by Chris Hepler
I clench my jaw, a little habit I have when I mentally kick myself. The horny twenty-year-old in question was left near a hospital, virus swimming through his veins, and I'm still not sure how I feel about that. I don't want a repeat of the trucker because that guilt still jabs me from time to time. But the other way, I'm just sentimental and stupid. I should have worn a ski mask. I should have pulled my gun. The boy can identify me. If he's infected—and really, when aren’t they?—he'll perpetuate the chain unless Roland and the crew manage to track him down.
I could do it myself. I have the boy's wallet with his driver's license. If I need to tie off that end, I can find him. Finding the conviction to do so, that's a question for later.
I restart the washing machine, wondering if Roland is feeling smug that his watch-and-wait strategy proved right. Morgan has gone from crusading vigilante superhero to throw-the-remote-at-the-wallscreen blunderfool. My phone browser history is filled with text about his idiot-minded, impulsive, fucking stupid attack on two cops. He's no longer salvation; he's a weight around my neck. This is the nightmare. You can't spin second-degree murder, not even if you're—
The thought stops me. I have one very valuable marker cap, a file of dubious import, and a handful of names. What I don't have is Morgan's forwarding address. But someone else is in his corner. I saw that somewhere.
I pull out my phone and call up the name of Geoffrey Cho. A few more, and I find an address and phone number. The question is whether I should dial it.
I gamble. If I were Cho, I'd have cut Morgan loose in a second. He's business. Not a brother in arms, certainly not family. You don't tie yourself to a sinking ship and hope your deep breath will buoy it up.
But I'm not Cho. I have to forget my instincts and get a read on him based on something solid. I stay online searching his case history, and a different picture emerges. Morgan's a solid lawyer, but he grabbed Cho for a reason. The man hunts corporations. He got payouts that would be sickening in scope if the targets hadn't been chemical companies or, in one case, a private military firm.
That last makes me page-up and -down a few times. Cho has gone after the big boys, and there was at least one death threat. He followed through anyway. No wonder Morgan wanted him on his side. The F-prots are BRHI's little private army, but we're supposed to be surgical. We can't stand and bang against a militia or a country. Cho's resume has a win in that column.
The washing machine shuts off with a buzz, and I'm back to Earth. Morgan has fallen off his savior pedestal. And this Cho guy could be a horse rapist for all I know, but he sounds like a litigious badass, and right now, it is Cho or no one.
No one, of course, means Dr. Roland Cawdor.
I ruminate as I throw the laundry into the dryer. Why did he have to complicate an otherwise normal betrayer-betrayee relationship? I could have lived without him… just like I could have stayed in school and cured cancer. That's not all, though. Having someone to sit with me, hold the gauze to my throat and, frankly, worry about me, is something I've been missing.
He mentioned bad dreams, too. Has he lost someone? I remember him standing guard at Yarborough's room. Surely, that doesn't come from nowhere.
It's funny, in that way that isn't funny at all—Roland is professional without being cop-like, a criminal without being crude. I want to question him, all pretense abandoned. Which makes my next move sting a little.
I scroll down on my phone to a mail program I don't use often since it's old and hidden in a nest of folders. I finger it open and log in—password 2KINGSJEZEBEL. There's a single new message that isn't spam, from "ABELSec5," the Health Initiative's Advanced Biophysics Experimental Lab. I open the file. It's filled with data—modern computers can dump an ocean of work in an instant—but it's only slightly more comprehensible this time around.
I attack the corporate-speak with the determination of the smart but uneducated. A half hour later, I zero in on an e-mail referring to a memo I can't find, in which senior management orders that the employees cooperate in a cost-benefit analysis regarding consequences to BRHI's stock price and image should "nondisclosures be violated." That's calculations, the value the Health Initiative assigned to the lives of the infected. Farther down in the text, there's an excuse that education would not significantly drop the case numbers: the likelihood of transmitting the bug remains high regardless of the vector's knowledge of infection. They conclude that they should not disclose to the public; it is not to their advantage.
