The 731 Legacy (3 page)

"Luther, why aren't you taking her to the hospital over in—"

Luther slammed the cane on the floor and glared at the interrupter.

"Quiet, Everett Roy. I'm not finished yet." He cleared his throat. "Mother said Grandpa Calvin came to her last night in a vision and said he was coming to take her home. She said she's ready to go."

"But Luther," cousin Belle said. "Why—"

Luther's eyes darted to her. He lifted his cane shoulder height, like it was an extension of his arm, and pointed it at her. "I said I ain't finished yet." His voice, harsh with anger, filled the parlor.

Everyone lowered their eyes, staring at the worn plank floor. Then Luther spoke again. "Mother said she don't want us taking her back to that new Oriental doctor she saw last week. And she definitely don't want to go to no hospital. Says that's why she didn't let nobody know she was sick. If I hadn't picked up Daniel from his sister's last Sunday and brought him home from his visit, we

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wouldn't have found out Mother was in a bad way. Guess one of us would have checked on her sooner or later. No mind all that, she says her time is come and she wants us to let her go. And she wants to be in the comforts of her own home, not tied up to some machine, surrounded by folks she don't know. Says that's the peaceful way. If you are wanting to speak your piece with Big Thelma, then you'll get your turn, one at a time. But I'm thinking today might be the last day she'll be speaking to any of us. She's real weak and the fever's spiked."

There was silence in the room for a moment. Then Harlan, Luther's nephew, looked around before speaking up. "I don't think it right that you aren't going to take her to the hospital. It's not just about Big Thelma. What about the rest of us? We need to know what kind of sickness she's got. Maybe there's shots or something that could keep the rest of the family from getting it." Harlan's face reddened and the vein in the center of his forehead bulged. "It ain't right, Luther. From what you told us, Big Thelma's in an awful way.

And I'm not at all sure any of us should go in there. We could get sick with her fever and take it home to the rest of our families."

"Nobody's saying you got to," Luther said. "Your choice."

Thelma's youngest son, Ellis, stood. "I'm going to say my farewells. I ain't scared of catching nothing."

Luther shot a glare to each face. "While you be making up your minds, I'm going in to tell Mother she has company."

Luther pushed down on the cane to help him to his feet. Before he turned his back on the Sutton family, he glanced at his stepfather sitting in the corner, a small mound of wood shavings between his mud-caked boots. "Somebody's got to tell Daniel his wife is going to meet her Maker." Then he shuffled to Big Thelma's room and cracked open the door. The sourness stung his nostrils. He slipped in and closed the door, hoping to contain the sickness from getting out.

At her bedside he took the wet cloth from the basin on the night table, wrung it, and swabbed away the slime of bloody mucous that had dribbled out the side of her mouth and pooled on the pillowcase. He rinsed the rag, wrung it again, and wiped away the crust from her nose and the wine-colored clots from her ears. As soon as he loosened them, a trickle of fresh blood oozed out.

He didn't blame Harlan for being afraid. Luther had never seen a sickness like this. But he figured if he was to get it, he'd already have it.

"Mother," he whispered. "Can you hear me?"

"Luther?" she said, sounding the most lucid she had in the last two days. Swallowed by the black sockets, her eyes were cast over with a gray film, but she seemed to focus. "Luther?"

"I'm here, Mother."

"Don't let nobody but the family see me like this," she whispered. "Just put me in the ground yourself. It's the devil's death."

13

KEEP SAFE

"It's not often that SNN is the subject of the news, but today it walked in our front door. Now we're asking your help in identifying this man who wandered into the lobby of our Manhattan headquarters. Please be warned that the photograph we are about to show is graphic. Viewer discretion is advised."

A close-up of a face appeared. Though SNN technicians had tried to choose a video frame that was not too detailed, it still had to be good enough to make identification possible. The blood on his lips, chin, neck, and corners of his eyes, couldn't be missed.

