was also a politician. Sometimes politicians had to give a little to get what they wanted-that was the nature of the game that Dew could never grasp, the game that Murray played so well.
“Fine,” Murray said. “I trust your judgment.”
Dew shrugged his shoulders. “So what do we do next?”
Murray turned his gaze to the window.
“We wait, Top. We wait for the next victim.”
He’d waited then, and he was waiting now. Seven days ago he’d been waiting for something to happen, for a chance to see if this crazy Project Tangram crap was for real, a hoax or something whipped up to earn Murray another promotion. Now, however, he was waiting for his best friend to die.
A death that would have never occurred if Dew hadn’t insisted- insisted, God dammit-on getting Mal involved.
Rested but still weary, fueled more by anger than sleep, Dew sat alone in his hotel room, the big cell phone pinched between his shoulder and ear.
“Your partner still in critical?” Murray asked.
“Yeah, still touch and go. He’s fighting his ass off.” On the table in front of Dew lay a yellow cloth, on top of which sat a disassembled military-issue Colt. 45 automatic. The dull, smooth metal winked blue-gray under the hotel room’s glaring lights.
“The docs are working on him?” Murray asked.
“Day and night,” Dew said. “That CDC bitch came in to take a look at him, too. Can’t she at least wait until the body is cold, Murray?”
“I sent her in, Dew, you know that. She needs all the information she can get. We’re grasping at straws here.”
“So what information does she have?”
“I’m flying in tomorrow. I’ll get a firsthand report and then I’ll fill you in. You just sit tight until then.”
“What’s the national picture? We have any new clients?” Dew finished oiling and assembling the gun. He set it aside and pulled out two boxes, one full of empty magazines, the other full of. 45-caliber cartridges.
“Not that we know of,” Murray said. “All’s quiet on the western front, it seems. And if we do have any other clients, you don’t need to worry about them. You need a break. I’m working on bringing some more people in.”
With mechanical, habitual speed, Dew loaded the first magazine. He set it aside and started on the second. Dew sighed, as if his next words would seal his friend’s fate. But duty came first…
“Mal ain’t gonna make it, Murray. It may suck to say that but it’s the truth.”
“I’ve got someone lined up for you. I’m going to brief him shortly.”
“No more partners.”
“Fuck you, Dew,” Murray said, his calm tone suddenly turning angry. Murray hid his emotions well, always had, but now his frustration rang through. “Don’t you start flaking out on me. I know I wanted you solo on this, but it’s getting too big. I want someone with you. You need some help.”
“I said no more partners, Murray.”
“You’ll follow orders.”
“Send me a partner and I’ll shoot him in the knee,” Dew said. “You know I’ll do it.”
Murray said nothing.
Dew continued, his voice halting only slightly, colored by a tiny sliver of emotion.
“Malcolm was my partner, but he’s as good as dead. The shit I saw was crazy, Murray. People infected with this crap aren’t human anymore. I saw that for myself, so I know what we’re up against. I know that Margaret needs something to work with, and she needs it fast. I can get that on my own. If I have to get used to someone else I can’t move like I need to. I fly solo from here on out, Murray.”
“Dew, you can’t make this personal. This is no time for stupid thoughts to cloud your judgment.”
Dew finished the second mag. He held it in his left hand, staring at it, staring at the glossy tip of the single exposed bullet.
“This isn’t revenge, Murray,” Dew said. “Don’t be a dumb-ass. The asshole that got Malcolm is already dead, so what can I take revenge against? I’ll just work better sans partner.”
Murray fell silent for a moment. Dew didn’t really care if Murray agreed or not-he was working alone and that was that.
“All right, Dew,” Murray said quietly. “Just remember we need a live victim more than we need another corpse.”
“Call me when you get into town.” Dew hung up. He’d lied, of course. It was personal. If you thought about it enough, everything was personal in one way or another. Sooner or later he’d find out who was making these little triangular buggers. Malcolm was gone, and somebody was going to pay.
He popped a magazine into the. 45, chambered a round, then walked to the bathroom. Holding the gun in his right hand, finger on the trigger, Dew carefully examined himself in the mirror. He wasn’t going out like that, not like Brewbaker. His skin looked fine, but small red spots seemed to fade in and out, catching the corner of his vision and then disappearing when he stared. His imagination, fucking with his head. If he contracted the infection, would he be sane long enough to know the symptoms? He didn’t need to hold on to his sanity for long-just long enough to pull the trigger.
Dew walked to the bed. He set the loose magazine on the nightstand, slid the. 45 under his pillow, lay down and immediately fell into a light sleep.
He dreamed of burning houses, rotten corpses and Frank Sinatra singing “I’ve got you under my skin.”
21.
It felt so good to be out of the Racal suit. She couldn’t wait to take a shower, because she smelled riper than a rotten egg. She had to clean up-Murray was on his way to the hospital for an official update. At the moment, however, the shower had to wait. She read the report on the analysis of the strange fiber growing out of Martin Brewbaker.
“After a few hours, the fiber dissolved,” Amos said. “They still can’t figure out why. It seemed rot-free when we cut it out, but something triggered the effect.”
“But this report came before that, right? This is from the fiber itself, not from the rot?”
Amos nodded. He was also thrilled to finally be free of the suit. He looked as relieved as a teenage boy who’s just lost his virginity.
“That’s right, they were able to analyze it before the effect kicked in. Pure cellulose.”
“The same material that made up that triangular growth.”
“Exactly. Well, almost. The growth’s cellulose seemed to be a structure-shell, skeleton, elements responsible for form. Most of the growth was the cancerous cells.”
They were out of the suits because there was no more point in examining a body that was nothing but black, liquefying tissue and a strange green mold that covered half the table. They’d done all they could, as fast as they could. They hadn’t really found any answers, just more questions. One such question bothered her to no end-the cellulose.
“So the blue fiber, same material as the triangle structure, both sources composed of cellulose, a material not produced by the human body,” Margaret said. “And we think this is some kind of parasite. You have any theories on the blue fiber?”
“I think it’s a fizzle,” Amos said.
“A fizzle?”
“I think the blue fiber is part of a parasite that didn’t quite make it to the larval stage.”
“We know the stages now?”
Amos shrugged. “For lack of a better term, let’s call the triangle in the body the larval stage. Obviously,
