The Devil's Pitchfork (18 page)

“There’s no telephone in this apartment. The computer had a cable modem, the TV has cable. There’s almost no clothes in the closets, just a bed, the desk, computer, a few files—the ones you’ve got. Bathroom’s got a few toiletries and the kitchen’s pretty well stocked. But no phones.”

“She have a phone on her?”

“No.”

Pilcher turned his gaze to the broken cell phone on the floor. Stillwater had called him. From where?

He took out his own cellular phone and started clicking on the menu, checking his calling history, remembering the order of the calls he had made after receiving Stillwater’s two phone calls: the one about the apartment where he had told him about Irina Khournikova and the second one a while later that had been interrupted by the cops. The first call had been from Stillwater’s cell phone. The second call, though, had been placed from a different number. He jotted the number in his notebook, then dialed it from his cell phone.

The number rang and rang, but no one answered. Dammit, Stillwater! Where the hell are you?

Pilcher left the building and stood at the entryway, feeling the weight of the last nine hours on his shoulders. The night was warm with a light breeze, only a hint of smog. A pleasant night, not the type of night one would associate with such evil. Above him circled three or four helicopters, news TV he assumed.

“You the head FBI guy?”

Pilcher turned to face a broad-shouldered man in a trench coat. He displayed his badge identifying himself as Detective Christopher Flemming. Pilcher’s own I.D. still hung around his neck.

“I’m not in charge of this particular scene,” Pilcher said carefully.

“That would be Tittaglia,” Flemming said. “But you’re his boss.”

Pilcher nodded. “Sort of. What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You can tell me what this is all about.” Flemming kept his hands in his pockets but his expression was watchful.

Pilcher came off the steps and locked eyes with the detective. “You’re familiar with the attack in Baltimore?”

“Sure. We get Homeland’s bulletins, too. Code Red. Might even mean something for a change. This Stillwater one of them?”

Pilcher shook his head. “No. He’s a special investigator for the Department of Homeland Security. He’s at least a step or two closer to these bad guys—”

”He
is
a bad guy, Pilcher. He busted the jaw of a cop. He resisted arrest. He’s a material witness and a possible suspect in a homicide. We want him. He’s ours.”

Pilcher started to protest, but stopped. He changed tack. “Who was Austin Davis?”

“You tell me. He a terrorist?”

Pilcher shrugged. He needed information, not this crap. “I was told Austin Davis was a physician at Walter Reed. Is he military?”

Flemming scowled. “Was. Served in the Army in the Gulf War. He’s been a civilian since ‘92.”

There’s the connection, Pilcher thought. His gaze took in the remaining onlookers. Overhead at least two helicopters continued to circle.

Flemming said, “What’s going on upstairs?”

“Nothing to concern you.”

“If it’s a murder up there it’s our jurisdiction. If it’s in any way related to this Derek Stillwater, it’s our jurisdiction.”

Pilcher gave Flemming a flat stare. “It’s not going to happen, so don’t bother asking. File the paper if you have to, but that apartment is ours, end of story.”

Flemming started to protest, but apparently decided to save his breath. “This Stillwater, what can you tell me about him?”

Pilcher said, “Nothing. I can’t tell you shit. And you’re wasting my time. When Superman Stillwater took his amazing leap over the truck, managing to overpower two armed cops at the same time, which way did he go before he disappeared?”

Flemming glared at him. “What’s Stillwater do for Homeland? Some kind of spook?”

“Which way did he go, Detective?”

Flemming shook his head. “You tell me something and I’ll tell you something.”

Pilcher wanted to scream. “Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “He’s an expert on biological and chemical warfare.”

Flemming’s eyes grew wide. “So this attack in Baltimore—”

”Hey, you’re catching on. Which way did he go?”

Flemming pointed.

