“That’s okay,” Sumiko said. “I’ll make some calls. I’ll know somebody who knows somebody who is affected by this.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” her mother said as she backed out of her daughter’s room.
Sumiko had compartmentalized her anger toward Ryan, setting it behind a kind of mental firewall that protected her from the fallout of their fight. While she kept busy with blog business, she could deal with it by not dealing with it. Later, at night, in the dark, the firewall would come down and she would need to process her feelings, to decide if she wanted a future with Ryan or if she had meant what she’d said in the heat of anger. And if Ryan wanted nothing more to do with her, she would have to deal with that later.
With her post’s introduction finished, she picked up her cell phone and fired off two dozen rapid text messages, some to groups of recipients, others to individuals. Over the past year, she had built up a network of sources. One group message was to girls she knew who babysat, or whose sisters or friends were babysitters. Since they all had cell phones and obsessed over texting, the replies would start coming in within minutes, if not sooner. If a connection linked the kids with MRSA, she was confident she would find it.
“No frigging way,” Julie Parelli said as she watched her carefully labeled and stamped brochures spill across the sidewalk like a paper avalanche. The rubber bands on at least three of the bundles had snapped. What were the odds?
Heaving a sigh, she set her boxes down so she could lock the yoga studio doors. The last thing she needed was to forget to lock up and find the place trashed in the morning. Tucking her keys in her jacket pocket, she kneeled on the sidewalk and reached out to pull the farthest brochures toward her, forming mounds she could cram and restack in the boxes. She had spent ninety minutes putting labels and stamps on them so she could stop at the post office on the way home and drop them in the night box outside the lobby. They would go out first thing in the morning and, she hoped, drum up some business for her new enterprise. As her father always said, cast out enough fishing lines and you’re bound to get a few nibbles. Besides, with her current capitalization, she could only afford small ads in the local free paper and they held no more information than a business card. With the tri-fold brochures, she could list all her classes and services along with her experience.
A shadow fell across her outstretched arms, startling her.
“Excuse me, young lady,” a man with a deep voice said, “It looks like you could use some assistance.”
Julie looked up, and up—the guy was tall, NBA basketball center tall. He looked formal in his rounded hat and carrying a cane. Definitely not the first mental impression she would have had if someone had said, “Mugger” or “Rapist.” But she had an independent streak—her mother called it a stubborn streak—a mile wide.
“No, thanks,” she said, flashing a polite smile. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Nonsense,” he rumbled in a Barry White baritone. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let a young lady crawl around on the sidewalk unassisted and merely walked by?”
One who listens to a young lady’s wishes, Julie thought, but instead said, “It’s no big deal, just a few spilled brochures.”
Before she had finished speaking, he was on one knee, gathering brochures with his free hand. Julie gave an inward sigh, pushing back the stubborn streak. Even so, she redoubled her own efforts so she could finish up as quickly as possible and be on her way to the post office.
The man tucked a wad of brochures into one of the boxes, patted them down, then straightened up and stood over her, both hands resting on the handle of his cane, while she finished repacking the rest of the brochures.
Waiting for a tip, maybe?
She hadn’t wanted his help in the first place and now she wanted him gone, because he was starting to freak her out, regarding her from above, his forehead looking like the loose folds of a shar pei’s hide.
“Thanks,” she said as she climbed to her feet while balancing the overflowing boxes again. “Have a good evening.”
“I shall,” he said, tipping his hat slightly before walking down the sidewalk.
Julie turned down the side of the building to her parked Camry and placed the boxes on the hood of the car so she could take out her keys. As she pressed the button that unlocked the doors, she heard the crunch of a footfall on gravel.
A frightened glance to the side revealed a tall shape looming over her.
“Stop or—”
Her head whipped back painfully, her scalp on fire. She started to fall, then her body jerked to a halt and she was pulled back toward the front of the building.
She could just see the tall guy in the hat above her, dragging her viciously by her ponytail.
Julie screamed and pressed down on her key fob’s panic button, but for too short a time to activate it. The man swung her sideways with no apparent effort, slamming her into the side of the building. The impact jarred the keys loose from her grip.
Trying to regain her feet, she twisted around and caught sight of a van, his apparent destination. With a spike of dread, she knew that if he succeeded in getting her into the van, she was as good as dead. Kicking and twisting, she screamed for help.
Her body rose off the ground, yanked up by her bleeding scalp, burning agony flaring white spots across her field of vision. Then he flung her down hard, as if he were cracking a whip. Something snapped within her, a crunch that vibrated through her body before she slipped into darkness.
She would not shut up. First he tried to soften her up by slapping her against the wall, but that only inspired her to greater volume. As he emerged onto the street, he became impatient with her caterwauling, so he jerked her by her hair and received blessed silence.
A moment later, he sighed. Her body hung completely lifeless, dangling from the fistful of hair he clutched. Judging by the angle of her head in relation to her shoulders, she was no longer a viable candidate for his ritual. She was nothing more than food now, if he became peckish, or more trash awaiting disposal.
Twice in one night, he had failed in his simple mission.
