The jeep passed through all the necessary checkpoints until it reached the airfield and drove out onto the tarmac. Agents Riggs and Carter were waiting outside a small, sleek private jet beside two men in red jumpsuits.
Frank thanked the driver, which got him three more sirs, and got out of the jeep to greet Agents Riggs and Carter. The two men in jumpsuits busied themselves loading Frank’s bags into the jet’s cargo hold.
“Morning,” Riggs said, extending a hand to Frank’s and shaking it. “Good day for flying.” He shielded his eyes from the morning sun and looked heavenward.
Frank was too riveted to the jet to follow Riggs’s gaze. “We’re flying in that?” he said, surpised. “That looks like a luxury aircraft, not some taped-up military bucket with wings.”
Riggs laughed. “Gulfstream jet. I think you’ll find it accommodating.”
The men in jumpsuits lifted a large metal trunk out of the jeep.
“Careful with that one,” Frank said.
“Are the samples of countervirus in it?” Riggs asked.
Frank nodded.
“Set that down a second,” said Riggs.
The men complied, and Riggs unlatched the lid and opened it. Several dozen vials of countervirus were positioned in neat rows within thick black foam. Riggs removed one of the vials and held it up to the light. The sun’s rays reflected off its edges. Riggs shook the vial gently, and the red serum inside sloshed. “So this is magic stuff, eh?”
“That’s it,” said Frank, “though how magical it is has yet to be determined.”
“Why’s it red?”
“It’s a countervirus, meant to stop the spread of the virus, so I colored it to make it easy to identify.”
Riggs nodded. “Red means stop.”
“Right.”
Riggs returned the vial to its hole in the foam and repeated Frank’s instructions to the men in the jumpsuits. “Careful with this one.”
They latched the lid closed, then loaded the trunk into the cargo hold.
“Let’s hope it works,” Riggs said.
Sensing the right moment to press for information, Frank said, “I hope that my coming with you makes me privy to certain intelligence. You’re visibly concerned about the efficacy of the countervirus, and I’d like to know why.”
Riggs nodded gravely, then gestured to the aircraft. “Let’s have a seat.
Agent Carter led them up the few stairs and into the jet’s interior. Frank had ridden first class on commercial airliners before—usually because of a fluke upgrade—but those experiences had done little to prepare him for what he faced now. The interior of the Gulfstream was like a posh waiting room, with a dozen or so wide leather recliners, lush carpet, and cherry wood trim. Several flat-screen computer monitors, on which the BHA insignia lazily bounced, hung from the ceiling or were suspended from the wall, designed to accommodate those sitting in the recliners. Frank was half tempted to remove his shoes.
He stepped inside and took a seat while Agent Riggs sealed the door and Carter spoke briefly with the pilot.
As the plane began taxiing to the runway, Riggs sat opposite Frank, facing him. Carter took a seat somewhere in the back, alone.
“You boys fly in style,” said Frank, craning his neck around to get another look. “I dare say Uncle Sam loves the BHA more than he does the Army.”
Riggs grinned and handed Frank a large envelope.
“What’s this?” Frank said.
“All our secrets.”
Frank pulled out a stack of documents, all rubber-stamped CLASSIFIED, as well as several eight-by-ten color photographs. The photo on top was so gruesome that Frank nearly dropped what he was holding.
It was a crime-scene photo. A close-up.
In it, a police officer lay dead on the asphalt, a pool of blood behind his head—or rather, what was left of his head. It looked as if his face had turned to putty and slid downward off his skull, the flesh still attached to him, but only casually so. Dark black splotches covered what was left of the skin.
Frank had seen this before, albeit not on a human. The first round of monkeys, which had received a hearty dose of the virus, experienced a similar reaction: rapid cell degeneration, massive internal hemorrhaging, skin lesions, followed by death. It had been a frightening, gut-wrenching ordeal to witness. And this, a photograph, a mere visual record of a person having undergone the same ordeal, was just as nauseating.
