by Archer Mayor
Now alone, she scrolled back several shots from the picture she’d shown Joe, to a scowling man wearing a traffic vest—almost out of the frame—rounding the corner of the upended truck.
She smiled at the recalled moment. “Hello, J.R.,” she said thoughtfully.
* * *
Unusually for midweek, Beverly chose to spend the night at Joe’s that night, taking advantage of Brattleboro’s proximity to Windsor over the longer drive home to greater Burlington.
It was also a welcome change for her: In contrast to the rambling, high-ceilinged, many-roomed, wedding cake mansion she lived in, Joe’s rented carriage house was just shy of a garden cottage. You had to duck to pass into the miniature kitchen, half crawl up the ladderlike staircase to the sleeping loft, and from at least one corner of the wood-walled, intimately cozy living room—beside the door to the attached woodworking shop—you could take in the whole place in one glance.
It also, surprisingly, had a blue/silver cat named Gilbert Gumshoe, who’d arrived in Joe’s life unexpectedly and never left, and whose companionable independence perfectly suited the two humans in the house.
Beverly loved the place’s simplicity, its peacefulness, its lack of pretension so reflective of its owner, almost as much as she enjoyed making love to the man himself on the couch before the fire, which they did shortly after a light dinner of soup and sandwiches.
Sadly, as was too often the case, given their respective professions, that’s about all they got to exchange on this night. Just as Joe returned from the kitchen with a container of Ben & Jerry’s and two spoons, Beverly’s phone went off.
He knew it was a wrap as soon as she read the small screen. Her face hardened slightly, her voice dropped as she answered, and her eyes began seeking out where she’d earlier dropped her clothes.
He was already handing her some of those items as she rang off. “Bad?” he asked.
“Could be worse,” she began cryptically, “but I do hope it doesn’t go there.”
That caught his attention. “What happened?”
“Remember the infectious death I mentioned? One of the things I set in motion—along with collecting samples, ordering slides, and speaking with various authorities and docs—was an investigation into the decedent’s background.”
“Yeah,” he replied, retrieving a shoe from under the couch, which Gilbert immediately made an attempt to take back. “You thought all that wouldn’t show up until later.”
“The lab stuff, yes,” she corrected him, struggling with some buttons. “I had no idea about the background search. Well, that just came back. Mr. Larabee was a private commercial pilot, flying Learjets and whatnot for high-priced executives. Shortly before he checked into the Upper Valley Surgical Specialists in a near-comatose state, he’d been to Germany on a job.”
“Okay,” Joe encouraged her, wondering where this was heading. Gilbert jumped up onto the couch between them to see how he could impede Beverly’s progress.
“It turns out,” she continued, close enough to returning to a daytime appearance to ruffle the cat’s ears, “that our pilot was a man-about-town when on the job, like the proverbial sailor with a girl in every port.”
“He caught something,” Joe suggested.
She gave him a worldly smile. “And how. Give a round of applause to your brothers in arms, Joe. My law enforcement liaison—that was he on the phone—dug deep enough to discover that Mr. Larabee’s bedmate of that night—just back from Africa—died earlier today in Munich, of what later killed her flyboy lover in Vermont. Her cause of death—and therefore his—is about to put everyone here into a well-deserved tizzy.”
Joe prepared for bad news.
She stood, fully dressed, looking down at man and cat, and tilted her head in an equivocal way. For the first time since he’d known her, Joe read uncertainty on her face.
“She and Larabee died of Ebola, Joe. I’ve got to get back, confirm the finding, shut everything down, and hope that’s where it will stop.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Before leaving for Burlington, Beverly had reassured Joe that the protocols for dealing with an exposure like this—long ago created by the public health community and reviewed on a routine basis—were already in motion. As long as word didn’t get out until after everything was under control, there would be no hysteria beyond a number of post-event, appropriately blaring headlines.
