Weapon of Choice (33 page)

Before Charles could speak, Banks said, “I'm here as a guest tonight, Chuckie.”

Charles watched Banks crack a wide smile, “Think I'll pass on the dessert, though.”

“Thank God you showed up,” Charles said, still looking his handler up and down, shocked by the drastic change in his appearance. “I've got to know where to go once the—” He found that he couldn't say the words.

“Once that you've infected a roomful of degenerates with flesh-eating bacteria?”

“You need to tell me what to do, where to go.”

“Chuckie, I don't got to tell you anything. Show me where the
bacteria are now. Lonnie's getting close. He's got the pastry shell shit all lined up. All the ingredients for the creamy filling. Yummy. I want to see your shit now.”

Charles stood and bent to pick up his satchel. “It's in here,” he said, “in test tubes. I'm going to use this special syringe.” He pointed to the cylindrical object in the bag. “Hook up a needle, and start injecting the fillings of the profiteroles, one by one.” He pressed down his right thumb, as if on a plunger.

“Why not just dump the nasty little bugs in a big mixing bowl?” Banks asked.

“Too dangerous. No reason to contaminate the kitchen. I don't want innocent people hurt. Just the banquet attendees.”

“Okay by me,” Banks said. “So you're good with this?”

“My duty to The Order,” Charles saluted, right hand to heart. “I want to make my parents proud. Get to a safe place. Start all over. You will let my mother and father know, won't you? Where to contact me?” Charles already savored their praise. They'd not expect him to do something so potent, so brave.

“Of course,” Banks said, “once you're settled.”

“And that will be where?”

“I'll be back for you once the guests are enjoying dessert. Look for me in a busboy getup. I'm your master of disguises, so don't be scared. I'll get you out of here. And I'll make sure Mama and Papa are proud of their Chuckie.”

“Will, I told you to call me Charles. I think I deserve more respect. Okay?”

“You just be ready when Collins comes to get you. Do your thing. I'll take care of the rest,
Chuckie
.”

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

The evening news played on Stacy's bedroom TV as she flipped through clothes in her closet looking for the most appropriate attire. She imagined the ladies arriving, coiffed, gowned, and bejeweled. The Goode family ladies especially. Stacy had seen the daughters' and daughters-in-law's photos often enough, in coverage of fashionable Atlanta political and social events.
The Atlanta Daily Reporter
had been as financially successful as it had been politically influential.

She had lots of classy business suits, but precious few cocktail dresses and nothing that qualified for the label, gown. She had laid out on her bed a dress with an embroidered tunic over a short white pleated skirt. Next to it, she placed the black satin bridesmaid number, knee length, straight skirt, scooped top. She wasn't thrilled with that one either, but figured November called for a darker outfit. She was about to replace the white dress on its hanger in the closet when she heard the evening news anchor introduce the next news story.

In Philadelphia, Keystone Pharma today announced that Dr. Victor Worth has joined the company as director of Infectious Disease Research. In a late-breaking press release, respected Keystone CEO Paul Parnell, made the disclosure, noting that while at the National Institute of Health, Dr. Worth was instrumental in the discovery of a new class of antibiotic drugs effective in treating resistant staph. Today
the tragic bacterial epidemic threatening the Florida's west coast has—

Stacy stared at the news footage of a man identified as Victor Worth, shaking hands with the Nobel Laureate Paul Parnell renowned for developing the cure for a lethal adenovirus prevalent in Africa.

Stacy wondered if Director Cox knew about Worth's new post at the pharma giant. Would that make the FBI think twice about taking action against him for his suspected criminal role in causing the Tampa infections? She looked at the clock. No time now to speculate. Once again, she cursed Charles Scarlett. If not for him, she'd be in Tampa tonight with Director Cox, instead of trying to make herself glamorous enough to step out into Atlanta society. Just the thought of those four-inch heels was painful, but she could not delay much longer the moment when she'd have to slip her feet into the pumps. She zipped up the bridesmaid number, feeling the black satin soft against her skin. The soothing instant passed, and something in the back of her mind kept her off kilter—Charles Scarlett? What about the incubator log? No time now, she had to be out of the door. With reasonable traffic, she had just enough margin to arrive at the Palace fashionably late.

