEPT PACING. IN HOLLY’S mind, he was dangerously close to making circles around her. Right now she was in her Aberdeen Valley house, slumped in a chair, her tranquil view of the city below mostly unobstructed. Right now, Holly thought she was sitting like she normally would — poor, dumb Holly, pretty and talented in the right ways despite being so fucked up in the head, staring out at the vista her money had paid for. But if Damon began making full circles instead of the pacing half moons he was cutting into the carpet behind her, she might start to feel like the subject of an interrogation. Someone who’d turned like a dog gone rabid, biting the hand that fed her.
No pun intended.
The thought made Holly simultaneously nervous and angry, though she was careful to let neither emotion show, affecting the distant, somewhat vacant expression she’d grown used to wearing instead. She was nervous because if being an August Maughan pharmaceutical success story was a crime, then Holly was definitely guilty. And she was angry because if she had felt better recently — if her mind had been recalling much of what had been lost, her mouth relearning the trick of proper speech — then that wasn’t something she should have to hide or be ashamed of. In her own goddamned house. In front of the same goddamned people whose salaries she so generously paid.
Cyrus, also pacing, entered Holly’s field of view, blocking the hospital and the architectural elegance of the Sherman Pope Memorial Museum. Holly merely looked over, keeping her face overly curious and empty.
“Holly?” he said.
“Huh?”
“I want you to understand something.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Damon and me aren’t mad at you.”
Holly thought, “Damon and I,” asshole. Instead, she nodded.
“But we want to understand.”
“Umderstan.”
“When you were onstage, you sounded … different.”
Damon stepped into Holly’s view from the other side. “You spoke really good up there, Honey.”
“And it’s good that you spoke … good.”
That’s eloquent. But from her lips: “Yeah.”
“But it was also strange. Because — and I know you’re an actor — but it was like … ” He looked at Cyrus for help.
“Just say it, man,” Cyrus replied.
“I don’t want to insult her.”
“It’s not an insult. It’s a fact.”
Holly kept herself from looking at the two men as they discussed her. She’d been really playing it up since her slip onstage. That hadn’t been close to intentional. For weeks, as she’d been taking August’s Prestige drug, she’d found herself increasingly able to think clearly, to solve problems that had previously eluded her (like the bathroom lock; that bastard was tough), and to articulate herself internally, even if it was lost in translation once facing the barrier of her lips. That was still a huge problem, even now; even when she’d been practicing clear words with August, those clear words hadn’t come close to voicing Holly’s intention. But it was better. Slowly, surely better. In her brain, if not in her body.
But she’d never let that improvement show before today.
Today, it had felt more normal to speak well than in the lazy way her paralyzed mouth muscles wanted to.
Damon and Cyrus had taken her by the arms, and Holly had forced herself to slouch, to drool a little, to affect her usual nowhere expression. On the ride in, she’d played with the door locks as if they fascinated her. And when they’d taken her home and settled in as if they had any reason or right to be in her house, Holly had let them help her with the door. Let them show her to her own damned chair in her own damned living room. She’d grunted a request for a glass of water then had spilled half of it down her front.
Damon looked right in her eyes. “Holly, Honey, you said those words really well. Like … well, like someone who’s not different like you are.”
Different. Holly could almost smell the syrup dripping from his condescending word. Just a minute ago, he’d said she’d spoken differently, when “different” had meant “good.” Now different meant something else, something these men secretly felt wouldn’t be good for them.
Holly thought, I’ve had an elocution coach and been taking dialect lessons since I was a kid, so it’s hardly surprising that I can express myself sufficient to
satisfy a crowd. Instead, she said, “Yeah.”
“Well, doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
Holly shrugged. Only her left arm rose very far. The right was mostly dead and had been for a while. When she went onstage in anything sleeveless, that arm needed makeup. Thank God she had African blood; a white girl would have looked blue.
Damon turned to Cyrus. “She doesn’t get it.”
“I keep telling you, we have to find that fucking shaman or whatever the hell he thinks he is.”
“Sure. I’ll get right on trying to call him.” Damon rolled his eyes at the edge of Holly’s vision.
“She’ll have his number. He would have put it in her phone.”
