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A Spark of Heavenly Fire
By
Pat Bertram
Published by Second Wind Publishing at Smashwords.
Second Wind Publishing, LLC
931-B South Main Street, Box 145
Kernersville, NC 27284
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or use fictitiously. Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2008 by Pat Bertram
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.
First Dagger Books edition published December, 2008.
Dagger Books, Running Angel, and all production design are trademarks of Second Wind Publishing, used under license.
For information regarding bulk purchases of this book, digital purchase and special discounts, please contact the publisher at www.secondwindpublishing.com
Cover design by Pat Bertram
Manufactured in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-935171-23-2
Chapter 1
Friday, December 2
Kate Cummings counted backward from one hundred, though she knew it wouldn’t help her sleep. Dead people didn’t slumber, and she hadn’t felt alive for a long time. Not since before Joe’s funeral, anyway.
Three. Two. One. She raised her head, squinted at the illuminated face of the alarm clock, and flopped back against the pillow. Five-fifteen. Six hours of thrashing around in bed. She blinked away the sting in her eyes. All she wanted was one good night’s sleep. Was that too much to ask?
One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-six. . . . A sound startled her awake. A siren’s scream, fading now. She checked the time. Five-thirty. Even if she could doze off again, she’d have to rise in less than an hour. Not worth the effort.
She hauled herself upright and groped for her eyeglasses. After sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, gathering her strength, she dressed and wandered through the house. She hesitated by the closed door of the second bedroom where her husband had lived during the last years of his protracted illness, touched the knob with her fingertips. Yanked her hand away.
This is ridiculous. Joe’s been gone for thirteen months.
Taking a deep breath, she grasped the knob, but could not force herself to turn it. She rested her forehead on the door for a minute, wondering if she’d ever be able to face the ghosts of sorrow and regret locked inside, then squared her shoulders and headed for the front closet to grab a coat and hat.
She trudged the seven blocks to Cheesman Park. A dozen hardy souls had braved the frigid early morning air, but as the hematite sky softened to pearl gray, others joined the parade of exercisers rounding the paths.
An elderly couple swaddled in layers of heavy clothing marched in front of her, their arms pumping faster than their legs.
A young man jogged toward her. With his beard stubble, ancient gray sweats, and tousled hair, he looked as if he were one step away from being a street person.
Coming up behind the jogger was a man in a cropped tee shirt and skimpy nylon shorts, a rapturous smile on his face. He passed the jogger, moving so swiftly and lightly his feet barely touched the ground.
As he neared Kate, he stumbled, and his smile faltered. He held out his hands, a beseeching look in his bright-red eyes. All at once an impossible torrent of blood gushed from his mouth, soaking her, and he toppled into her arms. She tried to steady him, but she slipped on a patch of blood, and they both fell.
“Are you all right?” two quavering voices asked in unison.
Kate turned her head so she could look out of the one clean spot on her glasses. The elderly couple peered down at her, their faces creased in concern.
“I’m fine.” The stench of the blood and the weight of the runner made it difficult for her to breathe, and her buttocks felt sore and cold, but she didn’t seem to be injured.
She struggled to scoot out from beneath the runner.
“Let me help.” The voice sounded young, male, and had a pleasing timber. Catching a glimpse of gray fabric, Kate realized the voice belonged to the disreputable-looking jogger.
After rolling the body off her, he extended a sturdy hand. Clutching it, she lumbered to her feet.
She reached into her coat pocket for a wad of tissues, wiped her face, hands, and glasses the best she could. Then, squatting next to the runner, she checked his pulse, listened to his chest. No sign of life.
She passed a palm over the runner’s eyes to close them.
Her knees creaked as she pushed herself upright. Four or five people, still breathing heavily from their exercise, stopped and gawked at her. “What happened?” one bystander asked “Was he shot?”
Not shot, Kate wanted to say, but she couldn’t summon the energy to speak aloud.
A redhead in a pink and lime green warm-up suit jogged by while pressing buttons on a cell phone. “I’ve been calling nine-one-one,” she said without slowing her pace, “but the lines are busy.”
“Something’s going on,” the old woman commented. “I heard sirens all night long.”
