Barrett struggled to focus as Hobbs floored the damaged Crown Vic, with its dangling front bumper and crumpled hood. Carla was in the back on Hobbs’s cell leaving desperate messages on her ex-husband’s answering machine, as the radio and scanner kept up a steady stream of speculation, fear and urgency. Albomar was just twenty minutes from the Ashokan Reservoir, and at any other point in her life she might have appreciated the vibrant green foliage and quaint, twisty roads of the Catskills. Now as they raced through small towns with too many antiques shops, stop signs, artist collectives and deliberately homey diners with names like ‘Dottie’s Place’ and the ‘Come on Inn’, she longed for a multi-lane highway.
‘How could they lose him?’ she muttered, staring out the window, wondering at the grinding clash of metal that came from the front right tire. She thought of George and the rage that Glash held for him. Was he still alive?
Hobbs turned down the radio and upped the scanner. He switched frequencies. A weird, high-pitched noise blasted through the speaker. ‘They’ve scrambled it.’
Before she could ask for details he’d jammed on the brakes and taken a hard left. The car shuddered as bare metal hit rock and he turned down the gravel road toward the Ashokan Reservoir.
‘Shit,’ said Carla from the back, as they were surrounded on all sides by the sounds of sirens and a cavalcade of emergency response vehicles – cops, feds, large white trailers emblazoned with the Homeland Security crest, one with Mobile Decontamination emblazoned on the side.
‘Come on.’ Hobbs pounded the dash as the wheel on the Crown Vic nearly lurched from his hands, sending them off into a ditch. The rear tires skidded back to the right.
Barrett held her breath as he steadied the car and made a beeline for a black Taurus in the dirt parking lot. It was a scene of pandemonium, the sirens – everywhere and every type – emergency personnel unloading equipment and suiting up in white, blue or orange hazmat suits, all set against the breathtaking beauty of the clear blue waters and sloping mountains that surrounded the man-made reservoir’s two massive basins.
Hobbs brought the Vic to a lurching halt. He looked at Barrett. He was unshaven and covered with dust; she noticed the blood and bruises on his knuckles. ‘Any chance you two would stay in the car?’ he asked.
‘Nice try,’ Barrett said, her hand already on the handle.
The three got out. Even in the shade it was over ninety, sweat popped on her back and between her breasts as she stuck close to Hobbs. They headed toward Corbin Zane, who was in the process of suiting up in a powder-blue hazmat suit while simultaneously attempting to speak into a voice-activated field phone strapped to his ear. Next to him was his driver, Pete Griffin – an eager ex-cop with less than a year in the agency – who was trying to steady him.
Zane shouted into the receiver and seemed to be having problems with the suit as he hopped unsteadily on one foot.
‘Here,’ Barrett said, placing a hand on the stocky man’s other shoulder. She could hear another man’s directives through the headset. ‘Answers, Zane, we need answers and solutions. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Zane shot back as Carla joined in, squatting down to help Zane get his left foot secure in the suit.
‘Don’t think of cost,’ his superior instructed.
‘Yes, sir.’
Barrett felt a twinge of sympathy for this sweaty man who had the desperate look of somebody in way over his head, and then she caught the smell – like burning meat, rubber and gasoline. Her head whipped around to find the source: a billowing plume of dark-gray smoke rose over a dense stand of pines.
‘Thanks,’ Zane said, as he looked at the hood and rebreather apparatus. ‘I hate those things,’ he said.
‘What have they found?’ Hobbs asked, as several large, covered military personnel carriers appeared in the parking lot. Armed National Guardsmen in white hazmat suits sprang from the trucks and proceeded to jog off in all directions.
In the distance Barrett caught a similar scene at the narrow aqueduct that divided the two basins. Families and hikers were being rounded up as more sirens, more trucks continued to fill the lot.
‘Oh, crap,’ Zane said, and watched a news vehicle from Channel Eight turn the camera in their direction. ‘Get them suits,’ he barked to his driver. ‘The last thing I need is reporters.’ And then under his breath, ‘Course, they were the first to get here.’
‘What did they find?’ Hobbs repeated.