Leaving the detective behind, Pilcher retrieved a big Mag Lite from the Ford Taurus and headed into the alleyway. The far end was blocked by a tall wooden gate. He aimed the flash toward the ground, saw what might have been dots of drying blood. He followed it to the fence. Impatient, he pulled out his cellular and punched in the number of Stillwater’s last known phone. He listened. Nothing. He shut off the phone and, with a sigh, pulled himself over the fence and dropped down on the other side. Pilcher, bending to the ground, found more of the blood trail, drips maybe six, seven feet apart. Stillwater hadn’t been bleeding in a way that seemed fatal and he had probably been moving fast. Did he have a vehicle around here? After he’d been picked up by the Coast Guard at the Scully house Pilcher had no idea how the troubleshooter had been getting around.

Pilcher followed the blood, but lost it after twenty or thirty yards. Stillwater might have stopped bleeding or might have jumped into a car and sped away. He couldn’t tell.

He tried the cell phone number again, straining his ears to hear the ring. He raised his eyebrows. Was that...?

He followed the faint sound of the cellular phone ringing, growing louder as he approached another alley about one building down from the dead woman’s apartment. Slowly he stepped into the dark corridor. The sound of the phone was loud. He scanned the flashlight beam around. There was movement in the debris and a large black rat scuttled out, eyes glittering in the light before moving further into the shadows.

There!

Pilcher shut off his phone and the electronic buzzing stopped. There was no sign of Stillwater except a black cell phone in a pile of debris next to the gray stone wall of the building. He picked up the phone and carefully dropped it into his jacket pocket.

He felt conflicted. He had the phone. The phone was evidence. The phone was a direct link to the terrorists. He needed to get it to the lab as fast as possible and start a team of agents tracking down any calls that had gone out or come into the phone.

But what about Stillwater? Despite the fact the two men were from different agencies, Pilcher had recognized something in the man, a kindred spirit, someone who wasn’t interested in climbing the political or corporate ladder, in currying favor or kissing ass. Stillwater just wanted to get the job done.

Pilcher thought of his daughters. Whenever his energy flagged on the job he thought about his children and his wife, reminded himself that he was protecting them, creating a country, a world even, for them to live in safely. America ... Americans ... was too big a concept. Too ephemeral, too abstract. But he would fight for his children.

He decided to give the search for Stillwater ten more minutes, then rush the phone back to the lab.

So...

Where had Stillwater gone?

The alley was dark, dirty, the pavement slick with grime and grease and God-knows-what. There was a rotting food odor that seemed to rise up from the pavement. A rusted green Dumpster halfway down the alley spewed garbage—the rat’s home, no doubt. He flashed his light in the Dumpster, just in case, but saw only garbage. He was sure the cops would have, too.

He gazed upward, taking in the lit windows. Rooms with a view, windows looking nowhere. The lower windows were barred, not uncommon in a major city, but something that made Pilcher feel like a failure as a law enforcement officer. The bad guys should be behind bars, not the good guys.

His eyes lingered on the rungs of the fire escape ladder dangling a good four or five feet above his head. There was no way Stillwater, injured or not, could have jumped and snagged the ladder. Unless...

He stepped close to the nearest window and shined his light on the bars and the recessed concrete pane they were set into.

There. A smear of blood.

Glad for his regular workouts, Pilcher clambered up on the window sill, looking over to realize the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder was now neck level. He reached out, caught the bars and pulled himself up. To the top, he thought. That’s where Stillwater is. On top of the damned building.

He began the long climb up fire escape.

He was coming to the end of his ten minutes when he pulled himself over the ledge and onto the roof of the building. He shined the flash around and quickly recognized a small puddle of blood on the tarred roof. No drops. A puddle. It was hard to evaluate from blood, but Stillwater’s wound had been more than a scratch.

Blood, but no Stillwater.

He paced around, looking for him, but he wasn’t on the roof. Pilcher approached the elevator housing, a concrete and steel box in the center of the roof. There was a steel door and it was open. He let himself in. No Stillwater. Had he been here? Had he let himself into the building and walked out the front door while the cops were searching for him?

Pilcher checked his watch and decided he had to get going. He reminded himself as he let entered the building and descended to the main floor to not underestimate Stillwater. The man would get hold of him when he could.

But right now Pilcher had to get this dead woman’s cell phone to the lab.

23

USAMRIID

L
IZ
V
ARGAS OPENED HER
eyes, then promptly closed them. She waited, eyes shut, listening. This is a nightmare, she thought. A very bad dream of the worst sort. I am going to wake up. I am in my own bed. I will get out of bed, take a shower, have a bagel and coffee, then drive to work.

