Final Epidemic (6 page)

Hence Carly’s precise timetable, under which they would be back home in Arlington, Virginia, after three days of nonstop sun-and-sand, extreme partying on the Redneck Riviera. With, presumably, no one the wiser.

Katie still felt guilty about the deception, though not as guilty as she had imagined she would. She had been nervous at first, particularly when Carly’s LeMans had crossed the state line into North Carolina. But once her initial anxiety had cooled, she had analyzed her situation with all the logic of her years and experience.

I might as well enjoy myself now,
Katie reasoned to herself philosophically.
Because when Mom finds out about this, I’ll be grounded until I’m thirty.

It was eerie, the way Deborah Stepanovich—she had dropped her married name, with an almost unseemly haste, after the divorce from Katie’s father—could divine events that involved her only child. Perhaps it was her trained legal mind—Deborah was a lawyer on the partner track at a D.C. firm that specialized in representing the interests of obscenely large multinational corporations, and as such, accustomed to all manner of deception. Perhaps it was simply the finely honed instincts of every working mother.

Or maybe she’s just a witch, with a “w,”
Katie told herself cattily, and bit off the thought as unworthy.

But whatever the skill, talent or supernatural power
involved, there was no doubt in Katie’s mind that her mother would, ultimately, discover the truth. It was a thought that surprised Katie with its mixture of apprehension and satisfaction, in roughly equal proportions.

The clashes were coming more and more frequently these days, and Katie admitted that it was usually her fault. She was tempted to attribute it to her parents’ divorce, a still-raw wound that all three of the concerned parties pretended bled but a bare trickle; but instinctively Katie knew the conflict had far more elemental roots. Frequently, she found herself driven to challenge her mother even in matters where, secretly, they might have agreed.

It was as if someone else lived inside her, a malevolent being that automatically bristled at any suggestion, comment, observation or—especially—directive that came from Deborah. Invariably, Katie would respond, flint against her mother’s steel. Then the sparks would fly, ignite the tinder of two women living in close proximity and raise a firestorm that indiscriminately blistered both of them.

The anger was automatic, virtually out of control, and in a very special way it frightened Katie—mainly because she could see the power she had to hurt her mother. But she could not stop, either. It was as if she were fiercely determined to prove that her mother had no answers, or at least not the right ones; at the same time, she was petrified at the prospect that this might be true.

It would have been useful to talk about what she was experiencing, Katie told herself; but to whom? Her mother was out, definitely; even on the days when an uneasy peace prevailed, the subject matter involved was decidedly too incendiary. It was, Katie believed, virtually guaranteed to bring about a less-than-fruitful exchange of ideas. There were, of course, the guidance counselors at school—a prospect Katie immediately rejected; only dweebs and losers went to them with their concerns, which were invariably passed along to the relevant parental unit anyway.

I wish I could have talked to Dad about it,
Katie thought. In early June, she had spent two weeks with him in Chicago, where he was getting ready to work for a semester or so.
But he made it pretty clear that it was never quite the right time to bring up anything about Mom—exactly like she does, when I’m with her.

Katie stopped short, surprised at the intensity of the sudden animosity she felt.

At
both
of them, dammit,
she realized.

Katie understood that she was the fulcrum of a natural alliance that could pit one parent against the other; she could shift her allegiance between the two adult antagonists as her own necessities dictated. That fact, she reasoned, gave her a large measure of power—and should have given her, at least, a small measure of satisfaction.

Instead, it merely made her feel even more alone.

“Hel-l-lo—Earth to Casey. Anybody at home in there?”

Katie opened her eyes, squinting against the glare of the day.

“Carly’s bailing on us,” J. L. told her.

“I said, I’m going to call it a morning.” Carly was standing, and despite the warmth of the day had pulled the large beach towel close around her shoulders. “I think maybe I’ve had too much sun. I’m going to go back to the room and sack out.”

“What—you make a date with the front desk guy?” J. L. chided. Carly tried to smile, and for the first time Katie saw how tired her friend looked.

“Want us to come along?” Katie asked.

