“People have died, Welcome,” Vaill said, his voice up half an octave and louder by several decibels, “and until we get something good from you, as far as we’re concerned, you pulled the fucking trigger.”
Lou noticed a legitimate, pained look cross the man’s face, and recalled how Vaill’s agenda seemed to differ from McCall’s when they first accosted him at the Blue Ox Tavern.
“Did someone you love get killed around this?” he asked. “Is that why you’re being so hard on me?”
“Shut up,” Vaill snapped.
Lou continued to press. “Was it your daughter? A son? A wife, perhaps?”
In an explosive burst of movement, Vaill seized Lou by the shirt. Lou was ten or fifteen pounds heavier, but adrenaline took care of that. With a powerful jerk, Vaill yanked him out of his chair. McCall rushed around to pry his partner’s fingers open. Vaill slumped back and dropped into his chair, breathing heavily, his eyes daggers.
“Okay,” McCall said. “We’re going to start this dance all over again. Where did you get your information?”
CHAPTER 34
When the cause is right and just, victory is inevitable.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 161
Jennifer Lowe knew that she was going to die.
Not die someday, but die soon.
It was her fifth day in the isolation unit, only this time it was as the patient, not the nurse. She remembered one of her favorite instructors in nursing school saying that the best shortcut to being a better nurse was to be a patient. This hospitalization was definitely one of those shortcuts, except that the chance she would ever get to becoming a better nurse was remote. The sheets had become sandpaper, the meals contained nothing she wanted to eat, the time-consuming isolation procedures made it almost impossible to have her bodily needs met in any timely fashion even though her caregivers were all her friends and terrific at their jobs. And her left arm—swollen and throbbing—felt as if it were going to fall off, which, one way or another, it almost certainly was going to do.
Even the wonderful view of Boston’s skyline was becoming tiresome.
From as far back as she could remember, Jennifer had always been a positive person. When she first encountered a hospital nurse during her admission for a ruptured appendix, she knew in her heart that she was going to become one, herself—not just a nurse, she decided as she learned more about the profession, but a nurse in a physiologically demanding part of the hospital like the operating room or the ICU.
As it turned out, she fell in love with respiratory physiology and had ended up first working in White Memorial’s medical ICU, and then in the hospital’s new isolation unit. Now, irony of ironies, she was going to die in that very unit—there, or in the operating room like Becca Seabury.
It was crazy. Absolutely crazy. She was young and healthy. She had done absolutely nothing wrong. She was a spiritual person with a deep belief in God, and a commitment to helping those less fortunate than she was. And yet, as things were unfolding, hope was vanishing by the hour.
She tried to shift the position of her arm, which was now the size of a torpedo, but burning, neuritic pain, and swelling from fingers to shoulder prevented her from doing so. Instead, she pressed the button signaling her intravenous infusion pump to send down some more morphine through her peripherally inserted central IV catheter—her PICC line. It was always a surprise to find out she hadn’t yet called for the maximum narcotic the machine would allow. Well, dammit, she deserved the relief.
Jennifer knew she was in trouble just a day after the tragic death of her patient and friend Becca. The cheerleader had gone from a fairly straightforward elbow fracture to a wound infection with a virtually untreatable bacteria, labeled the Doomsday Germ by the press, to the amputation of her arm, to the spread of infection to her other limbs and her heart, and finally, to a fatal cardiac arrest on the operating room table.
That was precisely what Jennifer believed was in store for her.
Looking back now, she knew the Doomsday Germ had already entered her body by the time she stood on a riser in the operating room and witnessed the final chaotic, violent minutes of beautiful Becca’s life. The bacteria—possibly even a single germ, the ID people had told her—had gotten in through an odd little patch of eczema, or a small scrape on her hand, or maybe—irony of ironies—through a scratch caused by taking her engagement diamond on and off for work.
The ring represented Andy Gulli, her fiancé, and Andy represented the answer to her prayers. Handsome, athletic, bright, funny, and caring, he would have been the answer for most girls.
The IV beeped the new infusion of pain medicine and in seconds a reassuring warm pressure settled in her chest. The terrible aching began to abate—not vanish, it never fully did, but at least lessen. She smiled to herself as Andy’s reassuring voice made it’s way through the haze in her mind. It wasn’t really him, but it was certainly the best part of the morphine.
“Jenn?… Baby?”
I’m dying, Andy. Come and hold me and keep me from dying.
“Jenn?… Can you hear me?”
He was there—really there, gowned and gloved, hair covered and masked and shoes covered. She opened her eyes and blearily saw him standing there, looking like an alien. Had she kissed him for the last time?
“I thought you were in a dream,” she said.
“It’s the morphine. I had some when I had my knee rebuilt. There were times when I considered purposely tearing up the other knee so I could get more. I went into PT instead, and swore off basketball. How’s the arm?”
“On a scale of three, proportional to the number of antibiotics I’m on currently, that would be three. I love you, Andy.”
“I love you, too, baby.”
“Still want to marry me?”
“Of course I want to marry you. More than ever.”
