On the far side of the lab was another door, this one with a glowing
EXIT
sign above it. The door at first seemed stuck, but Lou yanked harder, figuring the room was being kept under negative pressure as a precaution against radiation leaks. With a loud rush of air, the door swung open into a cinder block anteroom, with another door, again marked
EXIT
, just opposite him. From behind, he could hear the pounding intensify, now with some sort of metal implement. He went through the exit, then up a short flight of metal stairs. The gunshot wound to his thigh, probably responding to a constant surge of adrenaline, was quite bearable. At the top of the stairs was a steel storm door that opened into the floor of a utility shed. After he closed that door behind him, Lou dragged as much weight as he could onto it and exited the shed, squinting against the late afternoon light.
He was at the edge of the woods, bordering the clearing. Through the tree line, he could see Edwin’s Mercedes-Benz, Stone’s cruiser, and another car, a black Cadillac—almost certainly the car that had followed him into the city, what seemed like eons ago. It appeared empty. Humphries’s radar cart was where Lou had left it, but there it would have to stay. His priority at the moment was survival.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the blockhouse, Lou took a couple of tentative steps into the clearing and then ran as best he could to the Mercedes, fired up the engine, and skidded from the parking lot. He had never been much of a car aficionado, figuring that the lust to drive high-end vehicles should be commensurate with one’s ability to afford them. But the Benz—the first he had driven in many years—was a car to dream about. With only the slightest punch to the accelerator, it sped ahead, sending a rooster tail of sand and gravel swirling into the still air.
Any confidence he felt about his improving situation was short lived. A hundred or so yards down the road he risked a glance into the rearview mirror.
Trouble.
The Cadillac, emerging like an enraged phoenix from a dense, swirling cloud of dust, was on the move. It looked as if there were two men in the front, but it was impossible to see behind them into the rear seat. The power of the Mercedes was more than he could easily handle, and he skidded several times from one side of the narrow road to another.
When he finally got the hang of the car, Lou jammed down the accelerator again, and the Mercedes shot ahead with a force that felt like several g’s. The Caddy kept pace, and actually seemed to be inching closer. Lou’s palms were soaked with tension-driven sweat. He was trying to remain composed, but he knew he was hyperventilating.
It seemed like only a second or two since he had checked behind him, but when he looked again, the Caddy seemed to fill the rearview mirror. Moments later, it slammed into his rear end, snapping Lou’s head forward like a whip. The Mercedes fishtailed several times before Lou was able to regain control.
Jarred and disoriented, he failed to notice the men—two of them, he could see now—had drifted to his left and were attempting to pull alongside him. He skidded in and out of a shallow drainage ditch and when he looked back, they had taken over the road. The bull-necked man in the passenger seat was grinning as he opened his window and raised his gun.
Instead of ramming into the side of the Caddy, which was Lou’s first instinct, he slammed on the brakes. The other car surged past him, and the bullets from several shots vanished harmlessly into the corn.
Clenching his jaws tighter than seemed possible, Lou spun the wheel to the right. Instantly, he was flying through a dense forest of tall stalks. He punched the accelerator and jounced violently ahead. Tall green Frankenstalks lashed at the windshield like the brushes in a car wash. The soft dirt stole much of the car’s traction, but miraculously the tires navigated the uneven, loose terrain. Somewhere out there had to be another road.
Behind him, the stalks were flattened like the wake of an ocean liner—no problem for the Caddy to follow. Lou couldn’t see it at the moment, but he had no doubt it was coming. The man at the wheel seemed to be a much better driver than he was, and the car, surprisingly, was at least as fast as the Benz.
The slashing stalks were blinding. From behind, he thought he could see the Caddy again, bouncing through heavy dust. There was a loud crack and his rear window shattered.
Faster, dammit! Faster!
Instinctively, Lou ducked to avoid the spray of dirt and debris now being sucked into the Mercedes.
More gunshots.
The Caddy again closed through the sandstorm behind him.
