“Excellent,” Bishop McCarthy said getting up from his chair. Oliver and Francis quickly got up as well. “Do me a favor and spend a little time writing this up, I think it would be helpful for all of us.”
“Of course. It’s a good idea. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
The clock on the wall ticked loudly. It had taken him almost two hours, but he was finally done. Choosing the right words proved to be more challenging than he would have imagined. He reread the report, and once he was satisfied that he hadn’t forgotten any important details, he printed three copies, one for himself, one for the bishop, and one for Father Coyle. Then he saved the file to his hard drive.
He was tired, physically and emotionally. He turned off his monitor and unconsciously rubbed his crucifix. He was done—done with the report, and probably done as a priest. Sadness and exhaustion washed over him. He put his head down on the desk, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep.
He floated above his hunched and sleeping form and realized that he would pay for this position later. His back and neck would surely hurt tonight. He drifted out of his office and into the rectory offices. Phones were ringing and people were scurrying about, but no one noticed him. He tarried a while, watching each individual, feeling each individual. They all seemed to be unaware of the halo of softly pulsing light that enveloped each of them. He moved through the halo surrounding Deacon Ham and touched his mind. He felt a rush of energy, and his body stirred in his office.
So this is how it works, he thought. He moved away from the deacon and left the rectory with no clear idea of where he was going or why. He became a balloon floating through the cold wind high above the neighborhood that surrounded Sacred Heart. He watched small clumps of school-age children enjoying the snow and the unexpected day off; he watched giant snowplows as they tried to clear the interstate and the main roads; and he watched the snow silently blanket the city, hiding all of its sins. Somehow, he had stepped out of the world, and he was content to simply watch it unfold before him. It seemed so harmonious, so interconnected, and he felt a rush of joy and hope.
Then he felt them. There were two of them—a man and a woman, but not together, definitely not together. The man he knew; they had spoken together some time ago, but on that occasion, he had been pretending to be something he wasn’t. He was the tall man that the bishop had seen in his mind. Oliver could feel that he was in pain, a great deal of pain, and he knew that she was the cause of his pain. The man was dying, or at least he thought he was dying. Oliver felt his own skin start to burn and found himself in a hotel room watching as a tall man wrapped in sheets and blankets flailed to the floor. Oliver’s initial reaction was to help, but as he drew closer, a wave of fear froze him in place.
Finally, the man stopped moving, and the room was quiet. Oliver didn’t know what to do next. He couldn’t just leave him like this. He waited for a moment, and when nothing happened, he decided it was safe to get a little closer. He closed to within a foot of the aura of pale green light that slowly swirled around the unconscious man. Little tendrils, no more than playful puffs of smoke, began to reach for him. At first, he avoided them, but after watching for a few seconds, curiosity overwhelmed his instincts, and he let one brush over him. He heard a sharp snap and felt a slight burn across his face as images flooded into his mind—foreign and violent images. Oliver recoiled, and the images disappeared. The tendrils followed him, and he backed off even further, well beyond their reach.
The man stirred and let out a moan, and Oliver suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable, just like he had in his own bathroom so many weeks earlier. Except the feeling wasn’t because of the man on the floor: he was still enveloped in darkness. The woman had found him, and she was watching him. Oliver was filled with panic and fled the hotel room. He streaked back to his office, feeling her presence the whole way. He awoke with a scream loud enough for the entire office to hear.
“Father, are you all right?” One of the secretaries had thrown open his door, and several others were rushing in to help.
“Um, I’m fine,” Oliver said breathlessly. “Dozed off for a second and had a terrible nightmare.” He looked around his office, half-expecting to see her: Amanda Flynn, Greg’s daughter-in-law. She was the woman, and the man had been Klaus Reisch. Information flooded into his brain, and suddenly, everything made sense. Reisch had infected him with a virus. He tried to kill me, Oliver thought. The realization hit him like a bucket of cold water, and he shivered involuntarily. He looked up and saw the concern on the faces of his secretaries. “I dreamt we elected a Polish pope and then a German one.” They stared back at him, not knowing what to say. “It’s a joke, and I’m all right, really. You can get back to work now. I have to do some penance for making fun of the pope.” He smiled, but they hesitated. “Go! Now!” he playfully yelled and pointed at the door. They left, but each of them looked over their shoulders, wondering what had become of their rock-solid Father John Oliver.
