Contagious

Tad looked at the earpiece for a second, then picked it up. “h.e.l.lo?”

“Baum? Is that you?”

“No,” Tad said. “My name is Tad.”

A pause.

“Tad, my name is Dew Phillips. Do you know where Mister Baumgartner is?”

“Um . . . no,” Tad said. “Wait, does Mister Baumgartner have a big black mustache?”

“Yes! That’s him, is he there?”

“Oh,” Tad said. “Well, he’s lying on the ground here, bleeding and stuff.”

“s.h.i.t,” Mr. Phillips said. “Tad, how old are you?”

“I’m seven. Are you the police?”

A pause. “Yeah, sure, I’m a policeman.”

Tad let out a long sigh. The police. He was almost safe.

“Tad, is there another man around, a man named Mister Milner?”

“I don’t know,” Tad said. “Is Mister Milner like, really, really big?

“No,” Mr. Phillips said. “That’s someone else.”

“Oh,” Tad said. “Mister Milner might be the short guy in the pa.s.senger seat, but he looks dead. Can you send someone to get me? I’m not going back home.”

Mr. Phillips spoke again. This time his voice was calm and slow. “We’ll send someone to get you right away. Tad, listen carefully, that really big man you talked about . . . is he there with you now?”

“No, he’s gone,” Tad said. “I think he’s going into my house.”

“Your house?”

“Yes sir. I live right down the street.”

“Okay, hold on to that earpiece. We’ll use it to find you. Give me your address, and then whatever direction you saw that big man walking, you run the opposite way. And run fast.”

THE SITUATION ROOM

The elevator opened at the bottom level of the West Wing. Tom Maskill and Murray Longworth walked out. Murray had made many trips to the White House in the past thirty years, of course, but none this significant, and none with this caliber of an audience: the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the secretary of defense, the chief of staff and, of course, the president.

There were actually two Situation Rooms under the White house. The first one could handle about three dozen people. That was the one seen on TV shows, in movies and in newscasts.

They walked right by it.

Tom led him through mahogany doors into the smaller of the two Situation Rooms. Like its more famous counterpart, this room sported mahogany paneling and nearly wall-to-wall video screens. This one, however, was more discreet. One mahogany conference table ran down the middle of the room, six chairs on either side. Very few people even knew that this room existed—it was mostly for situations unfit for public consumption.

Military men filled the chairs on the table’s left side (the president’s left, of course). Next to the president sat Donald Martin, secretary of defense, then General Hamilton Barnes, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, army general Peter Franco, air force general Luis Monroe, Admiral Nathan Begeley, head of the navy, and finally the highly opinionated, buzz-cut-wearing General Monty Cooper, marines.

Vanessa sat on the other side of the table, first chair to the right of the president. Then Tom’s chair, then the s.p.a.ce for Murray. Empty chairs lined the walls. These were usually occupied by junior officials, a.s.sistants, but today everyone was flying solo. They couldn’t afford a leak. Maybe Gutierrez still wanted to reveal everything to the public, but at least he understood that until such a time came, they couldn’t afford extraneous eyes and ears.

“Mister President,” Murray said. “The attack is scheduled to begin in forty-five minutes. If I may, sir, I’d like to take advantage of the time to bring you up to date on another development.”

Gutierrez sighed and sagged back into his chair. Murray couldn’t blame him for showing frustration—what with the Iranians, increased hostility between India and Pakistan, the Palestinian complications, Russian troops rattling sabers over Arctic oil and, of course, Project Tangram, it had to be the longest first eight days in office any president had ever faced.

Gutierrez stayed slouched for a second, then sat up again and straightened his coat. It seemed a clear effort to look more presidential. He nodded at Murray.

“We’ve detected another possible host location,” Murray said. “Near Glidden, Wisconsin.”

“Is that anywhere near Bloomingville, where Ogden is going to attack?” Gutierrez asked.

“South Bloomingville, sir,” Murray said. “And no, it’s about seven hundred miles away. Glidden is near Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.”

“Is there a another construct?” Vanessa asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Murray said. “Dew Phillips is in Glidden, trying to find parasite hosts who could identify the construct’s location. He’s using Perry Dawsey to track down the hosts.”

“Dawsey?” Vanessa said.

“He’s under control,” Murray said.

“Under control,” Vanessa said coolly. “I did a little fact-finding. When infected, Dawsey killed his friend Bill Miller. He killed Kevin Mest, the person who gave him the Mather location, and then it seems you forgot to tell us he burned three little old ladies to death to get the South Bloomingville location.”

Murray blinked. How had she found out about that?

“That was self-defense,” Murray said.

Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “Three women in their eighties, Murray? Self-defense?”

The president’s eyes narrowed. “Murray, is this true?”

She’d saved this up and sprung it on him, right in front of the president.

“Yes, Mister President, but I’m not kidding about self-defense. Those ladies were infected. They tried to fire-bomb Dawsey with a Molotov c.o.c.ktail. Apparently, he caught it and threw it back.”

“That’s five deaths,” Vanessa said. “Tell us, Murray, why are you still using him?”

“We don’t really have a choice, ma’am,” Murray said. “As I’ve explained, the only reason we’ve found any of the gates is because Dawsey can track these hosts.”