Then, over the roar of the Benz, he heard another sound—the howl of a powerful engine.
Something big.
A combine harvester, he realized.
Through the stalks he could see the top of the glass cab moving toward him and closing fast.
He was in the ER, now, and things were unraveling rapidly for the patient on the gurney. Blood pressure was plummeting. Heart rhythm was wild and irregular. No time to reason or plan. Only time to react.
Slamming down on his horn, Lou hoped to drown out the engine’s sound. Anything to keep the driver behind him from realizing the harvester was there. He intentionally let up on the accelerator, beckoning the Caddy to close in. Dust was filling the Benz and choking him. Corn continued to lash against the windshield. Lou could see just enough to gauge the distance between him and the harvester. Maybe twenty seconds to impact.
Ten tons barreling at him. Probably more.
The Caddy was on his tail now, exploding through his wake like number two in a cigarette speedboat race.
The driver had to be flying blind.
The Mercedes was going fifty.
The Caddy was close on his tail.
At last an advantage.
Blood pressure zero, pulse zero.
No more time.
Go for it!
It was
Rebel Without a Cause,
and he was James Dean, playing chicken with a ten-ton harvester.
Through the windshield Lou saw only green. The Caddy hit him—once, then again.
Fifteen seconds …
The harvester was green, he could tell now—green with half a dozen bright orange torpedo-like protrusions shearing off the ears at ground level and sucking them up. The driver was a dark shadow in the glass tower of the machine. Any moment he would realize what was happening, but by then, hopefully, it would be too late for the Cadillac and the men inside.
Number twenty blade, please … Chest cutters … Rib spreaders … Come on, everyone, no time … No time!
The gunman in the Caddy fired again. The bullet passed through the opening where Lou’s rear window had been, and spiderwebbed the front one. Another shot, more spiderwebbing.
Ten seconds.
Lou ducked low in his seat.
The orange torpedo scoops began turning toward Lou’s right.
Time!
Still crouched as low as he could manage, Lou swung the wheel of the Benz sharply to his left, scraping the outermost tube.
The driver behind him had no time to react. Lou sat up just as the men slammed with ferocious force into the front of the oncoming harvester. The Caddy rose up onto its nose and flipped over onto its roof.
Lou accelerated, now following the trail of harvested Frankencorn that hopefully would bring him to a road. When he finally broke free onto yet another narrow dirt and gravel track, he pulled over, coughing, gasping for breath, and then, laughing out loud. Throughout the chase, he had forced himself to think by reenacting the cracking of a patient’s chest in the ER, even though he had never actually done the procedure on anyone. It was a game he had played off and on over his career to sharpen his thinking—the emergency specialist’s version of a kid counting down the last seconds on his driveway court before taking the final shot in the championship game.
Lou exited the Benz long enough to brush himself off, spit out a mouthful of dust, and stretch. He was safe for the moment, but he knew William Chester was vindictive and deadly. It was only a matter of time—possibly very little time—before the man who had risen to wealth and power on the suspicious death of his mentor went after Renee and Emily.
CHAPTER 46
Darlene waited in the sitting room outside the Oval Office for the chance to speak with her husband. She had hoped to pop in on him unannounced, but understood that at times, even the president’s wife was not extended that liberty. Today, it was a call Oval Office Operations Director Cynthia Cuthbert described as “very important.”
Cuthbert, fiftyish, single, and as devoted to Martin as anyone on his staff, oversaw who was granted access to the president. She prided herself on being meticulous, serious, and efficient. Although she preferred to work in the shadows, no one in Washington who mattered, or wanted to matter, misjudged her power.
Darlene and she shared a mutual respect though nothing approaching a friendship, and a very important phone call was a very important phone call. Darlene hadn’t gotten near the Oval Office yet, but already she felt off balance and uncomfortable.
How will Martin react? How much should I tell him?
Everything,
she had decided. He must know everything that she had learned from Double M. The situation was far too grave for her to hold anything back. Unfortunately, even without mentioning her connection with Lou, there was a strong chance her overstressed husband would erupt. Gratefully, the Oval Office walls were soundproof.
