Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

“And you’ll be working with us from now on to keep those lines of communication open?”

“Yes. I’m yours until this is over.”

“Excellent,” Rothery said. He rose from his chair and slowly paced the room. “Now comes the tough part. As you all know, I’ve called a press conference for this afternoon at three o’clock.” He checked his watch. “That’s in twenty minutes. I will speak first, but I want each of you directly behind me, on camera and ready to handle the questions that will inevitably come. This crisis cannot be contained any longer. The public must be told what is happening. Now, that said, we’re going to temper things a bit. The word ‘Ebola’ is strictly off-limits. If a journalist uses the word, look at them like they’ve got two heads. Don’t get sucked into a game of semantics with the press, because you’ll lose. Even if you hold your own here, they’ll twist things when they report them. Don’t let them steer you toward any word that even resembles ‘Ebola’or ‘the plague.’

“Their first reaction will be to assume the worst, and they’ll be looking at the sensationalistic aspect of the story. The first barrage of questions will be barbed and ugly. Sidestep these and the second round will be easier as they collect their thoughts and get back to asking more down-to-earth questions.

“Jim, you take the point on Boston. Craig, you’ll answer anything that may come up about the recent raids, although I don’t think anyone will have made that connection yet. Tony, you and Annette handle technical questions about the virus. Keep it to things like replication and transcription, words the general public won’t be familiar with. Any questions?”

His team shook their heads.

“All right. Let’s go.”

Rothery led the way to the meeting room on the main floor. It had been arranged to handle eighty members of the press, with a slightly raised platform at one end of the room. As the team entered, they all noticed that every chair was taken and many journalists and camera operators were lined up down the sides of the room. A hush fell over the room as the group moved into position and J. D. Rothery took the microphone.

“Good afternoon, I’m J. D. Rothery, Under Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. I head up the Science and Technology division of DHS. I have with me today a team of experts from the FBI, CIA, NSA, and the Centers for Disease Control who will be working with my agency in curtailing this situation. I’d like to introduce the team now.”

The cameras were rolling and the microphones on as Rothery and his handpicked crew faced a terrified nation.

Creepy.

That was the only word Jennifer could think of to describe her lunch with Bruce Andrews. The whole thing had been really creepy. She tried to wipe the memory from her mental chalkboard, but it refused to leave. She gave her RX-8 a bit more gas, pushing the sports car well over the posted limit. Maybe a little adrenaline rush would cure her. She veered off Monument Avenue, leaving the parade of statues and the wide street behind her. She cut onto Strawberry Street and slowed a bit, the road now narrower and bordered by trendy brick town houses.

What had Bruce Andrews wanted? Certainly, she had given him nothing of any value-he couldn’t possibly know about her and Gordon from anything she had said over the meal. But maybe he already knew what she and Gordon were up to before he had insisted she accompany him to the Jefferson. Why that hotel? No, something was up and she didn’t feel safe. She was glad Gordon was flying in tonight.

She turned off Strawberry onto Main Street, going with the flow of the traffic. The streetlamps were just coming on and the first diners of the evening were beginning to fill the myriad of restaurants lining the revitalized strip. It was getting busy for a Tuesday. She liked this part of Richmond-hell, she liked Richmond. The only thing she didn’t like was Bruce Andrews. Then something occurred to her that had not crossed her mind at lunch.

She had spent an hour across the table from a murderer.

A very real shiver shot up her spine and hit her brain stem. She shuddered from the impact. If what she and Gordon suspected was true, that the top brass at Veritas were killing people to keep their secrets intact, then that statement was an absolute truth. Her hands were shaking as she steered the Mazda off Main onto Plum Street. She found a parking spot almost in front of her unit and switched off the ignition.

God, she was a mess.

When she was a child, she had been miserable, but she had never feared for her life. Never. Not until now. She exited the car, locked it, and glanced up and down the street before slipping the key in the lock and opening her front door. She closed the door behind her and locked it.

Safe.

She let out a long, slow breath and turned to drop her purse on the chair next to the door. Something moved, fast, toward her. A figure. A man. His image registered for a split second, then he was on her, spinning her around and clamping his hand over her mouth. She sucked in air, tried to scream, but the hand was like a vise. And there was something else. Something she had smelled a thousand times before. But it wasn’t a smell that should be in her house. What was it? She tried to kick and hit her assailant, but she had no power in her arms and legs. Everything was going black. What was that smell? She felt herself slipping away, then she knew.

Chloroform.

The room went black.

Why are the stars so clear ?

That was the first thought Jennifer Pearce had when she woke. Her second thought was Why am I in my car? I was at home. What happened? How did I get here ? She tried to move, but her hands were fastened behind her back. Her feet were bound together as well. Her head started to clear from the chloroform and she began to piece the events back together. Entering her house, the man with his hand over her mouth, the familiar smell of chloroform. Then it hit her: She had been abducted and was now sitting in her car with her hands and feet bound. She looked about and saw some movement off to the side.

It was a man, white with a chalky complexion. He had brown hair, just over his ears, and as he came close she could see that his eyes were light blue, almost translucent. He looked surprised to see her staring at him.

“So you’re awake,” Evan Ziegler said. His voice was soft, nonthreatening.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Why are we here and why am I tied up?”

He moved close to her and stared straight into her eyes. “Please don’t take this personally. I have nothing against you as a person. It’s a matter of survival, that’s all.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her senses returning to her. She now saw that she was in the woods, surrounded by mountains and her car perched on the edge of a drop-off. And she was sitting behind the steering wheel.

“My son’s survival,” he said. He was moving his hands about, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Then the odor of chloroform hit her. He was getting ready to drug her again.

“Wait,” she said. “Before you put that cloth over my face, tell me what this is all about.”

He stopped moving and looked at her. He glanced around then nodded. “Okay,” he said, the smell of the chloroform slowly dissipating. “There’s no rush.” He leaned on the car door, close to her. “My son is in a wheelchair, and will be for the rest of his life if he doesn’t get the technology your company is working on.”

“Are you talking about Veritas Pharmaceutical?”

“Yes.”

“What technology?” she asked.“What technology couldVeritas possibly possess that would get your son out of a wheelchair?”