by Scott Britz
Niedermann gingerly pushed the compartment door shut. “I certainly don’t want to touch it, then.”
“On second thought, go ahead and touch it. Let Charles Gifford and Cricket Rensselaer-Wright touch it, too. Spread it on some cheese and have a party. Then I’ll be rid of you all and I can work in peace.”
Niedermann had seen enough. “Have you got what you came for?” he asked, shutting the outer freezer door—but not locking it.
“For now.”
“Okay, out.” Niedermann escorted Waggoner to the front of the lab and opened the door for him but didn’t follow him into the hallway.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“In a moment. I need to do a few security things.”
Waggoner took this as a matter of course. “Well, don’t touch anything. Don’t move anything and don’t touch anything.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Niedermann kicked the door shut.
Alone, in the dusty, deserted laboratory, Niedermann took a deep breath. His thoughts ran immediately to Cricket. She was determined to kill the Lottery and the Methuselah Vector with it. Gifford should have booted her off campus when he had the chance. Now it was too late. Even though she was in lockup, he knew that wouldn’t last. Hank would get a lawyer to spring her in no time.
A person has a moral obligation to be reasonable, he thought. Especially when millions of dollars and years of work are on the line. Careers, too. Reputations. To endanger all this out of sheer stubbornness is as bad as theft. And on top of that, Charles says that millions will die. Fifty million a year. That makes it tantamount to murder.
Casually, almost absentmindedly, Niedermann wandered about the lab, opening drawers and picking out a little collection of odds and ends. A black ballpoint pen. A razor blade. Tuberculin syringes in sealed plastic wrappers. A little tube of Krazy Glue. A package of surgical gloves, size 6½.
If someone had their finger on the trigger of a bomb that could kill 50 million, wouldn’t it be justifiable to take them out? Absolutely, if you knew they were crazy enough to set it off.
Speaking hypothetically, if you had to do it, really do it—well, how would you? Isn’t the perfect weapon somewhere in this lab? Quieter than a knife, more certain than a gun? Untraceable? Invisible?
The freezer door had somehow opened itself, and Niedermann stood looking through the wispy fog of condensation into the topmost compartment. The lone red test tube mesmerized him. He could almost see the trillions of viruses inside it, swirling about with impatience, eager to get out and claim new victims. Waggoner had said it: Nothing easier than to sprinkle a drop onto a piece of cheese or a sliced apple or a cup of soup or a sandwich brought round to the holding cell at lunchtime. Even a thousandth of a drop. That’s so little that it’s not anything at all. The problem would be getting her to eat it. And knowing that she ate it. You’d have to be sure, or it would all be for nothing.
With shaking hands, Niedermann took out the plastic rack holding the tube and gingerly placed it on the bench, alongside the glue and the black ballpoint pen and the other things he’d collected. One of the syringes attracted his eye. You could inject her with that. That would be certain. But, no, too obvious. Plus it was overkill. If Waggoner was right, you didn’t have to inject this stuff. A mere scratch would do.
He let a new idea percolate in his mind, just to see where it might lead. Unscrewing the pen, he took out the ink filler and cut off the ball point with the razor blade. Then he dug the needle out of a syringe and pushed it into the ink filler, leaving just half an inch sticking out where the ball point used to be. A dab of Krazy Glue secured the needle, like the point of a tiny spear. After reassembling the pen, he clicked it several times. Now, instead of the ball point, there was the tip of the needle, gliding in and out, smoothly and without friction. Tip retracted, it looked just like a pen—so harmless he could wear it in his shirt pocket. Tip out—it was a deadly weapon.
So . . . it could be done. Not in a million years would he actually do it, of course. He’d never done anything like that. He’d shot a dog, yeah. He’d faked a couple of lines in some of the audit reports back at the office. But murder was out of his league.
