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WHITE PLAGUE A Biololigical Thriller by Kelly Owen
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2009,
Mexico City
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A hot, dust filled breeze came through the glassless
window, bringing with it the stench of sewage and rotting meat from the
butcher shop below. Kneeling on a filthy mattress just inside the opening,
Michael LaCroix adjusted the rifle’s scope and checked the face of each man as
he came out of the cinder block house at the far end of the street. Though the
meeting had lasted less than half an hour, unable to see what was going on
inside, he had worried. It wasn’t until he saw Baby exit the building that
Michael relaxed. As long as he could see the man, he could protect him. Lowering the rifle, he did an unaided visual sweep of the
narrow dirt street around the four men. In an opening where two alleys met, a
group of boys wearing tattered shorts kicked a half deflated soccer ball with
bare feet. Further down, two women sat on an old car bench-seat under a
lean-to of corrugated tin. He lifted the rifle and began a check of doorways and
windows, the scope narrowing his world to a circle less than six feet across.
First up the right-hand side of the street, then down the left. He examined
each shadow, each fluttering curtain, his practiced eye able to differentiate
a human silhouette from the background. Every few seconds he paused to check on Baby, now walking
beside a tall man wearing a white silk suite. That would be the leader, the
man Baby had come to see. Judging by their expressions and gestures, the
conversation was amicable, the men happy with whatever had been decided.
Michael could only guess at what they talked about, but it must be important.
Because the man designated Baby was one of the President’s highest ranking
advisors. Michael began to move the scope away, but a flash of silver
at the tall man’s waist caught his attention. It vanished under the edge of
the suit jacket before he could be sure, but it looked like the handle of
knife. He watched for another few seconds, but the flash wasn’t repeated, so
he moved on. A knife was the least of his worries in a city where cartel
hit men carried machine guns. It was why the two bodyguards, following a dozen
yards behind, had been hired to protect Baby. Michael noted that though both
men carried Uzis slung from shoulder straps, the short barrels were pointed at
the ground. And engaged in a conversation of their own, they paid little
attention to their surroundings. Michael frowned at their lack of professionalism. The
cardinal rule for a bodyguard was to assume there was a threat and act
accordingly. It was a lesson hammered into him by both training and
experience. Doing their job for them, he began another check of the
street. He was halfway up the left side when the cell phone lying next his
knee began to vibrate. Irritated, he picked it up. Only one person had the
number, and that person knew to never distract Michael while on a job. “What?” he said, his tone harsh. “Sorry to call,” said a voice Michael didn’t recognize. Michael’s heart rate began to climb. “Who the hell is this?” “Look,” the voice said. “You don’t know me, but my name is
Andrews.” “Where’s Tinmen?” Michael said, irritation switching to
fear. “Let me speak to him.” “He’s not here. That’s why I’m calling.” This was all wrong, Tinmen would never leave the phone. It
was the one requirement of a handler, always be available during an operation.
No matter that Michael and Tinmen couldn’t stand each other, on the job they
were an inseparable team. Till death do us part, and maybe not even then. “I want to talk to Tinmen.” “I told you, he’s not here.” Michael made his decision. He would grab Baby and get the
hell out. The man wouldn’t like it, but they could sort that out later. “I’m hanging up,” Michael said. “It’s about your daughter, Angela.” Andrews blurted the
words before Michael could move the phone away from his ear. “Go on,” Michael said, his body stiff, the street below
forgotten. “She’s been taken to the emergency room.” Michael felt his chest tighten. “What happened?” “The doctor suspects a narcotic overdose.” Drugs? Angela? Michael was about to ask if Pam, his estranged wife, knew
about it when a shout, followed by automatic weapons fire drew his attention
back to the street. Through the window, he saw three men coming out of an alley
engaged in a gun battle with the bodyguards. Baby was already down, thrashing
out the last of his life and a lot of blood through a wide slash where his
throat had been. There was no sign of the tall man he’d been walking with. Michael dropped the phone and lifted his rifle. Andrews was
still talking, but Michael could no longer hear him. Reflexes blanked
everything else out, reality shrank to the center of the scope where two
hair-thin lines crossed. He drew a breath, squeezed the trigger, and a gunman
died. He flipped the bolt open and closed and another man died. The third gunman was turning now, starting back into the
cover of the alley. He had taken only one step when Michael fired again. The
wall on the other side of the man’s head bloomed red as the exit wound opened. Baby. Michael had to get him out before the police arrived.
