“Sounds an awful lot like how they found one of my coworkers at the park,” Ben said. “Rashes, boils, and a heat fever.”
“He the one that died?”
Ben nodded. “He made his way back to a staff building all the way from near the explosion, probably about an hour walk. But he didn’t make it longer than two hours after direct exposure.”
Stephens nodded slowly, then met Ben’s eyes. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Nothing we can do about it now except figure out what the hell this thing is.” Ben said.
“Let’s do it,” Julie said. “Stephens, you know the drill. Anything you find goes through Randy’s system, even though he’s on vacation. Send me what you have curated and ready so far. Skip the duplicate content.”
News agencies and websites these days often “borrowed” content from one another and regurgitated it verbatim on their own platforms. The Associated Press had rules about not changing the nature of the content, but it was one thing to use a story and refer back to the original source and another thing entirely to rip it off completely and pass it as their own. As the world of online marketing changed and the amount of people browsing the web on computers and devices increased, so did advertising dollars. Almost all of these news websites participated in advertising in one way or another, competing for eyeballs and clicks instead of chasing leads and performing due diligence as journalists.
Among other things, Stephens’ job was to collect, collate, and curate these reports and blog posts into a streamlined, easy to read report. What used to be a standard research-based task of any job was now a full-time position in most organizations.
“Right,” he said. “I’ve already started compiling it, and I’ll send it through SecuNet later this afternoon. Listen — I’m new to this whole thing, Julie. Do you think this is going to get big?”
“Who can say?” Julie said. “I’m an optimist, but this one seems a little fishy to me. An explosion that was obviously man-made, followed by two instances of whatever this virus thing is at the same time? Seems like something is going on, and I’m going to figure out what is. Even if it’s not an outbreak, it very well could lead to one.”
Stephens’ young face looked down at the two of them, his eyes scrunched up almost as if he were in pain. For as tall as he was, Ben found it difficult to believe this man could ever seem condescending or intimidating.
“I’ve read about stuff like this, Julie. It could get pretty bad.”
“It’s going to be fine. We just need to find out the source and then stabilize the potent properties, then get it to the higher-ups for processing and propagation. Standard stuff, really. You know that.”
Ben got the impression, listening to the conversation, that Stephens was the type of person who was constantly paranoid. Julie seemed to be playing the role of concerned parent, trying to console the hyperactive imagination of her child.
“You’re right. Sorry. Figure out what this thing is, okay? I’ve always worried about something like this getting out of hand, especially today. This country isn’t united enough to save itself.” He paused a moment.
“Where are you two headed now?” The coffee machine behind him woke up and began gurgling hot water down through the filter. Almost immediately, the smell of coffee filled the office air. Ben suddenly felt more awake — he knew that even the smell of coffee was enough to cause alertness. He licked his lips, just now realizing that he had driven the bulk of the journey from Yellowstone.
“Back to my place first,” Julie said, “then we’ll find him a hotel,” gesturing toward Ben. “Livingston won’t cut his golf game short for anything short of a nuclear attack, but he’ll be expecting all of us to work an all-nighter tonight if this thing blows up.” She winced at her poor choice of words but continued. “Like I said, give me what you have whenever you can and keep it coming. As long as he’s got information coming in, he’ll stay quiet.”
Stephens nodded in approval and walked back to his desk. He sank down into his chair, slouching. “Sure would be easier around here if you ran this place,” he said almost under his breath.
“I would keep it down if I were you,” Julie said. “Knowing Livingston, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has this place bugged, as well as each of our houses.”
“Right. I’ve seen the budget for this operation — I think we’ll be okay.”
Julie turned and raised her eyebrows, silently asking Ben if there was more to cover. He shrugged. She walked toward the hallway again, and Ben followed closely behind.
Chapter Eighteen
The evening had turned into a bluish haze, thanks to a gentle showering of rain a few hours before and a near-full moon. Livingston clicked the key fob of his car and waited for the telltale beeping sound.
The 2012 Mercedes-Benz SL65 AMG was his pride and joy. He’d taken out a second mortgage on his condominium to ride in this kind of style, and he hadn’t regretted a moment of it. As a government employee, he understood the irony and the juxtaposition of seeing a man of his status rolling around in a vehicle like this, but that was all the more reason to love it.
He’d always been fond of money. His first word, in fact, was “money,” a story he loved sharing at parties and around the office.
Livingston walked toward the squat warehouse building that served as his temporary office. He liked to think of it that way: temporary. Everything in this life was temporary, he knew, but especially dead-end jobs like this one. He’d get to ten years, cash in his tenure play, and move on to a middle management job in a huge corporate bank or investment firm. Companies like that were always looking for management who weren’t pushing for more and driving everyone around them to insanity. He’d fit in well at a company that needed an axe-man or a standard-issue pencil-pusher.
He’d also fit in well at a place that enjoyed the same type of indulgences.
Julie, Benjamin, Charles, his executive assistant Laura — these people didn’t understand him. He couldn’t care less if they did or not, but he at least expected more respect than he got.
Wasn’t a $400,000 luxury car enough to make an impression?
He entered his four-digit entry code into the keypad and opened the door. He sniffed — God, he hated this place. Walking toward the T-intersection in the hallway, he stopped to check his appearance in the long window of the lab room.
Tall, dark, and slightly heavyset, he wasn’t a bad-looking man. Years of sedentary work had taken his college swagger and turned it into a waddling gait, but he still had a full head of brownish-blond hair and a proud jaw. He had been a hockey player in college, but he’d lost his youthful spryness long ago, as well as a few of his front teeth.
He nodded to his reflection and continued down the hall, taking a left at the intersection and a right into his office.
He dropped his briefcase on the chair next to the door and hung up his overcoat. After business hours or not, he hated being caught underdressed, so he usually wore his work suit around town and sometimes at home. Livingston poured himself a double shot of scotch and opened the miniature freezer to find a cube of ice.
Perfect. Laura couldn’t even remember to do that.
He slammed the door shut and sat down at his desk. Like his car, the desk was an indulgence even the United States government wouldn’t waste money on. He’d spent all $2,000 of his office decoration budget line item as well as another $1,500 to get this antique mahogany desk, complete with a hidden door beneath the top drawer.
He opened the laptop in front of him and clicked around, finally finding the folder he was searching for. A password entry prompt opened, and he entered a string of characters. The folder opened, and Livingston browsed through the list of pictures, sipping on the warm scotch.