Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (25 page)

The sleek black car pulled out of the hospital lot onto Campus Drive. At North Campus, barricades blocked part of the road, forcing Osborne to slow down. Sammy peered through the foggy car window. The entire Nitshi Institute was brightly lit — an eerie backdrop to the now empty stage and grandstands. Although it was hard to see from a distance, the bomb had blown off a portion of the speakers’ area, including the podium. The whole clearing, still littered with hurriedly discarded food and drink containers, was cordoned off by yellow police tape.

Sammy gasped.

Osborne stopped the car and turned to her. “You okay?” His expression was filled with concern.

“Not bad, considering,” Sammy responded, her eyes still frozen on the scene out the window. “I’m one of the lucky ones.” Unbidden tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away and cleared her throat. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay to cry. What happened today was horrendous. For everyone.”

“I know, it’s just that —” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know why I —”

“Survived?” He completed her thought.

She nodded, afraid to speak for fear she might break down. Uncanny the way the psychologist seemed to tap into her innermost feelings. Almost as if he possessed some mysterious sixth sense that pierced her veil of self-deception.

“Look, you’ve been through a great deal more stress than you realize. I think it would do you some good to talk about it.”

“I-I can’t.” She knew he was right, but —

“Not now. Sure.” He stepped on the gas, driving off in the direction of the radio station. “When you’re ready.”

• • •

Brian felt the smoke before he smelled it. The heat touched his cheek like a lover’s gentle kiss — warm at first, then insistent, pressing against his face until the acrid smell of burning acetone filled his nose and lungs and began to smother him.

He yanked off his earphones and grabbed the phone near his desk. Damn. The dial tone was gone. No way to call for help. Maybe he could — Shit! Where’d they put the fire extinguishers? Larry had dutifully held the yearly fire drill just a few weeks before, but like so many of the student staff, Brian never took the thought of death by fire seriously enough to attend.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
, he castigated himself, as his rapid search turned up nothing to help douse the fire.
Fuck it, better get out fast
.

He turned to the thick door only to see caustic yellow fumes seeping in under the jamb. Breathing was getting harder and harder. Grabbing a used napkin to cover his nose and mouth, he reached for the door with a hand. “Ow!” He pulled his burned fingers back, shaking them in the air. The first wave of panic hit.
No way out
.

“Help!” Brian shouted between coughs. Isn’t anybody out there? he wondered. Couldn’t they see what was happening? Couldn’t anyone help?

He yelled “please!” over and over until his voice was scraped raw by his desperation. The sound of flames had become a deafening roar, drowning out his ever-louder screams.

Trapped inside his office, his only hope was to try to escape. He took off one sock and put it over his burned hand like a glove, then unbuttoned his shirt, removed it and held it to his nose and mouth. Slowly, he eased the door into the main studio open, but a wall of fire leapt through the crack and attacked him, setting his pants ablaze. He backed up, pulled off the sock, frantically beating at the flames with his hands.

Staggering wildly around in his office, he stumbled and collapsed back in his chair.

From outside, dimly heard over the hungry crackle of the fire, came the faint sound of sirens.

Hurry! he silently urged, his breathing ragged and weak.

But it was too late. Greedy fingers of flames curled around his body, tightening their grip every second, until they enveloped him in a final blazing embrace.

Anyone seeing him at that last moment would not have recognized the young man at all. Dying, Brian McKernan looked like a burning bundle of rags.

Driving home from the hospital, Pappajohn nursed his growing frustration. Every lead he’d pursued since the bombing had been a dead end. After doing a local sweep, the Nitshi security detail reported finding nothing helpful or unusual. Edna had no luck with the phone trace, none of the Tafties he’d questioned had given him answers, and even Stanton was stonewalling. To top it off, now he had the feds nosing in too. A day from hell. Thanks to Reverend Taft?

Pappajohn shifted his casted arm. His shoulder was already stiff, making driving difficult. Still, he was luckier than Stanton. The boy had lost a couple of fingers and, very likely, his chance for a professional career. Stanton insisted he’d just come to the demonstration for kicks. Quite a loss for a few moments of excitement.