But first…. He picked up the phone. It was dead, Andrews no longer on
the line. He pressed send, automatically dialing the only number it was
programmed to call. He let it ring four times before hanging up. He was on his
own. He disassembled the rifle, stowing the parts in the case
without seeing them, his mind on escape with Baby, or what was left of him. Somewhere, from deep down, the voice of a little girl called
to her father, begging to be heard. He turned it away. Not now. No time. But as he left the room, the voice gave one last howl,
telling him there would never be time. Not now, not ever. Chapter 1 Sharon Zimmerman leaned back on the stool and frowned at the
last line of her notes, hesitating before typing them into the computer. She
wanted to believe the spread of the disease in this particular sample was an
anomaly, that the agent developed to stop it was still effective. But instinct
told her the latest results were no mistake. This new fungus was more virulent
than first thought. She looked at the grad student cleaning petri dishes at the
other end of the soapstone lab bench. “Danielle? Are you certain these samples
came from the same incubator as last week’s?” “Yes, Dr. Zimmerman,” Danielle said, continuing to scrub.
“Dr. Lathmore made sure I had the right samples.” “I’m sure he did,” Sharon said, unable to keep the sarcasm
out of her voice. Lathmore had hired Danielle for her breast size, not her
brains. “And you followed isolation protocol?” Danielle frowned down at the sink. “I did everything exactly
as you showed me.” “I just needed to be sure,” Sharon said, turning back to the
computer. As a good scientist, she knew to record all of her findings.
But she hated making a mistake part of the official record. It just wouldn’t
help when the Nobel Committee looked at her work. She smiled and started typing, her fingers slowed by latex
gloves. Nobel indeed. The only people who noticed mycologists were other
mycologists. Studying fungi just wasn’t sexy enough to catch the world’s
attention. She would have to be satisfied with solving this riddle for her own
edification. And to keep James Lathmore signing her paychecks. Sharon reread the entry, wondering again where the fungus
came from. She had worked on it for almost six months now, and still Lathmore
refused to tell her anything about the disease’s origin. He had gone so far as
to lock her out of the greenhouse where it was propagated. The only samples
she was allowed to work with were those brought to her in petri dishes, the
fungus grown in the artificial environment of a sugar medium. She told Lathmore she needed to work with the disease in its
natural state, to see the actual plants affected and how it was passed from
host to host. But he refused, telling her this was a government project and
reminding her of the Government Secrets Act she had signed it as part of her
contract with the CrossBridge Corporation. Government project, what bull. This wasn’t a biological
weapons facility. They spent most of their time researching ways to keep
grandpa’s roses blooming. Lathmore just wanted credit for discovering this new
fungus before anyone else. Maybe that was why he had been so difficult to work with
these last few weeks. He thought someone had gotten ahead of him and would
publish their paper first. Lathmore. She would have to tell him what she found before
leaving, which was soon. In half an hour Melisa would be waiting outside the
school, and Sharon couldn’t stand the idea of not being there on time. She knew it wasn’t really her daughter she worried about.
