Quarantined

by Joe McKinney

  We parked along the north side of the building.

  “You know he's gonna chew our asses off, don't you?” Chunk said.

  “Probably.” But I didn't really care. In my mind, I was already gone, floating down the river, out of plague town.

  “Okay, just so as you know.”

  I patted his shoulder and we went inside.

  Little Hitler was at his desk, writing up duty rosters for all the posts that had to be manned on a twenty-four hour basis until further notice.

  He barely glanced up at us when we came in.

  “Sit down,” he said, motioning to the empty chairs across from his desk.

  He went on writing names down on his rosters, occasionally consulting a map, then quickly wrote down more names. After about two minutes of that he put his pen down, cracked his knuckles, and leaned back in his chair so he could look down his nose at us.

  I got ready for the yelling, but to my surprise, he didn't yell. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even cheery.

  “I thought you might want to know that the woman and the little girl you two saved are both doing fine. They were, anyway, as of yesterday. They were released after being treated for minor scrapes and bruises. The woman took a good sap on the head, but she should be fine.”

  Chunk and I tried to avoid looking at each other in shock. I was wondering if I was in the right office.

  “That's good to know, sir,” I said.

  If you can imagine what a cat must feel like walking through a yard full of sleeping pit bulls, that's what I felt like just then, waiting for all hell to break loose.

  “Look,” he said, and he was looking straight at me, “I know we got off to a rough start. Things were said. Tempers flared. I just want you to know I'm willing to forget about that.”

  Had I not been so bowled over by surprise, I would have told him to sit on his thumb. I wasn't the one, after all, who had made me look like an idiot in front of the whole damn neighborhood in that suicide's front yard so many years ago.

  As it was, I just sat there with my mouth hanging open a little. I said, “Um, that would be, um, okay.”

  “Good,” he said.

  He leaned back more in his chair and folded his hands together over his chest.

  “So, tell me, how's the case going?”

  “We're closing in on it, sir,” Chunk said.

  “That's not an answer. Tell me where you're at now that your number one suspect is off the hook.”

  I almost said: “I thought we were going to forget about that,” but didn't. There was something about knowing that I wouldn't have to listen to his shit much longer that made me more tolerant.

  Instead, I told him about our trip into the GZ, about meeting Dr. Cole and fighting with the looters and about the missing equipment from Bradley's van. I also ran down the short list of suspects, Cole, Hernandez, and the looters.

  The only thing I didn't tell him about was the old woman. I hadn't even told Chunk about her. As far as I was concerned, that was a private thing, for me only.

  “You've stopped looking at Myers and Laurent?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I said. “They're still on the list.”

  “You haven't figured out why they lied to you about not knowing where Bradley was working?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “That's why they're still on the list.”

  “And Bradley's journal wasn't any help?”

  “Not really. It actually confused things more than it helped.”

  “What do you think she meant by that bit about us all being goners?”

  “You want to know what I think? I think she found proof to support Dr. Cole's theory.”

  He turned in his chair and watched an orange cat run along a burned out section of fence below his window. Then it climbed into a trashcan.

  “You're suggesting a conspiracy,” he said.

  “If that's what she meant by that bit about us being goners, then yeah, I think a conspiracy pretty well covers it.”

  “I don't buy that. Why would Laurent send her star player out into the GZ to spy on Cole, then try to cover it up when something happens to her? Seems to me that would be the perfect opportunity to turn the situation against Cole. Discredit him by making him seem crazy. That woman is a noisy, annoying bitch, but she's not stupid. She wouldn't miss an opportunity like that. And for that matter, why go to all the trouble to spy on him anyway? Why not just bring Cole into the mix, share the research?”

  “Pride, I guess. I don't think Laurent and her people think very highly of the MHD.”

  “No, probably not.”

  He drummed his fingers on his chest and thought.

  He said, “Well, it definitely sounds like Cole is the front runner.”

  “Yes, sir. Trouble is, we can't put him and Bradley together, and we can't get around the fact that Wade's killer beat him to death. Cole wouldn't have been able to do that, not at his age.”

  Treanor frowned. “How do you figure?”

  “Cole is seventy-two. And Wade was, well, in pretty good condition. Plus he knew how to fight. There's no way Cole could have—”

  Treanor waved his hand impatiently. “Not that,” he said. “I know all that. What do you mean you can't put Cole and Bradley together? They were working on the same theory, in the same little corner of the GZ, and Wade himself even called in a meeting with Cole.”

  Chunk and I glanced at each other. “He did what now, sir?”

  Treanor looked at both of us and said, “Ah shit, tell me this isn't news to you guys.”

  He looked at both of us again and shook his head.

  “When did this happen, sir?”

  “About a week ago. He got me on the radio and said they'd just run into Cole in the GZ. He wanted to know if Cole had authorization from the MHD to be out in the GZ. I told him he was on the level. His clearance checked out.”

  I took a second to absorb that.

  “How in the hell did you guys miss that?” he said.

  “We interviewed Cole,” I said, “and he told us he didn't know Bradley was working in the GZ. He said he hadn't seen her outside of Arsenal.”

