Chimera

  Chimera

  Sonny Whitelaw

  Chimera

  Copyright © 2005 Sonny Whitelaw

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Layout and Cover Illustration by Deron Douglas

  ISBN: 1-55404-309-3

  First Edition December 8, 2005

  Also Available as a Large Type Paperback

  Now Available as paperback and hard cover

  A Celebration of Cover Art: 2001 to 2006

  Five Years of Cover Art

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  "I worry about all this research on virulence," Karl said, his tone deadly serious. "It's only a matter of months-years, at the most-before people nail down the genes for virulence and airborne transmission in influenza, Lassa, Ebola, you name it. And then any crackpot with a few thousand dollars' worth of equipment and a college biology education under his belt could manufacture bugs that would make Ebola look like a walk in the park."

  -Laurie Garrett, The Coming Plague; referring to a conversation between Karl Johnson (National Institute of Health) and Joe McCormick (Special Pathogens and Bacteria Branch, CDC), in the 1980s.

  "The potential for biowarfare to destroy whole species or even end life as we know it is not inconsiderable."

  -Dr Meryl Nass, February 08, 2005 testimony to the US Senate Subcommittee on Bioterrorism and Public Health Preparedness Hearing.

  -Prologue-

  Zaire, 1976

  An incredible thirst pulled Joshua McCabe out of his stupor. His throat felt like it was full of sticks and burning sand. And what was with that god-awful stench? Face buried in his pillow he groped the bedside table, hoping to find a glass of water. Instead, his fingers brushed against something warm and furry-that squealed and bit his hand.

  Josh yelped, jerked his hand away and snapped open his eyes. A rat scurried off the table. Horrified, he sat up and looked around. What was he doing in the village clinic's private room? And why was the place buzzing with flies? His confusion abruptly took a darker turn. He'd crapped himself. Not only that, the stuff was smeared all over the bed.

  Gagging back his revulsion, Josh ripped off his filthy shorts, staggered naked from the bed, and called, "Mom?" The room started spinning. He grabbed the doorframe, closed his eyes and tried to figure out what had happened.

  Josh and his older brother, Ed, had flown into Kinshasa to stay with Uncle Albert for the week. There'd been a cricket match at the British Embassy, and everyone had been talking about a bleeding disease. He hadn't been paying much attention. The outbreak was nowhere near where he and his brother would be going. Besides, there was always some new bug being investigated. That's what his parents and their friends, including 'Uncle' Albert, did.

  Details of the trip to the village were sketchy, blending with the memories of a dozen other bone-jangling rides across dusty roads that turned to bogs at the first drop of rain. The best part had always been the rides up the Zambezi River in a flat-bottomed skiff. Except his time, he'd felt too sick to notice anything other than the angry look on his father's face when they'd arrived. The boat had been late and the old man, impatient to go further upriver with Ed, had been too busy to say more than, "Hello, Josh. How was school?"

  Dad hadn't waited for a reply. He never did.

  Josh vaguely remembered telling his mother that he had a headache, then he'd gone to bed early. Everything after that was a blur. Pain in his head and joints, like the worst flu imaginable, and his mother's voice. She'd been looking after him, he was certain of that. But then she'd stopped coming-the flyblown mess on him and his bed was proof of that.

  Maybe she'd stopped coming because his father had returned. The great and mighty Dr William McCabe didn't believe in mollycoddling. Getting sick, he always said, was a way to build up your resistance. Josh didn't understand that-unless his old man meant resistance to being a burdensome child. Wasn't that what boarding school was all about?

  Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath-and almost retched at the smell. Where was everybody? "Mom? Dad?" Conscious of his nakedness, and still unsteady on his feet, he took a few cautious steps out onto the veranda. "Hey! Anyone?"

  Desperate for water, Josh noticed that the storeroom door was ajar. No one was inside, but stuff was scattered all over the floor. In the fading light his gaze zeroed in on a couple of unopened cartons of Perrier. Slumping onto the floor, he took several seconds to work the lid of the first bottle free, then drank the contents and opened a second bottle.

  By the time his head was clear enough to think straight, it was dark outside. There were no lights inside the clinic, and the familiar sound of villagers preparing for the evening meal was noticeably absent. Okay, so he'd screwed up by getting sick, but his mother wouldn't have just abandoned him. Even if she'd had to go upriver to join his father, the nuns at the clinic would have taken care of him.

  Certain now that something was very wrong, Josh left the storeroom. He was about to walk into the main ward when he heard animals growling from inside. A spasm of fear gripped him-until he heard a plaintive yelp. Okay, that wasn't so bad. Not wild animals but a couple of village dogs fighting over…

  Dread instantly replaced his fear. Fighting over what? He'd seen villagers that had been abandoned because most everyone had gotten sick and died. Or worse, massacred. It was Africa; it was common. And it was something that Dad said that he had to get used to seeing. But this village wasn't far from Kinshasa, and it was supposed to be safe from that sort of stuff, otherwise his parents would never have sent for him and Ed. So where was everyone?