Melisa would be fine, spending the time talking with friends, enjoying the
break from her mother’s hovering. It was Sharon’s own fear of loss since her
husband’s death that she needed to placate. Sharon pulled off the latex gloves and paper shoe covers she
wore in the lab, stood, and dropped them into the toxic waste container. “Will
you lock up for me, Danielle?” “Yes, Dr. Zimmerman.” “And Danielle? I’m sorry about my earlier tone.” Danielle stopped scrubbing and looked at Sharon, her
surprised expression making her look even younger than the twenty-three Sharon
knew her to be. “That’s okay. Dr. Lathmore said you were kind of uptight.” Sharon blinked, taking a moment to be sure she heard
correctly. Then she turned and headed for the locker room. Lathmore had told a
grad student that his lead researcher was uptight? What a bastard. In the locker room she traded her green surgical scrubs for
a brown wool skirt and gold blouse. Before leaving, she forced herself to stop
in front of the mirror to let down her hair and reapply a little makeup. She started the mirror ritual about four months ago when her
therapist forced her to recognize how poorly she had cared for herself since
Dan’s death. Not eating, dressing in whatever, her curly brown hair un-styled.
She had been a mess. Even now, with the weight she’d put back on, the figure
her husband had called extra curvy was only beginning to come back. Satisfied that she had done the best she could, she headed
for the elevator, taking it down to the second floor where most of the offices
were. She stopped in the hallway outside Lathmore’s office, but hearing voices
decided to get her coat, then stop by again on the way out. When she returned, the voices were louder, closer to yelling
than talking. She recognized the loudest as belonging to June, Lathmore’s
wife, who was probably drunk, as that seemed to be her usual state. Sharon had had run-ins with Lathmore’s
wife before. June continually accused Sharon of trying to steal her husband,
once going so far as to slap Sharon in the face, her fingernails leaving
scratches. All things considered, it would be better to wait until tomorrow to
pass on her report. As
she started to turn away, the door swung open and June lurched out, nearly
running Sharon over. “Bitch,” June said, the word slightly slurred. “Get out of
my way.” Lathmore came up behind her. “Please don’t talk like that,”
he said, his tone almost pleading. Twenty years older than Sharon’s thirty-two, James Lathmore
normally carried himself with what people saw as arrogant superiority. But
right now, with his face flushed and his breathing rapid, he looked like a man
having a stroke. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it?” June spread her
legs slightly to keep her balance and glared at her husband, challenging him
to say something. Looking at June in profile, the results of the latest boob
job were obvious. It didn’t help. Though less than ten years older than
Sharon, alcohol and diet had taken a heavy toll, and the tight dress didn’t
help things any. “Stop it,” James said, reaching out to take her by the
shoulder. She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me! If you ever try
to touch me, I’ll kill you!” June swung around to face Sharon, staggering as she did.
“And you, bitch. I know you’re sleeping with him. But you won’t get rid of me
that easy. I’ll still be here when you’re long gone.” Drawn by the yelling, some of the office staff came out into
the hallway. Seeing them, June straightened herself, and with exaggerated care
walked to the elevator. As the doors began to close, she pointed her index
finger at Sharon like a gun, and pretended to shoot. Lathmore looked at the people in the hall, then at Sharon,
his expression changing from embarrassment to anger at his public humiliation.
“What do you want?” Sharon felt her own temper rise in response. He had no right
to be mad at her. It was his behavior that exacerbated the situation with his
wife. Everyone on the staff knew he was sleeping with Danielle. Sharon
suspected Lathmore deliberately let his wife think he was sleeping with her to
keep June from discovering the real situation. “It can wait until tomorrow,” Sharon said, needing to get
out before her anger got the better of her. “But you might want to check this
afternoon’s lab results before you start writing papers for the science
journals.” Sharon was surprised to see the irritation vanish from his
expression, replaced by what she interpreted as fear. “Why? The anti-fungal you developed works perfectly.” “Maybe, maybe not. I could be a lot more sure if I had
direct access to the infected plants,” she said, reminding him that holding
back information was hindering her research. “Without knowing how the fungus
attacks its host I can’t be positive about anything.” “I’m sure whatever you think is wrong was just a mistake.
I’ll take a look at your results myself.” Sharon locked eyes with him for a moment, then gave it up.
“Fine. Let me know if you find anything.” She started down the hall. Halfway to the elevator she
stopped, the image of June pointing the pretend gun unsettling. Turning away,
she took the stairs.
