Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

“He could still be there then.”

“We checked the area thoroughly. Wherever he is, your brother’s a sick man. He needs to get back to the hospital fast.”

“He can’t have gone far,” said Tom. “He could hardly lift his head off the pillow when I left him this morning.”

“He wasn’t much better when he bolted around 10:00 pm, according to the nurse on duty. But she couldn’t get him to stay or anyone to stop him from leaving.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with him? The doctors were waiting on some tests when I left.”

There was a moment of silence on the end of the line.

“Spit it out, Doc. If the CDC is involved, I’m guessing it can’t be good. Just tell me.”

Dyer cleared his throat and then spoke as if from a script. “Subject tested positive for exposure to a Class 3 bio-toxin.”

Shit.

“And your government would really like to know where and how he was exposed.”

Tom took a deep breath. “One of the doctors said he thought it might be something Joe ate or got in a cut.”

“Judging from his symptoms, it’s both. That, and the fact that he’s not dead. If he’d inhaled it, he would be.”

“A Class three …?”

“Bio-toxin. Abrin.”

“Never heard of it. Should I?”

“Think anthrax and multiply it by a factor of ten.”

Shit, again. Tom felt his body flush with adrenaline and respond with only deeper fatigue.

“Did your brother ever mention the word abrin or refer to it in any way?”

“No.” Tom struggled to steady his voice. “How bad is he?”

“We don’t have a lot of data on human toxicity. But when it’s inhaled, abrin is deadly even in microscopic amounts. Your brother’s exposure must have been gastric or cutaneous. It’s treatable, but only if we get him back to a hospital fast.”

“I’ll find him.”

“Please. We need him as much as he needs us. He’s our link to the contagion.”

“How did the CDC get onto this?”

“We were contacted by the lab that examined some samples from an autopsy done at your local hospital last week. I was sent here to follow-up. When I learned that the policeman who had handled the body and inventoried the dead man’s residence was in the ICU with unexplained vomiting and fever, I did a field test. It registered positive for abrin exposure.”

Tom’s breath pounded the phone’s mouthpiece.

“Mr. Morgan, we need to find the source of your brother’s contamination before other people become exposed.”

Tom forced himself to breathe. “Was this autopsy you looked into done on a man named Pearce?” He kept his voice slow and deliberate.

“Yes, did you know him? Can you tell us anything about him?”

“A lot. As soon as I find my brother.”

* * *

While Tom was speaking with the CDC doctor, Susan paced the uncarpeted floor. When he finished, he told her the part he assumed she had not overheard. “A-brin!” He stressed each syllable hard. “Does that mean anything to you?”

She shook her head.

“The CDC guy said to think ‘anthrax’ and multiply it by ten.”

“Oh, Tom!”

“Tell me NeuroGene is not fooling around with stuff like anthrax.”

“We’re not.” She met his eye, but did not stop pacing.

“Sit down.” His voice was hard.

She continued to pace.

“You recognized the man in that college brochure, didn’t you? And you saw something at Frankie’s that you’re not telling me.” Tom spit out the words until they were almost a shout. “I need to know what you’re holding back, Susan.”

Her face turned toward the light that was beginning to spread over the glassy lake. “I told you everything I know.”

Emotions careened like bumper cars in his chest. “I’m tired, Susan. I’m hurting and I have to find Joe. You can tell me now, or you can go to hell… or jail, or both.”

Her face remained a mask.

He looked around for something to replace the sheet that was all that covered him now. Then he shuffled to Billy’s closet and pushed through half a dozen hangars of clothes two sizes too small. In the end he kept the sheet wrapped around his waist, sparing his abraded limbs the challenge of squeezing back into the soiled and shredded clothes that lay in a heap by the bed. He could feel Susan’s eyes on his back.

Unbending legs carried him to the stairs. Bandaged hands shared the weight of his torso with the boathouse wall and helped him maneuver the steps. At the bottom, clear water rippled at the back of the boat slip and shafts of morning sunlight made prism bars across the lakeside opening. Pausing at the foot of the steps to ease the throbbing in his knees, he took a long last look at the locale which seemed now to be little more than center ring in a circus that should have left town long ago.

Dr. Pearce’s Chris Craft hung in canvas straps over the water, mist curling beneath its hull and pale light glinting off its varnished mahogany side. Nests of barn swallows lined the beam above it. Rippling sunlight played along the spine of a cedar canoe that lay overturned nearby against the boathouse wall. Beneath it, a large black crow pecked greedily at a stick-like something covered with blood. The bird looked at Tom and pushed its prize farther under the boat. Tom hobbled over to the canoe and lowered himself gently toward the sound of buzzing flies. The crow squawked angrily and held its ground.

“Get!” he yelled.

The crow squawked twice and flew off. Tom swept his bandaged hand beneath the boat and returned with the severed leg of a large, white-feathered bird.

CHAPTER 23

Bonnie helped Tom into a change of clothes, asking a few listless questions about his bloody bandages and his story of getting into a scrap with a dog. She had her own troubles. Joe hadn’t come home. She knew where he was, but he’d made her promise not to tell the CDC toxologist who’d been calling every hour since last night. Joe said that the CDC