A big hand reached out and opened Holly’s purse, which she’d left on the coffee table. Then Cyrus was holding up her phone, scrolling.
But of course, Holly had deleted August’s address book entry on the drive over after memorizing his number.
“He’s not in here.”
“Maybe he always calls her. Makes sense, I guess.” Damon snapped his fingers to grab her attention. “Holly. You okay in there?”
“Okay,” Holly parroted.
“This is important. Do you know how we can find your friend August?”
“She’s not going to know that,” Cyrus said.
“Don’t underestimate her. This girl can still act just fine.”
Yes, Holly thought, I sure can.
“How do we find August?” Damon repeated.
“Afust calls me,” Holly slurred.
“If he doesn’t call you. If you really, really wanted to talk to him, how would you do it?”
“Afust calls on’t phone.”
Damon straightened up. Holly saw him give Cyrus a What now? look.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cyrus told him.
“I don’t know what to tell the press. Do you know what to tell the press?”
“Let Maughan talk to the press. He did this to her.”
Damon looked down at Holly as if she were a knickknack then returned his attention to Cyrus.
“Maybe he didn’t do anything.”
“You heard her. Everyone heard her. That wasn’t normal.”
“He probably just coached her. As if she were in a movie.”
“So you think it’s a trick?”
“Why not?” Then Damon bent again to look at Holly. “Holly. Say, ‘tethers of illness.’”
Holly saw the trap for what it was. With perfect clarity, she said, “‘Tethers of illness.’”
“Okay. Now say, ‘The dog ate the bone.’”
“Dog ate’t bun.”
Damon stood tall again. Holly gazed out at the city in the valley, listening.
“See?” said Damon.
“See what?”
Holly had to fight a laugh. She saw it just fine.
“She can say those specific words she said onstage. Coached, like I said.”
“She doesn’t talk that well in movies,” said Cyrus, doubtful.
“Because she’s playing twitchers. What, is anyone going to believe her as the first lady?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“The press wants to talk, let them try and find Maughan. You saw the report. He was there, and everyone knows it. He even looked guilty.”
“What about the people calling for Holly?”
“Let Laura handle them. She can write up a press release or something. A fancy version of ‘No comment.’”
There was a long moment of quiet as the men seemed to consider. Finally, one of them sighed (Holly couldn’t see which as she scrutinized the Hemisphere building in the distance) and a hand settled on her shoulder.
“We’re going to go, Holly,” said Damon’s voice. “Got some work to do.”
“Okay,” Holly said.
“You need anything?”
“No.”
“Are you okay here alone?”
“I’m fide.”
Another beat of quiet. Then Cyrus said, “You want the TV on or anything?”
Hating herself but wanting to add icing to this particular cake, Holly said, “Zobbie.”
Cyrus reached for the TV remote, and Holly watched him navigate to an episode of Are You Smarter Than a Zombie? Holly remembered loving this show — not because she wanted to see if uninfected contestants could answer questions better than the show’s stable of resident wackos, but because she’d liked seeing the wackos themselves. It was nice to see your people on TV, whether they were the high-functioning Gloria (who’d earned her Ph.D. and had an incubation of sixteen hours), or the comic relief everyone simply called Stump.
Now, Holly found it insulting. And as Cyrus turned on her screen, Holly kept her gaze out the window, across the city.
Without saying more, Cyrus and Damon walked through the door behind her.
Holly waited until she could no longer hear the purr of Damon’s hybrid, auto-drive Daimler, then picked up her phone and dialed the number in her head.
CHAPTER FORTY
SPENT CARTRIDGES
BY THE TIME DANNY WAS pulling into Sunny Day and to the front of Jordache’s small but neat trailer, he felt much, much better.
First of all, his PhageX problem wasn’t permanent. For whatever reason, Ian’s access code had changed, but that was a delay, not a denial. Ian still worked at Hemisphere; he hadn’t been fired, demoted, or mysteriously gone missing. Ian and Danny were friendly, and Ian seemed to respect Danny’s hustle. He’d borrowed Ian’s code card once and he could find a way to get it again to siphon off the new code. Danny felt motivated, and Ian had been looking stressed and tired. Ian needed to unwind, and Danny knew he could find friendly ways to make that happen. He needed a week at the most, a day or two being far more likely. Then he’d have his full set of keys again and would be able to get Jordache all the high-end Phage she needed, no problem.
