DECEMBER TWENTIETH
NUMBER OF CASES: 8,265
NUMBER OF DEATHS: 38
Alik Vosky stood in front of the window, staring out at a large high-rise complex to the north. After a minute or so, he walked over to the refrigerator and removed a mini bottle of vodka. He didn’t consider himself a drinking man, but today was an exception, even if it was only nine forty-five in the morning. He found a glass, poured the vodka over a few cubes of ice and downed it in one long gulp.
Setting the glass down, he reached into his pocket to make sure the mace pepper spray gun he’d purchased was facing with the handle pointing up.
He hadn’t slept very well the night before, his mind cluttered with anticipation regarding his meeting with Jack Wyatt. He had written out in precise detail how the events of their twenty-minute rendezvous would play out. A few minutes earlier he checked the desk drawer to make sure the duct tape and hunting knife were also where he’d have easy access to them. Once he had Dr. Wyatt restrained with the duct tape, he would take five minutes to explain why his death was an absolute necessity. They were both scientists; surely Wyatt would understand.
Vosky sat down on the love seat and waited for Wyatt’s arrival. He considered pouring himself another drink, but then dismissed the notion as ill advised. As he expected, at exactly ten o’clock, there were three quick knocks at his door. He came to his feet, crossed the room and opened the door.
“Dr. Wyatt. Thank you so much for coming,” he said with a broad smile, extending his hand. “Please come in. I have all my notes and research set up on the table.” Before closing the door, Vosky took a moment to place the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle.
“I’m honored you asked me to have a look at your work. I truly appreciate the opportunity.”
Vosky motioned to the opposite side of the suite. “As I mentioned on the phone, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. I understand you think the entire outbreak is related in some way to the flu vaccine.”
“That’s our theory.”
“Well, in that case, it seems as if we’ve both arrived at the same conclusion,” Vosky stated, a little surprised Wyatt hadn’t asked him how he knew about his flu vaccine theory. As far as he knew, the theory had not been made public. “I’ve read about Dr. Sinclair’s virus theory, and I have to tell you, I believe he’s wrong. Please, have a seat on the couch, I’ll get my notes and I’ll explain to you why.”
“If you don’t mind, I injured my back a few days ago. I’d prefer to stand.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you’re feeling better soon.” Vosky returned from the table and handed him a stack of papers. “So tell me, Dr. Wyatt. How did you arrive at your conclusion that the flu vaccine is the direct cause of GNS?”
“We were lucky.”
“You’re being too modest,” he said as a mysterious smile spread across his face. “It took me years to figure out what you did in just a week or so.”
“I’m not quite sure I understand. How could you have been working on this for years? The first cases of GNS were only diagnosed a couple of weeks ago.”
“That’s true. But based on research I conducted three years ago in Russia, I was able to create the disease in mice. You see, Dr. Wyatt, I engineered the entire thing.”
“I apologize, Doctor, but I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”
“Of course not. How could you? I genetically engineered GNS but I had no way of causing the epidemic in pregnant women until I figured out how to use the flu vaccine as the method of infection and transmission.” His smile broadened. “Don’t look surprised, Dr. Wyatt. I assure you, everything I say is true.” He pointed to the table. “It’s all there in my notes. Unfortunately, I doubt there’s a handful of scientists in the United States with the intellectual capacity to understand them.” Vosky casually sighed. “Everything was progressing just as planned until you got involved. As much as I respect you and admire your work, I’m sure you can appreciate why I can’t possibly allow you to continue your research. If you should somehow stumble across a means to stop the spread of GNS…well, it would drastically upset my plans.”
Vosky casually slid his hand into his pocket. Finding the mace pepper gun, he began to slide it out. He only looked down for a split second, but it was then that he felt a crushing grip on his wrist. Before he could offer any resistance, the man he believed to be Dr. Jack Wyatt jerked his hand out of his pocket. In one motion, he stepped under Vosky’s arm, twisted his wrist and took up a position behind him. In the process, he locked Vosky’s arm in an inescapable bar hold. A jolt of upward pressure on his wrist was all that it took to send the mace pepper gun sailing from his grip. Vosky cried out in pain, feeling as if the tendons in his wrist and elbow were being snapped and sheared off. His scream was still hanging in the air when the door to the hotel room crashed open. Four men dressed in plainclothes raced across the room. Five seconds later, Vosky was completely subdued.
“Dr. Vosky. I’m not Dr. Wyatt. My name is Westenson. I’m a special agent with the FBI,” he informed him as two of the other agents finished handcuffing him. “We’re going to get you the help you need, but right now we have to place you under arrest.”
When Vosky was securely in custody, he was read his rights and led away. One of the agents present was Maxime Barbier of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He had remained behind the other men and had not physically participated in the arrest.
Westenson reached into the inner pocket of his sports coat to check his recording device.
“Thank you,” Barbier said.
“We should be the ones thanking you. You figured out Vosky would eventually show up in Florida,” Westenson said. “When were you planning on heading back to Canada?”
“In a couple of days. I want to make sure there are no loose ends regarding extradition.”
“Do you think he’ll ever stand trial in Canada?”
“I doubt it. I spoke with the lead psychiatrist on the case last night. His team’s conclusion is that Vosky fits the pattern of a classic paranoid schizophrenic. Obviously, they reached that conclusion without interviewing and examining him. So, I’m sure the first order of business will be to get him into a psychiatric facility for an evaluation and to begin treatment. I don’t know what will happen after that.”
“Based on what occurred here this morning, I would have to assume in his delusional state he would have killed Dr. Wyatt.”
By this time a team of forensic technicians had entered the room. Having signed out to his partner, Westenson motioned to Barbier and they left.
“I think the FBI owes Dr. Wyatt a personal thanks for his cooperation,” Westenson said. “Without him informing us about the phone call he received from Vosky, this could have ended in a disaster. I think I’ll take a ride over to the hospital later to thank him.”
“I’d like to go with you if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Westenson said, as they started down the hall. “I don’t know about you, but this kind of work always makes me hungry. How about getting something to eat? The FBI is treating.”
With a grin, Barbier extended his hand. The doors to the elevator opened and they stepped on.