It wouldn’t really be murder, though. A scratch so tiny you could scarcely see or feel it. Who’s to say it would even work? Waggoner was a nutcase and maybe his warnings were just a sick attempt at humor. Even if they were true, a lot could go wrong. The virus might not stick to the needle, or Cricket might be immune, or it might make her sick for a few days but not kill her. There’s a thought. Killing her wasn’t necessary if she could just be knocked out of action until after the Lottery. If the intention wasn’t to kill her, then, strictly speaking, it wasn’t murder. Murder requires deadly intent.
And if Cricket did die, who’s to say who killed her? She’d been exposed to the virus through Yolanda and Emmy. Maybe she was already infected, a walking dead woman. That was so likely that no one would even suspect anything if she did get sick. Police would not investigate. No court would convict. Even the one who stuck her would never know for certain.
In any case, it was the virus that would be the killer. Not him.
Niedermann looked at his watch. Past one o’clock. Carpe diem is what the Romans said. There was another saying, too, something he vaguely remembered out of the Bible—Proverbs or something. That which thou doest, do quickly.
The latex snapped as he put on a pair of sterile gloves, size 6½.
A sharp click. The cap of the red flip-top tube snapped open. . . .
Six
CRICKET SAT ON THE EDGE OF a cot in the little detention cell of the Security Cottage, a one-story, whitewashed building not far from the high-rise laboratories on the west side of campus. Covering one ear to ward off the squawk of the radio dispatcher and the sniggering repartee of two guards on their coffee break, she spoke quietly but firmly into her cell phone.
“Hank, that low urine output you’re seeing means Emmy’s kidneys are shutting down. We need to cut way back on the IV fluids, or else her body is going to bloat up with water. Keep a careful watch on her blood pressure and heart rate. If they start to drop when you cut the fluids, call me immediately. We might have to add dobutamine again to keep her heart going.”
Hank’s voice was anxious. “I wish you were here, Cricket. It’s getting pretty scary.”
“I’ll be there, Hank. I’ll find a way to get out. Charles has got to let me go. He’s got to.”
“Erich’s gone to try to talk sense into Niedermann. But he’s not in his office.”
Just then Cricket heard the cell door open. A short, stocky man in a dark blue suit stood in the doorway, his face flushed and his gold tie askew.
“Hank, I’ve got to go. Niedermann’s here, of all people. I’ll call you back.”
Cricket flipped her phone shut and got to her feet as Niedermann propped open the door with one foot.
“Tom,” said Niedermann, speaking over his shoulder to a guard in the hallway. “Is it protocol to let detainees use the phone?”
“Dr. Gifford said she could have it,” said Tom. “She’s a doctor, and her daughter is, like, on the critical list.”
Cricket held the phone behind her back. “Don’t tell me you’re here to take away my cell phone, you bastard.”
Niedermann smiled. “Not at all. In fact, I’ve come to release you. I want to personally escort you back to your daughter.”
Cricket sighed with relief. “Good, then.” She stuck the cell phone in the pocket of her khaki shorts.
“Here’s her pocketbook,” said Tom, handing over a small leather purse. “And her ID badge. The rules say she has to have it if she’s going back into that BSL-4 lab.”
Niedermann passed them both to Cricket. “There’s one little condition, actually. Since you’ve broken your promise to Dr. Gifford, I’ll need a statement from you in writing, saying you agr
ee to remain in the BSL-4 lab and will refrain from contacting anyone except Dr. Gifford or me.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you have a pad of paper, Tom?”
Tom dutifully produced a block of yellow legal paper. Niedermann extended it to Cricket, while holding a black pen in his other hand. He seemed too eager in the way he held the pen, with his thumb poised on the clicker. Cricket felt her guard come up. She kept her distance and waited for Niedermann to throw the pad onto the cot. When Niedermann made no move to offer her his pen, she fished her own out of her pocketbook.
She sat down on the far end of the cot, near the window, and balanced the pad on her knees as she scribbled a few lines. “There.” She held out the paper. “Will that do?”
