“Do you trust Ellen?”
A tick of worry worked its way into the corner of Molly’s left eye. “I hope you’re kidding.”
“Do you trust her?”
“With my life. Yours, too.”
I nodded. “You’ll get back to me on the cigarette?”
“If there’s anything there, I’ll find it. And, Michael… ”
“What?”
“Be careful.”
“What does that mean?”
“The way you talk about Ellen. Just be careful.”
I watched from my windows as Molly left. She threw me a single look from the street, but I knew she couldn’t see into the darkened office. Then she crossed Broadway and disappeared.
I pulled up Ellen Brazile’s e-mail and gave it a final read. It was past six, and I needed to get moving. I shut down my computer, put on my coat, and left.
CHAPTER 50
Ellen Brazile stared at three files open on her computer. The first was the genetic blueprint for a superbug she’d created called Minor Roar. The second file contained a vaccine for Minor Roar. The third spelled out the entire genetic sequence of the Chicago pathogen. Ellen made a call. Jon Stoddard’s voice rang hollow over the speaker.
“You have something?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right down.”
“That’s not necessary.”
She’d told Stoddard she needed space. He was more than happy to give it. No one wanted to be the white coat on the hook if the pathogen went truly global. So they’d posted a guard with a gun in the hallway outside her lab and left her alone.
“Talk to me, Ellen.”
“I sent some data to your computer. It’s a DNA blueprint of the pathogen.” She paused. “And a possible vaccine.”
Silence. “How possible?”
“I think it will work.”
“Why am I hearing a ‘but’?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
Ellen had jotted down some talking points on a piece of paper. Now she balled up the page and threw it in the trash.
“I told you earlier I felt the pathogen acted much like one I’d created in our lab.”
“You told me they were different.”
“They are.”
“I think that’s a more appropriate way to characterize things, don’t you?”
“The pathogen I created is called Minor Roar. I designed it as one of our nightmare scenarios-the virulent properties of anthrax and Ebola, altered slightly and embedded in the infrastructure of a flu virus.”
“Theoretically, shortening its incubation period and rendering it capable of airborne transmission.”
“That’s right. If Minor Roar had been released in its original form, the death total would already be north of ten thousand. This strain, while related, seems to require much closer, more intimate human contact for transmission.”
“Which is why we have only a few hundred dead?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“So we can contain this thing?”
“I created a vaccine for Minor Roar. With some modifications, it might provide a measure of protection.”
Stoddard paused. “How long until we can have it online?”
“Three months, minimum. Until then we keep the sick in isolation and slowly pare down the infected areas.”
“What about those already infected?”
“Anyone infected is dead, Jon.”
Another pause. “You realize we’re heroes, Ellen.”
“Five hundred people dead is not the work of a hero. Besides, we got lucky. Extraordinarily lucky.”
“It’s not luck, Ellen. It’s you. Your work, the work of our lab, have been able to stop what might have been a global pandemic… ”
“I harvested most of the pathogen’s DNA from the blood they drew from my sister’s body.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s nice.” Ellen looked down at her hands and wondered when they got so old. Stoddard’s voice came down the wire.
“Ellen… ”
“I’ll begin outlining protocols for manufacture of the vaccine.”
“Heroes, Ellen.”
She cut the line and clicked on the genetic readout for Minor Roar. Ellen stared at the constellation of chromosomes floating on her computer screen, then pulled up some data on infection rates for the last six hours.
There was a noise outside. Ellen walked to the door and glanced down the hallway. It was dark, the only illumination a cluster of security lights at either end of the hall. Ellen looked for her guard, but he was gone. She went back inside and pulled out the travel bag she’d packed. Then she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and took out the small revolver she kept there.
They’d be waiting downstairs. Or somewhere. Staring at her like their god. Until she gave them what they wanted. Then she’d be their lamb, marked and left for slaughter.
Ellen stuck the gun in her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and left.
CHAPTER 51
People love to write books about dive bars in Chicago. They usually describe a place with Old Style in cans, hard booze in gallon jugs, and a jukebox that still takes quarters. There’s a wrinkled old man drinking behind the counter, and six or seven regulars who have an unwritten set of rules about how to act if you’re gonna sit at their bar. People like these places. Like to search them out, have a beer, and then brag about it to their friends. Maybe they feel like they’re slumming. But they’re not. If you want to slum, belly up to the bar at Little Kings Liquors on the South Side of Chicago. If you own a gun, it wouldn’t be a half-bad idea to bring that along as well.
I got there at a little after seven. The place looked like it always looked-a collection of mismatched plywood and rusty nails, creaking in the wind at the corner of Fifty-seventh and State. A handful of parole violators were hanging around outside. Inside, a man named Deke tended bar. Deke was the color of stale dust and the width of a matchstick. He sat on a stool, eating greasy food from a white carton and sipping on a glass of something dark. Between Deke and his customers a run of chicken wire spanned the length of the bar and rose all the way to the ceiling. It seemed a bit over the top, until you saw the customers. Or, rather, didn’t. Little Kings was a bar full of dark corners. Most everyone who drank there sat in one. You could map the place by the glow of a cigarette, rasp of a cough, or scuff of a shoe on the scarred linoleum.
