Infected Page 45

“Oh really? And do you know what you’re looking for?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Margaret said. “I know exactly what I’m looking for. How about Mister Nguyen?”

“He was another story. Quite rude.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, I called him to follow up, and as soon as I told him I was from

the CDC, he asked me . . . let me check my notes here...Yes, here it is. He said, ‘If you show your f.u.c.king face around here, you f.u.c.king spy piece of s.h.i.+t, I will cut off your f.u.c.king b.a.l.l.s and shove them in your f.u.c.king mouth. I’ll kill anyone you send. f.u.c.k you.’ Then he hung up. Needless to say, he’s low on the list of people to interview.”

“Any others?”

“None in the past six months.”

“Send me those case files, and do it now. Do you have addresses for

Nguyen and Hester?”

“I told you, we have a database, Doctor Montoya.”

“Thank you, Doctor Cheng, you’ve been most helpful.” She hung up, then immediately dialed Murray.

33.

DRIVIN’ & DRINKIN’

Doom swirled before Perry’s eyes like the tender flakes of snow gracefully kissing his winds.h.i.+eld. He drove through town, down Washtenaw Avenue, heading for the hospital.

The University of Michigan Medical Center was supposed to be one of the best hospitals in the world. Lots of innovative research, new techniques, top-shelf doctors — if there was any help to be had, that was the place. But that was a big “if.”

It was all over, really. What were the doctors going to tell him, anyway? Maybe they could tell him something. Better to go out knowing his killer than to just sit in the apartment and waste away to nothing. But more than likely, he knew, the doctors would look at him, examine him, poke him and prod him, then announce that this disease was a “new development.” And somehow, even though they would know as much about the disease as the Pope knew about making hard-core p.o.r.n, the doctors would still try to sound intelligent. Doctors were like that, always trying to come across as wise men, never for a moment losing the charade of competence.

He slowed to turn right on Observatory, but had to wait for pedestrians to cross the slushy street. He was on campus now, and U of M students were renowned for their lackadaisical att.i.tude toward cars. They lazily strolled through crosswalks, even on busy streets, immortal in their youth and confident that cars would slow for them. They were college students, and for most of them the concept that they might face a quick and unfair death had yet to hit home.

“Your day will come,” Perry said quietly to the bundled and backpacked students as they pa.s.sed in front of his car. “Mine sure as h.e.l.l has.” He finished his turn onto Observatory. Now he was only a few blocks from the medical center.

Perry realized he had yet to call work. What difference did it make if he called in, anyway? A lot of good his three years of devotion did at this point. Never late once, and would that help him survive?

“f.u.c.k ’em all,” Perry said quietly. His coworkers would hear about it

soon enough on the news. He could hear the teaser now: “Michigan man dies from new disease, which is named after his doctor, who is still very much alive and getting pretty frigging rich on the lecture circuit. Story at eleven.”

He stopped for a red light at Geddes. East Medical Center Drive was just up on the right. Cottony clumps of snow swam in the fluctuating wind, hanging weightless and spinning one second, whipping about as if on an intangible roller coaster the next. Despair filled his skull more tightly than even his own brain. All around him were cars filled with normal people. Perfectly unaware of the disease turning Perry’s body inside out. f.u.c.king normal people.

Or...or were they normal? How did he know they weren’t suffering from the same condition? Maybe they sat in their cars, fighting the urge to itch, to scratch until their fingernails came back b.l.o.o.d.y. How was he to know if the people around him were normal or infected?

It hit him, suddenly and solidly, that it was highly unlikely he was the first person with this disease. And if he wasn’t the first, a disturbing question reared up to confront him: Why hadn’t he heard of this before?

A horn blast sounded behind him, jerking him back into awareness. The light was green. Heart racing, mind drowning in a sea of strange questions, he pulled through the intersection, then off to the side of the road. On his right was a snow-covered cemetery. How friggin’ perfect. Traffic rolled along behind him, the people who might or might not be normal going on about their business. He gripped the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

Why hadn’t he heard of this before?

He had f.u.c.king blue triangles growing under his skin, for the love of G.o.d. The disease seemed so unusual — the media would have reported such a thing long ago, wouldn’t they? Of course they would have. Unless . . . unless the people with this disease went into the hospital, but never came out.

Perry sat very still, staring out the winds.h.i.+eld, the cold air filtering into the car and chasing away the artificial heat. What if the hospital was waiting for people like him? Maybe they wouldn’t even try to help him. Maybe they would just study the triangle, lock him up like a prisoner so they could watch him die. And maybe they’d just kill him and dissect him like some lab animal.

It was the only thing that made sense, or he’d have heard of this somewhere. There was more to this situation, much more. It wasn’t just a simple disease, after all; he was marked for death sure as if he were in a n.a.z.i concentration camp and the triangles were Stars of David sewn onto his clothes.