She opened her eyes.

On a chair next to the bed she was lying on sat a figure in a blue spacesuit. Through the faceplate Liz recognized Sharon Jaxon.

The room looked remarkably similar to a hospital room. There was a TV on the wall, a hospital bed, a couch, chair and one of those wheeled tray-tables that only exist in hospitals.

A curtain hung over the window, but Liz was certain the window looked out over some observation area of The Slammer. The outer walls of The Slammer, she knew, would be like those of the Hot Zone, designed to keep lethal microorganisms inside.

Sharon Jaxon reached out and pinched off her oxygen hose to stop the roaring inside her suit. “How are you feeling?”

Propped on a pillow, Liz had to think about it. She was tired. That was understandable. It had been a totally hellish day. Long and stressful did not even begin to describe it. But aside from the fatigue? Well...

“I’m scared,” she said.

Jaxon’s helmet bobbed as she nodded. She reached out and patted Liz’s arm. “We’re going to make a decision in five hours whether to inoculate you with one of the early Chimeras. We’re running hourly antibody screens on the monkeys. In the meantime, we want to give you some anti-virals, but we wanted your opinion on which ones are the best bet.”

Liz struggled to a sitting position. “How long? How long have I been unconscious?”

“About fifteen minutes. Not long.”

Liz felt herself calm slightly. She had Chimera M13 in her system. Chimera was an astonishingly fast-acting virus, closer in reaction time to the effects of Salmonella or Botulism than a typical virus. It wasn’t something they had specifically designed for when they created the bug. There were arguments against a fast biological weapon. Some epidemiologists felt that bugs with rapid spread—and that killed their hosts—tended to burn themselves out. The spread of their infection, in other words, was faster than the travel velocity of its host. These scientists argued that this was why Ebola hadn’t run completely amuck and killed off Africa during the last two outbreaks in Zaire and Cameroon.

It was why smallpox, with a ten to fourteen-day incubation period was so lethal. During the infectious period the patient, not knowing they were infected, exposed a potentially higher number of people. Same thing with HIV, only worse.

The counter-argument was that a bug like Chimera could wipe out a vast population exactly
because
it acted so quickly.

Nobody knew which was true. Until Chimera hit the population, scientists could only guess.

“We didn’t try any anti-virals on Chimera,” Liz said, feeling hope flood her body like a warm drink.

“Colonel Zataki’s in Washington,” Jaxon said. “I got him on the phone just before he went into the briefing and he suggested we try Acyclovir, Ritonavir, Ribaviran and Pleconaril. Or any combination. What’s your opinion?”

“Briefing?” Liz realized she was distracted, that she should be concentrating on her treatment, but her brain, like a three-year-old’s, was looking for distraction. She was thinking,
There is no cure, don’t you understand? I’m going to die and I’m going to die soon and it is going to be horrible.

Jaxon said, “He’s briefing the White House personally. He decided the aides they’d sent over weren’t smart enough to get it right. Plus the President called and told him to be there.”

“That would probably be a factor.”

Jaxon smiled. “Yeah. Liz ... the anti-virals.”

“Why not all four?”

“I’ll check to see what the cross-reactions are. I’ll be back.”

“Did you ask Frank Halloran? He’d probably have an opinion.”

Sharon Jaxon shuffled out of the room without answering, the door closing behind her with a sucking sound. Liz sighed, trying to think, but couldn’t. Her brain would not work. All she could think was,
I am going to die.

24

The White House

S
ECRETARY
J
AMES
J
OHNSTON SETTLED
into his chair at the long conference table and took a sip from the water glass by his spot, using the drink as an opportunity to inspect the people who had already arrived. The President wasn’t there yet, no surprise. The attorney general was—she would be chairing things—as were the Joint Chiefs, the director of the CDC and the director of Health and Human Services. He recognized Dr. Daniel Zataki from USAMRIID and was surprised. He had been under the impression Zataki wouldn’t be there. He hoped his presence didn’t indicate an even uglier turn of events.