Pandemic Page 85

Bo Pan’s infection, however, would live on. Live on in the most densely populated nation on the planet.

THAT TODDLIN’ TOWN

Steve Stanton didn’t know how to handle his hurricane of emotions. Bo Pan would have killed Jeff, Cooper and José, probably with the help of those men at the dock. That alone felt terrifying. Add to that Steve’s guilt over the death of the navy diver. Steve’s creation killed the man, killed a soldier who wanted nothing more than to serve his country — just like Steve had wanted to do. Which, in turn, stirred up confusion; just which country was Steve’s, anyway? He’d grown up American. He’d never even been to China — how could he count that distant nation as his home?

Fear, guilt, confusion and a final emotion that, in contrast, made the others all the more intense: happiness.

He was out having a blast with Jeff Brockman and Cooper Mitch.e.l.l, two men who in their younger days probably picked on and ridiculed guys like Steve. They had no idea that he’d saved their lives, and Jose’s as well. The five unexpected witnesses Steve hired — the two girls, their driver and the two dockworkers — had forced Bo Pan to leave the Moffett’s crew alive.

By now, Bo Pan was on a plane to New York, then London, and finally Beijing. He would probably never come back. Why would his bosses take the chance that Bo Pan could make a mistake, be picked up and interrogated, when they could just keep him in China and know his secrets would forever stay safe?

And if Bo Pan’s bosses sent Steve another handler? Well, Steve was the only one who could maintain and operate the Platypus, which meant he was probably safe. As for Cooper and Jeff? Now that Bo Pan had escaped the country with his prize in hand, Steve couldn’t think of a logical reason why someone would want them dead.

Still, Steve knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering if someone would come for him … and his parents, maybe. Someone who would want to tie up loose ends and silence anyone who knew anything.

Cooper and Jeff had picked up on Steve’s troubled thoughts and applied what seemed to be their cure-all for any affliction — drinking. The three of them sat in a booth at Monk’s Pub. This was their third stop of the night; Steve was already drunk. They’d had Old Style beer at a dive bar called Marie’s Riptide Lounge, then moved on to far more fancy trappings and expensive scotch at Coq D’Or and finally landed at Monk’s. Steve had lost track of the drinks he’d consumed. Three beers … or was it four? And those two shots … had they contained more than the standard one and a half ounces of liquor? Based on the way his head was swimming, it seemed like they had.

Monk’s was packed. Music blared. People laughed, shouted to be heard over the high level of noise. Steve wondered if it was loud enough to damage his hearing. One night wouldn’t do that much damage, he figured. Besides, tonight he wasn’t some nerd hanging out with his parents and family at the restaurant, he was partying. And the girls … so many girls, black and white and Asian and Hispanic, wearing jeans and tight sweaters or more revealing outfits they’d hidden under heavy winter coats. Steve glanced over to the bar, to a blond girl with gla.s.ses he’d been staring at earlier.

She was staring back at him. She smiled.

Jeff smacked Steve in the arm.

“Too bad about those limo ladies, my friend,” Jeff said. He wore jeans, a black belt and a black AC/DC concert T-s.h.i.+rt that showed off his lean biceps and muscle-packed forearms. “I can’t believe you hired actual models instead of escorts. I mean, they were escorts, sure, but not escort-escorts.”

A tap on his other arm: Cooper. He also wore jeans, but with a gray sweater that made him look like a college professor.

“Jeff is a sad panda because you didn’t hire hookers,” Cooper said.

“I’m not sad,” Jeff said. “Just saying a little limo-s.h.a.g is never a bad thing. Hey, Steve-O, you going to pick out something to eat, or what? We need to get some food in you or you’re going to pa.s.s out on us, and there’s way more drinking to be done!”

Steve picked up the menu sitting on the table in front of him. He tried to concentrate on it, but it blurred in and out of focus.

“Maybe a burger,” he said. “Cooper, are you having a burger?”

Jeff laughed. “A burger? For that hippie? Maybe there’s some gra.s.s in here for him to graze on.”

Steve looked at Cooper. Cooper shrugged.

“I’m a vegetarian,” he said. “Jeff can’t quite comprehend why anyone wouldn’t want to consume the flesh of animals raised as captives and then butchered, screaming in agony.”

Jeff crossed his arms, affected a look of utter disgust. “Dead animals are G.o.d’s gift to man. Beef is delicious. Bacon tastes good. Pork chops taste good.”

The waitress appeared, carrying three beers.

“You boys ready to order?”

Cooper closed his menu. “Roasted vegetable salad, please.”

“Cheeseburger,” Jeff said. “Make it moo.”

Steve stared at his menu, but the words again fuzzed to the point where he couldn’t read them.

The menu suddenly flew from his hands. Jeff had yanked it away and closed it.

“Stanton, enough rinky-d.i.n.king around,” he said. Jeff turned to the waitress. “My man here is having a cheeseburger, medium. And may I say, your eyes absolutely sparkle in this light.”

The waitress winked. “Smooth talker. Won’t get you out of giving me an obnoxious tip.”