Infected

39.

Clarence Otto stopped the car. Cell phone pressed to her ear, Margaret looked out the window at a neat, two-story brick house on Miller Avenue. White shutters and trim. Dead-looking ivy branches covering one side of the house-in the summer that side would be a flat wall of leafy green, the very epitome of old-school collegiate housing.

Amos sat in the backseat, clearly annoyed at the whole process. While he was indefatigable in the confines of a hospital, being outdoors in the cold brought out his surly side.

“We just pulled up to the girl’s house,” Margaret said into her cell phone.

“Tell Otto to stay sharp,” Dew said. “I’ve got six bodies over here, it’s spinning out of control. Your backup team is there?”

Margaret turned in the seat to look back, even though she knew what she’d see. Gray van, unmarked, parked right behind them.

“It’s here. We’ll let Otto lead, of course, but I think we’re okay-the girl just had the Morgellons fibers, no triangles.”

“Fine, just stay sharp,” Dew said. “These guys are psychos. And as soon as you’re done, get over here.”

“What have you found?”

Dew paused. “Seems our college boy was an artist. I think you’ll want to see this.”

“All right, Dew. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Dew hung up without another word.

“What did he say?” Amos asked.

“Six more bodies,” Margaret said absently. “The other side of town. We’re heading over there when we’re done here.”

In the backseat Amos hung his head. This was wearing on him, Margaret knew. Behind his sunglasses, Agent Clarence Otto showed no sign of emotion, but the muscles in his jaw twinged slightly.

“Are you ready?” Otto asked. She nodded.

They approached the house, Margaret and Amos keeping two steps behind Otto. Otto knocked on the door with his left hand-his right hand hidden inside his jacket, resting on the hilt of his weapon.

There was little chance of danger. Cheng’s report showed he had given the girl a careful examination, and would have certainly seen anything resembling a triangle or triangle-to-be. They still had to keep things as quiet as possible-if they kicked in the door to find a perfectly normal family, a little bit more of the secrecy would die, and Americans would be a little bit closer to discovering the nightmare blossoming in their midst.

Snow covered the ground and the leafless trees. Most of the houses on this street had white lawns, thick with undisturbed snow. Some, like this one, had lawns trampled over and over by tiny feet, the snow’s beauty crushed by the tireless energy of playing children.

The door opened. In the doorway stood a little angel-blond pigtails, blue dress, sweet face. She even held a rag doll, for crying out loud.

“Hello, sweetie,” Otto said.

“Hello, sir.” She didn’t look afraid at all. Nor did she look happy or excited, just matter-of-fact.

“Are you Missy Hester?”

She nodded, her curly pigtails bouncing in time.

Otto’s empty right hand came out of his jacket, slowly dropping to hang at his side.

Margaret stepped to Otto’s right, so the girl could see her clearly. “Missy, we’re here to see your mother. Is she home?”

“She’s sleeping. Would you like to come in and sit down in the living room?”

She stood aside and gestured with her hand. A regular little hostess.

“Thank you,” Otto said. He walked inside, head turning quickly as he seemed to scan every inch of the house. Margaret and Amos followed. It was a small, simple affair. Aside from a scattered layer of brightly colored toys, the place looked immaculate.

Missy led them into the living room, where Margaret and Amos sat on a couch. Otto chose to remain standing. The living room gave a view of the stairs, the front door and another doorway that led into the dining-nook area of a kitchen.

“How about your daddy?” Margaret said. “Is he home?”

Missy shook her head. “He doesn’t live with us anymore. He lives in Grand Rapids.”

“Well, honey, can you go wake up your mom? We need to talk to her and to you.”

The girl nodded, curls jiggling, then turned and ran up the stairs.

“She seems perfectly healthy,” Amos said. “We’ll take a good look at her, but she doesn’t seem to show any signs of infection.”

“Maybe cutting out the threads works in the new strain,” Margaret said. “Morgellons cases have been going on for years without any triangle growths. Something had to have changed.”

