Vector

Chapter 8

Monday, October 18

10:15 p.m.

After Curt and Steve left, Yuri had gone down to his beloved lab. The first thing he did was repair the damage Connie had caused when she’d pried off the padlocks. To be on the safe side he bolted the hasps to the door rather than replace the screws. With that setup, an intruder would most likely need something more powerful than a crowbar to pull them loose.

While he worked, he thought about Curt and Steve’s disturbing visit. He was taken aback by their anger, particularly their anger about his stopping by the firehouse. The explanation that he was a security risk because he was a foreigner with a Russian accent didn’t ring true. New York was much too cosmopolitan a city. Every other person had an accent.

Yuri thought there had to be another reason why they didn’t want him seen there. Although he couldn’t think of what it might have been, it made him feel uncomfortable. For the first time Yuri began to question where he stood with Curt and Steve. He knew they were strong on prejudice, so the thought passed through his mind they might be prejudiced against him, and if that was the case they certainly weren’t the friends he imagined.

The other source of their anger — that Connie was black — was equally mysterious. It wasn’t so much the prejudice itself that surprised Yuri. He was well aware of Curt and Steve’s racial bigotry. What got him was the amount of anger involved. It was so out of proportion, and the pseudo-religious explanation Steve had given seemed contrived. Neither Curt nor Steve had ever said anything to suggest they were at all religious.

And finally, there was the issue of the pest control truck and aerosolizer. Yuri couldn’t understand why they’d not obtained it yet. That was an important part of the agreement. Without it, Yuri would not be able to carry out his part of the operation. He needed a sprayer, and he needed it to be mobile. A point source was not anywhere near as effective.

In order to fix the inner door, Yuri suited up in the hazmat suit and opened the valve on the compressed air cylinder. The regulator wasn’t the demand variety used for scuba diving. Instead it kept a constant flow of air into the suit as a means of keeping any particles from the environment from gaining entry.

It was much harder to work in the suit and it was very hot, but Yuri didn’t mind. He knew the risk he’d be taking if he didn’t wear it. But it did slow him down.

After the door was fixed, Yuri turned his attention to the fermenter with the Clostridium botulinum. He tested the bacterial concentration and was again disappointed. He could not figure out why the culture continued to grow so slowly. As far as he knew he’d followed the culture conditions carefully that had been used so successfully in the Soviet Union when he’d worked with the organism a decade previously. The conditions had been determined to produce maximum culture growth and maximum toxin production.

The only thing Yuri could imagine was that air was getting into the fermenter. Clostridium botulinum was a bacteria that grew without oxygen. Consequently, Yuri had used carbon dioxide gas instead of air over the culture. Perhaps there was something wrong with the cylinder of carbon dioxide Curt’s troops had obtained for him. Unfortunately, Yuri didn’t have any way to analyze it, and requesting a new cylinder would take too long.

Yuri stood up from where he’d been bending down to check the internal fermenter temperature. It was a few degrees cooler than optimum, so he adjusted his jury-rigged waterbath thermostat. Having the temperature off certainly didn’t help, but it was not an adequate explanation for the slow growth.

He thought about Curt’s suggestion to switch production in the Clostridium fermenter to anthrax so that both units would be producing the anthrax spores. There was a lot to be said for that idea. It was the only way he’d be able to produce enough material for both laydowns within the time frame they’d discussed. The trouble was that breaking down the fermenter was a big job and at the moment he had another worry: Connie.

Yuri went over to his hood and turned on the fan. Putting his already gloved hands into another pair of heavy rubber gloves secured to the edges of two holes in the hood’s glass front, Yuri carefully picked up the beaker containing his most recently produced botulinum toxin. He poured some of it into a small glass vial.

Yuri had been using the acid precipitation technique in concentrating and purifying his toxin. After resuspending the toxin in an aqueous buffer, he’d reprecipitated it with ammonium sulfate to form a crystalline amalgam of pure toxin combined with a stabilizing protein. This form he’d dried into a powder.

Yuri wasn’t as concerned about his safety when he worked with the botulinum toxin as he was with the anthrax powder. Although he’d been vaccinated against both agents back in the Soviet Union, he was more confident of his immunity to the toxin than he was to anthrax spores.

After sealing the small vial, Yuri washed its exterior before bringing it out from inside the hood. Then he went through the first phase of disinfecting and decontaminating himself with an overhead shower and a plastic container of bleach.

Leaving the lab, Yuri went through a second decon phase with more bleach and another shower. Only then did he slip out of his hazmat suit, turn off the compressed-air tank, and hang them up on their respective pegs. Then he carefully carried the vial up to the kitchen and hid it behind the overcounter dish cabinet.

Steeling himself against the inevitable abuse, Yuri went to Connie’s door and opened it. As usual, his wife was propped up on the bed watching the television even though the mattress and box spring were now sitting on the floor.

“What do you want?” Connie grumbled. She was holding an ice pack to her swollen left eye.

“I’m going to get some pizza,” Yuri said. “I thought maybe you might be hungry.”

Connie lifted the ice pack away from her face and regarded her husband curiously. “What’s the matter with you?” she questioned sarcastically. “You’ve never cared if I was hungry before.”

“I was feeling guilty about hitting you,” Yuri said, trying to sound sincere. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, my ass,” Connie shot back. “If you’re saying this to get your TV back, it’s not going to work.”

“I don’t want my TV back,” Yuri said. “And I’m sorry I broke yours. I was out of my mind.”

“So what else is new?”

“You don’t understand,” Yuri said, trying to sound contrite as well as sincere. “That lab downstairs is important to me.”

“As if I couldn’t guess with the amount of time you spend down there.”

“It’s my ticket out of this mess,” Yuri said. “I mean our ticket.” Connie turned the sound down on the television and pushed herself up on one elbow. “What are you saying to me?”

“I’m trying to get back into microbiology,” Yuri explained. “I need to practice and to prove I know what I’m doing. Then maybe I can get a decent job. I don’t want to drive a cab the rest of my life.”

“What kind of job are you talking about?”

“Anything in microbiology,” Yuri said. “Those men who were here tonight have been helping me, but they’re worried. It’s against the law to have a lab like that in a private house, and if I get into trouble, they’ll get into trouble.”

“I thought you had to go back to school if you wanted to work with bacteria.”

“Not if I can do something that proves I’m qualified,” Yuri said. “And if I do, and I get a good job, then we can start a new life. You know, go out like we used to do.”

“Yeah sure, when hell freezes over.”

“It’ll happen,” Yuri promised. “But for now, you want some pizza?”

“Okay, why not,” Connie said. “Pepperoni and anchovy. And have them bring over a pint of butter pecan ice cream.”

“Right,” Yuri said. He forced a smile and then closed the door. One thing was certain: nothing seemed to spoil that woman’s appetite. But he wasn’t complaining about the addition of the ice cream. As far as he was concerned, he thought it would be a better medium for the botulinum toxin, especially since he’d be sure she’d eat the whole tub.

Yuri used the wall phone in the kitchen to call the local pizza place. He ordered for Connie, then, for himself, he ordered a regular pizza with mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil. Just before he hung up he added a small tossed salad and a coffee to the order. He realized it might be a long night.