White chalk outlined the corpse, and a folded index card beside the man gave the place and date: Long Beach, California, six months ago.
“We first discovered VI6 about six months ago,” said Riggs, “in an abandoned warehouse in Long Beach. A few shopkeepers near the warehouse heard some commotion inside it, thought it was being vandalized and called local police. Two cops showed up. One went inside, and two minutes later he came out screaming, his face in his hands. Moments later he was dead.”
“How was he infected?” Frank asked, looking up from the photograph.
Riggs pointed to the other photos in the stack.
Frank flipped through them quickly. They had been taken inside a dark building, presumably the warehouse, and showed what looked like a laboratory, complete with beakers and burners and centrifuges and various diagnostic machines. Beside a computer terminal sat a white refrigerator-sized box.
“What’s that?” Frank asked, pointing to it.
“A gene sequencer.”
Frank’s expression must have shown his surprise.
“Yes, not exactly what’d you expect to find in an abandoned warehouse in Long Beach.” Riggs pointed to a photo of a row of test tubes. “We believe the police officer opened one of these test tubes and somehow spilled the contents on himself.”
“The tube contained the virus?”
“We found thirty-one test tubes in all,” said Riggs, “all carrying a different strain of the virus. Meaning they were intended for thirty-one different patients.”
“Patients?”
“You said so yourself, Doctor. Retroviral vectors like this are either a weapon, or they’re medicinal.”
“This virus is medicinal?” Frank said.
“Yes. Or at least, that’s what we believe it was designed for.”
Frank gestured at one of the photos of the warehouse. “You’re telling me this was some kind of secret gene-therapy clinic?”
“Back-alley cures, underground healings, call it what you will.”
Gene therapy was a rather recent advance in medicine, Frank knew. The idea was simple. Genetic diseases were the result of either a defective or a missing gene in the DNA. Sickle-cell anemia, hemochromotosis, Parkinson’s disease, and others were all the result of missing or defective genes. Gene therapy was simply a way of giving the right genes to the person who needed them. The trick was to figure out how to insert a cloned, healthy gene into the DNA where it belonged. Doctors could never operate on such a cellular level. But a virus could. That’s what viruses did, after all; they penetrated cell walls and deposited genes, typically viral genes that made people sick. But if those viral genes could be removed and replaced with good genes, then the virus suddenly became a good kind of virus. A healing virus.
Frank rubbed his eyes. “You’re telling me that someone figured out how to put cloned genes inside a retrovirus in the hopes of healing a genetic disease?”
“Hard to believe?”
Frank shrugged. “Well, considering that geneticists have been trying to accomplish this for decades with only marginal success, I find it rather amazing, if not amusing, that someone would be so bold as to believe that they could accomplish what science had not, using a few test tubes and a gene sequencer bought on eBay.”
Riggs grinned. “When you put it that way, I suppose it does seem a little amusing.”
Frank looked down at the photo of the police officer again and thought that it wasn’t so amusing, after all.
By now, the plane had reached its cruising altitude.
Frank said, “So
the gene therapy virus they created was a bust? I mean, what this guy found in the warehouse, this virus in the test tube, it was a failed attempt at a gene-therapy virus.”
“Not necessarily,” said Riggs. “Remember, a gene-therapy virus is only good for the person it was engineered for. It has genes he or she needs. You and I don’t need those genes. Our bodies reject them.”
Frank now understood. The police officer had found a virus intended for someone else; his body did not need whatever genes it contained. But since the virus spread so quickly and so aggressively, his body didn’t have time to combat the foreign gene, and his cells degenerated as quickly as if someone had thrown acid on his face.
“And you have no idea who was responsible for this?” Frank said. “Who the warehouse belongs to?”
“We didn’t until forty-eight hours ago,” Riggs said, swiveling in his chair so that he faced one of the computer monitors. He touched the screen and called up a program. A video began. It was news footage. A seven-story building in Los Angeles was burning. Firefighters were working to put out the flames, but much of the top floors had already been destroyed by fire.