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

The Keystone Pharma jet en route to Tampa with a ticokellin shipment for the hospital dropped Victor off at National Airport in D.C. For him, the day had been wildly successful. He'd signed the employment agreement and the confidentiality and noncompete agreements in the presence of Dr. Minn, his new boss, and the vice president of Human Resources. Then they showed him to the palatial executive suite of the CEO, the illustrious Paul Parnell. Norman Kantor had boasted of traveling to Stockholm with the wealthy gentleman for the Nobel Prize ceremony. Well, Norman, it'll now be me basking in Parnell's benevolent presence.

And to his astonishment and unadulterated delight, Paul Parnell asked if he'd be willing to participate in a press conference announcing his joining the research staff. Paul explained how important it was to try to reassure the public that all possible resources were being focused on a cure for the deadly staph now invading Tampa. Clearly, Dr. Minn had briefed the CEO on Victor's claim that he had the antibiotic drug that would prove effective against the staph: ticokellin's sister compound, biskellin—a compound without the risk of aplastic anemia. Victor's chest puffed up with pride, knowing that he would be seen across the country on tonight's evening news.

Now on his way from the airport to George Washington University Hospital, Victor felt exhilarated. Light traffic so far; chances were good he'd reach Matthew's room in time for the evening news. How proud his son would be. And for Matthew, the medical
benefits would be incalculable. Access to top care through Keystone Pharma's connections. In Victor's position as head of all infectious disease research, he could handpick the most promising HIV cures, authorize clinical trials, provide access to antiviral medications currently under development by research institutes throughout the world.

But when Victor reached Matthew's room, his son was not alone. A young man looking about the same age as Matthew, with dark-brown hair, dark brooding eyes, and a neatly trimmed moustache sat on Matthew's bed, holding Matthew's hand, leaning in close as if to hear Matthew's every breath.

Victor had planned to try again to convince Matthew to remain with him in Philadelphia, not to return to San Francisco. But as he watched the two men together, Victor felt his hopes slipping away.

“Father, this is Vern,” Matthew said. “I told you about him. We live together in San Francisco.”

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

Emma knew the preparation had been elaborate, but she had not anticipated the detail planners would lavish on her special night. The
Atlantic Daily Reporter
logo decorated every tablecloth; the Palace ballroom walls all had been papered with oversized photos of the early days, dating back to before her birth, through the years of her father's tenure, through the years of hers, and right up to two days ago, with wide-angle color shots of the paper's Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless. If only her siblings were here. She was the last survivor of her generation.

“Look, Grandma, that's you,” the younger grandchildren squealed as the huge screen that dominated the stage started rolling a slide show of Emma's life.

And then the parade of well-wishers. Most she knew. Some she did not. Many were famous. Some were civil rights leaders. Some, popular entertainers. Most were black. Many were white. A few were Asian. Even fewer were Hispanic. Tonight, Americans of African descent were the majority. Her own fifteen grandchildren were the only kids in the ballroom—and not all of them kids anymore, she reminded herself, with one granddaughter in medical school.

As Emma stood, draped in the satin of an emerald-green designer gown that defined to perfection her slim, almost youthful figure, she felt blessed, yes. But she couldn't fend off nostalgic feelings as her life floated in front of her on the big screen. She
missed Edward as well as her parents and siblings. They would never have believed this fairy-tale evening at the Palace Hotel.

Soon it would be time to go in to dinner, Emma thought. Would there be time to greet all the guests? She hoped so. It was the least she could do, considering that they'd come to honor her. Still hard for her to believe.

Stacy arrived at the Palace Hotel, just a few minutes before dinner was to be served. Traffic had been unreasonable, even for a Saturday night in Atlanta. She valet parked and made her way to the grand ballroom where she stood in a receiving line to meet the regal lady, who stood erect in her emerald-green gown. Emma Goode was seventy, but if it hadn't been for the gray that streaked her pulled-back hair, she couldn't get a senior citizen movie ticket.