“I’ll sign as a witness,” said Niedermann, without even reading what she had written. Instead of taking the pad by the near end, he seemed to reach for the top edge but grabbed Cricket’s thumb instead, pulling her toward him as he stepped forward.
Cricket recoiled from his touch, letting the pad drop to the floor.
“Oh, sorry.” Niedermann stared at her with queer intensity before picking up the pad. When he stood up, his face was deep red, and beads of sweat dotted his hairline.
The cell door opened. “Are you folks going to stay in there all afternoon?” asked Tom.
“We’re leaving now,” said Niedermann.
Cricket followed into the hallway. “Aren’t you going to sign?” she called to Niedermann.
“Sign?”
“As a witness. Like you said.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” He tapped his black pen several times against the pad. “You know what? I forgot—this pen’s run dry.” He put the pen in his pocket and took out a gold-plated one. After making his personalized slash under Cricket’s signature, he blithely tossed the pad onto the counter of the main security desk.
Outside, the late-afternoon sun was hidden behind a blanket of clouds. Cricket was surprised to see that the small parking lot in front of the cottage was empty.
“Let’s walk,” said Niedermann.
“It’s a quarter of a mile.”
“The rain’s let up. We can talk. We need to talk.”
“All right.”
They headed up a bank behind the three high-rise laboratories, swishing through the wet, knee-high grass. But if Niedermann was eager to talk, he had a strange way of showing it. For several minutes he led the way, saying nothing at all.
Finally he turned around. “You know, I have the feeling that everybody’s on a different page around here. Isn’t there some way we can come to an understanding? A truce?”
“My concern is the Nemesis virus. Charles himself is infected and I’m certain that he gave the virus to Yolanda and the others. He needs to be quarantined and treated before it’s too late. He’s covering up because he secretly injected himself with the Methuselah Vector, and he’s afraid the FDA will find out. What he did was unethical, but I don’t give a hoot about that. Nemesis is the issue.”
“He says you’re trying to destroy the Methuselah Vector.”
“Why would I want to do that? It’s my father’s legacy, too. I only wanted to stop that damned-fool Lottery until we could find out what this Nemesis virus is and where it came from. Now that the Lottery is off—”
“Who said the Lottery was off?”
Cricket stopped in her tracks. “You can’t go through with it. Not after what I’ve told you. It’s got to be canceled.”
“Are you kidding? Eden Pharmaceuticals has spent upwards of a million bucks on publicity and site preparation. Thousands of people have already made their way to New York from all over the world. For the past two days, every flight, every train ticket into the city, has been sold out. If we canceled it, we’d have a riot on our hands.”
“Talk to Phillip Eden. Give him the facts. Your company will be ruined if they go ahead. We know that the Methuselah Vector spawned Nemesis. There’s a flaw in it, a genetic instability. Every person you inject at Rockefeller Center will become a virtual incubator for new superviruses. Do you understand? We could have a hundred plagues spreading like wildfires. There’d be no time to find cures. The fires will simply burn until they burn themselves out—until, within weeks or months, the human race itself becomes extinct.”
“I find that impossible to believe. Nature always finds a way out.”
“This isn’t nature. This is man’s own folly.”
“I’m sorry. I have my own problems to worry about. Charles goes on about immortality, you about the end of the world. I don’t know who’s right. But I do know where my loyalties are. In ascending order, I have my employer, I have Charles, I have my family, and I have myself.”
“By all means, think of yourself. You’ve been close to Charles all this time. If he could infect Yolanda and Hannibal, why not you?”
Cricket headed straight into a small copse of pine trees, keeping a beeline for the BSL-4 lab. Niedermann hastened after her. He had no sooner caught up than he stumbled and toppled against her. She sensed a “clumsy” clumsiness to his movements, as if he had slipped on purpose. He grabbed at her, briefly catching her arm. But by reflex she veered away, letting him fall.
For a moment he lay on the ground, breathing heavily. The black pen was in his right hand.
“Are you all right?” asked Cricket.
“I think I sprained my ankle. I can’t get up.”
