Michael Palmer - Fatal

"For nearly three years," Marquand went on, "every single member of this august panel of world-renowned experts has studied Omnivax in detail from every angle. I have been briefed regularly on their progress. Soon they will be voting on whether or not to approve its distribution for general use. I promise you, the American public, that if even one, just one, of the twenty-three members of this commission votes against the release of Omnivax, we will hold up our inoculation program for as long as it takes to resolve any and all misgivings."

The pronouncement, enunciated as energetically as any campaign rhetoric, was greeted with an immediate, boisterous standing ovation. Ellen sat dumbfounded, staring up at the First Lady until she realized that all the others in the hall were on their feet. Slowly, somewhat unsteadily, she rose and brought her hands together. It was then she noticed that, from his place just behind and to the right of Lynette Marquand, George Poulos was staring directly down at her.

More keyed up than he had been in years, Matt rolled the Kawasaki out of his garage. His 250cc Honda was better in the woods and the Harley was without peer cruising the roads, but the Kawasaki had the power to carry two and the suspension to handle most of what the off-road trails had to offer. It was a 900cc Vulcan, ebony and silver, with a four-stroke, five-speed, V-twin engine, and it was to the Harley what a Corvette was to a Lexus sedan.

It was after one in the morning. There was a chill in the air dampened by a fine mist. The darkness was a good omen, Matt noted as he eased his bike down his gravel drive and onto the two-lane road. Somewhere beyond those dense clouds was a nearly full moon.

This would be his second trip today out to the Slocumbs' farm. The first was around four when he rode out to check on Kyle. After the youngest of the brothers had adamantly refused to allow the gastroenterologist to perform another rectal exam, it took some time for Matt to convince the specialist that it was still worth proceeding with a gastroscopy. The exam showed pretty much what Matt had expected, hemorrhagic gastritis, an erosive inflammation of the lining of Kyle's stomach. It was hardly the worst case of the condition he had ever seen, though, so when Kyle's vital signs and blood count had stabilized, he reluctantly agreed to discharge him on medication to block the production of acid, and antacids to soothe the damaged tissue. There was also a strict prohibition on alcohol of any kind, but especially the home-brewed, 150-proof rotgut produced by the brothers' still. Surprisingly, as far as Matt could tell, Kyle had followed every one of his orders, and was actually doing quite well.

Keeping his engine noise to a minimum, Matt slowly made his way along the last quarter mile of rutted road to the Slocumb farmhouse. Lewis was waiting on the porch. A grizzled, sinewy man in his early sixties, he was wearing denim overalls, a tattered black WVU sweatshirt, work boots, and a black watch cap. He had blackened his face and hands with some sort of greasepaint.

"Here," he said, holding out a small jar of the stuff, "lemme smear some a this on yer face."

"What is it?"

"It's black/' Lewis said.

"Ugh! It smells like… Lewis?"

"Put some on yer hands, too."

"I don't believe I let you do this," Matt said. "Are you expecting trouble? Is that why we're dressing up like farmer commandos?"

"Don' rotly know what ta expect. The people what run thet mine ain't survived the way they have by bein' stupid. Ya bring everthin' Ah ast ya to?"

Matt patted his backpack. "Rope, hunting knife, camera, flashlights, flares, a compass, and some jars for bringing out samples."

"If'n we get thet close," Lewis muttered.

"You're a cheery one."

Lewis just snorted and mounted the passenger seat of the Kawasaki.

"Go thet way," he said, motioning to a muddy track that ran straight through the pitch-black field behind the house.

"This isn't really a dirt bike, you know," Matt said. "It's not built for driving through cow shit, either."

"They's a path out there," Lewis said. "Good-size shortcut. Jes keep on goin' straight."

Following the bike's slashing high beam, they jounced across the field and into the woods. For nearly twenty minutes they rode in silence, following what might have been an old logging road. It was difficult going with two, but Lewis was a surprisingly good passenger. He stayed centered and relaxed in his seat, and didn't try to help by leaning into turns.

The tar-black woods were eerie. Once a gigantic owl, probably a great horned, swooped through the high beam not ten feet ahead of them. The specter nearly stopped Matt's heart cold.

"A little chick," Lewis chuckled.

As best Matt could guess, they were traveling due west, paralleling the tall hills that housed the mine on the other side. He expected the narrow track to vanish any moment, but it continued straight as a ruler through the dense forest. The mist was making it difficult to see through his Plexiglas visor, so he hooked his helmet to the handlebar.

"You sure you know where you're going?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Oh, Ah know."

"How much longer?"

"Wer here. Cut the light."

Matt did as he was told. Instantly, the ebony night enfolded them. Lewis held a finger to his lips. For several minutes they sat in what seemed to be a small clearing, and listened.

"From here on out we whisper," Lewis said. "Ah don' know if'n the mine's got people out here'r not, but Ah wouldn' be supprised. Their security men are the nastiest summabitches ya'd ever wanna meet."

"Tell me about it. How far is the cleft?"

"A ways. That motorbike a yourn ain't exactly sneaky quiet."

Matt pulled the bike off into the woods and secured it to a tree. Then he took his compass out of his jeans pocket and checked it with a penlight.

"Which direction's your farm?"

"Back thar."

Southeast, Matt noted, maybe five miles.

"We go thet way," Lewis said, motioning along the track.

They walked for ten minutes — about half a mile. From somewhere to the right they had begun to hear running water.

Overlaying it were the noises of insects and peepers, and the occasional call of an owl. The forest at night.

"Where's that stream go?" Matt asked.

"It cuts down inta the hill rot whar wer headed. Runs unner-groun' fer quite a ways, then comes out in the valley."

"Where's it come from?"

"Runs past the farm. Thas all Ah know. Ready?"

"Ready."

Lewis indicated a spot up ahead. Matt could make out a change in the darkness, but little else. Moments later he realized the change in shading was the steep side of a rocky hill. From their right, the stream, perhaps eight feet wide, raced into an opening in the rock.

"They's a bunch a ways inta the caves," Lewis said. "But this un's the cleft, an' that's what yer mystry man writ. It's also the one ain't likely ta be watched. Don' seem lak nobody's about, but we'd best keep it down jes the same."

They stepped into the stream and ducked beneath a ledge to enter the hill through an opening that was about five feet high and three feet wide — the cleft. The water churned and deepened to their knees as it rolled through with them, then broke sharply to the right and over a foot-high drop to a long, dark pool.

"Lak Ah done said, this is jes one a the ways inta the hill," Lewis whispered. "They cain't brang the barrels in by this way, though. Too narrah with too many drop-offs."

"Then how?"

"Some a t'other paths are wider, else they jes haul 'em back through the mine."

"This tunnel goes all the way through the hill to the mine?"

"It does jes thet. Downhill all the way. The mine entrance is way below whar we are. The storage cave's plumb in the middle."