130: Clair was about ready to scream.
She had the absolute worst headache, and the three Advil she’d swallowed did nothing for it.
She stood in the middle of the cafeteria, surrounded by at least forty or fifty people—adults, children, medical staff—everyone Kloz had identified from all the documents they’d put together, everyone they’d tied to the dozens of obituaries planted by Bishop, all these people shouting either at her or at one another.
Nobody wanted to be here.
The faster she could get them out, the better.
She’d spent an hour with Kati Quigley and couldn’t shake the images of what the girl told her. She had just been told Larissa Biel was awake too. Larissa’s father tracked her down, said he searched all over the hospital for her. Larissa couldn’t speak. The doctors wanted her to rest her throat, but she was able to write. She began writing the moment she woke, and based on her father’s hysterical state, her story might be worse than Kati’s.
“I need everyone to shut up!”
A few heads turned. The noise softened for a moment, then roared back to life.
Clair climbed up a chair and onto one of the tables. “The sooner you all listen to me, the faster I can get you out of here!” She waved a stack of questionnaires above her head. “If you haven’t turned in the forms I passed out earlier, I need you to complete them and hand them in to one of the officers!”
A little girl screamed about five feet away from her, screamed for no reason other than to add to the chaos. The girl’s mother scooped her up and rocked her, but that did little good.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted Dr. Morton ducking back into the cafeteria. He saw her too and quickly turned away.
She left strict instructions that nobody was to leave this room, but the various medical professionals they rounded up into this makeshift protective custody seemed to treat her orders as more of a suggestion. Nearly everyone had come and gone at least once. Most had done so many times as their pagers and phones summoned them to various parts of the hospital. There was little she could do about this. In many cases, lives were ultimately at stake, not just their own, and none of these people were really obligated to stay. She was certain a few had snuck out and not come back at all.
Clair’s phone vibrated in her pocket.
She fished it out.
Sarah Werner.
She didn’t know a Sarah Werner. She would have to wait.
Clair pressed Decline. She noticed that she had missed two calls from Kloz.
She’d head back there next.
He was analyzing Upchurch’s file and may have found something. The lab was also working on a substance found in that needle sticking out of the apple. If they couldn’t reach her, they would pass the results on to him.
Her phone rang again.
Sarah Werner.
She hit the answer button and pressed the phone to her ear, covering the other ear with her hand. “This is Detective Norton!”
The voice on the other end was male, but she couldn’t make out what he said. It was too loud in here. “Hold on—give me a second!”
She climbed down off the table, pushed through the crowd and out into the hallway. When she reached the elevators, she tried again. “Sorry, this is Detective Norton. What can I do for you?”
“Do you have Paul Upchurch?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, Clair.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah.”
She turned. One of the patrolmen guarding the cafeteria was watching her. She took a few more steps down the hallway and turned her back on him. “Where are you?”
“I . . . I thought he had a bomb. He made me think he had a bomb, but it’s not a bomb. Not a bomb at all . . .”
“Sam, you’re not making sense. Who are you talking about? Upchurch? We got him. He doesn’t have a bomb.”
“Do you . . . do you have the girls? The two girls? Larissa Biel and the other one?”
“Yes, Sam. They’re safe. Both of them. They’ll be okay.”
Wait. Something was wrong.
This wasn’t right.
“Sam, how do you know about Larissa Biel? She disappeared after you left. We haven’t told anyone about Quigley. Have you been talking to Nash or that FBI agent, Frank Poole?”
“Oh, Clair. I fucked up. I fucked up bad.”
“What’s going on, Sam? Talk to me.”
Porter drew in a deep breath. “Is Paul Upchurch alive?”
“Yes. Espinosa’s team took him into custody without incident. Nash said it was like he was waiting for them. He went peacefully. On the ride to Metro, he had a seizure and passed out. They brought him here to Stroger, and he’s in surgery. Stage four brain cancer. It doesn’t look good.”
“Glioblastoma. He has a glioblastoma,” Sam said softly.
“How do you know that? How do you even know his name? Who have you been talking to?”
Silence.
“Sam?”
“Where are the girls?”
“They’re here too.”
“Christ.”
“Sam? What is it?”
Porter drew in another breath. “You need to isolate them. Isolate them and anyone who came into contact with them immediately. Don’t let anyone leave.”
“Why?”
Silence again.
“Sam, you’re scaring me.”
“Bishop said he injected both girls with a concentrated version of the SARS virus. He told me where he got the virus, and I believe him. He also said he left a sample for you in the hospital to confirm. He told me to tell you, ‘Snow White didn’t know better, either.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
“We found an apple with a syringe stuck into it,” Clair told him, the words catching in her throat. “The apple was sitting on top of Paul Upchurch’s file.”
“Clair, listen to me carefully. I’m going to give you a name. Are you ready?”
No.
“Go ahead.”
“Dr. Ryan Beyer. He’s a neurosurgeon at Johns Hopkins. He specializes in something called focused ultrasound therapy. Apparently this is some kind of treatment that can help Upchurch, but his insurance wouldn’t cover it. Even though it’s extremely effective, the treatment is still considered experimental. Bishop believes everything they’ve done so far has been a waste of time. He felt all the people involved in Upchurch’s treatment failed him—the doctors, nurses, insurance, medication providers. He targeted everyone involved because he felt the system murdered Upchurch. He thinks insurance took the cheap way out, he believes everyone else just went along with business as usual, and he is not willing to let this guy die.”
“How do you know all this?”
“As soon as we hang up, you need to locate this Dr. Beyer and get him there. Bishop said . . .”
Porter’s voice trailed off, then he came back. “Bishop said he has more of the virus, and if Upchurch dies, he’s going to inject random people around the city. Find this guy. Isolate anyone who came in contact with the girls. You need to contain this.”
“Are you with Bishop now?”
“I have to go, Clair. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”
Porter disconnected, and the line went dead.
All the voices in the cafeteria came to her then, a growing mass of angry voices seeping into the hallway past the two patrolmen trying to hold them back.
Clair looked down at the remaining questionnaires in her hand. She had made sure everyone had one right after she spent over an hour with Kati Quigley.
The forms slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
An ache roiled through her, deep in her bones.
Clair sneezed.