“No,” Carly said. “You guys figure out where the parties are going to be tonight. I’m just pooped. Plus, I’m all achy from sitting in the car too long.”

“Well,” said Katie, “feel better.”

“I just need to rest up.” Carly added, “We’ve got a big night ahead. I guarantee it.”

Columbia Falls, Montana
July 21

The damnedest thing about the goddamn crazy Jap—the term Orin Trippett invariably used when referring to the emissary with whom he had met—the damnedest thing about him was that he had been so . . . so . . .

Well, “helpful” is the only word that comes right to mind,
Trippett told himself.
Acts like he’s Santy Claus and it’s Christmas Eve. If Christmas came in July, that is.

He had been suspicious initially, and he had not been alone. Orin had taken it to the leadership council, and just about everybody in the Mountain Warriors’ Posse had been convinced that it was a government sting—a plot by the FBI or ATF or even those bastards from Internal Revenue, all aimed at undermining yet another citizens’ militia.

And it would be just like Cousin Dickie to step into that kind of shit,
Trippett thought sourly.
He’s never been the sharpest pencil in the box.

Early on, there had even been talk of bundling the lone Japanese into one of the panel trucks and taking him high enough into the mountains that no one would ever find the body. It had happened before, when the Posse had decided there was even a remote threat to the group.

But in the end, what the Japanese had been offering was simply too enticing to pass up. For the Mountain Warriors, it was the answer to their prayers. Nerve gas—sarin, the real thing. And another tantalizing prospect that the visitor would only hint at, but which—if true—would give Trippett’s militia a capability beyond his very dreams.

They knew about CBW, of course—at least, the ones among the Posse who had been military or who used their home computers for more than hunting up porn sites on the Internet. To Orin Trippett, the idea of the Mountain Warriors posing a credible chemical and biological threat was enough to make him salivate.

But it was only when he had verified some of the Jap’s claims that he began to consider the possibility was real.

That had come a month earlier, in late May, when Orin finally had decided to meet with his cousin in person. Dickie Trippett was an officer of the Empire State Legionnaires, a militia group in upstate New York. Despite his intellectual shortcomings, he was a man Orin trusted as much as he trusted anyone: they had done time together on a state weapons charge before Orin moved west in search of what remained of the real America. Now Orin had reestablished contact, and the two of them had met midway in an Iowa City motel.

“
Way
cool, man,” Dickie had told him, a grin stretching across his face. “I couldn’t believe it, y’know? This damn Jap—talks like some kind of egghead or something, doncha think?—anyways, he brings us this shit and, like, shows us exactly what to fuckin’ do with it. I mean, we took those spray cans and laid the stuff anywhere there was lots of birds. Out in the woods, ‘specially anywhere you got crows and jays—hell, one guy even drove into the Big Apple and sprayed it at the zoo. In the damn
bird house,
can ya dig it?” He laughed at the memory.

“You sure it was the real stuff?” Orin had asked.

“West Nile,” Dickie had said, nodding. “It’s a virus. Birds
get it, pass it to mosquitoes. They go bite people and presto! Encephalitis. Don’t you read the papers, man? We got the stuff in, like, a year ago April. By the end of summer, people was comin’ down with it all over the place. It’s damn near everywhere in the country now.” He had smiled thinly. “I’ll give you two words: bug repellent. Don’t leave home without it.”

Orin frowned. “You think they had something to do with this other thing? You know, the foot-in-mouth shit over in England.”

“I got my suspicions,” Dickie said smugly.

Orin had been unconvinced.

“So how come you guys didn’t, you know, take credit for it or something?”

Dickie had shrugged, in a manner decidedly nonchalant.

“Jap guy said it was just a test,” he had replied. “So we could see how shit like that might work for us.” He had leaned closer to his cousin, and his voice dropped. “But now we’re gonna
really
make some noise, man. That’s why I sent him along to you. Guy’s got us something serious to work with.”

“Like what?”

“He didn’t tell you yet? Couple of new toys,” Dickie had said, grinning. “One of ’em—well, you ever hear of sarin, man?”

