The Gemini Virus (15 page)

“She’s not responding.”

“Oh.” The relief that had been irrigating Dennis’s soul was now transforming into confidence. “Well, how long do you think it’ll be before she’s back?”

“It shouldn’t be too long.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“I have no way of knowing where she is.”

Hicksville,
Dennis suddenly thought nastily.
If a dispatcher suddenly took off in Carlton Lakes without leaving someone to man the radio, Chief Doyle would make sure she never came back
.

“Okay, so why don’t you or your partner, or one of the officers, just follow us up to the cabin? It’s only a few miles from here. I can show you the deed as soon as we walk in the door. For that matter, the fact that we have the keys to
open
the door should be enough.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that.”

This was the point at which Dennis Jensen began to feel his patience slipping away. He opened his mouth to fire a retort, intent on leveling the kid’s smug arrogance in spite of a distant voice telling him he would later regret it. Then he was distracted by a bright flash in the rearview mirror. When he looked up he saw it again—not one, but a pair of lights, small and round, spaced well apart.
Headlights.
They were there for an instant, then gone. The car was swerving crazily as it came up the road behind them.

As he leaned out the window to look back, he heard the screech of rubber on pavement, followed by the hollow bash of metal on metal as the vehicle struck the guardrail. Jettick produced his flashlight like a magician, revealing a red compact: a Honda Civic perhaps. And, in spite of the smoke now leaking from the partially crumbled hood, the car bounced away from the rail and continued to—

—head straight for us
.

“Shit!”

The following things happened in the next three seconds: Dennis dropped the automatic gearshift from park to drive, said to Jettick defiantly, “This guy’s gonna run into me, so I’m moving!” then jammed the gas pedal and lurched forward, swerving around the sawhorses to the right and coming up alongside the squad car with the swirling lights. Jettick’s partner, who looked to be a bit older but had a dullard’s expression that suggested he wasn’t quite so bright, put a hand up to signal that Dennis should stop, which he did. Then Dennis and Andi turned back to watch what happened next. So rapt was their attention that they were only faintly aware that the sudden, jackrabbit motion had jarred both their children out of sleep.

Jettick lifted his own hand and yelled for the driver to stop. Then his thin figure—nothing more than a dark silhouette against the growing headlights—dove away to avoid being struck. The vehicle made one last maddened, bumper car swerve before slamming into the iron ribbon of guardrail that prevented it from sailing into the darkness and embarking on a sheer drop of at least a hundred feet to certain death. What Dennis saw next would make him think it would’ve been the more merciful option.

The passenger door swung open, and an indistinct shape dropped out in a heap. In the dark it looked like it could’ve been a load of laundry the driver had simply pushed out with the flat of his foot. Then the form began to move, and Jettick shone his beloved flashlight on it. There was a woman of nondescript age, wearing jeans and a dusty purple short-sleeved T-shirt. The elephantine arm that was trying unsuccessfully to get her up off the pavement—she looked like she was doing a slow push-up—was mottled with weals and boils. When she turned briefly into the flashlight beam, it revealed the face of a monstrous, Mrs. Potato Head–like creature with a set of quick pen strokes marking off where the eyes, nostrils, and mouth used to be. But what made her appearance truly nightmarish, Dennis would realize later, was that in spite of her malformation, she still managed to convey emotion through facial expression. Dennis had never seen such suffering in another human being.

The woman tried in vain to get moving again, like a bug that had just been slapped but wasn’t quite dead yet. Then she rolled over onto her back and lay still. This was when Dennis realized why she had only been using one arm—the other was holding a child against her. It was very small, probably not even a year old, and wrapped in a brightly colored blanket that was now ruined with blood. Its tiny head flopped back like that of a doll, the mouth open, before it ultimately rolled off its mother’s chest and disappeared from view. There was little doubt in Dennis’s mind the child was already dead.

Wrenching away his terrified but fascinated gaze, he looked into the cab of the vehicle to see who’d been driving. Jettick’s flashlight beam did not follow, and Dennis could see only another dark shape. It was a man, that much was distinguishable, slumped to one side with his head against the window. Like the rest of his family, he was no longer exercising the God-given right of independent movement.

