Dr. Kaplan nodded, scanning the notes as he listened. “I would like to take blood samples from all of you, sick and healthy. You have been exposed to the disease in confinement and yet have not been infected. There may be something in your blood, some natural immunity, that has protected you. If I can compare samples and isolate whatever might be doing it, I can start working on an antidote.”
“Of course. I will pass word for everyone to present themselves to you as soon as you are set up and ready.”
They stepped back as another stretcher was carried past, the occupant moaning and writhing against his bindings. Athanasius glanced at the contorted face of the patient then looked again when he realized who it was. “How long has this man been ill?” he asked, following the stretcher to an empty bed.
“That’s a good question,” Kaplan replied. “He’s the one variable in this whole equation. He’s the only one so far who has remained lucid, or semilucid. We’re not sure how long he’s been infected, but longer than anyone else certainly. He claims it’s been five days and that he caught it here in the Citadel.”
Athanasius stared down at Gabriel’s tortured sweat-drenched face, hair plastered to his forehead by fever. “He’s telling the truth,” Athanasius said. “He was here, eight days ago, just when the disease first appeared. He could well have been infected then.”
A howl rose from Gabriel as he bucked against his restraints, desperate to free his hands and scratch at his tortured skin. Dr. Kaplan looked down at him, ravaged by the disease and driven half out of his mind by it.
“Then this man may well prove to be the savior of us all.”
47
The Westside Charleston Police Department building sat on the upper shoulder of the old town like an epaulet. It had a nice view of the Ashley River and a baseball diamond over to one side that made it look more like a high school than a police headquarters.
Franklin and Shepherd stepped out of the cab and picked their way along the narrow path that had been cleared in the snow all the way up the two flights of steps to the main entrance. They opened the door and both looked up as the noise hit them. It sounded like every phone in the building was ringing.
“Think we might have caught them at a bad time,” Franklin murmured as they moved toward a solid desk sergeant who was pushing buttons and juggling the phone.
“You here to help or hinder?” the sergeant asked before either of them had even produced their IDs. He was old school and well padded and wore a thick gray mustache that made him look like a walrus in uniform.
“Neither, really,” Franklin said, flopping his creds open. “We’re just a couple of fellow law enforcement agents looking for a port in a storm. We need to borrow an office for a few hours.”
The sergeant shook his head and reached for the phone. “You got the storm bit right.” He punched a button and stood up straight, his shirt buttons straining against the impressive girth of his stomach. “Shit storm is what we got going on here. Only we got a ton of shit and only a couple of shovels to clear it with. Half the force didn’t turn up to work this morning and the other half are having to deal with this.” He nodded at the thick snow falling outside.
The phones continued to ring throughout the building. Someone, somewhere picked one up. “Bryan, we got a couple of Feebies down here dripping snow onto the floor”—he peered at their open IDs through his reading glasses—“Special Agents Shepherd and Franklin.” He squinted at Franklin’s and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Ben Franklin, that for real?”
Franklin nodded. “You may have seen my picture on a hundred- dollar bill.”
The sergeant shook his head like a disappointed uncle. “You better come quick, Bryan. One of them’s so damn funny I’m in danger of peeing my pants.”
He put the phone down and nodded at a row of chairs. “Sergeant Freeman will be down directly. He’s in charge of the pencils around here, so he’ll fix you up with whatever you need.” The phone rang again. He snatched it up and turned away.
“Well, he’s a character,” Franklin said as they settled in their seats.
“I kind of like it,” Shepherd replied. “Beats the hostility we usually get.”
“An example of which appears to be heading our way.”
Shepherd looked up at a stocky man with thinning brown hair bustling across the entrance hall. He offered his hand, introduced himself then hustled them into the back of the building with a minimum of charm and maximum speed. They passed through a door into an open-plan office empty but for the sound of phones.
“This okay?” he said, pointing to a desk in the corner.
“Not really,” Franklin said with a smile. “Too public. Have you maybe got somewhere a little more private? The case we’re working on is classified.”
“Sure,” Freeman said. Then he smiled and pointed to a row of solid doors with small windows in them set into the back wall. “I got just the thing for you.”
“Cozy,” Franklin said, the moment the door closed on the interview room.
“You kinda asked for it.” Shepherd surveyed the white, anonymous walls. It was soundproofed at least, so they could no longer hear the clamor of ringing phones. The only noise was the hum of the building’s air-conditioning belting out dry heat and making the claustrophobic room even stuffier.
Shepherd stepped over to the metal table in the center of the room and tried to pull the chair out from under it. It was bolted to the floor. The table was bolted down too. He sat down, slid the laptop from the case and fired it up.
“Local law tend to regard us with the same sort of suspicion as criminals, so sticking us in here probably makes sense to them,” Franklin said, doing a circuit of the room and reading the desperate graffiti scratched into the walls. “Freeman is probably spreading word around the building right now that we’re in here. The first tourists should be coming by in the next few minutes to gawp at us through the two-way mirror.” He nodded at the side wall then sat down in the other chair and Shepherd felt a moment’s discomfort as it dawned on him that he had unwittingly sat in the “suspect” seat.
“Anything you want to confess before I start beating on you?” Franklin said, reading his mind.
“I confess that I could do with some more coffee,” Shepherd said, studying the screen and clicking the menu to hook up to the station WiFi.
The sound of phones burst in on them again as the door opened and a weasel-faced cop stepped into the room. “Goddamn,” he said, staring straight at Franklin. “I thought it might be you. What the hell you doing back here? You anything to do with the ships and the mass migration?”
“Hi,” Shepherd said, getting up from his seat and shaking the man’s hand. “Joe Shepherd. You already seem to know Agent Franklin.”
“Dan Jackson,” the man said. “Yeah, I know Franklin from way back.”
“Why don’t you show me where the coffee is,” Franklin said, moving to the door, clearly anxious to get the guy out of the room.
“What do you mean ‘mass migration’?” Shepherd said, butting in.
“I mean everyone seems to have gotten it into their heads to hop in their cars and drive someplace. We got almost solid traffic heading into town. People from all over just packing their cars and heading for the city. We got people leaving too but that’s not so much of a problem. It’s the inbound traffic that’s the headache. It’s blocked up all the main roads into the city and, what with the weather on top, we got a major headache and hardly any manpower to deal with it. I thought maybe that’s why you were here.”