Contagious Page 100

Sanchez looked at the gloves in Ridder’s hand as he continued to wipe his skin. “That’s not going to f.u.c.king help me now, you a.s.shole.”

Ridder took a step back. “Well, I don’t want AIDS.”

“You said AIDS doesn’t have blisters!”

“I don’t f.u.c.king know, okay?”

The burning sensation grew. Sanchez had vacationed in Jamaica once, with his second wife, and while swimming had put his left hand through a jellyfish. That’s what this felt like, a persistent stinging/burning pain that steadily increased.

“Oh man,” Sanchez said. “That was so G.o.dd.a.m.n sick. s.h.i.t, this burns.”

Ridder stared at the hand. “Uh, Chez,” he said. “Remember this morning’s

Ridder stared at the hand. “Uh, Chez,” he said. “Remember this morning’s briefing? About that s.h.i.t in g.a.y.l.o.r.d?”

Sanchez stopped wiping. His eyes widened in fear.

“Flesh-eating s.h.i.t? You think I got that flesh-eating s.h.i.t?”

“I don’t know, man,” Ridder said. “Just relax.”

“You f.u.c.king relax!”

“Look,” Ridder said. “We’ve got that test kit, that swab thing. Go use it on that guy.”

“Me? I think I’m f.u.c.ked up enough here.”

“Well, if he’s got it, then you already got it,” Ridder said. “Why the f.u.c.k should I get it?”

Flesh-eating disease . . . was that supposed to burn? If not, what did burn? This came out of a dead man’s skin, for G.o.d’s sake.

“Dude, this hurts,” Sanchez said. “You’ve got gloves on, just check him!”

“No f.u.c.king way. Let the paramedics do it, they’re trained for that stuff.”

Sanchez could already hear the sirens. The ambulance would be here within minutes, but he couldn’t wait. He had to know now. “Come on, man,” he said. “Just do the test.”

He took a step toward Ridder. In the blink of an eye, Ridder was backpedaling, drawing his weapon and pointing it at Sanchez.

“You stay the f.u.c.k away from me,” Ridder said. “Stay right there!”

Sanchez did just that. His own partner, drawing down on him. This was messed up. This was how people got shot. “Okay,” he said. “I’m not moving. Just relax, Ridder, and stop pointing that gun at me.”

Ridder didn’t stop, not until the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over.

PUTTIN’ ON HER WALKIN’ SHOES . . .

Margaret and Dew sat in the computer room, watching the flat-panel screens. Note to self, Dew thought. Never let the sentence “How can it get worse?” enter your mind again.

Murray had just sent the live feed from Detroit’s Channel 7 News Eye in the Sky. The screen showed a road that ran parallel to a strip of snow-covered trees. Looked like an abandoned railroad track that had long since grown in. Near an area where the old track ran under an overpa.s.s, Dew saw a pair of unmarked blue semi trailers.

Another MargoMobile. Parked in the open. In a major city. s.h.i.t on a saltine wouldn’t have tasted this bad.

The caption at the bottom of the screen said, POSSIBLE CASE OF FLESHEATING DISEASE IN DETROIT.

Dew put Murray on speakerphone.

“Okay, Murray,” Dew said, “we’ve got the picture. What’s going on?”

“Be quiet and listen up,” Murray said. “I’ve got something else going on over here, something big, so I don’t have much time. We have a positive cellulose test in Detroit, but it is not—I repeat, not —a triangle infection. This might be similar to the Donald and Betty Jewell case. No ID on the man, fingerprints came up negative. Right now he’s a John Doe. As you can see, the story has already leaked, so we’re in damage-control mode. I’m sending a chopper for Margaret and her team.”

“But I can’t leave now,” Margaret said. “We killed that woman to get hatchlings, and now we’ve got them.”

“I don’t have time for your opinion,” Murray said. “Just listen. The man didn’t die from the disease. He was shot in the throat sometime last night. He has not—I repeat, has not —decomposed. The cop who found the body was checking for a pulse when some kind of blister popped. Paramedics didn’t go near the body, but they tested the cop a few hours later, and he was positive.”

“It’s contagious,” Margaret said quietly. “It finally happened.”

“That’s why I need you there ASAP,” Murray said. “The math is simple. We have triangle hosts killing people in g.a.y.l.o.r.d, so Ogden stays. Dawsey is the only one who can talk to the captive hatchlings, and since I’m not about to move those things across the state or let Dawsey out of Dew’s sight, they both stay. This Detroit case doesn’t have a triangle infection that we know of. No triangles means no gate, so we need to evaluate before we take any drastic action.”

“I agree,” Dew said.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, either,” Murray said. “Margaret, it will attract too much attention to drop you right on the site, so we’re landing you at Henry Ford Hospital a few miles away. You’ll drive in. The Margo-Mobile crew already has the John Doe and the cop loaded in. They will move the rigs someplace secure.”

“You can’t move them,” she said. “At least not far. We need to check the area, see if the contagion vector is still there.”

“Margaret,” Murray said, “you’re looking at feed from a news helicopter. We have to get the trailers out of sight.”

“Then move them someplace close,” Margaret said. “If there’s one case, others could be in the same area.”

“Fine,” Murray said. “I’ll get someone on it. Dew, get Dawsey to talk to those hatchlings again. I don’t care what it takes. Cut off his finger if you have to. I need to address something else, so neither of you call me unless you have actionable information.”

Murray hung up.

“Wow,” Margaret said. “I’ve never heard him like that before.”

“I have,” Dew said. “It means he’s been up all night working on something big. What you just heard was the normally calm, cool and collected Murray Longworth stressed out to the max.”