The Immortalist (25 page)

At Niedermann's invitation, she sat down in the high-backed chair that had been placed dead center in front of the desk. “I'm sorry about Yolanda. Terribly sorry. I did everything I could for her.”

“Did you?” A cold accusation was in Gifford's voice.

“Here's my autopsy report. It'll give you an idea of what we were up against.” But when she held out the blue folder, Gifford made no move to take it. She let it drop onto his blotter. The splat of the falling papers was answered by a whine from the far corner of the room. Cricket looked and saw Hannibal twitch his ears nervously.

Gifford brusquely flipped open the folder and read aloud from the top paragraph. “ ‘Cause of death: infection by acute hemorrhagic virus, type unknown.' ” He immediately slapped the folder shut and shook his head. “We know the cause. It was human herpesvirus, type 1.”

“I've studied viruses for almost twenty years. I've never seen herpes do
that
to a person. Read the report, Charles.”

Niedermann pointedly cleared his throat. “Dr. Gifford and I have both already read—
this
.” He pushed toward her a sheet of paper with some yellow highlighting. “This is a printout of an e-mail we received this morning from USAMRIID. They ran an overnight PCR test to look for viral DNA, as well as an ELISA test to check for viral protein. Both tests confirm Wig Waggoner's result, which I believe you are already aware of. Human herpesvirus, type 1. They found no trace of ebola, Marburg disease, dengue, yellow fever. None of the known acute hemorrhagic viruses. That's multiple independent tests pointing to the same agent, Doctor.” While Gifford silently glowered at Cricket, Niedermann picked up the blue folder and moved it back to the edge of the desk, directly in front of her. “Perhaps you'd like to revise your autopsy report.”

“No.” Cricket bristled. “I'm sorry. I meant to say,
Hell, no
.”

Niedermann kept his cool. “I'm told that systemic herpes infection can be overwhelming in a patient who's immunosuppressed.”

“Yolanda wasn't immunosuppressed.”

Gifford raised his eyebrows. “You don't know that. Granted, she didn't have AIDS and she wasn't a transplant recipient taking medications to shut down her immune system. But there are all kinds of immune deficiencies. Some are due to hidden genetic flaws, some to toxins. We may never know the exact cause. But it's the only explanation that holds water.”

Cricket nodded toward the printout from USAMRIID. “Did they test her for the Methuselah Vector?”

“No. They did not,” erupted Gifford. “Why should they? The Methuselah Vector isn't a virus. It can't reproduce itself. Yolanda never had any contact with it. You know this, Cricket.”

Cricket was stung by Gifford's hostility. It was as though she had spoken treason. “We need to be careful here, Charles. You're about to introduce the Methuselah Vector into a hundred random subjects. Nobody knows how it will interact in the real world.”

“An idiot knows it can't have killed a woman who was never treated with it.”

Cricket had no facts to answer with. She had an intuition—that the simultaneous occurrence of two unique and extremely improbable events couldn't have taken place by chance. But that wasn't proof. Against Gifford's logic, unassailable on its face, she had not a shred of evidence. So she had to be diplomatic. “If you're right, Charles, then a blood test would prove it. There's no reason not to run one.”

“There are plenty of reasons,” Niedermann answered. “Bad publicity, for one. But what concerns me most is why you persist in casting suspicion on the Methuselah Vector when all these tests show without a doubt that herpes was the culprit. That suggests an ulterior motive.”

“That accusation is laughably ironic coming from you, Mr. Niedermann.”

“No one's laughing, Doctor. In fact, within the hour you can expect an injunction from the First Federal District Court barring you from making any public statement, official or unofficial, about this case or the Methuselah Vector. My lawyers are already on their way to the judge's bench.”

“You can't stop me from investigating this.”

“There's nothing to investigate. The case is closed.”

“
I
haven't closed it.”

“We'll see about that.” Niedermann glanced at his watch.

Just then the intercom buzzed.

“Yes?”