"The unidentified man asked to speak to Cotten Stone, our own senior investigative correspondent. Appearing to be gravely ill, he collapsed and later died en route to the hospital. But not before delivering a two-word message to Ms. Stone which she told Headline News was 'Black Needles'.

"Stone stated that although he seemed delirious and barely conscious, the words were clear. If you know the identity of this man or the meaning of his strange message, please contact the Satellite News

Network at the toll-free number on your screen or online at w-w-w-dotsatellitenews-dot-org"

Sitting on her living room couch, Cotten pressed the pause button on the TiVo remote and froze the image of the sick man's face. "It was the craziest thing, John," she said into the speaker phone. "At first, I thought he was a drug addict who wandered into the building after overdosing, but that didn't explain the blood. I figured he wanted help, and my name was the first one that popped into his head from seeing me on the news, and that's why he asked for me. And I just assumed he was talking about hypodermic needles."

"What was the phrase again?" John asked.

"You can clearly hear it on the video playback. It was Black Needles." There was a soft clinking sound as she sipped her Absolut over ice.

"My first impression is the same as yours—a junkie on his last trip. But like you say, that doesn't explain the blood. He may have had some other health issues."

"Yes, but then you add in the whole issue of his body being taken from the hospital by an unidentified mortuary before the CDC could be alerted and the medical examiner could conduct an autopsy—well, it just struck me as highly suspicious."

"What if it's nothing more than what the ER doctor suggested, a foul-up in the paperwork?"

"Maybe. But for the heck of it, I had Headline News run the story, asking for the public to help identify the guy." She drained the glass. "I just finished watching it."

"Maybe something will come of it."

"These kinds of things always come as a mixed bag. We'll still

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have to sift out the wackos from the real leads."

There was a pause before John spoke again. "I'm really sorry about tonight. I was looking forward to us having dinner together, but when the United States ambassador to the U.N. requested a private meeting, I had no choice."

Cotten sighed. "It would have been nice." She finger-combed her hair away from her face. "Any idea what the State Department wants?"

"There are some serious negotiations going on behind the scenes in the Eastern European Republic of Moldova. It involves a border conflict with a narrow breakaway strip of land called Transnistria. The violence is escalating while the formal talks have stalled. My guess is that they want a neutral party involved. Maybe pull the Vatican's foreign minister into the fray. Right now, your crystal ball is as good as mine."

"And you fly back to Rome tomorrow?"

"Hey, stop trying to hustle me out of the country. I was hoping to at least take you to breakfast. What do you think? Seven-thirty? My flight is at ten."

"Sounds like a perfect way to start my day."

"Hang on a second."

She heard him cover the receiver, followed by muted voices.

"The Secret Service is here," John said. "I'll give you a call later."

"Have fun playing diplomat."

***

At breakfast the next morning, Cotten toyed with her soft-boiled egg. Her appetite dwindled as they talked of John's leaving and when he might come back to the States.

"The Grand Hyatt menu is great, but I still think I prefer good old Cracker Barrel," John said.

"You know there's not one anywhere near Manhattan. I guess New Yorkers aren't into grits, hash browns, buttermilk biscuits, and gravy."

"No matter. The company doesn't get any better," John said, winking.

"What was all the hush-hush about last night?"

He looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. "Off the record?"

Cotten nodded.

He rested the cup with a clink on the saucer. "I'm hand-carrying a letter back to the Holy Father. Although I haven't read it, I'm guessing it's a request to get the Holy See involved in the negotiations to stop the Moldovan conflict before it worsens. Officially, everything is completely behind the scenes."

"Why would they call upon the Vatican?"

"That was my first question," John said. "Truth is, once the Russians finally pulled their Fourteenth Army out, the Transnistrians feel as strongly as ever that they should be independent from Moldova. The hostility is fueled by a burning desire to establish an independent state. This is nothing new to those people, it's been going on at some level since they were part of the Kingdom of

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Lithuania in the fifteenth century. Trouble is, the Transnistrians are sitting on a massive stockpile of arms left behind by the Russians, and they're willing to fight to the last man in order to establish their breakaway republic. The level of frustration is so intense in the region that all parties are grasping at anything that will bring peace, including the obscure fact that the pope's grandmother was Eastern Orthodox— so is the majority of both Transnistria and Moldova."