Yuri paced the apartment. As time passed he became progressively nervous. Although he’d acted sure of himself when he’d been talking with Curt, he didn’t know for certain what was going to happen after Connie ingested the toxin. One of the problems was that Yuri had no way of intelligently guessing how much to use. He would just have to sprinkle some into the ice cream and hope for the best. All he knew was that he had to err on the side of using too much. If Connie just got sick, and botulism was suspected, he’d be caught red-handed with the lab in his basement.

The sound of knocking on the door made Yuri jump. Half expecting trouble, he glanced out through the venetian blinds and was relieved to see the pizza delivery boy. Yuri opened the door, paid the kid, and took the packages. The two pizzas had been in an insulated carrier and were still hot to the touch.

Yuri pushed away the fast-food wrappings Connie had left earlier on the table, and put down the pizza boxes and the bag with the salad, coffee, and ice cream. He was most interested in the ice cream. He took it out of the bag and put it on the counter. The container was slightly soft. Unlike the pizzas, it hadn’t been put in an insulated bag.

Quietly stepping out of the kitchen, Yuri moved over to Connie’s door. He pressed his ear against it. He could hear the television clearly. He assumed Connie was still lying on the bed.

Returning to the kitchen, he struggled to open the ice cream container without ripping it. Once he had it open, he debated how to add the toxin. He was afraid to add it in one bolus, thinking Connie might taste it and then spit it out. After considering his options, he took out a bowl and emptied most of the ice cream into it. Then he took out the vial from the dish cabinet. Holding his breath, he sprinkled some of the material onto the ice cream.

“Oh what the hell,” he whispered. He poured the rest into the ice cream. In total, it was no more than a pinch. But if the toxin was as lethal as he expected, it was a huge dose. Probably enough to knock off everybody in Brighton Beach.

Yuri rinsed out the vial in the sink and let the water run. With a fork, he mixed the ice cream as well as he could. Then with a spoon he ladled it back into the pint container. That turned out to be more difficult than he expected, since it seemed that he had more ice cream than he’d started with. It took a bit of force to get it all in. When he was finished he resealed the container as best as he could.

Yuri washed out the bowl. Even so, he vowed never to use it again. In fact after the evening was over he intended to throw it and the fork away.

After washing his hands carefully, Yuri got out a spoon. Then he picked up both the ice cream container and the pepperoni pizza box and headed for Connie’s room.

“It took long enough,” Connie commented when Yuri opened her door.

“Where do you want it?” Yuri asked.

“Over here on the floor,” Connie said without taking her eyes off the TV.

Yuri bent down and put the food on the rug. He placed the spoon on top of the ice cream container and straightened up. That was when Connie glanced over to see what he’d done.

“Hey, I don’t want the ice cream,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Yuri said with consternation.

“I mean I want you to put it in the goddamn refrigerator,” Connie said. “I’ll eat it after my pizza. I don’t want it to melt.”

“Fine,” Yuri said with some relief. He picked up the ice cream and the spoon and backed to the door. “Give a yell when you want it, okay?”

Connie’s head flopped to the side, and she regarded Yuri beneath knotted brows. “What’s wrong with you, boy? You’ve never been this nice.”

“I told you,” Yuri said. “I feel guilty.”

“I wish you’d feel guilty more often,” Connie said.

Yuri went back out to the kitchen. Mumbling a few choice epithets about Connie, he put the ice cream in the freezer. His pulse was hammering in his temples. He needed a vodka. As he’d suspected, it was going to be a long night.

“Okay, everybody shut the hell up!” Curt yelled out over the unruly group. He’d called a meeting of the People’s Aryan Army, and they’d gathered in the back pool room of the White Pride bar. The owner of the bar was Jeff Connolly, an old acquaintance of Curt’s. Jeff wasn’t an official member of the group, although he was entirely sympathetic to the PAA’s positions: namely anti-government, anti-black, anti-Semitic, anti-Hispanic, anti-immigration, anti-feminist, anti-NAFTA, anti-abortion, and anti-gay. He was more than happy to clear out the pool room whenever the PAA needed to assemble.

On Curt’s insistence the organization of his group was entirely clandestine. There were no membership cards or even membership memorabilia He urged people never to use the name, although he and Steve did when they communicated to other militias via the Internet. Otherwise, all communication was by word of mouth, person to person. To call the meeting that night, there’d been no phone calls and no written messages. People had to seek each other out. What made it easy was that most members came to the White Pride at some time during each and every night.

Curt had recruited eight skinheads using methods he’d learned from Tim Melcher. He’d isolate a teenager at one of the many local skinhead bars and strike up a conversation. The conversation was more like an interview. Whenever Curt thought the kid was fertile ground for his views, he then started in on ideology. It was easy, because the skinheads were eager for some organization and to have a focus for their violent dispositions. Besides, from personal experience Curt knew their struggles and resentments and could therefore fan their fledgling bigotries and hatreds.

But keeping such a group under a semblance of control was not easy. For one thing, many of those involved were stupid, like Yuri, and lacked a proper sense for security. Offering Brad Cassidy an opportunity to join the group when he’d approached a couple of the troops directly was a case in point. They’d bought his original story. But Curt hadn’t. First of all, Curt was suspicious of anyone who wasn’t from the immediate area. Second, no one was considered for membership without being interviewed by Curt first. When Curt got to talk with him, Brad contradicted himself several times. Then, with a little prodding with a knife and the judicious use of a length of piano wire, the true story came out. He was a government spy.

The other problem was the group’s appetite for violence, a trait Curt wanted to channel. At first he thought that in between legitimate missions just talk about violent acts would satisfy their urges. But it turned out that talking was not enough. Occasionally, Curt had to risk confrontation with the authorities, letting them cruise around to other parts of Brooklyn or even Manhattan to find someone to beat up.

The clothes and the tattoos bothered Curt, too. He tried to get them to tame their style of dress, arguing that they should let their actions speak for themselves. They could be more effective, he argued, if they could blend in. But it was like talking to a wall. There was something about their shaved heads, T-shirts, Nazi regalia, and black boots that appealed to them on a gut level. No amount of persuasion could alter their opinion.

“Come on, you guys,” Steve called out. “You heard Curt. Listen up!”

Kevin Smith and Luke Berm straightened up by the pool table. Thumping the heels of their pool cues on the floor they stood in a ragged form of attention. Stew Manson, who was having an argument with Clark Ebersol and Nat Jenkins, turned to Curt and swayed. He’d been drinking beer since eight and was feeling no pain. Mike Compisano, Matt Sylvester, and Carl Ryerson looked up from their rambunctious card game. Even among this crowd, Carl stood out, with a crudely drawn swastika tattooed in the middle of his forehead.

“We’ve got a mission tonight,” Curt said. “It’s going to require finesse, which I’m not sure any of you understand.”

A titter sounded from a few of the troops.

“We’ve got to go out on the Island,” Curt continued. “Out to the Hamptons, to be exact, and steal a truck.”

“No need to go way the hell out there for a truck,” Stew said. He slurred his words. “There’s plenty of trucks right here in Brooklyn.”

“We’re talking about a special type of truck,” Curt said. “Who’s good at getting into a vehicle quickly and hotwiring it?”

