The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller (11 page)

I looked at the monkeys, like prisoners in cages, watching our every move. “I’m glad it wasn’t the cockroach. That wouldn’t have played well in the press.”

Birot laughed. He looked like a guy who needed a good laugh. “Edison had a warehouse of rejected ideas for the filament before inventing his first successful light bulb,” he said. “No possibility, no matter how implausible should be discarded until tested.”

I had to give the guy credit. He was a lonely old man with nothing left but his work, but he wouldn’t give up, and he was a genius, capable of just about anything he set his mind to. He wanted to show us more, but I needed a smoke, so he took us back up to the lobby and one the guards let me out to light up in the parking lot, while he and Izzy went back to his office for some private time.

I called Jimmy on his cell but it rang through to voicemail, so I left a message, asking him to call when he got out of his meeting with FEMA. I finished my Pall Mall and went back to the car to see if Travis had found the information I was looking for. It was waiting for me on the car’s computer. I had asked him to find out where Vincent Taney’s wife, Madeline, had moved with their son. The realtor said New York. I wanted to know where in New York. I had a few questions for her.

Travis’ search came back negative. Two weeks after Taney’s death, she’d opened a post office box in Philly, moved out, and left no other forwarding address. Travis had a connection who found that the realtor communicated with her several times through a cell. We couldn’t get any more information without a warrant, and I had no cause for one, at least not yet.

When Izzy got back in the car, she was crying.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

“It’s just so sad. First his wife, and now his son.”

She let me hug her. It made us both feel better about things.

“Let’s go see Billy, and then I think we could both use a drink,” I said.

I let the car’s GPS do the navigating and turned on the news. Not much new. The world was going to hell in a hand basket. North Korea was posturing again with new missile tests, China was pushing hard to claim ownership over the South China Sea, terrorists were blowing up cars and murdering people from the Middle East to Pakistan, insurgents were carving out their own country from land grabbed from Syria and Iraq, but nobody was talking about any of that because of Ebola.

They were running with the story again. This time, their source wasn’t a whack job with a cell phone and a big mouth. It was someone inside the city government, who was speaking off the record because he wasn’t authorized to speak at all. This time, there were no hasty denials. This time, it was “no comment” until the Mayor’s press conference at six. That only poured more gasoline on the fire.

When we got to the hospital, cops were everywhere. Dr. Williamson was sitting outside on a bench with a nice view of the squalor they call Camden.

“Getting some air?” I asked.

“Just tired.”

“I hear you. Why don’t you go home, spend some time with the family?”

“I can’t do that, not right now.”

“It’s only going to get worse. The news media broke the story again, and the press conference is at six. By this time tomorrow, you’ll have people coming out of the woodwork with symptoms.”

“It’s already started.”

“What’s the game plan?” I asked.

“If they don’t have a fever, we’re sending them home with thermometers and pamphlets telling them what to do. If they do have a fever, we’re checking them out.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Every exam room in the ER is occupied. The rest are in the waiting room. That’s why the police are here.”

“Is that safe?”

“What am I supposed to do, Agent Matthews? This facility was not built to handle this kind of thing.”

“How’s Billy?”

“We’re doing everything we can for him.”

“Which means what?”

“We’ve confirmed the diagnosis. You can see him, if you like.”

We left Williamson and went into the hospital, identifying ourselves to the security guard just inside the main lobby doors. They were screening everyone who entered the building, either sending them to the proper line for help or showing them the way out. We took the elevator to four where we were met by two cops who checked our IDs again and let us pass. The isolation unit must have lost its appeal. The place was empty except for the nurse inside with Billy and one more at the monitoring station. We went inside the soundproof booth.

“Billy, are you awake?” I said.

The nurse brought the mike closer and touched his arm. I saw his lips move.

“Billy?” I said again.

“Bam?”

He didn’t sound good, not good at all. He started to cry.

“Hang in there, kid,” I said.

“I can’t, Bam. I just can’t.”

“Listen, Junior. Don’t you give up on me. That’s an order. You hear me? I’m not breaking in another partner. I’m too old and too damned tired.”

An alarm went off at the monitoring station, and the nurse with Billy began to wave to the other one outside. A page came over the loudspeaker for Dr. Red to report to ISO-4. Doctors and nurses converged on the isolation unit. Only one problem: no one could go inside to help until they suited up.

Time was wasting, but time wasn’t Billy’s killer. It was Ebola. I stood there in that booth, angry as hell at something so small it couldn’t be seen, a murderer without remorse, a killer, a stone-cold killer, just like Carmine only worse. I could empty my .38 into it, reload, and empty it again and still not stop it. There was no grabbing Ebola by the neck and beating the crap out of it, no locking it in jail and throwing away the key, and no bringing back Billy Driscoll. When Williamson called it, Izzy took me by the hand and led me out of that place.

She called Jimmy, asked him to meet us at Pico’s, and we drove back into the city. The six o’clock press conference was just getting underway when she turned on the radio. The mayor’s opening statement about the death of François Birot due to his contracting Ebola didn’t include any mention of the kid who died trying to save his life. It wouldn’t have played well in the media or public opinion polls to bring up the circumstances of a true hero’s giving his life for a scumbag. He talked around the issue of the handful of docs, nurses, and emergency responders, and some poor sucker who worked at the morgue being treated for symptoms. He urged everyone to remain calm. They had nothing to fear. The spin-doctors must have been hard at work on that speech all afternoon.

Izzy found a parking spot outside the bar and we went in. Jimmy had gotten a table for us in the back.

