Carnival Of Mayhem Part 9

Smythe led the MP's up to the fifth floor, where Woods was staying. One of the sergeants yelled a warning, waited a few seconds, and opened the door. Everybody went inside.

Smythe entered last. Immediately, he could tell from the neatly made bed that Woods had not slept in it. All the towels in the bathroom were still folded and dry. There was a suitcase on the floor. Smythe checked the luggage tags to confirm he was in the right room, and he was.

"He's not here, sir," one of the MP's said.

Smythe wanted to slap the man. "I can see that. Go back to the hospital and search for him there. Maybe the other laboratory technicians know where he is. I'll stay here in case he shows up."

"Sir?"

"Don't worry about me. I can handle one flabby, little civilian by myself. I'll hold him here until you come back."

"Yes, sir."

"Get moving," Smythe ordered. "Woods is a traitor. We can't let him get away."

The MPs left.

He sat on a chair. The room was warm and quiet, and he was extremely tired. His eyes kept drooping despite his best efforts to stay alert. He decided that if he didn't take a nap, he would pa.s.s out.

He kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed, still fully clothed. If Woods reappeared, the noise would definitely wake him up.

"Sir?" a voice said. "Captain Smythe? What are you doing in my room?"

Smythe found himself in a strange bed. He was groggy and confused. Slowly, memories returned, strange and disturbing memories. He recalled a pair of dark eyes full of death.

He sat up.

Seeing Woods made him wonder whether he was still sleeping. The technician wore a red suit with black velvet lapels. Red lipstick marked both cheeks.

"I was waiting for you."

"Why?" Woods replied in a nervous tone.

"Where were you all night? Wait, I can guess. They told me you were a degenerate gambler. You went straight to the nearest casino and lost every penny in that briefcase. Seventy grand, was it?"

Woods' eyes opened wide. He took a step backwards towards the door.

"No, you don't!" Smythe yelled.

He jumped off the bed and caught Woods by the wrist before he could escape. They scuffled as Smythe dragged the smaller man away from the door.

"I know everything!" Smythe said. "You sold secrets! You betrayed your country! You filthy traitor."

Woods grabbed a lamp and swung it violently. Smythe had to release him to dodge out of the way, but he made sure to block the escape route to the door.

"I didn't have a choice," Woods said. "They had me by the b.a.l.l.s."

"There is no excuse for treason."

Woods backed up. He looked around and his gaze settled on a sliding door leading to a tiny balcony.

"We're on the fifth floor," Smythe said.

"I won't go to prison."

"You're going to jump instead? That's suicide."

Woods opened the sliding door and looked out.

Smythe was so angry his blood was pounding in his temples. Woods represented everything wrong with the modern Army. He was weak and corrupt. Money was his only motivation. Men like that could destroy a proud nation.

"You're pathetic," Smythe said. "The cash didn't even last one night. Were you planning to earn more by selling more secrets? Is treachery your full-time job now?"

Woods climbed onto the balcony railing and threw his leg over.

"Go ahead and kill yourself," Smythe said. "Save everybody the trouble of giving you a fair trial. When they execute you, I hope it hurts."

Instead of throwing himself off the balcony, Woods started climbing down the other side. Smythe realized that he intended to drop onto the balcony below and escape that way. Woods wasn't committing suicide at all!

"No!" Smythe charged forward.

Woods panicked and fell back. Smythe ran over and looked down in time to see Woods hanging by his fingertips.

"Grab my hand!" Smythe reached down.

Woods tried, but his arm was too short and he only grasped air. His grip failed. Seemingly in slow motion, he plunged to a concrete patio below and struck head first. Blood and brains splattered in a crescent pattern. Smythe gasped.

A woman and two girls stood near enough to the impact to catch a bit of spray on their clothes. All three looked up and had a clear view of his face. The girls started screaming hysterically.

In a moment of terrible clarity, he realized he was screwed. The witnesses would report Smythe had pushed Woods off the balcony. The military police would report they had left Smythe in Woods' room, and Smythe had appeared emotionally disturbed at the time. It was a clear case of murder, and there was no evidence to prove otherwise.

He didn't doubt the Army would take this opportunity to crucify him. Certain high ranking generals still remembered the embarra.s.sing Quryah incident. Word would filter down that the best prosecutors should be a.s.signed to the case, and no plea bargain should be offered. After a perfunctory trial, Smythe would receive the maximum sentence.

He had to make a choice. If he followed the rules, he would go to prison for a crime he didn't commit. Salvaging his career and his reputation was impossible. If he fled now, he would never stop running.

He turned and ran.

Chapter Seven.

"I only had a few hours to look at the files," Ramirez said, "and there are a lot of files, so this is just a very preliminary a.n.a.lysis. Take it with a grain of salt."

Ethel had called a meeting at a sushi restaurant in Naperville. She, Aaron, and Marina ate a late lunch while Ramirez delivered his report.

"The government doctors call the illness 'PRooFS,' for Progressive Respiratory Failure Syndrome."

"What do the O's stand for?" Aaron said.

Ramirez shrugged. "Nothing, I guess."

Aaron ate a piece of hamachi nigiri. The flavor was delicious and subtle, without a hint of fishiness. Ethel had chosen the best restaurant in the area, of course. She would never feed her team inferior food. j.a.panese instrumental music tw.a.n.ged in the background.

