Weapon of Choice

by Patricia Gussin

  Encouraged by this report and knowing he desperately needed sleep, Victor chose to defer his hospital visit until first thing in the morning.

  He’d checked his cultures and secured the tubes again inside his carry-on before climbing into the hotel bed, and setting the clock for six a.m. Exhausted as he was, he remained awake, tossing and flailing as he replayed in his mind the past month. Matthew’s arrival in his life. His covert ticokellin research. His hospital visit to Kantor. Everything churned in his head until he got up, snapped open his briefcase, and pulled out a pad of lined paper.

  Had he forgotten anything important? Was his timing right? Would he be able to get close enough to Norman Kantor to infect him? Would the onset of infection be rapid enough? Would anybody see him administer the dose?

  Was there any way the bacteria possibly could be traced back to him? Victor scrawled notes to himself. No question he was doing the right thing. The bastard had denied Matthew a lifesaving drug. He did not deserve to live.

  At four a.m., still unable to sleep, Victor called the hospital again. He spoke to the same nurse, and she reported that Matthew had stayed off the ventilator, and was breathing comfortably on his own. Then Victor knelt at the bedside in his hotel room and prayed. Matthew believed in God—Cindy had raised him as a Catholic—but Victor didn’t know any Catholic prayers except snippets of the Lord’s Prayer. He repeated them over and over before he climbed into bed again and drifted off to sleep.

  Victor woke to the noisy alarm clock. Thanksgiving Day. Retribution Day.

  He got out of bed and, even before taking a shower, rechecked his cultures. They looked healthy, as well they should, in their nutritious broth now at room temperature. After replacing the glass tubes in his carry-on, he dressed in light-gray slacks and the new aquamarine-color shirt that Matthew had given him for his birthday. Before heading for the hospital, he went over the notes he’d made in the middle of the night. Holding the paper in his hands, he blinked once, then again, as a jolt of acid erupted from his stomach, burning the length of his esophagus. The omission in his plan was so blatant that it terrified him. Could he have been so fixated on harming Norman that he’d left Matthew vulnerable.

  He needed to get Matthew out of that hospital before the lethal staph took hold. Picking up the hotel phone, he called information and within minutes was connected with a medevac provider. Yes, they had the resources to transport a patient such as he described. He left out the HIV part of Matthew’s condition. Yes, they’d meet him at Tampa City Hospital. Next Victor called the HIV specialist at George Washington University Hospital, a physician who had collaborated with the NIH on joint projects. Plans for Matthew’s transfer were efficiently confirmed.

  Arrangements made, Victor headed to Tampa, his cultures tucked away in the carry-on.

  No matter how hard hospitals try to look cheery for the holidays, they never succeed. The struggle between life and death doesn’t take breaks. The staff is cut to almost skeletal levels. The unlucky ones manning the floors just wanting to be home with their own families. Subpar morale—and service not peak, either. Victor hoped that the Thanksgiving staffing level would help him implement his scheme.

  By the time Victor arrived at the seventh floor ICU desk, the nurse who had attended Matthew last had already left. The arriving nurse was getting ready to take report for the new shift, but she offered to check on Matthew first.

  “Your son is doing well,” she reported. “Still sleeping, and his blood gases off the ventilator are okay.”

  Before Victor could ask anything more, the clerk manning the desk announced, “We’re ready for report.” Turning to Victor, she said, “Why don’t you wait inside the ICU, sir?”

  Enter the ICU. Had he heard correctly? Access to the main ICU had been the weak link in his plan. The clerk who’d just come on duty was clueless of the fact that Matthew Mercer, the patient they were discussing, was in an isolation room, not in the main ICU.

  Victor knew he would have to act before anyone noticed him. He thought he had maybe five minutes, maximum. No way he could have predicted exactly how he’d implement the inoculation phase, but he knew without a doubt that speed, precision, and safety were essential. The staph he’d cultured was so virulent that he could not risk even one organism straying from his target.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28

  THANKSGIVING DAY

  Pounding on his bedroom door awakened Charles Scarlett on Thanksgiving morning.