Kate cocked her head to listen. Off in the distance, underlying the sounds of the wakening city, was a cacophony of sirens. Too many sirens.
She tried to hug herself to ward off a sudden chill, but the freezing blood stiffened her coat sleeves. She thought about going home, peeling off her ruined clothes, and taking a long hot shower, but she didn’t feel right about walking away from the unknown man lying dead at her feet. Besides, she had to wait until the police or the paramedics arrived.
“You go get cleaned up,” the old woman said, “we’ll wait for the police.”
Kate shivered. Her hands and feet felt cold, and her heart beat too fast. Perhaps she should leave; it wouldn’t help anyone if she collapsed. As she turned to depart, she heard the woman whisper, “Someone ought to go with her. I think she’s in shock.”
“I’ll go.” The voice was that of the man who had helped her up.
“I’m fine,” Kate managed to say. “I don’t need anyone.”
He fell into step beside her. “If I remember correctly, there’s a city ordinance prohibiting a woman covered in blood from walking the streets unescorted.”
She slanted a glance at him. The compassionate look and the hint of mischief in his brown eyes warmed her, and she gave him a flicker of a smile. “In that case, I have no choice. I wouldn’t want to attract any further attention.”
They set out for her house on Elizabeth Street. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, and after a few minutes, the worst effects of the shock wore off.
“I’m Greg Pullman,” he said, breaking the long silence.
“Kate Cummings.”
“So tell me, Kate, do you work for a living, or do you hang around parks all day waiting for men to fall on you?”
She scrabbled about in her mind for a witty response, but when the pause dragged into awkwardness, she said simply, “I work at the Bowers Clinic.”
“Isn’t that the converted mansion on Seventh Avenue where the rich people go?”
“Yes.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“We like rich people,” she said. “They have money.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. A patient’s representative. I take medical histories, deal with any grievances patients might have, and listen if they need someone to talk to.” Trying to match his light tone, she added, “What about you? Do you work for a living, or do you hang around parks all day rescuing women who have men fall on them?”
“I’m a reporter for The Denver News.”
Kate stopped and slapped herself on the forehead with the heel of a palm. “I am so stupid. Here I thought you were being nice, and all you want is a story.”
“No story. I promise.”
She glanced into his guileless eyes. “You don’t look like a reporter.”
“I don’t?”
“Reporters are hard-eyed, weary-faced people, beaten down by the low-level types they have to deal with.”
He smiled at her. “Funny you should mention that. I go to a bar downtown—The Lucky Star. It’s close to the central fire station, police headquarters, The Denver News, and Channel Ten, so it’s filled at all hours with hard-eyed men and women. I used to try to imitate their stare, but I looked ridiculous.”
“Good.”
He seemed bemused by her response. “Why do you say that?”
“All the hard stare means is that they no longer have the desire to care. You do.”
***
Kate shifted uneasily in her seat. She tried to focus on Rachel Abrams’s play-by-play description of this past Sunday’s Broncos game, but it reminded her of the dead runner in the park; he had been wearing a Broncos tee shirt.
Rachel’s shoulders twitched, and an arm flailed out. She stopped in the middle of a rambling account of a pass interception and announced, “There’s something terribly wrong with me. I feel great. I never feel well, you know that.”
Kate studied the elegantly dressed woman sitting across from her. With a rosy glow brightening her normally sallow cheeks, Rachel did indeed look healthy. Or she would have if not for her twitching muscles and blood-shot eyes.
“Have you been experimenting with your insulin dosage again?”
“No. I’ve been following Dr. Hart’s orders.”
“What about the spasms? How long have you had them?”
Rachel’s head bobbed, one of her feet kicked the desk, and her fingers kneaded nonexistent dough.
“What spasms?”
Kate made a quick notation on the medical form: Patient seems unaware of muscle spasms. When she looked up, she saw Rachel bending forward, clutching her midsection.
Dropping the pen, she jumped to her feet. “What’s wrong?”
Rachel’s body jerked upright.
Kate hit the panic button to summon a doctor. Rachel’s mouth opened and bloody vomit burst out with such force it arced over the desk and hit Kate full in the chest.