He swung open the rear doors of the van and tossed the lifeless body on top of the ripe plumber. With her spine completely shattered, the torque created by flinging her into the van almost dislodged her head from her torso. It was so easy to forget how fragile human bodies were.
Again, he had been careless.
Climbing into the driver’s seat of the van, he noticed a police car traveling in the opposite direction. The pale blur of the occupant’s face seemed to stare at him for a moment and the cruiser’s brake lights flared.
He pulled into traffic, but glanced in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, the police officer had switched on the cruiser’s red and blue lights as he made a U-turn and began pursuit of the van, siren wailing.
He had waited a few hours too long to dispose of the van. Yet another mistake to record on the night’s ledger.
Seventeen
After Dean finished his sandwich, he placed the small pile of leftover roast beef on a paper plate and waited.
Sam had borrowed Roy’s dated computer system to print out a map of Laurel Hill. For the street-level detail they needed, he visited a mapping site, zoomed in and printed out the visible map over multiple pages in a grid pattern. With strips of clear adhesive tape, they made a map large enough to cover the breakfast nook table. Sam called up his incident file and fed the addresses to Dean, who marked each location with a red X.
Even with the television at low volume, Dean could hear the soothing voice of the news station’s resident medical expert, Dr. Charlotte Kinzie—wearing a white doctor’s lab coat over a black and gold top—as she rattled off tips for protecting children from MRSA: children should be encouraged to wash their hands with soap and warm water for as long as it took to sing “Happy Birthday” twice. Clean hard surfaces with a bleach mixture. Cover cuts … This was the second time she had given the same tips.
Dean wasn’t paying close enough attention to tell if the news station was rebroadcasting her initial report from the earlier telecast or if she was on live again. In a minute or two, she would switch gears and talk about flu prevention. One of the anchors commented that since authorities hadn’t released the source of either outbreak, everyone should take appropriate precautions.
“That’s everything,” Sam said after providing the last address.
Dean stared at the map, frowning.
“Do you see a pattern?” Sam asked.
“Is random a pattern?” Dean said. “Put on a blindfold, throw twenty darts in the air, and you might get this pattern.”
“Random,” Sam repeated, while clicking around online.
“Okay, there are short spikes,” Dean said, “where he walks along a street and several people die in weird accidents. Then the next cluster… But basically, random is what I’ve got.”
“We should chart the outbreaks,” Sam suggested, “see what that tells us.”
“Medical stuff?” Dean asked doubtfully. “It doesn’t fit the M.O., does it?”
“Two different fatal outbreaks in one town, while bizarre fatal accidents are occurring? I think we should put it in the mix.”
“The news hasn’t reported Patient Zero for either outbreak,” Dean said, “and no call from Bobby. So how do we mark it on the map?”
After a few seconds of silence, Dean looked at Sam, who was deep in thought as he stared at his laptop screen.
“Sam? Are you there?” Dean tried not to imagine Sam was staring into the bowels of hell or that the graphics on the screen had begun to melt onto the keyboard, mesmerizing him. His brother said he had his reality meter under control, despite continuing hallucinations, so Dean wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. But his concern for Sam’s sanity was not something he could switch off.
“What? Oh, yes,” Sam said, glancing up, “I’m fine. Something caught my eye.”
“That’s how it begins, Sam,” Dean said, affecting a Public Service Announcement tone. “Something catches your eye, and before you know it, you’ve got an online porn addiction.”
“Speaking from personal experience?”
“I’ve got all my vices under control,” Dean replied, taking a sip from his flask. “More or less.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Sam said. “Anyway, it’s not porn. I found a local blog. It turned up in my search results. It catalogs all the crazy accidents. Do you know there was a bomb threat at the local high school?”
“It wasn’t on the news.”
From outside came an insistent meow.
It’s time, Dean thought, scooping up the paper plate with the pile of roast beef.
“The bomb threat was a hoax,” Sam said. “But this blogger… She seems to be a student at the school, and she’s floating some theories of her own, dismissing the normal stuff, terrorists…”
That Sam had missed an opportunity to needle Dean about feeding Roy’s feral cat was a clear sign of his preoccupation with the blog, and that was enough to intrigue Dean.
“So what’s her theory?” he asked over his shoulder.
As Dean opened the back door and glanced across the short wooden deck into the darkness beyond the pool of light, he saw Shadow’s good eye reflecting yellow. He set the plate down carefully on the deck.
“When Roy gets back, make sure you tell him I didn’t let you starve.”
Knowing the cat wouldn’t eat with him standing close, Dean backed into the house, but kept his eyes on the dark silhouette. He caught a good look at the cat when it stepped into the light. “Whoa,” he exclaimed, startled.
“That cat’s like a friggin’ refugee from Pet Sematary” he said, walking back into the living room.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Dean said. “What about blogger girl’s theory?”
“To anyone else, it might seem like a schoolgirl’s wild imagination.”
“But not to you?”
“No,” Sam said. “Sumiko Jones believes—”
“That’s the schoolgirl?”
Sam nodded. “She believes the cause is supernatural in origin.”
“That girl wins a kewpie doll.”
