Something jumped in front of her, and she nearly screamed. But it was only one of the monkeys, tortured by the lethal atmosphere. The animal held onto her for a minute, then slid off her plastic-covered shoulder and disappeared.
Gasping, Marissa reached up and ran her hand along the pipes. Touching an air manifold, she connected her line.
Over the sound of the alarm, Marissa heard a commotion in the next aisle, then muffled shouts. She guessed that her pursuer could not find a manifold.
Gambling that the second man would go to the aid of his accomplice, Marissa detached her own air hose and moved toward the light, her arms stretched out in front of her like a blind man. Soon the illumination was uniform and she guessed she had reached the main part of the lab. Moving toward the wall, she banged into the freezer and remembered seeing a manifold just above it. She hooked up for several quick breaths. Then she felt her way to the door. The second she found it, she released the seal and pulled it open. A minute later she was standing in the disinfecting room.
Having already been drenched with phenolic disinfectant, she didn’t wait through the usual shower. In the next room, she struggled out of her plastic suit, then ran into the room beyond, where she tipped the lockers holding the scrub clothes over against the pressure door. She didn’t think it would stop the door from being opened, but it might slow her pursuers down.
Racing into her street clothes, she flicked all the circuit breakers, throwing even the dressing rooms into darkness and turning off the ventilation system.
Once outside the maximum containment lab, Marissa ran the length of the virology building, across the catwalk, and to the stairs to the main floor, which she bounded down two at a time. Taking a deep breath, she tried to look relaxed as she went through the front lobby. The security guard was sitting at his desk to the left. He was on the phone, explaining to someone that a biological alarm had gone off, not a security door alarm.
Even though she doubted her pursuers would have enlisted security’s help after having tried to kill her, she’d trembled violently while signing out. She heard the guard hang up after he explained to the person he was talking to that the operators were busy searching for the head of the virology department.
“Hey!” yelled the guard, as Marissa started for the door. Her heart leapt into her mouth. For a moment, she thought about fleeing; she was only six feet from the front door. Then she heard the guard say, “You forgot to put the time.”
Marissa marched back and dutifully filled in the blank. A second later she was outside, running to her car.
She was halfway to Ralph’s before she was able to stop shaking and think about her terrible discovery. The missing ball of frozen Ebola couldn’t have been a coincidence. It was the same strain as each of the recent outbreaks across the country. Someone was using the virus, and whether intentionally or by accident, the deadly disease was infecting doctors and hospitals in disparate areas at disparate times.
That the missing sample from vial E39 was the mysterious reservoir for the Ebola outbreaks in the United States was the only explanation that answered the questions posed by the apparently long incubation periods and the fact that, though the virus tended to mutate, all of the outbreaks involved the same strain. Worse yet, someone did not want that information released. That was why she’d been taken off the Ebola team and why she had just been nearly killed. The realization that frightened her most was that only someone with maximum containment lab access—presumably someone on the CDC staff—could have found her there. She cursed herself for not having had the presence of mind to look in the log book as she signed out to see who’d signed in.
She had already turned down Ralph’s street, anxious to tell him her fears, when she realized that it wasn’t fair to involve him. She’d already taken advantage of Tad’s friendship, and by the next day, when he saw her name on the log, she would be a total pariah. Her one hope was that her two assailants would not report her presence in the lab, since they would then be implicated in the attempt on her life. Even so, she couldn’t count on their not devising a plausible lie about what had gone on. It would be their word against hers, and by tomorrow, her word wouldn’t mean much at the CDC. Of that she was sure. For all she knew the Atlanta police might be looking for her by morning.
Remembering her suitcase was still in the trunk of her car, Marissa headed for the nearest motel. As soon as she reached the room assigned her, she put in a call to Ralph. He answered sleepily on the fifth ring.
“I stayed up as long as I could,” he explained. “Why didn’t you come by?”
“It’s a long story,” said Marissa. “I can’t explain now, but I’m in serious trouble. I may even need a good criminal lawyer. Do you know of one?”
“Good God,” said Ralph, suddenly not sleepy. “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t want to drag you into it,” said Marissa. “All I can say is that the whole situation has become decidedly serious and, for the moment, I’m not ready to go to the authorities. I guess I’m a fugitive!” Marissa laughed hollowly.
“Why don’t you come over here?” said Ralph. “You’d be safe here.”
“Ralph, I’m serious about not wanting to involve you. But I do need a lawyer. Could you find me one?”
“Of course,” said Ralph. “I’ll help you any way I can. Where are you?”
“I’ll be in touch,” said Marissa evasively. “And thanks for being my friend.”
Marissa disconnected by pushing the button on top of the phone, trying to build up her courage to call Tad and apologize before he found out from someone else that she’d taken his access card. Taking a deep breath, she dialed. When there was no answer after several rings, she lost her nerve and decided not to wake him up.
Marissa took the letter from Lab Engineering from her pocket and smoothed it out. Grayson was going to be her next stop.
