Alan E. Nourse - The Fourth Horseman (51 page)

"Angelo?"

The man shook his head. "Truck got him when they tried to take off. Creamed him. They didn't get the rig out of the lot, but they got Angelo. Bastards."

"What about
them?"

"Got fifteen of them down at the station. Four took off on foot, but they won't get far. Now we've got to get you down and X ray that shoulder—"

"Hold it," Jack struggled upright, peered around at the people milling around the parking lot, patrol cars here and there, the ramp. The Chrysler wagon was gone. "Where's a cop? I've got to tell him something.''

"The Sergeant was here a minute ago." The man gave a shrill whistle, motioned to somebody, and a cop loomed out of the dark, crouched down by Jack. "Look, there was a station wagon down that ramp," Jack told him. "It was Hal Parker's. Now it's gone."

"Yeah, a couple of guys saw it go, just after Angelo hit the truck. He must have gone for more ammo or something, he was on patrol.''

"No. That wagon was full of food. I saw it. And he wasn't on patrol. I took his place."

The Sergeant frowned. "Then what was his wagon doing here? I don't follow."

"Don't even try. Just check out his basement good and fast and see what you Find."

The officer stood up, hesitated, looked back down at Jack. "You sure it was his?"

"It was his. Hidden down the ramp, there, packed full of food. Look, somebody had to tip that gang, Sergeant—they didn't just happen by—and somebody got paid off. He drove in early, they loaded him, and he took off when he thought he had a chance. All the action was supposed to stay out front—and I wasn't supposed to be telling anybody anything, either."

Later, in the emergency room, Carmen was waiting when he came out of X ray, arm splinted, walking unsteadily. She was wearing an old bathrobe and pink slippers. She caught his arm and steadied him, warm pressure in her grip. "You goddam fool. Come sit down someplace before you go over on your face." Not harshly. She guided him like a mother guiding a blind child.

"Just a little brush fire, kid."

"Yes, so I heard. We've got a town full of heroes. That crowd has been hitting stores all over the East. Five in one week."

He sat down, still holding her hand. He looked up at her. "And I was wrong."

"This time, yes.' She gave him a weak smile.

"He had it double-loaded. He was sure I'd be nailed."

"I know. The putrescent bastard. But you weren't, and that's what matters to me."

"He did have a little motivation," Jack said.

"I know—but not anymore. Jack, let's go home. We can take care of that shoulder there."

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes. That's what I really want."

61

In Wichita it was just after midnight when Frank Barrington was jarred awake by somebody shaking his shoulder. He saw Running Dog's sad spaniel eyes and drooping mustache in the flashlight beam. "Okay, Frank. Time to head north."

"Maclvers? When'd he call?"

"Midnight. Ten minutes ago."

The Indian retired to the little kitchen to heat up coffee. Frank shook Monique awake, then pulled on warm clothes and went out for coffee too, cradling the heavy mug in his cold hands. Tom Shipman and Sally came down from their sleeping loft. Sally looked small and untidy and childlike. She also looked frightened. "This is going to put you in Willow Grove about five-thirty
a.m
.," she said. "Why's he calling so late? Why not six hours ago—or in the morning so you could drive in daylight?"

"Beats me," Frank said. "Did he have any message?"

Running Dog shook his head. "He just said to make tracks, now was the time."

"Then 1 guess that's the message. Well, the van's loaded, and you've got extra gas in the pickup. We'd better move out. It's going to be a long, cold trip, 1 think."

Monique set her coffee Cup down, looking huge and bearlike in her goosedown jacket and trousers. "Are you still sure you want me to go along? I've got cultures growing—"

"Tom knows what they are, doesn't he? He and Sally can tend them for you for the time being. We're going to need a competent microbiologist where we're going, and I don't think

we'll Find any in Willow Grove, Nebraska. Anyway, if you think I'm going up there without you, you're out of your wits. We've got a hell of a lot riding on this little deal. I'm going to need all the help I can get."

"You think there's going to be trouble tonight?" Sally said.

"I sure do."

"Well, whatever happens, for God's sake don't let that cargo get away from you. This thing has got to work. If that stuff doesn't get to Willow Grove, we might as well fold up and go home."

"Don't worry, Sal. The stuff is going to get there, and it's going to work. It just may not be all hearts and flowers along the way, that's all."

Outside it was an even four degrees below zero. Frank checked signals with Running Dog for a final time. Then he and Monique climbed into the van, Running Dog into the pickup. The van was packed to the roof with cases of Tom's antibiotic; the whole vehicle smelled like rotting hay. They wove through the dark city and headed north on 1-235, the pickup in the lead. At the interchange they caught 1-35 West and moved up across flat country, the van lagging just enough to keep Dog's tail-lights in view. There was an icy wind coming out of the northwest, and the Fields were still spotted with patches of last week's snow, but the highway was bare and dry.

At Salina they stopped for coffee, then headed due west on 1-70. It was a desolate drive through desolate country, flat, flat, flat, the only sign of life the occasional barnyard light of a distant farm, a rare truck blaring past in the night. Frank drove in silence, felt Monique curl up against his shoulder and presently begin snoring softly. Frank was feeling as bleak as the countryside, a sense of desperate grayness growing in his mind. It was all very Fine to assure Sally that the goods would be delivered, but the one signiFicant thing that Dr. Sam Maclvers
hadn't
told Running Dog over the phone was that everything was clear.

