Fatal (41 page)

Three percent.

“BARRICADE, MATT ANNOUNCED
. “We’re there.”

As they approached the intersection, a young D.C. cop strode lazily toward them. He looked queerly at Granny Biker, perched comfortably on the raised passenger seat behind Matt.

“No admission here,” he said. “You’ll have to head that way two blocks until you see the officer, or else go back to the freeway.”

“Should I say something to him?” Ellen whispered.

“I think we get only one chance at this, and he ain’t it. By the time he finishes calling his supervisor, who will call
his
supervisor, it’ll be tomorrow.”

“What, then?” Ellen asked.

By now, several other cars had pulled up behind them. The officer walked past the Harley to repeat his instructions to the occupants of a silver minivan.

“I think we have to move up a couple of levels in the chain of command. Hang on.”

“Just pray that kid in the policeman’s uniform doesn’t start shooting.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Matt said. “Hold tight. I’m going to try to make it up to the front door of the clinic. What time have you got?”

“Ten after.”

“Damn.”

Matt waited until the policeman had moved to yet another car, and then quickly accelerated around the barrier, up over a low curbing, and down the sidewalk. If the cop fired at them, they never heard or felt it. They were closing rapidly on the phalanx of broadcasting vans marking the entrance to the clinic. A hundred yards . . . fifty . . . Matt was entertaining theatrical visions of driving through the glass front door when, from the corner of his eye, he caught rapid movement coming from his left. He slowed and was turning his head when a woman hurled herself at them. Arms outspread, she connected with his and Ellen’s shoulders like a missile, sending both of them sprawling off the motorcycle and onto the dirt of a weedy, trash-strewn vacant lot. The riderless Harley skidded on its side along the concrete and came to rest against the base of a tree. The woman, an athletic brunette in her thirties, held them down until two other Secret Service agents arrived, guns drawn.

“Not a move!” one of them snarled, his pistol fixed on them. “Take those helmets off slowly, you first.”

Ellen and Matt did as he demanded.

“I’m a doctor,” Matt said quickly.

“Please listen to us,” Ellen said. “I’m a member of the commission that approved the vaccine they just gave to that baby in there. My name’s Ellen Kroft. We’ve just discovered there’s a serious problem with Omnivax. We need to speak to someone in authority while they’re still on the air so that we can warn the public and keep more kids from being vaccinated. Hundreds of lives may be at stake. Please! I’m telling the truth. There’s a dangerous contamination of the vaccine. Mrs. Marquand must be told about it.”

One agent, a lanky black man with a scar across his chin, eyed them suspiciously, then took a silent poll of the other two. Both merely shrugged.

“ID?” he asked.

Ellen shook her head.

“Of course.”

“Wallet, jacket pocket,” Matt said.

“Take it out slowly.”

The agent handed Matt’s wallet over to the other man, who scanned the contents,

“West Virginia license. Matthew Rutledge. It says he’s a doctor.”

“And I’m the Pope,” the first agent muttered, removing a set of handcuffs from his back pocket. “On your feet, both of you. Jill, pat ’em down.”

“I’m telling you,” Matt said desperately, as his left wrist was shackled to Ellen’s right, “we have to get down there before they go off the air.”

“Shut up!” The agent turned to the other two. “Well?”

Jill lifted the two-way radio from her hip.

“Bert, it’s Jill. How much longer of a delay before they get the show going?”

“Delay?” Ellen asked.

“I said, shut up!”

“Alan, Bert says ten more minutes,” Jill said to the black agent.

The man sighed.

“Tell him we’re bringing down two party crashers for him to talk to. The sooner we get this out of our hands and into his, the better.”

“Thank you,” Ellen said, utterly relieved. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“Why does that sound to me like Find another job?”

“Have they given the shot yet?” Ellen risked asking.

“No, they haven’t even gotten on the air.”

“What happened?”

“What happened is, some wacko got in there dressed as an electrician. He used a pair of electrician’s shears and cut the pool feed cable from the camera inside the clinic to the truck that transmits the signal to all the networks. We’ve been on delay for forty-five minutes now. But I think the cable’s just about been replaced.”

“Then, hurry,” Matt said. “Get us to one of Mrs. Marquand’s people before they give that shot, and I promise you, you’ll be heroes.”

“You better be right.”

With an agent on either side of them, and a sizable crowd jeering from tenement windows, Ellen and Matt were led down the sidewalk, toward the clinic.

