Authors: Wil Mara
At the front security desk, a heavyset man in a blue blazer eyed him up and down suspiciously.
“Yes?”
“I’m here to see Dr. Brian Childress. I’m Michael Beck from the CDC.” Once again the IDs came out.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I believe one was set up for me, yes.”
That was a good line, he thought. It left wiggle room when the guy inevitably discovered that, in fact, no appointment had been made—
What? My secretary didn’t take care of it? Damn her.…
Blue blazer dropped his considerable butt into his chair, which creaked in protest, and fingered through his calendar book. “There’s nothing on here.”
“There should be. I’m supposed to make sure the production schedule is being kept.”
“Production schedule?”
An obvious lie, no doubt on the orders of his superiors.
If anyone asks, you don’t know anything
.
“On the serum. The one that originated at Catskills Regional.”
The man became considerably more interested in his visitor now. “Oh, that,” he said lamely. “Okay, well, let me call Dr. Childress and see if he’s free.”
As casually as he could, Beck said, “Sounds good.”
The guard spoke to Childress in an easy manner, as if he had called up an old college friend.
Childress is a softie,
Beck realized.
Thank God
. He was a little surprised that someone of this nature would be elected overlord of such a sensitive project, but he wasn’t about to argue.
The guard finished the dialogue and held the phone out. “He wants to speak with you.”
“Sure.” Beck took the receiver and summoned his inner diplomat.
* * *
Childress began with a friendly, “Good afternoon, Dr. Beck,” and expressed unabashed honor at being visited by such a renowned figure. He apologized for not realizing Beck was coming, then asked him to come up to the office. Security concerns were never mentioned.
As Beck stood in an otherwise empty elevator, he allowed himself to relax slightly. The doors opened as Childress was coming down the hall. He was in his mid to late fifties, tall and slim, with his brown hair conservatively short and combed to perfection. Steel-rimmed glasses completed the picture, making him look more like a corporate officer than like a scientist. His clothing, too, was flawless, from the polished shoes and long white lab coat to the tightly knotted tie that was visible only at his throat.
As Beck stepped into the air-conditioned hallway, the two men smiled at each other.
“I’m Michael Beck,” he said again, and Childress shook his hand enthusiastically. “Thank you for seeing me on short notice.”
“You’re most welcome, Dr. Beck. We’re very busy today, as I’m sure you can imagine, so I’m afraid my time is limited. How can I be of service to you?”
The story he had prepared was that he was supposed to check on the progress of the serum production as part of his ongoing investigation. He was also gathering stats on how effective the serum had been so far, plus where the next shipments would be, in what quantities, and so on; that is, a general overview of the situation that could be relayed to his superiors. He took pains to point out that he did not consider himself to be here in any kind of authoritative capacity, and that no one was obligated to answer to him, and so forth. His function was purely for the purposes of fact-finding and observation.
Accepting all of this without hesitation, Childress took him into the main production laboratory. It was expansive and brightly lit, with several giant stainless steel kettles in the center. A dozen or so pipes ran to and from each one, then disappeared either into the floor or the ceiling. Workers milled about at various stations, in masks, gloves, and shower caps, nodding and smiling as Childress passed. He led Beck along the fringes, staying within a walkway that was demarcated by a painted yellow line on the floor.
“We’re producing roughly three hundred doses an hour.”
Beck didn’t need a calculator to figure out how inadequate this was—there were over thirty thousand people infected at last estimation, and that number would continue growing over the next few weeks. The key was to make the immunization rate higher than the rate of the infection’s spread—and the CDC was still having difficulty determining exactly how to achieve that.
“You’re using monoclonal cell cultures, correct?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, we cannot increase the process exponentially. We have to adhere to a fixed rate.”
“Where are the finished doses being stored?” he asked, staying focused on the time factor. “In a safe place, I hope.”