“May I get you something to drink while you’re waiting for the president?” Cuthbert asked.
The president.
Darlene thought, sighing inwardly,
How about “Martin”? Or better still, “your husband”?
Protocol was invaluable for maintaining order, but Darlene never grew accustomed to how it dehumanized her twenty-five-year marriage. Here, in Cuthbert’s realm, Darlene was no longer the man’s wife. She was merely another guest, someone with approved access to the president through the same rigors applied to any prospective visitor. More and more she found herself longing to return to their former life together, with the privacy, true intimacy, and, yes, the fun so increasingly lacking in their marriage.
Granted, Lou wasn’t the President of the United States. But he did have intense stresses in his life, and he had managed to overcome them and continue active devotion to his daughter, and even to his ex-wife. Darlene felt some guilt at harboring the feelings that she did. But she was nothing if not a woman, and a deeply emotional woman at that. Whether it was guilt or longing, joy or shame, her feelings were her feelings, and she would always own them.
Cuthbert’s phone rang and a brief exchange followed.
“The president will see you now,” she said.
Rising from her chair, Darlene smoothed out her skirt. “Thank you, Cynthia. I shouldn’t be too long.”
Had she just said that cynically?
Martin smiled warmly as soon as Darlene entered his office. He came out from behind his expansive desk, took hold of her hands, and gave her a brief, perhaps obligatory, kiss on the lips. “You look nice,” he said, though his eyes barely stayed on her.
Darlene sucked in a deep and nervous breath. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. “Marty … there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
Martin’s gaze became more probing, as if he had begun sizing up a diplomatic adversary. “How about we go to the sitting area? Coffee? Tea?”
“The effervescent Miss Cuthbert already offered.”
“Ah, Cynthia—always and ever the right thing,” Martin said, favoring her with the boyish grin she liked most.
Darlene sat at the center of one of a pair of peppermint-striped sofas, and was not totally surprised when he took the seat across from her.
“Thanks for making time to see me,” she said.
“Nonsense. Honey, what’s wrong? You look upset.”
She inhaled deeply and let her breath out slowly.
“It’s about Russ Evans,” she said.
She could see Martin tense. His back became rigid, and the beginnings of a glare materialized in his killer blue eyes.
“I thought we had decided that subject would be taboo,” he said, still maintaining control.
Darlene had hoped to keep Victor Ochoa out of this discussion, but now she could see that unless Martin simply threw her out of his office, it wasn’t going to be possible. She pressed on, ignoring his tight-lipped reminder of “their” agreement, and extracted an unmarked envelope from her purse.
“The girl who framed Russ is dead,” Darlene said, handing Martin Angela’s photos.
Martin began flipping through the articles, notes, and snapshots. Darlene watched him for any reaction. She had expected more.
“Okay, what’s this all about?”
Darlene told him about Double M, from his first contact with Kim to the horrible recording of threats made to a young prostitute to their meeting at the movie theater and, finally, to the arrangement for Darlene to meet with Dr. Lou Welcome. She also recounted Double M’s warnings about a dangerous shipment of corn, Lou’s concerns over William Chester’s fields, experimental work with DNA taken from mutated termites, and finally, Lou’s suspicion that the John Meacham mass slayings and other tragedies and near tragedies were somehow connected to Chester Enterprises’ GMO corn.
What she left out was her trip to Philadelphia with Lou. At the moment, there was no predicting how Martin would react. Now, he craned his neck back and stared up at the ceiling, processing what was clearly a lot of information. The creases across his forehead deepened. His lower lip bulged as he ran his tongue across his bottom teeth—a nervous tic predating the days when the two of them first started going out together.
Does he believe me?
Abruptly, Martin rose from the couch and walked to a window overlooking the Rose Garden. Several tense minutes passed. When he turned back to her, his expression appeared to have softened.
He’s seeing me,
she thought.
I feel him finally seeing me.