Infected

7.

Dew Phillips slumped into the plastic chair next to the pay phone. After this ordeal even a young man would have felt like a week-old dog turd, and at fifty-six, Dew’s youth was far behind him. His wrinkled suit stank of sweat and smoke. Thick smoke, black smoke, the kind that only comes from a house fire. The odor seemed alien in the clean, dirt-free confines of the hospital. Somewhere in his head, he knew he should feel grateful that he was in the waiting room at the Toledo Hospital and not in the airtight quarantine chamber at the CDC in Cincinnati, but he just couldn’t find the energy to count his blessings.

Greasy soot streaked the left side of his weathered, heavily lined face. His bald head also showed streaks, as if flames had danced precariously near his mottled scalp. The small patch of red hair, which ran from ear to ear around the back of his head, had escaped the smoke stain. He looked weak and exhausted, as if he might teeter off the chair at any second.

Dew always carried two cell phones. One was thin and normal. He used that for most communication. The other was bulky and metallic, painted in a flat black finish. It was loaded with the latest encrypting equipment, none of which Dew understood or gave a rat’s ass about. He pulled out the big cell phone and called Murray’s number.

“Good afternoon,” said a cheery but businesslike woman.

“Get Murray.”

The phone clicked once; he was on hold. The Rolling Stones played “Satisfaction” through the tinny connection. Jesus, Dew thought, even super-secret, secure lines have fucking Muzak. Murray Longworth’s authoritative voice came on the line, cutting off Mick in mid-breath.

“What’s the situation, Dew?”

“It’s a big SNAFU, sir,” Dew said. The military-parlance acronym stood for Situation Normal, All Fucked Up. He leaned his forehead on the pastel blue wall. Looking down, he noticed for the first time that the soles of his shoes had melted, then cooled all misshapen and embedded with bits of gravel and broken glass. “Johnson’s hurt.”

“How bad?”

“The docs say it’s touch and go.”

“Shit.”

“Yes,” Dew said quietly. “It doesn’t look good.”

Murray waited, perhaps only long enough to give the illusion that Malcolm’s life was more important than the mission, then continued.

“Did you catch him?”

“No,” Dew said. “There was a fire.”

“Remains?”

“Here at the hospital, waiting for your girl.”

“Condition?”

“Somewhere between medium and well-done. I think she’s got something to work with, if that’s what you mean.”

Murray paused a moment. His silence seemed weighted and heavy. “You want to stay with him, or should I have some boys watch over him?”

“You couldn’t drag me away with a team full of mules tied to my balls, sir.”

“I figured as much,” Murray said. “I assume the area was checked and sterilized?”

“As in three-alarm sterilized.”

“Good. Margaret is on the way. Give her whatever help she needs. I’ll get there when I can. You can give me a full report then.”

“Yes sir.” Dew hung up and flopped back into the chair.

Malcolm Johnson, his partner of seven years, was in critical condition. Third-degree burns covered much of Mal’s body. The hatchet wound in his gut wasn’t helping things. Dew had ample experience with horribly wounded men; he wouldn’t take two-to-one odds for Malcolm’s survival.

Dew had seen some crazy shit in his day, more than most, first in ’Nam and then with almost three decades of service to the Agency, but he’d never seen anything like Martin Brewbaker. Those eyes, eyes that swam with madness, drowned in it. Martin Brewbaker, legless, covered in fire like some Hollywood stuntman, swinging that hatchet at Malcolm.

Dew let his head fall into his hands. If only he’d reacted faster, if only he’d been just one second faster and stopped Mal from trying to put out the fire on Brewbaker. Dew should have known what was coming: Blaine Tanarive, Charlotte Wilson, Gary Leeland-all those cases had ended in violence, in murder. Why had he thought Brewbaker would be any different? But who would have expected the crazy fuck to set his whole house on fire?

Dew had one more call to make-Malcolm’s wife. He wondered if Malcolm would still be alive by the time Shamika flew in from D.C.

He doubted it. He doubted it very much.