Statements like that reminded him how much messier and chaos-driven his world was than hers. After kissing her goodbye, he wasted no time putting back on his rumpled clothes, abandoning Gilbert to refreshed bowls of dry food and water, and getting into his own car to head directly for Larabee’s last known address: the same hospital Willy Kunkle was still calling home.
Ebola, Beverly had informed him, was in fact pretty hard to catch, especially in the circumstances surrounding the late Mr. Larabee. He’d checked in virtually at death’s door, and the hospital’s standard handling of him included barriers like gloves and masks that would have defeated routine disease migration, to use her phrase. Also, she’d added for good measure, virtually every factor that encouraged the spread of Ebola in Africa was nonexistent here.
Joe should keep all that in mind.
He did, and he was, during his high-speed drive up the interstate late at night to be by his colleague’s side, updating Sammie by phone as he drove.
Truthfully, he’d heard what Beverly had politely implied: Do not contribute to the problem here. What’s done is done, the proper response is in motion, and wherever this goes, it will soon be brought under control.
He got that.
What she couldn’t have addressed was that part of his extended family was at risk, Joe felt responsible for them, and he needed, if for emotional reasons only, to be among them.
They met up, he and Sam, in Upper Valley Surgical Specialists’ waiting room, finding, much to their surprise, Lester already in residence.
“What’re you doing here?” Lester asked, standing as they entered. He checked the clock on the wall. “It’s after midnight.”
Joe settled into an armchair. “I’m your boss. You first.”
Les and Sam sat next to each other on a couch opposite. “I’m here with Sue,” he said vaguely. “She got called in for an emergency, and I figured I’d tag along.”
Joe glanced around to make sure they were alone and that no one was within earshot. “The same infectious disease that did in Mr. Larabee?” he asked obliquely.
Lester sat forward, his approach suddenly more open. “Yeah. Ebola. How’d you hear about it? I thought it was hush-hush.”
“Beverly was staying over when she got the call,” Joe explained, adding, “She wanted me to tell people it’s not as contagious as in Africa. That’s why I drove up here. Apparently, the better the overall hygiene, the better everyone’s chances. It’s harder to catch than the common cold. She compared its publicity to the bad old early days of AIDS, when the rumors were that death was a handshake away.”
“Yeah,” Lester said, unconvinced. “Well, if she survives, you might want to tell that to Victoria Garlanda. She’s the emergency we’re here for—along with the fact that Willy’s been breathing this polluted air for days. Not to disagree with Dr. Hillstrom, but I think we’re beyond the common cold.”
“You check on him yet?” Sam asked anxiously. “I didn’t want to barge in, since I know just by approaching his room, I’ll wake him up.”
“Way past that, too,” Lester went on. “This is as far inside the building as you’re going, and only because of Sue’s influence. They locked the place down. I talked to Willy on the phone,” he added, holding up his cell. “He’s fine. Couldn’t care less. He’s the only one, though. Everybody else is staring at each other like they’re about to sprout horns. They’re waiting for the brass to tell them what’s gonna happen.”
Joe backed the conversation up a bit. “Talk about Victoria. What’s that about? I thought she was an administrator.”
&nb
sp; “Who’s been out sick for a couple of days,” Lester replied. “Ebola apes the flu early on, so the flu’s what she thought she had. When word went out that Ebola had killed Larabee, and everybody was ordered in or contacted personally, Sue immediately thought of Victoria and put two and two together like that.” He snapped his fingers. “So, while we beat feet up here, they sent an ambulance to pick her up.”
“She here now?” Sam asked, having pulled out her phone and moved toward the door to call Willy from outside.
“No way. Not with what she’s got. That’s Dartmouth-Hitchcock material. She’s in isolation up there, supposedly at death’s door.”
“For what it’s worth, Sam,” Joe called out to her as she was about to leave, “Beverly also said the shelf life’s really short. If no one’s come down with it in the last twenty-four hours, chances are it’s been contained.”
* * *
Deeper inside the building, Sue Spinney entered Willy’s room, finding him peacefully reading a gun magazine.