Gagging on the smell of so much blood in such a small room, she rushed to Rachel’s side. She was bending over the inert woman when a lanky blonde wearing a pristine lab coat, linen slacks, and an ecru silk blouse came charging into Kate’s office.
“Oh, Kate. Now what have you done?”
Kate stepped aside to make room for the doctor. “She acted fine, then she vomited blood.”
Dr. Hart looked Kate up and down. “Wait in the examination room next door. I’ll check you over when I’m finished here.”
With an odd sense of detachment, Kate obeyed.
She was staring at the white tiled floor, wondering how she could have seen two people die in the same manner within such a short time, when she heard a familiar voice.
“Exactly how many times a day do you do this?”
She looked up. An attractive clean-shaven man in his early thirties lounged in the doorway. Dressed in dark slacks, a tan trench coat belted at the waist, and a battered fedora perched rakishly on his chestnut curls, he bore little resemblance to the scruffy individual who had walked her home a few hours earlier.
She gave him a sheepish smile.
“Okay,” Greg said. “Time for me to take you home again. Let’s go.”
Kate finally found her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see if you’re all right. But look at you.”
“Don’t remind me. I need to get my coat.” She went into the locker room off the women’s restroom and came out holding her old blue coat at arm’s length. “You better carry this. I don’t want to soil it. It’s the only coat I have left.”
Dr. Hart exited Kate’s office and stood with hands on hips, narrowing her eyes first at Kate then at the reporter.
“What’s going on here?”
“I’m going home to get changed. I can’t work looking like this.”
“And who is he?”
Kate glanced at Greg. The mischievous gleam in his eyes encouraged her.
“He’s an experienced escort. Every time someone vomits blood on me, he’s there to escort me home.”
“What do you mean, ‘every time’? Has this happened to you before?”
“This morning when I took a walk in Cheesman Park.”
Dr. Hart studied Kate for a moment. Apparently deciding the preposterous story was true, she flicked a wrist.
“Take the afternoon off, Kate. You’ve had enough for one day. Let me know if you need me.”
When Kate and Greg stepped outside, he asked, “Yours or mine?”
“Yours. I don’t have a car.”
He ushered her toward a battered red Honda Accord that looked as if it could have been one of the first models off the assembly line.
“It has close to two hundred thousand miles on it,” he said proudly, opening the door for her.
To her relief, the heater worked.
They headed down the long sweeping driveway and waited for a break in the unusually heavy traffic. After several minutes, Greg slipped his car between a Volkswagen and a Porsche.
“Are you married?” he asked.
Kate shook her head. “What about you?”
“No, but I think I’m going to be.”
Kate’s lips twitched. “You’re not sure?”
“My girlfriend has been hinting at marriage for months now, but when I proposed, she said she’d think about it.” He smiled at Kate. “What’s with you women, anyway? Some of you can’t make up your minds, and some of you are always covered in blood.”
Kate glanced ruefully down at her beige suit. She had thrown away everything she’d worn to the park; now she’d have to throw away this set of clothes, too.
“At the rate I’m going,” she said, “I’ll need to get a whole new wardrobe.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”
“I hate shopping.”
“A woman after my own heart,” he teased.
She turned her head toward the window to hide a sudden flush, and noticed they’d progressed only a few blocks.
Slanting a glance at him, she took a deep breath. “You found out something, didn’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Your eyes. I see a reticence in them now I didn’t see earlier.”
“I talked to my contact in the medical examiner’s office.”
When he didn’t offer anything more, she said, “And?”
“And they don’t know what causes the red death.”
“The red death?” She swallowed. “They’ve named it already?”
“Unofficially.”
“Do they know how many have died?”
“Hundreds, possibly thousands.”
Kate stared straight ahead, trying to imagine so many people dying the same horrific death as Rachel Abrams and the runner in the park. Remembering the woman’s description of the game and the man’s tee shirt, she mentioned a possible Broncos connection.
Greg gave her a thoughtful look. “Interesting coincidence.”
They drove in silence for another couple of blocks, then Kate said softly, “It isn’t going to end any time soon, is it?”
His response was as subdued. “I don’t think so. The death rate is rising.”