“Even if I only have one arm or no arms, or no arms and no legs?”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just scared. These people are the best doctors in the world and they don’t seem to have any idea what to do. And this arm keeps getting more swollen and more painful. Tomorrow they’re going to have to slit open the skin all the way from my armpit to my fingertips just to keep the pressure of the swelling from killing the muscles and nerves.”
“I’ll check with the nurses and find out what time, and I’ll be with you when they do the procedure. Be strong.”
“It’s Becca. I can’t get her out of my mind.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Sometimes I can actually hear her calling me to come and be with her.”
“That’s just the meds and the pain, honey. You’re going to be all right.”
He didn’t believe it. She could hear it in his voice. He didn’t believe it for a second.
“Andy?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Want to know the worst thing?”
“What’s that?”
“As fast as I’m losing my arm, I’m losing my faith faster.”
CHAPTER 35
The Social Security Act disembodies us from our pioneering spirit, the very foundation of America, and it shall lead, in no uncertain terms, to new social insurance programs, which ultimately will bankrupt the country sure as the sun shall rise.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, PERSONAL CORRESPONDENCE TO NICOLE SMITH, JUNE 1936
Seven hours.
Lou remained firm, but he was fading. Each of those four-hundred-and-twenty minutes was taking a toll on his muscles and joints, as well as on his spirit. The only redeeming feature of the grueling interrogation was that the two agents—especially Tim Vaill—also seemed to be wearing down.
Lou’s primary advantage, he decided, was years on the graveyard shift, immersed in the sort of pressure that only an inner-city ER could bring. Throughout the grilling, he kept to his story, more or less improvised on the fly. He was doing research on his best friend’s situat
ion, for which he felt partially responsible. He wanted to validate something he had read, and so reconnected with Drs. Scupman and Banks, whom he had met several weeks before on a tour of their facility at the CDC. Vicki Banks had suggested meeting for a drink a couple of days later at the Blue Ox Tavern, and that was when the men in shades had shown up.
Because of the dire situation with his best friend, Lou had considered an alcoholic drink, but ultimately had ended up with a Diet Coke.
Keep it consistent. Keep it simple.
More than once during the interrogation, Lou had asked to make a phone call. Each time his request was denied. Fortunately, he had been granted a couple of bathroom breaks.
His rights, simply put, were that he had the right to be kept in this room for as long as his captors were not satisfied with his responses.
Whose law was that again?
Once, when Lou’s eyes closed and his head began lolling to one side, Chuck McCall got him a protein bar, a plastic bottle of Gatorade, and a cup of coffee from a vending machine. Other than those brief men’s room breaks, he remained imprisoned in a space not much bigger than the examining rooms at Eisenhower Memorial.
No rights … no freedom … no letup … no way out …
As they were entering the eighth hour, Vaill whispered something to McCall. Moments later, in the first real letup in their grueling routine, the younger agent rose and left the room.
“Let me guess,” Lou said. “You guys are union, and he’s going back to the hotel, right?”
“Not funny. You think we like doing this?”
“You don’t really want me to answer that.”
Lou’s voice was weaker than he had expected. A gulp of his Gatorade made no difference.
“He’s getting something to show you.”
“Do you mind if I stand? My legs are going numb again.”
“Just back away from the chair and keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Illegally held prisoner makes daring escape using child’s desk chair as weapon. I like it.”
“A smart aleck to the end.”
Not smart-ass, Lou noted. Significant? He also sensed that Vaill’s demeanor and expression might have softened a bit.
Lou rose unsteadily and backed away from the chair, hands raised. Vaill remained seated. Lou was now in something of a power position, standing tall, facing his antagonist. The agent leaned back, a distant look in his eyes. Lou had the impression that for the first time since the questioning began, the man wasn’t locked on him.
“When we first started our conversation,” Vaill said, “you asked about my wife.”
“As I recall, when I did that you tried to strangle me.”
“Believe me, doc, when I want to strangle someone, they get strangled.”
More softening … Was it just fatigue?
Vaill leaned forward, elbows on the table, and for an uncomfortable minute gazed off at nothing. When his attention returned, Lou sensed that whatever was to follow would be from the heart.
“My wife’s name was Maria,” Vaill began. “She was with the agency like me, and she was and will be the only woman I have ever loved. Alexander Burke, a mole working for One Hundred Neighbors—actually, he was probably one of them—shot her between the eyes from seven feet while he was kidnapping Ahmed Kazimi. She was dead before her knees even started to buckle. She and I were on duty together at the time, so I watched her die. After he took out Maria, Burke shot me twice. I was falling backward down a flight of stairs and had my vest on, or he would have hit what he was aiming for—heart and head. The head shot missed being lethal by like an inch. The bullet ended up between my skull and brain and was removed. His mistake.”
Vaill gestured to a thick, recent scar arcing above his right ear.
As much as Lou despised the man, he could not dismiss his genuine heartache for what he had been through. All along, Lou had sensed that Vaill’s agenda had differed from McCall’s. This was not just about investigating a terrorist threat for him—it was personal. Highly personal.
