The Judas Virus

by Don Donaldson

  “Step back, please,” Lenihan said.

  As Ash moved out of the way, he noticed that a small crowd of Monteagle employees was gathering to see what was taking place. Embarrassed, his face began to flush, and his mind took him back to a spring morning in Clayton, Alabama, a long time ago.

  “His parents threw him out with the trash. That makes him trash too. It’s even part of his name. Ash . . . T R-ash . . . T R-ash . . .”

  The taunting rang in his ears, making his face even redder and suffusing it with heat.

  He snapped back to the present, where three of the men with Lenihan were now in Ash’s car, rooting through it, violating his privacy. He looked at the small knot of people watching and whispering to each other, whispering about him.

  Lenihan moved to the trunk, slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, and inserted the key in the lock.

  Go ahead and look, you bastard, Ash thought. You won’t find anything. In addition to getting rid of all the stuff associated with his visit to the Fairborns, he’d also disposed, albeit extremely reluctantly, of all the remaining samples of Kazak hanta. So there was nothing to incriminate him. But being humiliated like this in front of people he knew was intolerable.

  The trunk opened, and Ash moved around to where he could make an appropriately sarcastic comment when Lenihan realized there was nothing in there. But as Ash moved closer, he saw something inexplicable on the floor of the trunk, and he nearly screamed out loud.

  As part of his plan to make the Fairborn murders appear to be nothing more than a burglary gone wrong, he’d taken, in addition to a lot of other things in the house, Ann Fairborn’s jewelry. Lenihan now reached into the trunk and picked up a diamond earring that had somehow fallen out of the pillowcase Ash had dumped that jewelry into.

  Lenihan examined the earring, then laid it back on the trunk carpeting. From an inside pocket of his suit coat, he produced a small clasp-top envelope that he opened and tapped into his gloved hand until the matching earring he’d found on the floor of the Fairborns’ bedroom slid into his palm. He slipped the empty envelope into a different pocket, then picked up the earring in the trunk and compared them. Finding them an exact match, he turned to tell Ash he was under arrest for the murders of Ann and Sam Fairborn, but Ash was gone.

  Lenihan looked at the small crowd of gawkers. “Did any of you see where Dr. Ash went?”

  A couple of them pointed to the garage stairwell.

  Lenihan hurried to the front of the car. “He’s on the run, boys. Kenny, stay with the car. Doug, you and Blaine come with me.”

  The three detectives sprinted for the stairwell, where Lenihan sent one of his men up while he and the other one headed down.

  AWARE THAT HE was drawing attention to himself, Ash ran along the hallway connecting the second level of the garage with the hospital. He’d taken off when he’d seen Lenihan reach into his pocket for that envelope. He hadn’t been there to see what was in the envelope, but he knew it was the matching earring he’d purposely left on the floor of the Fairborns’ bedroom to show the cops that the Fairborns had been killed by a robber, and now that very earring had come back to haunt him. Of all the things to leave in the trunk. He should have checked the trunk the next day when there was more light. The improbability that this could have happened made him want to smash something.

  But through his anger, he realized that even if they hadn’t found the second earring, there was a good chance the cops could have used Dewitt against him—promised him immunity in return for the truth. He felt sure now that if they squeezed Dewitt, he’d squeal like one of Hessman’s pigs.

  Ash pushed the door open to the south wing stairwell and clattered down the steps, brushing past two nurses coming up. He darted onto the first floor and set out in a brisk walk for the far end of the hall, fearing that at any moment he’d hear his name shouted from behind him—or in front.

  Lenihan could have had other men with him parked around the building. One could even be coming down that intersecting hallway this minute. Ash slowed to a walk and glanced behind him, then looked back the other way. Anxiously, he set out once more for the far stairwell, his eyes riveted on the corner where the other hallway might at any moment disgorge another detective.

  When he reached the dangerous intersection, he moved over to hug the wall and edged one eye around the corner for a cautious look. But all he saw was a member of the maintenance staff regluing a flap of loose wallpaper. No detectives.

  Then he was again on the move.

  At the destination stairwell, he yanked the door open and headed for the basement. Sweat running down his spine and pearling on his forehead, he emerged a few seconds later, turned to the right, and froze.

  Shit.

  Ten yards ahead, an employee from Central Supply was standing by a flatbed cart loaded with boxes, waiting for the elevator. Not wanting anyone to see where he was going, Ash stepped back into the stairwell and shut the door.

  After an appropriate wait, he checked the hall. Good. The guy was gone.

  Before anyone else could appear and get in his way, Ash hurried down the hall and disappeared into the stairwell that led to the subbasement. At the bottom of those stairs he opened a heavy metal door and confronted hell on earth: the mechanical heart of the hospital—huge generators, submarine-shaped boilers, and great air handlers groaning and hissing, pumping out heat that rolled from the open door in suffocating waves that seemed to crush Ash’s chest like a python, everything packed in so tightly there was barely room for the narrow metal grated walkway that led into the depths of the monster. Ash loosened his tie and took a couple of seconds to get his mind right, then he went inside.

