Michael Palmer - Fatal

Thankfully, the day was sunny and dry. Matt pushed the Harley as hard as he dared, across the Virginia border, then along rolling two-lane roadways through the lush Shenandoah Mountains and the Appalachians. In less than an hour, they had picked up Route 81 in Staunton, and were headed north toward 66. Matt kept their speed at an even eighty, nudging it up a mile or two when he sensed there were no police around. The windscreen and top-of-the-line shocks made it feel like forty. In Harrisonburg, they took on four gallons and learned that they were about 110 miles from Washington. An hour and thirty minutes remained before the shot heard round the world would be fired.

Depending on the congestion once they hit the city, they had a chance. They picked up 1-66 in Middletown and headed east, barreling on through light traffic. Riverton… Markham… Marshall… The Plains… bit by bit, they were making up time, closing the gap against the moment when Lara Bolton would trip a switch and inject the first dose of Omnivax into the thigh of a baby girl.

Three percent. Maybe more. Not odds he would ever want to have operating against his child.

On the seat behind him, Ellen sat quietly for most of the trip, using the handgrips for balance, and occasionally his arms.

"This isn't nearly as unpleasant as I remember," she yelled as they sped through a particularly spectacular mountain pass.

"I'll help you pick out your first bike," he hollered back.

For most of the initial hour of their trip, Matt had constantly scanned his rearview mirrors and the road ahead, looking for problems or police. As the day grew brighter and the road more hypnotic, his thoughts drifted to Nikki. He pictured her hunched over Fred Carabetta, battling through the pain of her fractured ankle, using makeshift instruments to perform a delicate procedure that could easily have ripped the man's vein in half. Courage, resourcefulness, compassion, intelligence — over the short time they had known each other, she had shown him so much. He had truly never believed there was a woman who could take Ginny's place in his soul and his heart. Now, at least, he knew it was possible. Perhaps for the first time, he acknowledged the effect that Ginny's death continued to have on him — the indolent and virulent depression that had functioned like a great wall, preventing him from experiencing true joy. Was Nikki the answer? Maybe, he said to himself as they rocketed along the interstate. Maybe she was.

Catharpin… Centerville… Fairfax… by the time they passed through Arlington, they had ten minutes left. Probably not enough unless there were some preliminaries. There was still going to be the problem of getting in contact with someone with enough power to stop the injection, and doing it without getting killed.

Traffic was heavier now, much heavier, and Matt was forced to slow into the twenties to join the migration along the west bank of the Potomac. To his right he caught a glimpse of Arlington National Cemetery. Joe Keller would never be buried there, nor would Kathy Wilson or Teddy Rideout or any of the others who were victims of Hal Sawyer's war. But Matt knew that thanks to the woman hanging on behind him, the death of every one of them would eventually save lives.

Eight minutes until three.

"Take this exit," Ellen called out. "We'll cross the Potomac here and look for signs to Anacostia. We're almost there."

They headed east on 395, crossed the Anacostia River at Pennsylvania Avenue, and then turned onto Minnesota. This was the tenement, lead paint, hard-scrabble section of the city — a drug-infested, 80 percent unemployed island of violence and despair, situated less than two miles from the Capitol. It was hardly an accident that Lynette Marquand had chosen a community health center here to showcase Omnivax. Her husband was trailing badly among black and Hispanic voters. Matt wondered how long it would take for Lynette to accept the tale of Lasaject and halt the inoculations.

Traffic had slowed to a near-crawl.

Two minutes, if that.

"Are we close enough for you to make it on foot?" Matt asked.

"Maybe. I'm not quite sure where we are relative to — wait! Fenwick Road. Over there! That's the street. I'm certain of it."

Matt accelerated and swung the Harley up onto the tree belt and across a weedy lawn, onto Fenwick. Several blocks down the street, they could see broadcast trucks, a number of them, lined up along the side of the road. Then they saw the blue barricade a block ahead.

"What time do you have?" Matt asked, hoping his watch and the one Ellen had taken from Heidi's bureau disagreed.

"After three," Ellen replied sadly, "maybe five or six minutes. You gave it a heck of a try."

How long was the show going to last altogether? Matt wondered. Probably not more than ten or fifteen minutes, with maybe some commentary from the various networks' health gurus after that. If regular broadcasting resumed, it might be hours before they could get their story heard, and get word out to the pediatricians of the country to stop the injections. They had failed to stop the initial injection, but there still might be a chance to get to someone in a position of influence in time to prevent thousands of other exposures.

Three percent.

"Barricade," Matt announced. "We're there."

As they approached the intersection, a young D.C. cop strode lazily toward them. He looked queerly at Granny Biker, perched comfortably on the raised passenger seat behind Matt.

"No admission here," he said. "You'll have to head that way two blocks until you see the officer, or else go back to the freeway."

"Should I say something to him?" Ellen whispered.

"I think we get only one chance at this, and he ain't it. By the time he finishes calling his supervisor, who will call his supervisor, it'll be tomorrow."

"What, then?" Ellen asked.

By now, several other cars had pulled up behind them. The officer walked past the Harley to repeat his instructions to the occupants of a silver minivan.

"I think we have to move up a couple of levels in the chain of command. Hang on."

"Just pray that kid in the policeman's uniform doesn't start shooting."

"It's not him I'm worried about," Matt said. "Hold tight. I'm going to try to make it up to the front door of the clinic. What time have you got?"

"Ten after."

"Damn."

Matt waited until the policeman had moved to yet another car, and then quickly accelerated around the barrier, up over a low curbing, and down the sidewalk. If the cop fired at them, they never heard or felt it. They were closing rapidly on the phalanx of broadcasting vans marking the entrance to the clinic. A hundred yards… fifty… Matt was entertaining theatrical visions of driving through the glass front door when, from the corner of his eye, he caught rapid movement coming from his left. He slowed and was turning his head when a woman hurled herself at them. Arms outspread, she connected with his and Ellen's shoulders like a missile, sending both of them sprawling off the motorcycle and onto the dirt of a weedy, trash-strewn vacant lot. The riderless Harley skidded on its side along the concrete and came to rest against the base of a tree. The woman, an athletic brunette in her thirties, held them down until two other Secret Service agents arrived, guns drawn.

"Not a move!" one of them snarled, his pistol fixed on them. "Take those helmets off slowly, you first."

Ellen and Matt did as he demanded.

"I'm a doctor," Matt said quickly.

"Please listen to us," Ellen said. "I'm a member of the commission that approved the vaccine they just gave to that baby in there. My name's Ellen Kroft. We've just discovered there's a serious problem with Omnivax. We need to speak to someone in authority while they're still on the air so that we can warn the public and keep more kids from being vaccinated. Hundreds of lives may be at stake. Please! I'm telling the truth. There's a dangerous contamination of the vaccine. Mrs. Marquand must be told about it."