The door closed with a muted click. He was alone. He couldn’t feel Reisch or Amanda, which probably meant that they couldn’t feel him either. Suddenly, he understood everything. It was a virus. It wasn’t the Devil, it wasn’t God, and it wasn’t him—just a simple little virus, no more than a bad flu. Only this flu was meant to kill him. His mind filled with anger. Priest or not, he was still very much human, and Reisch had tried to kill him, simply because he had seen the German’s face. Reisch was beyond redemption. He was evil incarnate, and a part of Oliver’s mind rejoiced in his torment. It was a very unchristian thought, and he would do some real penance for it later; but right now, at this moment, he couldn’t find any compassion in his heart for the German. He had seen inside Reisch’s mind. He had seen what Reisch had done this very morning to a helpless old man, and he had heard the plans he had for a young mother and her children. He would have seen even more if he hadn’t been chased away by Amanda. And what of her? He saw her face, and his mind reflexively reached for hers. He restrained himself, but not before he had gotten close enough to feel her emotions. She was in pain as well, but it was confusion that occupied her mind. She didn’t understand what was happening either.
Peter Bilsky watched the snowfall from the window of a city bus. Pueblo was getting dumped on. It was not as bad as Colorado Springs to the north, but bad enough that the bus was running late. He braced himself as the driver slowed for another stop. Damn, he had a headache. It had started over a week ago, and it was only getting worse. He felt every bump in the road, and even the driver’s gentle braking was enough to send bolts of pain through his head and down his spine. His aunt was sick as well, but she’d had the good sense to call in sick. Peter really didn’t have that option. If he missed work, he wasn’t paid.
Two people got on the bus and swayed down the aisle looking for a seat while the driver took off, trying to make up for the delay. Both women eyed the seat next to Peter, but chose to keep walking.
“Bitches,” he said, not too quietly. “Never seen a black man before?” He hated white people. He hated Colorado. He hated being cold. He hated having to take this fucking bus to his fucking job. In L.A., he hadn’t had to work or take the bus. And it never fucking snowed there either. Damn, his head hurt.
“Why the hell did you ever come to this place, Ten Spots?”
Peter looked over and found his friend Eddie sitting in the seat the white women didn’t want.
“And why did you drag my ass here?” Eddie asked.
“I didn’t drag your ass anywhere, motherfucker. You followed me.” Talking hurt his head. “What are you looking at?” Peter got tired of people staring at him, and if the asshole in the seat opposite them didn’t look away, he was going to get his ass kicked.
“Wow, man,” said Eddie. “You got to keep it down. Low profile, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” Peter looked over his cousin. “Does that hurt?” he asked, motioning to the gunshot wound in Eddie’s chest.
“No. Isn’t that a fuc
king trip? Nothing hurts. Maybe it’s the cold.” They both laughed, but Peter grabbed his painfilled head. “Man, you got to get that checked out,” Eddie said. “Maybe you got a tumor or something.”
“It’s not a fucking tumor; it’s this fucking place, and all these fucking WHITE PEOPLE!” His screaming only produced another explosion of pain.
“Man, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m gonna leave your ass here.” Eddie got up, but Peter motioned him to sit down.
“Okay, okay. I can’t think with this headache. Why are you going with me, anyways? You can’t work like that.” Peter flicked Eddie’s blood-splattered shirt.
“I’m not gonna do any fucking work. I’m keepin’ an eye on you, Mr. Peter Bilsky.” Eddie flicked the nametag on his cousin’s coverall. “Who in the hell is Peter Bilsky, anyway?”