“I can’t believe we’re going to make it,” Matt said.

“I told you not to give up.”

“No, that was me. I told you.”

Ellen turned to Jill.

“Do you have any idea why the man cut the cable?”

“Like Alan said, he’s a wack-job. Listen, in case you couldn’t tell, we’re not having a good day. If you’re juicin’ us about who you are or this vaccine, we’re gonna cuff you to the same tree he’s huggin’ and leave all three of you there overnight to sample the hospitality of the neighborhood.”

The agent gestured to their right, where the culprit stood, his arms shackled around a good-sized oak.

Ellen grinned as they hurried past him toward the gleaming health center.

Rudy waved with his fingertips.

“Hey, Rudy,” she called out, “this is my new friend, Matt Rutledge. Matt, this is my . . . significant other, Rudy Peterson.”

Just as they reached the clinic, a couple emerged. The woman was cradling an infant in her arms, holding her so that the child was bathed in the warm afternoon sun. Behind her, just inside the door, Matt could see what looked like more Secret Service people. At the sight of the two of them, handcuffed together, the couple took a wary step backward.

“Hi,” Ellen said cheerily, her smile threatening to escape the bounds of her face. “Is this the baby who’s going to get the vaccination?”

“Yes,” Sherrie replied, glancing down lovingly at her child. “Her name’s Donelle.”

 
CHAPTER
38

LATE AFTERNOON SHADOWS WERE STRETCHING 
across the streets of D.C. when Matt finally fired up the Harley and headed back toward West Virginia. He was riding alone. Ellen and Rudy remained behind to answer more questions from the FBI and to review the evidence Rudy had brought into the city with him. The progression from the Secret Service agent in charge of security at the clinic to his counterpart on Lynette Marquand’s staff to Marquand herself had been rapid.

There had simply been too much at stake for anyone to delay.

In a small conference room, Matt and Ellen were being interrogated by former Georgia Congresswoman Joanne Kramer, Marquand’s chief of staff, when word was brought in that the feeder cable Rudy had severed had been replaced. It was the moment of truth. Kramer hurried from the room, leaving the two of them with a Secret Service agent. Five interminable minutes passed before the door opened and Kramer reentered. With her was the First Lady of the United States. Beneath her piled-on-for-TV makeup, Marquand was ashen. There was no warmth in her expression as she took stock first of Matt, then Ellen.

“So, Mrs. Kroft,” she said, still standing, “it would seem that your abstention from the Omnivax vote did not mean you had lost interest in the vaccine.”

“Hardly,” Ellen said. “A man had threatened my granddaughter’s life if I voted against it. I needed to buy some time.”

“And now that man is dead.”

“Yes. He worked for the owner of Columbia Pharmaceuticals, the manufacturer of the Lassa fever component of Omnivax.”

“And there is something fatally wrong with that component?”

“Yes.”

“And you are convinced it would be a grievous error for us to vaccinate the infant who is out there awaiting her immunizations.”

Ellen sighed in relief at the news. The shot heard round the world still hadn’t been fired.

“Yes,” she said again. “I most emphatically do.”

“And you, Dr.—”

“Rutledge,” Matt said, clearing his throat. “Matthew Rutledge. People from my community in West Virginia who received test doses of the Lassa fever vaccine ten years ago are dying. I think the agent that is killing them is still in the vaccine.”

Marquand again leveled her gaze at Ellen.

“Mrs. Kroft, my staff has informed me that you have been a financial supporter of my husband’s opponent in the upcoming election. Is your miraculous appearance at this moment at all politically motivated?”

Ellen took some time before responding.

“I disapprove of your husband’s position on social security,” she said finally. “That is why I support Mr. Harrison. But our being here now has nothing to do with politics. I assure you of that.”

For fifteen seconds, all was silent as Marquand steadily probed Ellen’s eyes with her own.

“Thank you,” she had said finally. Her voice was husky, her expression still gray. “And you, too, Dr. Rutledge.”

Without another word, she and Kramer then turned and left the room. Fifteen minutes after that, the first of the FBI interrogators had arrived. The child had been sent home; the cameras had been shut down; and no doubt, the administration’s spin-doctors had been called in for emergency work.