“That’s not all,” Sam said, sitting up straighter. “She pinpointed—”
Dean’s phone rang. He crossed to the table and checked the display. “Bobby,” he said as he answered the call. “Whaddya got?”
The connection was bad, more static than words. He pressed the phone to his ear and strained to hear each word. “Bad connection. Speak up,” he shouted.
“… left hospital … —geant McClary… patients… parents … kids … most go … preschool. First Step Forward …”
Dean turned to Sam. “No Patient Zero for the MRSA, but Bobby’s found ground zero. It’s—”
“First Step Forward Preschool,” Sam finished.
“Dude, you’re psychic now?”
“No,” Sam said, “but maybe Sumiko is.”
Over the phone, Dean heard a police siren begin to wail.
“Bobby, is that you and McClary?”
“—rolman spotted … —er’s van … in pursuit …”
“Bobby! You’re breaking up! What about the van? You’re in pursuit? Where?”
Static filled the line.
“I’ll call back,” Dean shouted, disconnecting and dialing Bobby’s number.
“They located bowler man?” Sam asked.
“A patrolman spotted the plumber’s van. McClary flipped on the siren. That’s all I heard.”
The phone beeped and disconnected. “Crap!”
Dean looked down at the map spread across the table and located Laurel Hill Medical Center. “They left the hospital. No idea which way…”
Sam typed on the laptop keyboard. “There, I subscribed to her feed. Sent her a message.”
“Cruising schoolgirls now?” Dean said. “There are laws against that, man.”
“I checked the preschool’s website,” Sam explained. “The staff members are listed, but no email addresses or phone numbers, and there’s nothing in online White Pages. They must be unlisted.”
“And the preschool’s number?”
“After hours,” Sam said. “I tried on my cell while you had Bobby on the line. No answer.”
“So you asked blog girl for the phone numbers?”
“First I congratulated her on scooping the newscasters, asked how she knew about First Step. Then I asked for the number.”
The laptop pinged. Sam smiled. “She wants to know why I want to know.”
Sam typed a message.
“And?”
“I told her I had the same idea: supernatural origin.”
“Spilling family secrets now?”
“I’m getting an anti-establishment vibe from her,” Sam explained. “If she sees me as a kindred spirit, maybe she opens up.”
“Dude, you’re giving off a sexual predator vibe.”
Focused on the information, Sam ignored the jibe. “Her ‘sources’ gave her the names of eight of the kids,” Sam said. “All go to First Step. And there it is—the cell number of the owner and manager, Lethia Williams.”
“See what you can get out of her,” Dean said. “I’ll keep trying Bobby.”
While Dean dialed Bobby’s phone again and again with no success, he heard Sam talking to the preschool owner, giving her the insurance adjuster spiel. Moments later, Sam switched into sympathetic listener mode. Dean imagined the woman must have tremendous guilt issues if her business was the source of the staph outbreak.
In frustration, Dean slammed his phone down on the table.
“… anything unusual in the last couple days?” Sam was saying. “Anything that felt odd?”
A pause.
“Really. A tall man with a cane and a bowler hat. A ball … ?”
Good job, Sam, Dean thought. If bowler man caused one dangerous outbreak, it’s a good bet he caused the other.
And Bob
by was in pursuit.
Think, Dean!
The static had begun when the call came in over McClary’s radio. McClary activated his siren and the cell phone reception unceremoniously went to hell. Surely the siren wasn’t the cause … but maybe bowler guy could interfere with communications. If he could disable dozens of airbags, maybe he could create cell phone interference. Dean considered it half a miracle they worked under normal circumstances.
He slapped a palm on the table top. “Police scanner!”
Sam held up his hand. “Thank you, Ms. Williams. I appreciate your assistance.”
Dean hurried down the basement stairs.
Eighteen
After leaving the hospital, Sergeant McClary and Bobby were heading to the police building, where Bobby had left his Chevelle. During the drive, Bobby decided to call Dean to tell him the MRSA outbreak had originated at the First Step Forward Preschool and that the deadly influenza strain may have started in a local bar.
“I thought you were here alone, Agent Willis,” McClary said, an edge of suspicion creeping into his voice. Either suspicion or fear of an impending jurisdictional pissing contest.
“Couple of specialists in town I’ve worked with before,” Bobby said casually before the call connected. “Studied the M.O. of the burglary ring.”
Dean’s phone rang with a garbled tone.
The poor cell phone connection prevented Bobby from giving Dean all the information he had. By the time he had managed to tell Dean about the preschool, a request for backup had come over the police radio. A patrol officer had spotted the plumber’s van and was in pursuit of the suspected kidnapper. As they were passing through the commercial district, McClary was closest to the scene, on a perpendicular course.
Bobby’s connection dropped completely a few moments after McClary turned on his siren and lightbar.
Bobby double-checked his seatbelt. McClary noticed the motion. “Don’t count on your airbag,” Bobby reminded him.
“Right,” McClary said, nodding. “EMP jammer.”
“Or whatever the hell it is.”
McClary spoke on his radio to ask the patrol officer, Tom Gravino, if he had a visual. Gravino confirmed and gave his location: traveling south on Queen’s Boulevard.
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