“They’re just being built better,” Otto said. “No disrespect to either of you, but you think too much. Murray hit it right on the head. Sometimes the most obvious answer is just that, the answer.”

“Occam’s razor does seem to apply,” Amos said.

“What’s that?” Otto asked.

Amos smiled. “Never mind. It just means you’re probably right.”

All three of their heads turned as a little boy appeared in the open doorway to the kitchen. He couldn’t have been more than seven, maybe eight-he wore a cowboy hat, gun holsters on his hips, chaps with fringe and a slightly crooked black mask-the full-on Lone Ranger costume. Otto tensed at the sight of the six-shooters in the boy’s hands, but each had a barrel capped with bright orange plastic. Cap guns. Toys.

“Hold it right there, pardners,” the boy said. He made his little voice all gravelly, trying to sound tough, but he just sounded cute.

Otto laughed. “Oh, we’re holding it, Lone Ranger. Is there a problem?”

“Not if you keep your hands where I can see ’em, mister.”

Otto raised his hands to shoulder height, palms out. “You’ll get no trouble from me, Ranger. No trouble ’tall.”

The boy nodded, the very picture of seriousness. “Well, let’s just keep it that way, and we’ll all get along reallllll nice like.”

Missy bounced down the stairs, making far more noise than should have been possible out of a tiny, six-year-old body.

“My sister will take real good care of y’all,” the boy said. “I got me some business to attend ta.”

“Be safe, Ranger,” Otto said.

“Cute kid,” Amos said as the boy slid back into the kitchen and shut the door behind him. They heard him banging around, yelling at imaginary robbers.

But something about the boy gave Margaret a bad feeling. They’d rushed things, been sloppy-they hadn’t even checked to see how many people were in the family. The father was gone. One brother. Was there another? Any sisters?

“Mommy won’t wake up,” Missy said. “I’ve been trying for a couple of days, but she won’t wake up. And she smells funny.”

Margaret felt a coldness flush through her stomach.

The girl took a step forward. “Are you from the gov-ren-ment?”

Amos slowly stood up.

Otto calmly walked between the girl and Margaret. “Yes, honey, we’re from the government. How did you know?”

“Because my brother said you would come.”

Margaret wanted out of there. Now. They had come for the girl, but it never crossed their minds that someone else in the house might be infected.

“Oh, no,” Amos said. “Do you smell natural gas?”

Margaret did, suddenly and strong, coming from the kitchen.

“Get the girl out of here,” Otto said. His voice was quiet, calm, but totally commanding. “Do it now.”

Margaret stood and ran the three steps to Missy, then hesitated. She didn’t want to touch the little girl-what if she had those things? What if they were wrong, and she was contagious?

“Margaret,” Otto hissed. “Get her out of here.”

She ignored her instincts and picked the girl up, her skin crawling as she did. She took one step toward the door, but before she could take another, the kitchen door opened.

The little boy walked out, holding a cap gun in each hand. The smell of gas billowed out of the kitchen.

He still wore the cowboy hat, but not the mask. He only had one eye. The other socket held a misshapen blue lump, under the skin, that had pushed out his eyelids and eyebrow to obscene proportions. The lump stretched the eyelid out and open, showing a blackish, gnarled textured skin underneath. Whatever it was, it had grown between the boy’s eye and his eyelids-his eye was back there somewhere, behind that… thing.

“You’ve been bad,” the little boy said. “I’m going to have to gun…you… down. ”

He raised the cap guns.

Amos raced past Margaret, heading for the door. She turned and ran with him, still carrying the girl. Heavy footsteps told her that Agent Otto was right behind her.

Margaret ran out the door as she heard the caps firing, the boy pulling the trigger over and over again. She made it out the front porch and was down the steps when the gas finally ignited.

It wasn’t a big explosion, so much as a really large whuff. It didn’t even blow out the windows like on TV, just gave them a good rattle. She kept running and felt the heat on her back-just because it didn’t explode didn’t mean it wasn’t hot, didn’t mean the house wasn’t burning, and didn’t mean the little boy wasn’t already engulfed in flames.