Zane looked at Hobbs as though seeing him for the first time, and then at Barrett and Carla. ‘Get on suits and I’ll show you.’ Griffin ran back carrying four orange suits, just as a well-known Asian-American reporter began walking quickly in their direction, a cameraman at her side.
Barrett, having taken part in multiple disaster drills, braced against the Taurus and yanked up her suit. She zipped the front, popped on the hood and tested her rebreather.
Zane looked at the rapidly approaching reporter. ‘Time to shit or get off the pot,’ he muttered inside his sweltering suit, and then told Griffin, ‘Get that bitch out of here.’
The news lady had picked up her pace and was running in high heels. ‘Dr Conyors, can you comment on Richard Glash’s motive?’
‘How do you want me to do it, boss?’ the newly deputized young man asked.
‘Get a bunch of Guardsmen and quarantine them. Be polite, because they’re going to raise bloody hell, just get them out of my face.’
‘Dr Conyors,’ the reporter continued, less than thirty feet away, ‘what does Richard Glash intend to do?’
Barrett said nothing as the reporter thrust a microphone in her direction. She looked through her face shield as armed Guardsmen surrounded them.
‘What are you doing?’ the reporter shouted, as they closed around her and her cameraman.
‘You’ll need to be quarantined,’ Zane said. ‘It’s for your own protection. Turn off the camera … do it now.’
‘You can’t do this!’ she shrieked.
A windowless National Guard van approached. ‘Excuse me,’ one of the Guardsmen said politely, as he forcibly took custody of the camera.
Zane smiled as she was directed, at gunpoint, to enter the van along with her colleague. The smile then vanished. ‘Come on,’ he said, leaving Griffin to oversee the handling of the news team. ‘I need to show you something.’
As the four of them strode rapidly across the parking lot, his voice-activated field phone rang. Zane answered. ‘Good … yes. Really, detergent? I’ll make certain that it happens immediately.’ He said, ‘Griffin!’ into the phone, and then waited for him to pick up. ‘Pete, you’re to deploy a Guard squadron immediately. There’s a shipment of laundry detergent on its way. It’s to be dumped into the reservoir at thirty-foot intervals around the perimeter. Then put some on boats and dump it everywhere. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Report back when it’s completed.’
‘You’re going to sterilize the reservoir,’ Barrett commented.
‘Yes,’ Zane said, not completely understanding the reason for the orders he’d just received and passed on.
‘Sterilize how?’ Hobbs asked.
Zane continued to lead them toward the reservoir’s edge, but slowed to hear her answer.
‘The cell walls of bacteria,’ Barrett explained, ‘are composed of fat and protein. Detergent dissolves the fat and breaks the cell apart. That’s why the best way to prevent the spread of disease in hospitals, is through hand-washing with soap and water. It’s a simple solution; if in fact the bacteria were hardy enough to survive the temperature of the reservoir, the detergent, in high enough concentration, should destroy them.’
‘Excuse me,’ Zane said, as he pulled out his cell. He called Griffin. ‘Pete, however much detergent they send, have them come back with ten times more.’
‘It can’t hurt,’ Barrett commented.
‘Right,’ Zane said. ‘Better safe …’ And he brought them into a clearing by the water’s edge. ‘This is what I wanted you to see.’
Barrett’s heart pounded and the tears came. ‘George,’ she mouthed as she stared down the ravine at the incinerated remains of Glash’s last getaway car. The smoke billowed thick and black, but it was the smell … the unmistakable stench of cooking human flesh. Her mask fogged up as she tried to suppress the sobs. She felt a gloved hand on her back … it was Hobbs. She pictured George – Zane told her that Glash and the two hostages had all perished.
‘Oh, God!’ Carla whispered, standing to her right. ‘I’m so sorry, Barrett.’
‘I wanted you to see this,’ Zane shouted. He was a good forty feet from the spot where the car had zoomed over the gorge. He was on the dam wall looking back at them. ‘Dr Conyors … Ms Phelps, I need you to see this.’
Barrett felt numb and horribly alone, despite Hobbs’s closeness and obvious concern. She walked over to Zane and looked down at a flat boulder strewn with broken glass. She recognized the bottle caps and the general shape of the bottlenecks. Without hesitation, she said, ‘It looks staged.’