Most of the troops turned to Clark Ebersol. “I guess that’s me,” Clark said. He was a slight fellow with a bumpy scalp that made shaving it a chore. “I’ve been joyriding since I was twelve.” He now worked at a local garage.

“Compisano is good if there’s an electronic alarm,” Kevin said. Kevin was a redhead like Steve, but with his hair shaved it was hard to tell save for his freckled complexion. He was also the youngest of the group at sixteen although he was a big, husky kid. The others ranged up to twenty two. The oldest was Luke Berm.

“I’m mostly used to house alarms, not car alarms,” Mike Compisano said. In spite of his Italian name, Mike had been a towhead since birth. His blond eyebrows were almost transparent, giving him an expression of perpetual surprise.

“At least you know something about alarms,” Curt said. “That could come in handy. So you and Clark will ride with me and Steve. The rest of you go in Nat’s truck.” Of all the troops, Nat was the best off financially. His brother was in the garbage business. He had a king cab pickup like Curt’s with two rows of seats.

“Stew, you stay here,” Curt said.

“The hell I will,” Stew said. “I’m going with the action.”

“That’s an order!” Curt snapped. “You’re tanked. I can tell you’ve had about five beers more than anyone else. I don’t want this mission compromised.”

“Shit, man!” Stew complained.

“No argument!” Curt ordered. “Let’s move out.”

While Stew Manson sulked, the others eagerly hustled out of the pool room. At the bar most bought beers for the road. Outside they tumbled into the respective vehicles.

“Stay behind me at a reasonable distance,” Curt called to Nat before he started his truck. Nat gave him a thumbs-up sign. The next moment Nat’s truck erupted with the throbbing base of the group Brutal Attack. Nat had a special speaker system with a woofer capable of loosening his lug bolts.

They moved in a convoy of two vehicles. Nat followed orders and stayed comfortably behind Curt. Halfway out on Long Island they stopped at a service center so everyone could relieve themselves.

“We’re almost out of beer,” Nat said to Curt as he leaned into a urinal. “Can we make a detour at the next town to stock up?”

“No more beer until the mission is over,” Curt shot back.

The second part of the trip went considerably faster than the first as the traffic dropped off dramatically. The congestion of the city and the surrounding metropolitan area had been replaced by the tranquillity of small towns, farms, and palatial, seasonal estates.

It was well past midnight when they drove into Sagamaunatuck, a thriving summertime town that served as a-commercial hub for that section of the island. Slowing deliberately to less than the posted speed limit, Curt advanced down Main Street. Most of the shops had been long since shut for the night. The only activity emanated from two local bars that sat opposite each other across the main drag. Their doors were ajar to the mild mid-October night. Each had a handful of patrons. A bit of competing, low-volume music spilled out into the street.

“A nice quiet town,” Steve commented.

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Curt said.

“Hey, there’s a kosher Jewish delicatessen!” Carl said excitedly from the back seat. He pointed to the dark store. “Look at all that stupid foreign writing on the window.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Curt said. “We’re here for one reason only.”

Curt and Steve had reconnoitered the place a month earlier and knew where they were going. The pest control company was on the next street over running parallel with Main Street.

Curt turned left at the next corner onto Banks Street and then left again onto Hancock. Wouton’s Pest Control was on the right in a one story cinderblock building. A large sign advertised that their expertise ranged from residential to agricultural and other commercial applications. To the right of the building was a parking lot surrounded by a chain-link fence with a gate secured by a padlock. Three vehicles featuring the Wouton logo of a cartoon wasp were nosed in at the side of the building. Two were vans. The other was a pickup with a load in its bed covered by a mounded vinyl tarp.

Curt pulled to the curb. He cut his engine, turned out his lights, and motioned for Nat to come alongside. Windows were lowered.

“How many communicators do you have?” Curt asked. In order to coordinate on missions, Curt had purchased an inexpensive radio system that worked within a radius of several city blocks.

“Two,” Kevin said. He was sitting in the front passenger seat of Nat’s truck.

“Here’s another,” Curt said. He handed over an additional communicator. “Now here’s what I want to do. I want two guys up at the next corner of Hancock and Willow with a radio. I want two guys back behind us at the corner of Hancock and Banks with another radio. Nat, I want you to position yourself so that you can pick up either group if the need arises.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Kevin questioned. “Just stand out there in the dark?”

“You’re going to be point men, you big lunkhead,” Curt snapped, “Lookouts.”

“What are we to look for?” Kevin questioned. “This town’s deader than a doornail.”

“The local fuzz,” Curt said. “Last time Steve and I were out here, they cruised around a lot. Let’s hope they don’t show up, but if they do, you’re to create some kind of diversion: whatever it takes to keep the cops busy while we get the truck out of the enclosure, and on its way.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Kevin persisted.

“Just make a fuss,” Curt said with exasperation. “Argue or yell at each other. Once the cops get a load of your appearance, it’ll be like flies to flypaper. If they want to take you to the stationhouse, let them. As usual, tell them nothing. The worst-case scenario is that they might keep you overnight, but that would be it. Trust me.”

“I got it,” Nat called from the driver’s seat.

Kevin started to argue that he had no intention of being in jail overnight, but Nat cuffed him on top of the head and told him to shut up.

“Nat, you give me a call when everybody is in position,” Curt said.

“No problem,” Nat said, and he drove forward.

Nat had advanced no more than fifty feet when a police cruiser rounded the corner ahead and started toward the two trucks.

“Shit!” Curt cried. “Everybody down!”

Curt and the others hunkered down in their seats as the police cruiser’s headlights penetrated the cab.

“This is just what I was afraid of,” Curt whispered. The sudden appearance of the police reminded him of the experience they’d had when they’d stolen the fermenters from the microbrewery in New Jersey. They’d been startled by a security guard who’d walked into their midst while the crew was busy unhooking the plumbing. Curt had not thought about positioning lookouts, so they’d been caught completely unawares.

Unfortunately the security guard happened to be African-American, and Stew Manson, who’d had his usual Olympian quota of beer, went berserk. He shouted “nigger” at the guard, who was unarmed, and smashed him over the head as hard as he could with a heavy-duty plumber’s wrench. The man’s head squashed like an uncooked egg, skyrocketing the risk of the mission. Instead of participating in a robbery, they were all suddenly accessories to a murder. Curt was determined to avoid comparable surprises on this mission.

“What did Nat do?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know,” Curt said. “I didn’t see.”

The police cruiser rolled past. Curt craned his neck to watch the car’s progress in his rearview mirror. Luckily, it didn’t stop. Rather, it turned right on Banks Street. Glancing ahead, Curt saw that Nat had stopped at the intersection and two figures had gotten out. The passenger door closed and the truck disappeared around the corner. The men stepped into the shadows.

Curt let out a breath of air. He’d not been aware he’d been holding his breath.

“Let’s hope that means they won’t be back for a while,” Clark said from the back seat.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Steve said.

“I’m with you,” Curt agreed. “But we’ve got to get the truck.”

“How about coming back tomorrow night?” Steve suggested.

“It would be no different,” Curt said. “And we promised Yuri we’d get it tonight.”

The four men sat in silence for a few minutes as the tension rose. Eventually Mike spoke up: “Anybody got any beer left?”

“No drinking until the mission is over!” Curt snapped. He couldn’t believe how juvenile his troops could be. There were times he thought they had no common sense whatsoever.

