The First Horseman

by John Case

  It was the known antibodies that were tagged; the visible fluorescent reaction occurred when they found the viral antigens they were specific for and locked onto them. In this case, the antigens were there, all right, but the antibodies were not finding them.

  ‘Right,’ Annie said, ‘and you know, I think it’s that . . . goo. It repels the B-cells.’

  ‘No wonder people are staying sick for so long. And you think someone’s spliced it to repress immune response?’

  ‘Well, if not to repress, at least to delay the response. I mean we are seeing those dim reactions, so maybe the B-cells eventually get the picture.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It reminds me of measles,’ Annie said suddenly. Measles was another RNA virus structurally similar to influenza. And like the influenza strain they were looking at, the measles virus interfered with B lymphocyte production of immunoglobulin.

  By the time she and Doctor K finished a conference call with Ozzie and others at CDC, Annie was exhausted. She couldn’t stop yawning. Now she understood why this flu was dragging on like it was. With her own immune response repressed, she was like an AIDS patient.

  Dr. Kicklighter was still on the phone when Annie finally packed up her briefcase. She knocked on his doorjamb and gave him a little wave before she headed out. He returned the wave without looking at her. The two of them had talked about the possibility that he might be needed to speak to the FBI, and he had agreed – if somewhat reluctantly. He was more excited about the scientific implications of the altered virus than he was concerned about what it might mean vis-à-vis the cult’s plans for the Spanish flu.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ she heard him say into the receiver. ‘It’s as if the virus is exuding Teflon, you know? I’d love to know how it was done, because if you could turn this inside out, and enhance the immune response . . .’

  Annie was very tired as she walked to her car, and despite the warm night, she shivered with cold. Cones of light shone down from the mercury vapor lamps. She could hear the surf sounds of traffic from Wisconsin Avenue and the Beltway. Whatever energy she’d had, she’d expended in the lab, and it seemed like a very long trudge through the immense and largely deserted NIH lot. She was relieved when she finally got to her Honda. She just wanted to go home and go to bed.

  She was waiting to turn into the main exit lane that would put her on Wisconsin Avenue when the car hit her. Her body jolted forward at the sharp impact. Metal crumpled against metal. The seat belt had a kind of slingshot effect, and when she reached its restraining limit, her body bounced back hard against the seat.

  Rear-ended.

  Oh . . . no, she thought, just what I need. She blew her nose and wearily unfastened her seat belt to get out and take a look. She already knew there was enough damage that she’d have to go through that whole tiresome routine of getting insurance numbers and maybe even waiting for the police.

  The young man who’d run into her was already out of his car, looking at her crumpled fender with a heartbroken expression on his face. He had a baseball cap on backward. ‘Oh man,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘My dad’s gonna kill me.’ The fender was tilted and bent. The license plate hung by one corner. Pieces of the shattered taillight lay on the asphalt. ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am. I just –’ She stood at the juncture of the cars – his big black van looming above her little Civic. The left rear wheel looked to be pinned by the crumpled fender.

  He stepped up next to her. ‘You reckon we should call the police?’

  ‘I guess,’ Annie said.

  A U-Haul truck pulled up next to them. A red-haired man leaned out the window. ‘You need help out there?’

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but got out and joined them. ‘Whoa,’ he said to the kid. ‘You really nailed her.’

  ‘Yeah, I –’

  And then the van guy threw his arm around her shoulders, crumpling her against his body, and shoved a damp, sweet-smelling rag against her mouth and nose. Wild-eyed, she saw and heard the back door of the U-Haul fly open. Panicked now, she struggled and writhed, but it only took a second and then she was inside the van. And so was someone else. And then the door closed and the lights went off inside her head.

  There was a tall cop and a short cop – a Mutt and Jeff combination that made Frank wonder who played the good cop and who played the bad cop when it came time to play those games.

  ‘You got insurance?’ Mutt asked. He was looking at the doorjamb, studying the dead bolt.

  Frank said that he did.

  ‘In that case, I’d recommend you change the locks. You’re gonna be way over the deductible anyway, and most times they cover that. You could do better than this lock.’

