The Immortalist (34 page)

Waggoner grunted as he scooped up the photos and the half-crumpled sequencing printouts from the desk. “I don't like this. The G-man won't like it,” he mumbled as he shuffled out the door.

“I do have one lingering question,” said Freiberg, after Waggoner had left. “This is a human virus, isn't it? But Emmy got it through a dog.”

“Through Hannibal, actually.”

Freiberg raised an eyebrow.

Cricket nodded. “I asked Charles to bring him here, but he refused. I think he's hiding something from us.”

“All the more reason to find him.”

“I'm going to do just that,” Hank declared. “Somebody in Weiszacker House must know something. That dog is as big as a horse and has a bark like a foghorn. He's hard to hide.”

“Let me go with you,” said Freiberg.

“No,” said Hank. “You need to get those DNA sequencers running. I can handle this.”

Something wild and angry in Hank's eyes gave Cricket pause. “Please, Hank. Take Erich with you.”

“I said I could handle it.”

“Well, at least take this.” Freiberg fished a key ring out of his pocket and removed a worn-looking bronze key. “Your passport to Weiszacker House. Actually, the master key. One of the perks of being on the institute board.”

Hank snatched the key. As he disappeared into the security corridor, Cricket gave Freiberg a worried look. “Do you think he'll be all right?”

“Don't worry. Hank's smart. He'll be discreet. He knows how much is at stake.”

“But Charles might—” Cricket raised her wrist to wipe her eye, then realized that the phone was still in her hand. “Jean? Are you still there?”

“Yes, Doctor. The dobutamine—”

“What did you say her heart rate was?”

“One hundred ten.”

“That's too high.”

“I know it is. Do you want me to stop the dobutamine?”

Dobutamine kept Emmy's heart beating. It was probably the only thing keeping her alive. “No. Don't do anything. I'll be there in a second.” Cricket dropped the phone in the cradle. “Got to go.”

Thirteen

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
SHIRTLESS, HIS BACK
glistening with sweat, Gifford ran the treadmill in the exercise room of Weiszacker House—a brightly lit, mirrored collection of Nautilus machines, free weights, and punching bags—his stainless-steel shrine to physical perfection. Each time his feet came down, the machine shook as if it were about to tear itself apart.

He felt alone, exhausted. He couldn't even remember when he had last spent a night in bed. Was it a week ago Monday? Or Saturday before that? Earlier that day he had felt a strange disconnectedness while staring out a window and he had come to with a snap, not knowing how long he had stood there.

He looked at the heart-rate monitor on the treadmill. Seventy beats per minute. Maximum speed and maximum incline, and still his heart rate barely stirred. That was proof—his body was in the peak of health. It was his mind that was off-kilter. Between the Methuselah Vector rollout and this mysterious virus that seemed to have a predilection for the young and beautiful, the stress had become unbearable. It seemed the whole world was arrayed against him, demanding the impossible.

He tried to analyze his situation like a scientist. But his thoughts flitted about chaotically, emotionally. One minute he was bursting with rage; another, next to tears. Ghastly images bombarded him.

Yolanda lying on the autopsy table, her once-lovely face disfigured, bloated, more like an animal than a human being.

Emmy, her apple-red cheeks and lips frosted over with the likeness of death.

Hannibal's blood spattered over his laboratory walls and floor.

Hannibal.
Now there was a riddle he just couldn't get a handle on. The ELISA test proved that he carried the human form of herpes virus. Perhaps in passing through his body it had mutated into something more virulent. But where did he get it? From one of the labs? Gifford never took Hannibal into Rensselaer. Maybe he had picked up something out of the trash, or from a rat or mouse that had escaped the building.

If Hannibal were still alive, he could have run more tests. But Niedermann had scotched that.
That fucking cocksucker.
Gifford's feet began hitting the treadmill like sledgehammers, as if he were trampling Niedermann into the ground.
He had no right.
The thought of continuing to work with him, or even seeing his face again, filled him with revulsion. But . . . the Lottery. Until then, he was a necessary evil.

Cricket was another story. If Gifford hadn't seen the proof of her disloyalty himself, he could never have believed she could turn against him. After all the years he had known her! There seemed to be no one left to trust.

Six months ago, even a week ago, he would have been the first to heed Cricket's warning. He had never wanted there to be even the slightest shadow over the Vector. But with Monday's announcement, the project had passed the point of no return. Expectations were stratospheric. The Lottery couldn't be canceled, or even postponed, without scandal. A loss of nerve would send the whole project back to the drawing board. After the press finished mauling it to bits, the FDA would be drawn in. They would take a magnifying glass to every data point of every experiment, force him to redo work he had already validated with infinite care. Fear and politics would govern the process, not scientific logic. It could set back the timetable by years.

And that would be a tragedy for mankind.

He knew for certain that the Methuselah Vector worked. The incredible stamina of his own heart and muscles told him so. Every imaginable test proved it was safe, as safe as aspirin. The time for questioning was over. It was time to act.

The belt of the treadmill abruptly stopped. Carried forward by momentum, Gifford slammed into the console and had to grab one of the handles to keep from falling. Startled, he looked about and saw Hank glowering at him, holding the end of the safety cable in his hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” Gifford shouted. “You could have killed me like that.”

“Where's Hannibal?”

Gifford's nostrils flared. “What do you want with him?”

