"That's it!" Wilder pointed to the truck that turned the corner. "That's the truck. That's the one they were driving!"
"Good. Get back inside. Stay out of the way." Don didn't feel like dealing with the warehouse manager. Civilians and guns didn't mix, in his opinion, and certainly not with potential terrorists on the scene.
Robin and her team—without Marker, fortunately. Don didn't think he could put up with the man at the moment—were likewise out of the way. They were upstairs busily engaged in spraying down everything in the locker room and burning most of what could be burned. Mixed blessing: the legitimate drivers would be out many packs of cigarettes and a bunch of pin up posters, but the place would smell better than it had in years. The half-eaten bologna sandwich with the healthy helping of mold got an honorable cremation with everyone's approval. It looked deadlier than the cholera thing.
Don's people were carefully stationed around the loading dock, waiting for the truck to roll in. So far, so good: it didn't seem as though the drivers had any clue that the FBI was waiting for them. Why should they? Who would ever think to check on the plastic cups that people drank from in the early morning? Nobody would make that connection.
No one, it seemed, except an eccentric math professor and his FBI agent brother.
It went like clockwork; even the suspects stuck to their assigned roles. The truck drove up to the yard, swung around, and carefully backed up to the loading dock so that more supplies could be loaded in for shipping. Don held up his hand to the rest of the agents; wait. Not yet. The driver turned off the engine. Now!
"FBI!" he yelled, handgun aimed in one fist, coming in fast. The rest converged as well, a swarm of agents descending."Out of the truck! Out of the truck now!" More agents swarmed in, pulling the door open, yanking the terrified drivers out and slamming them against the cab. Handcuffs flashed on in an instant. The drivers never knew what hit them.
David Sinclair spilled an armload of pamphlets onto Don's desk, his whole body oozing grim satisfaction. "Goldmine, Don," he said. "We got these from McGee's apartment, and Megan called to say that there's another stash at Delaney's. Idiots; they gave their correct addresses on the Personnel applications. We've got names, dates, and locations. Our jobs will be secure for the next month, tracking down every tie to this terrorist cell. It was a big one."
"It had to be, to carry out an operation of this size." Don recalled the interrogation of the suspects. It had been less than satisfying; both men were low level operatives, fit only for driving trucks and being caught. No one had trusted the pair with any significant information in case they got caught exactly as they had. The addresses that David had found would lead to equally as low level terrorists, just enough to keep them busy while the high level types exited, stage right. "Someone with smarts designed this C-NO4 thing. That wasn't just street corner meth lab knowledge, and neither one of the drivers is capable of pulling this off. Washington will want in on this, probably want to take it over. No problem with that," he added, looking grimly at the chair that Colby was accustomed to taking. "We're a little short-handed, right now. Little epidemic going on. Couple of 'em, actually, if you count the flu."
David tightened his lips. "Colby?"
"I was headed down to check on him. Want to come?"
"I'm with you."
Don stopped himself. "Hang on. I want to try Charlie again, let him know that he led us to the terrorists." But voicemail once again picked up. "I'll try him again, later." Don shrugged. "That's the third message I've left him. He probably forgot his cell, again." I hope, went a little nagging voice. History was certainly on Don's side. Statistically, to horn in on Charlie's territory, his brother was more likely to forget that such things as cell phones existed, rather than to answer them. The phone was probably in the motel room again, ringing into empty air.
It had gotten so that Don dreaded going to the basement where the impromptu hospital had been set up. Only the freight elevator went there, with its gray and pock-marked walls. It was either that, or take the stairs where the maintenance staff couldn't get to on a regular basis and left dust bunnies with delusions of grandeur. Budget cut-backs hit every department.
The number of patients had doubled, as the symptoms made themselves known over the past twenty-four hours. Stretchers were lined up next to each other, each containing a victim who was alternately clutching their belly or a basin in distress. It looked a forest of metal trees with bags of intravenous fluids as the leaves, interspersed with the occasional monitor beeping in place of birds chirping.
It looked like a war zone.
Robin tried to dash on through; Don tugged at her arm. "Robin?"
