Michael Harvey - We All Fall Down

“Where is it, Ellen?”

“I fully intended to shoot someone. Just couldn’t decide where to start.”

“Where’s the gun?”

“I got rid of it.” She turned her palms up so I could see.

“You should give me the gun.”

“You should tell me the rest of it.”

“You think you know, but you don’t.”

“Then go ahead.”

A horn beeped outside, followed by a muffled curse.

“It’s about your sister,” I said.

“Of course.”

“How she died. You weren’t responsible. For any of it.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“I want you to know the truth.”

“A version of it.”

“They set you up. Just like everyone else.”

“I created Minor Roar.”

“And they released it. After tweaking it and putting in a kill switch.”

“I was the one who found the switch, Michael. Remember?”

“I remember. And that’s the whole point. You were the genius behind the curtain at CDA. Its prized asset. Molly and Stoddard both knew it and needed to keep you in the game. They also knew there was a good chance if you took a hard look at the pathogen’s DNA, you’d find the kill switch. And an even better chance you’d trace it back to the lab. So they decided to create a distraction.” I took out a DVD and slipped it into a laptop I’d set up on a table. “This is security footage from the Blue Line and O’Hare on the morning of the release. Anna doesn’t appear anywhere on the CTA cameras. That’s because she never took the train. We do, however, see her getting out of a cab at O’Hare around seven-thirty. We also see Peter Gilmore following her into the terminal. They targeted her, Ellen. Just like they targeted the gangs. And they killed her for one reason. To distract you. Manipulate you. Crush you. So when you looked at the pathogen-if you looked at the pathogen-you wouldn’t see what was there. You’d see what they suggested. It was the only way they could keep their genius in-house. And alive. Because if you’d gone to Molly or Stoddard and started asking questions about a kill switch, they would have killed you. And that’s the truth.”

Ellen stared at the image of her sister, striding across the United Terminal, a travel bag slung over her shoulder. Then she closed the lid on the laptop and ran her hands across the top of it.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure.”

“Where has all this gotten you?”

“All what?”

“All this truth.”

“You’d rather believe in a lie?”

She nodded as if that was exactly what she’d expected. “I heard someone else’s truth tonight. Not mine. Not yet.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“I birthed it, Michael. I have to answer for it. And that is exactly how it has to be.”

She came over and sat down beside me. I felt my heart pump. She ran a knotted hand down the side of my face and smiled. It was a smile of sorrow. The smile of an old soul. Then she kissed me on the lips.

“Go home, Michael.”

And so I did.

Room 312 at the Raphael. The bed was empty, blanket turned back. A square of light from the street made the sheets glow. I sat in a chair by a window. Gideon’s Bible was lying open on the table. I read what was written there. It was signed by Paul McCartney.

There was a rustle behind me, a creak of weight against wood. I followed the sound, knowing I’d heard it before. Unable to place it. There was a closet. I didn’t remember seeing it earlier, but it must have been there. The door was ajar, the interior lit from within. I watched my hand grip the knob and pull the door open. Ellen Brazile swung in a small, mean circle. Her eyes were open. The rope underneath her jaw was cinched tight.

I sat up in my bed. It was cool in the apartment, but I was covered in a layer of sweat. My heart knocked against my ribs. I got up and shut the window. Then I went out to the living room and ate a bowl of cereal. Maggie drank the milk while I got dressed. I went downstairs, got in my car, and drove. I felt like I was in some sort of twenty-second-century play. Or maybe fifth century B.C. I knew my lines, would play my role. Because if I didn’t, someone else would. And it always wound up in the same place anyway.

Ellen’s building was drenched in darkness. I walked through her lobby, stood in the elevator, and watched the numbers as they went up. Her door was closed. I turned the knob and found it unlocked. I would have been surprised if it wasn’t.

My feet knew the way, through the living room, down a hallway, to her bedroom. The noise was there. A murmur in the pitch. Weight on wood. I switched on a light and looked at her closet door. Then I walked over, paused another moment, and pulled it open.

AUTHOR’S NOTE The biological weapon described in this novel is, by design, purely fictional. Could this exact weapon be created using today’s technology? According to most of the scientists I spoke with, the answer is no. Could something similar, and even scarier, be created in a lab somewhere? According to the same experts, undoubtedly yes. If you’re interested in hard information on the issue of black biology, check out The Gathering Biological Warfare Storm, a collection of essays put together under the aegis of the USAF Counterproliferation Center. It’s highly readable, fairly straightforward, and covers a wide range of issues. You should also check out Biohazard by Ken Alibeck and Stephen Handelman and The Hot Zone by Richard Preston. The Internet is, of course, awash with information on a host of related topics, including microbial forensics, bioinformatics, BioBricks, synthetic biology, and the science behind stealth viruses. If you Google “Fort Detrick Disease samples,” you can read about what’s been going on for the last twenty years at this country’s largest biological weapons research lab. There remains a lot of uncertainty about the exact nature and scope of the threat posed by black biology and biological weapons. Most experts, however, seem to agree on at least two things. First, an attack somewhere in the world seems not a matter of if but when (with the “when” generally believed to be sooner rather than later). Second, the United States could hardly be less prepared to handle such an attack. From surveillance and detection to prevention, investigation, and the maintenance of our health care system, the United States remains nearly defenseless against this growing threat. One need look no further than a bipartisan congressional panel, which in January 2010, gave Congress and the Obama administration each an “F” for their efforts in this area, concluding that there still exists “no national plan to coordinate federal, state, and local efforts following a bioterror attack, and the United States lacks the technical and operational capabilities required for an adequate response.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A portion of the proceeds from this book is being donated to the Cambodian Children’s Fund. If you’re interested in learning more about this wonderful organization, check out its Web site at www.cambodianchildrensfund.org. I’d like to thank all the people at Knopf and Vintage/Black Lizard for their enthusiasm and support. I’d especially like to thank my editor, Jordan Pavlin. This was a big book to write and would have been impossible without her editorial instincts and deft touch. Thanks to David Gernert. He wears the hats of agent, editor, and friend-and wears them all exceedingly well. Thanks to Garnett Kilberg Cohen, a brilliant Chicago writer and professor at Columbia College, who was kind enough to give my manuscript a first read. As usual, she was able to zero in on what was working and what wasn’t. Thanks to my family and friends for all their support and encouragement. Thanks, also, to everyone who has read my first three books. Hope you like this one. Finally, I’d like to remember a wonderful friend, Danny Mendez. He loved books, and loved reading about the exploits of Michael Kelly in particular. We all miss you. That’s it. Love you, Mary Frances.