"Will you be going there if the Vatican gets involved?"

"Yes."

"What's your cover story this time?"

"An archaeological dig site in Romania that was originally uncovered back in 1971 is turning up some new finds. Mainly the remains of two martyrs who died during the repressions of Emperor Decius. So for all intents and purposes, I'll be tagging along with the diplomatic contingency before heading off to the dig site. Shouldn't raise any suspicions as to why I'm there."

"Would there be much risk?"

"Know what?" John smiled and cocked his head. "You're going to ruin that pretty face with premature wrinkles if you don't stop worrying so much." He patted the top of her hand.

"Then promise me you'll keep safe."

***

"How was your breakfast with John?" Ted asked as he sat across from Cotten in her office that afternoon.

"Too short," she said. "He had to rush to Kennedy for his flight."

"Did he tell you what the big meeting was all about?"

"Only in general terms." She stared out her window at Central Park. "Off the record."

"Then we have to respect that," Ted said. "Of course, I expect him to give you the exclusive when it's time to talk."

Cotten nodded reluctantly. "I worry about him, Ted. I wish he just did the priest thing. But his job with the Venatori puts him in danger. There are a lot of people who want to harm him."

"Let it go, kiddo. You can't change anything."

"I know, but if something happened to John, I don't think I could bear it."

"He'll be fine. You just hate to see him leave."

"I guess so." Cotten leaned back in her chair. "So what's your hot news?"

"The name of our mystery man is Jeff Calderon," Ted said. "His aunt called this morning after seeing the story."

Cotten turned to look at her boss. "How did he wind up in our lobby?"

"Mr. Calderon was a pharmaceutical salesman for the last ten years. Apparently he started using more of his samples than his clients did. According to his dear old aunt, he was fired a couple of months back, before dropping off her radar screen about six weeks ago. She hasn't heard from him since. But she

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did give us his last known address—a low-rent apartment in Bed Stuy."

"I thought that area of Brooklyn was getting cleaned up?"

"Still some seedy sections," Ted said. "But it's a thousand times better than just a few years ago."

"Let me see the address."

Ted handed her a sheet of paper.

"This isn't too far from Tompkins Park."

"You know the area?"

"Only in passing. I went over there one Sunday last summer to attend a baseball game for a charity I was covering."

"Let me guess," Ted said. "Now you want to go back and see where Calderon lived?"

Cotten shrugged. "It'll give me something to do this weekend. I need to get out anyway."

"Take a walk through Central Park. Go shopping at Bloomies. It's safer." Ted rose to leave.

Cotten smiled as she gathered up her things to go home. "You worry too much."

SHATTER

The ribbon of the four-lane motorway flowing into Pyongyang was virtually deserted as Moon watched the rolling hills slip past. Like all the motorways around the North Korean capital, this one was beautifully tended by the peasants living nearby. In the mornings on her way to the lab, she would see them dusting out the gutters and pruning the shrubs along the sides of the road. They would bow respectfully as her black limousine raced past on its way to the high security government compound north of the city.

Tonight, she was exhausted as she absentmindedly watched the farmland sweep by. The long days at the genetics facility wore away at her frail 105pound frame. And at sixty-four, her body was starting to show its age with an assortment of ailments creeping into her life. Arthritis and hypertension were the latest. But it was the tremor in her hands that reminded her of the Parkinson's disease that was continually and progressively taking its toll. Thesubstantia nigra, the dopamine cells in her brain, were dying. Without them the messages from the brain telling her body how and when to move were delayed. Parkinson's wouldn't kill her, but at some point she would become debilitated. Moon knew that time worked against her. The rigors of aging and the disease would soon make it too hard to maintain her schedule, her stamina, and her drive.

But she was so close to the final climactic act in the drama of her life's work. Soon there would be no more awakening in the middle of the night bathed