The Twelve

a chemically neutered child molester could be.

None of which did anything to tell Guilder how the man had survived. Somehow he’d escaped the Chalet; somehow he’d managed to avoid getting himself killed since then. It simply made no sense.

Nelson’s new plan was to retraffic all the cell towers in Kansas and Nebraska, shutting down both states for a period of two hours and trying to isolate the signal from Grey’s chip. Under usual circumstances, this would have required a federal court order, a pile of paperwork ten miles high, and a month’s lead time, but Nelson had used a back channel at Homeland, which had agreed to issue a special executive order under Article 67 of the Domestic Security Act—more commonly known in the intelligence community as the “Do Whatever the Fuck You Want” Act. The chip in Grey’s neck was a low-wattage transmitter at 1432 megahertz; once everything else was cleared out, and assuming Grey passed within a few miles of a tower, they could triangulate his position and retarget a satellite to get a picture.

The shutdown was scheduled for eight A.M. Guilder had come in at six to find Nelson typing away at his terminal. A buzz of music was leaking from the earbuds stuffed in the sides of his head.

“Let Mozart work,” he said, shooing Guilder away.

Guilder was running on coffee and adrenaline; he went down to the break room to get something to eat. All they had were vending machines; he’d already paid his three dollars for a Snickers when he realized it would take too much effort to swallow. He tossed it in the trash and got a Reese’s, but even that, with the sticky peanut butter, was difficult. He snapped on the TV, tuned it to CNN. New cases were suddenly popping up all over: Amarillo, Baton Rouge, Phoenix. The U.N. was vacating its New York headquarters, relocating to The Hague; once martial law was declared, the military would be recalled from overseas. What a fiasco that would be. It would make Pandora’s box look like a picnic basket.

Nelson appeared in the door. “Bow down,” he declared with a grin. “Houston, we have a sex offender.”

Nelson had already targeted the satellite. By the time they reached the terminal, the image was coming in.

“Where the hell is this?”

Nelson worked the keyboard, bringing the picture into focus. “Western Kansas.”

A grid of cornfields came into aerial view and, at the center, a long, low-slung building with a grid of parking spaces in front. A single vehicle, some kind of station wagon, was in the lot. A figure stepped from the building, pulling a suitcase.

“Is that the same guy?” Nelson asked.

“I’m not sure. Bring it in closer.”

The image faded, then resolved again, assuming an approximate aerial distance of eighty feet. Now Guilder felt certain he was looking at Lawrence Grey. He’d changed out of his jumpsuit, but it was him. Grey returned to the building; a minute later he reemerged with a second suitcase, which he deposited in the car’s cargo compartment. He stood a moment, as if lost in thought. Then a second figure emerged from the building, a woman. A little heavy, with dark hair; she was wearing slacks and a light-colored blouse.

What the hell?

They had less than thirty seconds left. Already the picture had begun to lose its crispness. Grey opened the passenger door; the woman lowered herself into the car. Grey glanced around the parking lot one more time—as if, thought Guilder, he knew he was being watched. He got into the vehicle and drove away, just as the image dissolved into sparkles of static.

Nelson looked up from his terminal. “Looks like our target made a friend. From the psych workup, I have to say I’m a little surprised.”

“Call back the last shot with the woman in it. See if we can enhance it.”

Nelson tried, but the results were only a modest improvement.

“Can we figure out what that building is?”

Nelson had slid his chair to an adjacent terminal. “Thirty-eight-twelve Main Street, Ledeau, Kansas. A place called Angie’s Resort.”

Who was she? What was Lawrence Grey doing with a woman? Was she from the Chalet?

“Which direction was he going?”

“Looks like straight east. He’s headed right into the thick of it. If you want to grab him, we’d better move.”

“Locate our nearest asset. Something outside the quarantine line.”

More taps of the keys; then Nelson said, “The closest for something like this would be the old NBC lab in Fort Powell. The Army shut it down three years ago, when they moved everything to White Sands, but it should be an easy matter to get the lights turned on.”

“What else is around there?”

“Not a lot except for Midwest State, which is about three miles east. It’s your basic football factory with a few classrooms attached. Otherwise you’ve got a National Guard armory, some hog and cattle processing, a little light manufacturing. There’s a small IAC hydroelectric facility, but it was mothballed when they built a larger one downstream. Pretty much the only reason the place exists is the college.”

Guilder took a moment to think. They were the only ones who knew about Grey, at least so far. Probably it was time to bring in the CDC and USAMRIID.

Yet he hesitated. Partly because of the bad taste in his mouth from his meeting with the Joint Chiefs. How would it go down when Central Command learned that they’d put Lear’s monstrosities under the surveillance of a bunch of paroled sex offenders? He’d never hear the end of it.

But that wasn’t the real reason.

A cure for everything. Weren’t those Lear’s exact words? Wasn’t that where the whole misbegotten thing had begun? And if Grey was infected but for some reason hadn’t flipped, was it possible that the virus in his blood had changed somehow, achieving the very result Lear had hoped for? That he was in every way a prize as valuable as the girl? And wasn’t it also true that, although death was everyone’s problem, especially now, it was for Guilder just as pressing and personal—even more so, because the fate that awaited him left nothing to chance? Didn’t he have some right to muster whatever resources he could on behalf of his own survival? Wouldn’t anybody do the same?

We’re all dying, baby. Fair enough. But some of us more than others.

Maybe Grey was his answer, and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just some lucky schmuck who’d managed to claw his way out of a burning building and avoid the glowsticks long enough to make his way to Kansas. But the more Guilder ruminated over it, the more he didn’t think so. The odds were simply too long. And once he turned the man over to the military, he doubted they’d hear anything from Grey, or this mystery woman, again.

Which wasn’t going to happen. Horace Guilder, deputy director of the Division of Special Weapons, would keep Lawrence Grey for himself.

“So? What do you want me to do?”

Nelson was staring at him. Guilder calculated the mechanics. Who else did he need? Nelson wasn’t somebody Guilder would have described as loyal, but for the time being he could appeal to the man’s naked self- interest, and he was the best person for the job, a one-man band of biochemical know-how. Sooner or later he’d catch wind of what Guilder was up to, and decisions would have to be made, but that was a bridge Guilder would cross when he came to it. As for making the pickup: there was always somebody off the books for tasks like that. One phone call and everything would be set in motion.

“Pack your things,” he said. “We’re going to Iowa.”

13

Sunrise of the second day: they were deep into Nebraska now. Danny, hunched over the wheel, his eyes stinging with sleeplessness, had driven through the night. Everyone except for Kittridge had fallen asleep, even the obnoxious one, Jamal.

It felt good to have people on his bus again. To be useful, a useful engine.