Michael Palmer: A Heartbeat Away

On board the seaplane, Angie looked down from her seat by the pilot.

“I told you I didn’t like large groups of people, Dr. Rhodes,” she said into her mouthpiece. “What is that mob doing down there on the pier?”

“I’ll speak to him about crowd control,” Griff said.

Three weeks had passed since the last of the victims of WRX3883 had been treated and, after a day, sent through decontamination, out of the Capitol, and back to their lives. Although he would have preferred his role remain anonymous, Griff knew that would never be the case. Angie had spent most of the time at her keyboard, writing a series of articles for The Post and a proposal for what her new literary agent said would be the book of the century.

Before Angie began her writing, though, and before Griff accepted his newly acquired celebrity; and before he submitted to extensive debriefing from the president and his advisors, including Homeland Security Secretary Paul Rappaport, the two of them bundled into her silver Miata and drove to a small farm near Beckley, West Virginia.

“Melvin were never much for keeping in touch,” Kyle Forbush told them over a lovingly prepared dinner of pork, beans, boiled greens, and homemade bread, “but he called from time to time and came home every other Christmas or so. We knew from early on that he were more, I don’t know, unusual, than the other boys his age. If he had stayed and worked in the coal mine like we expected him to, chances are he would have been beaten to a pulp in the first month. He did his last year in high school living with my sister in Morgantown, and then put hisself through bug school—that’s what I called it—working in a video store. He were a real nice boy and a good son. We’re sad to hear of his passing.”

Forbush and his wife knew surprisingly little of the events at the Capitol, but they were pleased and impressed that President Allaire and the senators from West Virginia had declared an upcoming Wednesday Melvin Forbush Day, and would all be traveling to Beckley to celebrate.

The pilot swooped in with practiced ease, and tied up at the pier. Thirty minutes later, Griff and Angie were alone on their mattress, wearing nothing but sunscreen.

“Considering that I made this place up,” he said, “it’s hard to believe it really exists.”

“I’m proud that you allowed Congress to do something for you in addition to the medal and the citation. I’m also pleased that because our trip is privately donated—a little from each of them and from the Cabinet—I don’t have to write an exposé about it. I’m also glad the president paid for the mattress himself.”

“It’s a little out of character for me to say he owes me,” Griff said, stroking a wisp of her hair from her forehead, “but he does.”

In a contrite, impassioned speech to the world, Allaire had come completely clean about the WRX3883 virus and his role in developing it. He admitted to making choices under pressure that he might otherwise not have made, including the unjust imprisonment of the man who had subsequently saved his life and that of his family and so many others. He also promised his quick resignation should public opinion demand it.

In an affirmation of honesty from politicians, his next approval poll was the highest of any during his presidency.

Griff and Angie made love that afternoon, and again that night beneath an unending sea of stars. Days passed during which they slept and healed, and swam and ate and read, and drank coconut milk. Over that time, they spoke almost nothing of Kalvesta nor the Capitol.

On the fifth or sixth day, they were surprised by the appearance of a thin, white and tan dog—thirty pounds or so, and an indefinable mix of breeds. He ambled between the palms, and settled down for an hour just off the foot of the Kluft Beyond Luxury Sublime mattress. He allowed himself to be patted, and nuzzled them without being intrusive. Then, in no particular hurry, he left the way he had come. The next day, he returned and departed in the same way … and the next.

On the tenth day, after breakfast and well before their visitor made his appearance, Angie moaned happily and nestled herself tightly against Griff’s chest.

“I haven’t asked you because you never brought it up,” she said, “but have you given any more thought to Allaire’s offer to have you take over as the director of the CDC?”

“It’s in Atlanta,” he replied.

“I know that, you big goof. I would move there if you took the job.”

He kissed her on the mouth.

“And I would move to Washington for you. In fact, that’s what I’m going to do if you want me to. It would only be for four years, but that will be enough time for you to finish your book and for us to decide if it’s appropriate for us to lend our gene pools to the world.”

This time she kissed him—long and deeply.

“Now that would be something to write about,” she said, beaming. “But what do you mean, four years?”

Griff’s tanned face crinkled in the grin that Angie loved the most.

“I’ve been saving something for you,” he said, “and this seems as good a time as any to spring it on you. I made a deal with Allaire.”

“A deal?”

“At the moment, he’s coping with a presidential-sized load of guilt, so I decided to take advantage of it. If you say yes, you’re looking at the newest member of the President’s Cabinet—the first secretary of the Department of Animal Welfare.”

Angie threw her arms around him.

“Oh, baby, that’s incredible! Absolutely wonderful news. Do you know what the job will entail?”

“I was sort of hoping you’d help me fill in the blanks on the trip home.”

“My brain’s already exploding. You can deal with cruelty and exotic pets, and zoo standards, and the feeding and housing of premarket hoofed livestock and chickens, and a tax credit for neutering and spaying, and of course experimentation, and—”

“Hey, not until the ride home.”

She held his face close to her own.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll think of something we can do in the meanwhile. One thing, though.”

“Yes?”

“Have you considered that creation of this post will put you squarely at number eighteen on the ladder of presidential succession?”

That evening, Jarvis H’malea made his scheduled every-third-day visit to the inn. He seemed especially pleased that there was nothing either of his guests needed that he hadn’t already provided for them.

“Tell me something,” Griff asked, after the steward had shared some grilled sea bass and a delicious bottle of chardonnay with them on the verandah, “your dog has been a welcome visitor at this end of the island almost every day. What’s his name?”

“I have no idea,” H’malea replied. “And he’s not my dog. In fact, if he stays on Coco Island much longer, he’s going to be the death of me.”

“Explain,” Angie said. “Where could he possibly have come from?”

“A few days before you showed up, he showed up. Strolled into our house just like he always lived there. No boats are allowed inside the reef, and of course, no one other than guests are permitted on the island. But I can’t prevent boats from anchoring outside the reef. Almost certainly, the dog came from one of them. I sent several radio messages, and my wife has been listening for one ever since, but there’s been nothing. Not a word. And for the last four days there’s been no one anchoring.”

“So why is he going to be the death of you, Jarvis?” Angie asked.

“I can’t breathe when I’m within five feet of him. Some sort of allergy, I guess. I can’t stop wheezing and coughing. Say, I don’t mean to sound forward, but as you can tell, I’m desperate. I don’t suppose you two would like to take him along with you when you leave.”