Robin Cook - Outbreak

She had already turned down Ralph’s street, anxious to tell him her fears, when she realized that it wasn’t fair to involve him. She’d already taken advantage of Tad’s friendship, and by the next day, when he saw her name on the log, she would be a total pariah. Her one hope was that her two assailants would not report her presence in the lab, since they would then be implicated in the attempt on her life. Even so, she couldn’t count on their not devising a plausible lie about what had gone on. It would be their word against hers, and by tomorrow, her word wouldn’t mean much at the CDC. Of that she was sure. For all she knew the Atlanta police might be looking for her by morning.

Remembering her suitcase was still in the trunk of her car, Marissa headed for the nearest motel. As soon as she reached the room assigned her, she put in a call to Ralph. He answered sleepily on the fifth ring.

“I stayed up as long as I could,” he explained. “Why didn’t you come by?”

“It’s a long story,” said Marissa. “I can’t explain now, but I’m in serious trouble. I may even need a good criminal lawyer. Do you know of one?”

“Good God,” said Ralph, suddenly not sleepy. “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t want to drag you into it,” said Marissa. “All I can say is that the whole situation has become decidedly serious and, for the moment, I’m not ready to go to the authorities. I guess I’m a fugitive!” Marissa laughed hollowly.

“Why don’t you come over here?” said Ralph. “You’d be safe here.”

“Ralph, I’m serious about not wanting to involve you. But I do need a lawyer. Could you find me one?”

“Of course,” said Ralph. “I’ll help you any way I can. Where are you?”

“I’ll be in touch,” said Marissa evasively. “And thanks for being my friend.”

Marissa disconnected by pushing the button on top of the phone, trying to build up her courage to call Tad and apologize before he found out from someone else that she’d taken his access card. Taking a deep breath, she dialed. When there was no answer after several rings, she lost her nerve and decided not to wake him up.

Marissa took the letter from Lab Engineering from her pocket and smoothed it out. Grayson was going to be her next stop.

ALTHOUGH SHE WAS EXHAUSTED, Marissa slept poorly, tortured by nightmares of being chased through alien landscapes. When the early light coming through the window awakened her, it was a relief. She looked out and saw a man filling the coin-operated newspaper dispenser. As soon as he left, she ran out and bought the Atlanta Journal and Constitution.

There was nothing in it about the CDC, but halfway through the morning television news, the commentator said that there had been a problem at the Center. There was no mention of the maximum containment lab, but it was repeated that a technician had been treated at Emory University Hospital after inhaling phenolic disinfectant and then released. The segment continued with a phone interview with Dr. Cyrill Dubchek. Marissa leaned forward and turned up the volume.

“The injured technician was the only casualty,” Cyrill said, his voice sounding metallic. Marissa wondered if he was in Philadelphia or Atlanta. “An emergency safety system was triggered by accident. Everything is under control, and we are searching for a Dr. Marissa Blumenthal in relation to the incident.”

The anchorperson capped the segment with the comment that if anyone knew the whereabouts of Dr. Blumenthal, they should notify the Atlanta police. For about ten seconds they showed the photograph that had accompanied her CDC application.

Marissa turned off the TV. She’d not considered the possibility of seriously hurting her pursuers and she was upset, despite the fact that the man had been trying to harm her. Tad was right when he’d said that trouble seemed to follow her.

Although Marissa had joked about being a fugitive, she’d meant it figuratively. Now, having heard the TV announcer request information about her whereabouts, she realized the joke had become serious. She was a wanted person; at least by the Atlanta police.

Quickly getting her things together, Marissa went to check out of the motel. The whole time she was in the office, she felt nervous since her name was there in black and white for the clerk to see. But all he said was: “Have a nice day.”

She grabbed a quick coffee and donut at a Howard Johnson’s, and drove to her bank, which luckily had early hours that day. Although she tried to conceal her face at the drive-in window in case the teller had seen the morning news, the man seemed as uninterested as usual. Marissa extracted most of her savings, amounting to $4,650.

With the cash in her purse, she relaxed a little. Driving up the ramp to Interstate 78, she turned on the radio. She was on her way to Grayson, Georgia.

The drive was easy, although longer than she’d expected, and not terribly interesting. The only sight of note was that geological curiosity called Stone Mountain. It was a bubble of bare granite sticking out of the wooded Georgia hills, like a mole on a baby’s bottom. Beyond the town of Snellville, Marissa turned northeast on 84, and the landscape became more and more rural. Finally she passed a sign: WELCOME TO GRAYSON. Unfortunately it was spotted with holes, as if someone had been using it for target practice, reducing the sincerity of the message.

The town itself was exactly as Marissa had imagined. The main street was lined with a handful of brick and wood-frame buildings. There was a bankrupt movie theater, and the largest commercial establishment was the hardware and feed store. On one corner, a granite-faced bank sported a large clock with Roman numerals. Obviously it was just the kind of town that needed a type 3 HEPA Containment Hood!

The streets were almost empty as Marissa slowly cruised along. She saw no new commercial structures and realized that Professional Labs was probably a little ways from town. She would have to inquire, but whom could she approach? She was not about to go to the local police.

At the end of the street, she made a U-turn and drove back. There was a general store that also boasted a sign that read U.S. Post Office.

“Professional Labs? Yeah, they’re out on Bridge Road,” said the proprietor. He was in the dry-goods section, showing bolts of cotton to a customer. “Turn yourself around and take a right at the firehouse. Then after Parsons Creek, take a left. You’ll find it. It’s the only thing out there ’cept for cows.”

“What do they do?” asked Marissa.

“Darned if I know,” said the storekeeper. “Darned if I care. They’re good customers and they pay their bills.”

Following the man’s directions, Marissa drove out of the town. He was right about there being nothing around but cows. After Parsons Creek the road wasn’t even paved, and Marissa began to wonder if she were on a wild-goose chase. But then the road entered a pine forest, and up ahead she could see a building.

With a thump, Marissa’s Honda hit asphalt as the road widened into a parking area. There were two other vehicles: a white van with Professional Labs, Inc., lettered on the side, and a cream-colored Mercedes.

Marissa pulled up next to the van. The building had peaked roofs and lots of mirror glass, which reflected the attractive tree-lined setting. The fragrant smell of pine surrounded her as she walked to the entrance. She gave the door a pull, but it didn’t budge. She tried to push, but it was as if it were bolted shut. Stepping back, she searched for a bell, but there was none. She knocked a couple of times, but realized she wasn’t making enough noise for anyone inside to hear. Giving up on the front door, Marissa started to walk around the building. When she got to the first window, she cupped her hands and tried to look through the mirror glass. It was impossible.