Still, Pappajohn didn’t believe the boy was being straight with him. Claimed he appreciated Taft’s message — America for Americans — but wasn’t involved with the organization. On the other hand, Stanton’s answers weren’t surprising, what with the coach and those Nitshi people standing guard duty in the hospital room. Maybe the FBI could get more information.

Then there was Conrad. When Pappajohn had broached the subject of the professor’s death with the young athlete, he’d fired back that the coach was on his case for nothing. Sure, he’d told
The Hot Line
reporter that Conrad planned to flunk him — that if he couldn’t play, Ellsford might lose the national championships. The boy had hoped a public groundswell would lead Conrad to ease up. But that wasn’t a crime, was it? No. No, it wasn’t.

Damn that Greene. Always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, interfering with —

Pappajohn shook his head. If she hadn’t been so close to the
podium that afternoon, he might have gotten to the bomb in time. Instead, going for her story put her in the way — in his way — and more than two dozen people had been hurt. One had died.

But of course it wasn’t her fault. He should have made sure she and those Tafties had stayed out of trouble. His mistake. It didn’t matter that he’d saved so many — including Sammy Greene. As far as he was concerned, he’d fucked things up royally. A broken arm was a small price to pay.

The car radio beeped.

“Yeah?”

“Fire at the campus radio station, Chief. Fire engine on the way.”

Christ. Now what? “Roger. Call the hospital,” he ordered the dispatcher. “Send an ambulance, just in case. I’m on my way.”

Great
, Pappajohn thought as he hit the accelerator.
Just great. A day from hell
.

Reed emerged from Bud Stanton’s room and leaned against the wall for a moment, overcome by weariness. Every bone in his body ached, every muscle felt on fire. The day had started with such promise, and now, so many lay injured and dead.

He glanced at the closed door to Sammy’s hospital room at the end of the corridor. Smiling, he considered how she always managed to keep him off kilter. Passionate and strong-willed, it’s what he loved about her. It’s also what drove him crazy.

Only three more patients to see, and then he could join her for the evening. The adjacent bed in her room was empty. Happily, he wouldn’t have to sleep in the doctors’ call room tonight.

Reed pulled out his personal digital assistant to review the latest lab data on his patients just as his beeper went off. A glance at the phone number sunk his hopes. It was the emergency room. He set off for the nurses’ station at a gallop to answer the page.

The phone call confirmed his worst suspicions. Another emergency. Second-year ER resident Jim Sullivan wanted him to join an ER team at the scene of a campus fire.

He sighed, thinking his work would keep Sammy waiting for a change.

Dr. Marcus Palmer could not stop his hand from shaking as he placed the slide on the stage of his microscope. He didn’t need to focus for more than a second to confirm what he already knew. Luther Abbott had died from a particularly virulent form of AIDS. The brain section contained the same pathology he’d seen in the Pinez boy. Damn. Three new cases in less than a week. Why had everything started to go wrong? And how could he possibly hope to sweep this mess under the rug?

Sergio Pinez had been chosen for the study because of his sexual orientation and his ethnic background. Palmer’s sponsor convinced him that the boy’s parents were devout, hard-working, no-nonsense, first-generation citizens. They believed in the Catholic Church, respected authority. There was no reason to foresee a challenge to the official cause of death reported by the medical examiner.

And Abbott, luckily, had been abandoned at birth, growing up in foster homes. Only seventeen, he’d been declared an emancipated minor. No family, few, if any, friends. The monkey bite had been a terrible accident — everyone involved agreed. But at least the boy would not be missed.

Lucy Peters, on the other hand, was a different story. Her sheltered background — and virginity — had made her the perfect candidate to test the new vaccine. If she became sexually active, she was probably low risk for the disease, and besides, Palmer expected his vaccine to protect her. Never anticipating that Lucy would get sick, Palmer hadn’t worried at all about her friends and family. Now the doctor had to face the fact that Lucy might succumb like the others. And, unlike the others, someone would want to know why.

He returned Abbott’s slide to the case beside the other specimens. In a few days, perhaps a week at most, there’d be one labeled “Peters.” Damn, damn, damn! How would he explain her death? He could present a thousand arguments in mitigation: at the time it seemed right; the work was a driving obsession — too important to
give up; his vaccine would save the world from the scourge of AIDS; if a few innocents died in advancement of that goal, well, it was all for the greater good.

