by Jon McGoran
As I watched, the taillights appeared again, much smaller, on the other side of a barn. Then they disappeared behind a gentle rise.
Across the street was the abandoned farm with the tax issues—the Denby place, Nola had called it. I pulled up into the driveway and parked in the back. Careful to look both ways, I darted across the street and kept running, across the fields, in the direction Rupp had driven.
My internal compass was spinning, as it had been since I’d come out to Dunston, but I knew we were heading east—toward the farm next to Nola’s property, toward the big tent where I’d almost been shot two days earlier.
65
As I topped the rise behind the barn, I saw the Mustang’s taillights, bouncing and jostling over the dirt road fifty yards ahead of me. Running low through the tall weeds, I stayed back from the road itself. The lights disappeared and reappeared several times as I chased them over the rolling landscape. I came up a small rise and saw Rupp stopped at a fence below. The fence extended as far as I could see, and I wondered if it was connected to the fence next to Nola’s farm. As I dropped to the ground and watched, a large section of fence slowly rolled to the side. Rupp drove through, and I paused, watching longingly as it rolled back into place. I was getting really sick of climbing that damn fence, but I ran along it until it disappeared behind some trees, so I could climb it with some kind of cover.
Once inside, I crept along quietly, until I found myself looking down on the compound. The huge white tent extended off to the left, and the trailer sat at an angle next to it, extending off to the right: the area where the trees had been extended out from where the tent and the trailer met, like the third spoke of a three-spoked wheel.
The same two pickup trucks were sitting on the gravel. Parked next to them, Rupp’s shiny Mustang looked as out of place as ever.
Two guys armed with assault rifles were standing at the foot of the steps to the trailer, on the side facing away from the tent. Rupp was talking to them, waving his hands in the air. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I could hear the stress in his voice.
The guys with the rifles were at least a head taller than Rupp, and they stood close, looking down at him. Rupp made a move to go around them and up the steps to the trailer, but one of them stepped in front of him to block his way.
I could hear the guards laughing as Rupp protested. Then a guy with a shaved head appeared at the trailer door, and they stopped. I couldn’t hear what he was saying either, but he barked and they snapped to attention. He waved Rupp up the steps, and together they retreated into the trailer.
I wanted to get behind that trailer and listen in on their conversation, but if I ran straight over there, they’d see me for sure. Instead, I took off in the opposite direction, circling all the way around the complex, around the far end of the tent. As I rounded the tent, I heard a noise and dropped into a crouch.
I had never felt the hairs on my neck stand up, but I felt like a Rhodesian Ridgeback as a guy in a full hazmat suit emerged from the tent, pausing under the spray of a hazmat shower. He must have been under there for a full minute; then the spray stopped and he stepped out. He shook off the excess and removed his hood as he disappeared around the far side of the tent.
I circled even farther out into the corn stubble so I wouldn’t be seen. As I rounded the tent and the far side of the trailer came into view, I saw another hazmat shower, out past the edge of the gravel.
I waited another few seconds. Then I sprinted toward the trailer, creeping up to the middle of it, right about where the door and steps were on the other side. Standing in the middle of the angle formed by the tent and the trailer, I was very aware that if anyone discovered me, I would be cornered.
I could hear Rupp and the other guy going back and forth inside the trailer. The windows were too high to look in, but I found an old cinder block off to the side and I moved it over. Balancing on top of it, I was just high enough to look in the window and listen to what they were saying.
“Probably bullshit,” the bald guy was saying, “but it don’t matter, because we ain’t changing shit without Levkov’s say so. He’s the boss.”
Rupp looked insulted. “What do you mean, he’s the boss? He’s not my boss. We’re both the boss.” He seemed to be having a hard time maintaining his accent.
“Well, what can I tell you. He’s my boss. Look, if you want, I can call him—”
“No, Leo, you dumbass! The phones are tapped. You can’t call him.”
“I guess we’ll wait till he gets here, then.”
“We can’t wait, either. Carrick said the bust is imminent. We have to move things up.”
“Look, if Levkov says we’re moving it up, we’ll move it up. But if not, what’s the difference? Today, tomorrow, whatever.”
“The difference, you idiot, is the difference between them showing up in the middle of the fucking release, or them finding a bunch of bulldozers building cheap houses.”
Now the bald guy was stepping up close to Rupp, looking down at him just like the two guards had done. “Now, you look here, little dick. You watch how you fucking talk to me, okay?”
Rupp looked like he had something really smart to say. Maybe he figured it was even smarter not to say it, but I never found out, because the cinder block I was perched on suddenly crumbled. I pitched forward, my outstretched hands slamming against the side of the trailer. I heard a commotion inside the trailer, then the door banging open on the far side, followed by shouting.
Hemmed in by the trailer and the tent, my only escape was the open space off to my left. But even if I made it, a single burst from one of those assault rifles would cut me in half before I could hope to get away. At any second, gunmen were going to come streaming around the end of the trailer and probably around the tent as well. Frantically, I looked around for a place to hide. Ten yards away, up against the tent, was that big gas tank. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, but it was the only shot I had.