12
May 21
ALTHOUGH SHE WAS EXHAUSTED, Marissa slept poorly, tortured by nightmares of being chased through alien landscapes. When the early light coming through the window awakened her, it was a relief. She looked out and saw a man filling the coin-operated newspaper dispenser. As soon as he left, she ran out and bought the Atlanta Journal and Constitution.
There was nothing in it about the CDC, but halfway through the morning television news, the commentator said that there had been a problem at the Center. There was no mention of the maximum containment lab, but it was repeated that a technician had been treated at Emory University Hospital after inhaling phenolic disinfectant and then released. The segment continued with a phone interview with Dr. Cyrill Dubchek. Marissa leaned forward and turned up the volume.
“The injured technician was the only casualty,” Cyrill said, his voice sounding metallic. Marissa wondered if he was in Philadelphia or Atlanta. “An emergency safety system was triggered by accident. Everything is under control, and we are searching for a Dr. Marissa Blumenthal in relation to the incident.”
The anchorperson capped the segment with the comment that if anyone knew the whereabouts of Dr. Blumenthal, they should notify the Atlanta police. For about ten seconds they showed the photograph that had accompanied her CDC application.
Marissa turned off the TV. She’d not considered the possibility of seriously hurting her pursuers and she was upset, despite the fact that the man had been trying to harm her. Tad was right when he’d said that trouble seemed to follow her.
Although Marissa had joked about being a fugitive, she’d meant it figuratively. Now, having heard the TV announcer request information about her whereabouts, she realized the joke had become serious. She was a wanted person; at least by the Atlanta police.
Quickly getting her things together, Marissa went to check out of the motel. The whole time she was in the office, she felt nervous since her name was there in black and white for the clerk to see. But all he said was: “Have a nice day.”
She grabbed a quick coffee and donut at a
Howard Johnson’s, and drove to her bank, which luckily had early hours that day. Although she tried to conceal her face at the drive-in window in case the teller had seen the morning news, the man seemed as uninterested as usual. Marissa extracted most of her savings, amounting to $4,650.
With the cash in her purse, she relaxed a little. Driving up the ramp to Interstate 78, she turned on the radio. She was on her way to Grayson, Georgia.
The drive was easy, although longer than she’d expected, and not terribly interesting. The only sight of note was that geological curiosity called Stone Mountain. It was a bubble of bare granite sticking out of the wooded Georgia hills, like a mole on a baby’s bottom. Beyond the town of Snellville, Marissa turned northeast on 84, and the landscape became more and more rural. Finally she passed a sign: WELCOME TO GRAYSON. Unfortunately it was spotted with holes, as if someone had been using it for target practice, reducing the sincerity of the message.
The town itself was exactly as Marissa had imagined. The main street was lined with a handful of brick and wood-frame buildings. There was a bankrupt movie theater, and the largest commercial establishment was the hardware and feed store. On one corner, a granite-faced bank sported a large clock with Roman numerals. Obviously it was just the kind of town that needed a type 3 HEPA Containment Hood!
The streets were almost empty as Marissa slowly cruised along. She saw no new commercial structures and realized that Professional Labs was probably a little ways from town. She would have to inquire, but whom could she approach? She was not about to go to the local police.
At the end of the street, she made a U-turn and drove back. There was a general store that also boasted a sign that read U.S. Post Office.
“Professional Labs? Yeah, they’re out on Bridge Road,” said the proprietor. He was in the dry-goods section, showing bolts of cotton to a customer. “Turn yourself around and take a right at the firehouse. Then after Parsons Creek, take a left. You’ll find it. It’s the only thing out there ’cept for cows.”
“What do they do?” asked Marissa.
“Darned if I know,” said the storekeeper. “Darned if I care. They’re good customers and they pay their bills.”
Following the man’s directions, Marissa drove out of the town. He was right about there being nothing around but cows. After Parsons Creek the road wasn’t even paved, and Marissa began to wonder if she were on a wild-goose chase. But then the road entered a pine forest, and up ahead she could see a building.
With a thump, Marissa’s Honda hit asphalt as the road widened into a parking area. There were two other vehicles: a white van with Professional Labs, Inc., lettered on the side, and a cream-colored Mercedes.
Marissa pulled up next to the van. The building had peaked roofs and lots of mirror glass, which reflected the attractive tree-lined setting. The fragrant smell of pine surrounded her as she walked to the entrance. She gave the door a pull, but it didn’t budge. She tried to push, but it was as if it were bolted shut. Stepping back, she searched for a bell, but there was none. She knocked a couple of times, but realized she wasn’t making enough noise for anyone inside to hear. Giving up on the front door, Marissa started to walk around the building. When she got to the first window, she cupped her hands and tried to look through the mirror glass. It was impossible.
“Do you know you are trespassing?” said an unfriendly voice.
Marissa’s hands dropped guiltily to her sides.
“This is private property,” said a stocky, middle-aged man dressed in blue coveralls.
“Ummm . . . ,” voiced Marissa, desperately trying to think of an excuse for her presence. With his graying crew cut and florid complexion, the man looked exactly like a red-neck stereotype from the fifties.