  Treanor said, “That sounds like a man who needs to be looked at again.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I think you're right.”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  Security around the Arsenal Morgue had been beefed up after the riot, but inside it was still business as usual. The bodies came in, the bodies went out, in a relentless tide of death that never stopped, day or night.

  We found Myers and Laurent inside the WHO office and went into Laurent's office to talk, closing the door behind us.

  Chunk and I sat in the chairs across the desk from Laurent. Myers stood at Laurent's elbow. The two of them looked at us over their face masks with narrow, angry eyes. They disliked us being there, but tolerated us, I think, as some kind of necessary evil.

  “I don't suppose you found the hard drives from Dr. Bradley's computers?” Myers said, his English accent haughty and sarcastic.

  “Not yet,” I said. “We're still working on that.”

  “I see.”

  Laurent, a.k.a. Hippo Woman, wheezed as she said, “What about Dr. Bradley's killer? Are you any closer to finding out who is responsible for her death?”

  “We're closing in on that, actually. In fact, that's why we came to speak with you?”

  “Oh?” Laurent's eyes narrowed further.

  “Yeah. We're going to be conducting an interview this afternoon with our top suspect. But before we do that, we need some information.”

  Laurent put both hands on the desk, all ten fat little sausage fingers splayed out like she was steadying herself.

  “May I ask who your top suspect is?”

  “You may ask,” I said, “but I can't tell you right now. It wouldn't be helpful for us to share that information before an arrest is made, and right now that's my most important considerati
on.”

  Laurent said, “What information do you need?”

  “I want to know what you and Dr. Myers here think about the last entry in Dr. Bradley's journal. Is there anything in the data she recorded to indicate that she found proof of there being multiple strains of H2N2 in the local bird population?”

  Laurent didn't even hesitate. “You've been talking with Dr. Cole.”

  “True,” I said.

  “The man's theory is fundamentally flawed. His theory is baseless.”

  “So,” I said, holding up Bradley's journal, “there's nothing in here to support the multiple strain theory?”

  “No,” she said. “Nothing of the kind.”

  I opened the journal to the last page. “What about this last line, where she says ‘We are all goners?’ What do you think she was referring to there?”

  “I'm sure I do not know. It is troubling, certainly. I can only say that she perhaps was frustrated with her lack of progress. Gifted researchers such as Dr. Bradley can often take failure personally.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “I don't think that's very likely, Dr. Laurent,” said Chunk. My man, Chunk, had all the grace of a two-ton bull in a very expensive china shop. “What I think is that you either believe this multiple strain theory, or you are so afraid that it might be true that you sent Dr. Bradley out to confirm it.”

  Laurent's expression gave away nothing.

  “You're mistaken, Detective.”

  “No, I don't think so. I think you're playing games with us, Dr. Laurent, and I got to ask myself: Why? Why don't you want to help us find Dr. Bradley's killer? I think you're hoping to make the discovery first so that you get all the credit. Now, ordinarily I wouldn't have a problem with that kind of thing, except that while you guys are arguing over bragging rights, a lot of innocent people are dying.”

  Laurent remained motionless, practically a stone stature, but not Myers.

  “How dare you accuse her of that?” Myers said. His voice quivered with suppressed rage. “Every member of this organization has voluntarily put themselves in harm's way to help the people of this city. I for one do not think you are at all—”

  Laurent said: “Dr. Myers, please. That will not help the situation. Detectives, I think you have overstayed your welcome here. We have answered your questions and cooperated in every way. Now please, find Dr. Bradley's killer, and if possible, return our property to us. Good day to you both.”

  Chunk and I traded a look. Time to go the GZ.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter 24

  It was after ten o'clock in the morning when we entered the GZ and started patrolling the streets where we'd found Dr. Cole, and then Dr. Bradley's van. The morning was cloudless, warm and bright. The rain from two nights earlier had brought out the pink blossoms of the crepe myrtle trees and the overgrown lawns were a deep, emerald green.

  Chunk said, “You know, there's a question we forgot to ask.”

  “What's that?”

  “How come every time we've been in the GZ, we've been attacked by looters, but Dr. Cole and Dr. Bradley haven't?”

  “That's a good point,” I said. I didn't have a good answer to it either. Dr. Bradley, of course, had had Kenneth Wade to protect her, but Dr. Cole worked alone. How had he managed to escape them for so long?

  “We'll have to ask him when we find him,” Chunk said.

  “Yeah.”

  I watched the houses, so many of them without doors, their windows all broken or boarded over, and thought how calm everything was. It wasn't the same sensation at all as the calm that hung over the Bandera Road food distribution center. That was the eye of the storm, a momentary lull in the dying spasms of a population driven mad by fear and paranoia. But here in the GZ, the calm was different. Here sunlight lanced through the canopies of oak trees, birds flew out of second story windows, and everything seemed soft-edged, dulled by a sunny haze. It was the calm of graveyards, the promise of a long sleep.

  I was thinking about that, lost in my own little world, imagining the GZ as some kind of romantic, almost living landscape, when we turned onto Iowa Street and saw Dr. Cole's converted EMS wagon parked under an ancient oak tree.

