Robin Cook - Outbreak

“I gave my secretary specific instructions,” explained Ralph. “In case you don’t know it, I’m concerned about you.”

“You’re sweet,” said Marissa, suddenly touched by Ralph’s sympathy. It undermined the tight control she’d been holding over her emotions. For a second she felt like the child who didn’t cry after a fall until she saw her mother.

“Are you coming home today?”

“That depends,” said Marissa, biting her lip and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I can talk to that lawyer today?” Her voice wavered.

“No,” said Ralph. “I called his office this morning. They said he had to go out of town but that he’s expected back tomorrow.”

“Too bad,” said Marissa, her voice beginning to shake.

“Marissa, are you all right?” asked Ralph.

“I’ve been better,” admitted Marissa. “I’ve had some awful experiences.”

“What happened?”

“I can’t talk now,” said Marissa, knowing if she tried to explain, she’d burst into tears.

“Listen to me,” said Ralph. “I want you to come here immediately. I didn’t want you going to New York in the first place. Did you run into Dubchek again?”

“Worse than that,” said Marissa.

“Well, that settles it,” said Ralph. “Get the next flight home. I’ll come and pick you up.”

The idea had a lot of appeal, and she was about to say as much when there was a knock on her door. Marissa froze.

The knock was repeated.

“Marissa, are you there?”

“Just a minute,” said Marissa into the phone. “There’s someone at the door. Stay on the line.”

She put the phone down on the night table and warily approached the door. “Who is it?”

“A delivery for Miss Kendrick.” Marissa opened the door a crack but kept the safety catch on. One of the uniformed bellmen was standing there, holding a large package covered with white paper.

Flustered, she told the bellman to wait while she went back to the phone. She told Ralph that someone was at her door and that she’d call back as soon as she knew what flight she was taking home to Atlanta that evening.

“You promise?” asked Ralph.

“Yes!” said Marissa.

Returning to the door, Marissa looked out into the hall again. The bellman was leaning against the wall opposite, still holding the package. Who could have sent “Miss Kendrick” flowers when as far as Marissa knew her friend was living happily on the West Coast?

Returning to the phone, she called the desk and asked if she’d gotten any flowers. The concierge said, yes, they were on their way up.

Marissa felt a little better, but not enough to take off the chain. Instead, she called through the crack, “I’m terribly sorry, but would you mind leaving the flowers? I’ll get them in a few minutes.”

“My pleasure, madam,” said the bellman, setting down the package. Then he touched his hat and disappeared down the hall.

Removing the chain, Marissa quickly picked up the basket and relocked the door. She ripped off the paper and found a spectacular arrangement of spring blossoms. On a green stake pushed into the Styrofoam base was an envelope addressed to Lisa Kendrick.

Removing it, Marissa pulled out a folded card addressed to Marissa Blumenthal! Her heart skipped a beat as she began to read:

Dear Dr. Blumenthal,

Congratulations on your performance this morning. We were all impressed. Of course, we will have to make a return visit unless you are willing to be reasonable. Obviously, we know where you are at all times, but we will leave you alone if you return the piece of medical equipment you borrowed.

Terror washed over Marissa. For a moment she stood transfixed in front of the flowers, looking at them in disbelief. Then in a sudden burst of activity, she began to pack her belongings, opening the drawers of the bureau, pulling out the few things that she’d placed there. But then she stopped. Nothing was exactly where she’d left it. They had been in her room, searching through her belongings! Oh, God! She had to get away from there.

Rushing into the bathroom, she snatched up her cosmetics, dumping them haphazardly into her bag. Then she stopped again. The implications of the note finally dawned on her. If they did not have the vaccination gun, that meant Tad was not involved. And neither he nor anyone else knew she was staying at the Essex House under a second assumed name. The only way they could have found her was by following her from the airport in Chicago.

The sooner she was out of the Essex House the better. After flinging the rest of her things into her suitcase, she found she had packed so badly it wouldn’t close. As she sat on it, struggling with the latch, her eyes drifted back to the flowers. All at once she understood. Their purpose was to frighten her into leading her assailants to the vaccination gun, which was probably just what she would have done.

She sat on the bed and forced herself to think calmly. Since her adversaries knew she didn’t have the vaccination gun with her, and were hoping she would lead them to it, she felt she had a little room to maneuver. Marissa decided not to bother taking the suitcase with her. She stuffed a few essentials in her purse and pulled the various papers she needed from her briefcase so she could leave that, too.

The only thing that Marissa felt absolutely certain of was that she would be followed. Undoubtedly her pursuers expected her to leave in a panic, making it that much easier for them. Well, thought Marissa, they were in for a surprise.

Looking again at the magnificent flowers, she decided she might well use the same strategy her enemies had. Thinking along those lines, she began to develop a plan that might give the answers that would provide the solution to the whole affair.

Unfolding the list of officers of the Physicians’ Action Congress, Marissa reassured herself that the secretary was based in New York. His name was Jack Krause, and he lived at 426 East Eighty-fourth Street. Marissa decided that she’d pay the man an unannounced visit. Maybe all the doctors didn’t know what was going on. It was hard to think of a group of physicians being willing to spread plague. In any case, her appearance on his doorstep should spread a lot more panic than any bouquet.

Meanwhile, she decided to take some steps to protect her departure. Going to the phone, she called the hotel manager, and in an irritated voice, complained that the desk had given her room number to her estranged boyfriend and that the man had been bothering her.

“That’s impossible,” said the manager. “We do not give out room numbers.”

“I have no intention of arguing with you,” snapped Marissa. “The fact of the matter is that it happened. Since the reason I stopped seeing him was because of his violent nature, I’m terrified.”

“What would you like us to do?” asked the manager, sensing that Marissa had something specific in mind.

“I think you could at least move me to another room,” said Marissa.

“I’ll see to it myself,” said the manager.

“One other thing,” said Marissa. “My boyfriend is blond, athletic looking, sharp features. Perhaps you could alert your people.”

“Certainly,” said the manager.

Alphonse Hicktman took one last draw on his cigarette and tossed it over the granite wall that separated Central Park from the sidewalk. Looking back at the taxi with its off-duty light on, Al could just make out George’s features. He was hunkered down, relaxed as usual. Waiting never seemed to bother the man. Looking across the street at the Essex House entrance, Al hoped to God that Jake was properly situated in the lobby so that Marissa could not leave unseen by a back entrance.

Al had been so sure that the flowers would send the woman flying out of the hotel. Now he was mystified. Either she was super smart or super stupid.