“You did see the signs?” asked the man, gesturing to the notice by the parking lot.
“Well, yes,” admitted Marissa. “But you see, I’m a doctor . . .” She hesitated. Being a physician didn’t give her the right to violate someone’s privacy. Quickly she went on: “Since you have a viral lab here, I was interested to know if you do viral diagnostic work.”
“What makes you think this is a viral lab?” questioned the man.
“I’d just heard it was,” said Marissa.
“Well, you heard wrong. We do molecular biology here. With the worry of industrial espionage, we have to be very careful. So I think that you’d better leave unless you’d like me to call the police.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Marissa. Involving the police was the last thing she wanted. “I certainly apologize. I don’t mean to be a bother. I would like to see your lab, though. Isn’t there some way that could be arranged?”
“Out of the question,” the man said flatly. He led Marissa back to her car, their footsteps crunching on the crushed-stone path.
“Is there someone that I might contact to get a tour?” asked Marissa as she slid behind the wheel.
“I’m the boss,” said the man simply. “I think you’d better go.” He stepped back from the car, waiting for Marissa to leave.
Having run out of bright ideas, Marissa started the engine. She tried smiling good-bye, but the man’s face remained grim as she drove off, heading back to Grayson.
He stood waiting until the little Honda was lost in the trees. With an irritated shake of his head, he turned and walked back to the building. The front door opened automatically.
The interior was as contemporary as the exterior. He went down a short tiled corridor and entered a small lab. At one end was a desk, at the other was an airtight steel door like the one leading into the CDC’s maximum containment lab, behind which was a lab bench equipped with a type 3 HEPA filtration system.
Another man was sitting at the desk, torturing a paper clip into grotesque shapes. He looked up: “Why the hell didn’t you let me handle her?” Speaking made him cough violently, bringing tears to his eyes. He raised a handkerchief to his mouth.
“Because we don’t know who knows she was here,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Use a little sense, Paul. Sometimes you scare me.” He picked up the phone and punched the number he wanted with unnecessary force.
“Dr. Jackson’s office,” answered a bright, cheerful voice.
“I want to talk to the doctor.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s with a patient.”
“Honey, I don’t care if he’s with God. Just put him on the phone.”
“Who may I say is calling?” asked the secretary coolly.
“Tell him the Chairman of the Medical Ethics Committee. I don’t care; just put him on!”
“One moment, please.”
Turning to the desk, he said: “Paul, would you get my coffee from the counter.”
Paul tossed the paper clip into the wastebasket, then heaved himself out of his chair. It took a bit of effort because he was a big man and his left arm was frozen at the elbow joint. He’d been shot by a policeman when he was a boy.
“Who is this?” demanded Dr. Joshua Jackson at the other end of the phone.
“Heberling,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Dr. Arnold Heberling. Remember me?”
Paul gave Arnold his coffee, then returned to the desk, taking another paper clip out of the middle drawer. He pounded his chest, clearing his throat.
“Heberling!” said Dr. Jackson. “I told you never to call me at my office!”
“The Blumenthal girl was here,” said Heberling, ignoring Jackson’s comment. “She drove up pretty as you please in a red car. I caught her looking through the windows.”
“How the hell did she find out about the lab?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Heberling. “The fact of the matter is that she was here, and I’m coming into town to see you. This can’t go on. Something has to be done about her.”
“No! Don’t come here,” said Jackson frantically. “I’ll come there.”
“All right,” said Heberling. “But it has to be today.”
“I’ll be there ar
ound five,” said Jackson, slamming down the receiver.
* * *
Marissa decided to stop in Grayson for lunch. She was hungry, and maybe someone would tell her something about the lab. She stopped in front of the drugstore, went in and sat down at the old-fashioned soda fountain. She ordered a hamburger, which came on a freshly toasted roll with a generous slice of Bermuda onion. Her Coke was made from syrup.
While Marissa ate, she considered her options. They were pretty meager. She couldn’t go back to the CDC or the Berson Clinic Hospital. Figuring out what Professional Labs was doing with a sophisticated 3 HEPA filtration system was a last resort, but the chances of getting in seemed slim: the place was built like a fortress. Perhaps it was time to call Ralph and ask if he’d found a lawyer, except . . .
Marissa took a bite of her dill pickle. In her mind’s eye she pictured the two vehicles in the lab’s parking lot. The white van had had Professional Labs, Inc., printed on its side. It was the Inc. that interested her.
Finishing her meal, Marissa walked down the street to an office building she remembered passing. The door was frosted glass: RONALD DAVIS, ATTORNEY AND REAL- TOR, was stenciled on it in gold leaf. A bell jangled as she entered. There was a cluttered desk, but no secretary.
A man dressed in a white shirt, bow tie and red suspenders, came out from an inside room. Although he appeared to be no more than thirty, he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses that seemed almost grandfatherly. “Can I help you?” he asked, with a heavy Southern accent.
“Are you Mr. Davis?” asked Marissa.