I took off, trying to ignore the agonizing tingle up and down my back as I anticipated for a hail of bullets. I slid behind the tank, but the back of it was smooth and flat. There was nothing to hold on to, no way to pull up my feet. There was a hook holding the fuel hose, but it was too flimsy to support me and would have left my hand exposed. Other than that, the closest thing to a handhold was a ridge of peeling paint that came away in my hand as soon as I touched it. If there’d been a solid wall behind me, I could have braced myself between it and the tank, pulled up my legs and stayed hidden for a while. But with the tent, there was nothing to brace against.
They wouldn’t take long to find me back here.
I could see a flicker of flashlight beams, and the voices grew louder as the gunmen got closer. I could picture them spreading out, creeping warily toward me. A couple of them might have gone out across the field, in case I had gotten enough of a head start to make it that far. But the others were coming toward me.
I took out my gun, but didn’t risk the noise of cocking it. When they got close enough, I’d try to take them by surprise—maybe down one or two of them before the rest tore me to pieces, or until someone shot the gas tank and we all went up.
It was the closest thing to a plan I could come up with, but it sucked. Mikhail’s description of my life notwithstanding, I didn’t want to die. But it was looking more and more like that’s what was going to happen.
The notion flashed through my mind that my entire family would then be gone: my mom, my dad, and me, all in the space of six weeks. A wave of memories washed over me, happy times, trips to the beach, sledding with my dad. Well, not my dad, but Frank.
I tried to picture my dad: playing catch with him, or hiking by the creek, sitting through a Star Wars triple feature. But all those memories were of Frank. I tried to conjure memories of my dad, but all I could come up with were images from photos, one Christmas morning, and now that restraining order. That and the hole he left behind. My eyes blurred, and I thought to myself, “Now?”
The voices were getting closer, and I knew if I let the gunmen get much nearer, they would shoot me down like a cow at slaughter.
Looking down at my feet lined up behind the stanchion holding up the tank, I made a deal with myself: The moment a flashlight beam played across my boots, that would be my cue to go down in a blaze of glory.
That was when I glanced at the tent and saw the patch over the jagged hole in the plastic sheeting from my previous escape. The image of the hazmat suit standing under the shower gave me another chill, but it was the only chance I had. I dropped to the ground, tore open the patch, and squeezed into the tent.
66
For a moment, I lay motionless between the potting table and the plastic, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and listening. But it was quiet.
Part of me wanted just to stay here, hidden and quiet. Eventually they’d find the hole, though, and then they would find me. If my plan was to hide and be quiet, it would have to be somewhere else.
The smell of the place was more intense than I remembered, and I could hear the hum of a fan. The air was warmer, and it tickled my nose, made me want to sneeze. As I rolled out from under the table, I could see dim light filtering down through the plastic ceiling. A haze hung in the air. It reminded me a little of the mist from the crop duster, but this had a heavier, denser feeling. Darker.
Through it, I could detect faint movement, a sensation of motion just out of sight. I looked down at the ground, squinting in the darkness, making sure I wasn’t about to trip over anything as I stepped closer to the flowers growing on the rack closest to me. Then I realized I wasn’t looking at flowers. I was looking at butterflies. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them.
Then the lights came on. Everything got brighter, but it remained as colorless as the darkness—a dull, ugly grayish green. The walls, the plants, the pots of flowers, everything. Including me. My hand and my arm were the same color as everything else.
Before I could move, a muffled voice said, “Hold it right there, fuckhead.”
I turned to see one of the guys from outside, now wearing a white hazmat suit that looked blindingly bright compared to everything else in there. He approached with his assault rifle, maybe an M4, tucked under his arm and pointed at my middle.
Turning back, I saw Leo, the one Rupp had been arguing with in the trailer, approaching from the other direction in his own hazmat suit.
“Hands up,” the first guy said.
I thought about making a move, but decided against it. As I complied, I rubbed my thumb and fingers together. The grayish green powder felt greasy between them. My shirt and my pants were covered with the same stuff.
Leo came up behind me, gave me a quick pat down. As he took my gun and tucked it into his utility belt, Rupp appeared at the end of the row.
“Carrick?” he said with a smug look on his face. He wasn’t wearing a hazmat suit. He was holding a gun, maybe a .22. It looked heavy and unfamiliar in his hand. He laughed. “Jesus, look at you. You’ve got a dose on you that would kill an army.”
He walked past me, giving me a wide berth, and stopped at the standpipe next to where I had come in. Stooping without taking his eyes off me, he disconnected the hose from the overhead sprinkler system and turned the faucet on. A thick stream of water spurted out from the hose.
“I don’t know how many times I’m going to be able to keep saving your life,” he said as he put his thumb over the end of the hose and started spraying me. “Now, hold still.”
I recoiled when the cold water hit me, but I was relieved as well. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but the stuff he was rinsing off me had a bad vibe, and I was glad to be rid of it. For an instant I worried about my phone getting wet, but I remembered it was still in the truck, plugged in to the charger.