“I’m really sorry,” Lou said. “But I honestly had nothing to do with your wife’s murder.”
“Look, I’m not saying you’re one of them.”
“So you do believe me?”
“I’m just trying to get at the truth,” Vaill said, rubbing his eyes.
“And I’m just trying to save my friend’s life.”
It was apparently the right thing to have said. Vaill’s expression reminded Lou of men he had sparred against to a draw, including Cap on those rare days when the difference in their ages caught up with him. There was an exhausted, grudging admiration. Lou sat back down when he realized he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, getting revved up for another round.
“Let me ask you another way, Vaill,” he said. “You don’t honestly think I’m a terrorist, do you?”
“Believe it or not, I’m trying to keep you out of jail. But I do think you’re holding out on me. This isn’t your war, Lou. It’s ours. You’ve got to give us the ammunition you’re holding back so we can fight it.”
McCall returned at that moment with a thin manila folder, which he set down on the center of the table. Lou reached for it, but Vaill set his hand there first.
“Before I let you open this,” he said, “let me tell you what happens from here. We’re going to transfer you to the U.S. Marshal’s holding facility. You’ll still be the responsibility of the FBI until we get you in front of a U.S. magistrate at the district courthouse. When that happens will depend on when we decide we’ve had enough of you. At court, you’ll be officially charged with conspiracy and material support to a known terrorist group. At that point our job is done. You’ll be assigned a lawyer and the U.S. government will sic their most vicious doggies on investigating every moment of your life, and on getting you convicted.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Vaill glanced down at the folder. But in that instant, Lou saw a strange, bewildered look in his eyes. He was squinting as if the lights in the ceiling were painful for him. McCall, standing behind his partner, seemed unaware anything unusual was happening. Vaill tentatively drew his hand away. He looked dazed.
What in the hell is going on with him? Lou wondered.
The man, self-assured and confident throughout the entire night, was in serious pain. Lou felt the physician part of him kicking in. Something bad was going on. Vaill’s eyes closed tightly, and he began to squeeze his temples.
A stroke? Lou wondered. Some sort of hemorrhage? An expanding aneurysm?
“Vaill,” he asked. “Are you okay? Hey, McCall, something’s going on with your partner. Maybe a migraine. Maybe something worse.”
“I’m okay,” Vaill said in a near mumble, squinting against what seemed like unbearable pain. “I’ll be right back. Chuck, keep an eye on him.”
McCall was still not in position to see how un-okay the man was at that moment. His eyes tearing, Vaill stood, knocking his chair over backward, and more or less staggered from the room.
“He gets migraines,” McCall said.
“They usually come on slower than what I saw, and give some sort of warning.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“This wasn’t a typical migraine. Let me check him out. I promise I won’t try to take off. You can come.”
McCall looked bewildered.
“Just stay right there,” he said. “Vaill gets these.”
After five minutes, McCall dialed his cell, leaving it on speaker.
Vaill picked up after six rings.
“I’m okay,” he snapped. Then he hung up.
Five more minutes passed, then another five.
“All right,” McCall said. “Let’s go and—”
The door slammed open and Vaill entered, still somewhat unsteady. His eyes were bloodshot, and the odor surrounding him said he had gotten sick.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m fine. Let’s get on with this.”
“You sure
?” McCall asked.
For a moment, Lou sensed the older agent was about to explode. Instead Vaill breathed in deeply through his nose, apologized again, and took a swig of Gatorade.
“Let’s get on with this.”
Lou looked for any signs suggesting a stroke, but clearly the man was improving. Vaill slid the folder over to him, and Lou, shrugging, opened it.
It contained a picture of Emily, extracted from her Facebook page, showing her with her two best girlfriends, both of whom Lou knew well. It was taken outside of Carlton Academy, with the girls’ arms draped around one another.
“What is this all about?” he exclaimed, pushing the sheet away as if it were on fire. The odd, distant look on Vaill’s face had now vanished, and it was as if the strange episode had never happened.
“It’s what you have at stake here, Lou,” he said.
“Why are you showing this to me? How dare you bring my daughter into this cesspool?”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Vaill said, on his feet once more. “Your daughter is a very big part of this. Listen to me, Lou. You’re facing some serious charges here. Chances are you’ll go away for a long time. Don’t do this to your kid. Think about it. We’re not your enemy. I told you about my wife. I was honest with you because I care. But we’ve got a job to do, and dammit, we’re gonna do it. So study that picture. My wife is dead, this girl is very much alive. You don’t want to ruin her life or humiliate her. You want to be around to take her to a ball game, go visit colleges, or whatever else lies ahead. And you’ll be able to do those things, too—but only if you cooperate. Give me a name. Where did you get the information about the bacteriophage?”
Lou stared at Emily’s image and touched it with his fingertip. He imagined only seeing her through the Plexiglas of some federal prison visitor’s room. Everyone knew of injustices done to innocent men and women by the vagaries or intentions of the government. He also knew that Humphrey would be useless without his help, and Cap would suffer as a result. Could he simply make up a name?
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