Jenny Plague-Bringer: (Jenny Pox #4) (9 page)

They followed a small stream westward from the Mississippi, staying in the wilderness. 
He finally stopped the horse in a meadow full of tall grass and wildflowers and climbed
off.  Juliana smiled as she let him help her down.  The rain had slowed to a misty
drizzle, and the horse soon found his way to a copse of trees, which protected him
from the raindrops while he nibbled flowers.

The boy stood by the stream in his muddy boots and looked at the dark water glinting
in the moonlight. 

“Are we safe now?” she whispered.

“Maybe.  The horse needs a break.”

“I don’t hear anyone.” Juliana could hear the gurgling of the stream, the pounding
of her heart, and a cheeping chorus of night bugs, but no horse hooves.  She looked
at him, studying his handsome face,  though it was shadowy under the moonlight.  He
had a familiar look to him, though she was sure she’d never seen him before today. 
“Why did you do that?”

“Horse was tired, like I said.”

“I wasn’t asking why you stopped. I was asking why you started.”

“Why I grabbed you and ran out?  What else was I supposed to do?” he asked with half
a smile. “Those people were ready to kill you, after hearing about the devil all day.”

“But you weren’t.”

“I think I might understand you better than most people.”

“You’re the one with the healing power, not the preacher,” Juliana said. “Why do you
let everyone think it’s him?”

“I’m just the assistant.  I don’t need everyone staring at me.” He winked, then held
out his hand. “Let’s see it.”

“See what?”

“You know.”

Juliana cautiously let her take his hand, still not used to the idea of anyone touching
her without suffering.  He held it in his own, watching as she summoned the demon
plague, letting dark blisters burst through her fingers and palm.  He didn’t seem
scared.  Instead, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each one of her fingertips,
making the blisters disappear.  The feeling of his lips on her fingers was almost
too much to bear.  She wanted to scream, or run away, or fling herself at him, so
she just stood where she was, gaping at him like a fool while her whole body trembled.

“All better,” he said.  He released her hand, but she didn’t lower it from his face.

“Will you ever tell me your name?” she whispered.

“Sebastian.  And what do I call you?” He looked down along the front of her ripped
dress, then quickly looked away. 

“Juliana.”

“Where do we go now, Juliana?”  He smirked a little. “I don’t think the good reverend
will want me back after I helped you.  I’m tired of making him look holy, anyway.”

“Why did you do it in the first place?”

“I don’t know, it’s not a bad job.  Lots of travel, helping people who need it.  You
meet lots of interesting people, too, like mysterious pretty girls with a lethal touch.”

“Have you met many of them?” she asked, and he laughed.  He looked her over, and his
gaze warmed her body.

“Have you had this your entire life?” He touched the palm of her hand.

“Yes.”

“Me, too.  But yours must have been a little more...difficult.”

“I’ve survived.”

“You live here in Missouri?”

“No, I’m with a carnival.” She smiled. “I’m the freak show special attraction.  The
World’s Most Diseased Woman.”

“I’ve heard about your carnival.  I’ve been meaning to go, but the boss won’t give
me a break...”

“We can go now!  If we circle back south.” She looked up at the dark sky. “I have
to perform tonight, anyway.  Can you take me?”

“I’ve got no job and a stolen horse,” he said. “A man can’t be more free than that. 
We can go wherever you want.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?  Staying with the carnival?”

“Why not?”

“It just seems like you’d get tired of people staring at you, like you’re some kind
of...”

“I’m a freak whether I’m in the show or not.  I might as well get paid for it.  It’s
better than stealing for a living.”

“Sure, but there must be other work out there.”

“Like what?  I can’t work with people, can’t even touch animals.  In the sideshow
tent, I can see people all day and not worry about whether they’re going to brush
against me.  Being a carnie is the most honest work I can manage.”

He laughed. “Honest work as a carnie.”

“And what were you doing?  Helping some guy run a revival-tent scam.”

“It wasn’t a scam,” he said. “People actually got healed.”

“And I really am the world’s most diseased woman.  You’re just lucky you were born
with something that actually helps people.”

“We’re exact opposites, you know that?” He stepped closer, looking down into her eyes.
“That’s what I thought, when I saw the disease taking him over.  Another person like
me, but opposite.” He took her hands in his. “It’s in our touch.  I have to touch
people to fix them.”

“I can’t touch anyone,” she whispered.

“You can touch me all you want,” he said.  From his twisted grin, she knew he was
trying to joke, but his words made her tremble.  She released his hands and reached
up to his face, then his neck.  His skin felt hot beneath his uneven stubble.  His
hands found their way to her waist.

“Have you never kissed anyone?” he whispered.

“Never.”

Without another word—or bothering to ask permission—he lowered his face to hers and
gently kissed her lips.  She felt like she’d been set on fire, her body glowing with
heat. 

The kiss lasted a long time.  When he drew back, their eyes were locked on each other. 
Something had happened.  She could feel a deep sense of connection with this boy,
like it had been waiting there all her life, just waiting to wake up.

“We’d better keep moving,” she whispered.

“If that’s what you want.” He gazed at her for another long moment before turning
toward the horse.

She touched her lips.  Her hand was shaking.

As they rode on, she held tight to him, but reminded herself that she’d only just
met him.  She couldn’t trust him, not yet, no matter what intense feelings he brought
up inside of her.  He’d helped her, but she began to realize that he was also the
only person in the world who could hurt her.  Without the demon plague, she was defenseless
against him.  The thought was scary but thrilling.