Cricket offered Niedermann her hand. She knew something was wrong right away by the way he latched onto her wrist. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his free right hand swinging toward her face, holding the black pen in a fist, like a knife. Ducking, she swung her left arm up and blocked the pen as it hovered an inch in front of her eyes.
What’s with this pen? No, not a pen—something sharp. For God’s sake, don’t let it touch you.
Niedermann was so close that Cricket could smell the sweetness of the liquor on his breath. His teeth were bared in a grimace as he struggled to force the pen toward her. In the shade of the pines they stood interlocked in a strange, silent dance of twisting and flexing, as each fought to throw the other off-balance. Then Cricket’s hand began to wobble with fatigue.
He’s too strong for me. Another second and I’ll give out.
With that last second, Cricket lurched forward and rammed her knee into Niedermann’s crotch. He doubled forward with a grunt. As she shifted her weight to twist free, Niedermann wrenched his right hand out of her grasp, cocked it back, and made a furious slash at her face with the pen. But Cricket ducked low, hooked her leg behind Niedermann’s, and tripped him to the ground.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted, as he thrashed from side to side. “What’s that in your hand?”
Niedermann gave no answer. Hauling himself up onto his knees, he felt at a four-inch scratch on the right side of his face. He whimpered as he stared at his fingertips, daubed with blood. “Oh, my God!” he moaned. “God, what have I done?”
Cricket didn’t wait for him to get up. She ran across the lawn, toward the safety of the laboratories. Twice she called out for help, but no one was in sight. A look back: Niedermann was kneeling on the ground in the copse of trees—swaying back and forth, as if in prayer.
Something was in that pen. He was trying to kill me. Trying to fucking kill me.
Where to run? Beyond the labs was Wabanaki Cove. The town house. Hank was at Emmy’s bedside. But at least she could phone for help from there.
She paused at the back entrance to Rensselaer. Gifford’s own lab was on the top floor. But it wasn’t Gifford she thought of. In her mind she saw Yolanda in her final agonies. Not one, but a thousand Yolandas. Children crying for their mothers. Husbands, wives, lovers, weeping. Gray-haired parents burying their children’s children. Bodies burned. Bodies thrown into mass graves. Bodies abandoned to the rats and dogs because no
one was left to bury them. She had seen such things before, in nameless villages in Africa. Now they loomed before her on a colossal scale. An entire civilization stood to be wiped out—an explosion of death, with Rockefeller Center as ground zero, set to go off in less than twenty-four hours.
As she fingered the ID badge clipped to her collar, she knew it would do no good to run. She had to strike back. And the weapon she needed was right there, in that little plastic rectangle.
She tapped the badge against the sensor of the back door. The light went from red to green. The badge still worked. Those lazy idiots in Security had never deactivated it.
She pulled open the door and looked up a long stairwell.
It was time to show Niedermann she could play rough, too.
Seven
CRICKET RUSHED UP TWO FLIGHTS OF stairs, then down a corridor to a windowless steel door guarded by a badge reader, a closed-circuit TV camera, and a sign with three-inch, red letters: RESTRICTED ENTRY. A single tap of her ID badge triggered a click of the electronic dead bolt.
Beyond the door was the changing room. Cricket hastily zipped on one of the yellow, hooded jumpsuits and donned a face mask and gloves before pausing at the outer air-lock door. In front of her was a sternly worded sign:
BIOLOGICAL PRODUCTION LABORATORY
CLEAN ROOM
PROTECTIVE CLOTHING REQUIRED
NO FOOD • NO DRINK • NO SMOKING • NO COSMETICS
She moved quickly through the double doors of the air lock and felt a slight gust of air as she entered the positive-pressure environment designed to keep out dust. A dozen technicians in jumpsuits and face masks were working around the room. Against the far wall was a row of gleaming hundred-gallon, chrome incubation vats. Nearer at hand were several glass-encased tissue-culture hoods and an array of high-performance liquid chromatographs for purification.