  He hurried back to his room. With surprisingly steady fingers, he lit the Coleman lantern by the bed. In the flickering light, he pulled open the drawers of the bedside table, searching for some clothes. Maybe in the cupboard on the other side-

  A bundle of filthy rags, alive with cockroaches, lay crumpled on a dark patch on the floor. He couldn't see clearly, so he grabbed the light and raised it. It took a moment for the details to register. The bloody mess was-or at least had been-a person. Something black pooled in the eye sockets and mouth, and rats were chewing on the bare feet. One of the rodents looked up at him and defiantly went back to eating.

  Recoiling in horror, Josh screamed and stumbled back onto the bed, but he couldn't take his eyes off the obscenity on the ground. Another rat scuttled over the body. It was then that Josh noticed the clothing. The shirt and shorts were just like the ones that his mother wore. And the filthy hair was the same length and colour as his mother's. But that obscene lump of shredded skin and putrid flesh wasn't his mother. It couldn't be! A metallic glint caught his eye, and he saw her distinctive wedding ring on one of the half chewed fingers.

  Vomiting bile and Perrier, fourteen-year old Joshua McCabe fled from the room and into the jungle night.

  -Chapter 1-

  Washington, DC, April 19, 1995
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  "You're a freak," snarled Special Supervisory Agent Robert Williams. "A brilliant, gifted, freak!" He stabbed a nicotine-stained finger at Special Agent Joshua McCabe's chest. "And you'll be damned in hell for what you did to that fine young woman."

  Williams' red-rimmed eyes blazed with righteous fury, but McCabe saw the insanity beneath. The toad-faced head of the FBI's Behavioural Science Unit had played the same pathetic game for years. McCabe was guilty only of allowing himself to be entrapped. Twice. "Then I'll see you there," he replied.

  The foyer door to the Director's office opened and Special Supervisory Agent John Reynold walked in. Regret wasn't in the FBI's vocabulary, except when it was strong-armed out of them by political necessity. Seeing it in Reynold's eyes came as something of a surprise to McCabe.

  Snapping a flat, ugly smile on his face, Williams held out his hand to Reynold, and said, "Good to see you, John."

  Reynold ignored it and pushed past him.

  "Go right in please, Agents," said the secretary. "Director Spalding is waiting." Her indifference to the acrimonious exchanges that plagued the Director's office was surpassed only by her indifference to intimidation.

  McCabe could almost smell the residue of terror embedded in the oak-panelled walls, from the days when Hoover ruled the kingdom. Spalding, however, was no Hoover. The Director had succumbed to Williams' notorious mind games-again-and this was the result.

  "Gentlemen." Edwin Spalding stood from behind his desk and gestured for them to sit in the chairs opposite. The plush leather lounge suite in the corner of the room was reserved for more celebratory occasions.

  Accustomed to donning politically correct façades when it suited him, McCabe sat motionless through the full serving of regret and recriminations. A part of him even admired Williams' skilful shifting of hostility onto him. The FBI preferred its sacrificial decoys to come from the lower ranks.

  Ten minutes later, McCabe tired of the game. He placed his resignation letter, ID, badge and weapon on Spalding's polished desk.

  The wrinkles on Williams' brow deepened, and his lipless mouth twisted uncertainly. "What the hell are you doing?"

  McCabe maintained his silence through another five minutes of platitudes and finger pointing. Enough. He pushed his chair back, stood, and dropped a file folder on the Director's in-tray. "If that's all, sirs, I have things to attend to, as I'm sure you do." He ignored Spalding's pleading look. The Director wanted- needed -him to press charges against Williams. It wouldn't be necessary. The file contained it all, including clear, professional recommendations regarding he head of the BSU. Robert Williams was insane. The only difference between us, thought McCabe, is that Williams doesn't know it.

  Staring at the file as if it would bite him, Spalding reached out a tentative hand. McCabe swiftly retrieved the document. "Conditional on acceptance of my resignation," he said, his eyes unwavering.

  Williams' sneer displayed an impressive set of crooked teeth. "You're bluffing, McCabe. You can't resign; you've got nowhere to go."

  The silence stretched. McCabe counted his heartbeats, idly wondering how many remained.

  "All right, Agent." The Director nodded curtly. "Resignation accepted. You can leave."

  Face twisting in disbelief, Williams spluttered, "You can't let him go!"

  McCabe dropped the file, turned and left in one fluid motion. Behind him, Williams shouted, "While you're snivelling in the corner, how many more will die, huh, McCabe? How many?"

  Even the notoriously unflappable secretary looked up when Reynold barked, "That's enough, Williams! McCabe? Wait up."

  Closing the outer door behind him, McCabe kept walking. He was set on only one thing: the spare weapon in his office. This time they could clean up their own mess. And he was most assuredly their mess, for Williams had created him, a monster to catch monsters.

  Inside the office, Director Spalding turned to Williams, his tone low and threatening. "I don't give a rat's ass about your White House friends, this time you've gone too far. Apprehending Jennings was a public relations coup for the FBI, but it- you -destroyed a good agent. A good man."

  "Get your hands off me!" Williams wrenched his arm from Reynold's powerful grip, straightened his tie and immaculate eight hundred dollar suit, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the foyer.

