Robin Cook - Outbreak

“Do you know you are trespassing?” said an unfriendly voice.

Marissa’s hands dropped guiltily to her sides.

“This is private property,” said a stocky, middle-aged man dressed in blue coveralls.

“Ummm… ,” voiced Marissa, desperately trying to think of an excuse for her presence. With his graying crew cut and florid complexion, the man looked exactly like a red-neck stereotype from the fifties.

“You did see the signs?” asked the man, gesturing to the notice by the parking lot.

“Well, yes,” admitted Marissa. “But you see, I’m a doctor…” She hesitated. Being a physician didn’t give her the right to violate someone’s privacy. Quickly she went on: “Since you have a viral lab here, I was interested to know if you do viral diagnostic work.”

“What makes you think this is a viral lab?” questioned the man.

“I’d just heard it was,” said Marissa.

“Well, you heard wrong. We do molecular biology here. With the worry of industrial espionage, we have to be very careful. So I think that you’d better leave unless you’d like me to call the police.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Marissa. Involving the police was the last thing she wanted. “I certainly apologize. I don’t mean to be a bother. I would like to see your lab, though. Isn’t there some way that could be arranged?”

“Out of the question,” the man said flatly. He led Marissa back to her car, their footsteps crunching on the crushed-stone path.

“Is there someone that I might contact to get a tour?” asked Marissa as she slid behind the wheel.

“I’m the boss,” said the man simply. “I think you’d better go.” He stepped back from the car, waiting for Marissa to leave.

Having run out of bright ideas, Marissa started the engine. She tried smiling good-bye, but the man’s face remained grim as she drove off, heading back to Grayson.

He stood waiting until the little Honda was lost in the trees. With an irritated shake of his head, he turned and walked back to the building. The front door opened automatically.

The interior was as contemporary as the exterior. He went down a short tiled corridor and entered a small lab. At one end was a desk, at the other was an airtight steel door like the one leading into the CDC’s maximum containment lab, behind which was a lab bench equipped with a type 3 HEPA filtration system.

Another man was sitting at the desk, torturing a paper clip into grotesque shapes. He looked up: “Why the hell didn’t you let me handle her?” Speaking made him cough violently, bringing tears to his eyes. He raised a handkerchief to his mouth.

“Because we don’t know who knows she was here,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Use a little sense, Paul. Sometimes you scare me.” He picked up the phone and punched the number he wanted with unnecessary force.

“Dr. Jackson’s office,” answered a bright, cheerful voice.

“I want to talk to the doctor.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s with a patient.”

“Honey, I don’t care if he’s with God. Just put him on the phone.”

“Who may I say is calling?” asked the secretary coolly.

“Tell him the Chairman of the Medical Ethics Committee. I don’t care; just put him on!”

“One moment, please.”

Turning to the desk, he said: “Paul, would you get my coffee from the counter.”

Paul tossed the paper clip into the wastebasket, then heaved himself out of his chair. It took a bit of effort because he was a big man and his left arm was frozen at the elbow joint. He’d been shot by a policeman when he was a boy.

“Who is this?” demanded Dr. Joshua Jackson at the other end of the phone.

“Heberling,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Dr. Arnold Heberling. Remember me?”

Paul gave Arnold his coffee, then returned to the desk, taking another paper clip out of the middle drawer. He pounded his chest, clearing his throat.

“Heberling!” said Dr. Jackson. “I told you never to call me at my office!”

“The Blumenthal girl was here,” said Heberling, ignoring Jackson’s comment. “She drove up pretty as you please in a red car. I caught her looking through the windows.”

“How the hell did she find out about the lab?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Heberling. “The fact of the matter is that she was here, and I’m coming into town to see you. This can’t go on. Something has to be done about her.”

“No! Don’t come here,” said Jackson frantically. “I’ll come there.”

“All right,” said Heberling. “But it has to be today.”

“I’ll be there around five,” said Jackson, slamming down the receiver.

Marissa decided to stop in Grayson for lunch. She was hungry, and maybe someone would tell her something about the lab. She stopped in front of the drugstore, went in and sat down at the old-fashioned soda fountain. She ordered a hamburger, which came on a freshly toasted roll with a generous slice of Bermuda onion. Her Coke was made from syrup.

While Marissa ate, she considered her options. They were pretty meager. She couldn’t go back to the CDC or the Berson Clinic Hospital. Figuring out what Professional Labs was doing with a sophisticated 3 HEPA filtration system was a last resort, but the chances of getting in seemed slim: the place was built like a fortress. Perhaps it was time to call Ralph and ask if he’d found a lawyer, except…

Marissa took a bite of her dill pickle. In her mind’s eye she pictured the two vehicles in the lab’s parking lot. The white van had had Professional Labs, Inc., printed on its side. It was the Inc. that interested her.

Finishing her meal, Marissa walked down the street to an office building she remembered passing. The door was frosted glass: RONALD DAVIS, ATTORNEY AND REAL- TOR, was stenciled on it in gold leaf. A bell jangled as she entered. There was a cluttered desk, but no secretary.

A man dressed in a white shirt, bow tie and red suspenders, came out from an inside room. Although he appeared to be no more than thirty, he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses that seemed almost grandfatherly. “Can I help you?” he asked, with a heavy Southern accent.

“Are you Mr. Davis?” asked Marissa.

“Yup.” The man hooked his thumbs through his suspenders.

“I have a couple of simple questions,” said Marissa. “About corporate law. Do you think you could answer them?”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Davis. He motioned for Marissa to come in.

The scene looked like a set for a 1930s movie, complete with the desk-top fan that slowly rotated back and forth, rustling the papers. Mr. Davis sat down and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. Then he said: “What is it you want to know?”

“I want to find out about a certain corporation,” began Marissa. “If a business is incorporated, can someone like myself find out the names of the owners?”

Mr. Davis tipped forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Maybe and maybe not,” he said, smiling.

Marissa groaned. It seemed that a conversation with Mr. Davis was going to be like pulling teeth. But before she could rephrase her question, he continued: “If the company in question is a public corporation, it would be hard to find out all the stockholders, especially if a lot of the stock is held in trust with power of attorney delegated to a third party. But if the company is a partnership, then it would be easy. In any case, it is always possible to find out the name of the service agent if you have in mind to institute some sort of litigation. Is that what you have in mind?”

“No,” said Marissa. “Just information. How would I go about finding out if a company is a partnership or a public corporation?”