Nowhere to Run (12 page)

Before she left to go to the hospital, Annabelle stopped at the news president’s office, anticipating she would be breaking the news about Jerome to Yelena. But Yelena had already heard. Joe Connelly sat with her. The health department in New Jersey had informed its New York City counterpart, which had, in turn, alerted KEY’s security department.

“That’s it. All of the
KEY to America
offices are to be evacuated for testing, and I want every single one of the staff tested for anthrax exposure,” Yelena commanded. “I don’t care if it’s warranted or not. We are not taking any chances.”

The security chief nodded. “We can set up the station for nasal swabs to be taken in the cafeteria.”

“Fine.” Yelena sighed. “At least we can be grateful that it’s Friday.
KTA
doesn’t have to be on the air again until Monday morning. Hopefully we will have an all-clear by then.”

“Don’t you dare come home, Gavin. I mean it. I don’t want you bringing home anything with you,” his wife screeched through the phone.”

“Even if I have been exposed, Marguerite, it’s not contagious. I won’t pass it on to you.”

“It might be on your clothes or something.”

“Leave some clothes out in the garage. I’ll change before I come inside.”

“Absolutely not, Gavin.” She was adamant. “I would think that you’d want to protect me.”

There was no use fighting or rationalizing with her. Marguerite’s mind was made up. Gavin had learned over the course of their interminable marriage that it was easier to let Marguerite have her own way. He might be the man from whom American viewers got their morning financial news, the man who had marshaled the Winstons’ money into hefty bank accounts, but in his own home Marguerite called the shots. Otherwise, his life was misery.

It wasn’t even that Marguerite was trying to protect their children. They had no kids to worry about. Just that damned dog, Gigi. Marguerite doted on the poodle, but that miserable little thing reminded Gavin more of a rat than a dog. He wouldn’t shed a tear if Gigi snorted a little anthrax.

Gavin snapped off his cell phone and got in line at the cafeteria annex to wait his turn for his nasal swab.

No wonder he had to look for affection wherever he could find it.

The soft, rhythmic sound of the ventilator pulsed through the hospital room. Annabelle was allowed only a few minutes to stand beside Jerome’s bed.

He wasn’t going to get better.

She watched him lying there, so still now beneath the thin cotton blanket. Thought of him just the day before, so eager to hear what she thought about his treasured manuscript. He’d spent so much time on it. Therapy, he’d said. Something to concentrate on and vent his frustrations with the lunacy at work, something to look forward to getting published, something to take his mind off the years of yearning for Annabelle.

She’d cut him off, changing the subject, when he told her that. She was married to Mike, loved Mike and their children more than she had ever thought possible. Though, admittedly, they were going through a rough patch right now, she was committed to her family. She knew that. But there had been times, in the middle of the night, when Mike, unable to sleep, prowled the apartment and Annabelle lay by herself, wondering what her life would have been like if she had chosen Jerome instead.

Always, the first thing that came to mind was that she wouldn’t have Thomas and Tara. Because of that, no matter how things worked out with Mike, Annabelle was certain that she had no regrets.

She reached down and gently pushed the brown hair back from Jerome’s smooth forehead. So young, so smart, so strong, and yet so ill-equipped to fight his way back from this.

Jerome had thought he was invincible. Willing to take chances, determined to live large. From that first day she had met him at the videotape library, early in their careers at KEY, Annabelle had been attracted to his almost boundless energy, inquisitive dark eyes, and easy smile.

Jerome was a party boy. That was his strength and his weakness. With his sense of adventure, his curiosity and enthusiasm about trying new things and visiting new places, he was fun to be around. Together they were always sampling the latest ethnic restaurants or planning interesting excursions for their days off work.

But catching Jerome using drugs had turned Annabelle off. She wasn’t a prude and enjoyed a drink herself once in a while, but cocaine scared her. No good could come of it. Jerome had assured her he would stop and, eventually, he had. But not before Annabelle had broken off their relationship. And then she had met Mike.

