Trout turned back to Selma. “Shall we go inside and—”
“No,” she said flatly. “There’s a lady from church in there and she don’t need to hear this. ”
Ah, thought Trout, the Cube.
Without another word, Selma walked down the steps and headed toward a rust-colored barn that stood by a creek sixty yards into the field. Trout put his hands into his pockets, used his left thumb to click the button on his digital tape recorder, and followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
WASHINGTON, D. C.
The president went through the day-code ritual with Lorne McMasters, feeling his gut tightening as he did so.
“Go ahead, Lorne,” he said when the protocols were completed and the secure line verified.
“Mr. President, there has been a deliberate but unauthorized release of one of a Class F biological in rural Pennsylvania. ”
“Terrorists?”
“No, Mr. President. One of our guests. ” McMasters quickly brought the president up to speed on Volker, Lucifer 113, Rockview, Homer Gibbon, and the real possibility of an outbreak in Stebbins. As he spoke, corresponding information filled the screen on the president’s laptop.
“My God,” breathed the president. “Where are we on containment?”
“Law enforcement agencies have been notified, Mr. President,” said McMasters. “Local law in Stebbins may be compromised, but we’re coordinating with the state police in Pennsylvania and Maryland. However, we’re going to need the National Guard to lock down the entire area. ”
“I’ll call Governor Harbison immediately. Stay on the line. ” The president punched a button. “Janine, please get Governor Harbison on the line. Code One emergency. Also, get the national security director and the secretaries of defense and state in here. Now. ”
His secretary had the governor of Pennsylvania on the phone in under a minute.
“Mr. President,” began Harbison, “what a pleasure. What can I—”
The president cut him off. “Teddy, I need you to listen to me. Time is critical. ”
He hit Harbison with both barrels.
CHAPTER THIRTY
CONROY’S ACRES
Goat peered around the Explorer and saw Selma and Trout walking down a crooked lane toward a barn, their backs to him. Goat opened the hatch, set his heavy camera inside and took out a smaller unit. He checked to make sure the coast was clear, then sprinted to the near side of the house.
He moved along the side of the gallery, then, when he was sure it was safe, he climbed onto the porch using the side steps. There were three windows on the side and he moved to the first one, where he knelt and peered in through the bottom corner of the window. The glass was smoked gray with grime but still clear enough for him to see the living room. Couple of big armchairs that looked like they were a thousand years old; mismatched sofa. Various tables and cabinets filled with all kinds of collectible crap. Decorative spoons, plates with Disney characters, a collection of porcelain bunnies. Bunnies? He loved it. Juxtaposition always worked in stories like this. Hooker with a soft side. Or, maybe hooker who’d become a sad, lonely old lady surrounded by cheap tchotchkes. Sweet.
He raised the camera and shot the room from various zoom levels.
The second window revealed a dining room with a table with one end piled high with stacks of mail and piles of old magazines. The other half of the table was set out for tea. China pot, two mismatched cups, sugar bowl that was a souvenir from Atlantic City, opened pint carton of half-and-half, and a plate of cookies. As he had walked away Goat had overheard Aunt Selma tell Trout that she had company. A lady from church. No sign of her, though, so Goat moved on. As he swung the camera across the window he thought he saw a piece of shadow detach itself and moved toward an open interior door. Goat shifted around to the rear window of the kitchen to try and get a better view, but the figure was gone.
It had been a figure, too. A person. The church lady? Probably, he thought, though it had seemed too large.
There was nothing else to see downstairs so he moved to the yard, which was as dreary as the front of the house—diseased elm trees supporting a threadbare hammock filled with last year’s rotted leaves, a picnic table with one missing leg that sat unevenly on cinder blocks. Junk that made a statement about a life spiraling downward, so he shot it all. This was all background footage. There was nothing actually happening here, so he clicked off the camera and trudged back to the Explorer to kill time plugging the story on Twitter.
Goat did not see the shadow that moved slowly from window to window, watching him go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE