Infected

57.

Dew pinched the uncomfortable, thick cellular between his shoulder and ear, steered with one hand, and with the other punched an address into the Buick’s dashboard GPS computer.

“How long since the client sent the form, Murray?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Have we contacted him yet?”

“There’s no answer at the number he gave us,” Murray said. “We’ve sent a return email, but no response there yet, either.”

“Send Margaret and her rapid-response teams for me. I have to find this apartment complex. Tell the squads to get to Dawsey’s apartment complex, but do not enter. Tell them to wait for my call. Leave my three teams at Nguyen’s place to make sure the media doesn’t get in until they finish scrubbing the place of any triangle references.”

Dew broke the connection and put the cellular away. He almost rear-ended an old woman driving a Civic. He leaned on the horn, trying to get her out of the way. It was Sunday, college on semester break, but there were still college kids crossing the street, slow and calm like they owned the world, like they were immortal. Right about now Dew would be more than happy to put that immortality up against the front bumper of the Buick.

He swung into the wrong lane and passed the Civic. The GPS said he was fifteen minutes away, but with traffic it would probably take just over twenty to reach Dawsey’s.