Cricket heard the voice of Mrs. Walls. “Dr. Gifford, I have a Dr. Keyhoe on the line.”

Keyhoe?
Cricket dug her fingertips into the armrests of her chair.
Is this an ambush?

“Thank you. I'll take that call.” Gifford shut off the intercom and picked up the phone.

“Dr. Keyhoe, this is Charles Gifford, at Acadia Springs Research Institute. Thank you for calling. . . . Yes, well, I'm sorry for the interruption. . . . I'm sitting here in my office with Jack Niedermann, vice president for research and development at Eden Pharmaceuticals. Dr. Rensselaer-Wright is also with us. I'm going to put you on speakerphone.” Gifford hit a button and put the receiver back into its cradle.

A familiar voice came over the speaker—that of Cricket's section director back at CDC. “Cricket, this is Bob Keyhoe.”

“Hello, Bob,” answered Cricket warily.

“I've just had a phone call from Senator Libby. Harper Libby—a ranking member on the Commerce, Science, and Transportation Committee. She absolutely reamed me out, Cricket. My ears are still red. Do you mind telling me what the hell you're doing up there in Acadia Springs?”

“We're on the verge of an outbreak, Bob.”

“Outbreak of what?”

“I'm not sure yet. You've got my e-mail.”

Niedermann jumped in. “Dr. Keyhoe, I'd like to point out that this week we're up to our necks here with the rollout of an immensely important new gene-therapy agent.”

“Yes, I know. The Methuselah Vector. The news channels are nonstop with it.”

“We're under the microscope, Dr. Keyhoe. With all that publicity, we're in an extremely sensitive position. A few crazy rumors started by an unstable individual are all it would take to trigger a feeding frenzy by the press—and quite possibly a panic. The economic damage would be incalculable. Not to mention the damage to the reputations of good people who have worked for years to make this happen.”

“I'm well aware of Dr. Gifford's reputation.”

“Thank you. Now it happens that a young woman on our campus tragically died yesterday from a systemic herpes simplex infection—a horrifying, severe infection that has left many of us in mourning, but that nonetheless has nothing whatsoever to do with the Methuselah Vector.”

Cricket leaned as close as she could to the speakerphone. “Don't listen to him, Bob. It wasn't herpes. I did the autopsy and I'd stake my life on it.”

Niedermann's voice swelled, as if to drown her out. “Actually, Dr. Keyhoe, we've been coordinating our investigation with USAMRIID, and tests both there and here prove without a doubt that herpes is the culprit. If you'd like confirmation, you might call Colonel Sackler, the commander at Fort Detrick, or General Goddard, the Army's chief of staff.”

“Thank you, Mr. Niedermann. I'll take your word for it.”

Again, Cricket leaned toward the speakerphone. “Bob, a test is only as good as the question it's designed to answer. If you ask the wrong question, the outcome is meaningless.”

“Cricket, what are you getting mixed up in? You're supposed to be back here in Atlanta.”

“I expect more cases, Bob.”

Niedermann cut in quickly. “Dr. Keyhoe, you bring me to the purpose of my call.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“A simple question, really. Is it true that Dr. Rensselaer-Wright is currently on medical leave from the CDC?”

Cricket's hand shot to her mouth. She was right. Niedermann had set her up.

“Yes,” said Keyhoe, after the tiniest hesitation.

“And that she has been suspended from active duties?”

“Yes.”

“And ordered—directly ordered—to report without delay to CDC headquarters, in order to undergo a psychiatric evaluation?”

“Not exactly in those terms, but—yes. Yes, that's essentially true.”

“One more question. Under the current circumstances, does Dr. Rensselaer-Wright have recourse to any of the statutory police powers of an officer of the CDC?”

“You mean, could she enforce a quarantine? No, she could not.”

“Thank you. Could you hold a moment?” Niedermann shut off the speakerphone. “Well, there we are, Doctor. Do you want to continue this line of discussion?”