Before leaving for home, Matt had sat alone in one of the empty clinic examining rooms wrestling with the decision of whether to notify the police about the situation at the toxic dump site or to wait until he had the chance to evaluate things in person. When Lyle didn’t return, Lewis and Frank would surely have known there had been trouble at Hal’s. He was certain of that. What they would or could do about it, though, was anybody’s guess. Their brother was dead. Their beloved old truck was at the bottom of Long Lake. They were several miles from their farm, and Lewis was not in the best of shape for travel. Still, the problems Matt would cause for them by sending the authorities to the scene of such carnage might well destroy them. Nikki and those inside the cave were reasonably stable when Ellen and he had left for Hal’s place.

Finally, after a heated internal debate, he had decided to wait on calling for help from anyone until he could ride out to the mountain himself.

RUSH-HOUR TRAFFIC WAS
 a bear, and Matt took many more chances than he was accustomed to in getting across the Potomac and out of the city. It was seven-thirty by the time he was first able to accelerate past seventy.

Just outside White Sulphur Springs, he glanced down at his pager, which he kept in a plastic holder on the handlebars of the Harley when he was riding, and transferred to his belt loop when he wasn’t. It had been on the bike since the evening he followed Bill Grimes up to the mountain cabin. The light indicating a page was flashing. He had no idea how long that had been the case. He pulled off the highway and called the ER at the hospital.

“Dr. Rutledge,” the ward secretary exclaimed, “we’ve been trying to find you. There’s a disaster drill in progress, only it’s not a drill.”

Matt’s pulse quickened.

“What’s going on?”

“I really don’t know. It’s confusing. I think there’s trouble at the mine. Maybe a cave-in, maybe an explosion. The first two cases are due to arrive by ambulance any minute.”

“Tell whoever’s in charge that I’ll be there in about an hour.”

Fifty minutes later, Matt swept around a wide, left-hand curve—one of his favorites to ride—and saw the lights of Belinda nestled in the valley below. So beautiful; so deceptively peaceful. Main Street was quieter than usual, but the hospital more than made up for that. One ambulance was in a bay, having just been unloaded, a second, also now empty, stood off to one side of the tarmac, and a third, flashers on, was just rolling up the drive. Matt parked the Harley and hurried over to help.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Never,” one of the EMTs was excitedly telling ER nurse Laura Williams. “We pulled these people out through a hole way up on this rock wall. There were flares marking the entrance to a cave and a rope on the ground leading in to where the trouble was, but no indication who put them there.”

“I know,” Williams said. “The other crew’s still talking about it.”

“And those barrels of chemicals. God, what a stench. That can’t possibly be legal. What made those mine people think they could get away with such a thing?”

“Need a hand?” Matt asked, battling back the urge to answer the EMT’s question, and peering into the ambulance at the two stretchers.

“Sure. The guy on the left is a load.”

Fred
.

Matt stood on his tiptoes and determined that the occupant of the other stretcher was Sara Jane Tinsley.

“How did you guys know where to go?” he asked.

“One of the cops who was on duty when the anonymous call came in knew the area the guy was talking about. We all went out in a caravan.”

Matt took one end of Carabetta’s stretcher, hauled it onto the cement platform, and helped pull it up into position to be rolled inside. The OSHA bureaucrat, moaning continuously and lolling his head from side to side, appeared to be in no immediate danger. Matt moved to speak to him, then just as quickly pulled back and raced into the crowded ER. There would be time for Fred.

He easily spotted orthopedist Brian O’Neil, half a head above any of the disaster team.

“Hey, Brian,” he called out, hurrying over.

“Well, Matthew, don’t you look like shit. Where were you, at some sort of motocross?”

“Believe it or not, I was in the cave with all of these people when it blew.”

“But—?”

“Later. Are you taking care of Nikki Solari?”

“The doc?”

“Yes.”

“Sweet woman.”

“Behave. She hurt bad?”

“Trimalleolar fracture. A little displacement, but nothing that a bit o’ time in the OR and a few well-placed screws won’t fix.”

“Promise to do a good job, and I promise not to tell her your degree is in veterinary medicine. Where is she?”

“Ortho. Please let her know I’ll be in with her in two minutes.”

“Make it five,” Matt said.

Eyes closed, an IV draining fluid and antibiotic into her arm, Nikki lay on a stretcher, her swollen, discolored foot and ankle propped up on pillows in a transparent air cast. Her face and arms had been washed clean, but dust and small shards of stone filled her hair. Still, she looked absolutely beautiful.

“Hey you,” Matt whispered, “lady doctor.”

Nikki smiled broadly before opening her eyes. Matt kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth.

