Robin Cook - Vector

Jack turned around to look at his officemate, who’d also turned to face him. Their eyes met. Chet was wide-eyed with disbelief. “Really!” he said. “I’m amazed, too.”

“Amazed about what?” Jack demanded.

Chet held up his hand toward Jack while continuing to talk into the phone: “Thanks for calling back, Dr. Simsarian. It’s fascinating, and we’ll be interested to hear the follow-up. I’ll be sure to tell Dr. Stapleton about the results and convey your gratitude.”

Chet hung up his phone.

“Don’t tell me the rats were positive for botulinum toxin!” Jack said.

“You guessed it,” Chet said. “He was flabbergasted. I am, too. What really made you even consider the idea in the first place?”

“Purely because it was the same neighborhood,” Jack said.

“Connie Davydov must have eaten one of the rats,” Chet said with a sinister chuckle.

Jack laughed, too, then commented that only two medical examiners could find such a concept laughable.

“I wonder if an infected rat would put out the toxin in its feces?” Chet asked.

“That’s even a more disgusting idea,” Jack said. “I suppose we could ask the veterinary epidemiologists. More realistically, I wonder if Connie Davydov put the rest of whatever it was she ate that was contaminated with the toxin down her disposal.”

“Yeah, but enough to kill that many rats?” Chet questioned suspiciously.

“I know it sounds far-fetched,” Jack admitted. “But you know how potent that stuff is supposed to be.”

“Well, it will be interesting to hear if the vet epidemiologists can figure it out.”

Jack got up and stretched. “I think I’ve had it for the night. I need the relaxation of a good hard game of B-ball.”

“See you tomorrow,” Chet said.

“Take care, sport,” Jack said. He grabbed his bomber jacket from behind the door. He slipped into it as he walked down to the elevator. Remembering the fabulous weather from his afternoon jaunt to Brighton Beach, he was again looking forward to a relaxing bike ride.

“At least we know he’s still in there,” Steve said.

“True,” Curt commented. “The question now is when is he going to come out? I don’t know how long the troops will keep away from each other’s throats.” Just after Curt had hung up from calling Jack, Carl, Clark, Kevin, and Mike had gotten into another heated argument about the guns that had almost ended in fisticuffs. Curt had had to collect the weapons; they were now all on the floor at Yuri’s feet.

“That’s him on the bike!” Yuri shouted. He frantically pointed to Jack’s figure as the medical examiner rounded the corner of Thirtieth Street and powered his way up First Avenue.

“Jesus, he’s moving!” Curt said. He snapped off the emergency brake and accelerated out into the traffic. The driver of a taxi the maneuver had cut off leaned on his horn in frustration.

“Let me out!” Yuri urged.

“Not now!” Curt cried. “I don’t want to lose the bastard.”

Although the traffic was heavy, it was moving in sync and at a fairly rapid pace.

“The guy’s a freaking dynamo,” Curt complained. He drove aggressively, knowing it was the only way to close in on Jack. He was totally unconcerned about grazing other vehicles or having others run into his side or rear.

“Holy shit!” Steve swore as Curt cut off another taxi and there was a dull thump followed by the screech of metal against metal down the side of the truck. In the back of the van the loose pipe lengths were bouncing around, making a terrible racket. The troops were busy fending off not only the pipes but also a minor blizzard of nuts, bolts, and PCB pipe fittings that were raining down from where they were stored in shelves along both sides of the vehicle’s interior. The inevitable New York City potholes were making the situation desperate.

“Yuri, get out of the goddamned seat and let Steve sit there,” Curt yelled while fighting with the steering wheel.

“While we’re moving?” Yuri questioned. He was holding on with white knuckles.

“Of course while we’re moving,” Curt yelled.

Yuri swallowed nervously and then tried to rotate off the seat. Steve had moved over to give him room. But at the same time, Curt saw the suggestion of an opening in the neighboring lane and swerved to take advantage of it. The movement threw Yuri into him. Curt responded by swearing and fending Yuri off with a forearm before struggling to retain control of the racing vehicle.

While Yuri clawed his way into the back of the truck, Steve swung into the seat. Just ahead he could see Jack’s back. The medical examiner was pumping furiously. Jack was inching ahead between a speeding beer delivery truck and a Federal Express van.

“God damn it!” Curt yelled, as he could see Jack was about to slip in front of the vehicles. Curt was directly behind the beer truck. He leaned on his horn in frustration.

“Get a Glock!” Curt yelled to Steve. “I’m going to try to come alongside the bastard so you can nail him. The trouble is, I’m going to have to find a way to get around this truck.”

“What is this guy?” Steve questioned as he picked up one of the automatics and snapped off the safety. “A professional bicycle racer? He’s going faster than the traffic!”

The United Nations building loomed up on the right.

Curt cut into the neighboring lane. There was another cacophony of horns and shouts from behind. Curt pressed the accelerator to the floor and the van gained on the beer truck. He had to let up on his speed as he came within a few feet of a taxi, but he’d moved ahead enough to spot Jack, who was now directly even with them.

Steve lowered his window.

“What do you think?” Curt yelled at Steve.

“I could shoot him, but I wouldn’t be confident where I’d hit him,” Steve shouted back. “We’re bouncing around too much.”

“I’d cut in front of the truck if this goddamn taxi in front of us would move his ass,” Curt cried. As it was, they were slowly gaining on the beer delivery vehicle.

“Hold on!” Curt yelled when he decided he had the opportunity. He cut the wheel sharply to the right. The van skidded slightly before rocketing ahead of the truck and then swerving in the opposite direction. The driver of the truck slammed on his brakes, causing his tires to screech in protest. Curt fought to keep the van from fishtailing as Steve leaned the gun out the window. They’d come directly alongside of Jack.

Before Steve could draw a bead, Jack surprised them by braking suddenly himself and disappearing from view.

“What the hell?” Curt questioned. He eased up on the accelerator. The van slowed. “Where the hell did he go?”

“Behind us, I think,” Steve said. He stuck his head out the window and looked back.

Seconds later Jack appeared right next to Curt’s driver’s side window. To Curt’s astonishment the doctor flipped him the finger. Curt swore and struggled to get his window down while yelling for Steve to shoot the bastard.

Steve leaned across Curt’s lap, but Jack had moved forward.

“Hold on,” Curt yelled. He pressed on the accelerator and the van leaped ahead. But just as they were coming abreast of Jack for the second time, Jack swung left into a clearer lane. Curt swore and moved left himself, but the lane was occupied. There was another thump as a taxi hit the side of the van. In the mirror Curt saw the taxi skid sideways to end up perpendicular to the oncoming traffic. Instantly there was a tremendous collision and a multi-vehicle pileup.

“Christ!” Steve exclaimed. He could see what had happened through the rear window of the van.

“Hold on, everybody, he’s going left again,” Curt yelled. No sooner had Curt changed lanes himself than Jack made a wide, arcing turn into Fifty-first Street heading west.