Red (12 page)

“So basically you're clueless.”

“That about summarizes it. Shall we get started?”

“Seriously.”

“Well, it's rather . . . speculative, I must admit, but here you go: I have been developing a way to stimulate memories. Different brain activities have different wave signatures. For example, in the simplest of terms, conceptual activity, or waking thought, looks different from perceptual, dream thought. I've been mapping and identifying those signatures for some time. Among countless other discoveries, we've learned that there's a connection between dreams and memories—similar signatures, you see. Similar brain language, as it were. Essentially what I'm going to do is record the signatures from your dreams and then force-feed them into the section of your brain that typically holds memory. This seems to excite the memory. The effect isn't permanent, but it does stimulate the memories of most subjects.”

“Hmm. But you can't isolate any particular memories. You just have a general hope that I wake up remembering more than when I fell asleep.”

“In some cases, yes. In others, subjects have dreams that turn out to be actual memories. It's like pouring liquid into a cup already brimming with water or, in this case, memories. When you pour the liquid in, the water is displaced over the lip. Quite fun actually. The memory stimulation even seems to help some subjects remember the dreams themselves. As you know, the average person experiences five dreams per night and remembers one at the most. Not so when I hook you up. Shall we begin?”

“Why not?”

“First, some basics. Vitals and whatnot. I need to draw some blood and have it analyzed by the lab for several common diseases that affect the mind. Just covering our bases.”

Half an hour later, after a brief battery of simple tests followed by five failed attempts to lure Thomas into a hypnotic state, Bancroft changed tracks and hooked him up to the EEG machine. He connected twelve small electrodes to various parts of his head before feeding him a pill that would calm him without interfering with brain activity.

Then he turned down the lights and left the room. Moments later, soft music began to play through ceiling speakers. The chair Thomas lay in was similar to a dentist's chair. He wondered if there was a pill that could block his dreams. It was the last thought he had before slipping into deep sleep.

MIKE OREAR left his office at CNN at six and struggled through traffic for the typical hour it took to reach Theresa Sumner's new home on the south side. He hadn't planned on seeing her tonight, though he wasn't complaining.

She had been called off to some assignment in Bangkok for the CDC and returned earlier today to another private meeting in Washington. A bit unusual, but only a bit. They both lived lives full of curve balls and sudden changes in plan.

Theresa had called him from the tarmac at Reagan International, telling him to get his sorry self to her house tonight by eight. She was in one of her irresistibly bossy moods, and after giving her a piece of his mind, mostly nonsense that made for good drama, he agreed as they both knew he would before she'd even asked. He'd only been to her new house three or four times in the ten months they'd dated, and he never left disappointed.

A white box-looking car—a Volvo—rode to his right and a black Lincoln to his left. Neither of the drivers looked at him when he drilled them with a good stare. This was the rush hour in Atlanta, and everyone was lost in his own world, oblivious to anyone else's. These zombies floated through life as if nothing would ever matter in the end.

Three years ago, his reassignment to the Atlanta office from North Dakota to anchor the late-afternoon hours was a good thing. Now he wasn't so sure. The city had its distractions, but he was growing tired of pursuing them. One of these days he would have to quit playing the tough guy and settle down with someone more like Betty than Theresa.

On the other hand, he liked playing most of this game he was playing. He could turn the tough act on or off with the flip of a hidden switch, a real advantage in this business. To the audience and some of his peers, he was the genuine North Dakota face with a GQ shadow and dark wavy hair that they could always trust. To others, like Theresa, he was the enigmatic college quarterback who could have made pro if not for the drugs.

Now he threw words instead of balls and could deliver them at any pace required by the game.

He finally pulled his BMW in front of the white house on the corner of Langshershim and Bentley.

He sighed, opened the door, and unfolded himself from the front seat. Her car was in the garage. He could just see the SUV's roof rack through the window.

He sauntered up to the door and rang the bell.

Theresa opened the door and walked back into the kitchen without a word. See, now Betty, the girl he'd dated for two years during college, never would have done that—not knowing he'd driven for an hour to see her. Well, maybe she would as a come-on now and then, but never while wearing this distant, nearly angry look.

Her short blond hair was disheveled and her face was drawn—not exactly the tempting, sexy look he had expected. She pulled a wineglass from her rack and poured Sauvignon Blanc.

“Am I wrong, or did you actually invite me out here?” he asked.

“I did. And thank you. I'm sorry, I just . . . it's been a long day.” She forced a smile.

This wasn't a game. She was obviously bothered by something that had happened on her trip. Theresa put both hands on the counter and closed her eyes. He registered alarm for the first time.

“Okay, what's wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing I can tell you. Just a bad day.” She took a long drink and set the glass down. “A very bad day.”

“What do you mean you can't tell me? Your job's okay?”

“For the time being.” She took another drink. He saw that her hand was trembling.

Mike stepped forward. Took the glass from her hand. “Tell me.”

