Weapon of Choice (36 page)

Stacy shoved back her chair and chased after Charles. What was he doing here? A racist like him never would show his face at an event like this. And why was he tearing across the room and yelling? Dressed like a kitchen worker? No chef's hat but in a white coat and baggy pants. Moonlighting? Hardly. A trust fund kid who lived in a Buckhead mansion?

She caught up with him quite fast, considering her four-inch heels. She heard a yell, “Put it down, Mother.” His parents? Stacy had always suspected they were old-school Klan. Attending an event honoring Emma Goode?

Only an instant. Less than an instant. Factoids converged. Charles's so-called sickness. Her suspicion that something may have been tampered with in the P3 lab. Oh, no! A terrible long shot. But what if—I have to stop it
now
.

She'd been close enough to hear the shout, “Dad, stop her. They're poisoned.”

The man who must be “Dad” held onto one of Charles's arms. Stacy grabbed the other, pushing away a ponytailed busboy who seemed to be trying to intervene. What was Charles doing here? What were his parents doing here?

By now everyone was gaping in their direction. Stacy knew that she had to act. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, distracted when she heard the busboy order Charles to the kitchen. A Scarlett taking orders from a busboy? No time to ponder that. She had to act now. Not a millisecond later.

Summoning all her courage, Stacy took a deep breath and yelled as loud as she could, “Everybody! Stop eating! Now!” She could hear the “now” come out as a hysterical screech. The diners would think she was mad, a natural reaction to this outlandish behavior, yet she had to do something immediately. Letting go of Charles's arm, Stacy kicked off her shoes, and climbed onto an empty chair. She yelled again, this time trying to sound authoritative, like somebody in control, “Attention, everybody in this room!”

Now the diners gawked and silence evolved to a buzz, making her warning harder to hear. She heard a voice at the next table say, “Somebody call the cops!” She heard the busboy yell, “Get the fuck out of here!”

What Stacy did not see was a wave of profiteroles going into mouths. Good.

“I am Dr. Jones,” she continued, trying her best to lower her voice an octave without sacrificing volume. “This is an emergency. I'm from the Center for Disease Control. I repeat. Stop eating. Do not touch the food. Do not eat the dessert. It may be contaminated.”

“Get down from there, young lady,” the distinguished-looking white man, whom she now knew was Charles's father, ordered.

She felt a yank on her dress, a rough arm go around her legs, the busboy's. She was about to repeat, “Do not eat the dessert,” when her knees buckled and she tumbled off the chair onto the industrial-grade carpet.

Stacy pulled herself up, knowing that she had to repeat her message, reiterate her credentials, and stop everybody from eating. Based on Charles's warning to his mother, he must have contaminated the profiteroles. The creamy filling would be an ideal delivery form. Based on the creamy residue on Mrs. Scarlett's face, Stacy could predict the scourge that would be the sophisticated socialite's final hours.

“Let's go,” the busboy said, yanking Charles by the arm, and dragging him away.

By then security, both uniformed and in tuxes, started to surround
the table of chaos. Stacy could hear them talking into their radios: “unstable situation,” “send backup,” “get your people out,” “unknown.”

How could she make them believe her?

The first, a burly white man stuffed in a tux, reached her just as she'd shouted out again. “Do not eat anything. I'm a doctor. The food may be poisoned. I'm from the CDC. Don't touch—”

“Ma'am, what are you talking about?” He started to grab her wrists, but she yanked them behind her.

“Table eighteen,” she said, “next to my chair. My purse. My credentials. This is an emergency. You have to quarantine everybody in the dining room and kitchen. We have a deadly bacteria. A flesh-eating bacteria. You have to stop everybody from leaving. We can't let the lethal bacteria out. We have to contain it in the hotel.”

Stacy watched the big man recoil. A uniformed officer ran to her table and burrowed under it to locate her small purse and extracted her ID card. He rushed back to the growing group surrounding her. “Yeah, she's a doctor. Works for the CDC.”