***
The driver of the green Jeep Grand Cherokee behind Greg edged closer, revved his engine, and honked his horn. It had no effect on the stalled traffic, but the driver of the white Subaru ahead of Greg thrust an arm out the window and extended a middle finger.
Greg double-checked his doors to make sure he’d locked them. Any minute now, it seemed, the two drivers would be resorting to violence, and he had enough problems.
He glanced at his watch. Half an hour late. His editor wouldn’t be pleased he’d missed his deadline, but he couldn’t help it. All afternoon, ever since he had dropped Kate off at her house, he’d been caught in one traffic jam after another.
He called the newspaper again but still could not get through. He tossed the phone onto the seat next to him, then folded his arms across the top of his steering wheel, and rested his chin on them.
In the end, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t reach the newspaper—he had been unable to complete his assignment.
His contact at the medical examiner’s office had supplied him with the names of the first victims of the red death. He’d interviewed the families of three of them. They were too grief-stricken to tell him much, though they did confirm Kate’s surmise of a Broncos connection. Those three victims had all been at Sunday’s game.
Another early victim had been John Takamura, a professor at the State University Extension. Greg hoped the man’s wife, a professor herself, would be able to give him a newsworthy statement. She had not been at her campus office, and when she didn’t answer her phone, he headed for her house in University Hills, but it looked as if he wouldn’t get there.
Movement jarred him out of his contemplation. The driver of the Jeep had closed the gap between them and was nudging Greg’s car toward the white Subaru.
The Subaru pulled out of the line of traffic, drove over the median, and made a U-turn. As it passed Greg, the driver—a white-haired, apple-cheeked woman who had to be seventy—once again displayed a middle finger.
So much for sweet little old ladies.
But she had the right idea.
He crossed the median and headed back to The Denver News.
Two blocks later, Greg noticed the white Subaru zigzagging. Suddenly the windshield of the vehicle turned crimson; the old woman fell forward and collapsed onto her steering wheel. Then, midst the clamor of honking horns and screeching tires, the Subaru veered across the next lane and crashed into a parked car.
As Greg slammed on his brakes, he found himself looking around for Kate, but didn’t see her. This time, at least, she wasn’t involved.
Chapter 2
Saturday, December 3
Kate was standing by the meat counter at the grocery store, picking out a package of ground beef, when a sharp-featured woman about her own age approached her.
“You’re not going to buy that, are you?” the woman demanded.
“Why? Do you want it?” Kate offered the woman the package of meat she had been about to put in the shopping cart.
The woman recoiled. “No, I don’t want it. Haven’t you heard? The meat’s tainted.”
“She’s right.” An older, pleasant-faced woman parked her cart next to Kate’s. “There is something wrong with the beef. I heard it on the news last night. Several people have died from it.”
A dimple-chinned man, accompanied by a boy who looked exactly like him, joined the group. “Seventy-five dead so far.”
The boy made exaggerated retching sounds. “A man hurled blood. It was awesome.”
“Oh, Billy.” Exasperation tinged the man’s voice, but his eyes shone with pride as he regarded the child.
Kate dumped the package of ground beef into her cart. Whatever else the red death might be, it was not a reaction to bad beef; Rachel Abrams had been a zealous vegetarian.
She moved away from the meat counter and headed for the dairy case. She made slow progress; groups of people discussing the catastrophe blocked most of the aisles. Everyone, it seemed, knew someone who had died or knew someone who knew someone, yet no one questioned the reported count of seventy-five fatalities.
Listening to the excited voices, Kate felt terribly alone. Didn’t they know what was happening? Couldn’t they feel it? Then she thought of Greg and drew comfort from the knowledge that he too knew the truth.
***
Greg met Peter Jensen at the usual place: Washington Park next to a tree surrounded by a wrought iron fence.
Peter, a gaunt forty-seven-year-old wearing thick eyeglasses and discount store clothing, smelled faintly of formaldehyde and death. He worked at the medical examiner’s, preparing bodies for autopsies and cleaning up afterward.
“I’ve always loved this place,” Peter said, gazing at the tree. “There used to be an elm here, the scion of a tree George Washington stood under when he took command of the Continental Army. Isn’t that incredible? The very tree.”
“What happened to the elm?” Greg asked.
