Patient Zero

Chapter Twenty-Three

Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 9:11 A.M.

I MADE IT through the rest of the night and all through the morning without federal agents appearing to kick down my door. Days of searching for the DMS, Javad, the two trucks, and Mr. Church had gone exactly nowhere. I now knew way too much useful information about spongiform encephalitis, including mad cow disease and fatal familial insomnia, but I had nowhere to go with it. Hoorah for me.

I took a hot shower, dressed in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt that was big enough to hide the.45 clipped to my belt; and then headed out to my appointment with Rudy. But first I had to stop at Starbucks and pick up his silly-ass drink.

“I’M SORRY, JOE,” said Kittie, the receptionist, when I arrived at Rudy’s office, “but Dr. Sanchez didn’t come back from lunch. I called his cell and his home number but they go straight to his answering machine. He’s not at the hospital, either.”

“Okay, Kittie, tell you what I’m going to go swing by his place and see what’s what. I’ll give you a call if I find anything. You call me if he gets in touch.”

“Okay, Joe.” She chewed her lip. “He’s okay, though, isn’t he?”

I gave her a smile. “Oh, sure could be any number of things. He’ll be fine.”

Out in the hallway my smile evaporated. Sure, any number of things could explain this.

Like what?

On the elevator down I began to feel a little sick. Now was not a good time for Rudy to suddenly go missing. I thought about the message I’d probably sent to Church via my Internet searches and began to get a big, bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I stepped out of his building and looked around the parking lot. His car wasn’t there, not that I’d expected it to be. So I walked over to mine, clicked the locks and opened the door.

And stopped dead.

I had my gun out before I even fully registered what I was seeing. I spun around and scanned the entire lot, pistol down by my leg. My heart was a jackhammer. There were over fifty cars and half a dozen people going toward them or walking toward the building. Everyone and everything looked normal. I turned back to the front seat. There, on the driver’s side, was a package of Oreo cookies. The plastic had been neatly sliced and one cookie was missing. In its place was one of Rudy’s business cards.

I holstered my gun, picked up the card and turned it over. On the back was a note. Nothing complicated, no threats. Just an address that I knew very well and one other word.

The address was the dockside warehouse where I’d killed Javad the first time.

The single word was: “Now.”