"Oh, man, talk about luck. I'd frame that shoelace if I were you." He looked around. "Anyone call nine-one-one?"
Just then the sound of sirens filtered through the morning.
"I guess so," Jack said.
"I'm going down for a closer look," the jogger said.
"I think I'll stay right here."
The braver souls and the too curious were filtering out of the Arsley, but otherwise the street remained deserted. Jack edged away, back up toward Sixth Avenue. When a howling pair of blue-and-white units screeched onto the street, he slumped himself into a doorway, head down, allowing himself to look as ill as he felt. As soon as they roared past he was up and moving again, heading east, but not quickly enough to raise suspicion.
On Sixth he walked down to the Twenty-third Street subway station and hopped the first train heading uptown. The car was almost empty and it felt good to sit down. Another chill shuddered through him.
How the hell did I catch this? he wondered. Flu season's long gone.
After listening yesterday to Fielding talk about the contaminant in his cultures, a viral infection now was unsettling. But he remembered
Fielding's mention that the contaminant didn't cause any symptoms. That was comforting, because Jack had symptoms aplenty.
Needed to get home, needed major rack time under a pile of blankets.
6
"The phones haven't stopped all morning," George Meschke said. "The response has been wild, beyond anything I imagined."
Sandy sat in his editor's office, leaning back, his ankle resting on his knee. Last week he'd have been on pins and needles, hoping he wasn't going to get chewed out about some little mistake. Now he was totally relaxed. Chillin' with the bossman. Because he was in the catbird seat. Circulation was soaring. Ad revenues this week alone had been equal to the entire first quarter's.
And all because of one person, Sandy thought. Moi.
He said, "I knew my amnesty idea would strike a chord."
"But what a chord!" Meschke said, running both hands through the few remaining stands of hair atop his head; his thick mustache was the same shade of gray. "It's Saturday morning and people have already read the story and are burning up the phone lines! Amazing!"
Equally amazing, Sandy thought, glancing around at the otherwise deserted editorial area, is that it's Saturday morning and I'm at work. And what's truly mind-blowing is I'm glad to be here.
"They should be calling City Hall," he said. "That's where it'll do some good."
"Speaking of which, you need to talk to City Hall yourself. I know it's Saturday, but see if you can track down the mayor and the DA and the police commissioner for their reactions. We need something for Monday." Meschke rubbed his hands together and grinned like a little kid. "Can you imagine? We've just had a Saturday issue, now we'll have another on Monday. Four issues of The Light in one week! Who'd have believed it?"
Monday edition or not, Sandy was not anxious to do those interviews. Any other time he'd have been chomping at the bit, but after this morning's issue he knew he wasn't going to be the most popular guy with the city brass, not after putting them on the spot like this.
But that's the game, he told himself. They of all people should know you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.
"I'll see who's still in town."
"We've got to milk this, Sandy. Every extra issue we put out brings in more advertisers and more readers, many of whom—we hope—will stay with us when we go back to weekly."
Back to weekly… suddenly he was depressed.
"And I want you to know," Meschke said, lowering his voice and leaning forward, "I talked to Harness about you. How you deserve recognition for what you've done for the paper. He's ecstatic about how things are going and agrees completely." He winked. "Be prepared for a surprise in your next paycheck."
"A bonus?" Sandy said. "Cool!"
But his thoughts were ranging ahead. Calvin Harness was the publisher and major stockholder. No doubt he was ecstatic because the bigger profits and higher profile from Sandy's articles enhanced the chances of The Light being bought up by one of the big national chains. Harness would clean up. Meschke's stock options would put him on Easy Street as well. But Sandy… what did he have?
Time to get out the old resume, he thought. Bring it up to date and start sending it out. Strike while the iron was hot. But until he wrangled himself an offer at one of the big three in town, he'd have to find ways to keep his name in the news.
And the only way he knew to do that was the Savior. He had to push the amnesty for all it was worth, find a way to make it national.
But how…?
7
Hot.
Jack kicked off the covers. The chills of an hour ago were gone. Now his skin seemed to be steaming. Sheets were soaked, sweaty T-shirt and boxer shorts plastered against him.
Thirsty. Mouth parched, lips flaky as he ran his dry tongue over them. Needed something wet. Tried to sit up. Almost made it half way. Flopped back onto the soggy pillow. Tried again with the same result. Last time he'd felt this weak he'd been bleeding to death… last summer… sitting in a chair in the next room… and the last time he'd had a fever like this had been directly after that… from infection in the wounds… Doc Hargus had pumped him full of antibiotics and pulled him through, but it had been tough going.
No wounds this time, just dying of thirst. And water, lots of icy bottles of gloriously wet Poland Springs, lay stacked on the bottom shelf among the beers and Mountain Dew in his fridge just a dozen or two feet away in the kitchen.
Might as well be in Westchester.
This was scary. Sick and sweating without taking in any fluids… he could wind up dehydrated… leaving him weaker still… a steady downward spiral…
Jack closed his eyes, gathering strength for another try.
"Here," said a voice.
He turned his head and started at the sight of an older woman standing at the side of his bed. She was thin, her thick black hair streaked with gray and pulled back into a bun, wearing a gray sweatsuit with pink piping. Couldn't see her feet but he'd bet she was wearing sneakers.
Questions about who she was and how she got into his locked apartment rose in his brain but were pushed aside by the sight of what she held in her hand.
A glass of water.
"Drink," she told him. She rolled the r.
Jack was already reaching for it as she spoke. The glass was wonderfully cool against his palm. He raised his head as far as he could and gulped it down, spilling precious drops in his haste, then let the enormous weight of his head drop back.
"More," he rasped. "Please."
"In a moment," she said. Her accent… Russian. Take Natasha Fatale, add thirty or forty years, stick her in a jogging suit… this was her. Where was Boris?
And then Jack saw the dog sitting beside her, an enormous pure-white malamute. It cocked its head and stared at him.
Hadn't Kate said something about an old woman with a Russian accent and a dog… the woman who'd given her Jack's number?
He tried to raise himself up on his elbows but sagged back. The water had left him less thirsty but no stronger.
"Who are you and how'd you get in here?"
"That does not matter. You must—"
"It sure as hell does matter. This is my place and my door was locked—quadruple locked."
"Listen to me," she said urgently. "You must fight infection and you must win."
"Only a flu of some sort."
"If only that were so. Is not flu. Is same virus that is in the others, in your sister's lover as well as in your sister herself. Is in you too."
Fielding's virus? The contaminant? Never mind how she knows about it; if she's right…