The Devil_s Workshop

Chapter 51

The motel was called the Blue Frog. It was on the outskirts of Frederick, Maryland, and was a bungalow-type motor lodge run by a middle-aged couple. Cris and Stacy were in a one-bedroom unit at the end of the paved area next to a dry riverbed. The room was clean, but small. They had taken turns in the shower. Both had washed their clothes in the tub, with soap and water, and they were now in wet underwear, waiting for the rest of their things to dry under the heat lamps in the bathroom.

The TV was an old Yamaha with a sensitive vertical hold, which needed constant tuning. They were watching the news to get updates on the situation at Fort Detrick when another breaking story interrupted the network anchor:

"We're switching you to our affiliate station in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania," the anchor said, and then they were suddenly looking at a tall man with gray hair and a bloodhound's sagging expression. The name on the screen identified him as Harrisburg Police Chief Wilton Pierce. He cleared his throat, then started reading from a typed sheet: "Hollywood producer Buddy Brazil has been shot to death in a gunfight that took place an hour ago at the Harrisburg switching yard. Apparently, he had traveled here with members of his production company in a reported attempt to stop a bio-weapons attack. Mr. Brazil died on the scene along with three unidentified men, who appear to be members of a vicious rail-riding cult known as 'Freight Train Riders of America.' A fourth member of the cult was pronounced dead at the Harrisburg County Hospital shortly thereafter. An associate of Mr. Brazil's, Rayce Walker, a movie stuntman, was badly wounded in the gun-fight, and was also taken to the Harrisburg Hospital. According to members of his staff, Mr. Brazil came here after the bizarre kidnapping of his dead son's body from the morgue in Santa Monica, California. The body was stolen during an autopsy to determine if Michael Brazil had been exposed to a deadly toxic bio-agent. It appears that Mr. Brazil was attempting to stop the F. T. R. A. S from putting this infectious bio-agent into milk container cars headed to Detroit and New York. Until members of the C. D. C. and the U. S. bio-weapons defense team from Fort Detrick, Maryland, can fully analyze the milk, it will not be known exactly what the toxic agent was. Before he died, the fourth member of the F. T. R. A. told police they were about to attack the Great Satan. From this point the FBI will be spearheading the investigation, and further questions should be directed to them. That's it," he said, and turned away.

Cris turned down the volume and stood there looking at the screen as the vertical hold began to roll. "Jesus," he finally said. "Poor Buddy. How did he even find out where they were?"

Stacy said nothing. They sat there in silence for a long time.

"I wonder if Kincaid was one of the dead," Cris said.

Stacy still didn't speak.

"Or Dexter. Where's Dexter DeMille?"

Still silent, Stacy had her head down looking at a spot on the floor a few feet in front of the TV.

"I can't believe Buddy actually shot it out with those guys. If he did, he saved a lot of people's lives. He died a hero," Cris said.

Suddenly, Stacy got up and moved to the phone on the cigarette-burned bedside table. She picked it up and dialed a number.

"Who're you calling?" Cris asked, but she wouldn't look at him.

Wendell Kinney answered the ringing phone in Los Angeles. "Yes," the old walrus of the Microbiology Department said softly. He was in his small apartment on the edge of the University grounds, half a block from the Science Building. He had also been watching the news report.

"Wendell, did you see the news?"

"Yes."

"Did you do a test on the canisters I sent you?" Her voice was clipped. She was holding herself in tight control.

"Yes… The foam rubber had some ink transfer. From what we could read, the canisters contained Prions, but they were not genetically targeted. They-"

"You still have them? You didn't turn the canisters over to the C. D. C.?" Stacy asked.

"I still have them," the old scientist said softly. "Stacy, where are you? I'm worried. You don't sound right."

Cris had moved closer. He was looking at her profile from over her shoulder, watching her strained expression, lit by dim light coming through the faded yellow lampshade.

"Was Max involved in this?" she asked bitterly.

When she said it, Wendell flinched, then took a deep breath, and waited too long to answer.

"So he was," she concluded. "He was helping Dr. DeMille design this stuff." Her voice was so tortured that Cris couldn't bear the sound of it, as if pieces of her were being torn away.