  He handed Frank a slip of paper with the number of the police report. ‘You got any way to find out your serial numbers – I’m talking about the computers – phone ’em on in. Although chances are, you never going to see those babies again. They chop ’em up, just like cars. This time next week, your motherboard’s in Hong Kong, your hard drive’s in Mexico.’ He nodded to his partner and they headed for the door.

  ‘That’s it?’ Carlos said. ‘That’s all you going to do? You take the fingerprints. You talk to Frank. You ask him what happened. What about me? I want to give a statement. In fact, when these men are ever apprehended, I want to press charges for assault.’

  Frank was bored, the cops were bored, but Carlos remained in a state of high excitement.

  The tall cop – whom Frank thought of as ‘Jeff’ – gave Carlos a look. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I want a police artist involved. I want the description of these men circulated. I, personally, would like to view the lineup when that time comes. I am a corroborative witness.’

  Mutt looked at Carlos. ‘You watch a lot of television, Mister . . .?’

  ‘Carlos,’ Frank interrupted, ‘I think the officers have –’

  ‘Rubini,’ Carlos said emphatically, ignoring Frank. ‘My name is Carlos Rubini. And as far as your resources are concerned, you act like this was a simple burglary, and it was not. It was a kidnap attempt. A very serious crime. A capital crime, if I’m not mistaken. You have to do something. As a citizen, I am not satisfied with your response. Look at this man.’

  Carlos jabbed a finger toward Frank. He’d cleaned up, but he looked like he’d been in a brawl. His right eye was fading to black and, on the way down the stairs, he’d ripped open the recently healed stitches in his finger and thumb. That was the biggest problem. He couldn’t seem to get it to stop bleeding. The hand was wrapped in a towel, and although this was the third one, it was still soaking through.

  The tall cop tossed Frank a ‘this guy’s a real prize’ look. ‘Seems to me,’ he said, ‘Mr. Daly disturbed these dirt-bags in the middle of a burglary. I didn’t hear anything about any weapons. So, the way I see it,’ the cop continued, ‘one man was carrying stolen objects down to the vee-hicle – which, this being Adams-Morgan, and there being a whole line of other double-parked vehicles in the way – was half a block away instead of right out front. So, we got Burglar B toting stuff to the car, Burglar A still in here scoping out what else to take – when Mr. Daly comes home. The inside man steps into the closet. I think that’s the likely scenario. When Mr. Daly reaches for the telephone to call 911, the guy comes out of the closet. So to speak. Mr. Daly?’

  Frank shrugged. ‘Sounds about right.’

  Carlos frowned and expanded his chest. ‘This is not right. Why, then, do they take Frank’s papers?’

  The short cop had been talking into a cellular telephone, and when he was finished, he had a suspicious look on his face. ‘Desk sergeant says we were out here a few days ago. Something about drugs. That have anything to do with this?’

  ‘“Something about drugs,”’ Carlos said indignantly. ‘This man is poisoned, he could have been killed, and now I’m hearing innuendo.’

  Mutt shrugged and said he didn’t mean to imply anything.

  ‘I hope not,’ Carlos said sharply.r />
  ‘They take your papers, your computer,’ Mutt said. ‘You said you’re a reporter, right?’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘So . . . you working on something . . . might get someone upset?’

  Frank wanted them to leave. The cops, Carlos, everyone. He wanted to call and see how Annie had made out at the lab, and then he wanted to go to her place and work on the thing he was writing for Gleason. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m just working on a story about the flu.’

  When the police were gone, Carlos expressed his disappointment in his squeaky, officious voice. ‘Really, Frank – you know this was not a burglary. I will tell you this: a citizenry gets the government it demands.’ He wagged his finger. ‘You should not let them get away with their slipshod ways. How will they ever do better?’

  Frank tried not to smile. ‘I’m sorry, Carlos. And I really appreciate your help. If you hadn’t come in just when you did . . . Anyway, I’m just kind of wrecked.’

  ‘I am going to speak to the super about installing a new exterior lock downstairs. Will you support me in this?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Carlos said, ‘that someone can just waltz in here,’ He gestured to Frank’s hand, ‘You want me to drive you to the emergency room? I think you should have stitches.’

