Patient Zero

Chapter Thirty-Three

Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 3:12 P.M.

AS CHURCH AND Courtland led me through a series of hallways I said, “I’m going to take a flyer here and assume that you know that there is no way this prion thing is simply the weapon du jour of a group of religious fundamentalists.”

“No kidding,” Church said.

The warehouse was very large, with suites of offices, workrooms of all kinds, and several big storage rooms. There were scores of jump-suited workmen shifting crates, running wires, and swinging hammers. Guards patrolled the hallway and every one of them looked like he’d had his sense of humor surgically removed. Not a lot of smiling in that place, and I could certainly understand why. I wondered how many of the people in the halls had lost friends at St. Michael’s.

“So the real reason you didn’t hit the crab plant is because of what happened at St. Michael’s,” I said. “You’re thinking that if the DMS’s cream of the crop would fall prey to fatal hesitation then anyone else would, too. Even special ops.”

“You’d make a bloody good terrorist,” Grace said with an approving smile.

“I’m hoping he’ll make a great terrorist,” Church corrected and pushed through the door.

Grace Courtland gave me a wink as she followed. I wondered why her team was not being offered the job. Maybe they were still too shocked and too hot after what happened to their friends at St. Michael’s. More likely they were too valuable to throw away on what clearly could be a suicide mission or a trap. I didn’t for a moment think that Church wouldn’t be aware that I would think that, but it did give me a bit of a measure between what Church needed to get done and what he could spare compassion on. Big gap, probably getting wider every minute.