The Jettick kid was frozen, his legs spread apart and his right hand still holding the flashlight by his right ear. His other arm hung down and a few inches away from his body, like that of a gunslinger ready to draw. Dennis got the impression he simply didn’t know what to do, his gung-ho nature unable to override his youth and lack of experience. In spite of whatever training he might have received, this situation was beyond him.

Although later he would barely remember doing it, and in spite of Andi’s voluble protests, Dennis jumped out of the car and yelled,
“Don’t go anywhere near them! Don’t
touch
them!”
Jettick looked halfway back—a sign that he’d heard—but didn’t appear any more enlightened as to what he should do next. Then the mother began moving again. She turned to Jettick, her bloody hair spilling into her face, and tried to speak. What came out was not diction but rather a garble of choked and dissonant sounds. Then she coughed once, her entire body seizing together like tempered coil, and a gush of discolored fluid exited her mouth in a lazy geyser.

That was enough for the kid. He strode lithely to the side of the road and, just getting his hat off and mask down in time, vomited noisily into the shrubbery.

“Oh my God, Dennis…”

“Yeah…”

Feeling his own constitution rapidly diminishing, he turned to Jettick’s partner—who looked deathly pale—and said, “Call for help
now
! Don’t try to handle this yourself. And get this road closed, too!”

Unable to take his eyes off the horror-movie scene before him, the cop said, “Uh-huh,” and began a delicate walk to the squad car.

Dennis hopped back into the van and pulled the door shut. After one last glance back—Jettick was still on all fours, and the family members were all as still as statues—he said, “We’re going to our cabin now. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to shoot me. But I’m not keeping my family around here any longer.”

Jettick’s partner gave an absent nod, but Dennis never saw it. He already had the van in gear and was gaining speed.

*   *   *

He finally gave up on the coffee and set the cup in the basin. Then he rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was more tired than he’d ever been in his life. The medicinal value of the scented morning breezes, usually able to cure all spiritual ills, was minimal today.

“Trouble sleeping again?”

He turned. “Huh? Oh, I didn’t even hear you come down.”

Andi stood there in her flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers: vivid reminders of home. She had insisted they maintain as much of their normal routine as possible—the kids up at seven, showered and dressed, then a short walk for Scooter, followed by breakfast. Billy had been told they were just “going away for a few days,” as it was something a five-year-old would accept without fuss. Chelsea, quite mature for seven, had gone along with the story like a trouper. So far, so good—on that front at least.

Andi came close and wrapped her arms around his waist. “More bad dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“The roadblock?”

He laughed softly. “The roadblock. Jack McLaughlin. All manner of wondrous things.”

She set her head on his shoulder. “They’ll go away, don’t worry.”

“Yeah.”

He marveled again—for perhaps the millionth time in his life—at her inner strength. Their perfect little world had been shattered, yet here she was offering reassurance and comfort. He was better at handling crises when they initially struck, but she was the one who held everything together in the long run. No matter how frazzled she became, no matter how worn or weary, she was, at her core, a rock. He had become dependent on her in this respect. When he had a bad day at work, he knew he could talk to her. When his mother died seven years ago, she was at his side every minute. Nothing ever brought her down. She would bend, but she never broke. He found that amazing.

“Why don’t you take Scooter for his walk by yourself this morning?” she suggested. “Maybe see if Mr. Barber is home.”

Josiah Barber, nicknamed by Dennis “the Old Man of the Mountain,” had one of the other cabins in the area. There were many others, in fact, but only a handful were visible from their upstairs windows. Barber was a former railroad worker who had sold his house in southern New Jersey after his wife died in the late ’80s and had lived in his cabin, which he previously used only for weekend hunting trips, ever since. Although he could be crabby and standoffish to some, he had taken a liking to the Jensens and always remembered to keep a civil tongue when Chelsea and Billy were around.

Dennis sighed. “Okay, sure. Why not?…”

Scooter was standing behind him, waiting patiently with his ears perked. Dennis knew this without having to look. He and Scooter had become brothers over the years; Dennis loved him as much as he loved Andi and the kids. He was the best pet anyone could ever have—sweet, gentle, playful, always ready to lick your face, tail going like crazy.