Second of all, as he’d already reminded himself and then repeated ad nauseam, Jordache wasn’t actually going without anything she needed. Danny wasn’t yet authorized to sell the designer formulations, but he knew how they worked. Base Necrophage kept the disease at bay. Designer Phage had “enhancers” that Danny thought of like mix-ins added to vanilla at an ice cream bar. They made your hair shinier, your eyes clearer and more sparkly, your lips redder, or your eyelashes longer. All were nice for girls like Jordache who’d grown used to the finer aspects of undead life, but none were necessary. There were rumors about some of the designers making users feel smarter or more open-minded, but that was bullshit. Danny had seen the tests; he was a smart kid who didn’t want to stay a salesman forever and thought he could move into development, given time. Necrophage — from its base formulation all the way up to the most expensive drug on the shelf — stopped Sherman Pope in its tracks. That was it. You couldn’t rebuild parts of a brain that were already dead.
Before killing the engine, Danny bounced a box of brand-new base Necrophage Gadget cartridges in his hand. He still had an empty PhageX box in with the rest of his car’s garbage, conveniently filled with spent cartridges. So one by one, he swapped labels on the refills: base Phage covered up by PhageX branding. The labels transferred with too much ease, as if fate wanted this bit of necessary deception. As if it was right, and he was blessed.
She’d be going without something she wanted, not something she needed.
Jordache didn’t need it and wouldn’t be going without it for long anyway, so what was the point in her even knowing she wasn’t taking PhageX? There was zero upside. If Danny told her that she’d need to spend a few days or a week on base Necrophage, Jordache would freak out. She’d panic over her imagined, psychosomatic need. She’d cry, and Danny hated when she cried — not because it bothered him in itself, but because she seemed so ashamed of weakness. Jordache might even be angry, even if she wouldn’t want to be. And for what? An imagined temporary loss over something her body wouldn’t miss?
But on the other hand, Danny’s little white lie would have plenty of
upsides. For all intents and purposes, he would have solved her problem. He’d have relieved her, allowed her to stop worrying and panicking. She’d feel better, and he, having fixed things, would definitely feel better, too. Life would go on, with everyone happy.
Danny scanned the car for evidence. He tossed the box from the pharmacy, and the old PhageX box was still unbent enough to pass for new. The box itself wasn’t dated; it hadn’t been prescribed and was, like everything Danny got from Ian’s account, just stock.
It was the perfect crime. Danny had a simple cartridge, with zero indication of what it had once been. Jordache would buy it for sure.
Exiting the car and sliding the bottle into his pocket, Danny felt a twinge of guilt. But this was a lie in the service of her best interests. What would be gained by telling her the truth, for either of them?
Nothing. And a week or two from now, none of this would remotely matter.
He didn’t make it up Jordache’s front steps before she was opening the door, her eyes wide, her hair in an adorable tousled mess.
“I’ve been texting you all day,” she said without preamble. It wasn’t an accusation, but Jordache was clearly drawn far too thin.
“I forgot my phone at work,” Danny said, keeping his expression neutral.
Her face fell. “Oh.”
Then Danny smiled his best salesman’s smile. He slid the box of refills from his pocket and held it up.
“But I remembered this,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
COLD SHOULDER
BRIDGET’S ARM FOUND IAN’S BARE side under the covers. He began turning toward her then seemed to reconsider and turned away. A moment later, she found herself looking up at Ian’s shirtless back in the dim bedroom.
“What?” she asked, wondering at the way he’d pulled back.
“I overslept.”
“You seem so eager to get out of bed.”
“Because I overslept.”
Bridget felt like she should return his inexplicably cold (or at least hurried) shoulder with some chill of her own, but the same thing that should have made iciness easy made it difficult: Increasingly, Bridget was sure she was right about what Ian was up to. Right now it felt like she was facing a choice: she could have her pride, or try again to repair whatever had inexplicably broken, and have her husband.