Just when Curt was becoming concerned that too much time had elapsed, the communicator in his hand vibrated. He pressed the “listen” button and, through static, heard Nat say that everybody was in place, That meant Kevin and Luke on Willow Street, and Matt and Carl on Banks.

“Ten-four,” Curt said. He pocketed the small radio. “That’s it, everybody, let’s go!”

They piled out of the vehicle. Clark had a Slim Jim and a flashlight. Mike had a couple of small screwdrivers, a pair of wire cutters, and several lengths of insulated electrical wire. Curt reached into the bed of his truck and extracted a pair of heavy bolt cutters that he’d borrowed from the firehouse. He slipped them under his jacket. The steel jaws felt cold through his thin T-shirt.

“Act as if we belong here and we’re just checking things out,” Curt said as they approached the padlocked gate. He knew that if. anybody happened to be looking out the windows of the apartments across the street, they’d be seen. Although there were no streetlights, it wasn’t particularly dark. The night was crystal clear with a bright, gibbous moon poking in and out amid scudding clouds.

“Which truck are we taking?” Clark asked.

“I hope the pickup,” Curt said. “Depends on what’s in it.”

Clark’s question took Curt back to his and Steve’s reconnaissance to Sagamaunatuck the previous month. At that time they’d seen the same truck. When they’d checked it out parked on Main Street, there’d been pest control equipment attached in the bed, along with cylinders of compressed air. The driver was a friendly, ruddy-faced bearded man wearing a baseball hat with the Wouton wasp logo emblazoned above the visor. He’d just been into the local diner for lunch and was in an expansive mood.

“Yup, this here equipment is a sprayer,” the man had said in response to Curt’s question. Neither Curt nor Steve knew anything about pest control machinery. “Well, that’s not quite true,” the man corrected himself. “It’s really a duster, not a sprayer. It’s designed for powder, not liquids.”

“Looks impressive,” Curt commented while he winked at Steve. It was exactly what they were looking for, ending a weeklong search.

“You bet,” the man said. He gave the machinery a proud pat. “It’s the best on the market. It’s called a Power Row Crop Duster.”

“How does it work?” Curt asked.

“The pest control powder goes into this hopper.” The man pointed to a dark green metal box. Most of the apparatus was green, except for the nozzles, which were orange. “It’s got an agitator in there to fluff up the powder with the help of compressed air. After going through a metering device, the centrifugal fan powers the material along with air out the nozzles.”

“So it’s pretty effective?” Curt asked.

“It’s unbelievable,” the man said. “The fan can go up to twenty-two thousand RPMs, which can push out up to a thousand cubic feet of air a minute. At that speed the air leaving the nozzles is moving at close to a hundred miles an hour.”

Curt and Steve whistled in admiration and began plotting how to get the truck back to the city. The plan they’d conceived they were now executing.

“Let’s just make sure that cop car’s not in the area,” Curt said. He took out his radio and checked with each of the other groups. When he got an all-clear, he slipped the bolt cutters out from his jacket and made short work of the padlock. He gave the cutters to Steve before yanking off the broken lock. The gate squeaked as he pushed it open.

“Let’s make this fast,” Curt said as the three jogged to the pickup truck.

Steve raised the edge of the tarpaulin. Even in the moonlight, Curt and Steve recognized the dark green of the Power Row Crop Duster.

“All right, go to work,” Curt said to Mike and Clark.

Clark deftly wielded the Slim Jim between the driver’s side window and the truck’s side panel. Instantly the door unlocked. He looked over at Mike.

“Open the door,” Mike said from where he was standing in front of the pickup. “If an alarm goes off, pop the hood.”

“Wait a second!” Curt said. “You mean to tell me an alarm might sound?”

“There’s no way to keep it from going off if there’s an alarm,” Mike said. “But it won’t go long provided I get under the hood.”

Curt scanned the neighborhood. As late as it was, there were still a few lights in the apartments across the street. Recognizing he had little choice, he nodded to Clark to go ahead. But he wasn’t happy.

The instant Clark opened the door, the truck’s horn began beeping and the headlights began flashing.

Clark popped the hood open. Mike put the flashlight on the engine. In seconds, though not soon enough for Curt, the horn stopped and the lights went out. Mike closed the hood as quietly as possible and came around to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Clark was already leaning into the cab, expertly working under the steering column.

“I need the light,” Clark said. He stuck his hand out behind his back. Mike passed him the flashlight like a relay racer handing off a baton.

With his ears still ringing from the truck horn, Curt looked up and down the street. He half expected to see lights go on in windows all over the apartment building opposite. Instead his radio vibrated.

While Curt brought the communicator to his ear, the pickup truck engine turned over weakly.

“Shit, it sounds like the battery is low,” Clark said. He was now sitting behind the steering wheel. “This heap must have been parked here for a long time.”

Curt pressed the “listen” button. Nat’s voice came through, along with the usual static, saying that there was a problem.

“What kind of problem?” Curt demanded nervously.

“Kevin and Luke have taken off after a couple of fags,” Nat said.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Curt spat. “Go get them and get them back in your truck! And get the others, too.”

“Ten-four,” Nat said.

Curt threw up his hands in exasperation.

“What’s the matter?” Steve questioned.

“Don’t ask,” Curt said. “I’m going to kill them all!”

“Do you have any cables in your truck?” Carl called. “We may have to jump-start this sucker.”

“What else can go wrong?” Curt didn’t like the idea of driving his own truck into the fenced-in parking area, but there was no other way. He sprinted back to his vehicle. As he climbed into the cab, Nat went by in his truck heading for Willow Street and beeped in greeting. Matt and Carl waved and grinned. Curt swore under his breath. How had he teamed up with such a bunch of lunatics.

As quickly as he could, Curt pulled into the parking area and nosed in next to the Wouton pickup. With his engine still running, he opened his hood, then leaped out. He grabbed his jumper cables from under the seat. Mike took the other ends as Curt attached his to his battery.

As soon as the leads were connected, the pest control truck engine leaped to life. Curt disconnected the leads from his own truck while Mike did the same with the Wouton vehicle.

“All right,” Curt blurted anxiously. “Steve, you and Clark drive this freaking pest control contraption back to the White Pride, but don’t drive back through town and go left here on Hancock! And drive the speed limit, no faster! If you’re stopped by the fuzz, the mission is a failure. Mike, you come with me!”

“But the White Pride will be closed,” Steve complained.

“So ring Jeff’s goddamn buzzer,” Curt retorted. “Jeer, do I have to think of everything?”

Curt swung into his cab and quickly backed out onto the street. Then he climbed back out of the truck as Clark steered the Wouton pickup through the gate.

“Where’re you going?” Mike questioned.

“I want to close the gate,” Curt said. “I don’t want to advertise that the truck’s gone.”

As the gate’s hinges squeaked closed, Curt heard distant shouts and cries for help coming from the direction of Willow Street. It made his hackles rise.

Back in the truck, Curt gunned the engine and took off toward Willow Street. He left his lights off.

“Did you hear those yells?” Mike questioned.

“Of course I heard them,” Curt snapped.

“It pisses me off,” Mike said. “I miss all the fun.”

Curt shot his minion a dirty look but resisted telling him off.