Cricket was shaking with indignation. “Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!” She looked to Gifford for help but found only a hard, cold stare. “Charles—are you a party to this?”

Gifford's lips twisted as he spoke. “I'm not going to let anything endanger the greatest medical advance in the history of mankind. Not even you.”

“What's come over you, Charles? What has he told you?”

Niedermann broke in, “I've told him . . . that you have no business remaining at Acadia Springs. You're mentally unstable. Your boss just confirmed it. You've been obsessed about ebola ever since a colleague of yours—a lover, perhaps?—succumbed to it in the jungles of the Congo. You had to be hospitalized to keep from killing yourself. When your psychiatrist finally okayed you for a supposedly easy field tour in Mozambique, three weeks ago, it ended in disaster. You had a public breakdown. Started screaming about . . . what was it?
Ebola
. Yes, the same ebola you now think has found its way from Africa to Acadia Springs.”

“That's confidential information, you son of a bitch.”

Gifford's mouth hung open in disbelief. “Is this true, Cricket?”

Before Cricket could answer, Niedermann jumped back in. “You had another breakdown the morning I met you, didn't you? Right there at the campus gate. The guards said it was very strange.”

Cricket could only glare at him. It was unbelievable that he and Charles could do this to her. Here, in her father's old office. With the portrait of Doreen looking on.

The Congo.
In her mind she saw a jungle of dark, shaggy trees. Fields of elephant grass swishing in the moonlight. A muddy road zigzagging in and out of the headlights. And from out of the night, the dying scream of Étienne David.

When she answered Niedermann, her voice was hoarse—barely an undertone. “What do you want from me?”

“We want you to leave. Immediately. Go back to Hank Wright's town house, pack your things, and drive on out of here.”

“And if I . . . and if—” Her heart was pounding. She felt the beginning of that all-too-familiar strangling sensation. “Fuck it! Why should I bother to fight you over this? It's not my battle. I would love nothing more than to put a million miles between me and this place.”

“Settled!” With an air of triumph, Niedermann punched the button for the speakerphone. “Dr. Keyhoe, Dr. Rensselaer-Wright has agreed to return to Atlanta on the next flight out.”

“Is that true, Cricket?”

Her lips seemed glued together. “Yes,” she finally said.

“Okay. Why don't you stop by my office when you get in? I'll be there until seven. Is there anything else, Dr. Gifford?”

“No. Thanks for your help.” Gifford tapped a button to hang up the phone.

Niedermann had a jaunty look. “Well, then. I suppose we should say good-bye.”

Cricket stood up slowly. “You'll be sorry for this.”

“Oh? What will you do?”

“Me? Nothing.” She stuck the autopsy report under her armpit and started for the door, but then turned and planted her free hand atop Gifford's desk, overshadowing him despite the slightness of her frame. “It's nature you need to worry about, Charles. When people start dying like flies around here, you'll wish to God you had listened to me.”

Gifford returned only a bitter stare.

Niedermann snickered. “You'd better get a move on, or you'll miss the afternoon plane.”

Cricket had never felt so powerless. How many times had she locked horns with bureaucrats, corrupt officials, savage militias! But Gifford was something else. He didn't care about money or fame or power. He was wholly eaten up by the Methuselah Vector—as though it had ceased to be his creation and had transformed itself into his god. Nothing else mattered. Not his professed admiration for her; not Yolanda; not the survival of Acadia Springs itself. All were mere sacrifices upon its altar. Against such fanaticism she had no weapon.

They had beaten her—for the moment. Yes, she would go back to Atlanta. But she wouldn't bother to unpack.

Because they weren't rid of her yet. They had forgotten that the real enemy wasn't her—it was whatever had killed Yolanda. And
that
wasn't going to stop with one victim. It was already hard at work on the next. And the next. And the next after that.

So, no, it wasn't good-bye. Not just yet.

Tomorrow these same sons of bitches would be begging her to come back.

Three