“My aunt’s neighbor’s son. He’s dead or something. It was her idea. It’s a stupid fucking name.” He wanted to scream again, but his head hurt too much. “Whose blood is that, yours or the other guy’s?” They both looked at Eddie’s shirt.
“I think most of it’s mine,” said Eddie, playing with the bloody tatters while Peter rubbed his throbbing forehead. They rode in silence through three more stops.
“This next one,” Eddie said. The bus was slowing again, and several people got up. Peter let them get off first and then followed Eddie out into the cold. A gust of wind and sleet hit Peter as the bus drove away. “I hate this fucking place,” he said while tucking his chin as low as it would go. He had two blocks to walk in this shit. The Veterans Administration hospital loomed above him, but he had to walk around to the back. “Not good enough for the front door,” he told Eddie, who also was shivering from the cold.
“Fuck, this place SUCKS,” Eddie called out, his voice echoing off the dirty building as he trudged up the hill in front of his cousin.
Peter rounded the side of the building and pulled up when he saw a number of police cars parked around the loading dock. “Fuck, man, do you think this is for us?” he said as Eddie ducked into the shadows.
“Why don’t you fucking go ask them?” Eddie said from the cover.
Peter realized that he was standing on the path in plain view of probably twenty cops, but before he could turn away, one of them called out.
“Excuse me!” the cop yelled, and several more turned his way. They were all white. “Do you work here?”
“Yes, I fucking work here!” Peter yelled back. The pain in his head had taken over, and if he was going to hurt this bad, then goddamn it, other people were going to hurt just as bad. Peter stomped over towards the collection of cops. “You got a problem with that, you white motherfucker? Any of you assholes have a problem with that?” He was half running at them.
“Slow down there, big guy.” The officer had one hand out, and the other was reaching around for his nightstick. “We had to close this entrance because of the governor’s visit. You can go around to the front and enter the building there.”
Peter’s head was bursting, and he didn’t hear a word the cop said. He just kept charging. Peter Bilsky, aka Ten Spots, aka Lamarr Bost, had ceased to exist. The twenty-year-old refugee from the mean streets of Watts, who two years ago showed up at his aunt’s house in Pueblo, Colorado, after a failed armed robbery that had resulted in the deaths of the liquor storeowner and his cousin Eddie, was no more. All the progress he had made in two years—the schooling, the clean work record, the mentoring of troubled teens—was washed away in an ocean of pain and rage. He barreled into the nearest cop and started pummeling him, only slightly aware that the other officers were giving him the same treatment. It didn’t matter. As Eddie had said, it didn’t hurt because of the cold.
They struggled for several minutes, and Peter took out two cops before they brought him down. They knocked him on his back, bending him over the first cop he had knocked out. The rest piled on top of him or hit his legs with their nightsticks. He had long since been consumed by the pain in his head and was nothing more than a rabid animal, bent on destroying everything and everyone around him. They forced his arms down and tried to turn him on his stomach, but Peter found a gun instead. It was still holstered in the unconscious cop’s belt, but through the cloud of pain, Peter recognized release when he felt it. He twisted the weapon free and found that it had a familiar feel. A Glock, he thought, then clicked off the safety and began firing.
He had to have hit some of them, because he was suddenly on his feet and running. The pain in his head hadn’t eased an iota, and it drove him forward. A crowd had gathered at the loading dock, and he turned towards them. He saw Eddie behind several more cops and some other white people. Realization struck him with a force greater than the bullets that slammed into his chest and back: they were the cause of his pain, and it would continue until he destroyed them all. He opened fire and saw the blood fly from their bodies; he saw their pain, and it eased his. He kept pulling the trigger long after the gun was empty and only stopped when his pain had stopped.
Phil slammed the transmission into drive and powered over the snow. He felt the eyes of the investigative team drilling holes in his Power Wagon as he drove away, but that was unimportant. They had a job to do, just as he had a job to do, and they would do theirs, just as he would do his.