Curt screeched to a stop in the middle of the intersection so he could look both ways on Willow. He saw Nat’s truck about half a block down the street in the direction away from the commercial part of town. Turning the steering wheel hard, he headed in its direction. Off to the right on a lawn he could just make out figures in the darkness pummeling others who were sprawled on the ground. Lights in the surrounding houses were coming on in response to the commotion. That’s when he heard the police siren.

“Shit!” Curt yelled. As he pulled to a sudden stop behind Nat’s truck, he glanced in the rearview mirror. The blinking lights of a police cruiser were racing toward them.

“Get their asses into Nat’s truck,” Curt barked to Mike, who jumped out of the cab. Mike didn’t protest; the urgency of the situation was obvious.

Curt watched the police car approaching in the mirror. At first he thought he’d merely hunker down and stay out of sight until the cop exited his car and joined the melee. That would give him a chance to speed away and leave the troops to the fate they deserved. But then he got another idea. Having been to a half dozen demolition derbies, he knew the best way to incapacitate another vehicle with your own was to back into the other’s front.

The critical question was whether the cop would pull up behind Curt as he expected. Fortunately he did.

The moment the lone policeman began to exit his vehicle, Curt put his truck into reverse and stomped on his accelerator, pressing it firmly against the floor. The truck tires spun with an ear-splitting screech before suddenly catching. The heavy king cab pickup lurched backward and gained considerable speed in the short distance between the two vehicles before smashing into the police cruiser.

Despite tensing for the collision, Curt’s head snapped back on impact. The sound was like beer cans being crushed and the siren, which until that moment had been piercing the night, went silent. The police cruiser’s hood popped open and a geyser erupted.

More important from Curt’s point of view was that the opened driver’s side door had been ripped off its hinges by its own momentum. It went skidding out across the road. The policeman, whose hand was still on the door, ended up face down on the pavement.

“Glory be,” Curt remarked. He put his truck into drive and stepped on the gas. At first the cop car remained attached to his rear bumper. By backing up a little and then going forward again, Curt succeeded in detaching the vehicles. Glancing into the street, he noticed the policeman had not moved.

Ahead, amid laughter and loud banter, the troops were piling into Nat’s truck, except for Mike. He sprinted back and got in next to Curt. In the middle of the lawn were two still, supine figures.

“Hey, cool move with the fuzzmobile!” Mike shouted while looking back through the rear window at the crushed front of the cop car. The geyser had abated. Now the engine just steamed in the glare of the car’s still functioning revolving lights.

Curt didn’t say anything. He pulled forward, then braked alongside Nat’s vehicle. “Listen, you clowns,” he snapped after the windows had come down. “No stops, drive the speed limit, and go directly to the White Pride for a debriefing! Got it?”

“Got it,” Nat answered amid more laughter.

Curt accelerated, shaking his head in frustration. The whole operation was like a comedy movie that wasn’t funny.

“The cop car looks like it’s going to catch on fire,” said Mike. Curt glanced at the vehicle and was going to explain that the smoke was merely steam from the coolant coming in contact with the hot manifold when he caught his troops’ final stupid move of the night. Instead of pulling forward, Nat backed up so that he ran over the prone policeman. Curt winced. He didn’t regard local sheriffs as the enemy the way he did federal agents or city police.

Mike faced forward when Curt turned west at the next intersection, heading back toward the city. “I know why Kevin and Luke took after those two fags,” he said.

“Sure you do,” Curt mumbled irritably and without particular interest. No matter what the explanation, Curt was planning on giving Kevin and Luke one hell of a dressing-down when they got back to base. Disobeying orders, even implied orders, was not to be tolerated.

“They were a mixed couple,” Mike said. “One of them was a paleface, the other was a nigger, and the bastards were holding hands.”

“No wonder!” Curt’s change of heart was genuine. Queer miscegenators. He immediately understood how provocative such a situation would have been.

Yuri’s eyes blinked open. He sat up from where he’d fallen asleep on the couch. He wasn’t sure what had awakened him. He looked at his watch. It was a little after one in the morning. The sound of the TV drifted through Connie’s closed door.

With a few choice Russian expletives, Yuri lifted his feet from the couch and slipped them into his slippers. Since driving the cab required early morning rising, Yuri always went to bed early. Consequently, he had no idea of Connie’s bedtime habits other than knowing she stayed up later than he did. Yet after one was later than he’d imagined she stayed up. There was a good chance she’d fallen asleep without having enjoyed her butter pecan ice cream.

Standing up, Yuri winced against a momentary pulsating pain in his temples. He shivered through a fleeting wave of nausea that made him quickly close the cover of the cold, half-eaten pizza on the coffee table. Its congealed surface looked disgusting.

Yuri was exhausted and felt miserable. He drained off the residue of vodka in his tumbler and collected his thoughts. He had to do something. He couldn’t wait any longer for Connie to request her dessert.

Outside her door he paused for a moment. He debated whether to knock or just open it as he usually did on the rare occasions he went into her room. In the end, he just opened the door.

Connie looked away from the classic movie she was watching and glanced briefly at Yuri. Her left eye was even more swollen than before. At the side of her bed was the open and empty pizza box.

“What about your ice cream?” Yuri said in a gravelly voice.

“Are you still up?” Connie questioned. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

“Just tired.”

“I thought you’d gone to bed.”

“I fell asleep on the couch,” Yuri said. “How about that ice cream?”

“You’re like a dog with a bone about this ice cream,” Connie said. “Besides, it’s pretty late. I was about to fall asleep myself.”

“Come on,” Yuri urged. “You made me buy it from the take-out place.”

“Are you sure you’re not sick?” Connie asked again. “You’re making me worried the way you’re acting.”

“God damn it!” Yuri yelled, losing patience. “I told you, I felt guilty after hitting you and smashing your TV. I’m trying to do something nice, but you won’t even let me do that.”

“Now you’re sounding more like yourself,” Connie said. “Fine! Bring the ice cream if it’ll make you feel better! And you can take this pizza box while you’re at it.”

Relieved but still exasperated, Yuri snatched up the empty box and carried it back to the kitchen. He took the ice cream out of the freezer. From a drawer he got a spoon. He carried both back into Connie’s room and handed them to her.

Straining under her own weight, Connie worked her way up to a semi-sitting position and took the ice cream and spoon.

“This container has been opened,” she said. She looked up at Yuri for an explanation.

“I tried a taste earlier,” Yuri lied.

Connie let out a huff. “You didn’t ask me,” she complained.

Yuri didn’t respond. He was eyeing the phone next to Connie’s bed. He hadn’t thought of the possibility of her calling someone to describe her soon-to-arrive initial symptoms, provided she ate the ice cream. Anxious that she not reach a doctor, Yuri had to do something about the phone.

“I’m talking to you,” Connie persisted. “You know I don’t like people eating my food.”

“It was just one taste,” Yuri said.

“Just one?” Connie questioned. “You didn’t put the spoon in and out a bunch of times?”

“Just once,” Yuri said. “Open it up and look.”

Connie grumbled as she pushed the flaps open. The ice cream bulged from the container with a smooth, unblemished surface.

Yuri couldn’t think of any excuse to take the phone out of the room without raising Connie’s suspicions.

“I don’t see where you ate any,” Connie said.

