Contagious

Dew pointed at Dawsey. “You stay right here. I’m going to call this in, then I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

“Thanks, Pops,” Perry said. “Oh, and have your peons get my bag out of the Mustang’s trunk. And speaking of Mustangs, I’m going to need another one. Make sure it’s a GT. I’d prefer blue with a silver strip this time, but I’ll take whatever color you can get. I wouldn’t want to be difficult.”

Not only was Dawsey a freak, a killer, he was a smart-a.s.s as well. Dew stared at him, wondering if maybe he should just pull the gun out again and end it.

The gun . . . that brought up an interesting question.

“You had Baumgartner and Milner down,” Dew said. “They’re both packing. Why didn’t you take their weapons?”

He saw something flicker in Perry’s eyes, a flicker that only appeared in the rare, brief instances when he talked about triangles or hatchlings—was it fear?

“Guns are for p.u.s.s.ies,” Perry said. “I find a tire iron has more of a Charles Bronson flair.”

Dew stared for a few more seconds, then picked up the map and walked out of the house. As he left, he saw the first of the two Margo-Mobiles pulling up into the drive. When Margaret found out she had nothing to work with, she would not be happy.

WHIPPED

The semi’s air brakes hissed as the tractor slowed and stopped.

The McMillian house wasn’t much to look at, a typical boxy three-bedroom, two-story affair, once-white paint now cracked, peeling and speckled with dark spots of exposed and well-weathered wood. Big yard, old trees devoid of leaves. Two gray vans were parked on the street, and she guessed that the nondescript black Lincoln in the lawn belonged to Dew.

The downpour was actually a welcome break—icy rain would keep curious neighbors inside. A few might peek outside at the commotion, but as long as they didn’t try to cross the perimeter, that was fine.

Gitsh craned around the driver’s seat to look at Margaret, his ’fro bouncing a bit with each movement. “Should Marcus and I go ahead and connect the trailers, prep the examination room, ma’am?”

“Yes, Gitsh,” Margaret said. “Thank you.”

He got out and closed the driver’s-side door. Examination room was a funny phrase. That’s what they all called it, of course, but so far they hadn’t done any examinations—only autopsies. Not exactly ironic, considering that this two-trailer setup had originally been designed for on-site postmortems of infectious-disease victims. If you had an unknown, lethal contagion, it made more sense to a.n.a.lyze the corpses where they died rather than haul them to a Biohazard Safety Level-4 lab. No matter how secure the transportation, you were still at risk of spreading the contagion somewhere along the route. A portable BSL-4 autopsy facility, on the other hand, let you not only a.n.a.lyze the body on the spot but incinerate it as well.

A few seconds after Gitsh shut the driver’s door, the pa.s.senger-side door opened and a soaking Dew Phillips climbed in. Bits of ice clung to his bald scalp and the ring of red hair that circled around the back of his head from temple to temple. He looked tired, wet and p.i.s.sed off.

“One survivor,” Dew said. “An infant boy, in the van on the right. Doc Braun, can you check him out? He’s not infected.”

“How do you know?” Margaret asked.

“Because if he was, Perry would have killed him. Just like he did the three people that were.”

Margaret sagged back into her chair. They were too late. Again.

“I’ll check out the child, Dew,” Amos said. “But I have to wonder why you government types can’t control Mister It Puts the Lotion in the Basket.”

“He put Baum and Milner in the hospital,” Dew snapped. “Maybe you’d like to try and control a six-foot-five murderer who can probably bench-press this whole rig?”

Amos shook his head. “No way. That alkie scares the fu-schnickens out of me. Make sure that psycho is gone from the house before I go in, or I’m not even getting out of this vehicle.”

“Tiny white man makes a good point,” Clarence said. “Dew, can your guys get the eunuch out of here?”

Dew nodded, tiredly. Margaret sat forward.

“No,” she said. “I want to talk to him first.”

“Forget it, Margo,” Clarence said. “What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?”

“First of all, the man’s name is Perry, not the eunuch, not Mister It Puts the Lotion in the Basket and not that psycho. Second, nothing is wrong with me.”

“Something is wrong with you,” Dew said. “Didn’t you hear me say he just killed three people?”

“Yes, and I also heard you say he didn’t kill the baby because the baby isn’t infected. He didn’t kill the boy who found Baum and Milner, and, I might add, he didn’t kill them, either. I’m not infected, so I’ll be fine.”

“No way,” Clarence said. “He’s probably drunk again. Dew, is he drunk?”

“If not, he’s on his way.”

“See?” Clarence said. “That’s it, Margo, you’re not going in there.”

“He’s right,” Dew said. “Forget it.”

“Quorum carries,” Amos said. “Moving on to new business, the chair recognizes Senator Gonzales from Topeka.”

“All of you just shut up,” Margaret said. “We can’t have Perry killing the hosts. Someone has to get that through to him.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Dew said. “You can bet the next time he gets a sniff, he’ll be in handcuffs and leg irons before we track it down.”

Amos laughed. “Handcuffs? He’ll probably just eat them.”

“Handcuffs?” Margaret said. “Leg irons? After the tortures that man has faced, you think you can get through to him by putting him in chains?”

“He just killed three people,” Clarence said. “Someone please tell me I’m not hearing this bleeding-heart-liberal bulls.h.i.t.”

“Margaret,” Dew said, “you need to pull your head out of your a.s.s.”