“I've checked all over the house. He's like your shadow. But he's vanished. Why is that?”

“Never you mind, Hank.”

Hank flung the cable to the ground. “He gave Emmy what she has.”

“Look, I know how you must feel about Emmy—”

“How I must feel? Jesus!” Hank's hands shot up in the air. “You have no fucking idea how I feel. You talk to me like you have ice water in your veins. Emmy's dying. Her mother doesn't think she'll last the night.”

Dying.
Yolanda's face flashed through Gifford's mind. Her eyelids yellow and swollen shut. Her lips purple, cracked, and bleeding. “No, that's not possible,” he muttered. “It can't be.”

“If she dies . . . If I find out that you had anything to do with it—so help me God—”

“Hannibal's not the answer. Emmy has a herpesvirus infection. Don't let Hannibal distract you. There isn't time.”

“Where is he?”

“Forget about him.” Gifford reached for a towel from the linen stand, but jerked back as Hank advanced toward him with clenched fists.

Gifford was in no shape for a fight. The sudden deceleration from the treadmill had left him dizzy. And there was something else, too. He was shaking—his hands, his knees, his whole body. A cold, hollow feeling welled up inside him. A sudden hunger. Unexplainable dread.

“Calm down, Hank.” Helpless and confused, Gifford took refuge in a lie. “It's true, he wasn't eating well. I've got someone watching him.”

“Who?”

“The, uh . . . the vet. Doc Wilber.”

“Wilber? He's in Ellsworth, isn't he?”

“Don't bother Dr. Wilber now. It's late. His office closed hours ago.”

“Do you think I'm stupid? I've got news for you. I'm going to find that dog. I don't care what hour of the day or night.”

“No! I forbid it.”

Hank spun around and headed for the door. He had only just touched the knob when Gifford felt his legs give out, and he fell with a thud to the floor. Hank, with a skeptical look on his face, turned back slowly and knelt at his side.

“What is it, Charles? You need a doctor?”

“No, it's low blood sugar. Just get me some Gatorade from that little fridge there.” Gifford grabbed the frame of the treadmill and hauled himself up into a sitting position while Hank fetched a bottle. As soon as it was in Gifford's hands, he tore off the cap and began chugging the murky green liquid. “I could use something to eat,” he said, taking a breath between gulps. With a shaky hand, he pointed to a small keypad beside the door. “Call Mr. Thieu. Punch twelve and then the green button.”

Hank punched the code. No answer.

“Hit it again,” said Gifford. “Twelve—that's his room number.”

Again, no answer.

“Could it be his day off?” said Gifford groggily. “What day is this, anyway? Wednesday? Thursday? He's never off except on Sunday.”

“It's the middle of the night. He's asleep.”

“Then let's go to his room.” Gifford groaned as he climbed to his feet. His step had a wobble, but he was too proud to accept the offer of an arm as Hank followed him up the steep service staircase. Mr. Thieu's room was in the northwest corner, just above the kitchen.

A knock went unanswered. Gifford tried the door, found it unlocked, and pushed it open. It swung with a creak. The room was dark, with window shades blocking the pale orange glow of the campus lights outside. Gifford was immediately struck by a strange odor—a sweet smell like rotting fruit or nail polish.

He opened the door wider. By the night-light of the hallway he was able to make out a clump of blankets and sheets dangling from the foot of the bed. The floor was littered with Kleenex and plastic cups. But Mr. Thieu was nowhere in sight.

Then—a soft gurgling sound out of the darkness. As Hank waited in the doorway, Gifford edged toward the open bathroom door. The fruity smell grew stronger with every step.

Something moved inside the bathroom. Gifford groped for the light switch.

The light came on.

“Hank, get back!” Gifford cried.

THURSDAY

One Day to Lottery Day

ONe

CRICKET CLOSED HER
EYES AS SHE
sat back in the big leather office chair, but she was too worried to sleep. Emmy's pale and purple-splotched face haunted her. Now, on top of that, was the waking nightmare she had just witnessed.

Nemesis had claimed another victim.

An hour ago, a pair of security staff dressed in white biosafety suits had shattered the early-morning quiet as they came through the entrance to the BSL-4 lab, wheeling in a stretcher bearing the nearly lifeless form of Mr. Thieu. He had all the familiar stigmata of Nemesis—the swollen lips and eyelids, the chalk-white skin disfigured by hemorrhage, the fever, the sweet nail-polish breath.

He no longer had a pulse when he arrived in Bay 3. For twenty minutes, Cricket and Jean took turns giving him chest compressions, while Wilma, a nurse assigned to night duty, forced oxygen into his lungs with a football-shaped ventilation bag. In the end, blood instead of air started gurgling up the ventilation tube with each compression. Mr. Thieu's chest became as soft as a waterlogged sponge. Nothing more could be done.

Cricket looked up at the clock and called the end of the struggle. “Time of death: four fifteen a.m.”

Too weak to go on, she had retreated to the sanctuary of the office. Now, through the open doorway, she could still see cold light coming out of Bay 2—Emmy's bay.
Every hour is a losing battle. What am I doing for Emmy anyway except dragging out her agony?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Hank talking to the security guard as he came in from outside. Cricket sprang out of her chair and rushed to meet him. She hadn't seen him since he had left to find Hannibal.