The Immortalist (36 page)

“We need to work fast, Erich,” said Cricket. “I need to get back to Emmy.”

Freiberg opened the lab door. “Everything I have is at your disposal.”

“All right, we'll do an autopsy here, from inside the isolator. But first we need to extract every drop of blood we can. Hannibal had circulating antibodies against Nemesis. They could have the power to save Emmy. Wig, I'll need you to set up affinity purification columns immediately. Wig? Wig . . . ?”

They looked about for Waggoner, who was nowhere in sight.

Finally, Hank spotted him in a darkened area at the far end of the lab, hunched over a cell phone. “Who are you talking to, Wig?”

Curious, Hank and Cricket moved closer. Waggoner flipped his cell phone shut. He had a guilty look. “I h-h-had to d-do it.”

“Do what?”

In the distance, Hank heard the front door of Cheville House fly open with a bang, then the staccato sound of hard leather soles clomping in double time down the hallway. Men's voices were moving toward them.

“I-I-I had orders,” said Waggoner.

“Oh, good God, Wig!” said Cricket. “You didn't!”

Freiberg came running up. “What? What did he do?”

Hank snatched the cell phone out of Wig's hand and flipped it open to read the last number dialed.

“He called Jack Niedermann.”

Three

DOWN THE HALL
THEY CAME—NIEDERMANN WEARING
a black leather jacket over a rumpled pajama top; four guards in blue uniforms, complete with shoulder belts. As they barged into the laboratory, Niedermann marched straight to the isolator and peered at Hannibal's stiff gray body, still wrapped in the bloody blanket.

His eyes were wide with amazement. “How did you find him?”

Cricket pressed her lips together defiantly.

“Quite a coup, I'll give you that. What did you plan to do with him?”

“An autopsy.”

“No, I think not.”

“Mr. Niedermann, this dog is the best chance we have of finding a cure for the Nemesis virus.”

“Nemesis virus?” sneered Niedermann. “Never heard of it.”

“It's a new species of virus—formed by recombination between herpes simplex and the Methuselah Vector—”

“Methuselah Vector? You're still pushing that theory?”

“It's not a theory. We have proof. We even know the exact splice points of the recombination. Take a look at Erich's data.”

“I don't have to look.” Niedermann laughed. “It's ludicrous. This dog is Dr. Gifford's property and I will not permit you to touch him. Disinterring him was a macabre thing to do, if not criminal.” Niedermann turned to one of the guards. “Steve! Take this dog to the cremation room in the basement of the Rensselaer Building. I'll attend to him later myself. I also want all blood and tissue samples, data printouts, notes, and computer hard drives removed from this laboratory.”

“You have no right,” protested Freiberg.

“I have operational authority over all security matters on this campus. I have every right to take action to safeguard evidence where I believe there is investigator misconduct. Guards, please escort all personnel from the premises. Dr. Freiberg has three labs on this floor. Make sure they're all cleared out. I want new locks on all the doors immediately. No one is to reenter without my express permission.”

“I'm a Nobel laureate,” said Freiberg. “You can't treat me this way. I'll appeal to the governing board.”

“Go ahead,” said Niedermann. “We'll meet next week to discuss it.” As Niedermann surveyed the room, his gaze fell on Waggoner, hiding in the shadows. “Dr. Waggoner's laboratory is to be shut down as well. Confiscate anything to do with this so-called Nemesis virus.”

Waggoner rushed into the light. “No! How can you do that? I'm the one who called you. I cooperated.”

“Sorry, Wig. You've been playing both sides.”

“At least let us draw some of Hannibal's blood,” pleaded Cricket. “Emmy needs it.”

“For what?”

“We believe Hannibal was infected by Nemesis but had a milder form of the disease, perhaps because a dog's MHC-1 sequence is different from a human's. He may have had time to produce antibodies against it. Those antibodies could give a boost to Emmy's own immune system. They could give her a fighting chance.”

“That's as preposterous as the rest of your theories. You will not touch this dog.”

“Damn you, Niedermann. I know who you're covering up for.”

“And who is that?”

“The common link to all these cases. The source of the Nemesis virus.” She paused until she had his full attention. “Charles Gifford.”

Niedermann's jaw fell. He seemed uncertain whether to register shock or derision. “Dr. Gifford . . .
really
?”

“Hannibal and Mr. Thieu—their relationship to Charles is obvious. Yolanda's the only one I can't figure out.”

“Yolanda?”

“The autopsy showed that she contracted the virus through a genital infection. Through fucking, Mr. Niedermann. Who fucked her? You?”

The smirk fell from Niedermann's face. “I . . . I d-don't know anything. I never laid a hand on her. I swear.”

“Then let's ask Charles about it. Come on, get him on your cell phone.” But Cricket didn't need to ask. All she had to do was remember the night of the banquet—Yolanda's last, desperate, rambling phone call. So full of jealousy. So insecure. But unmistakably the act of a woman in love.

“Yolanda . . . Charles . . . you can't mean that,” muttered Niedermann. He seemed bewildered. Then his look hardened and his lip curled with malice. “Guards! Get her out of here,” he shouted. “Take her to lockup.”

As the guards started to move, Cricket took cover behind a lab bench. “Lockup? No—I'll go back to the BSL-4 lab.”

