The Devil's Pitchfork

EPILOGUE Ascent

Derek sprawled in a lounge chair on the deck of The Salacious Sally, his left leg in a walking cast. Richard Coffee’s kick to his knee had caused enough damage to require arthroscopic surgery, and Derek would have the cast on his leg for at least another week. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on him. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to Dave Brubeck on the stereo system, a cold Corona at his fingertips and three more on ice in a cooler within easy reach.

A pleasant voice said, “Knock, knock.”

Derek opened his eyes. Liz Vargas stood on the dock next to the Sally, smiling at him. She looked paler and thinner than he remembered, but otherwise seemed healthy.

“Well,” he said. “Come aboard, Doctor. How are you feeling?”

“Still a little weak,” she said, coming aboard.

“The recovery time isn’t bad. Three weeks.”

She shrugged. “I was on my feet in one week, a little bit slow for recovery from internal bleeding injuries, but not bad.”

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to another lounge chair. “Beer?”

“That would be good,” she said

He pointed to the cooler. “Sorry for not being polite, but the my leg’s still pretty sore.”

He knew she had narrowly avoided death. Johnston hand-delivered the vaccine to USAMRIID and Ben Zataki rushed it into The Slammer to administer a dose to her. The vaccine had not been designed for use after the disease set in, and it hadn’t looked like it would work. In most cases, once a disease kicked in, the only thing a vaccine did was overload the immune system. There were exceptions — like smallpox, if caught early enough in the infection — and luckily for Liz, Chimera had been one of the exceptions. Slowly the vaccine worked, and after a week of spiked fevers, anemia and various other problems, she had started to recover.

“Anybody told you your recovery seems rather quick?” Derek asked.

She smiled hesitantly. “It’s about average, considering I’m the only human being who’s ever been infected with Chimera. Compared to recovery from Ebola — for those lucky enough to recover — I’m about average.”

Liz took a swallow of beer, then set it down. “How’s your knee? Are you on pain medication?”

“You’re drinking it,” he said.

“Oh. Well… I wanted to know… I mean, I know some of what happened, but not all of it.”

He took a long swallow of beer, thought for a moment, then told her. He left out a few details that needed to be kept secret for national security reasons, but otherwise he told her as much as he could.

They had not found Richard Coffee. He disappeared. Irina Khournikova — the real Irina Khournikova — disappeared as well, though everyone knew she had disappeared back into the T Directorate in Moscow.

The Coke can had been analyzed at USAMRIID and it contained aerosolized Chimera.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked when he finished his recitation.

He looked at her. “Did Johnston send you over here?”

Her face flushed pink. “Well, Sharon Jaxon asked me to, and so did Cindy Black.”

Cindy Black, the helicopter pilot, was still in the hospital. Her testimony to Aaron Pilcher cleared Derek of any connection to Sam Dalton. Derek felt he owed her for that; and owed Pilcher for keeping an open mind and for staying by her bedside until she became conscious.

Derek visited her every day. She had a broken back, fractured pelvis and assorted other injuries. She would be able to walk someday, but her career in the Coast Guard was probably over.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said.

Johnston had been reinstated as Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, a national hero. He wanted Derek to come aboard as his Deputy Director. Derek told him no. What he actually said was, “You’re fucking crazy. No fucking way.” Then he turned in his resignation as a troubleshooter. Johnston said he’d keep his resignation in mind.

Derek hadn’t changed his mind. But he did have a plan.

“So what will you do?” she asked again.

He shrugged. “I’ve got a couple ideas. How about you?”

“They’ve invited me to work at USAMRIID. I’m thinking about it. But I might just look for a job in academia.”

He smiled. “I might, too. Or, I might just retire. Or, I’m thinking some travel might be in order.”

There was something about the way he said it. She looked at him closely, wondering. They sat in silence, enjoying the sun. She said, “What do you think happened to Richard Coffee?”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he reached over to the paperback novel he had been reading off and on, and pulled out a postcard and handed it to her. “Got this in the mail yesterday,” he said. “I haven’t shown it to Johnston yet. You know, the Department of Homeland Security only has jurisdiction here in the United States.”

She studied the postcard. On the front was a picture of a devil holding a pitchfork. Turning it over, she saw it said: “See you soon, Derek. Count on it.” The postmark was from Mexico City.

She looked at him. “You’re thinking of travel?”

“Haven’t been to Mexico in a while,” Derek said, tipping his beer at her. “Maybe I’ll start there.”