Robin Cook - Contagion

After rounding Washington Square, the taxi driver went south on Broadway before turning east on Houston Street. At Eldridge he made a right.

Jack looked out at the scenery. He’d not had any idea where Broome Street was, although he’d assumed it was someplace downtown, south of Houston. That entire section of the city was one of the many parts of New York he had yet to explore, and there were many street names with which he was unfamiliar.

The cab made a left-hand turn off Eldridge, and Jack caught a glimpse of the street sign. It was Broome Street. Jack looked out at the buildings. They were five and six stories tall. Many were abandoned and boarded up. It seemed an improbable place to have a medical lab.

At the next corner the neighborhood improved slightly. There was a plumbing-supply store with thick metal grates covering its windows. Sprinkled down the rest of the block were other building-supply concerns. On the floors above the street-level stores were a few loft apartments. Otherwise, it seemed to be vacant commercial space.

In the middle of the following block, the cabdriver pulled to the side of the street. Five-fifty Broome Street was not Frazer Labs. It was a combination check-cashing place, mailbox rental, and pawnshop stuck between a package store and a shoe repair shop.

Jack hesitated. At first he thought he’d gotten the wrong address. But that seemed unlikely. Not only had he written it down, but Igor had mentioned it twice. Jack paid his fare and climbed from the cab.

Like all the other stores in the area, this one had an iron grille that could be pulled across its front at night and locked. In the window was a miscellaneous mixture of objects that included an electric guitar, a handful of cameras, and a display of cheap jewelry. A large sign over the door said: “Personal Mailboxes.” Painted on the door glass were the words “Checks Cashed.”

Jack stepped up to the window. By standing directly in front of the electric guitar, he could see beyond the display into the store itself. There was a glass-topped counter that ran down the right side. Behind the counter was a mustached man with a punk-rock hairstyle. He was dressed in military camouflage fatigues. In the rear of the shop was a Plexiglas-enclosed cubicle that looked like a bank teller’s window. On the left side of the store was a bank of mailboxes.

Jack was intrigued. The fact that Frazer Labs might be using this tacky shop as a mail drop was certainly suspicious if it was true. At first he was tempted to walk in and ask. But he didn’t. He was afraid by doing so he might hinder other methods of finding out. He knew that such personal mailbox establishments were loath to give out any information. Privacy was the main reason people rented the boxes in the first place.

What Jack truly wanted was not only to find out if Frazer Labs had a box there, but to entice a Frazer Labs representative to come to the shop. Slowly an elaborate plan began to form in Jack’s mind.

Being careful not to be seen by the clerk within the store, Jack quickly walked away. The first thing he needed was a telephone directory. Since the area around the pawnshop was comparatively deserted, Jack walked south to Canal Street. There he found a drugstore.

From the phone directory Jack copied down four addresses: a nearby uniform shop, a van rental agency, an office supply store, and a Federal Express office. Since the clothing shop was the closest, Jack went there first.

Once in the store Jack realized that he couldn’t remember what Federal Express courier uniforms looked like. But he wasn’t terribly concerned. If he couldn’t remember, he didn’t think the clerk in the pawnshop would know either. Jack bought a pair of blue cotton twill pants and a white shirt with flap pockets and epaulets. He also bought a plain black belt and blue tie.

“Would you mind if I put these on?” Jack asked the clerk.

“Of course not,” the clerk said. He showed Jack to a makeshift dressing room.

The pants were slightly too long, but Jack was satisfied. When he looked at himself in the mirror he thought he needed something else. He ended up adding a blue peaked cap to his outfit. After Jack paid for his purchases, the clerk was happy to wrap up Jack’s street clothes. Just before the package was sealed, Jack thought to rescue his rimantadine. With the symptoms he was feeling he didn’t want to miss a dose.

The next stop was the office-supply store, where Jack selected wrapping paper, tape, a medium-sized box, string, and a packet of “rush” labels. To Jack’s surprise he even found “biohazard” labels, so he tossed a box of them into his shopping cart. In another part of the store he found a clipboard and a pad of printed receipt forms. Once he had everything he wanted he took them to the checkout register and paid.

The next stop was the Federal Express office. From their supply stand Jack took several address labels with the clear plastic envelopes used to attach them to a parcel.

The final destination was a car rental agency, where Jack rented a cargo van. That took the most time, since Jack had to wait while someone went to another location to bring the van to the agency. Jack used the opportunity to prepare the parcel. First he put together the box. Wanting to give it the feeling of having contents, Jack eyed a triangular piece of wood on the floor near the entrance. He assumed it was a doorstop.

When no one at the rental counter was looking Jack picked up the object and slipped it into the box. He then crumpled up multiple sheets of a New York Post that he found in the waiting area. He hefted the box and gave it a shake. Satisfied, he taped it shut.

After the wrapping paper and the string were applied, Jack plastered the outside with “rush” and “biohazard” labels.

The final touch was the Federal Express label, which Jack carefully filled out, addressing it to Frazer Labs. For the return address Jack used National Biologicals’s. After throwing away the top copy, Jack inserted one of the carbons into the plastic envelope and secured it to the front of the box. He was pleased. The package appeared official indeed, and with all the “rush” labels, he hoped it would have the desired effect.

When the van arrived, Jack went out and put the package, the remains of the wrapping material, and the parcel containing his clothes in the back. Climbing behind the wheel, he drove off.

Before going back to the pawnshop Jack made two stops. He returned to the drugstore where he’d used the phone book and bought some throat lozenges for his irritated throat, which seemed to be getting worse. He also stopped at a deli for some takeout. He wasn’t hungry, but it was already afternoon, and he’d eaten nothing that day. Besides, after he delivered the package he had no idea how long he’d have to wait.

While driving back to Broome Street Jack opened one of the orange-juice containers he’d bought and used the juice to take a second dose of rimantadine. In view of his progressive symptoms he wanted to keep the drug’s concentration high in his blood.

Jack pulled up directly in front of the pawnshop, leaving the engine running and the emergency blinkers blinking. Clutching his clipboard, he got out and went around to the rear to get the package. Then he entered the store.

The door had bells secured to the top edge, and Jack’s entrance was heralded by a raucous ringing. As had been the case earlier, there were no customers in the shop. The mustached man in the camouflage fatigues looked up from a magazine. With his hair standing on end he had the look of perpetual surprise.

“I’ve got a rush delivery for Frazer Labs,” Jack said. He plopped the parcel down on the glass counter and shoved the clipboard under the man’s nose. “Sign there at the bottom,” he added while proffering his pen to the man.