  “Wake the fuck up and let me in,” Banks’s voice shouted.

  What the heck was he doing up at the crack of dawn? Banks usually slept until noon, especially after an all-nighter. And he never came out of his basement cave. Since nobody else lived in the house proper, Charles slept in the nude, never locking his bedroom door. Before he could throw on a pair of shorts, Banks was in the room. Not his usual lethargic self, but hands on hips, agitated, black eyes glaring, shoulder length hair a glossy auburn brown.

  “You serious about that germ shit you talked about last night or you just blowing smoke up my ass?” he asked. Charles fumbled to tie the drawstrings of his old workout shorts.

  He hadn’t slept much, second-guessing himself. Could he uphold his oath to The Order? Could he carry out the plan that he’d proposed to Banks last night? Did he have the balls to walk into his high-security laboratory, cause a distraction or whatever, and walk out with a vial of a flesh-eating staphylococcus that could resist any antibiotic? Bacteria so deadly it was considered a potential bio-weapon and was protected by armed guards, 360-degree cameras, and electronics to monitor sound and motion. Charles had security clearance and he knew the exact placement of every culture and every camera. And now, with Stacy Jones being promoted—how could he even accommodate to that word, that concept—he would be in control of the incubator system for the department. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Maybe that promotion was the key to unlock a momentous opportunity. But the bravado that had braced him when he’d presented his proposal last night, eluded him this morning as Will Banks got in his face, so close that Charles could smell his rank breath.

  “Chuckie, I’m talking to you, not the fucking wall.” Nobody but Banks ever called him “Chuckie” and then only to annoy him. “You gonna do this or not? I’m goin’ in today. Meetin’ with the leadership. You know what I’m talkin’ about. These guys are the true patriots. I’m gonna tell them that you got the weapon they been lookin’ for.”

  “Me?” Last night, Banks had seemed to like Robertson’s nuclear material better than Charles’s staph organisms.

  “Yeah, you, dickhead. You better not be shittin’ me about how those germs can kill.”

  Charles hated vulgar language. A Southern gentleman did not need to resort to such filth. “The cultures that I control are deadly, but Russell—”

  “I don’t give a fuck about Robertson and his shit. He was wafflin’, couldn’t commit. Besides, his radioactive nuclear goes missin’, you got a real mess. I had to test him—he failed.”

  Charles wondered what that meant.

  “You got your test tube of bacteria,” Banks continued, “you let it out, you get yourself out, you are home free. Ain’t that what you said, Chuckie? Ain’t that what you were braggin’ on last night?”

  So Banks had been listening to his plan to exploit his research, to release his bioweapon to The Order.

  “Hey, I just woke up, Will, I have to think this over, I mean—” What did he mean? Would he go through with this or not?

  “No, Chuckie. You are called to action. Now. As of today, this cell is just you and me. Robertson’s taken out.”

  Taken out? The guy had been equivocating last night, had been like that for the past few months, but taken out? Sweet Jesus. He had a wife and two kids. Taken out?

  “God,” Charles grappled with the reality of what he was about to pledge. “I guess I can do it. I have to make a definite plan for how to get the bacteria out of the lab. The strain is extrem
ely potent. You have to replate it every eighteen hours or it will just die. Like I told you last night. It acts ultrafast. Infects. Kills. Dies out. Unless it’s passed on to a fresh host before it dies out. I mean, that’s what we think. The only reason we grew it in the first place was so if we ever need to, we could come up with antidotes to mutations in the real world. But this strain has never been in a human.”

  “Don’t you worry about humans,” Banks said. “That’s gonna be decided by The Order. The leadership will pick the right guinea pigs for your mean-ass little bugs.”

  Charles had sunk back down on his plush king-size bed. So his time had come. He’d been selected for a job. This is what he’d wanted, but—“Russell?” Charles could not help but ask.

  “Viewing is Friday night at Briarman Mortuary. You were such good Wednesday night buddies; you need to show your face. His missus will be expectin’ you to show up, won’t she?”

  “God, Will, this is a lot—”

  Banks took a step closer, anger flashing in his black eyes. “You tellin’ me you gonna chicken out. Because if you do, you’ll end where Robertson is. You hear me, Chuckie? We clear on that?”

