Michael Palmer - Fatal

"You think that's how Vinyl, or whoever, infected those passengers?"

"Either with a pneumatic injection gun like that or some sort of flat, hollow plate that fits in his palm and uses compressed air from someplace up his sleeve. Technically it doesn't seem as if it would be too complicated to rig up. A little nudge, a jet of compressed air mixed with Lassa virus, and zap — instant disease."

Ellen felt her eyes beginning to close.

"Rudy," she said in the soft voice of a child, "I need to close my eyes now, just for a little while. Need to sleep."

"You do that, dear heart," she heard him say as she floated off. "You do whatever you need to do."

Using the remote, Lynette Marquand flipped off the television that had been wheeled into her office.

"Well, Lara, what do you think?" she asked.

HHS Secretary Lara Bolton was beaming.

"Brilliant," she said. "Masterful. There's absolutely no way to tell that most of that program was shot a month ago. Those guys are good — no, better than good. They're grrrrrreat."

"And my part?"

"Perfect. Just enough information, not too much. And you looked absolutely smashing."

"Thanks. You liked the script, too?"

"It was right on — sincere and appropriately solemn, yet excited and humble. I loved it."

"And the part about the kid?"

"You mean having you mention her but holding back on saying precisely who she is?"

"Yes."

"I think it worked perfectly. Nobody can criticize you for putting her and her family on the spot or invading their privacy, but everyone everyplace will be wanting to know about her. We'll do the rest. It'll only take one or two anonymous-source phone calls, and in a few hours everyone will be buzzing about little, adorable Donelle Cleary."

"And those calls?"

Lara Bolton made a pretense of checking her watch.

"I believe they've already been made, Mrs. Marquand," she said.

Hal Sawyer was waiting for Matt and Nikki in the lobby of OSHA headquarters on Constitution Avenue. He was dressed more like the commandant of a yacht club than a med school professor — white trousers, navy blazer, blue pin-striped shirt open at the collar, but his expression was grim. He embraced Matt, then shook hands with Nikki and introduced himself.

"I'm relieved you're both all right," he said.

"Thanks to you," Matt replied. "We barely made it out of the FBI office without having to explain to them why a chief of police thinks I shot a guy in the head and then tried to burn the evidence."

"They might not have even known yet. But Grimes is definitely turning up the heat, so to speak."

Matt managed a weak smile.

"Is it safe to be here?"

"There's no reason to think Carabetta knows anything at this point. I wouldn't suspect OSHA is on the routing map of all points bulletins for murder."

"Lord. Mom okay? Does she know I'm not around?"

"For a few minutes at a time she seems to. But then just as quickly she forgets. I'm really sorry for all you've been through. You, too, Dr. Solari."

"It's Nikki, please," she said. "I appreciate your concern. This whole business doesn't seem to be getting any better."

"It will. Grimes has a lot of power around where we live, but he doesn't have a lot of power everywhere." He lowered his voice a notch. "I know some excellent lawyers we can go see after we get this mine business straightened out. You still think Grimes is doing all this to protect BC and C?"

"I'm pretty certain of it, yes," Matt said, pointedly ignoring Nikki's expression of doubt.

"In that case, maybe I'd better start watching my back. I've come in contact with these cases, too, you know."

"I hadn't thought of that," Matt said. "All the more reason why we have to get our evidence and put the clamps on Grimes as soon as possible."

"Oh, speaking of evidence, I've found Darryl Teague's brain, but so far Ted Rideout's is a no-show."

"Could someone have taken it?" Nikki asked.

"Well, we like to think we take decent precautions against such things. For the moment I'd prefer to believe it's been misplaced. We have a storage facility for specimens over a year old. Even though Rideout's death was less than a year ago, maybe it's over there."

"I hope so."

"By the way, Nikki, I was very upset to hear about Joe Keller. I met him once at a meeting. He seemed like quite a guy."

"Thanks, he was. The people who murdered him took all of Kathy Wilson's specimens. It seems possible they might be after the ones you have, too."

"Maybe. I intend to be careful and to try and gather up all the specimens I have and get them someplace safe."

"The man Matt and I are supposed to have killed was one of the thugs who kidnapped me. Grimes was at the cabin with him, questioning me about Kathy's death. It was clear Grimes was the boss."

Hal whistled softly through his teeth.

"Well, he says you two killed the guy, then tried to burn the evidence, so to speak. I told him Matt wouldn't have bothered with the fire because he knew I was a sharp enough medical examiner not to miss the bullet hole in the guy's skull even if he was incinerated, but he wasn't interested."

"Well, he either shot the guy or more likely had it done," Matt said. "At least now you see what kind of person he is."

"Now I see," Hal said somewhat ruefully.

"He's banking on support from those country club cronies of his who think I'm way off center to begin with, and probably capable of anything."

"I've known Bill, pretty well I thought, since he came to town. Just goes to show how wrong you can be sometimes. Well, it's time for counterattacking. Let's visit with Fred. Matthew, I'm going to let you speak with him alone. Nikki and I will wait in the reception area. If he doesn't agree to the inspection you want, it will be my turn."

"Whatever you say."

Fred Carabetta was waiting for them in a neatly maintained single-windowed space with a worn leather couch and built-in bookcase. The office would have been relegated to a low- or mid-level manager in the private sector, but in government service, indicated some clout. There were pictures around suggesting a wife and two teenage girls, and interests in deep-sea fishing and golf.

Carabetta was a rotund, balding man around fifty, short enough to seem nearly as round as he was high. He had the tendency of constantly rubbing his fleshy thumbs across his sausagelike index and middle fingers. Probably aware of the nervous habit, he kept his hands in his lap much of the time. To the man's credit, Matt thought, Carabetta listened patiently to his account of locating the toxic dump, only occasionally interrupting to clarify a point. Matt purposely left out any mention of Joe Keller's death or the assault on Nikki. He didn't know Carabetta at all, and to this point at least, there was nothing about him that suggested fearlessness or a commitment to justice.

"Well, now," he said when Matt had finished, "that's certainly not a tale one hears every day around here. Knowing you were coming, I did a little research on Belinda Coal and Coke. There have been some complaints filed against the company over the past few years, but for whatever reason, all of them were submitted by you."

"And there was never any action taken on any of them," Matt replied, way too intensely. "Most of the allegations were never even responded to."

"I assume you've tried the EPA and Bureau of Mines?"

"Only a few dozen times in the past. The issues I wrote about were never this big or easily documented. But I don't have any credibility. I need someone with respect and clout to corroborate what I have to say. That's why Hal suggested you."

"I appreciate that," Carabetta said. "I hope you won't take offense, Dr. Rutledge, but there is a great deal of speculation and hearsay supporting those allegations, and very little fact."