  He followed the walkway deep into the room, looking for a nook where he could hide but still see anyone who came down here. He soon found such a spot—a flat metal surface up high, where he could sit with his back against a big insulated duct firm enough to support him and that wasn’t hot to the touch. In front of him, six large pipes formed a vertical wall that made it impossible for anyone on the walkway to see him. But he could look out through the tiny gaps between the pipes. Not that he could do anything about it should they find him. But it was the best he could manage.

  He stripped off his tie and briefly reflected on how much he’d paid for it. Then he looked up, wondering if there were any pipes that would support his weight if he used his tie to hang himself, because there was no way he could tolerate the shame of being led to a car in handcuffs and pushed inside.

  He knew that after you were arrested, there was an arraignment in open court where the participants practically shouted out the sordid details of the case so everyone in the place could hear. And when the media found out about his arrest, they’d be there in droves, writing about him—how he acted, how he looked. And there would be TV cameras, their operators falling over themselves so they could broadcast his picture around the country, and they’d recite the charges against him on the five o’clock news, and again at ten, and probably again the next morning.

  No, by God. He wouldn’t be humiliated like that ever again. His act of looking for an appropriate pipe from which he could hang himself was largely a symbolic gesture arising from self-pity. Because this was not the time for that. There was still work to do.

  He carefully folded his tie and put it beside him, thinking of Jimmy Demarco, his chief tormentor when he was a schoolboy. Why couldn’t Jimmy have left him alone? Instead, Jimmy chose to ridicule him, to insert himself into matters that didn’t concern him. And he’d paid for it. That was important work worth doing, making Jimmy pay. But there were still too many Jimmy Demarcos in the world.

  Lord, but it was hot in here.

  He unbuttoned his shirt to his waist, pulled it open, and began what would be a long ordeal if he wasn’t discovered.

  For the first hour, he was nervous and extremely uncomfortable, but
gradually the repetitious sounds of the machinery and the unceasing heat lulled and baked him, until, senses dulled, he lapsed into sleep.

  He woke thirty minutes later, and for a brief instant, didn’t know where he was. But then it all came back in a sickening rush. He’d perspired so much his shirt was soaked. And despite having lost all that water, he still had to pee.

  To fit into his hidey hole, he had to sit with his knees bent and his feet drawn up. Now, as he tried to shift his position, he found his legs stiff. Moving like an old man, he climbed down and relieved himself into the grated floor of the walkway, aware now that his shorts, too, were wet with sweat.

  Bladder emptied, he climbed back onto his perch, the incessant noise around him dimming his memory of what silence was like. What a horrible place this was. But that was its attraction, for no one would expect him to be hiding in such an inhospitable place. Terrible as it was, he would have to remain until after dark, which meant . . . He looked at his watch: nine thirty a.m. Another ten hours. How could he manage to stay here ten more hours?

  Suddenly, he heard a new sound over the old—the door to the room opening. His view of the doorway was blocked, so he couldn’t see Lenihan surveying the room.

  Appalled at the noise and the heat, Lenihan hesitated. Then he came inside.

  Chapter 40

  TWO STEPS INTO the machine room, the heat was far worse than it had been standing in the doorway. So bad, in fact, Lenihan didn’t think that even a man on the run for murder would choose this as a place to hide. With a final quick glance around, he turned and left.

  For Ash, time became another enemy, making him increasingly uncomfortable and draining his patience as it tried to drive him from his nest. But he remained resolute and stayed put, determined that he, not Lenihan, would decide how the final events of his life played out.

  A little after two in the afternoon, he woke from one of the fitful little snatches of sleep he’d been able to manage a couple of times each hour. He’d now lost so much fluid from sweating he had none to spare for salivation, and his mouth was as dry as a dead man’s.

  In the basement hallway there was a water fountain beside the elevator. He was sure of it. He could run up there, satisfy his raging thirst, and be back in a minute or two.

  But suppose someone saw him. Surely by now the news that he was being pursued by the police would be all over the hospital. If he was seen at the water fountain . . .

  He couldn’t risk it.

  Instead, he began to explore, looking for a water pipe with a faulty connection. And in a few minutes, he found one. But it was so close to the floor he had to lie on his back to get his mouth under the drip, which delivered only one drop of tepid water every minute or so.

  It was a precarious situation, because he was lying with his feet in the walkway, and anyone who came in would see him. This drove him back to his hiding place before his thirst was slaked, but the little water he’d been able to consume made him feel better.

  WAYNE WAS WAITING for Chris when she pulled up at the gate leading to the apartments overlooking the Cabana Grove’s pool.

  “What happened to the side of your car?” he said, getting in.

  “It got banged up when I was being chased by that guy on Stone Mountain. I’m taking it over to the insurance claims agent tomorrow.”

  “You never told me exactly what happened up there.”

  “I don’t want to think about that again.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I was surprised to get your call.”

  “Didn’t you say you wanted to have lunch?”

  “I thought you forgot.”

  “Before we go, I need to talk to you about some things.”

  “Okay.”

