0373401965 (R)

by Lara Lacombe

  But for how long?

  He shut down the equipment, his body moving on autopilot as he considered his options. It wasn’t likely the woman knew the extent of his involvement in spreading the disease—if that was the case, she wouldn’t have come alone. So she was probably here as a matter of course, rather than because she suspected him of something. He hadn’t tried to hide the fact that he’d shared drinks with the men who eventually became ill, so she was most likely coming to talk to him in an effort to fill in the social history of the victims. If that was indeed the case, all he had to do was play along. If he was lucky, he might even be able to throw a few red herrings into the conversation to distract her and shift the focus of her investigation away from him.

  And if she does know?

  The thought sent a cold spike of fear through his belly and he shuddered, trying to shake off the disturbing sensation. She doesn’t, he told himself firmly. She couldn’t know. She’d only been here a few days; it wasn’t enough time for her to have pieced everything together yet. But she would eventually.

  And he had to be ready.

  Chapter 8

  Avery paced while she waited, studying the room as she walked in an effort to control her impatience. Shelves lined the walls, laden with items ranging from the ordinary toilet paper and tissues to more exotic chemicals likely used in lab experiments. A stray coffee cup and bowl stood forgotten amidst the supplies, testifying to the space’s use as both storage and employee break room.

  Where is he? Even though she’d only been waiting a few minutes, she was annoyed at the delay. Having a new patient present with symptoms of the mysterious disease only served to highlight the importance of her investigation. This was no academic exercise—people would die if she didn’t figure out what was going on, and soon.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Grant and his search for additional victims. The initial outbreak had involved ten people, and based on the progression of the disease, they’d all apparently been infected at around the same time. If the same pattern held true now, it was highly unlikely Richard was the sole victim in this flare-up. But would his drinking buddies be affected, or would she have to search harder to find the common connections between all the patients?

  And what if Paul Coleson was sick? That would certainly complicate matters—she couldn’t hope to isolate protective antibodies from his blood if he had contracted the disease. On the other hand... If Paul was also among the current batch of victims, it further supported her theory that the bar was somehow involved in transmission of the agent. Either way, she made a mental note to ask the base commander to close the place down until further notice. Although her current evidence was circumstantial at best, she’d rather err on the side of caution. Annoying the base population was a small price to pay if it meant controlling the spread of this disease.

  Footsteps sounded on the scratched linoleum of the corridor, and Avery stopped pacing and turned to face the door. She ran her index finger along the edge of the mask she’d brought as insurance—if Paul was symptomatic, she didn’t want to talk to him without protection. She’d meant to ask the young man who’d left her here, but he’d dashed off before she had the chance. No matter. In a few seconds, she’d have the answer firsthand.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from Paul Coleson, but the slender, bespectacled man who walked into the room was a bit of a letdown. He paused just inside the room and blinked at her, his eyes wide behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “Uh, hello.” It sounded more like a question than a statement, and Avery smiled, hoping to put him at ease.

  “Mr. Coleson, I’m Dr. Thatcher. Thank you for speaking with me.”

  He nodded. “I recognize you from the base meeting.” After an awkward pause, he thrust his hand out in a belated attempt at manners.

  Avery declined with another smile. “I think given the circumstances, we can dispense with the handshake.”

  “Right.” He let out a nervous laugh, plainly uncomfortable.

  “I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.” She gestured to the small table and took a seat. After a brief hesitation, Paul walked over and sat across from her. His gait reminded her of a heron, long legs picking carefully over the terrain as he moved.

  He pushed his glasses up, seemingly unbothered by the fact that they slid back down his nose as soon as he dropped his hand. He shifted his weight slightly, then reached up to smooth back a few wisps of light brown hair. It was a little on the long side, in an “I’m too busy to get it cut” kind of way. It was a style Avery recognized, as Grant had sported it all through college.

  “There’s no need to be nervous,” she assured him. “I just want to talk to you about your activities over the past few days.”

  He frowned. “Can I ask why?”

  “I’m investigating the disease outbreak that occurred earlier on the base.” No sense telling him there was another victim yet—Mr. Coleson had a distinctly nervous air about him, and didn’t seem like the type to take the news of a potential recent exposure to the pathogen very well. If he freaked out, Avery wouldn’t be able to get any useful information from him. “Several of the surviving patients have told me they shared a drink with you before falling ill.”

  Guilt flashed across his face, there and gone in the space between heartbeats. It was an interesting reaction, but not all that unusual. In the aftermath of an outbreak, it was common for the survivors to feel somehow responsible for the deaths of others, even though there was often nothing they could have done to help. Given the limited population on-base and the fact that Paul had shared drinks with the men, it was likely they were all friends. He was the only one to escape the first outbreak unscathed, a fact that likely weighed heavily on his mind. Hopefully, Avery wouldn’t have any trouble talking him into giving Jennifer some samples...

  “Yeah.” He placed his hands on the table, clasping and unclasping them. “I feel bad for the guys. One minute, they’re fine. The next?” He shook his head, pushed up his glasses again. “Bam! Just like that.” He met her gaze then, his light brown eyes full of concern. “Hard to believe, you know?”