I scrape my teeth together, furious because it isn't a surprise at all. I could have said something to Darcy. When I signed NDAs, I should have read them. When I brought in the vipes, I could have made a stink about their treatment.
I could have called the cops any night for years. I was a stooge, contributing "tissue samples" because I wasn't brave enough.
Well, I have a tissue sample now. I need a printer.
◆◆◆
They say that high-powered negotiators choose their ground like generals choose battlefields, which I only recall once I'm at my destination. I kick myself for going as low-class as possible. But that's what I want, isn't it? Meeting at some hotel restaurant says, "I'm friendly." Meeting here in a parking structure, just a titch after sunrise, says, "I don't even trust you to sit down." Cho is supposed to be on my side, but there's that old reflexive fear again, some blend of being spooked from the dream and traitor’s guilt because I'm about to screw some very dangerous people. Screw over, that is.
"I'm Geoff. Are you the young lady who called me on the phone?"
"Yes, hi," comes out of my mouth, instinct turning me into Little Miss Afraid of Rejection. It usually works until Up Yours Cycle Girl comes out. "I have some stuff—evidence, I guess you'd say—that might be able to help Morgan." I wiggle the box I'm holding.
"Let's make one thing clear," he says. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
Here's Cycle Girl. "I didn't give it."
"Right…" His tone shifts. "What I want you to know is that I don't do miracles. There are rules of introducing evidence at various points throughout the trial—"
"I totally don't care about that," I say. "Sorry to be blunt, but I knew this going in. I am not going up on a witness stand, and I am not expecting you to pull off a massive win through slick maneuvering. I am just throwing the truth at you, and you can decide whether it comes out in a courtroom or leaks to a reporter or whatever. I'm dead. I'm poison. You, on the other hand, know how to be effective when it comes to words and public image and un-criminal shit. Do we understand each other?"
Cho purses his lips. While he pauses, I scan the parking lot just in case. No one else. No figures idling in cars, no pedestrians to overhear. I can drop bombs.
"Miss, you're not my client, so if you're about to tell me you did something illegal, I'm ethically bound not to lie when the police ask questions." He pauses for effect. "Do we understand each other?"
The specter of jail is disturbing—if kept to a restricted diet, I'd end up like Morgan—but Cho doesn't need to know that. "Sweetie, prison has food and showers. The people I'm pissing off have body parts in their freezers." I lift a plastic bag out of the box. "I brought a printout from BRHI's hot labs. That should be good reading. And this is a marker cap with a biological agent on it that you can compare to the strain that infected Morgan."
"When you say 'agent…'"
"Relax, it's in a Ziploc. Just don't open it." That doesn't seem to reassure him. "But the thing you probably want most, it's a list of names. These are people working at BRHI who know about the vipes and the cover-up." I pull out the list. At the bottom, I included the bare bones of what I know about the Forced Protection Program, including its stated goals. I didn't list the F-prots' names. I owe them that much.
"Very interesting," he says, "but I need to know why you're doing this."
"No, you really don't."
"Are you a vipe?" Cho asks, and after I hesitate, I know that he knows. I went hard in the face and stiff in th
e body.
"What does that matter? Don't they deserve a chance?"
"Look, I love inside info as much as the next lawyer, but if I don't get a good read of you on this, I don't move forward," he says, tense and striving to take control. "You know how many people have come to me trying to help the cause or to get help from me? I have to keep them off with cattle prods."
"I went to a damn biohazard lab to get you this."
"Sounds like a brave decision, which, with all due respect, may not have been the most intelligent or persuasive one."
He's not supposed to say that. He's supposed to be my reward for being clever and compromising my soul with serious deceit. I shut my eyes for a moment, then look down at my hands. The cut across my knuckles has healed. I saw a scar for a few days, and then it, too, disappeared. I'm more resilient now, and part of me hates that.
