Infected

20.

It was hard to believe it had only been seven days since Murray had sent for him. Seven days ago, when he’d never heard of triangles, Margaret Montoya or Martin Brewbaker. Seven days ago, when his partner wasn’t in a hospital bed, a bed that for all intents and purposes, Dew had put him in.

Seven days ago Murray had called for Dew. They’d fought side by side back in the day, but after ’Nam they didn’t exactly keep in touch. When Murray called, it meant only one thing-he wanted something done. Something…unappealing. Something that required getting a little dirt under the fingernails, something that Murray-with his tailored suits and his manicures-wasn’t willing to do. But they’d been through hell together, and even though Murray had advanced in the CIA ranks and done his damnedest to rise above the shit-stomping lieutenant he’d been in ’Nam, when Murray called, Dew always answered.

It was only seven days ago that Dew had stood in Murray’s waiting room, eyeing the twenty-something, red-haired secretary, wondering if Murray was fucking her.

She looked up with her sparkling green eyes and a genuine smile. “Can I help you, sir?”

Irish accent, Dew thought. If he’s not banging her, or at least trying, he must be impotent.

“I’m Agent Dew Phillips. Murray is expecting me.”

“Of course, Agent Phillips, go right in.” The redhead added in a confidential tone, “You’re a few minutes late, and Mister Longworth hates tardiness.”

“Does he? Ain’t that a bite in the ass. I’ll have to get on some kind of schedule.”

Dew walked into Murray’s sprawling, spartan office. A bullet-ridden American flag decorated one wall. On the opposite wall hung a row of pictures showing Murray with each of the last five presidents. The pictures were like a stop-action movie of Murray’s aging process, from hard-bodied young man to more-than-slightly-overweight, cold-eyed piece of gristle.

Dew noticed the absence of any pictures showing Murray in his army uniform, either dress or fatigues. Murray wanted to forget that time, forget who he’d been back then, forget the things he’d done. Dew couldn’t forget-and he didn’t want to anymore. It was a part of his life, and he’d moved on. Mostly, anyway.

He certainly remembered the flag on Murray’s wall, remembered the firebase where he and Murray and six other men had been the only survivors of an entire company, remembered fighting for his life with all the savagery of a rabid animal. It had been like something from World War I at the end, just before the choppers arrived, fighting hand to hand in wet, sandbagged trenches, the 2:00 A.M. stars hidden by clouds that poured rain and turned the firebase into a slick sea of mud.

Murray Longworth sat behind a large oak desk devoid of decoration, unless you counted the computer. The desk’s empty top gleamed with layers of polish.

“Heya, L.T.,” Dew said.

“You know, Dew, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use that nickname. We’ve had this talk before.”

“Sure thing,” Dew said. “I guess I forgot all about that.”

“Have a seat.”

“Nice place you’ve got here. You’ve had this office something like four years now? Glad I finally get to see it.”

Murray said nothing.

“It’s been, what, three years since we talked, L.T.? Seven years since you needed something from me? Your career in trouble again, is that it? You need Good Ol’ Dew to come in and pull your ass out of the fire? Make you look good, is that it?”

“It’s not like that this time.”

“Sure, L.T., sure. You know, I’m not as young as I used to be. My old body may not be up to your dirty work.”

Dew stood in front of the flag. A grimy-brown color stained the top left corner; just delta mud, Murray told anyone that asked. But it wasn’t mud, and Dew knew that better than anyone. The flag had once been attached to a flagpole that Dew used to kill a VC, driving the brass point into the enemy’s gut like some primitive tribal spearman. The bottom right corner held a similar stain, where Dew had tried in vain to stop the blood pouring from Quint Wallman’s throat after an AK-47 round had all but decapitated the eighteen-year-old corporal.

They hadn’t used the flag for motivation, because at the time none of them had been particularly patriotic. The flag just happened to be where they made their last stand, where they held off the attack until the choppers came and bailed them out. Murray was the last one to board, making sure the other men-all wounded, including Dew-were on before he worried about himself. He grabbed the flag, the bloodstained, burned and bullet-ridden flag, on the way out. No one knew why at the time, probably not even Murray. When they realized it was all over, that they had escaped death, left the corpses of both friends and enemies behind, the flag somehow took on more meaning.