  Charles stood up, absorbing Russell Robertson’s fate, stunned by Banks’s unveiled threat.

  “How will you let me know?” he asked. “Like, when do I need to produce it? Where?”

  But maybe Charles wasn’t scared. Maybe the shaky sensations traveling up and down his body signaled pure excitement. Isn’t this what he’d wanted? A means to prove himself, finally?

  “Today is Thanksgiving,” Banks mused, “yeah, The Order’s leadership will be meeting. I will be back with the plan. Tonight. Be ready. Lot of shit going down—time’s short for The Order. Got to make a stand soon, real soon.”

  Charles remained sitting on the edge of the bed as Banks left. Not until he heard the roar of the Harley did he move. This was his chance. What he’d considered a demeaning assignment had turned to his advantage. He was the designated scientist in charge of the department cultures today. Except for the usual security personnel manning the cameras, he’d be alone in the incubator. Not a major problem to duplicate a culture line and secrete it until The Order says Go. Banks had said soon. Charles would be ready.

  Charles had been surprised at first that The Order had chosen him, not Robertson. Charles and Robertson had not been friends; Charles had no friends. But Russell had been a decent type, respectful, a Southern gentleman. Charles had sensed that Robertson had lost his passion for The Order, and Banks had picked that up, too. For certain Banks was The Order’s enforcer. And now Russell Robertson was dead.

  Charles had no options. If he failed, he’d end up laid out at Briarman Mortuary. He wondered how his parents would feel. They might be ambivalent about whether he lived or died. But if he were dead, the manner of his death, death with honor or death as a coward, that would mean everything to them. For once, he would not disappoint them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28

  THANKSGIVING DAY

  Laura sat in the back seat of the Oldsmobile wagon between Nicole and Patrick, letting Mike drive and Kevin ride shotgun. The four kids bantered as if the older boys never had gone away to college, but Laura felt uncomfortable. If she didn’t have all five kids around her, she never felt quite right. She’d doubted she ever could shake the trauma of almost having lost her kids and her career seven years ago. But Steve, she had lost Steve. Now she questioned the wisdom of leaving Natalie behind. Her clinical instincts said Natalie did not have a surgical abdomen, yet the vomiting seemed excessive for a simple gastroenteritis.

  “Mom?” Laura felt Nicole’s elbow poke her in the ribs.

  “What?” What had she missed?

  “Mike said he wants to invite a friend from Notre Dame to come down over Christmas break.”

  “Nicole’s already salivating,” Kevin said. “Fresh meat—a Domer in the house.”

  Nicole reached over the seat to punch Kevin in the shoulder. Kevin swiveled, fists in the air, mock boxing mode. Just like old times, Nicole and Kevin going at it.

  “What friend, Mike?” Laura said. “I must have zoned out. I’m really worried about Natalie.”

  How she missed life with all five kids at home. Would they ever be all together again; living together? Unlikely. She needed to reconcile herself to this. They’d finish college, maybe go to grad school, then move into their own places, get married, have their own kids.

  “A guy in my dorm. I want to invite him down for New Year’s.” Mike made friends easily and used to fill her house with boisterous buddies. “His family lives in Grosse Point, near Detroit. Crappy weather there, so—”

  “That’ll suck,” said Patrick. “Kev will have to move into my room.”

  “That’s right, you spoiled little runt.” Patrick actually was bigger than Kevin now, but to Mike and Kevin, he’d always be the baby.

  Patrick started to reach over the seat to pummel Kevin, but Laura pulled him back. “Of course that would be okay, Mike. What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Paul Monroe. Nice guy. Patrick, he’ll kick your butt on the baseball field. His brother is Scott Monroe. He’s with the Yankees.”

  “That’ll be the day. I’ll show—”

  But Laura didn’t hear the rest. Paul Monroe? Grosse Point? David’s brother, Nick, had four sons. She knew their names: Scott, Jonathon, Paul, and Bobby. She’d seen pictures. She’d actually seen them, dressed in tan slacks and navy jackets, filing out of the church at David’s funeral. Her son Mike had been seven years old, the same age as Paul, Nick’s third son. And now they’d met at Notre Dame.