"Fine," I say frostily. "I thought a class-action suit would need every scrap of info, but you can lose all you want. I'll see if someone else is interested. Media, maybe."
I start to walk away, knowing there isn't a chance he'll let me go. He wants his name on television. Two steps away, and I already get a "Wait." I don't stop, still acting, but still angry, too. He takes a few steps after me.
"If you want to make a difference, leave the materials with me."
I keep my face neutral. Then, as if I have to think about it, I hold out the box. As he reaches for it, I snatch it away.
"Last condition," I say. "If you know where Morgan is, you tell me."
"You'll know when I know," he says, and I give him the goods.
25 - RANATH
September 5th
I wait on the stoop of the safehouse, glancing at the tiny windows in the oatmeal-colored door and wondering if calling ahead and making plans means anything to Infinity. She has a veneer of seriousness that makes me think she can be relied upon, but every so often, she tries to chase down some idea in her head like a kitten after a flashlight beam.
I briefly met with Kern at the office before coming over. Kern complimented my success in humbling Lorenz, but we both know BRHI can still plow headlong into a court defeat if management is determined to steer the plane. We commiserated for an hour or so, and as I left, Kern had armed me with a tidbit of information Infinity might enjoy.
The door opens. I have no idea where Infinity was for the previous knocks since she appears neither sopping wet nor rumpled and sleepy. She might have been getting dressed, for she apparently has found a miniskirt and faux-silk top in whatever baggage she brought from Los Angeles. She's applied a little rouge and lipstick the color of venous blood. In my opinion, she doesn't need to—her unbound hair, black and lustrous, is enough to catch anyone's eye.
"Hey, stranger," she says. "Come on in."
I follow her inside, giving the visual once-over. There's a week's worth of coffee filters, Thai take-out cartons, and discarded clothes, shoved back against the far wall in what looks like a particularly messy twelve-year-old's idea of cleaning up. I shut the door.
"All set for company, I see."
"I heard somewhere we were going out," she smiles. "And you are well on your way to being in the doghouse."
Not today. "I can make up for that. I have good news."
"I could use some."
"I'm here to give you money."
"Well, as long as it isn't for anything tawdry."
I bite back a comment about wishing. "Kern has fought a small, territorial war with our Los Angeles branch, and your first direct deposit under our management arrives today," I say. "There's hazard pay included. Kern says you are welcome to stay as long as the F-prot mission remains a priority."
"And how long is that?"
"Oh, Tuesday at least." I get a smile from that, though my own fades. "Being serious, you may not want to spend it all in one place. It is possible the F-prots will soon be seen as irrelevant, and then we're all out on the street."
Infinity stares at me. I know the look. If she had a drink, she'd spit it. "Irrelevant?"
"With the disease vector made public, private companies like us are likely to be prosecuted for going after vipes. The police will be expected to contain the situation."
"Yeah, 'cause those cops did a great job stopping Lorenz," she mutters.
"I didn't say I wouldn't fight for it. But from the point of view of legal counsel or upper management, we have liability written all over us."
Infinity lets out a breath and sits down on the couch. "First you kiss me, then you kick me," she says. "You got any more surprises up your sleeve tonight?"
The setup is too good to resist. "Well, I was planning on making stir-fry."
She looks thoughtful, and I know I've scored a point, but she won't drop her defenses quite so easily. I try again. Smile on. "Did you have other plans?"
"There's a club nearby called Anlace," she says guilelessly, looking up at me. I can see the brown roots of her eyelashes. "You don't seem like a dance guy."
"I have been known to dance," I say, "just not very well."
She looks me over. "Ballroom? Swing? No, wait, you're totally country line."
"My house is in Manassas," I say firmly, "not Tennessee."
Infinity smiles, like she's winning by gleaning info out of me. "It's weird, I always thought Virginia was the South, but you don't have the accent."