“How’re you feeling?” she asked.
He looked up and gave her an almost pitying look. “The same way I told the other five people who asked me that. I promise if I start feeling shitty, I’ll have my lawyer spell it out in our lawsuit.”
She stopped in her tracks, uncertain of how to respond.
Without changing his expression, he said, “Joke. Take a breath.”
His phone rang. He glanced at it, held up a finger to Sue, and then answered it. “Hey, babe. Sue just walked in. I’ll call you back.”
He waited a moment, added, “Got it. I’m fine. No sweat. We oughta make Louise part of the family. Later.”
He hung up and smiled, explaining, “Babysitter. Gift from God. Came over in the middle of the night, just so Sam could cool her heels in the waiting room. You know when things’ll settle back down?”
“No.” Almost from habit, Sue checked his monitors and vitals as she spoke. “Anyone tell you what was up?”
“That there’d been an infection down the hall and they were being extra careful about making sure it was contained and exterminated. Love that word.”
“It’s Ebola,” she said bluntly, knowing her audience. “A patient who died a few days ago just got autopsied by Beverly. I guess he’d had contact with someone from Africa.”
“Cool,” Willy said, showing no concern. “Same question, though: When’s normal coming back?”
“It’s not over,” she said, her voice remaining grim. “Victoria got it, too.”
That brought him up short. He looked concerned. “How is she?”
“Don’t know. They took her to Dartmouth.”
He scowled. “How the hell did she catch it? She doesn’t mess with patients.”
“She does, but not that one,” Sue said, looking helpless. “That’s what’s really bothering me. I can’t figure it out. Even without knowing what that patient had, it shouldn’t have mattered—our routine practices should have prevented contamination. It doesn’t make sense. And that’s doubly true for Victoria. She never even set eyes on the guy.”
Sue stared at the floor, clearly overcome.
Willy couldn’t do more than to say sympathetically, “She’ll probably beat it. She’s a healthy girl.”
Sue looked up, her chin trembling. “There’s no cure. You either live or die on your own. It’s like a lottery.”
He was left speechless.
She took a breath before saying sadly, “She’s my best friend—the whole reason I came here.”
Before he could think of something to add, she turned on her heel, said, “Sorry. Don’t forget to call Sam back,” and left.
* * *
Joe handed Lester a cup of coffee from the vending machine. Through the window, they could see Sam walking back and forth in the parking lot, talking to Willy on her phone.
“I suppose being here is kind of dumb,” Lester commented, accepting the cup.
Joe sat back in his armchair. “What the hell else are we going to do? Both our better halves are out saving the world. We might as well sit here drinking bad coffee as stare at the ceiling at home.”
Les took a sip and wrinkled his nose. “True.”
“Anything new in the GreenField archaeological dig?” Joe asked.
“Nothing startling. It helped getting the J.R. reference. Maybe throwing that into the mix’ll do something. That truck sabotage was out of the blue, wasn’t it?”
“I sure didn’t see it coming,” Joe admitted. “It does raise the question: Is our bad guy just warming up?”
“You think he meant to kill the driver?” Les asked. “Raiselis?”
“Yeah—I was going to ask Sam to poke into that,” Joe said. “Jonathon Michael did a once-over-lightly on his background, and only found a poster child for the decent, hardworking middle class. No record, solid marriage, good kids, boring finances. From the outside, it looks like knocking him off was just to add to GreenField’s misery. That’s what got me thinking that both the fire and the truck sabotage might be opening moves only. After all, somebody could’ve died in the fire, as well. There was no effort to safeguard human life. In that way, they were lucky.”
“To what point?” Lester asked. “You may be right, but the fire still wasn’t meant to burn the building down, and if the intention is to destroy the company, blowing one truck off the road, or even killing a few people as collateral damage, isn’t gonna do anything, either. What’s this guy want?”