“Yes, quite safe,” Childress replied. At the end of the walkway was a large metal door similar to those on restaurant freezers. Beck was surprised to find it wasn’t locked—Childress simply grabbed the chrome handle and pulled. Then he realized that, under normal circumstances, they wouldn’t need that much security here. A locking refrigeration chamber was more common in military facilities.
As the door swung back, they were enveloped by a frigid fog. Stepping through it, Beck found himself surrounded by rows of steel racks. There were thousands of vials representing a variety of medications. Most were neatly and formally labeled; others had handwritten stickers.
Toward the back, on a middle shelf on the left side, was a stack of six white polypropylene racks. Each held fifty small vials, and in each vial was a dark red fluid that looked like cherry Kool-Aid.
“That’s it,” Childress said, nodding.
Beck found himself temporarily distracted by the magnitude of the moment.
That’s the stuff that’s going to stop this thing. Right there, within those two square feet of space … the curative for the virus that could’ve driven the human race to extinction
.
It seemed so insubstantial: a few squirts of liquid in a cluster of glass tubes. It was being manufactured in the room right outside, like putting cars together on an assembly line.
And yet how many people would sell their loved ones into slavery to be standing where I am right now? How many wouldn’t hesitate to break Brian Childress’s neck if that’s what it took to get one of those vials and fire that magical fluid into their bloodstream?
“This is the latest batch?” he asked, for no other reason than because he felt he had to say something.
“Yes. It was finished about ten minutes before you arrived.”
Beck looked around at the other drugs. “And these are the only dosages in here?”
“Yes. They don’t stay around long. In fact, someone should be along shortly to prepare them for shipping, which the military is handling for the obvious reasons.”
“Okay, good.” Beck nodded as if all of this met his approval. “Now, I have just a few more questions, then I’ll leave you alone. Can we talk somewhere?”
“Sure. Follow me.”
Childress’s office was as tidy as the man himself. Personal effects included a few framed photographs of what Beck assumed was his family, an impressive collection of awards in the form of plaques and certificates, and a Velcro dart board. Every other item in the room existed to serve his employer. Piles of papers had been neatly squared off. Three clipboards hung in an even row on the wall by the chair. Even the mouse sat in what appeared to be the perfect geometric center of its pad, making Beck think Childress left it that way on purpose each time he was finished using the computer.
And the Nobel Prize for Anal Retention goes to …
Taking his notepad from his pocket, he fired off questions from the top of his head. How many doses had been sent out already? What has the success rate been so far? Have there been any adverse reactions? Do you plan to start producing it in your California site as well?
Then he asked, “Where on the priority list is Valley Hospital in Ridgewood?”
It was a clumsy attempt to slip the question into the conversation, and Childress seemed slightly taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“I’m based in Ramsey right now, and Valley Hospital in Ridgewood is nearby. They’ve been overflowing with cases.”
“Many hospitals have been overflowing with cases.”
“Sure, I realize that. But if Valley is due for their delivery, I’d be happy to take it back with me. I’m not exactly driving an armored vehicle, but I don’t think anyone will be looking in my direction.”
Childress still had his affable smile in place, but it seemed slightly forced now.
“I’m headed to Valley next,” Beck added. “That’s the only reason I bring it up.”
“Dr. Beck, you know I can’t do that.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I cannot do that. I can’t simply hand it over to someone. There is a procedure to these things.”
“Right, I know. But it’s not as if I haven’t handled vaccines before.”
“Of course, but this situation is different. It’s very sensitive.”
Beck nodded amiably.
I’m quite aware of the sensitivity of the situation, chump,
he wanted to say, but there would be no productive value in dragging the conversation down to that level. For all his warmth and affability, Childress was, at heart, a bureaucrat, hopelessly enamored with procedure and protocol. Revealing Cara’s condition at this point would do no good—it would expose Beck’s visit as the charade that it was, and since Cara was already in Stage Two, Childress would be justified in refusing her a dose due to its unpredictability at that point. But most important, telling this prim little hard-ass about Cara would reduce the odds of pulling off Plan B, which had to be launched into action immediately.