Frank recognized the scene. “Gas leak, right?” he said. “I saw something about this building on CNN a few days ago.”
“Gas had nothing to do with it,” said Riggs. “That was what we fed the press. The truth is, the top floor of the building was another lab, just like the one we found in Long Beach six months ago.”
“A gene-therapy lab?”
“Right. Only, whoever built it had apparently learned a lesson from the warehouse in Long Beach. This one was wired with explosives.”
“Explosives? They blew up their own lab?”
“No. The building was an old abandoned apartment complex. It hadn’t been used in years. The city had condemned it, and it was scheduled for demolition. Someone from the demolition crew was walking through the building, checking for squatters before they started tearing it down, and we think he might have triggered the explosives.”
Three people had died in the blast, if Frank remembered correctly.
“And this fire told you who the lab belonged to?”
“Not entirely,” said Carter, “but we got a decent lead. The blast blew some debris from the building. Including this.” He touched the screen, and an image replaced the video. It was of a large burned piece of dark fabric.
“What’s that?” Frank asked.
“That, Dr. Hartman, is a black cape.”
“You mean Zorro is . . . dead?” asked Frank.
Carter sighed. “You know exactly what it means.”
5
WYATT
Galen removed the blindfold from Monica’s eyes, and she blinked, momentarily blinded by the light. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that they were standing inside what looked like a hospital corridor. There were patient rooms and a gurney pushed against the wall nearby. Galen stood beside Stone, facing Monica, his hands on his hips, grinning widely, like a little boy just let loose in a candy store.
“I apologize if the ride was at all inconvenient,” he said, “but secrecy on this matter is paramount. I’m sure you understand.”
Monica didn’t understand. Whatever Galen was doing that he thought important enough to give up his heart, it was irrelevant to Monica. All that mattered was Wyatt. Nothing could distract her from that preoccupation. He had been taken. He was frightened. And he needed her.
They had driven her around for an hour and a half, taking far more twists and turns than she knew was necessary, in an effort to disorient her. She was certain they were outside Santa Monica, but she had no way of knowing where or how far away from the city. The incline of some of the roads led her to believe that they had driven up a mountain, or at least a foothill, probably north of Los Angeles, but she couldn’t be certain.
They had left the receptionist sedated on the floor in the clinic, and Galen had assured Monica that one of his associates would remove her car from the parking lot, so as not to arouse any suspicion. The message he was giving her was clear. No one would be coming for her or Wyatt.
Galen handed the blindfold to Stone, and Monica looked hard at the giant in an effort to memorize his face. When this was over and she found the police, she wanted to give them a perfect description of Galen and Stone.
Of course, Stone wouldn’t be too hard to pick out of a lineup. He was at least a foot and a half taller than Galen and so bulky that if he walked onto any professional football field, he’d have a contract shoved in his face. His cropped silver hair suggested a man of older years, but his wrinkle-free, flawless skin made Monica think otherwise. He was a man without age. And his gray eyes never left her.
She stared him down, unblinking, wondering where this new courage had come from him and deciding to give credit to Wyatt.
“You don’t like Stone, do you?” said Galen, that twinkle in his eye again.
She didn’t. But saying so wouldn’t help her position and certainly not help Wyatt, so she didn’t answer.
What startled her, however, was that she saw no malice in Stone. His size was intimidating, yes, but in his gaze was a softness that made him look almost innocent, childlike even. It made her shudder.
Perhaps sensing that he had unnerved her, Stone bowed his head and said, “It is an honor and pleasure to meet the physician so fortunate and skilled as to treat the prophet.”
Galen chuckled and waved Stone quiet. “Now, now, Stone, the good doctor doesn’t know of such things yet.” Then he winked at Monica.
“Where’s my son?” she said.