  Avery nodded. “I imagine it was quite distressing to hear they’d gotten sick. Did you feel any differently in the days after you shared a drink with them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Any headaches, muscle aches, sore throat, that kind of thing?”

  Paul began shaking his head before she’d finished speaking. “No, not at all. And I was pretty paranoid about it, once I found out they were sick. I paid attention to every twinge, thinking it might be the start of something. I was so scared it could happen to me, too.”

  “It seems as though luck was on your side.”

  He seemed to consider her words for a moment. “Maybe so,” he said softly.

  Avery leaned forward, hoping the same could be said for her investigation. “When was the last time you had a drink at the bar?”

  His eyebrows drew together as he searched his memory. “Day before yesterday. Why?”

  Avery ignored his question in favor of her own. “Did you meet with anyone there?”

  He nodded slowly. “Sure. Richard. Tom. Bradley. Just some of the guys. Why?” he repeated.

  “Would you be willing to donate a few blood samples? We don’t need much, just a couple of vials.”

  “I guess,” he said, sounding a little hesitant. “What’s this about? Why do you want my blood?”

  “We’re trying to identify the pathogen causing this disease. So far, you’re the only person who seems to have been exposed multiple times without contracting the illness. I’m hoping we can study your blood and find something we can use to help the other victims.”

  “Multiple exposures,” he said, almost to himself. He looked up, his eyes growing wide as the meaning of her words sank in. “Someone else is sick?”

  Avery nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “My God.” He slumped back in his chair, looking visibly deflated. Avery felt
a swell of sympathy for him as she watched him process the news. It had to be tough for him to know his friends were falling ill while he remained healthy. She found it a little ironic that while Paul seemed completely unremarkable, so far as appearances went, it was quite possible his blood carried the secret to stopping this disease in its tracks. The thought made her own blood race, and Avery quashed the urge to grab him by the arm and dash back to the hospital so they could get started.

  “How many people?” Paul’s voice quavered slightly, but he was sitting up straight now, apparently recovered from the initial shock.

  “Ah,” Avery hedged. “One confirmed.” Her thoughts flashed to Grant and his search—had he found the other men yet? Were they sick, too?

  “Who is it?”

  “I really shouldn’t—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Please,” he said, his tone pleading. “They’re my friends.”

  She sighed. “It’s Richard.”

  Paul merely shook his head. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “He’s such a nice guy.”

  Avery pushed back her chair and stood, hoping he would take it as a cue to do the same. “Let’s get you back to the hospital so you can hopefully help him.”

  Paul rose, looking a little uncertain. “Do you really think my blood will tell you anything?”

  Avery bit back an impatient reply and ushered him to the door, feeling a bit like a shepherd dealing with a recalcitrant lamb. “We won’t know until we look.”

  “Can I grab my phone? Just in case my kids try to call?”

  She nodded, letting out a silent sigh. It would only take him a minute or two—not a huge delay in the grand scheme of things. Besides, could she really begrudge the man wanting to stay in touch with his children?

  He scurried off down the hall, leaving her alone in the break room once again. Might as well use the time to check in with Grant and see how things were going on his end.

  She reached for the walkie-talkie and picked it up just as it screeched to life. “Avery, are you there?”

  “Yes. Did you find the other men?”

  Static filled the line and she began to wonder if her response had been lost to the ether. Then the radio squawked and Grant spoke again. “Affirmative.”

  She could tell by the tone of his voice that something was wrong. Her stomach dropped, her earlier excitement evaporating as dread wafted over her. “Are they sick?”

  “Affirmative,” he said again. “It’s bad.”

  *

  Paul followed the woman back to the hospital, trailing along in her wake as she rushed down the main street, heedless of the other people walking nearby. He wasn’t sure why she had such a fire in her belly—Richard was going to die, and there wasn’t a damn thing she or anyone else could do to save him. He couldn’t tell her that, though, or else she would realize he was not all he appeared to be. So he stayed quiet and tried to keep up, slipping and sliding a bit along the way.

  The hospital was warm compared to the frigid temperature outside, and he paused just inside the door, welcoming the instant thawing of his exposed skin. He took a deep breath, warming his body from the inside out. The stink of disinfectant was heavy in the air, but he ignored it and drew in another breath.

  Dr. Thatcher was a few steps ahead of him and turned back, clearly annoyed to see him lagging behind. “If you’ll come this way, please?”

  Paul nodded and started walking again, unbuttoning his coat as he went. Better to cooperate with her—he didn’t want to give her any reason to examine his situation more closely. Hopefully, she would leave him alone once she realized there was nothing to be found in his system.

  They moved deeper into the hospital, down a long hall that appeared to end in a large room. He expected her to take him there, but instead she guided him into a small enclave that reminded him of the closet that housed his microscope.

  “Would you please wait here? I’ll find a nurse to take your blood samples.”

  “No problem,” he replied, but she was already gone, her footsteps beating out a rapidly fading tattoo on the tiled floor of the hallway.

