Robin Cook - Contagion

“I’m keyed up, all right,” Phil admitted.

“Relax, kid,” Twin said. “All you have to do is walk in there and not say a word to anyone. Keep the gun in your pocket and don’t take it out until you are standing right in front of the doc. Then draw it out and pop! Then get your black ass outta there and away we go. It’s that easy.”

“What if the doc runs?” Phil asked.

“He won’t run,” Twin said. “He’ll be so surprised he won’t lift a finger. If a dude thinks he might be knocked off he has a chance, but if it comes out of the blue like a sucker punch, there’s no way. Nobody moves. I’ve seen it done ten times.”

“I’m nervous, though,” Phil admitted.

“Okay, so you’re a little nervous,” Twin said. “Let me look at you.” Twin reached over and pushed Phil’s shoulder back. “How’s your tie?”

Phil reached up and felt the knot in his tie. “I think it’s okay,” he said.

“You look great,” Twin said. “Looks like you’re on your way to church, man. You look like a damn banker or lawyer.” Twin laughed and slapped Phil repeatedly on the back.

Phil winced as he absorbed the blows. He hated this. It was the worst thing he’d ever done, and he wondered if it was worth it. Yet at this point he knew he didn’t have much choice. It was like going on the roller coaster and clanking up that first hill.

“Okay, man, it’s time to blow the mother away,” Twin said. He gave Phil a final pat, then reached in front of him to open the passenger-side door.

Phil got out onto rubbery legs.

“Phil,” Twin called.

Phil bent down and looked into the car.

“Remember,” Twin said. “Thirty seconds from the time you go in the door, I’ll be pulling up to the restaurant. You get out of there fast and into the car. Got it?”

“I guess so,” Phil said.

Phil straightened up and began walking toward the restaurant. He could feel the pistol bumping up against his thigh. He had it in his right hip pocket.

When Jack had first met Terese he’d had the impression that she was so goal oriented, she’d be incapable of small talk. But he had to admit he’d been wrong. When he’d started to tease her unmercifully about her inability to leave her work behind, she’d not only borne the brunt of the gibes with equanimity but had been able to dish out as good as he gave. By their second glasses of wine they had each other laughing heartily.

“I certainly didn’t think I’d be laughing like this earlier today,” Jack said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Terese said.

“And indeed you should,” Jack said.

“Excuse me,” Terese said as she folded her napkin. “I imagine our entrées will be out momentarily. If you don’t mind, I’d like to use the ladies’ room before they get here.”

“By all means,” Jack said. He grasped the edge of the table and pulled it toward him to give Terese more room to get out. There was not much space between tables.

“I’ll be right back,” Terese said. She gave Jack’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t go away,” she teased.

Jack watched her approach the maître d’, who listened to her and then pointed toward the rear of the restaurant. Jack continued to watch her as she gracefully weaved her way down the length of the room. As usual, she was wearing a simple, tailored suit that limned her slim, athletic body. It wasn’t hard for Jack to imagine that she approached physical exercise with the same dogged determination she devoted to her career.

When Terese disappeared from view Jack turned his attention back to the table. He picked up his wine and took a sip. Someplace he’d read that red wine was capable of killing viruses. That thought made him think of something he hadn’t considered but perhaps should have. He’d been exposed to influenza, and while he felt confident given the measures he was taking regarding his health, he certainly didn’t want to expose anyone else to it, particularly not Terese.

Thinking about the possibility, Jack reasoned that since he didn’t have any symptoms, he could not be manufacturing virus. Therefore, he could not be infective. At least he hoped that to be the case. Thinking of influenza reminded him of his rimantadine. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the plastic vial, extracted one of the orange tablets, and took it with a swallow of water.

After putting the drug away, Jack let his eyes roam around the restaurant. He was impressed that every table was occupied, yet the waiters seemed to maintain a leisurely pace. Jack attributed it to good planning and training.

Looking to the right, Jack saw that there were a few couples and single men having drinks at the bar, possibly waiting for tables. Just then, he noticed that the canvas curtain at the entrance was thrown aside as a smartly dressed, young, African-American man stepped into the restaurant.

Jack wasn’t sure why the individual caught his attention. At first he thought it might have been because the man was tall and thin; he reminded Jack of several of the men he played ball with. But whatever the reason was, Jack continued to watch the man as he hesitated at the door, then began to walk down the central aisle, apparently searching for friends.

The gait wasn’t the high-stepping, springy, jaunty playground walk. It was more of a shuffle, as if the man were carrying a load on his back. His right hand was thrust into his trouser pocket while his left hung down stiffly at his side. Jack couldn’t help but notice the left arm didn’t swing. It was as if it were a prosthesis instead of a real arm.

Captivated by the individual, Jack watched as the man’s head swung from side to side. The man had advanced twenty feet when the maître d’ intercepted him, and they had a conversation.

The conversation was short. The maître d’ bowed and gestured into the restaurant. The man started forward once again, continuing his search.

Jack lifted his wineglass to his lips and took a sip. As he did so the man’s eyes locked onto his. To Jack’s surprise the man headed directly for him. Jack slowly put his wineglass down. The man came up to the table.

As if in a dream Jack saw the man start to raise his right hand. In it was a gun. Before Jack could even take a breath the barrel was aimed straight at him.

Within the confines of the narrow restaurant the sound of a pistol seemed deafening. By reflex Jack’s hands had grasped the tablecloth and pulled it toward him as if he could hide behind it. In the process he knocked the wineglasses and the wine bottle to the floor, where they shattered.

The concussion of the gunshot and the shattering of glass was followed by stunned silence. A moment later, the body fell forward onto the table. The gun clattered to the floor.

“Police,” a voice called out. A man rushed to the center of the room, holding a police badge aloft. In his other hand he held a.38 detective special. “No one move. Do not panic!”

With a sense of disgust Jack pushed the table away. It was pinning him against the wall. When he did so the man rolled off the side and fell heavily to the floor.

The policeman holstered his gun and pocketed his badge before quickly kneeling at the side of the body. He felt for a pulse, then barked an order for someone to call 911 for an ambulance.

Only then did the restaurant erupt with screams and sobs. Terrified diners began to stand up. A few in the front of the restaurant fled out the door.

“Stay in your seats,” the policeman commanded to those remaining. “Everything is under control.”

Some people followed his orders and sat. Others stood immobilized, their eyes wide.

Having regained a semblance of composure, Jack squatted beside the policeman.

“I’m a doctor,” Jack said.