Looking around the elegant room, Stacy saw no one she knew. If Madeleine Cox had been able to attend, Stacy knew Cox would be hobnobbing all over the room. Didn't that go with the territory of her status as director of the CDC. But she did recognize the gentlemen in the tuxes conferring near the bar: Maynard Jackson and Andrew Young. And joining them, Julian Bond. If only her mother were here. Lucy Jones loved Julian Bond. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw another of her mother's favorites. John F. Kennedy Jr. Mom remembered him as the little boy saluting his father's casket. A sad memory, but after losing two sons of her own, Mom seemed to cherish sad memories.

Stacy couldn't even imagine being in a room with so many important black people. People who had made a difference in so many lives, hers included, she thought. Stacy's father had died when she was ten years old. Standing here, about to say happy birthday to Emma Goode, she thought how proud he'd have been, the same feeling that she'd had when she graduated from Harvard. Her dad and mom had not had the opportunities that she had, thanks in large part to people in this room, people of both races.

She moved ahead in the line, still thinking about her dad—how deeply Dad had valued education. When Stacy reached the guest of
honor, she extended her hand to introduce herself, careful not to squeeze Emma's delicate hand too hard.

“At the CDC,” Emma commented. “They only hire the brilliant ones. I've interviewed Madeleine Cox and know how demanding she is of her scientists.”

“She sends her regards,” Stacy said, “but she had to stay on in Tampa, where we have teams trying to control an outbreak of serious infection.”

“I'm glad Dr. Cox sent you, young lady. They told me you'd be here, and I know you grew up in Detroit. So you'll be seated next to John Conyers and Rosa Parks. She works with him, you know.”

Stacy was astounded that Emma knew where she came from and that she'd be privileged to sit at the same table as the brave woman who'd refused to move to the back of the bus. If only her mother were here. Lucy idolized Rosa.

At that moment, a gong signaled guests to stroll from the cocktail party into the dining room. Stacy stepped back as three tall, tuxedo-clad men approached Emma.

“Time to go inside, Mom,” one said.

“Escorted to dinner by my three sons, now that's a mother's dream.” Emma gave Stacy a little wave as two of them offered her an arm and the third followed protectively.

I wonder if I'll ever have kids of my own
. Stacy knew that Emma had had her first child when she was twenty-three and Stacy was already thirty-two.

As an usher showed Stacy to her table toward the front of the enormous ballroom, she kept an eye out for Emma's one bachelor son. But her fledgling hopes were dashed when Emma's youngest son veered off to join an equally tall white woman.

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

“Time to suit up, pal.” Lonnie handed Charles the creased white jacket and baggy checkered pants, along with a white baseball cap with no logo. “I don't like doin' this one bit, but they have my daughter. Will Banks swore they'll torture her, kill her, and dump her on my lawn. What happened to Russell Robertson doesn't leave much doubt as to how far Banks will go. Hell, he's got guys like us, active members of The Order, scattered all over the South. All he's gotta do is put out the word, know what I mean?”

Charles cringed. Yes, he did know. He accepted the bundle of clothing without a word and pulled the loose-fitting outfit over his clothes.

“You saw the menu?” Collins asked. “Lobster and filet mignon, surf and turf, only the best for this group. I took a peek in the dining room—JFK's son's supposed to be here. Didn't see him. Couldn't believe all the white people out there. Now what's the deal there? Shit, man, what if JFK Jr. eats dessert?”

The Kennedy family's civil rights stance had never endeared them to the Scarlett family. Charles thought of this year's conversation around the Thanksgiving dinner table. The typical race-bashing talk. What makes whites feel that they had to kowtow, and on and on. Dad's face had turned an angry shade of red when he fumed that even partners in his own firm were insisting that he had to appear more tolerant, kiss up to Atlanta's black mayor. Charles couldn't imagine his dad kissing up to anyone who wasn't white.