Despite the fact that the road crews had cleared most of the main roads, traffic was almost nonexistent, and Phil made good time. Even with the delay caused by the death of his neighbor, Phil was only an hour late; he was surprised to see that most of his staff had made it in to work as well. He greeted his secretary with his usual stilted “Good morning” and quickly escaped into his office. A moment later, she called his phone and ran down the day’s activities. He took notes, as she detailed not only his responsibilities for the day but the department’s as well. The notes really weren’t necessary, since he immediately organized the information in his head, but notes were a part of The Routine, and that made them necessary.
“One last thing, Doctor,” Linda Miller said. “The CDC has made an unusual request this morning. They want all our tissue samples on a case we sent them about six weeks ago, and they are to be delivered with stage four isolation precautions as soon as possible.”
Linda had been Phil’s secretary for seven years, and while she knew his habits and special needs quite well, she still didn’t know him on a personal level. She was loyal to his brilliance and need for perfection but not to the man. She had been offered other positions in the past, some with better pay and benefits, and she had secretly considered some of them. However, it always came down to a choice between personal or professional satisfaction. Rucker’s mood was always unpredictable: there were days when he was as he was now, approachable in his own unique way; and then there were days like yesterday, when he was savagely reclusive. Even at his best, he was a challenge. She wanted to like the people she worked for and with, but to like someone, you first have to know them. And long ago, she had resigned herself to the fact that she would never know Phillip Rucker. Still, she took great pride in being a part of a highly regarded group of experts, and Phillip Rucker, M.D., was the principal reason the Colorado Springs coroner’s department was hands down the best in all of Colorado, and one of the best in the nation. She couldn’t give that up, so she had stayed with him year after year.
“I remember that we sent them a case to review over a month ago,” Phil replied. He knew it had been exactly thirty-three days ago, but he had learned that sounding like Mr. Spock only made dealing with others that much more difficult. “They signed off on it without comment.”
“You may want to review it personally if the feds are starting to take a renewed interest in it.” She already had the case numbers and hard copies on his desk.
“I’ll do that right now,” he said, while sorting through the files. “Can you please get me the original slides, Linda?” Phil didn’t usually use her first name, and he was hoping that she would see it as a peace offering after yesterday’s unpleasantness.
“They are already loaded in your microscope,” she said flatly. It’s going to take more than that, Doctor, she thought.
“Thank you. I would also like to apologize if I in anyway offended you yesterday. You do an exceptional job, and I want you to know that I appreciate it.”
Linda paused and wondered what he meant by the word “appreciate.” Did he mean that he valued her work, or that he simply was aware that she did exceptional work? After seven years, she knew that he could only mean the latter, but this was as close to being appreciated as she would ever get, so long as she worked for him. “I appreciate that you’re aware of it,” she said. “Good-bye.”
Rucker turned to his microscope, glad that things had gone so well with his secretary. Now he could get to work with a clear conscience, or for what passed as one in his turbulent head. He turned the machine on, and while it warmed up, he opened the case file. Case 324-A23 was that of a thirty-nineyear-old man who in January was shot by the police during an armed confrontation with a neighbor. The report said that after shooting and seriously wounding his neighbor, the man opened up on the police who had responded to the 911 call. Apparently, the assailant was previously healthy and mentally stable. Further, he was married, a father of three, and employed—not exactly the profile of a man who attempts to kill his neighbor in a dispute over a lawnmower in the dead of winter.
The first pictures appeared on the screen, and Phil started scanning through the twenty-seven slides. It took only a few seconds to find the unidentified viral particles that Henry Gorman had described in his original report. Gorman was correct; the particles appeared only in the brain. The heart, lungs, liver, and kidneys were all normal. Gorman had good instincts, and if it weren’t for Phil, he would be the chief coroner now. Phil turned back to his desk and dialed an extension.
“Dr. Gorman, it’s Phillip Rucker. I’m glad you made it in. Nasty weather we’re having.” Phil was learning the art of small talk.
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