  ‘That’s all right. My girlfriend can take me there later.’

  Annie’s phone was busy. Frank threw some water on his face and carefully cleaned off the blood with a washcloth. Then he poured half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over his hand and watched it fizz up into pink froth around the cuts in his finger and thumb. He wrapped them up in gauze and fastened it with adhesive tape.

  Annie’s phone was still busy, so he headed down the stairs and drove to her place. If she wasn’t home, Indu would let him in, and he could wait for her. And when he knocked, it was Indu who answered. She pulled aside the curtain and peered out at him, then quickly unlocked the door.

  ‘Annie’s not here, Frank,’ she said, her forehead creased into a frown. ‘In fact, I’m a little worried. Please,’ she added, stepping to the side and pulling the door open. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Worried,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  In the hall light, she got a good look at him. ‘Oh my goodness, what happened to you?’

  He ignored that. ‘Why are you worried about Annie?’

  Indu’s smooth brown face knotted up into a puzzled frown. ‘The police called about her car.’

  ‘What about her car?’

  ‘They found it in the NIH lot – abandoned.’

  Frank felt as if the air had gone out of the room. ‘Abandoned,’ he said.

  ‘Well, they said it had been in a fender bender of some sort. But – Annie – why would she not call a tow truck? She’s not going to just leave her car there, Frank. I’m worried that she was hurt, that maybe she’s in the hospital.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘They called, oh, just half an hour ago.’

  He spent the next hour on the phone. First he hit all the hospitals. Annie was not in any emergency room. Then he called the police – D.C., Bethesda, Park Police, Maryland cops. No one had called 911 or the alternative ‘nonemergency’ number to report the accident. NIH security had spotted the car and reported it to the police.

  ‘I’m really worried, Frank. What if she’s – I don’t know, wandering around, dazed or something.’ She hesitated and brightened. ‘Maybe she’s at your house – you think it’s possible?’

  He called. No, she wasn’t there, but maybe she’d left a message. The phone had been knocked off the hook in the struggle. If she’d called while it was off the hook, she’d have gotten his voice mail. He called it, tapping in the number for his mailbox. The neutral female voice informed him that he had three messages. The first two were from Annie – her flipped-out calls from Atlanta, raving about archival flu and tests. He’d forgotten to delete them.

  The third call was only half an hour old, and it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck when he heard it. The voice was mechanically altered, an electronic drone that surged through the phone with an inhuman timbre.

  Missing something?’ There was a rat-a-tat-tat laugh. And then, a hideous, mock version of part of Annie’s message from the night before: ‘Oh, Frank, I wish you were there. I hate talking to machines.’ The rat-a-tat-tat laugh again. ‘So here’s the deal. You want to see your girlfriend again? Take a walk in the light, buddy.’

  ‘What?’ Indu said, when he hung up the telephone. ‘Did she call? What is it?’

  ‘I think she’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘What?’ Her big brown eyes were wild under the knotted eyebrows. But he was up and on his way out the door. ‘Frank! Where are you going?’

  He stopped long enough to ask the terrified Indu to file a missing person’s report and ran out to his car. He jumped into the Saab and cranked and cranked, but the engine wouldn’t catch. Fuck! In frustration, and forgetting the two injured fingers, he slammed his hand hard against the dashboard, A stab of pain shot through his hand, followed by a deep ache that seemed to pin him against the seat for a second.

  And then he was out, and running. The streets of Mount Pleasant and Adams-Morgan were crowded, as always, and he was weaving in and out of alarmed yuppies and puzzled kids and worried-looking women, making deft cuts and swerves and dangerous slashes between moving cars. A panhandler stationed outside the McDonald’s put his hand up like a traffic cop. ‘Hey!’

  He was obsessed with the idea that he had to get to his phone before anyone else called to leave a message. The thing was, he knew the fuckhead who’d left the message would certainly have blocked Caller ID using *67. But Frank had a voice-mail system called Omnipoint, which circumvented the blocking device and displayed the number of the last caller. Thank God he’d hung up before the system answered when he’d called from Annie’s. He pounded up his stairs, and there it was. A 914 exchange.