  She pulled into a nearby parking slot and turned to face Wayne. “The transplant virus didn’t kill those five people.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t—”

  “They were actually killed by a hantavirus that Eric Ash brought back from Kazakhstan years ago. He and Carter Dewitt, the Monteagle VP for financial affairs, conspired to infect the five who died, and you, with the Kazak virus to make it appear that the transplant virus had turned lethal.”

  “Why?”

  “To decrease value of the transplant virus in the pharmaceutical marketplace so Dewitt could steer its sale at a cut-rate price to a drug company he and Ash were in partnership with.”

  “How long have you known this?”

  “I’ve suspected there were two viruses for a couple of weeks. Actually, it was Sam Fairborn, a friend of mine from the CDC, who figured it out.”

  “Fairborn . . . Weren’t he and his wife murdered?”

  “By Ash, to cover his tracks. And that guy who assaulted me on Stone Mountain—he was hired by Ash and his friends to stop me from investigating.”

  “So Ash and Dewitt have been arrested?”

  “Ash is on the run. Detectives found evidence this morning that he killed the Fairborns, but during the search of his car, he slipped away. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they get him.”

  “Why didn’t Ash’s virus kill me?”

  “You’re immune. The respiratory illness you had in New Mexico was caused by a hantavirus. Your blood is full of antibodies against the whole hanta group.”

  “You’ve known about this other virus for two weeks, and you didn’t tell me? You let me continue to think I was responsible for those five deaths when you knew better?”

  “We’ve discussed that. Even if the transplant virus had been the cause, you couldn’t be blamed.”

  “But I felt like I was. And you knew that.”

  “When Sam Fairborn first came up with the idea that there might be two viruses involved, it was merely a guess. We had to do a lot of work to prove that was the case. And we didn’t want our efforts publicized.”

  “I’d hardly call telling me publicizing them.”

  “Do you remember saying ‘mistakes were made’ when you were interviewed on TV?”

  “So?”

  “That comment could have caused me a lot of trouble. I’m lucky none of the relatives of those who died have come after me with a malpractice suit.”

  “I agree, I shouldn’t have said that. But I was miserable, thinking I’d caused those deaths. Didn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “Of course it did. At one point I almost did call you, but then I remembered that interview. I’m sorry, maybe I should have told you. I don’t know . . . I just . . .” Chris turned and looked out the window. An awkward silence settled over the car.

  “Life can be confusing, can’t it?” Wayne said eventually. “It certainly has been for me. I wish you’d told me about Ash’s virus, but I understand. In your eyes, I’m still a disreputable sort that’s not to be trusted. But I’m going to keep working on that, and maybe, someday, we can at least be friends.”

  He got out and gently closed the door. Chris watched him as he walked to the apartment gate and disappeared through it.

  DURING THE LONG day, Ash returned to the leaking pipe many times, telling himself each trip would be the last. Finally, his long wait was over, and it was time to go. Leaving his tie behind, he went to the door and threw it open.

  The air in the stairwell was stagnant and warm, but it was so much more tolerable than the machine room, Ash found it invigorating, and the lethargy that had dogged him for hours lifted. He went up the stairs, pushed the door at the top open, and looked down the hall.

  No one in sight.

  In addition to Central Supply, which was now closed, this part of the basement housed only Radiation Oncology, which was also closed. So the chances of him being seen by anyone if he should stop at the water fountain were remote. He thought about the cold unending stream of water that could be had there by the mere press of a button,
and his dehydrated body urged him to go get it.

  But he was afraid, for the water fountain was right out in the open.

  His body and mind engaged in a brief skirmish, then, ignoring the water fountain, he darted across the hall and into another stairwell. Keeping to those parts of the hospital that were the most uninhabited at night, he made his way to the virology lab without being seen. Grateful he hadn’t given Lenihan his entire key ring in the garage that morning, he unlocked the lab door and slipped inside.

  There was no glass in the door to the hall, but Ash still left the lights off, afraid someone might see the illumination under the door and know he was there. Moving by instinct and memory, he went through the swinging door of the receiving counter and carefully moved along the central work island in the main lab, until he found the computer they used to post lab results. He switched it on.

  In a few seconds, the glowing monitor gave him enough light to navigate by. He looked for the liquid nitrogen container where, until he’d destroyed them, he’d stored the Kazak hanta samples.

  It was gone, apparently taken by Lenihan. No matter, he’d never need the thing again. Safe for the moment, he hurried to the nearest sink, turned on the tap, and drank water from his hand until his stomach pushed against his belt.

  In the machine room, heat had been the problem. Now that he was in temperate surroundings, his sweat-soaked clothing lay cold against his skin. So he went to his office and changed into a set of green scrubs he’d kept on hand for the lab work he’d been doing that he didn’t want any of his techs to know about. Then he went into the lab and got a small screw-top bottle of chloroform from one of the reagent cabinets. He took the bottle back to his office and shoved it into a pocket of the pants he’d worn all day. Carefully, he folded and rolled all his wet clothing into a tidy bundle that he secured with a couple strips of cellophane tape.

  There was no way he could return to the garage. The cops were probably waiting for him there. And his cell phone was in his car. He looked at the phone on his desk. Dare he use that? Was there a cop sitting somewhere picking his teeth and listening to any calls made from it?