“It died in 1983 from Dutch elm disease and the parks department planted this oak in its place.”
Peter continued to contemplate the tree a few minutes longer. “The death toll is continuing to climb,” he said finally. “There have been isolated outbreaks all over the country—all over the world, actually—but it seems to be centered in Colorado. They’re estimating fifteen thousand dead in Denver alone.”
“Where are they putting all those bodies?” Greg asked, keeping his tone professional.
“In an old meat locker on Wazee Street. They’re not releasing any of them until they know for sure what they’re dealing with.”
“So they still don’t know what the red death is?”
“No. Because of the conjunctival hemorrhages that turn the eyes red and the fever that gives the face a ruddy glow, they thought it might be a viral hemorrhagic fever like Ebola, but now they’re leaning toward a virus/bacteria combination.”
“Is that possible?” Greg asked, jotting down the information.
“It’s rare, but it does happen. A combination of the swine flu virus and Pfeiffer’s bacillus probably caused the flu pandemic in the early years of the twentieth century. More than two percent of the entire world’s population died in that pandemic. If the red death is equally lethal, one hundred sixty million people could die. One way or another, they’re going to have to do whatever it takes to stop it.”
“Like a vaccine?”
“Could be, but until the toxicology reports come in, there’s not much to go on. It would help if they could find the index case. Because so many people died simultaneously, no one knows where it started.”
“I do.”
Peter jerked his gaze from the tree and stared at Greg. “You do?”
“Yes. The Broncos game last Sunday.”
“How on earth did you find that out?”
“I am an investigative reporter.”
Peter turned back to the tree. “They do know one thing about the red death. It sends hormone levels soaring, particularly endorphins and adrenaline, so people are still able to function and feel good while they’re bleeding to death internally.”
“That’s probably what caused all the road rage yesterday,” Greg said.
“Right. Then the perpetrators died. Instant retribution.”
Greg eyed the other man curiously. “You don’t act at all bothered by any of this.”
Peter shrugged. “It’s not my world. It has nothing to do with me.”
“You could still catch the red death.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Peter said with an uncharacteristic harshness. “All my life I have done nothing but suffer. Now my body is wasting away for no reason the doctors can discover, I’m going blind, and I can’t find a decent job. You think the red death scares me? I would welcome it. But I doubt I’ll catch it. Life isn’t finished tormenting me yet.”
Greg opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he realized he had no idea what to say.
He finished writing his notes, then looked up. “Did you find anything on the guy I asked you about? The one who died in Cheesman Park yesterday morning?”
“Just his blood work.”
“That’s what I need.”
“No AIDS, no hepatitis, nothing to worry about. He was perfectly healthy.”
“Except for the red death.”
“There is that.”
***
Gripping the heavy grocery bag, Kate took a shortcut through Cheesman Park. She hadn’t gone far when she noticed people clustered around a man in his late fifties who looked unbearably sad. Her stomach clenched. Please, not another death.
Ignoring hushed protests, she elbowed her way through the crowd, then stopped, confused. The man watched not a tragic scene but children at play. His eyes seemed focused on one in particular: a little girl wearing a pink jacket and a delighted grin, who chased after a yellow ball.
Kate became aware of the cameras and realized they were filming a movie. The man’s ordinary face looked familiar. Could be Jeremy King. She had heard on the news he was in town for a few days.
As she watched the actor, his expression changed from sadness to bewilderment to horror.
“Cut. Cut,” the young director shouted. He did a victory dance. “That was awesome.”
But the look of horror still distorted the actor’s face. Without even turning to see, Kate knew exactly what he witnessed.
Her eyes burned, but no tears came.
Chapter 3
Sunday, December 4
Jeremy King was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, rubbing his gritty eyes, when he got his wake-up call.
He stood, then quickly sat back down, breathing deeply to still a sudden nausea. It had taken the entire contents of the mini bar to remove the image of the little girl from his retinas. Who would have thought a child that small had so much blood in her?
Man, he hated Colorado. He must have been out of his mind when he agreed to do a film here.