“Because I took such a small amount,” Yuri said. “For crissake, forget it! Just enjoy it!”

“All right,” Connie said. “Leave me in peace.”

“Gladly,” Yuri said. “Just give a yell when you want me to come in here and take the container.”

Connie raised her unswollen eyebrow in disbelief, glared at Yuri suspiciously, then redirected her attention to her movie. “Maybe I’ll call you and maybe I won’t,” she said.

Yuri backed out of the room. He saw Connie absently take her first spoonful and swallow before he pulled the door partway closed. Retreating back to the sitting area he found that by positioning himself at the very end of the sofa, he could see into Connie’s room. It was only a narrow swath, but it included the foot of the bed and the tips of her toes.

Time dragged incredibly slowly for Yuri. He couldn’t be sure that Connie was eating the ice cream, although he would have been shocked if she didn’t once she’d started. The movie seemed to go on forever despite the numerous times the soundtrack seemed to come to a concluding crescendo. He was hoping that Connie would get up and go into the bathroom, giving him time to get the phone off her bedside table.

Finally, forty-five minutes later, Connie obliged him when the movie concluded.

Yuri moved quickly. He pushed open the door. The ice-cream container was on the floor next to the bed with the spoon sticking out the top. Unfortunately, the door to the bathroom was not completely closed. A commercial was playing on the television. It was the only source of light in the room.

With his pulse racing, Yuri stepped over to the bedside table. From that angle he could see a portion of the bathroom but no Connie. He picked up the phone and pulled the connecting wire taut to lead him to the wall plug. The trail led behind the table laden with dirty dishes and glasses.

As Yuri slipped his hand down the wire, he nudged the table. Several of the glasses toppled off and shattered on the floor. The noise was louder than the high-volume commercial on the TV.

Guessing that Connie would appear in an instant, Yuri yanked on the wire, tearing it out of the wall. The motion sent another glass smashing to the ground. Yuri bent down to retrieve the empty ice-cream container. As he feared, the bathroom door swung fully open, and Connie’s form filled the doorway. She was brushing her teeth.

“What was that crash?” she demanded, cupping her mouth for fear of drooling her toothpaste. The toothbrush was clenched in her large fist.

“I don’t know,” Yuri said, hoping for the best. “Maybe it was something on the television.” He was holding the phone behind his back with his left hand. His right hand had the ice cream container. He raised it to show her and said, “I just came in to get this.”

Connie was as bewildered at Yuri’s behavior as she’d been earlier. But she didn’t say anything. She stuck her toothbrush back into her mouth, recommenced brushing, and returned to the bathroom.

Relieved, Yuri stepped out of the room and hurried into the kitchen. The first thing he did was hide the phone under the sink. Then he washed out the ice-cream container before throwing it away. He did the same with the spoon, the bowl he’d used earlier, and the fork.

With a trembling hand, Yuri got out a highball glass and poured himself another healthy dollop of iced vodka. He was in dire need of its calming effect. In truth, he was disappointed to realize how nervous he was.

Retreating to the couch, Yuri sat down to wait. Unfortunately, he had no idea how long he would have to sit there. He wondered what would happen if Connie were to fall asleep before any symptoms appeared. He worried that maybe she’d just never wake up.

Yuri looked at his watch. The other thing that was bothering him was that it was two o’clock in the morning and there was still no pest control truck. Curt had promised. Yuri wondered what it meant for the future of Operation Wolverine.

Despite his anxieties, Yuri fell asleep again. When he awoke a half hour later, he knew immediately what had disturbed him. Connie was calling his name repeatedly but in a peculiar manner. She couldn’t seem to pronounce the letter “R.” She sounded drunk.

Yuri stood up and swayed. He had to lean on the arm of the couch to steady himself before walking toward his wife’s bedroom on rubbery legs. He pushed open the door. Connie was lying on the collapsed bed. But there was something different about the way she was looking at him. Instead of the usual angry defiance, Yuri could tell that she was afraid.

“What’s the matter?” Yuri questioned.

“Something’s wrong,” Connie managed. She was having difficulty articulating her words.

“What now?” Yuri asked. He pretended to be irritated.

“I got stomach cramps,” Connie said. “And I threw up. I don’t think the ice cream agreed with me.”

“If something made you sick it was probably the pizza,” Yuri said. “Personally, anchovies always do a number on my stomach.”

“But it’s not my stomach that concerns me.”

“What is it then?” Yuri questioned impatiently.

“I can’t watch the TV,” Connie said, having particular difficulty pronouncing the letter T. “I’m seeing double. There’re two TV sets.”

“Then turn it off,” Yuri said. “Go to sleep. It’s late.”

“I can’t sleep,” Connie said. “I’m all jazzed up for some reason and it scares me to see double.”

“Try covering your swollen eye,” Yuri suggested.

Connie reached up with her hand.

“What’s it like now?” Yuri asked.

“It’s better,” Connie agreed. “There’s only one TV set.”

“Call me if there are any more problems,” Yuri said. He began to back out the door.

“There is another problem,” Connie said, slurring her words. “I’m thirsty. My throat is as dry as a bone.”

“Well, get yourself some water,” Yuri said. He started to close the door.

“I’m afraid to get up!” Connie called. “When I got up earlier I was dizzy and weak. I almost fell over.”

“With all that fat it’s no wonder,” Yuri said.

“Please, get me some water.”

Yuri wondered if the thirst had anything to do with the toxin. He didn’t know. But he was certain the double vision did, and the difficulty in speaking. What was worrying him was the vomiting. It would be tragically ironic if she threw up most of the poison because he’d used too much. But then again, the nausea could be coming from a bolus of the toxin having been absorbed. Yuri didn’t know too much about botulism except with mice, rats, dogs, and monkeys.

“All right, I’ll get you some water.”

“Maybe I should go to the hospital,” Connie said without pronouncing the “H” at all.

“What? For some stomach cramps? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I’m scared. I feel strange.”

“I’ll get the water,” Yuri said. He closed the door and walked into the kitchen. The whole affair was more nerve-racking than he’d anticipated. If a doctor saw her now they might make the diagnosis. While he was filling a glass under the faucet at the sink, a sudden, loud knocking reverberated against the front door. The unexpected sound made him jump from a type of fear only someone who’d been forced to live under a despotic, totalitarian government would understand. His own throat went dry. He took a quick sip of water, steadying the glass with both hands.

Trembling, he went over to the venetian blinds to peek out to see who could be there. He’d been so focused on Connie, he’d forgotten about Curt until he saw the man’s familiar features illuminated by the exterior light. Steve was standing behind in the semi-darkness with his hands thrust into his pockets.

At first Yuri was relieved. But as he unlocked the door, he cursed under his breath. This was the wrong time for them to be showing up.

“We got a present for you, partner,” Curt said. He motioned over his shoulder.

Yuri glanced into the alleyway. Behind Curt’s truck was a dark vehicle with “Wouton’s Pest Control” written in block letters on the driver’s side door.

“Does it have a sprayer?” Yuri asked.

“Let’s get the goddamn thing in the garage before we get into that,” Curt said.

“Okay,” Yuri said. “I’ll be right out.” He closed the door. Running into the kitchen, he picked up the water and dashed back into Connie’s room. He extended the glass toward her. When she tried to take it, her arm flailed aimlessly, missing entirely.

