Coldwater Revenge, James Ross [books for 9th graders txt] 📗

panic result… The mortuaries are full. Funeral homes close. The accumulation of dead bodies threatens to cause additional health crisis. State health officials order the dead to be cremated, setting off violent protests by several religious groups…”

By the end of Day Eight, eight thousand people are symptomatic and over two thousand have died.’”

The man behind the podium looked up. There was no conversation, no rustling of papers, no movement or stirring of any kind. He flipped a final page in his notebook.

“‘Six Months Later,” he read, “the stadium is abandoned. Businesses in the surrounding neighborhood have left. Commercial and tourist travel to the city has all but disappeared. Of the fifty thousand people in and around the stadium on the afternoon of the attack, ten thousand became symptomatic and twenty-five hundred died… Economic losses as a result of the attack are estimated to be in the billions.’”

He closed his notebook and addressed a silent room. “The Inglesby scenario I’ve just read is based on a single attack from a single vehicle. Multiple simultaneous attacks at different locations and serial attacks over time are not only possible, they are to be expected. We don’t know if a weaponized version of abrin is as effective as the toxins and spores we know more about, like anthrax—whether it’s half as effective or one hundred times as effective. Assuming that it is effective—and judging from slide two and three, some people seem ready to put it out there for a test—the purpose of this gathering is to identify intervention points in the revised Inglesby Scenario where timely and coordinated efforts of the agencies represented in this room might minimize fatalities or achieve other positive results.”

Johnsen turned off the television. “We can skip the rest. There aren’t enough medical supplies and personnel to cover all of the possible sites ahead of time and the federal government isn’t going to warn and protect one city and not another. Frankly, we just have to make sure that a catastrophe like the one you just heard doesn’t happen.”

Tom looked at the three strained faces. “I get it. But why am I here?”

The bearded man, who Johnsen had identified as from the National Bioforensic Analysis Center, answered. “We have a tape of this fellow Hassad coming over the Champlain Bridge last night. He used the name Aza and a green card to go with it. He hasn’t been spotted going back. Our Canadian friends tell us that he hasn’t left from any of their airports and we know that he hasn’t left from any of ours. So our best guess is that he’s still hanging around. We assume for a reason. Something to protect. Something to finish. Maybe both.”

The man sitting on the bed with his back against the wall interrupted. He was the one Johnsen had identified as BARDA, and he looked like an ex-boxer whose only defeat had been to acne. “We had that guy you say you didn’t kill—Heller—under observation for over a year, hoping that he’d lead us up the food chain. Our Canadian friends had the other end covered. But their guy got dead last night.” He read from a blue spiral notebook. “Bonnefesse. The last they had from him is that this Hassad passed something to Heller just a week ago—a couple of trunks of something, not the usual collection of bottles and baggies.”

Tom tried not to react to the information about the gay sex shop owner. He spread his bandaged hands, palms up, but did not repeat his question.

“A Miss Susan Pearce will be out on bail by tomorrow. There’s no evidence against her that we’re willing to share at this point and it’s better if she thinks there isn’t any. What we want, is for you to stay close to her and let us know if and when this Dr. Hassad shows up.”

“You must have twenty guys at her house already,” Tom protested.

“On the outside,” Johnsen agreed. “But we’re told that you may be able to get… closer?”

They don’t miss much. Still… Susan might have accidentally poisoned her brother or even looked the other way while Frankie Heller took Billy on a one way boat ride. But Tom couldn’t believe she was involved in mass murder. “Look,” he said. “I don’t think that there’s a recent connection between Miss Pearce and whatever this guy’s name is now. With the brother, yes. But not her.”

The little man on the hardback chair took a folder from his briefcase and handed it to Tom. “NeuroGene is a Nevada corporation. It takes a bit of work to pierce the corporate veil out there. But you can see from the top document that the corporation is majority owned by a Canadian holding company. A few months ago, the same company purchased a small island on Coldwater Lake. A local real estate firm handled the transfer, using a general power of attorney. There’s a Federal Express receipt there for the closing documents, signed by an S. Pearce.”

Tom looked at the signature. Small, neat, precise. Like her. It was genuine. He pressed the back of a bandaged knuckle into his eye socket. His head ached. His hands throbbed. The wounds on his scalp and knees felt like piecrust. How long had it been since he slept?

“There is definitely a recent connection,” said Johnsen.

“But isn’t it dangerous for her if Hassad shows up? Assuming he killed Frankie Heller and Bonnefesse. If you’re right about a recent connection and he’s already dusting his trail, then he’ll go after her too, right? Even if she just thought she was helping an old friend with a real estate transaction?”

No one in the room took up the suggestion.

“You’re using her as bait,” he pressed. “Does she know that?”

“She might, if she’d talk to us,” said Johnsen. “But she’s lawyer-ed up already—which as far as I’m concerned speaks for itself.”

“You could tell her,” said the nameless man sitting on the edge of the bed. “Help us, and we might consider helping you with some