“You okay, boss?” Quinn was having a hard time grasping why Palmer wasn’t sharing in his enthusiasm that they had just dodged a very deadly bullet. He sounded like Eeyore.
“Not really,” Palmer said. “Chris Clark was pronounced dead an hour ago.”
“The president?”
“There’s more, Jericho,” Palmer went on. “Bob Hughes collapsed as well. It looks like they both succumbed to some kind of poison.”
Quinn sat up straight as the ramifications hit him. “That means—”
“Exactly.” Palmer spelled it out for him. “Pursuant to the Twenty-fifth Amendment, Speaker of the House Hartman Drake assumed the presidency of the United States. He’s already made an impassioned statement to the American people, reminding them that he was himself the victim of not one, but two terrorist attacks. Citing the need for continuity, he has already named Governor Lee McKeon as his vice president. Congressional approval is a foregone conclusion.”
“I gotta tell you, Quinn,” Palmer went on, “Drake knows who you are now. If you come back here, you’re as good as dead. I sure as hell can’t protect you.”
“Has he fired you?”
“Not yet,” Palmer said. “But it’s coming — probably by the end of the day.”
“Ronnie says the book ties Officer Larsson to this group. Does that put me clear of Jenny Chin’s murder?”
“In a word,” Palmer said. “But like I said, Drake hates you. And he’s the president of the United States, so he’ll push for a thorough investigation and your quick execution.
“Anyway, I used what little pull I have left to call off the Marshals. Deputy Bowen should be linking up with you anytime now, so do me a favor and don’t shoot him.”
“Got it,” Quinn said. “You holding up okay?”
“You know, I lost an extremely close friend,” Palmer said. “But the nation lost a great president. There are still a few of us left who know what Drake is all about. We’ll just have to work on this from the outside.” His voice grew distant. “I don’t know how long I can keep you and Jacques on the payroll.”
“I’m pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say we’re not doing this for the money.”
“Well,” Palmer said, “whatever you do, you have to do it from over there. The others can come home, but you need to sit tight… Listen, I have to go. I’ll be in touch.”
Quinn hung up and turned to Garcia. Thibodaux and Miyagi had come up at the end of the conversation. He relayed the information Palmer had given him.
“Well, l’ami,” the big Cajun said with a sigh. “I’ve done a lot of weird things since we met. I might as well add taking down the president to that list. Any idea where we’ll start?”
Quinn draped an arm around Garcia, leaning on her for support. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“Shimoyama’s book give us some guidance,” Miyagi said, her breath amazingly calm for what she’d just been through. “I suggest we begin in Pakistan…”
EPILOGUE
Still uncertain about the effects of the plague, CDC personnel kept the quarantines in place. Once word got out that the disease was being spread one person at a time, hospitals in the western United States began to turn loose of their ventilators and ECMO machines. Before long, Todd Elton had more machines than he had sick patients. The only two fatalities were Mrs. Johnson, who was the oldest of those infected, and R. J. Howard, who, Elton thought, had just plain given up because his wife had left him.
Marta Bedford continued to count her boils, even after Mrs. Johnson had passed, but began to notice fewer and fewer every day. Brody Teeples’s wife pulled through as well, but he was in jail for riding his ATV drunk when she came off ECMO, so he wasn’t there to see her.
Sheriff Young interviewed all the victims and found that each of them had received a “particularly rough” pedicure at the hands of Haifa, Marta Bedford’s new employee. Of course, Haifa was nowhere to be found.
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, in coordination with the FBI, seized all the vaccine manufactured at Yanagi Pharmaceutical. Lab tests confirmed that it was not a vaccine at all, but the potent virus itself.
Fairfax County officer Jenny Chin’s funeral was attended by over four hundred uniformed representatives from departments all over the United States. Detectives weren’t able to make a solid case against Larsson for her shooting, but volunteers kept him busy in interrogation so he was not able to sully her memory with his attendance.
The arrest warrant for Jericho Quinn remained in effect.
Bowen and Hase met up with Quinn at a Buddhist temple cottage in Fukuoka. The monk, Kobo, stood by and played Angry Birds on his cell phone as they talked in his neutral zone.
“I never believed you did it, you know,” Bowen said, keeping his eyes flitting between the big Cajun, Garcia, and Emiko Miyagi. Thibodaux was as tough looking as they came, but Bowen somehow knew that if he’d tried to arrest Quinn at that moment, these women would chew him up and spit him out.
“That’s comforting,” Quinn said. “So what now?”
Bowen blew air into his cheeks, thinking. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. It’s a damn strange coincidence that both the president and vice president were killed while you’re being framed for murder. I’m no superspy like you, but I’d say some things don’t add up.”
Quinn sat mute, offering no explanation.
“Anyway.” Bowen took a piece of white paper from his inside jacket pocket. It was folded once down the middle. “I did a sketch of you on the way over, you can have—”
Garcia snatched it out of his hand. “I’ll take that,” she said. “He’d just throw it away.”
“So, you’re going back to the States?” Miyagi asked. It was more of a suggestion than a question.
“That’s what they tell me,” Bowen said. “Like I said, I’m not an international person of mystery like you guys are. I’m just a POD.”
Quinn extended his hand. “Having someone among the front lines might be handy in the near future.”
Hase stood back a bit, looking more at the ground than anyone in particular. “There is the matter of over a dozen deaths of Japanese citizens,” he said, still staring at the floor.
Everyone in the room tensed. They couldn’t go back to the U.S., and Detective Hase appeared about to make it impossible to stay in Japan.
“What about them?” Quinn asked.
“I was wondering,” the detective said, “if you ever hear anything regarding these deaths or who might have perpetrated them, would you be so kind as to let me know?”
Vice President — elect Lee McKeon’s wife had returned to the governor’s mansion in Salem to make things ready for their move to the Naval Observatory once Bob Hughes’s widow moved out. Secret Service agents, not Oregon State Police, now stood outside the door to this suite at the Hay Adams — on high alert considering the state of the nation.
McKeon stood in front of the bathroom mirror and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. As far as his protective detail knew, the pert little staffer in the other room was supposed to be helping him with some correspondence. It would, he hoped, be a very, very long letter.