"Stacy, it's not an easy equation. You don't want to make judgments; it's way too complex."

"It's fucking genocide, Wendell! Genocide! These assholes at Fort Detrick were arming Prions to attack genetic groups of people. Max was working at the Devil's Workshop! His handwriting was on the acid-base vials that altered the pH to arm the weapon. He was working down there with DeMille, targeting this stuff." Her voice was shaking.

"If that's true, theh why would they kill him?" Wendell asked calmly.

"I don't know. Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe he tried to pull out. How do I know why they killed him? But I was in that lab six hours ago. I saw his handwriting. He told me he was just doing work at the think tank, reading notes and creating hypotheses, but that was bullshit. He was in that lab helping to design it, to genetically target it. Why didn't you stop him?"

Again, Wendell was quiet. The two of them listened to each other breathing.

"God damn you, Wendell, you were in on it too, weren't you?" She was stunned by his silence. "We're supposed to be curing people, not killing them!" she shouted. "Science is supposed to discover and heal. You and Max perverted it all, destroyed everything we all believed in!"

"You don't understand," Wendell said softly. "To get funding we had to-"

Stacy didn't hear the rest, because she hung up on him. She sat on the bed and began to cry. She sobbed deeply, and Cris didn't know what to do or how to comfort her.

Finally, he sat on the bed and put a tentative hand on her shoulder.

She bucked at his touch, arching her back as if hit with a jolt of electricity. "Don't!" she said sharply.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and started to rise, but she reached out and stopped him. They sat side by side on the edge of the bed in their underwear.

"Oh God, Cris. Oh God… I loved him so much. How can this be happening?"

Cris said nothing, and she continued to sob. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, trying to give her some measure of human warmth. He could feel the racking sobs undulating through her body, shaking her to the core. Each sob was followed by deep, painful breaths. They sat on the bed for a long time.

Stacy was crying, but she also could barely contain her rage, rage at the betrayal of everything she had loved about her dead husband. She was crying, but she was also remembering Max… remembering his soft touch and the way he would lovingly caress her, with gentle abandon.

As she cried, somewhere in her mind she was aware of Cris's hands on her back, rubbing her, trying to comfort her as Max had often done. Her rage flickered, like a candle guttering in the wind. She couldn't tell where her emotions were taking her. As Cris rubbed her back and talked soothingly in her ear, she could feel his rhythmic heartbeat. Then she sensed something else. It was unmistakable. She felt the heat of passion coming from him. It suddenly turned her anger into lust. She needed to smash everything that was left of Max, to set herself free from his corruption and dishonesty. Now, without questioning it, she felt herself responding to Cris's gentle caress, felt her own sexuality coming alive. She knew she was jumbled up inside, but something suddenly felt right about this. She tilted her mouth up to his face and brushed her lips against his cheek, then as he turned toward her, she found his mouth and kissed him softly.

Cris moved so fast it startled her. He pushed her back. "What are you doing?" he asked, a strained, anguished look on his face.

"I need something. I need you," she said, tears still brimming in her eyes.

"No…" he said, pulling away, disengaging himself.

"You find me attractive, I know you do," she said. There was defiance and displaced anger in the remark. It was a challenge, but sounded to him like a curse.

4'I think you're one of the most attractive women I've ever met," he answered softly. "But this is wrong, Stacy. You can't get back at Max by using me. He's dead. I won't let it start this way. It would end up making you feel cheap. You'd hate yourself, and me afterward."

Her expression changed. Now she seemed small and dejected.

"He was human, Stacy. He made bad choices… Just like me.

Just like Captain DeSilva. People aren't perfectI tried to be perfect, and I fell way short. We all just have to do the best we can." In that moment, Cris suddenly felt a strange measure of peace inside. While trying to make her feel better about Max, he suddenly understood something about his own emotional sickness.

The moment between them had passed, so Cris slowly took her back into his arms. She laid her head against his shoulder, and he felt a deep shudder run through her. Then her muscles relaxed, and she quieted in his arms.

"I expected so much more," she whispered softly.