Joe considered that, not for the first time. “I wondered at first if ruining the company’s reputation was the goal, but that would be better served by spoiling food or introducing a toxin—something implying that GreenField’s quality controls are faulty. If anything, these two events’ve only stimulated sympathy.”
“They cost GreenField a bunch of money,” Lester mused out loud.
“Which insurance’ll probably cover.”
“What else, then?” Lester asked.
“Stress,” Joe suggested. “You don’t know when your workplace’ll catch fire, or your truck’ll be blown up, or Christ knows what else. That would stress me out. It could be psychological warfare.”
Lester showed his frustration, understandable given the time he’d spent chewing on this problem. “But why?” he burst out. “You don’t do all that planning for shits and giggles. There’s gotta be a purpose.”
Joe was unperturbed. In fact, this was one of the first times he’d fully reflected on the matter—something he should have done much earlier. He was actually enjoying himself—the puzzle master facing a worthy challenge.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “So why do you conduct a campaign like this, if it isn’t to kill particular targets or ruin the business? It’s gotta be that you’re a terrorist.”
“Great,” Lester grumbled. “I don’t know why they do it, either.”
Joe thought a moment before suggesting, “To scare you, to undermine your confidence, to divert your resources, to advertise that even though you feel like Goliath, you’re surrounded by Davids.”
“But he’s not advertising any of that,” Les protested. “Wouldn’t that be the whole point?”
“Not to us, he’s not,” Joe replied. “Maybe there’s someone inside the company who knows exactly who this is.”
That brought Lester out of his funk. He blinked at Joe, caught by surprise, before saying, “Jesus Christ. I never thought of that.”
“What’re you picking up about their management?” Joe asked. “When I met with Bob Beaupré, we mostly talked about Mick Durocher. This is making me think a revisit might be in order.”
Lester’s enthusiasm, rarely gone for long, was back. “I like it, and there’s even a ‘Junior’ who might fit, which I feel like an idiot for not remembering. One of his sons,” he explained quickly, seeing Joe’s inquisitive look. “He’s never referred to as that, and I was too buried in rank-and-file records to give the big brass much thought.”
He held up a hand to count off the playe
rs, reaching back in his memory to recall what Pat Smith had told him. “Robert, the old man, has a wife and three kids: Bobby—he’s the J.R. I should’ve thought of—Philip, and Elaine. Bobby and Philip work for the company, as does his son-in-law, Bradley St. John. Elaine’s not involved.”
“Tell me about Bobby,” Joe requested.
“He and Brad are numbers two and three, under Robert,” Les told him. “I’ve been learning more about them, through exposure to management’s nuts and bolts, which is what makes me extra embarrassed about dropping the ball on Junior.”
“Let it go,” Joe urged.
“Okay. Anyhow, in simple terms, Bobby is essentially operations, and Brad is finances. Philip could be called a floater—troubleshooter, idea man, sounding board. Bobby’s the eldest by eight years. I don’t know why the gap in ages. Philip, the next oldest, and Elaine are only a year apart. Bobby’s married, with three kids, lives in Stowe, in a suitably large mansion, and has the personality of a desk lamp, so they say. Same rumors say that Philip supplies most of the creativity and energy, while Bobby’s got the carry-through that his little brother’s too impatient to mess with. That makes ’em a good team, in company terms—and probably in the old man’s eyes, who set up the structure—even if it doesn’t make great buddies out of the two brothers.”
“Bad blood?” Joe asked.
“From what I heard, that’s too strong. Just totally different styles. Pat Smith told me it actually works pretty well. She said it was like watching one player pass a ball by leaving it in the middle of the floor for the other player to pick up. It functions fine—they just don’t have much to do with each other.”
“What about Bobby when he’s not at the office?” Joe asked. “He bet the ponies or chase women?”
“Not that I heard. Rumor has it his missus wouldn’t mind if he chased her a little. He’s said to be a workaholic. Even his father’s ordered him to cut back and enjoy the family. Of course, he should talk.”