"The symptoms are specific and consistent," Ramirez said. "There is very slow disintegration of the muscle tissue in the chest cavity. After a month or two patients lose the ability to draw air into their lungs and need a respirator to survive. A few weeks later, their heart stops. Direct electrical stimulation can keep the heart beating for another week, but that's all."

"Is there any treatment?" Ethel asked.

"No, ma'am, and as far as I can tell, the doctors tried everything imaginable, even a complete heart-lung transplant. It gave the patient an extra month, but then the symptoms returned and the new heart failed. This disease is incredibly persistent."

Aaron yawned and rubbed his bleary eyes. He and Marina had slept during the morning, but it wasn't enough. He needed a full night in his own bed to feel right again.

"Can they test for it?" Ethel said.

Ramirez nodded. "The patients have distinct markers in their metabolites."

"Then they can screen everybody."

"Unfortunately, no, ma'am. The test is expensive and complicated, and most hospitals don't have the right equipment. I don't think the government wants to start a panic by screening for a new disease that can't be treated, either."

Aaron was thirsty and wanted more tea so he looked around for a waitress. The interior of the restaurant was decorated with bamboo screens, which provided a little privacy for each table. The screens were unnecessary now because there were no other customers. It wasn't a place where people came to eat a mid-afternoon meal. He spotted a waitress and held up his tea cup suggestively. She nodded.

"Still," Ethel said, "it sounds like the doctors are making progress."

"A little," Ramirez said, "but the outbreaks keep happening, each one bigger than the last. The only good news is that the illness doesn't spread like a regular disease. I keep coming back to Aaron's crazy theory that poison is the cause. It may be the least unlikely explanation."

"Then we have to find the source of the poison."

"What should we look for, ma'am? It could be a couple of psychotic biochemists in a pickup truck, or terrorists backed by a foreign government. Maybe industrial waste is leaking into the water supply. The source could even be a natural phenomenon. The disease progresses very slowly, which means the victims could've received a lethal dose weeks or months before showing the first symptoms."

The waitress arrived and refilled everybody's tea cups. n.o.body spoke until she was gone.

"We have to start making a.s.sumptions," Ethel said, "or we'll be paralyzed by indecision. Let's just say a person or persons are responsible for PRooFS. Somehow, they are committing ma.s.s murder. What conclusions can we draw?"

"First," Aaron said, "the bad guys must be very smart, or they would've been caught by now. The government has spent millions of dollars and thousands of man-hours on this investigation. I'm sure no stone was left unturned."

"Smart and well organized," Marina said. "Hundreds of people across several states have died. Murder on that scale isn't easy to pull off."

"True," Ethel said, "and the method is still a mystery. The best medical minds can't figure it out."

"This kind of operation doesn't happen overnight, ma'am," Aaron said. "It takes years of work, a lot of money, and plenty of expertise. We're looking for a large organization with an insane agenda. I propose we let the government worry about the medical causes and effects. We should try to find the bad guys responsible, if they exist. After all, sniffing out homicidal organizations is what we do best."

She furrowed her brow. "Good thinking. Ramirez, go back to headquarters and work with Edward. Search the internet. Every nutcase has a website these days. You just need to find the right one."

"Yes, ma'am."

Ethel looked at Aaron and Marina. "You two will stay and talk to the locals. Somebody must've seen or heard something useful."

"Who should we talk to, ma'am?" Marina said.

"I'm hoping the bad guys made friends while they were here, and lunatics usually seek the company of other lunatics. It helps them feel normal."

"So, we want the fringe, paranoid, schizophrenic community of Naperville."

"Exactly." Ethel nodded.

Aaron spotted a mailbox with the number 5051 but no name. "That's it!" he pointed.

He and Marina were driving down a gravel road a few miles west of Naperville. It was farm country and there were more barns and silos than houses. The fall harvest had come and gone, so except for scattered hay, the land was bare dirt. They had pa.s.sed several signs advertising Halloween pumpkins.

Aaron turned onto a rutted dirt driveway. His little sedan bounced around despite his best efforts at avoiding the deeper holes. He pulled up to a white, single-story house. A hand painted sign above the front door had the words "SOLICITORS, TRESSPa.s.sERS, SPIES, AND GOVERNMENT AGENTS WILL BE SHOT!"

"Friendly guy," Marina said. "You remember our cover story?"

She wore a beaded, green dress with silk ta.s.sels on the hems. A green clip with a fairy princess on it held back her red hair.

"Of course," Aaron said.

He had chosen a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots for this outing. The words "f.u.c.k the Man" were printed across his chest, and there was a picture of a fist with the middle finger raised.

They stepped out into the chilly air. Aaron quickly put on a black, leather jacket but it wasn't quite warm enough. Marina had a green cloth coat that went down to her knees.

She hung back as he went to the front door and knocked.

A moment later, a male voice answered without opening the door. "Who are you?"

"Are you Stan Hyatt?" Aaron said.

"Depends."

"We're friends. We heard you knew the truth."

There was a pause. "I know some things."

"My girlfriend and I are tired of the lies. We're tired of a corrupt government, which uses s.p.a.ce microwaves to block our s.e.x. We're tired of a tax system that lines the pockets of the oligarchy while it crushes American freedoms. We're tired of leaders that use starvation and herpes to enslave the ma.s.ses." Aaron glanced at Marina, and she nodded encouragingly.

The door opened a crack. A man with a long, gray beard and a patch over one eye peered out. He wore a World War II helmet.

"Friends?" he asked.