He reached over and took the coiled-up collar off the counter. “Okay, big guy, let’s go,” Dennis told him. He clicked the spring-loaded hook a few times because the sound drove Scooter into a delighted frenzy. He jumped up and down, bouncing off his master with his front paws. Dennis managed a smile.

“See you in a few,” he said, kissing Andi on the cheek. She gave him one in return and rubbed his back.

They got outside and began climbing the same trail as yesterday. Narrow, pebbly, and well worn, it cut a winding path through the heart of the surrounding hardwood forest. Some stretches were sharply tilted, others grassy and overgrown. He didn’t know how far it went, as he had never taken it to its natural conclusion. For that matter, he wasn’t even sure where his family’s property ended and the next one began.

Scooter sniffed along like a bloodhound in a murder movie, following the scent of the missing heroine. His senses were still sharp, Dennis could tell. Nine years was a respectable age for a large dog, an age when the basic faculties began diminishing. But not ol’ Scoot’s. He was as healthy and as happy as a puppy.

The woodland breezes and canine company did Dennis’s soul good. The guilt was eating away at him ferociously. It was more than just the shooting of Jack McLaughlin now—much more. Yesterday, Chelsea wanted to call her friend Paige to see how she was doing. Andi told her maybe later, then lied when “later” came by, saying they did try her house but got no answer. The truth was they’d read online that Paige and her parents had been found dead the day before. This led to a conversation that night, after the kids were asleep, where the decision was made not to contact anyone else from the neighborhood. Dennis was the one who finally said it: “We can’t. If we do, they’ll ask where we are. Then they’ll come here, and they could bring the infection with them.” They wanted desperately to do something—
anything
—to help. But the risks were enormous. For Chelsea and Billy’s sake, they had to remain hidden and follow the latest developments via their laptops. More than eight hundred dead, an estimated seventeen hundred more heading to the same conclusion. Andi commented it was like watching an earthquake from a helicopter. She felt like a coward; Dennis knew what she meant.

The trail leveled off when it reached a sunny cluster of trees. The air was warm and humid here, thick with the scent of pine sap. Scooter began to pull hard against the leash, wanting to go off the trail into a tangle of low-lying shrubs.
Same as yesterday,
Dennis thought with some surprise. He wasn’t the type to pull while he was being walked, unlike some dogs. Andi’s father had a mutt that damn-near pulled your arm off. Scooter had never been like that.

“Scoot, what’s up?” Dennis said, gently trying to draw him back. He didn’t want Scooter going anywhere that might earn him a few ticks. That might require a trip to the local vet for Lyme treatment.

But the dog was insistent. Still in his nose-to-the-ground posture, he carved long ruts into the sandy, loamy soil with his front paws while Dennis held him back.
He smells something in there,
Dennis thought, then envisioned another nightmare scenario—Scooter getting bit by some rabid thing.
Wouldn’t that be great, him foaming at the mouth like Old Yeller … and my having to shoot
him
, too.

“Scooter, let’s
go,
” he said firmly, giving him a tug. He hated doing anything that hurt the animal, but there was no way he was letting him wander into the brush.

Scooter whimpered as he reluctantly abandoned the pursuit, but he kept looking back as they continued down the trail.

EIGHT

Abdulaziz Masood opened the front closet of his Hoboken apartment and took out the cream-colored L.L. Bean barn coat he’d bought last year. It was one of only two coats that hung there, the other a slightly heavier Gore-Tex he’d received in the same online order. Otherwise the closet was as empty as the day he’d moved in, almost three years ago.

He chose L.L. Bean products because he figured they would help him blend in. L.L. Bean was “American wear,” as red-white-and-blue as hot dogs and apple pie and corrupt politicians and nearsighted corporate decision makers and a middle class being systematically hammered out of existence. The Bean clothes, the iPod Shuffle, the twice-daily visits to Starbucks, the tiny New Jersey apartment with an across-the-river view of New York City and the criminally high rent …
It was so easy to fool these people,
he’d thought a million times. Nearly three years and no one ever came knocking—not the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, or the Department of Homeland Security.… He figured one of them would show up sooner or later, having discovered his association with Lashkar-al-Islam and Ahmed Aaban el Shalizeh. And he was prepared to go down fighting if it came to that. But it never did. He marveled at their stupidity.