"More than fifty people down," she said, tugging loose. "No time, Don. Oh, you were right. That syringe in that driver's locker contained traces of the C-NO4 bacteria, and San Diego averted their own terrorist attack. You saved lives down there, Don. Nice work."
"And we'll save more as we clean out that terrorist cell," Don told her. "How's Colby?"
Robin had to search her mind; with so many patients, it was impossible to keep them all straight. "He was one of the early ones, right?" She pointed. "Over there. He's doing better. Keep gloves on if you want to see him. I don't want to take any chances."
"He's better?"
"That's what I said, isn't it?" Robin made a face. "I'm sorry, Don. Too many patients, and too little help. Go see your friend." She hurried off, shouting orders to several someones.
Don and David picked their way through the myriad of stretchers, recognizing most, but not all, of the patients, stopping here and there to squeeze a shoulder or two. Colby was on the far end, eyes closed. "Colby?"
Eyes struggled to open. "Don?" He licked cracked lips.
Gray, but without the death warmed over look. Don wanted to cheer. "Hey, Colby." He kept his voice soft. "You're looking better."
"Feel like crap." Colby coughed. "Thirsty."
"Here." A passing nurse pushed something liquid into Don's hands. "Give this to him. More, if he'll take it. As much as you can get into him."
"Yeah." Colby licked his lips again. "Can't seem to get enough." He tried to reach for the drink in Don's hands, couldn't lift his arms without shaking. "Damn."
"It's okay." It was not okay. This was not Colby. Don caught sight of a covered stretcher being rolled past, knew that Colby saw it, too. "C'mon, we'll help you. David, give me a hand," he requested, tugging until they had Colby half-sitting against the back of the stretcher, raising the back of the stretcher for support. David held the straw to Colby's lips.
They got four glasses into the man, watching the color return with each sip. "Thanks," Colby gasped, worn out by even that little bit of effort, his eyes closing with exhaustion. "Damn bug. This is humiliating."
"Don't sweat it," David told him. "You'll be back on your feet in no time. That's what the doc said."
"For real?" A small smile played around the agent's lips. "You guys all okay?"
"Yeah. Charlie and Robin figured it out. The rest of us went to a later meeting. It was only you early birds that drank from the contaminated glasses from that first meeting. That'll teach you to be on time," Don teased gently. "You had to be a go-getter."
Colby grunted. "That'll teach me to use an environmentally friendly mug instead of those plastic jobs. I heard what you found out, Don. The staff here is all talking about it, that and taking down the drivers. Good work."
"Thanks. Charlie put in his share. He came up with the program that pinpointed where the infection had been placed."
"Yeah." The eyes were closed, and the man losing ground fast. Sleep was just around the corner. "He okay?"
"Yes." Don exchanged a worried look with David. "Why do you ask?"
"'Cause he was at that first meeting, too," Colby slurred. "Gave him a cup of coffee. Plastic cup, like mine."
"Still not picking up." Don set the handset back onto the phone. It was the sixth message he'd left, all of which contained increasingly frantic versions of call me right now! "David, I don't like this. It's after six o'clock. Charlie should have gotten back down the mountain by now. He should have picked up his messages."
"Do you know where he went? Which mountain?" David asked. "We could contact the local police department, see if they can locate Dr. Fleinhardt's car."
"That's the problem. Charlie didn't tell me. No reason to; he thought that he and Larry would back home by now with lots of data for Larry to crunch."
"How about Dr. Fleinhardt's cell phone? Did you try that?"
"Doesn't carry one," Megan put in. "Larry takes advantage of the fact that he can choose to be unreachable. If anyone needed to get hold of him, they'd know to call Charlie."
"I'm ready to drive up and get them both," Don grumbled, trying to keep the worry from his voice, "if only I knew where."
"How about your father?" Megan asked. "Did Charlie leave word with him?"
"No." Gloomily. "Charlie didn't think that he'd need to. After all, he had his cell with him."