“We spend all this money on containment,” Rupp continued. “The negative air pressure, the chemical shower that’s ninety-nine point nine percent effective at killing the spores, all trying to make sure this stuff doesn’t somehow get out, and you come in like an idiot and cut a hole in the tent.”
The water running off me was cloudy and green.
Rupp lowered the hose. “Turn around.”
When I did, I found myself looking at Leo’s face through the faceplate of his hazmat suit. He had a sheen of sweat on his skin, and he seemed fidgety, like he was uncomfortable in the suit. I gave him a friendly smile as Rupp hosed off my back.
Leo kept his eyes on me but spoke out of the side of his mouth. “You know this guy?” he asked Rupp.
“Yes. He’s a cop,” Rupp replied.
Sometimes, when they find out you’re a cop, they’re a little scared, because they don’t want to get busted, and they know that people who mess around with cops tend to get caught. Sometimes they don’t care, because what they’re up to is so bad that killing a cop on top of it won’t make things much worse. Sometimes they’re happy, because some crazy bastards really don’t like cops, and they’re always looking for a chance to hurt one. This guy smiled.
“In fact,” Rupp continued, “this is the cop Mikhail was supposed to take out. You remember, when he didn’t come back?”
Leo shot Rupp a look. Then he turned back to me and his eyes narrowed. He took a step back, and his suit rustled as he tightened his grip on his M4.
I had a feeling he’d like me even less if he found Mikhail’s body.
“So, what brings you here, Carrick?” Rupp said, making a show of turning the hose off, cocky, like he was in control of the situation. “Just can’t seem to not be a cop, huh? Even when you know it could cost you your job.”
“I’d ask you the same thing, Rupp. Bit of a backwater for a hotshot like you.” I was trying to sound smug, but it wasn’t easy dripping wet. “Oh, that’s right,” I went on gamely. “You’re on your way to Paris, right? Except the head of the molecular biology department said you were an embarrassment to the field, and, what was it? Oh right, a guttersnipe, whatever that is.”
Rupp smiled, but his eyes were glaring at me.
“Yes, apparently, you’re not such a hotshot after all, since you got caught making stuff up.” I smiled. “Those award people hate that.”
“Carrick, you’re an idiot. Awards mean nothing to me. I do what I do for science.”
“For science?”
He shrugged. “And for money.”
“So, when I asked you about the apples, you said it would take an astonishing intellect. You were talking about yourself, right?”
He waved the comment away, modestly, as if I were the one saying it. “The apples are nothing. That was just for operating capital. And when you took out those degenerates, you were doing the world a favor.”
I thought of a few more favors I could do for the world, but I kept that to myself. “So, if it’s not about the apples, what’s it all about? The corn?”
“Kind of. It’s about Mycozene, a breakthrough in medicine. An antifungal cure for half a dozen minor plagues, and now one major one. The world should be grateful.”
Leo was trying to scratch his neck through the hazmat suit, but he stopped and exchanged a look with the other guy as Rupp prattled on.
“So, you genetically modified the corn to produce some synthetic chemical?”
“It’s not synthetic. It’s totally natural, just tweaked a little bit.”
“So, what’s this stuff, then?” I gestured to the green powder that coated everything inside the tent.
Rupp smiled. “This stuff? This is the major one. A little something I cooked up. A rhizopus—like bread mold, but much, much nastier. You should be grateful; we saved you from it once already.”
“Saved me, huh? And how did you do that?”
He smiled indulgently. “We dusted you after you broke in the first time.”
“You mean with the crop duster.…”
“That’s right. It sprayed you with the same stuff that’s in these.” He took out a small pill bottle and popped
a capsule in his mouth. “Mycozene. It’s best if you take it by mouth, but it works on contact. You can even absorb it through the skin.”
When Pruitt had come to see me after the plane attack, I went outside in my bare feet. The next day my athlete’s foot was gone. And when Nola pulled all that moldy food out of the refrigerator, the next day the mold was gone.
“We sprayed the whole damn area.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Containment. We didn’t want things getting underway ahead of schedule. And we didn’t want things traced back to here. It’s a good thing for you, too, because otherwise you’d be dead.”
I looked around at the green powder coating everything. “So what’s the angle? What are you after?”
He laughed and shook his head. “There’s not much money in curing minor plagues. And geniuses have got to eat, too.” He shrugged. “That’s why I had to create a major plague. That’s where the money is.”
I think I could have gotten more out of him, and I was about to ask him what was up with the butterflies, but at that point they all turned to look toward the entrance.
67
He didn’t recognize me at first. But I recognized him.
Even without a hazmat suit on, he stood several inches taller than the others, with an air of authority that left no doubt he was in charge. He had the same metal as before: a row of studs through one eyebrow, a series of small hoops in one ear, a diamond in his nose, and something else in his bottom lip. His eyes looked dangerous, or maybe that was just because I knew better now. Levkov.
Leo stopped fidgeting, and he and his partner both stood up straighter. Rupp’s bravado evaporated, and he looked at the gun in his hand as though he had just been caught playing with his big brother’s favorite toy.
For a moment, the only sound was the ventilation system and the water still dripping off me.