  “Mom?” Nicole again, shaking her arm. “What’s the matter with you? You’re all sweaty.” Laura wiped her hands on her shorts. “You’re sick, too?”

  “Must have caught it from Natalie,” Kevin said. “I wondered what was wrong with her last night. Unlike you,” he touched Nicole’s shoulder, “she’s not a moody one.”

  “Mom,” Mike interrupted, “do you have a problem with me bringing Paul home?”

  “Maybe his brother can get us spring training tickets for the Yankees?” Patrick fantasized. “Oh, man, would I like to meet Scott Monroe!”

  The drive from Tampa to Anna Maria Island took sixty-five minutes. Mike drove while the others clowned around. Laura closed her eyes, hoping that they’d assume she’d fallen asleep. Mike’s innocent request had reopened a closed chapter in her life. Inside that chapter was an explosive, destructive secret.

  Once Mike pulled the Oldsmobile into her parents’ driveway, Laura had no more time for reflection. So much catching up to do. She rushed into her parents’ two-story Key West-style home on Key Royale. Charming, just the sight made her smile. She’d see her sister whom she hadn’t seen for a year, her brother-in-law, and French-speaking seven-year-old nephew; her little brother, now a Jesuit missionary doing a stint in Rome, and her proud parents.

  Amid the chatter of the family reunion, the phone rang. Her mom answered, “It’s Tim,” she announced.

  Laura jumped up from the chaise lounge on the patio to grab the phone. Natalie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28

  THANKSGIVING DAY

  Victor Worth surveyed the surgical ICU: seven beds, arranged in a semicircle. Behind each bed stood an array of equipment and monitors that emitted a cacophony of random rhythmic chirps. Movable partitions separated the patients. These patients had practically no privacy, but that would hardly matter for Victor’s maneuver. Most everyone in the unit looked either unconscious or asleep.

  An empty, straight-back chair stood next to each bed. During shift changes, Victor knew, no visitors were allowed inside the ICU, they were asked to relocate to the waiting room until the nurses finished report. Lucky opportunity for him; the holiday staff deficit and the clerk’s obvious desire to dismiss him from her desk lent him freedom of movement. He needed to appear as if he belonged there so as to not attract the
attention of the four staff still in the room: a cleaning lady, mopping in the far corner, three aides clustered around a young boy’s bed, one fussing with his catheter bag, the other two changing the sheets.

  But any minute the ICU would be teeming with personnel. Better move now.

  Trying to avoid drawing attention with sudden gestures, Victor made for the nearest bed and took inventory. Norman’s bed had been moved across the room, as far as it could be from where he stood—and right next to the boy’s bed where the three aides were working. He had to stall a bit.

  Victor inched his way into the chair by the nearest bed; he would sit quietly as if he were the patient’s loved one. The patient was unconscious and hooked up to a noisy ventilator. The cleaning lady mopped with her back to him; for now, no one was paying him any attention. But he’d have to wait longer.

  “Don’t forget the patient in isolation,” he heard one of the aides say from across the room. “We still have him, and he takes three times as long as the others, what with putting on all that protective crap we have to wear.”

  “He’s got some horrible disease,” her coworker answered, “but now that he’s awake and all, seems to be a nice guy.” The aides chatted, still oblivious to Victor.

  He stiffened. They were talking about Matthew. So he was awake? Victor almost bolted out the door, across the hall into Matthew’s isolation room, but he did not move. His goal was retribution. His resolve had not weakened. Another few minutes. Just a few more minutes. Victor eased down in his chair.

  After stuffing soiled sheets into a laundry bag, the two aides moved toward the door.

  Then a realization jolted Victor so violently that he felt lightheaded. What if somehow, the lethal bacteria could be tracked to him? He’d been seen in the ICU talking to Norman. Would somebody make the connection? Norman Kantor and Victor Worth: former colleagues; lethal staphylococci. If he was implicated—Matthew had no one but him. Victor could not take the chance of getting caught. Not now.