"And I thought Californians only knew the parts of the Bible that appear on TV every holiday season."
"Don't worry," she says. "Cults are plenty Californian. Next question—you got a favorite kind of alcohol?"
"I don't drink."
"Well, crap, what else is there to do in this town—go to the zoo?" I look thoughtful, but she kills that idea. "How about we pretend we're buzzed already and dump our life stories on each other? No, wait, that's lame. But I do want to hear how you get your hair that color."
I make myself shrug. "Yin qi can do interesting things to hair melanin."
"I once had a white skunk stripe in my hair," she volunteers. "People said I looked witchy."
"Why'd you stop?"
"My dad hit me for it," she says. "He was into that."
"For your hair?"
"For a lot of things, but that was back when the Earth was cooling and the dinosaurs roamed. Now that you know that about me, I want to hear something about you. I'm betting you did not put a skunk stripe in your hair."
I pause. I'm used to acting normal, not being normal. My go-to social instinct is to lie and fake stories like the intel officers trained me to do. But lies are for targets, and Infinity is less like a target and more like a hummingbird. Topics and words and polite social laughter dart and flit around me without bothering to land.
"What else can you guess?" I ask, buying time.
"That when I mentioned that thing with my dad, you wrote me off," she says matter-of-factly. She's good. Or at least practiced.
"I did, a little," I admit. "I don't have a lot of experience in that department."
"Points for honesty." She shrugs, and I relax slightly. The judgmental vibe coming from her is disappointing, but I'm not going to shy away now.
"Are there points for stir-fry?"
"It sounds better than the food at Anlace, which I only know through search engines. So long as I don't have to blindfold myself to see your secret lair, I'm in."
"I could give you a ride."
"I'm not comfortable with that."
I pause for just a second, wondering what kind of messes she's had to extract herself from. I've practically performed surgery on her. Is this a different kind of trust? "Can I ask why?"
"In case you turn out to be like everybody else."
I'm not. And I like proving it. "Driving directions, then."
"Right," she says. "See how easy that was?"
26 - INFINITY
September 5th
I try to formally break up with Aaron over a headset while driving into the dark and tree-covered parts of Manassas. It doesn't go as badly as I fe
ared, which means he doesn't have an FBI team waiting for my call, triangulating the signal. Instead, a woman answers the phone. Once I've pried out of "Kristin" that Aaron has vindictively sold most of my stuff, the fait is pretty much accompli. I screwed up my courage to rip the bandage off the wound, only to find myself too late compared to the people who'd had time to process the drama.
I justify it fine. This infection thing is a sort of free pass where karma is concerned. You're entitled to freak out a little, confuse your boyfriend, flee the state. Owning up to it, and acting like an adult is extra credit, which is good, because that's probably my worst subject.
I've brought a tissue box this time, but I don't use it. As I roll into the driveway and come up the path to ring the bell on Roland's door, my attention is wrapped around a hypothetical conversation in my head. I imagine Kristin and Aaron grilling me. Is there someone else? Not a sexual fling but someone with whom I can think about the future? And my answer at the moment would be to start making static noises, complain about reception, and hang up.
Then, the door opens, and I'm back in my element. Roland is there with the sound and smell of sizzling meat wafting out from the house behind him.
"Oh, no web tonight?" I ask since the backs of his hands are bare.
"I don't like getting food all over it," he says. "Come on in."
The neatness habit seems to extend to the rest of the house. The living room to my right has couches that look as if people sit on them once a month, and I don't smell any pets. Shoes are stacked near the door. I almost take my boots off before noticing his are still on. All the better to make an exit if I have to, I suppose.
"You all alone here?" I know the answer, but hey, small talk.
"Unless my neighbor has a telephoto lens I don't know about, yes," he says. "Take off your coat. Stay awhile."
Belatedly, I open the foyer closet and hang up my jacket. As I near the table, I notice a mostly-full bottle of Irish whiskey.
