Chief Inspector Finch closed his office door. The situation in Ireland had gotten progressively worse. He sank into his chair, rubbed his face.
There was a heavy knock on his door and it opened before he could respond.
It was Dascombe, pale and unkempt. Finch immediately drew him further into his office and quickly closed the door. Roger Dascombe looking any less than perfectly groomed meant only one thing, bad news. Dascombe said nothing, but set a file folder on the desk. Finch sat him down in Dominic's chair and gave him a cup of water before looking down. One glance said it all. In black letters across the top, the file read, 'Eyes Only'. Dascombe was risking more than his career by bringing this to him.
Finch sat on the edge of Dom's desk, his fingertips brushed the file, then tapped the folder gently. He spoke softly, even though the audio scrambler was on. "What's this, Dascombe?"
Dascombe set the empty paper cup next to Finch's thigh. "Perry brought it to me last night. I spent all night trying to work with it, trying to get it right, thinking of how to present it. But, Finch. I can't." Dascombe looked up at him, plainly stricken. "Please. You look at it. Tell me what to do." His voice was strained. Finch heard more than fear.
Finch looked at the file on his desk, then lifted the edge with his finger like it was contaminated. The cover opened, inside were pages, photocopies of reports. He looked at Dascombe and tried to think of what to say.
Dascombe frowned. "You don't look surprised at all. You knew?"
"I was told some months ago." Finch flipped the report cover closed. "I have not said anything to anyone. Dominic knows."
"Anyone else?" Dascombe picked up the paper cup, tapped it on the desk, and looked inside. "You have anything stronger than this?"
"Not in the office. Pub's open for brunch. But I don't want to walk you past the receptionist. It will start rumors. You've been up all night, haven't you…you look like shit. We'll have to go out the back way."
"I need to get out of here." Dascombe tossed the paper cup into the rubbish bin and stood.
Finch nodded. "I'll get my coat."
In the pub the two men bent their heads over the file. Miss Hammond had gone to doctor in Marseilles. Dascombe pushed a sheet of paper towards Finch and indicated a date at the top. "See here. Perry's men received a call from a lab in France asking for information on the virus. They have a fetus with the same antibody signature as the viral mutations in Ireland. This should be physically impossible. How can someone unborn have contracted the virus and created antibodies for a virus that is randomly mutating as we speak?"
Finch took the paper and read from the top. He kept his face carefully impassive. I know how. The scientists know how. Now to just get the warning to Miss Hammond. "It might not be so random…" he said.
Dascombe wasn't finished. "There's more. Perry has found records that prove the Ministry of Health was involved in creating this virus in the first place. Once this information gets out, people will not queue up for those saline injections. They will start marching in the streets. I can't present this over the air."
"And if you don't?" Finch tucked the paper back inside the folder. "What did Perry tell you?"
"He said he would give me two weeks. Then he would take it to Europe. He told me that he is not the only one with copies, so killing him will not stop this from getting out."
Finch coughed, "He thinks you will kill him?"
"No. But he knows Wilson will. What should I do?"
Finch finished his Scotch. "I can't tell you, Dascombe, but if I were you, I would find out to whom the public will listen. Find him and have him ready at the station when this goes live. You need a Voice of Reason this time."
"There is no more Voice." Dascombe made a sour face; drained his pint.
"No," Finch pushed the file toward Dascombe. "Nor a Finger nor a Head. You will have to find a new Voice. Quickly. If I were you, I would look at the Universities."
XXX
Dominic swung his bag onto the train and followed it through the doors with his body. Another lead, another town. She moved approximately every ten days. He thought he was getting closer, but could not be certain. He knew that she might settle down when she decided to get prenatal careHe had no real idea how far along she might be. He could be off in his estimation by as much as six weeks. An eternity when it came to pregnancy. Dominic selected a window seat and set his bag next to him. I don't want any company tonight. But he knew she may just as easily forgo any care at all. He remembered her medical books. How much she relied on them, carried them around with her. When he was very ill with the fever she had sat next to his cot, reading. He would open his eyes and see her there, one hand in her book, the other on his left wrist. When he moved she would smile at him and touch his forehead. She would ask, "How do you feel?" Her voice was so soft. Her eyes so warm. He had felt better just looking at her.
He pressed his fingers to his eyes. She is clever. She eludes my every step. I can only hope that she also eludes Massey and his men. Communiqués from Finch had confirmed that other men who were hunting Evey had been found and arrested or detained for various reasons, none of them permanent. That ploy will work until each man retains a lawyer. It was a delaying tactic, the best they could do for now. Dominic had already used up all his favors with InterPol and Finch was slowly working through all of his. Of the five they knew were hunting her, only Massey remained a threat. But he was worse than any ten profiteers. Massey had a network and capital. Dominic sighed. He leaned back and tried to sleep. No sleeping when I get to Marseilles. I hope she is still there. He wanted to be there for her when the time came, if only to protect her when she was helpless. But maybe. Maybe she will be glad to see me.
His mobile rang. He flipped it open. The Inspector. "Stone"
"Dominic."
"Sir?"
"It's time."
"No. You can't mean that." The Chief's voice was raspy, like his throat hurt. Dominic leaned away from the aisle as he spoke into his mobile. "What happened?"