“Sorry about Billy,” he said, and Jimmy did something he’d never done before. He gave me a hug.

We sat down.

“Thanks,” I said. I wanted to say more, but that kind of language gets you thrown out of places.

“I ordered us drinks and an appetizer,” he said. “I told the waiter to bring his best scotch. Did you catch the press conference?”

“Yeah, nice job of deflection. What are you going to say when the press finds your dirty laundry stuffed in the hampers at Cooper Hospital? Oops?”

“We’re following FEMA’s playbook now, Bam. They plan on a second announcement the day after tomorrow. They’ll know better what the status is then. They see no need to incite a general panic right now, especially when nothing may come of it.”

“I’ll be sure to let Billy know.”

“They didn’t know about him in time. We have a meeting first thing tomorrow about it. They’ll figure out what to say then.”

The drinks and nachos came. The twelve-year-old scotch was a big step up from my usual swill.

Izzy’s cell rang. She answered it, listened, and by the time she’d said thank you and hung up, her face was as white as a sheet.

“That was one of my people in New York. The French ambassador is dead, the two aides who were with him in the car. Dead. All dead.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Jimmy said.

His phone rang.

“Barnes,” he answered. He listened, said he’d be right there, and hung up. “That was Eland. The French government just went public with the news. FEMA is going to set up another command center in New York. All hell’s breaking loose up there. Her team here in Philly and the team there will be coordinating through Washington now. I’ve got to go, Bam. Sorry. I’ll catch up with you two tomorrow.”

Izzy and I finished off the nachos and had another drink. We talked about things we liked to do to unwind. She liked to play golf. I’m not into clubbing things. I like to take out my frustration at the range.

The conversation was winding down to bad place when I said, “I think I’ve had enough of this day.”

“I’ll take you home.”

“Thanks. Shep likes to chew up furniture when he’s not happy about me being gone so long. I’m not sure about Baby.”

“Baby?”

“The cat. The guy at the sandwich shop told me her name. She was Gyro’s lucky charm.”

When we left and got back into the car, there was a Caddy parked across the street that I didn’t like the looks of. It must have been the tinted windows. I got its plate number before we drove off. It’s just something I do. Most times, nothing comes of it. My phone rang.

“Matthews,” I said.

“Bam, it’s Tom. I heard the news about your partner. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Tom. I appreciate it. What’s new at the CDC?”

“The phone’s been ringing off the hook with test requests.”

“From where?”

“Everywhere. It doesn’t make sense. Ebola isn’t a jumper, not like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of the few things working in our favor in an Ebola epidemic is that it’s primarily transmitted by fluid contact, and it kills so fast that it’s hard for it to spread beyond the initial outbreak area.”

“How fast?”

“Death usually occurs in seven to ten days from when symptoms exhibit.”

“Billy died in two.”

“I know. It affects everyone differently. He must have been particularly susceptible to the virus.”

“Is that your story on the Frenchman and his buddies in the car?”

He didn’t know about that. I filled him in.

“This is not good,” he said.

“No shit, Sherlock. What about the guy from Luxembourg?”

“We got word that he died an hour ago.”

“How long did he have it?”

 
“I don’t have the file in front of me, but I’ll check after we get off the phone.”

“Out of curiosity, what was his name?” I asked. Tom gave it to me. I thanked him and said good-bye.

The SUV was equipped with a console-mounted computer. Within the city limits, it connected to the Internet through the Philly police’s secure Wi-Fi network. When out of range, it dropped back to the slower 3G. I brought up a browser and called up Google. I had a bad feeling about all this, a really bad feeling, like the time I had gotten stuck in a collapsed mine. I was on loan to the ATF and I’d been chasing a suspect through the woods in West Virginia. He ran into the abandoned mine, and I ran in after him. We struggled. He fell against a rotting timber. The whole place came down on us, killing him and blocking the only way out. I thought I was going to die. It was two days before they found me and dug me out.

That was exactly how I felt as we crossed the bridge into New Jersey and got onto the highway, trapped with no way out.

Traffic was light. Cooper Hospital was off to our right, glowing like a plugged-in Christmas tree sitting on a landfill. I was finishing up my Google search string when a car rear-ended us. It was the Caddy, tinted windows and all. Izzy put on the turn signal and we started to pull over when it rammed us again. That’s when I saw the gun sticking out the passenger-side window.

“Get us out of here,” I said. “Now.”

Izzy floored it. A bullet shattered the side mirror.

“What’s going on?” she said, weaving in and out the traffic like Mario Andretti at the Indy 500.

The next shot missed us and hit the car we’d just passed, sending them into the guardrail. I got on the horn, called for an ambulance, called for backup, hit the siren, and lit up the cherry. People began pulling over to get out of our way. I drew my .38 and rolled down the window.

Izzy put a little distance between them and us. We were driving a big team of horses, and they don’t make Cadillacs like they used to.

“Why are they chasing us?” she said.

“Get in the middle lane. If he pulls in behind us, let him catch up. Then cut left and hit the brakes. We’ll let Mr. Smith ask the questions.”

Izzy took the center lane and eased up on the gas. The Caddy caught up and rammed us again. She swerved left and slammed on the brakes. When the Caddy pulled even with us, I got a good look at the guy driving the car before he jerked right across traffic and headed off down an exit ramp. It was one of Carmine’s boys.

There was no way we were going to get over there to follow them, so I called it in, hoping the Camden cops weren’t too busy with their own problems that night. We headed for home.