“I’m too weak,” she admitted. Her arm flopped helplessly back onto the bed. “It’s even hard for me to breathe.”

“Never mind,” Yuri said. “I’ll hold the glass for you.” He lowered the tumbler and pressed it to her lips as she tried vainly to raise her head. She sputtered and the water dribbled down the side of her face. She coughed and her face turned red.

“I’ll be right back to give you some more,” Yuri said. He tried to put the glass on the bedside table. Since there was no room he put it on the floor in the midst of the broken shards. Connie tried to speak in the midst of her coughing but Yuri ignored her.

Dashing out of the room Yuri went to the kitchen to get his keys before returning to the front door. When he opened it, it was apparent Curt was none too happy.

“Thanks for leaving us out here in the goddamn dark,” Curt snapped.

“Sorry,” Yuri said. He pulled the door shut behind him. “Things are just coming to a head with Connie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Curt demanded.

“She didn’t get the toxin until late,” Yuri explained. He started toward the garage. “She’s just starting to have symptoms.”

“But you’re sure she’s going to check out,” Curt said. He followed Yuri while Steve went around to get into the Wouton truck.

“That’s my guess,” Yuri said. He opened the side door to the garage.

“Wait a second!” Curt said. He grabbed Yuri’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “At this point there’s no room for guessing. Any screw up could undermine this whole operation. I’m only interested in sureties.”

“I gave her enough stuff to kill everybody in Brooklyn,” Yuri shot back. “Is that good enough for you? Give me a break!”

Yuri and Curt glared at each other for a moment in the dark shadows beneath the eaves of the garage.

“I want to make sure you truly understand the need for security,” Curt spat. “This whole mess with your mystery wife has us as nervous as hell.”

“I’m taking care of it like we agreed,” Yuri retorted.

“I hope so,” Curt said. “The fact of the matter is, we cannot take any chances from here on out. Earlier tonight I mentioned we’d had an infiltrator in the People’s Aryan Army. Brad Cassidy. What I didn’t say was that he was working for the FBI.”

“Oh no!” Yuri moaned. “What tipped them off?”

“Nothing about Operation Wolverine,” Curt said. “We believe they’re concerned about our militia in general. Since none of the troops have even the slightest inkling about the big plan, we’re not directly at risk. The bureau must have picked up something from Steve’s contacting other militias on the Internet on behalf of the PAA. But the point is, we’ve got to be extremely careful. And the sooner we launch the operation the better.”

“My feelings exactly,” Yuri said.

“Have you thought any more about switching the second fermenter to anthrax?”

“I’m going to do it as soon as I have time,” Yuri said. “Probably tomorrow. As soon as this Connie business is over and done.”

“Good,” Curt said. “Now let’s get this pest control truck off the street before someone sees the damn thing. I’m sure your neighbors would begin to wonder what kind of pests we’re dealing with in the middle of the night.”

Yuri snapped on the light before entering the garage. He skirted around the back of his taxicab. As soon as he had the rollaway door up, Steve pulled the Wouton pickup inside. Yuri closed the door behind him and locked it.

Curt stepped around to the back of the vehicle. He unhooked the edge of the tarp and folded it back to reveal the apparatus sitting in the truck’s bed. “Do you recognize this thing?” he asked Yuri.

“Not specifically,” Yuri admitted. “But those orange things look like spray nozzles.”

“Bingo!” Curt said. He reached over and gave the piece of machinery a pat. “It’s a Power Row Crop Duster. Whatever powder you’re using goes into this hopper.” Curt pointed out the component just as the Wouton driver had done that summer.

“So the agent doesn’t have to be mixed with fluid?” Yuri questioned. His face had lit up like a young boy with a Christmas bike.

“Nope,” Curt responded. “Powder in and powder out, and I’ll tell you, it’s one wicked little engine. We were told the fan in there is capable of putting out a thousand cubic feet of air a minute. The amount of powder you want in that thousand cubic feet can be varied by the dial on the metering device.”

“It’s perfect,” Yuri said. He was impressed. It was better than he’d hoped.

“I’m glad you approve,” Curt said. “I don’t mind telling you it took a bit of work and a lot of aggravation getting this thing. Now it’s up to you to come through with your end of the bargain.”

“I’m working on it,” Yuri promised. “Have no fear!”

“I hope so,” Curt said.

They shook hands before stepping back out into the night. The two Americans climbed into their truck. Yuri stood by the side of the road.

“Let’s talk again tomorrow,” Curt said. “We’ll be interested in how the rest of the evening goes as far as your wife is concerned.”

“Okay,” Yuri said. He waved as Curt started his engine and drove off.

Yuri stood for a moment watching the Dodge Ram’s taillights until they disappeared where Oceanview Lane butted into Oceanview Avenue. He was still tired, but he felt better than he had all day. Uncertainties that had been plaguing him earlier had vanished. He knew in his gut that Operation Wolverine was imminently to come to pass as planned. He even allowed himself a half smile as he realized that soon he would stand in the company of other great Soviet patriots, even some of the greatest from the Great Patriotic War.

A gust of wind rustled dead leaves in the alley and caused Yuri’s torn screen door to bang repeatedly against its jamb. The noise yanked Yuri back to the present reality. There was still work to be done before the great event, and the immediate concern was Connie.

Hurrying back inside, Yuri went to his wife’s door. He paused for a moment to listen. All he could hear was the TV. Slowly he opened the door, unsure of what he’d see.

Connie had not moved, but her color had changed drastically. Her skin had taken on a dark mauve tint, particularly her lips.

Yuri advanced to the bed.

“Connie?” Yuri called. He jiggled her shoulder. She didn’t move. He picked up her arm. It was flaccid. He let it fall back to the bed. Leaning down, he put his ear next to her mouth. It was only in that way that he could tell she was breathing, although just barely. He grasped her wrist. He could feel a pulse, but it was rapid and weak.

He straightened up. He wondered if it was time to call emergency or if he should wait a little longer. It was a hard decision, because he didn’t want her waking up when she was given oxygen in the emergency room. If that happened she might be able to tell the doctors and nurses the progression of her symptoms. At the same time, Yuri felt it would be best if she was still alive when she got to the hospital. He reasoned there would be fewer questions about why she hadn’t been brought in sooner.

Yuri turned on the bedside light before pulling open her right eye. Her pupil was widely dilated and fixed. As far as he was concerned, that meant it was time to call emergency.

Returning to the kitchen, Yuri used the wall phone. He tried to sound as distraught as possible, claiming he’d found his wife passed out and hardly breathing. He described her color as dusky and said that she’d been wheezing earlier in the evening. He gave the address and was told an ambulance would be there as soon as possible.

Returning to the bedroom, Yuri looked down at his wife. It was then he started to worry about the swollen left eye. He didn’t want anyone to suspect domestic abuse, since it might lead to suspicions of foul play. He reasoned that he could say that she’d fallen, but he was worried it would be unconvincing, since she was lying in bed. Glancing through the open bathroom door gave him an idea.

Going around to the opposite side of the bed, Yuri tried to get Connie into a sitting position. Unfortunately her sheer bulk and weight made it extremely difficult, especially since her body was completely limp. Instead he rolled her slightly onto-her left side facing away from him and got his arms under her armpits. Putting one foot on the edge of the mat tress, he succeeded in slowly dragging her toward him. But then disaster struck.

