Infected

Dew unwrapped the candy and again dropped the wrapper on Murray’s immaculate carpeting. "So how’s it work?"

"We don’t know for sure. The logical theory is that the growths produce drugs, which are dumped right into the bloodstream. Kind of like a living hypodermic needle pumping out bad s.h.i.+t."

"How many people know about this?"

"A few people know bits and pieces, but as far as those that know the whole enchilada, there’s myself, the director, the president and the two CDC doctors listed in the reports,"

Dew stared at the photos. They gave him an uneasy feeling, down deep, at an instinctual level.

"I need you on this one, Top," Murray said. The name chafed Dew as badly as L.T. chafed Murray. Top— short for Top Sergeant, the rank he’d held when he’d served under Murray back in ’Nam. For years that had been his only name, a name that commanded respect. Once upon a time, everyone he knew had called him Top — now the only one left who even knew the name was Murray, the guy who wanted to pretend that Vietnam had never happened. Somehow Dew didn’t find humor in the irony.

"And I don’t care how old you are, Top. As far as I’m concerned you’re still the best agent in the field. We need someone who will do whatever it takes to get the job done. And even if you only believe half of what’s in that report, you know we have to find out what’s going on and d.a.m.n fast."

Dew studied Murray’s face. He’d known that face for over thirty years. Even after all this time, he could tell when Murray was lying. Murray had asked for help before, and on each of those occasions Dew knew d.a.m.n well it was to benefit Murray’s career. But all those times Dew had done it anyway, because it was Murray, because it was L.T., because he’d fought side by side with the man during the most nightmarish period of their lives. But now it was different — L.T. wasn’t doing this for personal gain. He was scared. Scared s.h.i.+tless.

"Okay, I’m in. I’ve got to bring my partner in on this."

"Absolutely not. I’ll get you someone else, someone I know. Malcolm doesn’t have your clearance."

Dew was

Murray Longworth was a man used to getting his way, used to having his orders followed, but Dew knew he was also a politician. Sometimes politicians had to give a little to get what they wanted — that was the nature of the game that Dew could never grasp, the game that Murray played so well.

"Fine," Murray said. "I trust your judgment."

Dew shrugged his shoulders. "So what do we do next?" Murray turned his gaze to the window.

"We wait, Top. We wait for the next victim."

He’d waited then, and he was waiting now. Seven days ago he’d been waiting for something to happen, for a chance to see if this crazy Project Tangram c.r.a.p was for real, a hoax or something whipped up to earn Murray another promotion. Now, however, he was waiting for his best friend to die.

A death that would have never occurred if Dew hadn’t insisted — insisted, G.o.d dammit — on getting Mal involved.

Rested but still weary, fueled more by anger than sleep, Dew sat alone in his hotel room, the big cell phone pinched between his shoulder and ear.

"Your partner still in critical?" Murray asked.

"Yeah, still touch and go. He’s fighting his a.s.s off." On the table in front of Dew lay a yellow cloth, on top of which sat a disa.s.sembled military-issue Colt.45 automatic. The dull, smooth metal winked bluegray under the hotel room’s glaring lights.

"The docs are working on him?" Murray asked.

"Day and night," Dew said. "That CDC b.i.t.c.h came in to take a look at him, too. Can’t she at least wait until the body is cold, Murray?"

"I sent her in, Dew, you know that. She needs all the information she can get. We’re grasping at straws here."

"So what information does she have?"

"I’m flying in tomorrow. I’ll get a firsthand report and then I’ll fill you in. You just sit tight until then."

"What’s the national picture? We have any new clients?" Dew finished oiling and a.s.sembling the gun. He set it aside and pulled out two boxes, one full of empty magazines, the other full of.45-caliber cartridges.

"Not that we know of," Murray said. "All’s quiet on the western front, it seems. And if we do have any other clients, you don’t need to worry about them. You need a break. I’m working on bringing some more people in."

With mechanical, habitual speed, Dew loaded the first magazine. He set it aside and started on the second. Dew sighed, as if his next words would seal his friend’s fate. But duty came first...

"Mal ain’t gonna make it, Murray. It may suck to say that but it’s the truth."

"I’ve got someone lined up for you. I’m going to brief him shortly."

"No more partners."

"f.u.c.k you, Dew," Murray said, his calm tone suddenly turning angry. Murray hid his emotions well, always had, but now his frustration rang through. "Don’t you start flaking out on me. I know I wanted you solo on this, but it’s getting too big. I want someone with you. You need some help."