Hobbs nodded.
‘What do you mean? Why would you say that?’ Zane asked, clearly not happy with her answer.
‘It looks like the bottles he showed us.’ She turned to Carla.
‘Yes,’ Carla said, as her eyes darted around the perimeter of the reservoir, taking into account the white-suited Guardsman holding rifles at thirty-foot intervals.
‘You said there were two bottles of plague,’ Zane pressed. ‘There are two broken bottles here. What I need to know is, are these them? Do I have confirmation?’
Barrett studied the glass shards and the screw tops. ‘They might be,’ she said.
‘What’s wrong?’ Hobbs asked. ‘You don’t sound convinced.’
Barrett found it hard to think straight – too much grief, too tired – but something wasn’t right. She kept seeing George’s face, his concern, his love in the background.
Zane snorted. ‘I think that’s the understatement of the day. Are these the bottles or not?’
‘Here,’ she said, looking around. ‘Glash is … was … not stupid. He wasn’t working alone, and I can’t imagine this is what Albert would have instructed him to do.’
‘What?’ Zane said. ‘What are you talking about? Clarence Albert is locked away. Are you saying the two were in contact, and that Albert was feeding Glash information? That seems far-fetched.’
‘No … not exactly. He has somebody on the outside helping him. But just this piece … dumping all of the bacteria into the reservoir … something’s not right here …’ Barrett looked around, her eyes drawn back down the ravine. A crime team dressed in clumsy white suits was awkwardly working its way down the side of the gorge, using ropes and hooks, as the fire burned itself out. It would be hours before they’d be able to pull the three blackened bodies from the wreckage. Even from the distance, Barrett could just make out traces of the collar on George’s overcoat. She thought of his daughters and his beloved granddaughter, Faye, who he made no pretence about spoiling with lavish outings to FAO Schwartz, and a totally out-of-character trip to Disney. What would she tell them? She strained to see Glash, his body slumped over the wheel of the burning wreck. He seemed so much smaller in death; his powerful physique somehow diminished by death and the fire.
‘Dr Conyors?’ Zane asked. ‘Do you have something concrete, or is this all speculation? I don’t mean to be rude, and I know you’ve been through a great deal … but if these are the bottles then …’
‘When I was with him,’ Barrett said, not taking her eyes off the burning car, ‘he was completely focused on being the most famous killer of all time. Everywhere he took us, he wanted me to watch and to record what he was doing, then he’d dial a television station and leave his cell phone as a kind of homing device.’
‘Yes,’ Zane said, ‘in two of the crime scenes – three if you include this one – the media was there ahead of the authorities. What has that got to do with the bottles? You said they’re the ones he showed you.’
‘They do look like them,’ Carla said, her eyes on Barrett.
‘They’re standard glass milk bottles,’ Barrett commented, a voice screaming in her head that this was all wrong. ‘How hard would it be to have more than two … what if his showing them to us was deliberate? What if he knew that we’d be here now, saying, “Yes, you’ve got it all”? The truth is, you have three bodies at the bottom of a ravine. It looks like Glash’ – her voice caught – ‘George Houssman and I don’t know who the third is … but what if it’s not them?’ As the words came, a wave of hope washed through her. ‘What if that’s not them, but just three more dead people? Richard Glash has no concern for human life and—’
‘Dr Conyors,’ Zane said, cutting her off, ‘we have half a dozen witnesses who say they saw the car go over the edge. It’s pretty clear that Richard Glash and his hostages are dead. He even called the media to let them know.’
‘No,’ Barrett said, abruptly. ‘You don’t get it. Richard Glash always has two possible options. This doesn’t fit. There’s no plan B. This is just a diversion. What if that’s not him?’ And to herself she let the wish take shape: What if that’s not George? What if he’s still alive? ‘Richard Glash wanted to – wants to – do something very big.’
Zane was clearly pissed. ‘You don’t think this is big?’