Just when Yuri had managed to get Connie’s torso clear of the bed, the throw rug he was standing on slid out from under him. Yuri fell onto his back and Connie rolled over on top of him, knocking the wind out of him so that he was unable to breathe.

For almost a minute, Yuri struggled for air. Under Connie’s weight, he couldn’t inhale. The room began to blur; he was afraid he might pass out.

In a final, desperate movement, Yuri was able to twist to the side enough to let him get at least enough air to keep from asphyxiating. Then it became a matter of disengaging himself from Connie’s flaccid, spread-eagle embrace.

Finally, after great effort, Yuri squeezed free from Connie’s near mortal clasp. He struggled to his feet gasping for breath. He was tempted to flee but found himself rooted in place while staring down at his wife’s now prone figure. He shuddered with a wave of unearthly fear. In her half-dead state, Connie had nearly exacted her revenge.

The distant sound of an approaching siren shocked Yuri into action. He had to do something. Explaining how his battered wife had ended up prone alongside a collapsed bed might be difficult. It would have been better to have left her in the bed where she’d been originally, but getting her back was an impossibility.

Knowing he had little time, Yuri squatted down. Pulling Connie’s arms he managed to twist her around so that her head was pointing toward the bathroom. Then, after rolling her over onto her back, he again seized her by the armpits and dragged her into the bathroom. His idea was to make it look as if she’d collapsed in there, hitting her eye on any one of a number of likely fixtures.

As the sound of the ambulance got progressively louder, Yuri checked himself and Connie for any last-minute problems. All seemed to be in order. Then he rushed back into the bedroom, where he hastily straightened the sheets that had been dragged with Connie when he’d pulled her onto the floor.

Vigorous pounding on the front door sent Yuri running. Two uniformed EMTs burst into the room as soon as Yuri pulled the door open. One was a woman, the other a man. Both were carrying equipment.

“Where’s the patient?” the woman barked.

Yuri pointed. “In the bathroom through that bedroom.”

Yuri followed the technicians as they ran to the rescue. They squeezed into the bathroom and began to administer to Connie. The first thing they did was get oxygen on her face. Yuri crossed his fingers that there wasn’t going to be a miraculous resurrection.

“She’s breathing shallowly and she’s got a heartbeat,” the woman said to the man. “But her color’s poor. We’d better bag her.”

Yuri watched as the technicians forced oxygen into Connie’s lungs. Her chest rose perceptibly higher than when she’d been breathing on her own.

“No obstruction,” the man said who was compressing the breathing bag at a set interval.

“What happened here?” the woman asked Yuri who was standing in the doorway trying to look tormented. She worked while she talked, putting EKG leads onto Connie.

“I don’t know,” Yuri said. “She’d been having a little trouble breathing this evening, but it wasn’t bad. Then I heard her fall in here. That’s how I found her.”

The woman nodded. “Does she have a history of asthma?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said. “Quite a bit.”

“How about allergies?” the woman asked.

“Those, too,” Yuri said.

“Did she complain of any chest pain?”

“No, not at all,” Yuri said.

The woman nodded again. She ran a rhythm strip with her EKG. She showed it to her partner and commented that it was slow but regular. He nodded.

The woman looked up at Yuri. “How much does she weigh?”

“I don’t know,” Yuri admitted. “A lot.”

“That I can see,” the woman said. She pulled her radio from its belt holster and called into her base. She told the dispatcher they needed assistance to carry an unconscious obese patient who seemed to be momentarily stable. She said they’d need at least three more guys.

It took considerable effort for the EMTs to get Connie out of the bathroom, onto a stretcher and out into the ambulance. Yuri was generally ignored through this process, but he was allowed to ride with Connie to the hospital. She was intubated and given oxygen continuously during the ordeal.

At the hospital, Connie was taken into the treatment area while Yuri had to spend time giving the details of Connie’s insurance. Then he was relegated to the waiting room. At one point a disheveled doctor with a ponytail came out and went over the history, particularly in regard to the asthma and allergy. Yuri said that Connie had not had much trouble with her breathing recently, at least since they’d been married. He told the doctor that his wife had described lots of hospital visits and trips to the emergency room before they’d met. In regard to specific allergies, Yuri said he wasn’t sure what she was allergic to but thought it was things like nuts, cats, dust, and pollen.

“How’s she doing?” Yuri asked hesitantly when the doctor got up to leave.

“To be truthful, she’s not doing well,” the doctor admitted. “We’re afraid her brain was denied oxygen for too long. She has no peripheral reflexes whatsoever, which doesn’t bode well for her brain function. I’m afraid it doesn’t look good. I’m sorry.”

Yuri nodded. He wished he could make himself cry, but he couldn’t. Instead he hung his head. The doctor gave his shoulder a squeeze and then disappeared.

An hour later the same doctor reappeared. This time he had a white coat over his crumpled pajama-like outfit. His name tag said Dr. Michael Cooper. He came over to Yuri and sat down. Yuri looked into the man’s gray-green eyes.

“I’m afraid I have bad news,” Dr. Cooper said.

Yuri visibly stiffened. In his mind’s eye he could see Connie suddenly sit up someplace within the depths of the emergency room and say it was something in the ice cream that had first made her see double.

“Your wife has passed away,” Dr. Cooper said softly. “We did all we could, but we just couldn’t help her. I’m terribly sorry.”

Tears sprang into Yuri’s eyes. That they were tears of joy made no difference. He was thrilled the tears had come to add to his theatrics. But mostly he was thrilled that he’d been right about how to get rid of Connie. Despite all his anxieties, it had worked. He was free, and Curt was going to be pleased.

“I know this must be a terrible shock to you,” Dr. Cooper continued. “She is such a young person.”

“Thank you,” Yuri said. He wiped his tears away with the knuckle of his right index finger, making sure the doctor saw the maneuver. “I suppose I have to make some sort of arrangements for her body. Do you think someone could help me? It’s something I don’t know anything about.”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Cooper said. “I can have Social Service come and talk with you in a few minutes. But I can relieve your understandable anxiety by saying that you don’t have to make any decisions tonight.”

“No?” Yuri questioned. “Why not?”

“Because your wife is going to be what we call a medical examiner case,” Dr. Cooper explained.

“Does that mean an autopsy?” Yuri asked with consternation.

“Yes, it does,” Dr. Cooper said. “But I can assure you it’s done with full respect for the deceased.”

“But why an autopsy?” Yuri demanded. “You have the diagnosis.”

“That’s true,” Dr. Cooper said. “We know she died of acute respiratory distress with a history of asthma. But she is a relatively young person who was, prior to this unfortunate attack, a healthy, albeit obese, individual. We all think it best to have the medical examiner take a look in case we’re missing something. I don’t want you to be concerned. It’s purely routine in such cases.”

“I’m sure you’re not missing anything,” Yuri sputtered.

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Dr. Cooper said. “But I’m sure even you will have an easier time coming to terms with your loss when the cause for this tragedy is proved beyond the shadow of doubt. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

“Certainly,” Yuri managed to reply as the anxieties he’d felt earlier came back like an avalanche.