Galen smiled. “You are a loving mother, Doctor. I have seen how much you dote on young Wyatt. That impresses me. Parents can become so busy these days. He’s lucky to have you.”
“Where is he?” she said.
“Patience, Doctor. Patience. Wyatt is well taken care of and unharmed. I’m not a cruel person. Children are precious and should be handled so. I only took Wyatt in the first place because I knew it absolutely necessary to win your compliance. I despised having to frighten him. That was not my intent. It should make you proud, however, to know that he has been the perfect guest and a most respectful gentleman. He’s such a sweet boy, really. Few children are so well behaved, don’t you think?”
It made Monica sick to hear Galen speak of Wyatt like this, as if Galen were some kind, elderly neighbor who had invited Wyatt over for cookies and milk.
“I want to see him,” she said.
“And so you shall. But first things first.” He removed a syringe from inside his suit coat and began filling it from a small vial of unmarked medicine.
Monica stiffened. “What is that?”
“A vaccine. And believe me. You want to take it.”
“No. I’m certain I most definitely do not.”
Galen smiled, carefully filling the syringe to the right dosage. “Wyatt didn’t make a peep when we gave him his, Dr. Owens. Now come on, you’re a doctor. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles.”
Monica felt her face turn red hot with anger. “You gave that to my son?
Galen patted the air with his hand. “Relax, relax. It’s perfectly harmless. No side effects whatsoever. I told you, it’s a vaccine. It protects you both from the virus. And since you’ll be handling the virus, this is as good a protection as you’re going to get. Now come on, roll up your sleeve.”
Monica looked at Stone, who watched her without expression.
“I give you my word,” said Galen. “No harm will come to you from it. You’ll thank me later. Believe me.”
Monica’s mind raced. The needle could contain anything. Galen’s word wasn’t worth much.
“It’s just a little shot, Dr. Owens. Nothing to it. Easy as cheesy. Take it and I’ll bring you to Wyatt. You have my word on that as well.”
Monica felt her muscles relax. She would do anything to be with Wyatt, even relent to whatever drug Galen had concocted. She exhaled deeply and rolled up her sleeve.
“That’
s the spirit. Now, you’ll only feel a little sting.”
Monica winced as the needle went in. Once the vaccine was expelled, Galen removed the needle and handed it to Stone, then wiped away a tiny drop of blood that formed over the needle prick using a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket. Then he unwrapped a Band-Aid and crudely stuck it over the spot on Monica’s arm. “There we are. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Monica readjusted her sleeve. “Now take me to Wyatt.”
Galen pointed to a door not ten feet away. “He’s right in there. But you only have a few minutes to visit, I’m afraid. We have so much work to do.”
Monica stepped to the door cautiously, fearing some trick.
“Go on then,” Galen said, shooing her forward. “He won’t bite.”
She pushed open the door. There was Wyatt, standing in the middle of the room alone. Monica rushed to him and took him into her arms.
“Mom!” he said, the tears coming already.
“I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.”
She heard the door click behind her, turned to look, and saw that Galen had shut it, giving them their privacy.
She immediately looked around the room for another exit or a window.
There wasn’t one.
Wyatt buried his face into her shoulder and clutched her tightly. He was still wearing his coat, and his school backpack sat beside him on the floor, unopened.
“Did they hurt you?” she asked. “Are you hurt at all?”
He shook his head.
She took his face in her hands and examined it closely. There were no visible signs of mistreatment. No cuts, scrapes, bruises. “You sure you’re not hurt?”
He nodded.
Monica sighed and pulled him to her again. He seemed so small and frail to her all of a sudden. His chest was so thin, his arms so short and weak. She had forgotten what a little boy he still was, how much growing up he had left to do. Why had she lost her cool with him so many times? Why had she allowed herself to ever raise her voice or send him to his room or refuse to allow him to watch TV when he wanted? He was only a child. And now, in a single morning, she had nearly lost him.
Without intending to, she broke into sobs.
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