Wildfire (Fire 3)

She stayed exactly where she was. There was only one person in the world who knew she could walk, and there was no guarantee it was that man. She could hear shuffling footsteps, and for a moment the image of zombies came to mind, and she wanted to laugh. In this mess she’d made of her life, zombies would be the least of her worries.

She saw his silhouette from her spot on the couch, and she held very still. It was definitely someone she’d never seen before, not one of the usual inhabitants of the island. Presumably male, he was short, squat, and out of breath. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous—when Archer left the island he might have made arrangements for a professional to finish the job on her that Emilio had flubbed.

And then he spoke, his voice high-pitched and slightly fretful. “Hello? Anyone home? Don’t tell me I almost died getting here for no reason.”

Sophie lit a match, setting it to one of the collection of candles on the coffee table, knowing the flare of light would illuminate her. “Who are you?” she called out.

He moved toward her, but she kept lighting candles against the darkness, so that by the time he came around the sofa she could see him fairly well. He was balding, with a fringe of white hair surrounding his skull, late middle-aged and looking irritated. He was wearing a white suit that must have once been immaculate but now looked as if it had been tossed around in the ocean, and what were once spotless white tennis shoes were now covered with mud. Clearly he was a man who was fussy about his clothing, which meant at the very least he was vain. She could work with that.

“Who are you?” she said again.

“Dr. Benjamin Chekowsky,” he said in an affronted voice, clearly believing she should have known who he was. “And who, may I ask, are you, and where the hell is Archer MacDonald?”

In fact, she knew exactly who Dr. Benjamin Chekowsky was, even if she’d never seen him before. Archer’s pet scientist, he was the man responsible for the biological weapon that had been Archer’s obsession for the past few years.

He didn’t look like a man who spent his time and his considerable intellect trying to devise ways to kill as many people as he could in as short a time as possible. In fact, he looked a little like a cross between Alfred Hitchcock and Truman Capote, a thought that should have amused her, but there was nothing funny about Dr. Death.

“You’re the man who designed Pixiedust,” she said slowly.

“Don’t call it that stupid name,” he snapped. “I’ve told Archer it needs to be treated with proper respect.”

“What do you call it?” she asked, thinking perhaps “genocide” and “mass murder” while she kept her face still. Not that he could see her that clearly in the candlelight, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate this little man.

“It’s RU48 at this point,” he said in a voice that sounded like he should have added “you idiot” at the end. “I’m thinking the Chekowsky Solution might be a more dignified name for it.”

She stared at him, momentarily speechless. This was all she needed—another demented egomaniac. “So your name will go down in history?” she said. “That is, if there is any history after you set that stuff off.”

He puffed up a little bit, like an outraged pigeon. “What’s Archer doing with a naïve little bleeding heart like you? You’re not pretty enough to be one of his bimbos.”

“He married me.”

Chekowsky’s beady little eyes immediately went to her motionless legs, and Sophie silently cursed. He knew about her, and she was really loath to give up walking. “I’ve heard about you,” he said slowly.

She gave him a flinty smile. “I expect you have. I’m afraid that there’s absolutely no one else on the island. How did you manage to get here in this storm?”

“Wasn’t easy,” he said, giving nothing away, and Sophie’s annoyance built.

“Are you alone?” she asked. That seemed highly unlikely—Chekowsky didn’t look like the kind of man to brave the elements or thrive on adversity. In fact, he looked a little like a fat, drowned rat. A white one.

“I’m the only one who made it.” He glanced around him. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat? I’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

Oh, her heart was breaking for him. He’d probably drowned the sailors who’d brought him this far. “There’s plenty of food in the kitchen, though I’m afraid all the servants have left the island. You’ll have to get your own. Obviously I’m in no shape to help you.” She added that just to rule out all possibility of him thinking she could walk.

“Obviously,” he said in a dismissive voice. Her annoyance spilled over into a cool, quiet rage. “Where’s the kitchen?” he asked.

She gestured, and he turned and disappeared, without asking the poor crippled woman if he could get her anything. She sat very still, contemplating dark deeds. And then she called out, “Bring yourself a wineglass. I’ve opened one of Archer’s best bottles of cabernet.” She gave her legs one last, luxuriant stretch before tucking them up on the sofa, then leaned forward to pour herself a final glass of wine. By the time he returned, his plate piled high and one of Archer’s best Waterford crystal wineglasses in his hand, she was lazily sipping at her own glass, watching him over the rim.

Chekowsky heaved his bulk into one of the chairs opposite and reached for the wine bottle. “I don’t usually indulge,” he said with a belated attempt at affability, “but this is a special occasion.” He filled the wineglass to the top, leaving no room for the bouquet, and took a hefty gulp. Archer would have been horrified, Sophie thought happily.

?

??Is it?” she said, taking another sip. “What are we celebrating?”

Chekowsky hesitated, but she could sense that his need to brag exceeded his natural caution. “I’ve finally perfected the Chekowsky Solution. That’s what I was coming to tell your husband. I told him to be patient,” he added with the trace of a whine. “He should have called me to tell me he was coming—it would have kept me from risking my life like this.”

“I think his trip was spur of the moment. But my husband told me RU48”—she decided not to call it by the silly name of Pixiedust or the egocentric Chekowsky Solution—“was already developed.” In fact, he hadn’t said anything about it, but she was adept at listening to even the slightest bit of information, and RU48 had already been tested several times in the Middle East and Ukraine.

Chekowsky drained his wine in the second gulp, then poured himself another too-full glass before diving into his food. “Anyone can make a biological weapon,” he said in dismissive tones as crumbs littered his crushed white suit. “It requires a singular genius to devise one that can be used for extortion and civil unrest.”