"I have to take the poodle to the vet and have him put down." The truth about St. Mary's. Oh God, someone knows.
"No, Chief. No." Dominic thought hard how to put his thoughts into code. "Has the poodle already escaped?" He held his breath.
"No. Not yet. But he will. I have his red collar. Roger has his veterinary records." He has Delia's diary and the Tower has the truth.
"Why, Chief? Can't it wait?" You will be in danger if you do this. Why now?
There was a long pause, and Dominic knew Finch was having trouble encoding his words as well. Dom waited long enough to feel beads of sweat break out on his forehead. Finally he heard his chief's voice in his ear.
"We are all in danger if he bites us. We will all become infected. This is the only way."
Dominic wasn't sure he understood. Exposing the truth about the virus and its genesis would do more to bring down the government than any amount of explosive. Is the outbreak so bad? How many have died? There were no more body counts on the nightly news. England was a black hole of information now. European reports were merely guesses. The InterLink was rife with rumors, nothing there could be considered a fact. Why now? How could it help? He took a deep breath and coded that thought, "We will miss that dog. He has protected the front garden for years."
Finch responded immediately, "The old vet is dead; there is no way the new vet can cure his distemper without all of his records, and now I fear it is too late. He might bite someone before he is cured. The only hope is to find his previous owner. She is in Marseilles." Dominic went cold. He is telling me to find Evey and bring her in. Marseilles is correct. I was correct. I am on the right trail. Finch went on. "If you do find his previous owner, don't send her to the vet. She can send the records to me and I will see they get to the vet. Watch the news."
The line went dead. To end the call without a courtesy of any kind was code for emergency. "She can send the records to me." Dominic frowned. Did Finch mean send the baby, or send the medical files? Dominic didn't try to sleep.
XXX
EV opened the third letter the day she got the news from the lab. She sat in her fine room. Not by the window this time. She closed the drapes and turned on the lamp. No. Lately I have noticed people staring at me. Better to hide in the dark. I am nine floors up, but would prefer to be deep underground. And now, this news from the lab. She popped open the third letter and sank into the overstuffed chair, glad to be off her feet.
You did this to me, V. You gave me this child. And you gave me these worries. I am not alone, but I am. I have no one. An orphan, a widow…the English language defines me by my losses. And this letter. What can you possibly say to me? She unfolded the creamy white paper. He had written this one on thick card stock, crisp with linen and a watermark from a prestigious stationer. Only the finest for him. It was as if he took what he could from the best of humanity, and left the rest to rot with the dregs of society.
She leaned over to turn the lamp to it brightest setting. He had written a lot this time, and his handwriting clearly degenerated near the end. She would need the light.
"Eve, my love. No doubt you are angry with me now. I know you must be. I know. Yes, I know. You missed your cycle. I noticed. You did not. I thought about reminding you. I thought very hard about it. Yet I could not bring myself to do it. Your intense fears the last time you believed yourself to be pregnant made the decision easier. I would not rain those fears down upon you again. I admit to researching what I could. I can tell you that it is unlikely the child will be damaged. Can you forgive me? I have found Delia's report. When you missed your cycle I searched for it. I have found it. I have read it. Any doctors treating you have not. They will be frightened by what they see, Eve. Please trust me. Delia says that any serious chromosome damage would destroy a fetus early on. You would have miscarried, Eve, if the baby was imperfect. But you didn't. Her report is in the archives in the Ministry of Health. Tell your doctors if you must. I thought I was sterile, Eve. I did. Please believe me. Delia told me I was. She told me, and I believed her, yet now the truth becomes evident within you. I am astonished. I am amazed. I feel such a surge of tenderness thinking about what our love has created.
Can you forgive me? I knew you would be going through this alone, so I brought in the Detective. When I found him in the tunnel, I brought him to our home though I could easily have taken him topside. I could have left him for the medics. Be kind to him and he will put a good word in for you with Finch. They are the only good men left, Eve. Please let him help you. I am relying on you to accept his help, for if you do not, you will be truly alone. And that is not what I desire.
I will talk to you of this, this aloneness, the isolation. The solitude was thrust upon me, Eve. I have no memory of the man I was before. The skills I have hint at a life in theatre or music, or art or academia. I wish I knew. None of those avenues, properly pursued, lead to a solitary life. Those professions are full of light and sound and color, and creative people all singing, laughing, dancing and talking. Yet the kind of loneliness I have suffered these past twenty years was a Hell I do not wish upon anyone, least of all you. Please promise me you will not hide yourself away. Promise me you will not tell yourself that I wish for you to remain alone for my sake. There is no greater Hell, Eve. No deeper bastion of demons than the ones who prey upon loneliness. I want a better life for you, my Love. A better life for our child. Give him brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandparents. Promise me this. Please, Eve, promise me you will give my child a family. It is all I ever wanted for myself.
I cannot give it to him. Promise me you will. I love you. V"
The last lines wavered, he did not refill the pen when the ink ran out; the last words were silvery grey and the last sentence merely a faded mark on the paper. Evey folded it back up. Her anger was gone. She rubbed the thick paper between her finger and thumb, touching him through his words. So he didn't lie to me. He was merely wrong. She quirked her mouth at the corner. How galling that must have been for him, to be wrong. And yet there was no underlying sense that being wrong in this instance annoyed him. He actually seemed…happy.