“All right, well, I appreciate your time very much, Brian.” Beck rose somewhat abruptly, which caused his host to do the same. Then they shook hands again.
“My pleasure. I hope you got all the information you came for.”
“I certainly did. Thank you.”
“Any time, Dr. Beck.”
As Beck reached the door, he turned back and said, “Oh, one last question. Could you please tell me where the bathroom is?” He put on an embarrassed smile. “I’ve been on the road all day and I think I’m gonna pop.”
Childress said it was down the hall, then right, second door on the left. Beck thanked him one last time and walked out.
* * *
He reached the bathroom and kept going, quickening his pace.
This is crazy, this is crazy
…, his mind kept repeating.
If you get caught, it’s all over
.
You’ll be lucky if you’re not indicted
.
He slowed when he reached the lab. He took his notepad out again, flipped the cover, made sure the pen was in the other hand. It was all about looking right. He opened the door and walked casually inside. A few of the workers, he saw from the corner of his periphery, took notice of him. But no one approached. They’d just seen him fifteen minutes earlier with their boss, so he was okay.
He stopped twice on the way to the freezer and looked around, scribbling in the notepad. When he opened the freezer door, he didn’t go inside right away but instead jotted down a few more observations.
Don’t look too eager
.
When he stepped inside, the door glided to a close and the overhead lights came on. He had never felt such relief as when he saw the six polypropylene racks sitting there; no one had taken them away for shipping yet.
He lifted five of the six racks and set them aside. Then he carefully withdrew a vial from the center of the group, stored it in his jacket pocket, and returned the five racks to the original position.
He stepped out as casually as he had stepped in, scribbling in his pad again. No one took any notice of him. He glanced around quickly, begging God for Brian Childress to be nowhere in sight. He got his wish and exhaled slowly.
Hands trembling and heart pounding, he reached the hallway and walked swiftly to the fire stairs.
This was when Childress spotted him.
It would be another fifteen minutes before he discovered the missing vial.
Then he made a call to Washington.
* * *
In her office, Sheila Abbott quietly set the phone back into its cradle. The seriousness of Childress’s accusation was inarguable. What Michael Beck had done went well beyond the limits of unprofessionalism. It bordered on the criminal. If convicted, he would lose his medical license, be shunned by his peers, incur massive fines, and possibly spend time in prison. His career would be over, and his life reduced to ruin. Childress knew all this and pushed for Abbott to act anyway. She promised she would. She assured him she would formulate an appropriate punishment and see that it was carried out. Then, at just the right moment, she told Childress about Porter. Childress went quiet, as she knew he would. Then—also as she expected—he tried to salvage his pride with a flaccid continuation of the assault. Abbott permitted this. When he was finished, she reiterated her intention to see that Beck be reprimanded for his actions. Childress hastily thanked her and was gone.
She returned to her priorities and never gave the incident another thought.
TWENTY-THREE
Cara Porter was sitting up in bed, a notebook on her knees, when Beck and Gillette returned in fresh PPE suits. Beck led the way, holding a small steel tray by its tiny handles. The contents of the tray were covered by a white sheet, although it wasn’t tough to figure out what was under there. Porter brightened when they made eye contact, but Beck did not—her condition had advanced in the hours since he’d been gone. The swelling around her face was more noticeable, causing increased crookedness to her formerly symmetrical features. And the vesicles on her hands had filled with more fluid, turning some of them into sagging, paper-thin bags of flesh. Beck’s stomach tightened as he remembered the other victims he’d seen in this very room a few weeks ago.
Porter set the notebook on the nightstand and removed her earbuds.
She likes to draw,
Beck thought.
To relax
. She told him that once, something about not being very good at it, but she liked doing it anyway. They were on an investigation in Arizona: a group of people who’d fallen ill at a church picnic. She had a sketchbook with her at the hotel. She didn’t show him any of her work, though. The scared kid that she was, afraid to reveal anything to anyone.
How wonderfully life has treated her,
Beck reminded himself, and for a moment he felt murderously angry.