“I have to talk to Dr. Madeleine Cox, it's urgent. She's the CDC director. She needs to know this so she can tell you what to do. There's a number in my purse, her emergency line. She's in Tampa. Call it now. Hurry. Meantime,” Stacy gestured to the officers, “do as I say and don't let anybody leave the hotel. We have a biocontamination emergency. Go! If you hurry, you can save lives. Please. Go. Now!”

Among the throng of officers, no one seemed to take charge. “Now,” Stacy ordered. “Stop everybody from eating anything. Stop them from leaving the hotel. Everybody. From the head table to the serving staff.” She spoke as loudly as she could. “We have a flesh-eating staph in this room, and it's resistant to all antibiotics. If you don't act, people will die a horrible death.”

Finally, a tall, fit man appearing to be in his fifties stepped forward. “I'm taking charge, miss. God help me if this is not for real.”

Stacy heard a male voice boom from the loudspeaker, reiterating her orders. Good.

But was she right? Or was she screaming about nothing at all?
Were the profiteroles safe and delicious after all? Could Charles be innocent of any wrongdoing?

As much as she did not want to be proved wrong and ruin her blossoming career, she hoped she was wrong. Maybe she had sounded a crazy false alarm. She hoped everyone who'd tasted a profiterole, including Charles's mother, would be just fine. Then she remembered Emma Goode's grandchildren. The horror if her theory were right and what if one of those cute little kids sitting around Emma—

The circle of police and security grew as even more officers converged on the Palace ballroom to enforce her quarantine orders. Having observed the quarantine procedure on-site in Tampa earlier that week, Stacy felt confident that what she was doing was right. If the AZ3510 strain from her lab was involved—

But what if not? She was in way over her head. Earlier in the day, she'd made a discovery that implicated Victor Worth in the staph outbreak in Tampa; this disaster was on a whole other level. With no solid basis.

Stacy had started to hyperventilate. She felt a tingling numbness and began to go lightheaded. She felt she might pass out, but rallied when a gentleman in a business suit showed her a badge, and escorted her over to a house phone.

“Director Cox, for you, Dr. Jones.”

She took the receiver and began to brief the director on why she feared an AZ3510 incident could be an immediate threat to Atlanta.

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

“Mother—” Charles called, sobbing as Banks pulled him into the kitchen.

“You fucked it up,” Will spat into his ear. “You fucked it up before they ate all the killer germs.”

“I can't leave my mother,” Charles protested. “The cream must have gone into her mouth. Even if it's only on her skin, she'll be infected.”

“Then she's a goner. Too bad. Collateral damage. Only you didn't think it'd be Mommie, did you, Chuckie. Now, you tell me, what the fuck were your parents doing at an affair for black people? You tell me that.”

Charles had wondered. His father had mentioned that certain niceties were being expected what with so many blacks with money and in high places. But his parents? Descendants of the Klan? It didn't make sense.

Except for Lonnie Collins, the kitchen was empty. All the trays had been returned and stacked on the cart.

“I doused the trays with alcohol, just to be sure,” Lonnie said, following Charles's gaze, “except the last one, the one you didn't do, but what the hell is going on out there? I sent my help home early so I could clean up the way you told me, then all hell started breaking loose. Two security guards started checkin' out the kitchen. Must not have found anything because they left right off. What's going on?”

Banks gripped Charles's arm tightly with his left hand, while in his right, he held a gun. Charles didn't know guns, but this looked big for a pistol—or maybe a revolver—and it had an extension. A silencer, he guessed.

Charles tried to pull away, but Banks held tight and pointed the gun at Lonnie's chest, and pulled the trigger. A clapping sound. Not very loud.

Before Lonnie hit the floor, Charles knew with absolute certainty that Banks would kill him, too.

Charles was left handed, and with his dominant hand, he picked up the syringe he'd dropped on the last tray of profiteroles. With one forceful jab, he discharged the contents into Banks's left side. Right into the flank, aiming for the kidney.

There was still enough staph in that syringe to down a roomful. Banks's hours would be numbered.

But what about his own hours? Lonnie dead on the floor. Banks staggering around, flailing.

Charles, syringe in hand, headed back into the dining room to find his mother. He had to tell her how sorry he was. How sorry he was to have killed her. Just like when he'd disappointed her when he was a little boy. “I'm sorry, Mommie, I killed you.”