“I can't tell—”

“For crying out loud, Theresa, just tell me!”

She stepped away from the counter and ran her hands through her hair, blowing out a long sigh. He couldn't remember ever seeing her in this condition. Someone had died, or was dying, or something terrible had happened to her mother or the brother who lived in San Diego.

“If you're trying to scare me, you've already done it. So if you don't mind, let's cut the games. Just tell me.”

“They'd kill me if I told you.
You
of all people.”

“‘You' meaning me in the news?” She'd said too much already, and her quick side glance confirmed it. Something had gone down that would make her sweat bullets and send a newsman like him into orbit. And she was sworn to secrecy.

“Don't you kid yourself,” he said, grabbing a glass from the rack. “You called me down here to tell me something, and I can guarantee you I won't leave until you do. Now we can sit down and get sloshed before you tell me, or you can tell me straight up while we still have our full wits about us. Your choice.”

“What kind of assurance that you don't go public with this?”

“Depends.”

“Then forget it.” Her eyes flashed. “This isn't the kind of thing that ‘depends' on anything you think or don't think.” She wasn't in complete control of herself. Whatever had happened was bigger than a death or an accident.

“This has something to do with the CDC, right? What, the West Nile virus is loose in the White House?”

“I swear, if you even breathe—”

“Okay.” He lifted both hands, balancing the glass in his right. “Not a word about anything.”

“That's not—”

“I swear, Theresa! You have my complete assurance that I won't breathe a word to anyone outside this house. Just tell me!”

She took a deep breath. “It's a virus.”

“A virus. I was right?”

“This virus makes the West Nile virus look like a case of hiccups.”

“What then? Ebola?” He was half-kidding, but she glared at him, and for a horrible moment he thought he might have hit it.

“You're kidding, right?”

Of course she wasn't kidding. If she was kidding, her upper lip wouldn't be misty with sweat.

“The Ebola?”

“Worse.”

He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Where?”

“Everywhere. We're calling it the Raison Strain.” The tremor had spread from her hands to her voice. “It was released by terrorists in twenty-four cities today. By the end of the week every person in the United States will be infected, and there is no treatment. Unless we find a vaccine or something, we are in a load of hurt. Atlanta was one of the cities.”

He couldn't quite sort all of this into the boxes he used to understand his world. What kind of virus was worse than Ebola?

“Terrorists?”

She nodded. “They're demanding our nuclear weapons. The
world's
nuclear weapons.”

Mike stared at her for a long time.

“Who's infected? I mean, when you say Atlanta, you aren't necessarily saying—”

“You're not listening, Mike. There's no way to stop this thing. For all we know, everyone at CNN is already infected.”

He was infected? Mike blinked. “That's . . . how can that be? I don't feel like I have anything.”

“That's because the virus has a three-week latency period. Trust me, if we don't figure this out, you'll feel something in a couple weeks.”

“And you don't think the people deserve to know this?”

“Why? So they can panic and run for the hills? I swear, Mike, if you even look funny at anyone down at the network, I'll personally kill you! You hear me?” She was red.

He set his glass on the counter and then leaned on the cabinet for balance. “Okay, okay, just calm down.” There was still something wrong with what she'd told him. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something didn't compute.

“There has to be a mistake. This . . . this kind of thing just doesn't happen. No one knows about this?”

“The president, his cabinet, a few members of Congress. Half the governments in the world. And there is no mistake. I ran some of the tests myself. I've studied the model for the past twelve hours. This is it, Mike. This is the one we all hoped would never come.”

Theresa dropped into an armchair, rested her head, closed her eyes, and swallowed.

Mike straddled a table chair, and for a long time neither spoke. The air conditioner came on and blew cold air through his hair from a ceiling vent. The refrigerator hummed behind him. Theresa had opened her eyes and was staring at the ceiling, lost.

“Start at the beginning,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

THERE WAS a problem with the EEG.

Bancroft knew this wasn't true. He knew that something strange was happening in that mind that slept in his chair, but the scientist in him demanded he eliminate every possible alternative.

He switched out the EEG, plugged the twelve electrodes back in, and reset it. Wave patterns consistent with conceptual brain activity ran across the screen. Same thing. He knew it. Same thing as the other unit. There were no perceptual waves.

He checked the other monitors. Facial color, eye movement, skin temperature. Nothing. Not a single cottonpickin' thing. Thomas Hunter had been asleep for two hours. His breathing was deep and his body sagged in the chair. No doubt about it, this man was lost to the world. Asleep.

But that's where the typical indications ended. His skin temperature had not changed. His eyes had not entered REM. The signatures on the EEG did not show a hint of a perceptual signature.

Bancroft walked around the patient twice, running down a mental checklist of alternative explanations.

None.

He walked into his office and called the direct line Phil Grant had given him.

“Grant.”

“Hello, Mr. Grant. Myles Bancroft with your boy here.”

“And?”

“And I think we have a problem.”