“Did you make it in time?” she asked.

“No shots today, missy,” he said. “Come back some other time. So sorry.”

“That’s great news. Nice going.”

“It was my Uncle Hal all the time, Nik. He owned most of Columbia Pharmaceuticals. Grimes and the others worked for him.”

Her expression darkened. She immediately understood the implications for him and for his mother.

“I’m really sorry,” she said.

“Yeah. Well, it’s quite possible even John Dillinger and Attila the Hun had nephews.”

“I suppose,” she said sadly.

“How did you get out?”

Nikki shrugged. “While the Slocumbs were doing their thing, I decided to drag myself back into the cave to look after Fred and Morrissey and the rest. A lot of time passed. I was getting worried. Then, all of a sudden, there was noise, then powerful lights shining in, and a few seconds later the Calgary Stampede of EMTs, policemen, and firemen began.”

“The Slocumbs?”

“I have no idea where they are.”

Matt kissed her again.

“I’m worried,” he said. “I think I’m going to let you rest and go see if I can learn something about what might have happened to them. Brian O’Neil, the orthopedist who’s taking care of you, is terrific.”

“Why, Gunner, I didn’t know you cared,” O’Neil boomed from the doorway.

“Okay, I care, I care. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking my judgment is flawed in other areas as well.” He pressed Nikki’s cheek tightly against his. “I’ll be back soon, baby,” he whispered. “Be brave.”

“After what we’ve been through, how could anything be scary?”

“We’ve got an OR right now,” the orthopedist announced, “and I think we should take it so long as no one else is ready.”

“Might as well get it over,” Nikki said.

“I want you to recuperate at my place,” Matt whispered in her ear.

“You still in the back-rub business?”

“We never close.”

Matt patted O’Neil on the arm as he passed, and wandered out into the bustling ER, looking beyond the busy nurses and physicians at their charges. Sid, the security guard, was in Bay 3, the curtained-off area next to Fred. Two bays down, Sara Jane was being cleaned off by an aide, and next to where she lay, Evan Julian, the ENT surgeon, was huddled over Colin Morrissey. Julian was the most meticulous, compulsive physician on the hospital staff, and never started a case unless every instrument was perfectly aligned on the scrub nurse’s tray. Matt grinned at the notion of Nikki, her shattered ankle in a bulky makeshift splint, performing a successful emergency tracheotomy by lantern light in a cave filled with dust and toxic fumes.

Matt anxiously checked the other bays and rooms. The woman he had called Tarzana was in a side room, thrashing about wildly, restrained to her litter by leather straps. But no Slocumbs.

If there was dire need for his help with any of the patients, Matt knew he would have pitched in. But at the moment, he was feeling totally drained and more than a little fearful about Frank and Lewis. He left the hospital through the waiting room and headed across to his bike. As he was approaching the Harley, he noticed a tan Mercedes sedan parked not too far away. The driver, his face obscured in the shadows, was beckoning to him. He took several steps in that direction and froze. The car was Hal’s.

“Doc, it’s me, Frank,” the driver called out in a loud whisper.

Matt hurried over and jumped into the passenger seat. Lewis Slocumb was stretched across the back, apparently none the worse for wear.

“You all right?” Matt asked, gesturing at Lewis’s chest tube.

“Ah’m okay,” Lewis said grimly. “Bastard kilt Lyle.”

“I know. I was there. I’m really sorry, guys. I am. Lyle died saving our lives. And a lot of other lives, too. He was a real hero. How’d you get out and . . . and to Hal’s?”

“Yer pal Grimes had one a them phones—ya know, lak a two-way radio. When Lyle dint come rot back, we knowed it ’uz bad. A couple var frands got phones. I tole ya we knowed some people. Frank called Earl Morris—ya know him?”

“No.”

“Well, Earl’s moun’n jes lak us. He brought a bunch o’er an’ hept us clean up. I don’t think no one’s gonna find Grimes an’ his pals where we put ’em less’n they kin dahve in real deep, real dark water. Cleaned up all the casin’s, too.”

“Why was I so worried about you two? What about Hal? How’d you get there?”

“Earl Morris knowed whar he lives. We piled in back a his truck an’ went over. Thar yer uncle were, all trussed up lak a hog at bar-bee-que time.”

“Did he try and talk you into untying him?”

“Oh, he tried,” Frank said. “B’lieve me, he tried.”

“And this car? He told me he didn’t have another key.”