Michael Prescott - Next Victim

"You’re reaching," she said to herself.

Dodge assumed the comment was directed at him. "No, I’m not. Winston knew enough to get Levine’s attention. And who knows what other sources Levine might have?"

"Like you, for instance."

"I’m clean, Tess. Really. I take it you’re getting blamed for this?"

"How’d you know?"

"You wouldn’t be so upset otherwise. Well, they’re hanging a bad rap on you-and you’re hanging a bad rap on me."

Maybe she was. She doubted it. She still disliked Dodge. But what he was saying was at least possible.

"Look," he went on, "why don’t we talk about it in person? I’m home now. Won’t be going out again unless I catch a call. Come on over, I’ll fix some dinner, and we’ll discuss it."

Distantly she wondered if this was yet another attempt at a come-on. She dismissed the thought. Dodge was a pig, but nobody was that much of a pig.

Anyway, she needed to talk to him face-to-face. Study his eyes, his body language. That was the only way to know if he was lying.

"All right," she said. "I’ll stop at my motel first, watch the news-there’s supposed to be a special report coming on. Afterward, I’ll stop by."

"Sounds good." He recited his address, and she scribbled it on the back of the snitch card. "It’s in the Hollywood Hills just off Mulholland. Small place, but a view of the city that’ll knock you out. You like linguini?"

She had eaten nothing all day. "I do," she said reluctantly, while her stomach seconded the remark with a gurgle.

"I’ll see you in a while. Don’t worry, Tess. We’ll work this all out. By the time we’re through, you’ll be off the hook-and Winston will be hung out to dry."

We’ll see, she answered silently as she clicked off the phone.

On her way to the motel, Tess picked up a meal at a fast-food place, using the drive-through window. She wasn’t fond of microwaved burgers and greasy fries, but her stomach insisted on immediate satisfaction.

The motel room was stuffy, and because she’d left the DO NOT DISTURB sign in place, it had never been cleaned. She checked the air conditioner and dialed the fan to full speed. Time to get some air moving in here.

The motel chain called the room a suite, which simply meant that the bedroom area was separated from the living area by a partial wall. There was a rudimentary kitchen, as well, but she hadn’t taken the time to stock the fridge or even to fill the ice-cube trays.

She carried the brown bag and large diet soda into the living area, set down her chow on a coffee table before the sofa, then noticed that her nose was runny. Allergic reaction or something. She used one of the grease-spotted paper napkins to wipe her nose, then found the remote control and turned on Channel 8.

The special report was already in progress. A garish logo-BREAKING NEWS: TERROR ALERT-ran along the bottom of the screen. The news anchor was doing a recap of the story at her desk.

"…to repeat, KPTI sources tell us that federal, county, and municipal authorities tonight are searching for a canister of deadly nerve gas smuggled into Los Angeles by a suspected terrorist and now believed to be in the hands of a serial killer. This incredible story was first reported by our own Myron Levine in an exclusive…"

So it was really out. She’d been hoping irrationally for some last-minute miracle, a hold on the story that would at least provide time for an official announcement.

Andrus didn’t understand her concerns at all. Yes, she had believed that the public should be told, but not by a breathless newscaster breaking into Saturday-night programming to deliver a scare story. She’d wanted it done right-a sober statement presented by elected officials in a reasoned, thoughtful manner.

From the start, a leak had been inevitable. The news should have been put out in a way that would minimize panic.

Using the remote, she shuffled through the other channels. A second network affiliate had already picked up the story, the anchor reading an AP wire service bulletin that apparently summarized the KPTI report. Nothing had come on the other stations yet, but she knew it was only a matter of minutes.

Her stomach rolled, reminding her that she still had not touched her meal. She unwrapped the cheeseburger and hungrily tore off a bite.

When she clicked back to Channel 8, she saw Myron Levine doing a live stand-up outside Parker Center, the downtown headquarters of the LAPD. City Hall East, with its underground command center, would have been more appropriate, but Levine might not even know about that.

"…serial killer nicknamed Mobius, who was in Denver two years ago when this reporter was himself stationed in that city. Mobius, known to the media as the Pickup Artist, was responsible for a series of slayings…"

So he knew the name Mobius-the name she’d let slip in Rachel Winston’s presence. Could Dodge possibly be telling the truth? She had no absolute proof he was behind the leak, just a strong suspicion reinforced by an equally strong dislike of the man.

She ate more of the burger, then paused, feeling a momentary shiver of light-headedness. Going without food all day had been a bad idea. She wasn’t feeling so great all of a sudden. But it would pass.

She took a swig of soda, hoping the cold slush of carbonated water would revive her. For a moment it seemed to work. Then distantly she felt a headache coming on.

Levine was probably the reason. Just looking at him, flushed with the triumph of his breaking story, was enough to make her sick. The guy was a weasel, always had been, climbing the career ladder with reckless indifference to journalistic ethics.

Hell, even if she had decided to leak the story, she wouldn’t have given it to that jerk A bubble of gas worked its way out of her throat with an audible burp.

God, what was going on with her tonight? She’d gone without sustenance for longer periods than this. Maybe she was coming down with the flu.

The flu…

A low warning thought rose almost to the level of conscious awareness, but before she could focus on it, the KPTI report shifted from Levine to a camera crew doing man-in-the-street interviews at Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me…"

"How do we know what’s really going on? The government never levels with us…"

"You’re saying there’s a serial killer that’s got hold of the stuff…?"

"Is this for real? Are you serious?"

"I’m just…it’s scary…everything’s scary these days, and just when you think it can’t get any worse…"

"I think I’d like to move to a small town someplace and stock up on supplies and just hunker down, you know…"

"I can’t talk to you; I’m looking for my kids… Marci! Terri! Where are you? We have to go…!"

Tess shook her head. "Thank you, Channel Eight," she muttered. "That’s very helpful. That’s just-"

She wanted to say terrific, but her throat was suddenly dry, and the word died in a croak.

Weird-and now she was conscious of a sick feeling in her stomach, a liquid queasiness that became a dry, pasty taste in the back of her mouth.

More soda. That was what she needed. Too bad there wasn’t some nice Bacardi in it.

She picked up the big paper cup and raised it to her mouth, and her fingers splayed and the cup dropped on the table, spilling its contents.

What the hell?

Myron Levine was back on-screen, but Tess wasn’t listening anymore.

As she stared at her right hand, another shudder twisted through the tendons and ligaments. Her fingers shook briefly.

And the thought that had almost surfaced earlier flashed with full clarity in her brain.

It can be all around you — Tennant’s voice came back to her- and you won’t know it until you experience the initial symptoms of exposure: runny nose, sweating, upset stomach, headache… VX.