**
To Jorge Manuelo it seemed his brother’s screaming went on
much longer than should have been possible. How could Juan, or any man, live
so long with his belly open to the world and his entrails piled below him like
a pig being readied for Christmas day? It was a thing of wonder. Would his own death take so long? He prayed to the Madonna
that his body would not survive such abuse. That his heart would burst at the
first cut of the knife. That he would see the sweet face of the Savior rather
than his own insides spill out, a long snake covered in red. He prayed for a
quick death.
I know it is a sin to ask for death, Lord. But I am only
a man. I have no courage as you did on the Cross. I have no courage to bear
the pain as you did for our sins. Please take me into your arms with the speed
you took my little Juanita on the day of her
birth. The man with the knife stepped away from where Juan’s now
silent body hung from the tree, arms stretched upward by the rope as if
reaching for heaven. The man stopped in front of Jorge, who didn’t dare look
at his face. He looked instead at the knife, the silver of its handle
untouched by the blood covering the blade. His brother’s blood. The man reached out and lifted Jorge’s chin with the tip of
the blade. “We have your attention now?” His voice was soft, a reasonable man
asking a reasonable question. Jorge did not speak. He had no voice, an invisible hand
curled around his throat. He tried to nod, but the knife point pricked where
his chin met his neck. He felt the trickle of blood. The man removed the knife, wiped the blade on Jorge’s dirty
white shirt, then returned it to the sheath at his belt. Jorge noted how beautiful the belt and sheath were, made of
the same calfskin as the boots, the three as one. The Father, Son, and Holy
Spirit. In his terror he almost giggled at this, restraining himself with the
knowledge that to do so would ensure an even longer and more painful death. “You have disappointed us,” the man with the knife said. “We
gave you money to keep you while the plants grew. We protected you from the
soldiers who burn your crops. Were we not kind to you?” Jorge didn’t know
if the man expected an answer, but thought it best to say something to show
his respect. “Yes,
Jefe,
very kind.” “Then why have you betrayed us? No.” The man held up his
hand to stop Jorge from speaking. “I will not ask that. Instead you will tell
us of those who came to you. Those who paid you money to place this plague on
your own crops, a thing no true farmer would do.” The man was right. They had betrayed more than the cartel,
his brother and he. They had betrayed the land of their ancestors. But the
money had seemed so much, and the evil of the cartels so profound. It had been
easy to tell themselves it was the right thing to do. So easy. The man with the knife seemed content to let Jorge think his
thoughts, reflect upon the wrong he had done, take his time with the telling.
He was like Father Enriche in the confessional, never rushing the sins,
letting them fill the mind of the perpetrator before spilling out. “Two men came with a Prefect from Bogotá,” Jorge began. “The
Prefect said we must listen to them or the soldiers would burn the crops and
take us to prison. Our families, our village would be left with nothing.” “And these men, they were both American?” “The one who spoke sounded like a Mexican, but dressed like
an American.” Jorge paused, thinking of the man. He had been short, his hair
and skin dark, a man with much of the Indian in him. Not a handsome man, but
one who thought himself an aristocrat. “Sí,
a Mexican,” Jorge said. “But one who has lived long in America.” “And the other man, the one who did not speak?” “Oh yes, very American.” Just as in the confessional, Jorge
found that once started he could not stop. “He wore the bright shirt and had
the light colored hair that is not real.” He would have said more. Told how the blond man’s belly hung
over his pants, fat like all Americans. But the man with the knife stopped him
with another question. “And these men, they had names?” “Only the Mexican. Tamayo. Señor Miguel Tamayo.” “And what did this man tell you to do?” “He said that bags would be brought. Inside the bags would
be leaves, a rich mulch to place around a few of our plants, as we place other
things to fertilize the crops. His orders were that we place it only at the
far edge of our field, and mark those plants to be easy to find. For this we
would be protected from the police and given money.” “That is all, to do so little for so much?” The man with the
knife shook his head, the doubt on his face before he spoke the words.
“Nothing more?” “Only that he would return to look at our crops.” “And these men have returned?” “Only the Mexican, and not often. I do not think he likes the fields.” |