  I pointed it out.

  “See it,” Chunk said. He accelerated down to the end of the block and parked along the curb.

  We got out of the car, our plastic spacesuits awkward now that we each wore a gun belt around our waists, and looked around.

  “What do you think?” Chunk said.

  “Try the van first. If we don't find him there, go door to door.”

  Chunk and I both headed toward the EMS wagon, then stopped. We heard coughing, violent, painful coughing. The calling card of H2N2. Chunk pulled his gun. I did too.

  “Don't shoot, detectives,” said Cole. He came around the passenger side of the wagon, walked toward us, through the grass, and stopped at the curb. “Don't shoot,” he said again, and coughed violently. It nearly put him on the ground he coughed so hard. When he was done he said, “I'm not armed.”

  I could see that. In fact, he wasn't even wearing a spacesuit. He was dressed in a collared white shirt tucked into a faded, loose-fitting pair of blue jeans with no belt, and no tie.

  He wasn't wearing a face mask either, and for the first time I saw his face clearly. He was much thinner in street clothes than he had appeared in his spacesuit. His thinness gave his face an angry, impatient set that wasn't totally erased by the weak smile at the corners of his mouth.

  Chunk and I inched forward, weapons still at the ready. As we got closer to Cole I could see little blackish specks all over the front of his shirt. Cole began to cough again, and the skin around his mouth actually began to pale to a sickly blue. Cyanosis, I realized. He was close to the end.

  “How did you get sick?” I said.

  “Intentionally,” he said, coughing and laughing at the same time.

  I glanced at Chunk, then back at Cole. “You did that to yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  He laughed again, and I got the feeling that only part of the conversation was between us. Most of it, the iceberg beneath the tip, was happening in his head.

  “Because of you,” he said.

  “Us?” I looked at Chunk and he shrugged. “What do you mean, Dr. Cole? Why because of us?”

  “There's not much time,” he said. “I injected myself with Strain Two late last night. I'll be dead very soon.”

  “Doc,” I said, “why don't you let us take you downtown. We can talk and you can get some help.”

  He shook his head violently because he could not talk through the coughing.

  “Can't,” he finally said. “Muscles aching, raspy, unproductive cough. Chills. Nausea. God, even diarrhea. So cold. I can't believe how fast this strain works through the body. My lungs are burning.”

  “Why, Dr. Cole?”

  “I knew you'd come back. I knew I didn't have much time. I need you to contact Dr. Herrera at Arsenal. Tell him to make sure he does an autopsy on my body. Give him my research in the van. Make sure he knows about Strains Two and Three. Make sure...”

  The rest trailed off in a string of coughing.

  “How did you know we'd come back?” Chunk said.

  Cole smiled at him. “Dr. Bradley and her policeman bodyguard. I knew you'd figure that out sooner or later, though I confess I thought it would be sooner than this.”

  I holstered my weapon. “Dr. Cole, you know you're not under arrest. We didn't come here to arrest you. You don't have to talk to us if you don't want to.”

  The words came out of me automatically, a force of habit. Tell the suspect they're free to leave at any time, that you have no intention of arresting them, whatever they might say. It's the legal way to bypass the Miranda Rights and still get a suspect to confess.

  “Please,” he said. “I'm dying here. I don't care about being arrested.”

  Chunk said, �
��Dr. Cole, did you kill Dr. Bradley?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “And Kenneth Wade? The policeman?”

  “Him, too.”

  “And the looters near the garage?” I said.

  He smiled, coughed into his hands, then nodded. “You must think me a regular serial killer.”

  “I don't understand why, Dr. Cole,” I said. “Explain that to me.”

  He coughed so hard that it rocked him off balance. He swayed drunkenly, teetered at the edge of the curb, and fell back onto his butt.

  Chunk and I both ran forward, but he held up a hand to stop us.

  “I'm okay,” he said. “It'll pass.”

  “Tell us what happened, Dr. Cole.”

  He put his face in his hands, then dragged his fingers through his cap of uncombed white hair.

  “I told those fools at WHO about Strains Two and Three, and they laughed me out of their office. Then I'm out here, and I find that Bradley woman doing the same tests I'm doing.”

  “Did you speak to her about it?”

  He nodded. “I wanted to know what she was doing. That policeman told me to beat it.”

  “But you didn't?” I said.

  “How could I?” Cole said. “There are millions of lives at stake.”

  “So you saw her again? You argued?”

  “Yes.”

  “She'd found evidence to support your claim of the two additional strains?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “So, what happened then?”

  “She was an idiot.”

  “Who?” I said. “Bradley?”

  “Yes, Bradley. She wanted to exterminate every bird in the area. Can you imagine that? She wanted to poison everything, kill all the chickens and the Mexican doves and the blue jays. All of them.”

  “That wouldn't work?” I said.

  “Of course not. You might be able to kill a lot of birds, but there's no way to get them all. And doing that also ignores the real threat. When the grackles come back in November ... when that happens, all the poison in the world won't stop the spread of the disease to the world outside of San Antonio.”