The horse walked into the fairgrounds just before dawn, and they stabled him with
the Wild West horses.  Inside Juliana’s tent, she heaved the blankets from her cot
onto the canvas floor, and they lay together.  Juliana knew it wasn’t proper, but
she was far too tired to find him a different spot.  Fortunately, he was far too tired
to try anything, if he’d intended to.

She slept with her back against him, his arm around her, and his hand just happened
to lay across her breasts as he fell asleep.  She smiled to herself. 

Dr. Heather Reynard worked late in her office.  It would cost more with the babysitter,
but budget committees needed their reports.  Life in academia wasn’t exactly the pastoral,
leisurely life she’d imagined when she’d left the Centers for Disease Control, but
there was a lot less flying into war-torn regions to live in a tent surrounded by
the sick and the starving.  Everything had its trade-offs.

She emailed the report to her department head, then stood and stretched, ready to
jump into Atlanta traffic for the slow ride home.  She’d been extremely fortunate
to get a post at Emory University, not far from her home in the Virginia Highlands,
even if it was only a part-time associate professorship.  Her commute ranged from
three minutes to half an hour, depending on the time of day and the never-ending road
construction.

She glanced out the window and smiled at the sight of a boy and a girl next to each
other on the grassy lawn below.  Studying their biology texts while thinking about
each other’s personal biology.

The door to her office opened.  A man in a black suit entered without knocking, and
despite the smile on his face, something about him chilled Heather.  He was in his
late forties or early fifties, his dark hair graying and cropped close and neat, military-style. 
His dark green eyes seemed to glow with a wicked mirth.

“Dr. Heather Reynard.”  He looked over her crowded bookshelves and saw her Newton’s
Cradle, each ball painted a bright pattern of purples, red, oranges, and greens. 
They were meant to represent different icosahedral viruses, like influenza and rotavirus. 
A gift from Dr. Schwartzman, her former boss at the CDC, on her last day there after
resigning. 

Her visitor raised the ball at one end and released it, letting the row of them clack
back and forth.

“I’m sorry, can I help you?” Heather remained where she was, standing behind her desk.

“I believe so.” He advanced into her office, his smile as warm as winter in Siberia. 
“We need to talk, Dr. Reynard.”

“You know, I have an appointment right now, actually,” Heather said. “So maybe you
can call our receptionist tomorrow, set up a time for a meeting.”

“Appointment?” The man held up what looked like a Blackberry phone. “No, I don’t see
anything here.  You made a note to pick up eggs and milk, don’t forget that.”

“You hacked my phone?” Heather glanced at the bottom desk drawer, which held her purse.
“Who are you?”

“I’m the man you’ve been waiting for.”

“Excuse me?”

“Surely you’ve been expecting someone to come along, one day or another.  There are
a few too many loose ends, aren’t there, Dr. Reynard?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heather reached for her drawer.  She wanted
access to both her phone and her pepper spray. “I really have to get going.”

“Fallen Oak,” he said. “Over two hundred dead.  Extreme symptoms of biological illness,
but with no known source, no known vector.  No virus or bacterium ever isolated. 
All evidence incinerated.  On your recommendation, Dr. Reynard.”

“I’m not free to discuss specific cases or investigations,” Heather replied. “You’ll
have to contact the CDC public information office.”

“Don’t be absurd.  I’ve already read all your reports, patchy and inconclusive as
they are.”

“And who are you, again?”

“Why don’t we sit down?” he asked.

“Why don’t I call campus security?” she replied.

He smirked.  He was jaw was squarish, his lips bloodless and thin.  He almost had
a case of missing mouth syndrome, until he bared his teeth in a smile.

“Here.” He showed her a laminated badge with the seal of the Department of Defense—a
golden eagle clutching arrows and an American flag shield—and his own photograph. 
According to the badge, his name was Ward Kilpatrick, and he was a lieutenant general.

“Then you should know that the details of Fallen Oak have been classified by the Department
of Homeland Security.  You’ll have to speak with them.” Heather pulled her purse over
her shoulder and stepped around her desk.  Ward stood between her and the door, blocking
her way with the help of Heather’s own bookshelves, boxes, and clutter. “If you’ll
excuse me,” Heather added.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Reynard.  You won’t be leaving yet.” Behind him, in the hallway, two
more men emerged from either side of her door.  They were much younger, dressed in
dark suits and sunglasses, clearly his assistants, or his muscle. “Close the door,
Buchanan.  We’re having a private conversation.”

One of the men shut Heather’s door without saying a word.  They would remain outside,
but clearly, Heather wouldn’t get far if she tried to leave.  Her heart pounded in
her ears.  She was trapped.

“Dr. Reynard,” he said. “Because of your years of federal service, I’m going to level
with you.  I’m currently the director of a defense intelligence agency whose name
you would not recognize, nor could you find it in any official budget or organization
chart.  We have been here since the earliest days of the Cold War, watching, studying...Our
focus is on identifying threats and opportunities that lie outside the typical military
paradigms.  Homeland Security?  To us, they’re just the courtesy officer tooling around
your local mall in a golf cart.”

“They have all the information,” Heather said.  She was scared, but she made an effort
to look calm.  She didn’t want him to see her tremble.

“Why did you resign from the CDC?”

“I was tired of being away from my family all the time.”

“Oh, yes.” Ward took a framed family picture from her desk. “Liam.  And little Tricia,
five years old. She was dying of leukemia, wasn’t she?  Until, one day, she wasn’t.”

“She’s in remission.”

“Oh, no.  We’ve reviewed her records.  She’s cured.  Like she never had it at all.”

“No one’s ever really ‘cured’ from cancer.  There’s always the possibility—”

“Nobody except your daughter and several other children on the same ward, at the same
time,” he said. “Miraculous, isn’t it?”