Infected

Greasy soot streaked the left side of his weathered, heavily lined face. His bald head also showed streaks, as if flames had danced precariously near his mottled scalp. The small patch of red hair, which ran from ear to ear around the back of his head, had escaped the smoke stain. He looked weak and exhausted, as if he might teeter off the chair at any second.

Dew always carried two cell phones. One was thin and normal. He used that for most communication. The other was bulky and metallic, painted in a flat black finish. It was loaded with the latest encrypting equipment, none of which Dew understood or gave a rat’s a.s.s about. He pulled out the big cell phone and called Murray’s number.

"Good afternoon," said a cheery but businesslike woman. "Get Murray."

The phone clicked once; he was on hold. The Rolling Stones played

"Satisfaction" through the tinny connection. Jesus, Dew thought, even super-secret, secure lines have f.u.c.king Muzak. Murray Longworth’s authoritative voice came on the line, cutting off Mick in mid-breath.

"What’s the situation, Dew?"

"It’s a big SNAFU, sir," Dew said. The military-parlance acronym stood for Situation Normal, All f.u.c.ked Up. He leaned his forehead on the pastel blue wall. Looking down, he noticed for the first time that the soles of his shoes had melted, then cooled all misshapen and embedded with bits of gravel and broken gla.s.s. "Johnson’s hurt."

"How bad?"

"The docs say it’s touch and go."

"s.h.i.+t."

"Yes," Dew said quietly. "It doesn’t look good."

Murray waited, perhaps only long enough to give the illusion that

Malcolm’s life was more important than the mission, then continued. "Did you catch him?"

"No," Dew said. "There was a fire."

"Remains?"

"Here at the hospital, waiting for your girl."

"Condition?"

"Somewhere between medium and well-done. I think she’s got something to work with, if that’s what you mean."

Murray paused a moment. His silence seemed weighted and heavy.

"You want to stay with him, or should I have some boys watch over

him?"

"You couldn’t drag me away with a team full of mules tied to my

b.a.l.l.s, sir."

"I figured as much," Murray said. "I a.s.sume the area was checked and

sterilized?"

"As in three-alarm sterilized."

"Good. Margaret is on the way. Give her whatever help she needs. I’ll

get there when I can.

"Yes sir." Dew hung up and flopped back into the chair. Malcolm Johnson, his partner of seven years, was in critical condition.

Third-degree burns covered much of Mal’s body. The hatchet wound in

his gut wasn’t helping things. Dew had ample experience with horribly

wounded men; he wouldn’t take two-to-one odds for Malcolm’s survival. Dew had seen some crazy s.h.i.+t in his day, more than most, first in

’Nam and then with almost three decades of service to the Agency, but

he’d never seen anything like Martin Brewbaker. Those eyes, eyes that

swam with madness,drowned in it. Martin Brewbaker, legless, covered in

fire like some Hollywood stuntman, swinging that hatchet at Malcolm. Dew let his head fall into his hands. If only he’d reacted faster, if only

he’d been just one second faster and stopped Mal from trying to put out

the fire on Brewbaker. Dew should have known what was coming: Blaine

Tanarive, Charlotte Wilson, Gary Leeland — all those cases had ended

in violence, in murder. Why had he thought Brewbaker would be any

different? But who would have expected the crazy f.u.c.k to set his whole house on fire?

Dew had one more call to make — Malcolm’s wife. He wondered if Malcolm would still be alive by the time Shamika flew in from D.C.

He doubted it. He doubted it very much.

WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT?

At lunchtime Perry sat in the bathroom stall, pants around his ankles, 49ers sweats.h.i.+rt in a pile on the tile floor. On top of his left forearm, atop his left thigh, and on his right s.h.i.+n were small red rashes about the size of a No. 2 pencil eraser. Three other spots itched just as maddeningly; his fingers told him that similar rashes perched on his right collarbone, on his spine just below his shoulder blades and on his right a.s.s cheek. He also had one on his left t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e — that one he tried not to think about.

Their itching came and went, sometimes fading in and out like a slowly turned volume k.n.o.b, other times arriving with full-bore force like hitting the "power" b.u.t.ton of a maxed-out stereo. Definitely spider bites, he figured. Maybe a centipede; he’d heard they had nasty venom. What amazed him was how he’d slept through such an attack. Whatever it was that had bitten him, it must have hit just before he awoke. That would explain why he saw no marks when he prepared for work — the poison had just entered his system, and his body was slow to react.

They itched and were a touch disconcerting, but all in all it was no big deal. Just a few bug bites. He’d simply have to discipline himself not to scratch, and sooner or later they’d go away. If he left them alone, they’d probably disappear. Trouble was, he had an awful time of leaving skin blemishes alone, whether they be scabs, zits, blisters or anything else, but his bad habit of picking at such blemishes wouldn’t help matters. He’d simply have to focus, have to "play through the pain," as his highschool football coach used to say.