Dew stared at the tattered fabric, the memories pouring back, and it was a second before he realized that Murray was softly calling his name.

“Dew? Dew?”

Dew turned and blinked, quickly returning to reality, to the present. Murray gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Dew thought about antagonizing Murray some more, then walked to the chair and sat down.

Dew pulled a Tootsie Roll from his jacket pocket, unwrapped it, popped the brown candy into his mouth then dropped the wrapper on the floor. He chewed for a moment, staring at Murray, then asked, “Did ya hear about Jimmy Tillamok?”

Murray shook his head.

“Ate a bullet. Used an old. 45-wasn’t much left of his face.”

Murray’s head sank, and a long sigh hissed from his body. “My God, I hadn’t heard.”

“Imagine that,” Dew said. “He’s only been in rehab a half dozen times in the last four years. He crashed hard, Murray. He crashed hard and he needed his friends.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Would you have come?”

Murray’s silence answered the question. He looked up from the floor to return Dew’s stone-eyed stare. “So we’re the last ones, then.”

“Yep,” Dew said. “Just the two of us. Golly gee, it’s a good thing we stayed so close all these years. Now we’ve got each other to rely on. Let’s get to the fucking point, L.T. What do you want?”

Murray pulled out a manila folder and passed it to Dew. It was labeled PROJECT TANGRAM. “We’ve got what could be a major problem.”

“Murray, if this is just some bullshit where I get shot at so your career can advance, I’m not doing it.”

“I told you it’s not like that this time, Dew. This is serious.”

“Yeah? Batting cleanup again, Murray? Who gave you their dirty laundry this time?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Dew stared hard at Murray. L.T. didn’t mind dropping names, that was for damn sure. It all clicked at once: Murray couldn’t say who, and he’d called the one man who would do whatever it took to get the job done.

“Holy shit,” Dew said. “This is from the big man, isn’t it? This is some secret presidential action, am I right?”

Murray cleared his throat. “Dew, I said I can’t tell you.”

The classic nondenial denial. Murray’s way of confirming Dew’s theory without actually saying the words.

Dew opened the folder and started browsing the contents. There were only four files: three case reports and an overview. Dew read the overview twice before he looked up, his expression ashen and disbelieving. He looked back to the report and started quoting some of the more fantastical phrases.

“‘Biological behavior manipulation’? ‘Bioengineered organism’? ‘Infectious terrorist weapon’? Murray, are you yankin’ my crank with this stuff?”

Murray shook his head.

“This is bullshit,” Dew said. “You think that some terrorist created a…let’s see here…‘bioengineered organism’ to make people psychotic?”

“That’s not exactly what it says, Dew. We’ve got three cases so far where normal people have contracted some kind of growth, and shortly afterward they became psychotic. We don’t know for certain that this is a terrorist activity, but I think you appreciate that we have to act like it is. We can’t be caught sitting on our hands.”

Dew read. Charlotte Wilson’s report had a picture attached, a Polaroid that showed a bluish triangular mark on her shoulder. The picture attached to Gary Leeland’s file showed a scowling old man. A hateful, suspicious expression marred his wrinkled, stubbly face. The lumpy, bluish triangle on his neck accentuated the unpleasant expression.

“So this thing turns people into killers?”

“It made Charlotte Wilson, a seventy-year-old grandmother, kill her own son with a butcher knife. It made Blaine Tanarive kill his wife and two young daughters with a pair of scissors. It made Gary Leeland, a fifty-seven-year-old man, set his own hospital bed on fire, killing himself and three other patients.

“Could this be coincidence? Did we check the background of these people? Any mental conditions?”

“I’ve checked it out, Dew. I wouldn’t have called you in if I hadn’t. In all these cases, the victims had no history of violence, no medical conditions, no psychological problems. All their friends and neighbors said they were good people. The only thing they have in common, in fact, is the sudden onset of acute paranoid behavior and those triangular growths.”

“What about foreign occurrences? Anyone else dealing with something similar?”

Murray again shook his head, a solemn look on his face. “Nothing. And we’ve looked, Dew, we’ve looked hard. As far as we know, we’re the only country with cases like this.”

Dew nodded slowly, now understanding why Murray chose to see a conspiracy amid the carnage. “But how could terrorists come up with something like this?”

“I don’t think terrorists invented it,” Murray said. “But terrorists didn’t invent nuclear warheads, sarin gas or passenger jets. Someone created this, and that’s all that matters.”

Dew reread the report. If it was a terrorist weapon, it was a doozy. It made car bombs and random plane hijackings look worthless by comparison: imagine a country where you never know if your friends or neighbors or coworkers are suddenly going to snap and try to kill everyone in sight. People wouldn’t go to work, wouldn’t leave their houses without a gun. You would suspect that everyone was a possible killer. Hell, if parents murdered their own children, no one was safe. Such a weapon would cripple America.

Dew reached for another Tootsie Roll. “Murray, this couldn’t be one of our weapons, could it? Something that maybe accidentally-on-purpose got a bit out of control?”

Murray was shaking his head before Dew finished the sentence. “No, no way. I checked everything, and I mean everything. This isn’t ours, Dew, I give you my word.”

Dew unwrapped the candy and again dropped the wrapper on Murray’s immaculate carpeting. “So how’s it work?”

“We don’t know for sure. The logical theory is that the growths produce drugs, which are dumped right into the bloodstream. Kind of like a living hypodermic needle pumping out bad shit.”

“How many people know about this?”

“A few people know bits and pieces, but as far as those that know the whole enchilada, there’s myself, the director, the president and the two CDC doctors listed in the reports,”

Dew stared at the photos. They gave him an uneasy feeling, down deep, at an instinctual level.

“I need you on this one, Top,” Murray said. The name chafed Dew as badly as L.T. chafed Murray. Top -short for Top Sergeant, the rank he’d held when he’d served under Murray back in ’Nam. For years that had been his only name, a name that commanded respect. Once upon a time, everyone he knew had called him Top-now the only one left who even knew the name was Murray, the guy who wanted to pretend that Vietnam had never happened. Somehow Dew didn’t find humor in the irony.

“And I don’t care how old you are, Top. As far as I’m concerned you’re still the best agent in the field. We need someone who will do whatever it takes to get the job done. And even if you only believe half of what’s in that report, you know we have to find out what’s going on and damn fast.”

Dew studied Murray’s face. He’d known that face for over thirty years. Even after all this time, he could tell when Murray was lying. Murray had asked for help before, and on each of those occasions Dew knew damn well it was to benefit Murray’s career. But all those times Dew had done it anyway, because it was Murray, because it was L.T., because he’d fought side by side with the man during the most nightmarish period of their lives. But now it was different-L.T. wasn’t doing this for personal gain. He was scared. Scared shitless.

“Okay, I’m in. I’ve got to bring my partner in on this.”

“Absolutely not. I’ll get you someone else, someone I know. Malcolm doesn’t have your clearance.”

Dew was taken aback for a moment, shocked that Murray knew his partner’s name. “What’s clearance got to do with it, L.T.? You just want someone who’ll pull the trigger whenever you need it pulled, and as much as it pains me to admit it, that’s who I am. But I’ve been with Malcolm for seven years, and I’m not going after this crazy-ass hullabaloo without him. Trust me, he’s reliable.”

Murray Longworth was a man used to getting his way, used to having his orders followed, but Dew knew he was also a politician. Sometimes politicians had to give a little to get what they wanted-that was the nature of the game that Dew could never grasp, the game that Murray played so well.

“Fine,” Murray said. “I trust your judgment.”

Dew shrugged his shoulders. “So what do we do next?”

Murray turned his gaze to the window.

“We wait, Top. We wait for the next victim.”

He’d waited then, and he was waiting now. Seven days ago he’d been waiting for something to happen, for a chance to see if this crazy Project Tangram crap was for real, a hoax or something whipped up to earn Murray another promotion. Now, however, he was waiting for his best friend to die.

A death that would have never occurred if Dew hadn’t insisted- insisted, God dammit-on getting Mal involved.

Rested but still weary, fueled more by anger than sleep, Dew sat alone in his hotel room, the big cell phone pinched between his shoulder and ear.

“Your partner still in critical?” Murray asked.

“Yeah, still touch and go. He’s fighting his ass off.” On the table in front of Dew lay a yellow cloth, on top of which sat a disassembled military-issue Colt. 45 automatic. The dull, smooth metal winked blue-gray under the hotel room’s glaring lights.

“The docs are working on him?” Murray asked.

“Day and night,” Dew said. “That CDC bitch came in to take a look at him, too. Can’t she at least wait until the body is cold, Murray?”

“I sent her in, Dew, you know that. She needs all the information she can get. We’re grasping at straws here.”

“So what information does she have?”

“I’m flying in tomorrow. I’ll get a firsthand report and then I’ll fill you in. You just sit tight until then.”

“What’s the national picture? We have any new clients?” Dew finished oiling and assembling the gun. He set it aside and pulled out two boxes, one full of empty magazines, the other full of. 45-caliber cartridges.

“Not that we know of,” Murray said. “All’s quiet on the western front, it seems. And if we do have any other clients, you don’t need to worry about them. You need a break. I’m working on bringing some more people in.”

With mechanical, habitual speed, Dew loaded the first magazine. He set it aside and started on the second. Dew sighed, as if his next words would seal his friend’s fate. But duty came first…

“Mal ain’t gonna make it, Murray. It may suck to say that but it’s the truth.”

“I’ve got someone lined up for you. I’m going to brief him shortly.”

“No more partners.”

“Fuck you, Dew,” Murray said, his calm tone suddenly turning angry. Murray hid his emotions well, always had, but now his frustration rang through. “Don’t you start flaking out on me. I know I wanted you solo on this, but it’s getting too big. I want someone with you. You need some help.”

“I said no more partners, Murray.”

“You’ll follow orders.”

“Send me a partner and I’ll shoot him in the knee,” Dew said. “You know I’ll do it.”

Murray said nothing.

Dew continued, his voice halting only slightly, colored by a tiny sliver of emotion.

“Malcolm was my partner, but he’s as good as dead. The shit I saw was crazy, Murray. People infected with this crap aren’t human anymore. I saw that for myself, so I know what we’re up against. I know that Margaret needs something to work with, and she needs it fast. I can get that on my own. If I have to get used to someone else I can’t move like I need to. I fly solo from here on out, Murray.”

“Dew, you can’t make this personal. This is no time for stupid thoughts to cloud your judgment.”

Dew finished the second mag. He held it in his left hand, staring at it, staring at the glossy tip of the single exposed bullet.

“This isn’t revenge, Murray,” Dew said. “Don’t be a dumb-ass. The asshole that got Malcolm is already dead, so what can I take revenge against? I’ll just work better sans partner.”

Murray fell silent for a moment. Dew didn’t really care if Murray agreed or not-he was working alone and that was that.

“All right, Dew,” Murray said quietly. “Just remember we need a live victim more than we need another corpse.”

“Call me when you get into town.” Dew hung up. He’d lied, of course. It was personal. If you thought about it enough, everything was personal in one way or another. Sooner or later he’d find out who was making these little triangular buggers. Malcolm was gone, and somebody was going to pay.

He popped a magazine into the. 45, chambered a round, then walked to the bathroom. Holding the gun in his right hand, finger on the trigger, Dew carefully examined himself in the mirror. He wasn’t going out like that, not like Brewbaker. His skin looked fine, but small red spots seemed to fade in and out, catching the corner of his vision and then disappearing when he stared. His imagination, fucking with his head. If he contracted the infection, would he be sane long enough to know the symptoms? He didn’t need to hold on to his sanity for long-just long enough to pull the trigger.

Dew walked to the bed. He set the loose magazine on the nightstand, slid the. 45 under his pillow, lay down and immediately fell into a light sleep.

He dreamed of burning houses, rotten corpses and Frank Sinatra singing “I’ve got you under my skin.”