Orin had shrugged noncommittally. Family was family, but in militia matters it was usually smart to listen more than you talked. That went double when it came to chemical weapons.

“Nerve gas, something like that?”

“Got that right. He’s bringin’ in a shitload of it.” Dickie had leaned closer. “And he talks about having some kind of germ-warfare bug he can get us. Anthrax, maybe—fucker is playing it real cool, you know? But definitely military grade, can ya dig it?”

Orin had shook his head skeptically.

“Look,” he had told his cousin, “how do you know this guy ain’t federal?”

Dickie had looked up at him, and there was a serious expression on his face.

“ ’Cause he brought a little sample with him, man,” he had told Orin. “Had a spray can about the size of a can of Right Guard, okay?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“So we went out and found us one of those street bums—a homeless guy, you dig? Showed him a bottle of rye and he followed us back up an alley. And then my little Jap buddy sprayed that shit—
p-s-s-s-s-t.
Blast of nerve gas, right in his face.”

“Jesus.”

“It was intense, man. Fuckin’ bum died
hard,
I’ll tell you that. Glad I was standing upwind.”

Orin had been silent for a long minute.

“Look, what do these Japs
want
? See, that’s what I don’t get.”

Dickie had shrugged.

“Hell do I know? Like, maybe it’s the emperor’s birthday or something. All I know is we get this shit, and all we gotta do is use a little of it when they say the word. Raise a little hell. Screw with the G, right?”

Then Dickie had gone serious again, Orin remembered, and his tone shifted. For the first time, Orin had thought, his cousin sounded more like a militia leader than a kid who had been offered a new toy.

“All I know is, I get it, I sure ain’t giving it back. I got my own ideas for the stuff.”

That had been more than a month ago. Orin Trippett had returned to Montana, and plans had been made.

Now, looking at the crate that had been delivered this morning—
by FedEx,
Orin thought,
and how’s that for laughs?
—Orin remembered what his cousin had said.

He felt the same way.

Atlanta, Georgia
July 21

Nominally, the Surgeon General’s Office was a subordinate part of Health and Human Services. So there was not really an ongoing war between the secretary of HHS and the Surgeon General; it just seemed that way, which was almost as bad.

They were both political appointments, Beck recalled—HHS a former California congressman who had been instrumental in the current president’s initial campaign, the SG a women’s rights activist who had lobbied hard but fruitlessly for a cabinet-level post before settling for a position that was largely symbolic. Neither official was a physician. But both had brought to the CDC meeting aides who were, and that added an element of professional competition into the already volatile mix. The key question was the same that had bedeviled them throughout the day: Did the current situation warrant declaring an emergency? If so, there was no shortage of plans that could be put into action; but if they blew this call, the downside risk was, to appointees and career bureaucrats alike, potentially cataclysmic.

There had been heated words, some shouting, and no
resolution. Porter had left in disgust, shaking his head as he stood to return to his office.

“I’m heading down to the outbreak site,” he said to Krewell in an angry aside. “You don’t need me here to deal with
this
crap. Not when people are dying down there.” The physician stalked out without a backward glance.

“Damn it, Larry,” Beck muttered to Krewell, who sat at his side. “He’s right. How long do we listen to politicians and bureaucrats? Somebody has to show some leadership, for God’s sake.”

Krewell looked at his watch.

“The President expects a recommendation by six,” he told Beck. “That gives them no more than—whoops. Here it comes. Watch this, ol’ buddy.”

Billy Carson had stood, and the figure he cut in his shirtsleeves was enough to draw the attention of the room.

“There really is no room for discussion,” Carson said. He half turned to address HHS. “Mr. Secretary, there is no statutory question as to your department’s responsibility in the circumstances we face. In matters of public health, you are the lead authority. Like the rest of us here today, the Surgeon General’s Office is an advisory body only. We have, I believe, heard its advice. It is time to act, sir.”

The SG’s aide, an emaciated woman who had been a family-planning specialist in Philadelphia before assuming her present post, spoke angrily.