‘It’s too easy,’ Barrett said. ‘I don’t think he’s done.’ She stared at the bodies, and looked around for how she might be able to get down to them. ‘He knew that he might die … but not like this. He said there was a chance that he’d survive. How do you survive this? There’s no chance.’ She turned to Zane. ‘You’ve got to go after him.’
‘Richard Glash is dead,’ Zane repeated.
‘Have you gotten a positive ID?’ Hobbs asked. He stared at the painfully slow descent of the crime-scene team. ‘You haven’t even had a chance to examine the bodies.’
‘We have eye witnesses,’ Zane said.
‘Of a car going over a cliff,’ Carla added.
‘This could have been staged,’ Hobbs said. ‘You don’t have a positive ID?’
‘There is no doubt,’ Zane said, almost shouting. ‘Richard Glash and his two hostages are dead. I’m sorry if this is unpleasant news to you; but it’s a fact. I appreciate your assistance, but unless you have anything concrete to add, I have quite a lot on my plate right now.’
‘That’s not Glash,’ Barrett said, squinting through her mask. ‘His upper body was more muscular. You can’t stop looking for him.’
Zane’s headset rang. ‘It’s the CDC,’ he commented, as he stepped away.
Hobbs tapped Barrett on the back of her suit. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Yes,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘They’ve got this wrong.’
‘Move fast,’ he said, ‘before they notice.’
With Carla Phelps following close, the trio shed their suits in a trailer marked ‘decontamination’ and assuring the young Guardsman posted at the entry to the parking lot that they had Zane’s blessing to be on their way. They fled the scene in Hobbs’s banged-up Crown Vic.
Corbin Zane wrapped up his conversation with a top governmental scientist working for the biohazard unit at the CDC. He then took a call from his agency’s director and another from a member of the Chiefs of Staff. Despite the sweltering heat and the incredible pressure he was under Zane had never felt more alive. He’d reassured his supervisor that both bottles of bacteria had been dumped by Glash at the reservoir and were being rapidly neutralized. ‘Glash is dead, thank God. And sadly,’ he’d added, lowering his voice and lending it a touch of grief, ‘Martin Cosway, my boss and a great man, a true patriot and asset to the Department of Homeland Security, along with Dr George Houssman, also perished.’
Zane swelled under the praise of his director. ‘You’re doing strong work in a tough situation, keep it up,’ he’d said.
When he’d finished with the last half-dozen calls he stopped to look around for Dr Conyors, who’d try to shoot holes in his slam dunk … probably not able to deal with the death of the old man; she’d seemed pretty choked up about that. He looked around for her and the other two. He was certain she was still there, but with everyone dressed the same it was hard to tell. He scanned the periphery, admiring the regimented placement of the Guardsmen around the reservoir, and pleased to see that large buckets of white powdered laundry detergent were being rapidly dumped into the crystal clear water. Small, motorized pontoon boots were getting lowered into the reservoir. He was handling things well, everything was under control. Look like you know what you’re doing, he reminded himself. He lifted up the cell and said, ‘Griffin?’ It buzzed a couple of times before Pete answered. ‘Give me a status report.’
He listened as his eager underling told him that his orders were being followed to the letter. As an afterthought, Zane asked, ‘You seen that lady doctor and the other hostage … they were with an NYPD detective?’
‘Yeah,’ Griffin said, ‘they went back through the checkpoint. They got out of here a good fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago.’
‘What? Under whose orders?’
‘Don’t know,’ Griffin said, ‘but I’ll find out ASAP.’
‘Good man, we cannot have them running around.’ He thought of what Barrett had said, that she didn’t think Glash was dead, that he was in fact just warming up. Zane had a terrifying moment’s doubt: What if she was right? What if she went to the press?
‘Pete,’ he said, making his voice strong and authoritative, ‘this is a priority. Dr Conyors, Carla Phelps and Detective Ed Hobbs need to be tracked down and quarantined; they have been in contact with the plague virus. Do you understand? This is a top priority.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good man. I’ll want a progress report in thirty minutes. I repeat, they represent a significant risk for the spread of the virus. They must be tracked down, they must be quarantined … if they resist, force may be used.’
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Griffin asked, ‘How much force?’
‘Whatever is necessary.’