At first, no one noticed him amid the pandemonium as he calmly strode to his parents' table. Again, Stacy Jones stood in his way. His eyes met hers as she turned in his direction with a phone receiver in her hand. For a moment she stopped talking. Then said to a man right next to her, her voice audible but not loud: “Watch it, Officer—” a bit louder. “Behind you, Charles Scarlett. He's holding a syringe with enough lethal bacteria to kill us all.”

That bitch, what the fuck. Without hesitation, Charles lunged toward Stacy, syringe poised. If he couldn't get in close enough, he'd launch it like a dart. She was responsible for all this. If she hadn't manipulated Stan Proctor to get that promotion, none of this ever would've happened.

Not far behind Stacy, he could see his parents. His father's face etched in anger, red, stern. His mother's face flaccid, pale, her eyes
looking vacant. But he must focus on Stacy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father rise up, move toward him. Is he going to strike me? Stacy had to pay. He took a step closer.

Charles felt pressure in his chest, like a refrigerator crashing into him. He tried to twist, to see through the door to the kitchen. Banks had a gun; he'd shot Lonnie. Had Banks also shot him? He never would know. The light went out of his eyes before he even saw the bright-red blood saturating his white jacket.

Stacy stood transfixed, the noise of the weapon discharging echoed painfully in her ears. Charles had been coming at her with a syringe, and she knew what was in it. A large tuxedoed man, a black man—FBI? Cop? Private security?—had fired at close range. Charles was down, lots of blood pouring out of his chest.

At first too stunned to think, she hesitated. Then clarity. What should she be doing? Chaos broke out after the shot. People were getting up, some running toward the exits, some throwing themselves on the floor, clambering under the tables. How could she be most effective?

Barefoot, Stacy maneuvered toward the stage, grabbing the microphone from the podium. The same podium where Coretta Scott King had just stood, reading a prayer.

“Everyone, I need your attention,” she shouted, her tone urgent, but not panicky. “First, do not eat any of the food, but most important,” she drew the microphone closer to her mouth hoping for more volume, “Do not eat the profiteroles, the dessert course. Do not even touch the profiteroles.” Not confident that her voice could be heard over the pandemonium, she repeated the words, three times. “I am from the CDC. Dessert may be contaminated. Poisoned.” She'd heard Charles yell to his mother, “It's poisoned!”

The tuxedoed black man, who said he was the Atlanta deputy police commander, took the microphone, introduced himself, and repeated Stacy's message. The only difference was that his voice thundered throughout the room. Several other men came up onto the stage and the big voice explained in no uncertain terms that no one would leave the ballroom. Quarantine procedures were being put in place. No one comes in. No one leaves. No exceptions.

Satisfied that law enforcement had things under control, Stacy left the podium and the stage. She needed to do one more thing before someone thought they'd better interrogate her. Had she been justified causing this terrifying chaos? Had she saved hundreds of lives tonight? Or not? She simply didn't know. What she did know: Charles was dead. What had he been trying to accomplish?

Stacy hurried toward the head table.

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

Emma clung to the hand of her youngest grandchild, Emeril. The same hand she'd slapped just moments before. The hand that had reached for the profiterole while Dr. King's wife was speaking.

“Emeril,” she had whispered, “that's not polite. We have to wait until the prayer is finished.”

“No,” her daughter Maxine's only child had declared. “I want one now.”

This attitude was new to Emma. His cousins all were deferential, at least to her.

Torn between not wanting Emeril to fuss and letting him disrespect her, Mrs. King, and God, Emma made a choice. For the first time in her twenty-two years of grandparenting, she struck a child. Not really struck, just a modest slap on the hand. The result had been embarrassing. Emeril hissed, “You're not allowed to hit me.” Result: stifled snickers from Emeril's fourteen older cousins.

Most important result: Emeril had not touched the profiterole. God, once again, had provided guidance, Emma realized.

And now, Dr. Stacy Jones, who was at the epicenter of whatever was happening, approached under the suspicious gaze of the bodyguards who'd showed up around her table and the tables of all her children.