  He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and touched the vial he’d retrieved before leaving the lab. He didn’t know why he’d brought a sample of the virus; he probably wasn’t going to get a chance to dose her or anyone else with it. But Dr. Thatcher’s visit had left him feeling more rattled than he’d like to admit. Carrying the virus gave him a sense of security and made him feel powerful and in control of the situation—a sort of biological security blanket. He scoffed at the thought, but it was the truth. Holding an agent of death was one hell of a boost to the ego, and it reminded him that no matter how smart this woman was, in the end he was the one who determined who lived and who died.

  Another set of footsteps sounded, and he withdrew his hand from his pocket, leaving the vial safely tucked inside. After a few seconds, Jesse poked his head into the room and stepped inside.

  “I’m here to draw a few vials of blood,” he said, setting his supplies on the small table and pulling a chair close.

  Paul waited for the other man to sit before speaking. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Jesse met his eyes briefly, then returned to opening packages. “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you had things under control here.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why is she asking me questions? I thought you were going to steer her in a different direction.”

  Jesse gestured for him to remove his coat. “She’s not sharing her thoughts with the group. I didn’t know she was going to talk to you.”

  Paul winced as Jesse pricked him with the needle. “Then how, exactly, are you helping me?”

  Jesse ignored the question. “I have new instructions.”

  Of course. Paul silently sighed, wanting to strangle not only Jesse, but the man on the other end of the line who relayed all the orders.

  “What?” he asked wearily.

  Jesse filled one tube with blood, then switched it out for a fresh one, his movements smooth and practiced. “They want you to create a large batch of the agent and ship it off-base.”

  Paul bit back a question, knowing it was pointless to ask. Jesse was merely the messenger, not the brains of the operation. But could he really trust what the man was telling him? Perhaps this was just a ploy to get him to make a fatal error. After all, if he were to amplify the virus, it would increase the possibility that he would get caught, or that he might even contract the disease himself. Was that how they wanted to get him out of the picture?

  His confusion must have shown on his face, because Jesse sighed impatiently. “They thought you might have doubts,” he murmured. He pulled the needle from Paul’s arm and pressed a cotton ball to the puncture wound. Then he fished in his pocket and withdrew his phone. He made a few quick taps on the screen and turned it around so Paul could see what he was looking at.

  It took him a moment to register what he was seeing. Then the truth hit him with the force of a battering ram and he nearly doubled over in his chair.

  Noah. They had his son.

  The boy was tied to a chair, a red bandanna stuffed in his mouth. He squinted up at the camera through swollen, bruised eyelids, and a trickle of dried blood ran from his nose and stained his chin.

  “No.” Paul shook his head, denying the truth of what he saw. “No, no, no, no, no.” The room began to spin and the air became too heavy to breathe. Black spots danced in his vision, but it didn’t matter. The image of his son was burned into his brain, a nightmare he would never forget.

  Jesse’s hand clamped down on his arm, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. “Stop it,” he hissed. “Quiet down.”

  Paul bit his lip and the low, keening sound that had filled the air cut off abruptly. “That’s my son,” he said, choking out the words. He swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the painful lump in his throat. But it didn’t help. Fear filled him, consuming him from the inside like a fast-gro
wing cancer. How could he function, let alone do any kind of work, when his boy was being held captive?

  Were they torturing Noah? It certainly looked like he’d been hurt. But had that been a onetime event, or was it ongoing? His brain shied away from the possibility, throwing up a wall in a pathetic attempt to protect himself from the image of his son in pain and suffering. Noah had always been a sensitive boy, a quality that had persisted even as he became a teenager. When so many young men sought to assert their independence and rebel, he’d been focused on his studies, working hard to maintain a perfect 4.0 grade point average. He had his sights set on an Ivy League school, and Paul and Carol had agreed to pay for his education if he got accepted.

  He should be home, studying for his next exam. Not tied to a chair, bleeding onto a dirty rag.

  Jesse shook him, and he realized the man was talking to him. He focused on his mouth, watched his lips move as he spoke again. “He’s still alive.”

  That got his attention. “What?”

  “He’s still alive. Your boy. For now.” The last words were said almost as an afterthought, as if Jesse couldn’t be bothered to care one way or another. And why would he? It wasn’t his child being threatened.

  In that moment, Paul hated Jesse. Not just for his cavalier attitude regarding Noah’s safety, but for all he represented. The Organization and the desperation that had driven him to accept their offer. His helplessness, stuck at the bottom of the world while his son was thousands of miles away, needing him in the worst way. And the blood that was on his hands, all thanks to them.

  “Your mother thinks he’s camping with friends,” Jesse continued. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let her know otherwise.”

  Paul flushed, the sudden surge of emotion warming him until he felt his skin might start to steam. The heat of his hatred tempered his fear, forged it into a weapon that he was determined to use against Jesse and all the others who had wronged him. The Organization had picked him because they’d thought he was an easy mark, a man they could manipulate to do their bidding. He had to show them how wrong they were.