and EMTs helped her onto a gurney for the short trip to the local airport where a medically-equipped airplane was waiting. Mrs. Egan would fly with Kelly and Mr. Egan would drive her car home. John stood back with the luggage until Mr. Egan put it in his car. Once again, to stifle contact, Mr. Egan shook John’s hand briefly, saying, “Well, so long, John. Don’t worry anymore about Kelly. She’s back home with family.” So what am I?
The ambulance door closed and drove away before he could do any more than wave and mouth the word, “Good-bye.” Kelly gave a quick smile and looked away.
Sick at Heart
He stood motionless, trying to process what was happening. Ever since the accident and Kelly’s parents’ arrival, he had felt their relationship dissolving. She was independent and highly intelligent. She could make her own decisions. But their relationship had changed. They’d been through some terrifying situations, and she’d been nearly killed. Did she blame him? If that was it, he could try to overcome it; but it seemed more permanent somehow. When they had been together, she had never seemed close to her parents. She’d grown up as an intellectual project of two technolistes with minimal nurturing and forced-adulthood. She had been socially aloof in school because she related more closely with the teachers than the students, often more familiar with the subjects even than the teachers. She’d intimidated other kids and had never been invited to proms or dances. Her parents had convinced her that she was just “too smart” for other kids. Now, maybe, they had convinced her similarly about John.
Their relationship seemed to be over. He thought he knew her well, but now … maybe not. She’d seemed too willing to leave. She was back under the parental umbrella that had shielded her from a normal life as a youth. She now accepted their guardianship again. She trusted them to protect her more than John. She’d never even given him a chance to explain what he’d learned. She lacked confidence in him. He’d said he’d take care of things, and he was close to succeeding. She didn’t know any of that.
That night, at the apartment, alone, dead tired and depressed, he felt totally isolated. His life had evolved to working at GHI and loving Kelly. His parents were dead. He had no other family. Sitting on the sofa, nursing a beer, he was alone, absolutely alone. He’d never felt so lonely before, even on those nights on patrol away from base camp in the mountains of northeastern Afghanistan. There had always been people in his life, but now there was no one. It wasn’t certain that Kelly was completely out of his life, but, tonight, it felt that way. He put his head back and closed his eyes. Sleep deprivation was finally affecting him. He hadn’t slept comfortably or long for over a week. His head ached and his eyes burned even when closed. His body needed downtime. He couldn’t think.
Hours later, after collapsing on the sofa, he was awake. The headache was gone, and he felt totally alert. Somewhere in his dreams, he’s assembled all the pieces; he knew that people at the Institute had aided terrorists and caused thousands to die in false plagues they had started. None of this knowledge was acquired legally; he had committed countless crimes to unwire a two-pronged conspiracy. Nothing could be used by law enforcement. But, he had to stop it; he had to find a way. Something in the back of his mind had started moving more pieces of the puzzle into place. Kelly wasn’t out of his mind, but other lives were also on the line.
Urgency
The Saudis had sent a consulting firm to interview key personnel at GHI. The objective was to develop individual incentive programs that would ensure that the intellectual property, personal knowledge, remained in place after the Institute changed ownership. Of the thirty-odd technical staff, only a handful was in this group. First on the list was Irina Petronova: after that, the BSL-4 personnel were vital, and then Charlie Ritter. Jules was the overall boss, but he was farther removed from the technology and not on the list.
The consultant asked about Kelly Egan’s availability, and Jules had explained that she’d had an accident and was in the hospital. Marie called each morning to check on Kelly’s status and learned that she’d checked out sooner than expected, but no more information was available. Jules was furious and called Jim Osborne. “Look, Jim. I don’t know where she is. As far as we know, she was living with her lab assistant, John Hollis, but we can’t find either of them (he lied about even trying to reach Hollis). Hollis was driving when the accident happened, but wasn’t hurt as badly. I know the consultants want to meet with them, but I’m not sure when that will happen.”
Osborne wanted to reassure Jules. He’d been through more acquisitions and mergers than he could remember and knew how anxiety affected sellers, sometimes destroying deals. “It’s not a major issue, Jules. We can wait a few more days. I’m sure they’ll both show up, and then the contracts will all get completed.”
“It is a big deal! What if another offer comes in?”
“We’ll deal with it!” Why are you so hyper? This kind of deal takes time, and you can’t pressure these people. They have money and sincerely want the Institute. You’re secure even if it takes a few extra days.”
Jules couldn’t tell Jim about all of his concerns – Osborne was the buyer’s representative. Jules was running against the clock, sure that the FBI or Commerce or someone else from the Government would arrive at any time to “investigate.” It was only a matter of days until the GHI container was found in Guinea and the live virus discovered, he was sure of it. He wracked his brain with ways to move the Saudis faster. Charlie was even acting a little strange around Jules. He wasn’t under the same pressure. He didn’t know about the hijacked shipment “problem.” Jules couldn’t say anything to Charlie. They’d known each other for thirty years, yet didn’t always share the same values. Neither Hanson nor Irina had involved Charlie, which was the only wise thing they’d done. Jules knew Charlie would never condone anything illegal, not even a slight deviation. There were no “slight deviations” in Charlie’s world. He would sooner see the sale scrubbed and people in jail than violate the law. After thirty years out of medical school, Charlie still took his Hippocratic Oath seriously.
That morning, John had reached a decision. Legal evidence or no, he had to try to stop the Institute from killing more people. The conspirators might not value life far away in Africa, but he’d been alongside the Afghans; he knew them as ordinary people. Before going there, they had just been some inanimate image on the news programs, just like the Africans now. He’d gotten to known them as real people. It changed his perception of foreigners. They were flesh and blood with dreams and families, every bit as deserving of life as people he lived around. All people deserved the same respect for life. The West Africans were humans also, just decades or centuries behind in development. He was sickened, thinking that his Institute was deliberately infecting people with a killer disease for money. He knew Kelly would share his feelings along with most of the dedicated Institute people.
He didn’t know where to start, but he felt the Baltimore PD was as good as any since they were already aware of the attempt on their lives. Detective McAlister agreed to meet with him at the station. As he drove there, he tried to formulate his thoughts. How was he going to get everything into the open in a way that would put the guilty people behind bars? He had said that he had information about a conspiracy at the Institute that had been the cause behind the attempts on his and Kelly’s lives. He did have the information, but there wasn’t any good way to disclose it without implicating himself in major crimes.
Less than an hour later, he still didn’t know exactly what to say or how to say it. He was sitting in a small conference room with scuffed green vinyl floor tile, dirty beige cement block walls, and gray steel furniture. There was one interior window into the office area with a mini-blind closed for privacy. McAlister had a notepad and a recorder. The recorder unnerved him, and he asked about it. Her only response was that she would “keep it off if you want.”
He asked to be off the re
cord for now, and she agreed. He began, “I’ve worked at the Institute since graduation from college over a year ago. We make vaccines for deadly viruses, including Ebola.” He went on to explain the whole story, as he knew it. He didn’t think there were errors or omissions, but he couldn’t be sure. Much of the information was coerced, for sure, and he believed it was true, but there could have been lies and omissions. He wasn’t relating information firsthand; it had all come from the people he tortured. McAlister had stopped writing long before John finished. He hadn’t noticed while spilling his guts.
He finished the short version, leaving out the final episode on Matinicus Island and was prepared to go more deeply into a complete description of why so many people had confessed, but stopped. She was transfixed on him. “John, are you aware of all the crimes you committed and just admitted to?”
He shrugged, “Probably not, but I know I did some illegal stuff.”
“Yeah … ya think! I’m a police detective. You’re