Michael Palmer: Fatal

"Business is very bad, Uncle," Matt said.

Matthew, please, you're not thinking of the greater good. Omnivax will save hundreds of thousands of lives every year. If you block the release of the vaccine, think of all the blood that will be on your hands. Why, you don't even know for certain that Lasaject caused any of those deformities. You're guessing, assuming…"

Hal Sawyer ranted on nonstop as Matt and Ellen used lengths of clothesline to lash him tightly, facedown, on his bed. If someone happened to show up at his home and release him before they had the chance to report things to the state police, so be it. Grimes was gone for good, so were Sutcher and the other killers, Larry and Verne. Hal might try to run, but he wouldn't get very far.

"Darn it, Matthew, this is no way to treat your own flesh and blood!.. Who's going to visit your mother if I'm not around?… Your mother!.. This is going to break her heart, and it's all your fault… For crying out loud, Matthew, I'm your godfather… Ellen, Ellen, you're more my generation, explain to my nephew the importance of family. I'm his uncle — genetically, that makes us twenty-five percent of each other. Twenty-five percent! That's like selling out a quarter of yourself…"

"We can't make it," Ellen said, checking Matt's watch. "We're not even going to be close."

"We can only do our best," Matt replied, tightening the cord a bit more than it needed to be. "We have a shot, depending on the traffic. It'll be closer than you think."

"Can you do the rest of this yourself?"

"Sure, why?"

"I need to make a phone call before we leave. My friend Rudy will be worried sick about me. Also, he knows people. Maybe there's someone he can call."

"Quickly, though. I have just another minute or two here, then I want to be on the road. Listen, Hal's girlfriend, Heidi, lives here. Why don't you make a quick rummage through her things for some warm clothes. It can get chilly on the bike."

It took just seconds for Ellen to appropriate a pair of dark slacks, a sweatshirt, and a leather jacket. She dashed to the kitchen while Matt looped the last length of rope around Hal's ankle, then around the leg at the foot of the bed. He was badly shaken by Lyle Slocumb's death and also by his uncle's remorseless confession. His mother's Alzheimer's disease made her less aware of some things than she once might have been, but she would certainly be aware that her brother no longer came to see her — aware and deeply hurt. In spite of the situation and the urgency of their getting to Washington, he found himself composing explanations that would be gentler on her than the horrible truth.

"You can't leave me here like this," Hal was bellowing, each plea more desperate, more pathetic than the last. "What if I have a heart attack? What if I have to pee? In this country we're presumed innocent until proven guilty. Who made you the goddamn judge, jury, and executioner? For Christ's sake, Matthew, listen to me. I've known you since you were born. You can't do this!"

"Hal, where are your car keys?"

"My what?"

"The keys to your car."

Matt had found his bike in the garage and retrieved the key to it from the kitchen counter. But if he was going to drive 170 miles across Virginia at eighty miles an hour, he would much rather do it in a Mercedes sedan than perched on a Harley with a novice rider, who hated motorcycles, squirming on the seat behind him.

Hal stopped his machine-gun ranting and laughed.

"If I had them you surely wouldn't get them," he said. "Not unless you let me go. But thanks to you, I don't have any keys at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I had only one set — my other one's with Heidi — and my set was in ol' Larry Hogarth's pocket when he made the big swan dive. Too bad."

"Hal," Matt said, checking the knots one last time, "I hope you don't get the pleasure of driving an automobile again for the rest of your life."

He stopped in the hallway for Hal's fleece-lined leather jacket, hurried to the garage, pulled on his helmet, and revved up the Harley. He had made the drive to Washington in two and a half hours. Cutting fifteen minutes off that time stretched the bounds of possibility, but not past the breaking point. Then he checked the fuel gauge and groaned. Just under half a tank — two and a half gallons at best. At the speed he intended to be going, they would be getting around fifty miles per. There would be no chance to make the trip without stopping. Gassing up would be brief, but rolling into the station, pumping, and rolling out would probably add three minutes, maybe even four. Still, depending on when the actual injection took place and how lucky they were once they reached the clinic, it was still remotely possible.

Ellen raced out of the front door and met him as he was backing the Harley past Hal's Mercedes. Dressed in Heidi's leather jacket and black slacks, she looked every bit the biker.

"Let 'er rip," she said, climbing up behind him.

"Just pull on your helmet, lean back, relax, hang on, and watch the world go by," Matt replied, accelerating down the drive. "Did you reach your friend?"

"No, but I left him a message. Ordinarily he'd be fishing in the pond behind his cabin at this hour. Today I hope he's out pacing about, worrying about why he hasn't heard from me."

"I'm sure he is. Well, here we go. Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning."

"Don't worry about me," Ellen said. "Just go fast."

Go fast… Damn you, Hal.

With vivid, lurid images of the victims of the Belinda syndrome in full control of his thoughts, Matt swung onto the highway and hit the gas.

"Sher, the limo's here," Don called out. "A white stretch limo, at that. Isn't this something."

"We're just about ready," Sherrie called out from the bedroom. "I want this girl to look her very best for her debut on national TV."

"Worldwide TV," Don corrected.

He watched as a man and a woman in dress suits, wearing sunglasses, emerged from the limousine and headed up the walk. Men in Black, he was thinking.

"Ta-da," Sherrie sang, holding the baby out to her husband.

"You both look just fine," Don said, beaming. "Really fine." He took the baby and kissed Sherrie on the mouth. "No one could ever guess you had this baby just four days ago."

"You're pilin' up some big-time points, sir," she said, checking out the scene below their window. "Not every kid has the Secret Service escort them to their baby shots. You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be. Even when I was fightin' Golden Gloves, I don't remember being this nervous."

"You, nervous? What are you nervous about?"

"Believe it or not, the baby."

Startled, Sherrie turned slowly and looked at him, a shadow of concern darkening her face.

"You mean the shot?"

"Uh-huh."

She sighed.

"Me, too," she said. "I've been afraid to talk with you about it because I was afraid you'd think I was crazy or… or ungrateful. I know Mrs. Marquand told us that plenty of people, babies and grown-ups, had received this shot when it was being tested. Still, Donelle's going to be the very first to get it after it's been approved."

"I know."

"I was speaking to Andrea last night about her son Randy. He was one in May. He has fits all the time that his doctor says are caused by a reaction he had to one of his baby shots. He has to take medicine, and now Andrea says the medicine is messing him up."

"I didn't know that. Is the shot one of the ones Donelle's gonna get?"

"It has to be. She's going to get thirty shots at once — all the ones she's ever going to need."

"I wish we knew more," Don said.

Sherrie walked across the room and embraced him and their daughter.

"Same here," she said, just as their Secret Service escorts knocked on the door.