He placed his hands where she told him. Quickly.
“How do you know my name?” he asked.
“I know a lot about you,” she said. “Perhaps more than you do.” She flashed her icy smile again.
He moved his gaze to her face, attempting to gauge her intentions, decipher the reason for her presence. But there was nothing to be read, nothing being offered but her arctic beauty and an implicit threat. His experience in the boardroom had taught him that humor can often disarm a tense situation. It seemed worth a try.
“I suppose you’re not here to ask me to dinner and a movie,” he said. The interior lighting of the Mini dimmed.
“My, you’re a quick study, aren’t you?” Her hand moved so rapidly he didn’t see the blade. He merely heard it plunge into the seat between his legs, inches from his crotch. He froze, stunned by the speed of her action. He was even more dumbfounded by what she did next. She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“You’re a handsome man,” she said, surprisingly softly. “Under different circumstances dinner and a movie and maybe something else—” with her free hand she stroked the inside of his thigh “—might have been, shall we say, enjoyable. But that’s not why I’m here. I came only to deliver a message. And a warning. One that will keep you alive.” She withdrew the knife. “You brought your golf clubs?”
He nodded, afraid to speak, afraid his voice would betray the fear festering in his gut.
“Use them. Often. Don’t get overly curious about what goes on at BioDawn. Your reputation precedes you. You’re known as a highly competent, hands-on executive. Your integrity is unquestioned. If you have a fault, it’s to micromanage, to get too involved in corporate operations. That won’t serve you well here. Quite the opposite. It will get you killed.”
A pickup truck with roof-mounted flashing orange lights paused behind the Mini.
“Corporate security,” the woman said. “Why don’t you just give them a friendly wave, let them know everything is okay.” A command, not a suggestion.
Richard turned and lifted his hand, a friendly gesture. The driver of the pickup flashed its headlights and departed.
The woman raised the knife and swept it slowly back and forth in front of Richard’s face. A metronome of menace.
“All you have to do for the next few months is smile, back slap, nod wisely. Grip and grin, in the American vernacular. Let things run as they are. Let the board of directors do its work selecting a permanent chief. Before you know it, your job as temporary CEO will be over, and you’ll be back in Oregon hunting and fishing.”
“I don’t hunt,” he said, relieved his voice didn’t squeak.
She retracted the blade of her knife. “I’ll bet you could learn.”
“Who are you?”
“The who isn’t necessary. The what is.” Her eyes, their green depths bottomless and vacant, focused on his.
“Then what are you?”
Again the smile. It spread across her face slowly, as if being painted on. “An intimidator,” she answered. “I make sure things get done.” She patted his cheek lightly, almost sisterly, then once more let her hand drop to his crotch. “Remember what I told you. If I come calling again, I won’t kiss you, I’ll kill you.” She brought her face close to his, her warm breath an antithesis to her demeanor. There was no odor of cigarettes, so she wasn’t the person he’d seen behind the fence.
“No. Strike that,” she continued. “I won’t kill you. I’ll merely—how should I say it?—‘customize’ your manhood. For men, I find that a much more potent deterrent.”
He tried to speak, but his throat had constricted into a paralyzed knot.
The woman waited, then tapped him on the nose with the blade of her knife. “What?” she said. “You wanted to say something?”
He composed himself. “How about I just go home, back to Oregon?”
She shook her head. “Won’t work. You’re needed here; at least the illusion of your competence and integrity is. If you decide to say Auf Wiedersehen, I’ll make certain it’s the last time you do. Humor me, follow orders. Keep yourself out of Eunuchs Anonymous.” She laughed lightly.
She put the knife back into her purse, then, maintaining her gaze on Richard, withdrew a small photograph and rested it against her chest. “One more thing,” she said. “Don’t contact the police or FBI. Don’t seek help. Because if things become, shall we say, too difficult for me, they’ll become unbearable for you, even if you’re beyond my reach.” She showed him the photograph, holding it near the windshield so the parking lot lighting illuminated it. “There are other targets, you see.”
A cryogenic shock wave almost stopped his heart. The photo was of Jason, his younger brother. Wheat-colored hair tumbling over his round, blue eyes; his lips curled into an almost perpetual smile. Carefree and compassionate, always acting the big brother, not the little brother. Richard could still feel Jason’s arms around him at Karen’s funeral comforting him as he shook in uncontrollable waves of grief. “Don’t worry, Dickie,” he’d said, “I’ll take care of you. I love you, bro’.”
Richard struggled to breathe, to catch his breath. He glared at the woman, but knew it was an effete rebuke.
“Your hands are on a dead man’s switch,” she said. “If I disappear, so does your brother. I’m not operating alone.” She slipped from the car, slammed the door and strode toward a double-parked SUV.
Richard remained with his hands locked on the steering wheel of the Mini for a full minute after she departed, too rattled to even register the color of her vehicle, let alone its make or license plate. Finally, he released his grip on the wheel, leaned back, calmed himself and attempted to analyze what had just happened.