Welcome pangs of hunger finally woke Dr. Larry Fleinhardt from his slumber. He'd slept the day away, he noted with dismay, and it was now dark outside. Not surprising, this time of year, but the clock told him that it was several minutes after six o'clock. He frowned; had Charles returned, and chosen not to waken him? That would be unlike his young colleague. Charles knew that no matter how Dr. Fleinhardt felt, he would be eager to delve into the mysteries that his mountain top equipment had gathered, and would be unwilling to delay for even the slightest moment. Illness or not, there were some things that would drive a man to great heights no matter what the situation. This would have been one of them, pun intended.
No car outside; either Charles had not returned from the excursion or he had, upon finding Larry still in repose, gone off in search of sustenance, Larry's apparatus safely tucked away in the trunk of the car.
First things first: his fever had broken and had left Dr. Fleinhardt in serious need of a shower. Fresh clothing, too, would be welcome.
But half an hour later, clean and in better spirits anddesirous of companionship and food, still no Charles. Dr. Fleinhardt dialed Charles' cell phone. Just because Dr. Fleinhardt chose not to be burdened by such devices didn't mean that he wouldn't take advantage of other's. No answer; voicemail picked up. "Charles, this is Larry. Please call me and let me know how soon before you expect to return to the motel."
Another half an hour. There was little to do but wait. The news channel offered little news but many poorly researched sound bites that would have made for interesting listening if only the reporters—and Dr. Fleinhardt used the title in jest—had been permitted, yea, even encouraged, to put in the pertinent details. The weather channel refused to acknowledge that Dr. Fleinhardt's current surroundings were worthy of notice, instead notifying him that the Los Angeles climate would, as usual, be balmy and calm with little chance of precipitation. The pollution index in the city was elevated, also as usual. Dr. Fleinhardt found that to be of equally little value under the present circumstances.
Still no Charles, and no response to his calls. This grew worrisome. It was unlike Charles to be delayed to this extent, and, should he be, his colleague would call. There were no messages at the desk; that Larry had already checked. And Larry couldn't go after Charles, not without a vehicle. Charles had taken the car up the mountain this morning. Larry was left stranded.
Eight o'clock. This was distressing. Larry no longer believed that Charles had merely forgotten the time. A call to the local constabulary as well as the medical facilities several miles away established that Dr. Eppes' whereabouts were completely unknown as well as reiterating the point that the officials would not intervene until twenty-four hours had passed without contact from the missing man. Larry was about to call the local officials once more to demand assistance in locating his colleague when a thought struck him. Perhaps Charles had contacted his brother. Larry was aware that there was a crisis going on back in L.A. with the FBI, and that Charles had done work for them on this matter via the telephone and the internet. Perhaps he had been requested to return, and intended to send transportation back for Larry. Larry picked up the phone to dial, and then paused. If that was the case, then where was the backpack that they had stored the equipment in?
Puzzling. Puzzling to the point of befuddlement. Well, best attempt to immortalize two avians with one sampling of granite. A call to Special Agent Eppes would establish whether or not Charles had returned to L.A. and also notify Don that Charles was missing if such were not the case. Larry regretted the necessity of such action, but Don would never forgive Larry for not informing him as quickly as possible. Larry dialed.
"Eppes."
"Don? Larry here. Have you heard from—?"
"Larry? Where's Charlie?"
"That is what I was calling you about, Don. I haven't—"
"I've been trying to get hold of him all day. Isn't he with you?"
"I regret that the answer is no. I was ill with the flu—"
"Are you sure it was the flu?" Don grimly recalled Larry listening in on half of an earlier phone call.
"Since I feel currently much improved, yes, I am reasonably certain that it was the current strain of Influenza hemophilus rather than your mystery ailment, Don. However, the reason that I was calling—"
"Where's Charlie?" Don demanded. "Larry, this is important!"
"Yes, it is, Don. Please stop interrupting. As I was saying, your brother volunteered to retrieve the equipment up on the mountain by himself. He has not returned. I was about to notify the local police to send out a search."
"Don't do that!" Don said, alarmed. "Larry, if the locals get into the search and find Charlie, they'll become contaminated themselves. This bacteria could spread so fast that we wouldn't be able to contain it." At least, that's what Marker said. Unfortunately, this time Robin backed him up. Her, I trust. "Tell me where you are. I'll get a team up there ASAP."