finding out who is responsible for her death?”
“We're closing in on that, actually. In fact, that's why we came to speak with you?”
“Oh?” Laurent's eyes narrowed further.
“Yeah. We're going to be conducting an interview this afternoon with our top suspect. But before we do that, we need some information.”
Laurent put both hands on the desk, all ten fat little sausage fingers splayed out like she was steadying herself.
“May I ask who your top suspect is?”
“You may ask,” I said, “but I can't tell you right now. It wouldn't be helpful for us to share that information before an arrest is made, and right now that's my most important consideration.”
Laurent said, “What information do you need?”
“I want to know what you and Dr. Myers here think about the last entry in Dr. Bradley's journal. Is there anything in the data she recorded to indicate that she found proof of there being multiple strains of H2N2 in the local bird population?”
Laurent didn't even hesitate. “You've been talking with Dr. Cole.”
“True,” I said.
“The man's theory is fundamentally flawed. His theory is baseless.”
“So,” I said, holding up Bradley's journal, “there's nothing in here to support the multiple strain theory?”
“No,” she said. “Nothing of the kind.”
I opened the journal to the last page. “What about this last line, where she says ‘We are all goners?’ What do you think she was referring to there?”
“I'm sure I do not know. It is troubling, certainly. I can only say that she perhaps was frustrated with her lack of progress. Gifted researchers such as Dr. Bradley can often take failure personally.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I don't think that's very likely, Dr. Laurent,” said Chunk. My man, Chunk, had all the grace of a two-ton bull in a very expensive china shop. “What I think is that you either believe this multiple strain theory, or you are so afraid that it might be true that you sent Dr. Bradley out to confirm it.”
Laurent's expression gave away nothing.
“You're mistaken, Detective.”
“No, I don't think so. I think you're playing games with us, Dr. Laurent, and I got to ask myself: Why? Why don't you want to help us find Dr. Bradley's killer? I think you're hoping to make the discovery first so that you get all the credit. Now, ordinarily I wouldn't have a problem with that kind of thing, except that while you guys are arguing over bragging rights, a lot of innocent people are dying.”
Laurent remained motionless, practically a stone stature, but not Myers.
“How dare you accuse her of that?” Myers said. His voice quivered with suppressed rage. “Every member of this organization has voluntarily put themselves in harm's way to help the people of this city. I for one do not think you are at all-”
Laurent said: “Dr. Myers, please. That will not help the situation. Detectives, I think you have overstayed your welcome here. We have answered your questions and cooperated in every way. Now please, find Dr. Bradley's killer, and if possible, return our property to us. Good day to you both.”
Chunk and I traded a look. Time to go the GZ.
Chapter 24
It was after ten o'clock in the morning when we entered the GZ and started patrolling the streets where we'd found Dr. Cole, and then Dr. Bradley's van. The morning was cloudless, warm and bright. The rain from two nights earlier had brought out the pink blossoms of the crepe myrtle trees and the overgrown lawns were a deep, emerald green.
Chunk said, “You know, there's a question we forgot to ask.”
“What's that?”
“How come every time we've been in the GZ, we've been attacked by looters, but Dr. Cole and Dr. Bradley haven't?”
“That's a good point,” I said. I didn't have a good answer to it either. Dr. Bradley, of course, had had Kenneth Wade to protect her, but Dr. Cole worked alone. How had he managed to escape them for so long?
“We'll have to ask him when we find him,” Chunk said.
“Yeah.”
I watched the houses, so many of them without doors, their windows all broken or boarded over, and thought how calm everything was. It wasn't the same sensation at all as the calm that hung over the Bandera Road food distribution center. That was the eye of the storm, a momentary lull in the dying spasms of a population driven mad by fear and paranoia. But here in the GZ, the calm was different. Here sunlight lanced through the canopies of oak trees, birds flew out of second story windows, and everything seemed soft-edged, dulled by a sunny haze. It was the calm of graveyards, the promise of a long sleep.
I was thinking about that, lost in my own little world, imagining the GZ as some kind of romantic, almost living landscape, when we turned onto Iowa Street and saw Dr. Cole's converted EMS wagon parked under an ancient oak tree.
I pointed it out.
“See it,” Chunk said. He accelerated down to the end of the block and parked along the curb.
We got out of the car, our plastic spacesuits awkward now that we each wore a gun belt around our waists, and looked around.
“What do you think?” Chunk said.
“Try the van first. If we don't find him there, go door to door.”
Chunk and I both headed toward the EMS wagon, then stopped. We heard coughing, violent, painful coughing. The calling card of H2N2. Chunk pulled his gun. I did too.
“Don't shoot, detectives,” said Cole. He came around the passenger side of the wagon, walked toward us, through the grass, and stopped at the curb. “Don't shoot,” he said again, and coughed violently. It nearly put him on the ground he coughed so hard. When he was done he said, “I'm not armed.”
I could see that. In fact, he wasn't even wearing a spacesuit. He was dressed in a collared white shirt tucked into a faded, loose-fitting pair of blue jeans with no belt, and no tie.
He wasn't wearing a face mask either, and for the first time I saw his face clearly. He was much thinner in street clothes than he had appeared in his spacesuit. His thinness gave his face an angry, impatient set that wasn't totally erased by the weak smile at the corners of his mouth.
Chunk and I inched forward, weapons still at the ready. As we got closer to Cole I could see little blackish specks all over the front of his shirt. Cole began to cough again, and the skin around his mouth actually began to pale to a sickly blue. Cyanosis, I realized. He was close to the end.
“How did you get sick?” I said.
“Intentionally,” he said, coughing and laughing at the same time.
I glanced at Chunk, then back at Cole. “You did that to yourself?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
He laughed again, and I got the feeling that only part of the conversation was between us. Most of it, the iceberg beneath the tip, was happening in his head.
“Because of you,” he said.
“Us?” I looked at Chunk and he shrugged. “What do you mean, Dr. Cole? Why because of us?”
“There's not much time,” he said. “I injected myself with Strain Two late last night. I'll be dead very soon.”
“Doc,” I said, “why don't you let us take you downtown. We can talk and you can get some help.”