He’d been warned off, under penalty of death or disfigurement, or a similar fate for his brother, of doing anything at BioDawn other than being a figurehead CEO. A corporate Buddha squatting behind a desk. He didn’t have the option of leaving, didn’t have the option of seeking help. He recalled the lyrics to a song he’d once heard someplace: You can’t win, you can’t break even, you can’t even quit the game.
What the hell have I walked into?
He considered the possibility the assault was a practical joke commissioned by Ned, but Ned had never done anything like that before and had no reason to now. The incident certainly wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. The woman had addressed him by name, had his brother’s picture.
But assuming the threat was for real, why alert him to the fact there was something for him to be suspicious of at BioDawn in the first place? Why not just let him have free rein until he stumbled onto whatever he wasn’t supposed to discover, if indeed he did, and then go into the saber-rattling routine? It seemed as if his lady intimidator, as she called herself, had gotten her cart before the horse.
Well, no matter. He was not by nature a passive spectator. He hadn’t made a professional name for himself by being detached, aloof and hands-off. There apparently was something dark festering within the walls of BioDawn, and the lady’s warning had served only to ignite his intrinsic curiosity. His response, he understood, was preordained. He knew full well he was hard-wired to do exactly what he had been warned not to: Immerse himself in company business. But—memo to self—very, very carefully.
He started the Mini and, on constant alert for other intruders—silly, now that the horse was out of the barn—returned to his apartment. He considered calling the police, but decided against it, for he wasn’t the only one who had been threatened. His brother Jason, in faraway Oregon, had been thrown into the mix, too.
Richard retrieved his cell phone and called Jason. When his brother answered, they exchanged small talk briefly about the weather, University of Oregon football and the price of gas. Then Richard explained why he was in Atlanta, but left out any mention of blondes with knives and airplane crash
es.
“Hey, Jason,” Richard said, trying to sound casual, “you haven’t had any strange phone calls recently, have you?”
“Strange?”
“Well, like from people you didn’t know, or maybe hang-ups, like someone checking to see if you’re home but not wanting to identify themselves?”
Jason answered with a raspy chuckle. “You mean other than from some guy in Nigeria wanting $600 so he can free up a million-dollar trust fund a long-lost great uncle left me?”
“Yeah. Other than that.”
“No. Why?”
“And no one hanging around your apartment or office that looked, well, suspicious or out of place?”
“No, just the usual guys in overcoats and no pants. You’re starting to weird me out, bro’. What’s up?”
“Nothing, really. I had some concerns that government investigators doing a background check on me might be looking a little too hard at other members of my family. None of their business.”
“Background check?”
“I’m taking over a corporation that does some work for the Department of Defense.”
“Oh. Well... if it’s about that pedophilia charge—”
“Jason, cut it out.” His brother obviously wasn’t taking this seriously, which was fine. That suggested he hadn’t been alarmed by anything or anyone, which in turn indicated he probably wasn’t being watched or monitored. On the other hand, if he were under surveillance by pros, he most likely wouldn’t be aware of it.
“Hey, Dickie, if anyone contacts me, I’ll let you know. Okay?”
“Don’t worry, kid. Everything is fine,” Richard lied. “I’ll be in touch.”
He hung up, stood and swiveled his head from side to side in a futile attempt to relieve the band of pain tightening around his neck and shoulders.
Sure, everything is fine.
NORTH METRO ATLANTA
TUESDAY, AUGUST 20
Richard wheeled his Mini into the BioDawn parking lot the following morning shortly after sunrise. Only a half-dozen cars populated the lot. None looked similar to the vehicle his blonde assailant had driven. A green pickup truck, white block lettering, SECURITY, on its door, patrolled the far end of the parking area.
Richard parked his car in its designated slot and stepped out into the already-stifling dawn. Instead of going directly to his office, however, he walked along a winding concrete path toward the blockhouse. He reached a gate in the surrounding fence. A sign warned that no visitors or unauthorized personnel were allowed entry. Richard decided he was neither and withdrew the ID/key card he had been given the previous day and ran it through the electronic reader. Nothing happened. No beeps, no clicks, no green light. He tried again. Still nothing. He heard footsteps behind him.
“Sir?”
Richard turned quickly, tensing. A slender black man with a lean, borzoi-like face and wearing a white shirt with a badge, approached him. He was unarmed. The green pickup idled in the lot behind him.
“Sir, only a few people have access to this facility. Dr. Gonzales and maybe a couple of dozen others.”
“I’m the new CEO here, Richard Wainwright.” Richard extended his ID card toward the guard.
The man ignored it. “Yes, sir, I recognize you, I’ve been briefed. I’m Ralph Pepperill, the overnight security supervisor.”
Richard nodded his acknowledgement. Big help you were last night. The two men shook hands.
“You’ll need to see the corporate security manager about getting a clearance so you can be granted access here,” Pepperill said.
“A security clearance?”
“Yes, sir. This is a military-sponsored project, and only people with the proper clearance are allowed inside the fence.”
“I see. Well, I’ll look into it.” But he had no intention of waiting for the government to grind through a background check and grant him a clearance. He knew that could take months.
“Let me know if I can help,” Pepperill said.
“I will. Oh, by the way, who is Dr. Gonzales?”