Palmer placed the case in his desk drawer and locked it, knowing these rationalizations might explain but not excuse. Truth was, his project was spiraling sickeningly out of control. He was enmeshed in a web of calculated deception from which he could not escape. He had no choice. Maintaining the lie had become the lesser evil.

“It’s on fire!” Sammy shrieked.

Osborne pulled into an adjacent parking lot and stopped the car. A St. Charlesbury fire truck was parked alongside the one-story wood-frame building that housed the campus radio station. The structure was now a blazing inferno. Two firemen were directing a high-pressure water hose toward the flames while two more circled around back looking for possible victims.

Sammy jumped out of the Lexus with Osborne close behind. The air was hot and rich with the smell of burning wood. Two oak trees just behind the studio crackled and split loudly as they turned to ash.

“Oh my God!” Sammy set off toward the fire. A puff of wind blew a shower of sparks at her and she recoiled, brushing at her coat.

“Stay back, Sammy!” Osborne yelled as the fire chief ran toward her.

Shaking her head, she ran in the direction of the burning building again. “Brian! Brian McKernan’s in there!” she screamed.

The fire chief caught her by the coat.

She struggled to free herself in vain. “You’ve got to get him out!”

“Who? The station is closed at night,” the fire chief returned.

“Our engineer! He’s working tonight.”

“You sure?” On seeing her nod, the chief motioned at one of his men.

The fireman quickly approached a window at the side of the building no longer in flames. He hit the frame with his hatchet, splintering the old wood and breaking enough of the glass louvers to
allow a thick wall of smoke to escape. The fireman ducked the cloud, coughing and gagging. Taking a deep breath, he shouldered his hatchet again and began smashing at the glass until the open space grew wider. Bending over the sill, he leaned into the room, scanning it with a high powered flashlight.

Sammy and the fire chief ran up and hovered behind him, eyes tearing from the residual smoke.

Sammy gasped at the devastation. What had been the main office and the radio station library was now a charred mass of wood and metal frames.

“Where do you think he might be?” The fire chief asked.

“Uh, h-he usually works in his studio. It’s a couple of doors down o-on the right,” she said hoarsely.

The corridor beyond the office was still filled with smoke, but no flames were visible from the window.

“I’ll have to go in,” the fireman stated. Covering his mouth and nose, he climbed into the office and headed off in the direction Sammy had indicated.

Brian had to make it, Sammy prayed as she peered into the smoky blackness. He just had to survive.

Stereo sirens heralded the arrival of a campus police car and an ambulance. Pappajohn and Reed flew out of their vehicles and ran up to the fire chief.

“Jesus, what happened?” Pappajohn asked.

The answer came from the fireman inside. “Looks like there’s a body,” he reported as he climbed back out of the window.

“God.” Tears rolled down Sammy’s cheeks.

“Any chance —?” Pappajohn queried, though one look at the charred remnants of the building made the question rhetorical.

The soot-caked firefighter shook his head.

Sammy turned away and stumbled down the grassy knoll to the parking lot. It wasn’t possible that Brian was gone. Just some horrible illusion, a cruel trick of her senses. If only he hadn’t stayed to work on the tape, he’d be alive. “No, no!” she shouted, breaking out in a blind run.

Two large arms caught her and held her in a firm embrace. She opened her eyes and looked up to see Reed. The medical student’s expression was a cross between profound sympathy and parental irritation. “Sammy. Sammy.”

Sammy’s sobs vibrated against Reed’s chest. “I killed him, Reed. I killed him.”

“You killed him?” Pappajohn demanded as he walked up to the couple. “Just what do you mean by that?”

Reed answered. “Leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s upset?”

“Lord have mercy!” The shaken voice belonged to a breathless Larry Dupree. He stood staring at the ruins of his kingdom. “Ah was on the other side of campus.”

“Who are you?” the fire chief asked.

“Larry Dupree, program director for the station. Ah just got a call from the dean and ran over as fast as ah —” He turned to Sammy. “Ah thought you were in the hospital.”