So what can they do?
Frank thought.
We aren't running contraband. This stuff doesn 't carry a dangerous-drug classification. Unapproved and totally illegal to use, maybe, but not dangerous. Until it's actually distributed, we've broken no laws, and with a licensed physician actually doing the prescribing and dispensing, they'd need a court injunction and some muscle for enforcement to stop us.
So he kept telling himself, but it didn't make him feel any better. Actually, if they got their hands on the stuff—whoever or whatever "they" might be— they could do any damned thing they chose to, and there was the rub. Anything anybody did to delay things at this point would be absolutely fatal. Maclvers's call meant that plague was in Willow Grove, Nebraska,
now.
If their plans to stop it and turn it back were blocked, Willow Grove, Nebraska, was dead in the water, and the Shipman antibiotic along with it.

At a place called Wa Keeney, Kansas, they stopped for gas and coffee and a final warming-up. Frank asked Dog if he needed some rest from driving, but the man shook his head. "Might as well just plow on through and get there," he said. "We turn north through Wheatville, right? Any particular place you're looking for trouble?"

"If somebody's really trying to nail us," Frank said, "it'll probably be right at the Nebraska border, just north of French River—but we'll make our move about ten miles this side of the town just in case." He opened up a map, pointed with a huge finger. "This little road off to the left—there's a big white barn and some willow trees right at the junction. We'll stop there. You go on. Just play it cool—you know what to do."

Wheatville, Kansas, didn't amount to a great deal: a couple of stores, a gas station, a grain elevator, all dark and deserted. They drove on north to the junction with State Route 603, then north again across more undulating country. It was nearly 4:00
a.m
. Presently the pickup slowed as a white barn and willow trees appeared at a country road turnoff up ahead. Dog winked his tailiights twice and drove on through, disappearing over a slight rise in the land. Frank eased the van off onto the shoulder, idled the motor and sank back with a sigh. "Well, kid, now we find out."

"Dog's going on to Willow Grove?"

"Right. There's no reason he should be detained—nobody knows him, and the pickup's empty—but he's got good eyes even if he isn't stopped. If everything's clear right through to the clinic in Willow Grove, he should be back here to give us the word within an hour and a half, even allowing time for a flat tire:"

"And if everything isn't clear?"

"Then he won't be back. No news will be bad news."

"So what do we do in that case?" >

Frank grinned. "You just keep your eyes open. We're going to get this stuff to Willow Grove whether he comes back or not. It's just a matter of how. For the time being, we just wait—but not out here on the highway."

He turned the van up the country road past the barn. All that could be seen in the darkness was the hard-frozen lane in the headlights and two or three distant farm lights. In a mile or so the road rose, then dipped down a gulley to follow a small stream, with willows and elms crowding in on either side. They followed the creek for a couple of miles. Then the road turned back up onto the rise again. Monique saw a fence and an open gate flash into view, then some ramshackle abandoned farm buildings in the headlights. Frank drove the van to the edge of a large open barnyard and killed the motor and the lights. "Good place to wait," he said laconically. "Not much traffic."

Cold began seeping into the van the moment the engine stopped. Frank pulled Monique over to him, kissed her and pulled a big puffy sleeping bag around them. They sat in silence for a long while. Icy stars glinted like cold sparks in the black sky. Now and then Frank snapped on the dashboard lights to check his watch.

"Frank?"

"Mmmm?"

"You don't really think Running Dog is coming back, do you?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

He sighed. "I had a long talk with Maclvers on the phone about a week ago. He was almost certain that Haglund, the public-health man, had something up his sleeve. Seemed to him that Haglund was bad-mouthing the plan to everybody in sight, especially some of the town fathers, consulting a lot with the local police, doing his best to get people nervous about it. Haglund insisted he was with us, but all he seemed to talk about was how maybe he could spring some vaccine loose from somewhere in time to do some good, and that was really all he wanted to plan on. Trouble was, no vaccine was turning up. Well, I
saw
Haglund when I took my trip up there. I
know
he was at Canon City, and I'm almost certain he was one of the CDC people there. I'd cover any bet you could name that he's been on the line to somebody in Atlanta about what we're planning here, and that they don't like it."

"How can you be so sure?" Monique frowned. "If they took it seriously, it would get to Ted Bettendorf. He's reasonable enough—and right now he might be glad for any help he could get anywhere."

"Then why hasn't Maclvers heard from him? Had some offer of cooperation? Honey, you know CDC better than I do, but nice guy or not, Bettendorf could never go for this. At the very best he'd have to assume we were ignorant meddlers, and at the worst, bloodthirsty profiteers with a dangerous product to sell."

"But we're not either one."

"We know that, but CDC doesn't. They could feel obliged to block us any way they could, using local police or state patrol or even federal men if there's any office functioning out here anymore. Even if they thought Tom's drug might be worth something, they couldn't let us do what we're planning. We're not working through them, and we're totally outside the Food and Drug regulations. We're just not doing it the right way."

"But
God,
Frank! If something can help, how can there be any
wrong
way? CDC has put all their money on the cities and lost every dime. The FDA is dead at the switch—the only move they've made
at all
in the last six months has been to give the go-ahead to the wrong people to distribute the wrong drug. Other than that they haven't done anything but sit there fibrillating and getting in the way. I
know,
I was so close to it at Fort Collins I wanted to sit down and cry. So we're trying to do something in a different way. Trying to move
around
them and make something work. How can that be wrong?"

Frank shrugged. "By definition, pushing a wildcat drug in the middle of a plague is
wrong,
honey. Ask any epidemiologist. Hell, suppose
you
were responsible and you heard about something like this—you'd try to stop it too. You couldn't risk having some irresponsible idiot, however well meaning, piling dead on top of dead. Of course, we
know
the stuff we've got is good—or at least we think we do, and unlike some other nuts who might be operating, we've got some reasonably solid reasons to think we're right. But they aren't going to take our word for that. We're going to have to make an end run clear around them and make Tom's stuff work in the field, under fire, in order to prove we're right."