  Reynold made to follow, but Spalding stopped him. "Let him go. Let them both go."

  At six foot three inches and two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, John Reynold towered over the Director. "I'm not letting McCabe walk away like that," he growled. "Not to a brief fling with the bottle and quick bullet to the head. We owe him. And I don't mean a goddamned three months' leave and employee assistance counselling."

  "What do you recommend?" Spalding flicked through the file that McCabe had left. "We both know how he passed the psych evaluation but he's still a basket case. He wouldn't be human if he wasn't."

  Shooting Spalding a contemptuous look, Reynold went to snap a reply, but the secretary's fractured voice and wide eyes stilled him. "Director," she said, holding out the telephone. "You need to take this call. Now, sir!"

  "What," Spalding barked, snatching up the phone. He froze, and then the colour drained from his face. "God help us, no!"

  Two floors below, Joshua McCabe was focused only on the moment, for that was all that remained. He shut his office door and closed the Venetian blinds over the glass walls before sitting in the chair behind his desk. Unmindful of the clutter on his desk, he contemplated the legal pad, but a note was superfluous after all that had all been said. And done. He smiled sadly at the silver-framed photo by the computer. Regret came in many forms. Touching the image once, briefly, he turned the frame face down. Wouldn't do to get it bloodied. She'd hated blood. And guns. From the bottom drawer of the desk he withdrew the ankle holster, gun and clip, and placed them carefully on the blotter. No more demons. The clip slid into the weapon with a soft, oily click. No more can you find me; I'm coming to you. Smiling grimly, he flipped the safety off, raised it and-

  The door burst open. John Reynold was breathing hard, and his face was taught with urgency. "I don't suppose you'd consider postponing that, would you?"

  McCabe suddenly became aware of a commotion outside. "Why?" he said, his curiosity outweighing emotional need.

  "Because someone's just blown up the Federal Murrah Building in Oklahoma."

  *

  Pain punctuated the darkness. Jordan Spinner tried to cry out, but her mouth was filled with a pasty mix of dust and blood. She coughed and gagged, then moaned when sharp pangs tore through her chest. What had happened?

  Eyes open or closed, it was dark except for the echoes of light flickering across her retinas. What did that mean? Was she blind? She carefully cleared her throat without coughing, and turned her head to spit out the globs of mucus. Something hard limited her movement, and every motion of her legs resulted in a breathtaking round of agony.

  Slowly, very slowly, she isolated each piece of information. There had been an explosion. Snatched off her feet and pummelled by a superheated sandstorm, she'd tried to scream, but the air had been sucked from her lungs. Had she been knocked unconscious? Was it night? The pain stole her ability to think. Concentrating on breathing, just as she had when giving birth to Jamie, seemed to help.

  Gritty, sticky moisture covered her face. It smelled like blood. She carefully manipulated her hand through a maze of what felt like rubble and splintered wood, and touched her eyes. She had eyes at least, even if she was blind. Her right hand was also free but her shoulder and forearm were wedged. And her legs…she couldn't feel them! Adrenaline terrorized her senses. Blind and crippled?

  Jamie, Douglas! They'd been in the elevator. Oh, God! Where were they now? She had to get out. She had to find them! "Jamie!" she whimpered desperately. " Douglas !"

  Her head throbbed so badly that she wanted to throw up. And the pressure on her bladder was unbearable. How long had she been here? Saliva finally flowed, and she spat out
more dust, swallowed the rest, and emptied her bladder. It helped. And the stinging of the cuts on her legs drove away visions of a wheelchair. But where were her husband and son?

  Unbidden, the memories of Jamie's happy chortle and soft curly hair merged with images of autopsied kids and bomb victims. No ! Not her son! Not Jamie. But something inside of Jordan-instinct, training, or the strange, tenuous connection between mother and child-forced her to confront the unthinkable. Jamie was gone.

  Grief welled from deep in her chest, sending sharper pain through her cracked ribs. She could feel her own life slipping away, and stopped struggling. Wait for me guys; I'll be with you, real soon. Just…wait.

  Distant voices. She could hear voices! There was movement near her head, and then came the flash of powerful strobe lights. It gave her a direction to demand, "My son. You have to find him!"

  "It's okay, ma'am," replied a man. Reassuring fingers brushed her face. "We'll get him. What's your name?"

  "Spinner. I'm…doctor…work for FBI."

  "You're gonna be fine, Agent Spinner. Was your son with you?"

  Jordan wasn't an agent, but she wasn't about to explain. "Day Care Centre."

  A pause too long. "We're working on it. Tell me about you."

  The question was a standard ploy to deflect attention from the truth. Jordan knew it well. She'd used it herself when confronted with grieving loved ones. "Broken rib, maybe two, mild concussion. Some blood loss, but I'm otherwise fine. Now forget about me and find my son!"

  A gloved hand fumbled somewhere down near her thighs. "They're jammed in tight," said the man. "Can you feel this?"

  "I'm a doctor," she repeated. "My spine is okay, although my leg might be broken. I'm…wedged. Listen, come back for me after you get my husband and son!"