Michael Palmer - Fatal

Inwardly, he shrugged. He had done what he thought was right and had tried his best. That was the way he had been taught to live his life. There was nothing more he could ask of himself. But there was also no hiding the fact that his exuberance about the mine had almost enabled Grimes and his Lasaject cronies to pull off their lethal deception. Over time, he would have to deal with the way he had handled matters, perhaps with Nikki's help. For the moment, though, it was essential to focus on other things. All that mattered right now was beating the clock to Washington, and placing Ellen in a position to stop the initial injection of Omnivax and all subsequent injections as well.

Three percent.

The figure reverberated in his mind. Three percent of tens of thousands — biological time bombs with an untreatable, communicable disease that had no diagnostic test and didn't manifest itself for a decade or more.

Three percent.

"It'll be close, but we'll make it before that first shot is given," he pledged.

"Not if we try too hard and end up as roadkill."

"Okay, okay. I'll introduce myself to the speed limit. Have you ever been on a motorcycle?"

"Once."

"And?"

"I've been around for a long time, Doctor. Over those years, there have been plenty of motorcycling opportunities. Doesn't my saying 'once' tell you anything?"

Matt grinned.

"You'll love my bike, Ellen. I promise. Lyle, make the next left. My uncle's road is about three miles from here."

"Ya got it," Lyle said.

Studying the man — thinning gray hair, aquiline nose, weathered skin, engaging, toothless smile — Matt wondered if Lyle, or any of the brothers, for that matter, had ever had a driver's license. They were certainly a strange lot, but they also seemed to be living lives that were quite fulfilled on many levels. And now, once again, Matt owed them his life. Becoming their friend was certainly an unmerited gift of that bicycle ride to their house so many years ago.

"Know whar the key ta yer bike is, Doc?" Lyle asked.

"In the kitchen on the counter."

"Jes in case, Ah'll wait round 'til Ah'm sure ya foun it."

"Thanks, pal. So, Ellen, what's our plan once we get to D.C.?"

"I don't really know. The community health center is in the Anacostia section of the city. I suspect security will be exceedingly tight, what with the First Lady there and everything else that's been going on since nine-eleven. I don't know anyone I could call, and I don't think phoning someone would accomplish anything in time. But once the people at the clinic see that I'm no menace and hear who I am, and assure themselves that the wild man who's with me is no threat, I imagine they'll let me speak with someone in authority. Whether whoever that is believes us in time or not is another story. There's a heck of a lot of votes at stake here, and I'm sure the last thing the Marquand camp needs is something that looks like a screwup on their part."

"Maybe you can get in front of the cameras to explain what's happening."

"I doubt it, but I suppose anything's possible. The bottom line is, we've got to get there in time to find someone who'll listen to me."

"If we don't, doctors all over get the green light to start shooting Omnivax."

"Four days to two weeks old," Ellen said. "That's the age range where Secretary Bolton says they're going to start administering the inoculations. But soon, Omnivax will be available to all."

"Oh, that's just great."

"They're justifying that decision by stating that except for those who are allergic, there's no evidence that being overimmunized is dangerous."

"And every single man, woman, and child in this country should be grateful for the protection against Lassa fever."

Ellen laughed sardonically. "Exactly," she said.

"But nobody's ever studied the adverse effects of vaccinations over the long term."

"Not in any organized study that I'm aware of."

"I feel like I've been such a medical ostrich about this stuff."

"Believe me, you have company. It's not that on balance vaccinations do more harm than good. It's just that no one really knows."

"Well, then, let's get us to Washington. Lyle, that's Grandview Road, right there. Hang a left. The house is at the very end. Wait until you guys see my uncle's place. You won't have any trouble understanding why they named the street Grandview."

The road remained paved throughout. Hal's house was at the end of a long, gravel driveway that cut through a peninsula covered with low-lying shrubs and scattered pines.

"I'm sure coming here like this will be hard for you," Ellen said.

"I still can't believe this has happened. Hal's always been very good to me and my mother. I'll miss him, and I know she will, too."

Matt decided against going into any details about his mother's deteriorating mental state.

The thin woods gave way to a broad, beautifully landscaped lot, at the end of which was Hal's expansive lodge, perched on a promontory two hundred feet above a large, pristine lake.

"Magnificent," Ellen whispered reverently. "Just beautiful."

"Wait! Stop!" Matt cried.

Lyle skidded to a halt.

"What is it?" Ellen asked.

"There, parked in the driveway on the side. That's my uncle's car."

"So?"

"Something's wrong. He drove us to the mine last night. If he's buried there, how did the car get back here? Lyle, do you have your gun? I left mine with Lewis so that we wouldn't have any trouble with the security people in D.C."

"Frank's got m' pistol, but they's a shotgun in the back."

"Bring it, please."

Cautiously, the three of them approached the lodge.

"Look!" Ellen exclaimed in a loud whisper.

Through the broad living room window, they could see a man polishing a vase.

"That's Hal! That's my uncle," Matt said. "Lyle, stand over there and keep the door covered. I… don't know what's going on."

His confusion did not last long.

He was moving toward the front door when it opened. Hal, nattily dressed in white trousers and a light blue button-down shirt, stepped out onto the low front porch. At the sight of the man, showered, relaxed, and clear-eyed, Matt knew.

"Matthew! God, I'm so relieved to see you. I've been worried sick about you since the explosion. I've called the police and — "

"Pardon me for saying it, Hal, but you don't seem very frantic. In fact, you look downright rested — not at all like someone who's spent the last twelve hours trying to get his nephew rescued from a mine explosion."

"I've made many desperate phone calls for help, Matthew. I — "

There was no sincerity in his words. Matt's lingering disbelief vanished.

"Can it, Hal," he snapped. "You're demeaning yourself. You know what's been bothering me ever since we figured out that the Lassa vaccine was really behind those deaths? Grimes. That's what's been bothering me, Hal. He's not exactly a dope, but he's no Einstein, either. I couldn't understand how a man like that could have gotten involved with the manufacture of Lasaject in the first place. Then he goes and masterminds an epidemic to get his vaccine included in Omnivax; then he discovers that the vaccine has a fatal flaw; and finally, he sets about systematically destroying all the evidence of that flaw. That make any sense to you, Hal, that he was capable of doing that?"

Hal looked as if he was about to issue another denial, then he shrugged nonchalantly.

"Grimes is a jerk," he said. "A violent and avaricious jerk, and therefore quite useful to me, but a jerk nonetheless."

Hearing his uncle openly admit what he had done brought Matt a wave of sadness. "When did you first learn about the prion disease?" he asked.

"Not that long ago, really. Would you please tell your friend to stop pointing that thing at me?"