“Sorry, you broke your word. You abandoned your patient there.”

“Where's Charles? I demand to speak to Dr. Gifford.”

“Good luck. I've been trying to reach him since last night. He's not answering his cell phone. No one has any idea where he is.” Niedermann impatiently waved the guards forward. “Of course, that leaves me in charge.”

Cricket retreated farther behind the bench. She was breaking out in a cold sweat. “You don't understand. My daughter . . . she needs me. Just let me go to her.”

Niedermann eyed the guards. “What are you waiting for, cowards? Arrest her!” he shouted.

As the guards grabbed for her, Cricket ducked low and kicked the nearest one in the shin. He stumbled back, opening just enough room for her to squeeze through the ring and toward the open door.

“Stop her! Stop her!” shouted Niedermann.

There were wild shouts. Cricket heard Hank and Freiberg scuffling with the guards behind her, buying her precious seconds. She sprang down the hall toward the closest door—an emergency exit. The jangling alarm sounded as she rammed the release bar.

Then she was outside in the early-morning light, dashing through the wet grass. She made straight for the woods behind Cheville House. She was light and fleet, despite the soggy slip-on shoes she wore. Old memories of rocks and trails and fallen trunks guided her, while behind her the pursuing guards lumbered like buffalo through the underbrush. The sound of their tramping grew fainter and fainter, farther and farther behind.

She had to get back to Emmy. She knew that the forest would cover her as she circled out beyond the track field, then swung back down to the BSL-4 lab on the east side of campus.
Let them try to tear me away from her bedside. Even Niedermann wouldn't dare.

The vision of Emmy lying helpless in the isolator spurred her on. But as she ran, her eye was caught by something else, too—a low, cedar-shingled building standing by itself behind the track field. Her mind was seized with a sobering thought.

It wasn't enough to try to save one girl. The lives of countless Emmys were at stake.

The Lottery had to be stopped.

Her path ran just behind the little house. The closer she approached, the more it tugged at her with an irresistible attraction. She could still put an end to this insane Lottery—now, before it was too late. Only a few more strides to reach it . . .

The bungalow of Subject Adam.

Four

CRICKET HELD HER
CDC ID CARD
against the screen door and fought to conceal her shortness of breath.
You need to look calm
.
He needs to think you're in control
. “Adam—may I call you that?”

“Sure,” came a voice from within. “It's not my real name, but I'm used to it.”

“I'm Dr. Sandra Rensselaer-Wright, a medical officer with the Centers for Disease Control. Please, may I come in?”

The screen door wobbled as Adam opened it. “Rensselaer, did you say?”

Cricket glanced back across the track field before stepping inside. None of her pursuers were in sight. “Yes. Is that name familiar to you?”

“Didn't a Rensselaer used to run this place?”

“My father. He also did some of the research that made the Methuselah Vector possible.”

“Then he's a great man in my book.”

“Yes, he was.” Looking into the back room, Cricket saw some boxes, an open suitcase, and a pile of unsorted clothes on the bed. “You're packing?”

“See that bottle of Hennessy on the kitchen counter?” Adam pointed with his long, spare arm. “That's for my last night in this place. Tomorrow, bright 'n' early, Doc G's flying me to New York City in his personal plane. They've got a shitload of TV interviews for me to do. Imagine that. I'm turnin' into quite the celebrity.”

“Adam, I need to talk to you about the Methuselah Vector. We have reason to believe it may have a serious side effect.”

“I haven't noticed anything.”

“You wouldn't. Ever since you were given the Vector, you've been isolated here in this bungalow, protected from exposure to infections. The problem is that, once you step into the outside world, even a minor illness could potentially interact with the Methuselah Vector DNA inside you and create something new—what we call a supervirus. That would be deadly both to you and to everyone around you.”

Adam looked as if she had slapped him. “What? I don't feel sick at all.”

“You're not. Not yet. But it's vital that you not go to New York.”

“I have interviews . . .”

“I understand. But I'm going to have to ask you to move right now to an isolation area in the BSL-4 lab. We'll do everything we can to make you comfortable there.”

“What about the Lottery?”

“It can't go on.”

“Has Doc G called it off?”

“I'm calling it off.”

Adam took a step back and looked at her warily. “Who the hell are you?”

“I work for the government. I'm a public health officer, and I have the power—”

“I want to talk to Doc G.”

Adam reached for a cell phone on the kitchen table, but Cricket grabbed it first. “Listen, Adam, people are dying on this campus. There's been a viral outbreak. We've got to stop an epidemic from getting started. Containment is the only hope we have.”

“Look, lady, I've done my time in this chicken coop for three months now. That's all it was ever supposed to be. That's all I agreed to.”

“Please, listen to me—”

“Three months, and not sick a bit.”

His stubbornness was maddening. “I don't have to ask. I can forcibly quarantine you if you won't cooperate.”

“Oh, yeah? We'll see about that.” Adam bounded across the room and hit a red button on the wall between the bathroom and the bedroom.

“What did you just do?”

“It's an alarm. In case I got to feelin' poorly.”

Cricket looked out the window. The track field was still clear. “Look, I know you think all is well, but if you leave this campus, you're signing your own death warrant. Your own, and God knows how many others' with you.” She looked outside again. Nothing. “There's still time. Please come with me now. I'll have your things brought over to the lab.”