Again, work had proved to be the matchmaker for Annabelle. She had been sent downtown to do a story on fire safety. Mike had been one of several firefighters she’d interviewed, but he was the only one she’d felt the immediate pull toward as he good-naturedly demonstrated the fire equipment for the camera. He was so earnest in his explanations, so seemingly sure that his was one of the most important jobs in the world. His passion for helping people came through loud and clear, and Annabelle found herself hooked.

She gave him her business card on the pretext he could phone her if he thought of anything else she should include in her piece. The next day Mike did call, not to add to the news story but to ask her out for dinner. From then on, they had been almost inseparable.

Jerome had taken it hard.

How had everything gotten so complicated, so messed up? The most important man in her life was trapped in the dark hell of depression, while another she still cared about was losing the fight for his life.

Annabelle struggled to make sense of what was happening, her mind trying to recall the facts about inhalation anthrax. Jerome had been sick earlier in the week, then felt better for a day, then had a recurrence. Classic symptoms. But the incubation period between exposure and symptoms was at least two days. That would mean the latest he could have been exposed to the anthrax spores was the end of last week, not yesterday, when there was all the excitement about Dr. Lee’s anthrax display. A display that turned out to have been a fake.

If Lee had been telling the truth and his confederate at the lab had really given him the deadly powder, what had happened to it? Where was the anthrax now? And how had Jerome been exposed?

And, if Jerome had been exposed, who else might be?

She had wanted to go directly home from the hospital but then realized she couldn’t. She had to go back to the Broadcast Center and get that mandatory nasal swab taken. Annabelle toyed with the idea of ignoring Yelena’s order. But if they were keeping a list of who was tested, as they undoubtedly would be, Annabelle didn’t like the prospect of being called on the carpet for noncompliance. Plus, it didn’t really hurt to get checked.

It was already dark as she released the car service at the curb in front of the building. A biting wind blew from the Hudson River, up the wide corridor of Fifty-seventh Street. Annabelle pushed through the revolving door into the lobby, glad to be in warmth again, slid her identification card across the electronic scanner, and waited for the beeping signal. She took the stairs from the lobby down to the long hallway that led to the cafeteria.

There was no wait. Everybody must have made it a point to get down for their tests while on company time, wanting to get out as early as they could on a Friday night.

“Am I the last one?” Annabelle asked the nurse.

The medical professional consulted the printed list on the desk. “No, there are still a few others who haven’t come in yet.”

Annabelle stood dutifully as the stick was inserted in her nose. She hoped this would turn out to be a complete waste of her time.

Back on the sidewalk outside the Broadcast Center, Annabelle pulled on the gloves she took from her tote bag and wondered if she should hail a taxi. It would be nice to take a cab, but the traffic going downtown on a Friday night was sure to be heavy. The meter would just tick away. Conscious of their family’s tight budget, Annabelle headed for the subway.

Fifty-seventh Street was still congested with cars heading for the on-ramp to the backed-up West Side Highway. The other direction was not much better, with motorists heading to Broadway or farther east to the twinkling holiday lights of Fifth Avenue. As she moved along the wide sidewalk, Annabelle’s long strides almost kept pace with the snail-like progress of the vehicles. She passed restaurants, clothing stores, and apartment buildings. People entered and exited, all had lives and problems of their own. By the end of the second long block, her mind on Jerome, Annabelle didn’t feel the cold.

She slipped her subway pass from the zippered compartment of her wallet and stuck it in the turnstile. Debris littered the jammed platform and floated in the gust of air that swooshed through the tunnel as the train pulled into the station. A crush of riders pushed forward as the car doors opened.
Let ’em off first,
she thought. As she moved to board the train, Annabelle felt herself being shoved forward, and her tote bag was yanked out of her hand.

She turned in the direction of the force, searching the faces in the rush-hour crowd, catching sight of a dark coat with a hood pulled up heading toward the steps as the subway doors closed, trapping Annabelle helplessly inside.