  He headed for his computer, hoping to check the number on his reverse directory. And then he remembered that he didn’t have a computer.

  Carlos hesitated before letting Frank in, but then grudgingly opened the door. The thing was, Carlos was the ultimate computer geek, with the newest and best of everything, and within two minutes he’d chased down the number for Frank. ‘It is a Poughkeepsie number,’ Carlos said in his high-pitched voice. ‘In New York. For Martin Kramer Associates. Do you know these people?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Frank said. ‘I know him.’ Frank flashed back to their lunch at Fernacci’s. Coupla squirrels, Kramer said. Bigots. Paranoid. Looking under the rugs for land mines.

  ‘You want the address?’ Carlos asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ Frank said. ‘I know where he lives.’

  28

  HE THOUGHT ABOUT calling the feds, but after Waco and Ruby Ridge, the Bureau did not inspire confidence where hostage-rescue operations were involved. He’d try a different tack.

  Half an hour later he stapled the JetPak closed. It contained the diskette from his refrigerator, with all the information that he’d compiled about the Temple, the Spanish flu, and Luc Solange. It also held a memo, hastily composed on Carlos’s computer, which sketched out the information not on the diskette – up to and including what Annie had said about the MMWRs, her guess that the recent outbreaks were dispersal tests, her kidnapping, and his own plans. Knowing Gleason’s relentless skepticism, he included his voice-mail codes so the FBI agent could listen to the threatening message from the Temple, which he had not deleted.

  Carlos (the Citizen) Rubini solemnly promised to deliver the package to Gleason’s office at Buzzard Point the following morning. Carlos was starry-eyed with excitement at Frank’s insistence that the less he knew, the safer he would be. Carlos was to insist that Gleason himself should come down to fetch the JetPak. If Gleason was not there, Carlos would say that it was a matter of urgency, a national security matter, and that the JetPak must be delivered to Gleason instantly.
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  ‘Don’t worry, Frank,’ Carlos said, eyes gleaming. ‘I will make certain this reaches Mr. Gleason. I knew that was not a simple burglary. I was not fooled.’

  With his fallback position taken care of, Frank thought about going across the border to Virginia and buying a gun. But then he discarded the idea. A gun might be useful, but only if he had a functioning right hand. Just driving was going to be enough of a challenge.

  And as for driving, he decided not to screw around with the Saab. What if it crapped out on him somewhere along the way? Besides, an automatic would be easier to handle. So he grabbed a taxi to National, rented a car from Budget, put his head down and drove. North.

  By the time he hit Delaware, a hard rain was pounding the windshield. The side windows kept fogging up. The car was hydroplaning. He was propelled by an irrational sense that as long as he pursued Annie, as long as he was intent on her rescue, she’d be okay. It was magical thinking, but it was what kept him going, speeding steadily north in the rain.

  He fought off images of what might be happening to her. He fought off Benny Stern’s voice in his head. You know the one thing they never did: they never tried to kill me. But they would have if I’d been anything more than a nuisance. He played music – loud – and concentrated on driving. Every now and then a big semi rocked by, smashing the windshield with water, obliterating his vision. Because it was a distraction and took him away from his worries, he almost enjoyed his own terror at these moments: he was sightless, in a tunnel of noise, hurtling through the rain.

  He pulled into Lake Placid at about four A.M. It had finally stopped raining. Then he was on the other side of town, driving through the country, passing only a few houses. The older ones stood close to the road; the newer ones were set back at the end of long driveways. Once his headlights caught a clutch of deer in a field, just by the edge of the road. They stood motionless as he approached, and then they bolted into the darkness. There were no lights, anywhere, in any of the houses. Not a porch light, not the blue shimmer of a television, nothing. The rain had stopped and the landscape glowed under a fat moon that cast a ghostly radiance on the rolling terrain. Once out of town, he didn’t pass a single car. The emptiness pressed down on him. I’m alone in the world, he thought. Everyone else is dead.