“Alano Gonzales. He’s the head honcho. I really don’t know much about him. A brilliant man, I understand. He keeps pretty much to himself. Scurries in and out most of the time without so much as a wave or nod. Kind of like those big ol’ rats you sometimes see near the tracks in MARTA stations.” He chuckled at his own simile.
“MARTA?”
“Sorry. The Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority.”
Richard nodded. “But Dr. Gonzales doesn’t look like a rat, does he?”
“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t mean to say that, it’s just that he kind of behaves that way, kind of...” He searched for the right word.
“Furtively?”
Pepperill shrugged.
Not the right word, or not sure of the word? “Okay, Mr. Pepperill, thanks for the information. And one more question, does Dr. Gonzales often work late at night?”
“He’s usually here until well after dark, sir.”
Chapter Seven
NORTH METRO ATLANTA
TUESDAY, AUGUST 20
Dr. Arthur Willand awoke with a start. No, no, don’t let it be, dear Jesus, please don’t let it be. He had broken his own ad hoc rule and slipped out of the close-monitoring environment of the hospital to come home and catch a few hours rest. But now he was wide awake, writhing in agony. It was as though someone had twisted an auger into the top of his skull; as if his head, neck and shoulders had been compressed in a hydraulic vise.
After the call from the CDC warning of a serious problem, he’d quickly read up on Ebola hemorrhagic fever. He knew the early symptoms. Severe frontal and temporal headache, generalized aches and pains, maybe a fever. He’d learned the virus was transmitted through the blood or bodily fluids of an infected person. He tried to remember if any blood, vomit or diarrhea from Mr. Gullison or his wife had splattered into his eyes, mouth or nose. No, he was certain. He hadn’t pricked himself with an infected needle or nicked himself with a scalpel. And he didn’t recall that the virus could be spread through the air. But...
He pushed himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. From the floor below, he heard his wife puttering in the kitchen. She had strict orders to keep her distance. He stared into the mirror, into crimson looking-glass eyes. His heart fluttered, and he took a step back, drew a deep breath. No. Not right. Too early for bleeding under the conjunctivae. That, he knew, should come later, not at the onset of the disease. I’m okay. It was just that he hadn’t had more than three hours sleep in the last twenty-four. No wonder my eyes look like Bloody Marys. And the headache—probably just tension induced. God knows, I’m under enough pressure.
He walked back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. His heart raced, betraying his reasoned conclusions, re-igniting his terror. Sometimes you can know too much, he thought, just too damned much.
Dr. Willand stood. “I won’t die that way,” he whispered. Clinging to the edge of his bed and then his dresser for support, he shuffled to his closet. He extracted a lockbox from the rear of a shelf above the hangar rack. He punched a simple combination into a numerical lock. The lid of the box sprang open. He withdrew a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber handgun. He popped the cylinder open. Empty. A container of shells was tucked into the corner of the box. He picked it up. It felt almost full. He replaced it. He put the gun back into the box, locked it and stuffed it back on the shelf.
He forced himself to return to his earlier deduction, though mired in denial it might be: It’s just a tension headache. He re-entered the bathroom and washed down a couple of Tylenol with a handful of water from the faucet. After rinsing his face with a damp washcloth he walked unsteadily downstairs, called goodbye to his wife and left for the hospital.
With the air conditioning in his car on full blast and the Tylen
ol doing its thing, he felt better by the time he reached North Georgia Regional. He entered the ER and spotted Doris, the head nurse. She smiled when she saw him, but her expression changed as he approached her.
“You look awful, sir. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m just tired. Too much going on, too little sleep.”
She took a half step back from him. “I don’t know, doctor. I think you should—”
“... see a doctor? Doris, I’m fine. I’ll catch up on my sleep tonight, and I’ll be as fresh and eager as a new intern tomorrow.” He almost believed the words himself. “Get me up to speed here. Have there been any other admissions showing signs of hemorrhagic fever?”
“No, but...” She lowered her gaze to the floor.
“But what?”
“Marie Coughlin and Lizzy DiNero called in sick this morning. Their symptoms sounded like HF.”
Dr. Willand closed his eyes and tipped his head back. “No,” he muttered, “no.” Marie and Lizzy were two of the nurses who had attended David Gullison when he was first admitted. “Get ’em back into the ER as soon as you can. As patients.”
Doris nodded.
“And how about Mrs. Gullison? What’s her status?”
Doris kept her distance as she answered. “Not good.” She shook her head. “We’ve been unable to control her vomiting and diarrhea. And she’s showing signs of renal and liver failure. The saddest part is there isn’t much we can do for her.”
“I know. I know,” Dr. Willand said softly.
“Can you think of anything? Anything at all?” Doris’s entreaty seemed edged in fear.
“Say a prayer, I guess.” For me, too. He brushed a patina of perspiration from his forehead.
In his office, Richard buzzed Anneliese on the intercom. Even through the tinny system, her voice seemed infused with a musical lilt when she answered. He still sensed her breast brushing his cheek the previous night and struggled to fend off his prurient reaction to it. “Get in touch with Dr. Gonzales, please,” he said. “Tell him I’d like to meet with him this morning.”
Plague Page 5
