was repeated that a technician had been treated at Emory University Hospital after inhaling phenolic disinfectant and then released. The segment continued with a phone interview with Dr. Cyrill Dubchek. Marissa leaned forward and turned up the volume.
“The injured technician was the only casualty,” Cyrill said, his voice sounding metallic. Marissa wondered if he was in Philadelphia or Atlanta. “An emergency safety system was triggered by accident. Everything is under control, and we are searching for a Dr. Marissa Blumenthal in relation to the incident.”
The anchorperson capped the segment with the comment that if anyone knew the whereabouts of Dr. Blumenthal, they should notify the Atlanta police. For about ten seconds they showed the photograph that had accompanied her CDC application.
Marissa turned off the TV. She’d not considered the possibility of seriously hurting her pursuers and she was upset, despite the fact that the man had been trying to harm her. Tad was right when he’d said that trouble seemed to follow her.
Although Marissa had joked about being a fugitive, she’d meant it figuratively. Now, having heard the TV announcer request information about her whereabouts, she realized the joke had become serious. She was a wanted person; at least by the Atlanta police.
Quickly getting her things together, Marissa went to check out of the motel. The whole time she was in the office, she felt nervous since her name was there in black and white for the clerk to see. But all he said was: “Have a nice day.”
She grabbed a quick coffee and donut at a Howard Johnson’s, and drove to her bank, which luckily had early hours that day. Although she tried to conceal her face at the drive-in window in case the teller had seen the morning news, the man seemed as uninterested as usual. Marissa extracted most of her savings, amounting to $4,650.
With the cash in her purse, she relaxed a little. Driving up the ramp to Interstate 78, she turned on the radio. She was on her way to Grayson, Georgia.
The drive was easy, although longer than she’d expected, and not terribly interesting. The only sight of note was that geological curiosity called Stone Mountain. It was a bubble of bare granite sticking out of the wooded Georgia hills, like a mole on a baby’s bottom. Beyond the town of Snellville, Marissa turned northeast on 84, and the landscape became more and more rural. Finally she passed a sign: WELCOME TO GRAYSON. Unfortunately it was spotted with holes, as if someone had been using it for target practice, reducing the sincerity of the message.
The town itself was exactly as Marissa had imagined. The main street was lined with a handful of brick and wood-frame buildings. There was a bankrupt movie theater, and the largest commercial establishment was the hardware and feed store. On one corner, a granite-faced bank sported a large clock with Roman numerals. Obviously it was just the kind of town that needed a type 3 HEPA Containment Hood!
The streets were almost empty as Marissa slowly cruised along. She saw no new commercial structures and realized that Professional Labs was probably a little ways from town. She would have to inquire, but whom could she approach? She was not about to go to the local police.
At the end of the street, she made a U-turn and drove back. There was a general store that also boasted a sign that read U.S. Post Office.
“Professional Labs? Yeah, they’re out on Bridge Road,” said the proprietor. He was in the dry-goods section, showing bolts of cotton to a customer. “Turn yourself around and take a right at the firehouse. Then after Parsons Creek, take a left. You’ll find it. It’s the only thing out there ’cept for cows.”
“What do they do?” asked Marissa.
“Darned if I know,” said the storekeeper. “Darned if I care. They’re good customers and they pay their bills.”
Following the man’s directions, Marissa drove out of the town. He was right about there being nothing around but cows. After Parsons Creek the road wasn’t even paved, and Marissa began to wonder if she were on a wild- goose chase. But then the road entered a pine forest, and up ahead she could see a building.
With a thump, Marissa’s Honda hit asphalt as the road widened into a parking area. There were two other vehicles: a white van with Professional Labs, Inc., lettered on the side, and a cream-colored Mercedes.
Marissa pulled up next to the van. The building had peaked roofs and lots of mirror glass, which reflected the attractive tree-lined setting. The fragrant smell of pine surrounded her as she walked to the entrance. She gave the door a pull, but it didn’t budge. She tried to push, but it was as if it were bolted shut. Stepping back, she searched for a bell, but there was none. She knocked a couple of times, but realized she wasn’t making enough noise for anyone inside to hear. Giving up on the front door, Marissa started to walk around the building. When she got to the first window, she cupped her hands and tried to look through the mirror glass. It was impossible.
“Do you know you are trespassing?” said an unfriendly voice.
Marissa’s hands dropped guiltily to her sides.
“This is private property,” said a stocky, middle-aged man dressed in blue coveralls.
“Ummm… ,” voiced Marissa, desperately trying to think of an excuse for her presence. With his graying crew cut and florid complexion, the man looked exactly like a red-neck stereotype from the fifties.
“You did see the signs?” asked the man, gesturing to the notice by the parking lot.
“Well, yes,” admitted Marissa. “But you see, I’m a doctor…” She hesitated. Being a physician didn’t give her the right to violate someone’s privacy. Quickly she went on: “Since you have a viral lab here, I was interested to know if you do viral diagnostic work.”
“What makes you think this is a viral lab?” questioned the man.
“I’d just heard it was,” said Marissa.
“Well, you heard wrong. We do molecular biology here. With the worry of industrial espionage, we have to be very careful. So I think that you’d better leave unless you’d like me to call the police.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Marissa. Involving the police was the last thing she wanted. “I certainly apologize. I don’t mean to be a bother. I would like to see your lab, though. Isn’t there some way that could be arranged?”
“Out of the question,” the man said flatly. He led Marissa back to her car, their footsteps crunching on the crushed-stone path.
“Is there someone that I might contact to get a tour?” asked Marissa as she slid behind the wheel.
“I’m the boss,” said the man simply. “I think you’d better go.” He stepped back from the car, waiting for Marissa to leave.
Having run out of bright ideas, Marissa started the engine. She tried smiling good-bye, but the man’s face remained grim as she drove off, heading back to Grayson.
He stood waiting until the little Honda was lost in the trees. With an irritated shake of his head, he turned and walked back to the building. The front door opened automatically.
The interior was as contemporary as the exterior. He went down a short tiled corridor and entered a small lab. At one end was a desk, at the other was an airtight steel door like the one leading into the CDC’s maximum containment lab, behind which was a lab bench equipped with a type 3 HEPA filtration system.
Another man was sitting at the desk, torturing a paper clip into grotesque shapes. He looked up: “Why the hell didn’t you let me handle her?” Speaking made him cough violently, bringing tears to his eyes. He raised a handkerchief to his mouth.
“Because we don’t know who knows she was here,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Use a little sense, Paul. Sometimes you scare me.” He picked up the phone and punched the number he wanted with unnecessary force.
“Dr. Jackson’s office,” answered a bright, cheerful voice.
“I want to talk to the doctor.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s with a patient.”
“Honey, I don’t care if he’s with God. Just put him on the phone.”
“Who may I say is calling?” asked the secretary coolly.
“Tell him the Chairman of the Medical Ethics Committee. I don’t care; just put him on!”
“One moment, please.”
Turning to the desk, he said: “Paul, would you get my coffee from the counter.”
Paul tossed the paper clip into the wastebasket, then heaved himself out of his chair. It took a bit of effort because he was a big man and his left arm was frozen at the elbow joint. He’d been shot by a policeman when he