After his stomach settled, he stood again and stretched. He had to do a few short scenes today, then he could head for home where he and not some punk kid barely out of school called the shots. Okay, so Mr. Big-Time Director Cameron Hoffman couldn’t break away from his new picture to come direct a few measly last-minute scenes for Cry of Hope, but did he have to send a snot-nosed kid?
Jeremy went into the bathroom and stared blearily into the mirror. He tried to put on his trademark deprecating grin, the one that had won him two Oscars, but he couldn’t manage it.
Man, with those bags as big as the Montana sky under his eyes, he looked old, really old. He tilted his head to see himself from several angles. Maybe he should get a face-lift? No. He still looked more commanding and distinguished now, at fifty-eight, than he had ever looked before.
Except for the bags under his eyes. Good thing he had the tube of hemorrhoid ointment; it would shrink them in no time.
He ordered room service, then showered, shaved, and put on his hand-tooled cowboy boots, well-worn jeans, blue chambray work shirt, and western-style chamois sport coat. Once on the set he’d exchange his coat for his character’s flannel-lined denim jacket, but otherwise he would wear his own clothes. That way, after the filming, he could go directly to the private airfield on the outskirts of Denver where his jet would be waiting, already refueled.
Then home to his vast Montana ranch.
By the time Jeremy dressed, his breakfast had arrived—a large pot of coffee and an order of toast. When the waiter left, Jeremy rummaged in his luggage for one of the cans of imported sardines he had brought with him.
He opened the can, laid the sardines side by side on the toast, and dribbled the olive oil over top as he had done as a child growing up in a trailer by the wrecking yard in Grand Junction. He didn’t even like sardines—hated the damn things—but eating them had become a daily ritual, a reminder of how far he had come.
After Jeremy choked down his breakfast, he headed for Trinity Methodist Church, a block from his hotel, to begin his morning’s work.
The film crew was set up outside the historic stone church when Jeremy arrived, but he made them wait a few minutes while he got into character.
I am a rancher far from home. My son is dying. My cattle are dying. I feel as if God has forsaken me. I am standing here outside the church, watching people enter. I hang my head in despair, knowing I have been denied that simple solace.
“Cut,” the director yelled, earning frowns from the last few Methodists straggling into the church.
“I wasn’t ready,” Jeremy said. “Let’s do it again.”
“No. You did good. But be ready next time.”
Jeremy smiled to himself. He knew he had been perfect, but if he had said so, the snot-nosed kid would have made him do it over and over again.
“Let’s move to the next scene,” the kid said.
One of the production assistants ran up to him and gasped out, “Have you heard? It’s all over.”
“What?” shouted the little snot. “The movie? It’s been canceled?”
“No. The sickness. It’s all over. All over Colorado. We’re stuck here.”
“Stuck here? What does that mean?”
“Colorado has been quarantined, and air space is restricted to military planes. No one’s allowed in or out.”
Jeremy stepped away from the crew gathered around the production assistant. Not allowed out of Colorado? We’ll have to see about that.
***
Pippi O’Brien absently stirred her bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with flaxseed. Because she ate so little in her effort to maintain a model-thin figure, she needed her gruel, as she called it, to keep her colon working properly. This morning, though, she felt too queasy to eat. Maybe she shouldn’t have drunk that entire bottle of Chablis last night, but she couldn’t help it. Ever since Greg Pullman proposed, she had been on edge.
She had maneuvered him in the direction of marriage almost from the first day she’d met him. She’d even dragged him to a jewelry store and shown him the ring she wanted. So why, when he asked, had she panicked and said she’d think about it? She’d told the truth; she kept thinking about it, and there sure wasn’t any fun in that.
A shrill scream ripped through the silence. Pippi clamped her hands over her ears until the machine answered the telephone.
“Pippi? You there?” A brief pause. “Call me, okay?” Another pause, then, “I love you.”
Suddenly, like smog blown away by a quickening breeze, all doubt vanished. Of course she intended to marry him. She’d tell him soon.
Tomorrow, perhaps.
Chapter 4
Monday, December 5 (a.m.)
Kate walked to work, choking on the exhaust from thousands upon thousands of idling engines. Used to the sight of stalled traffic, it took her a while to realize not a single car moved, not a single car could move.
The drivers acted strangely docile. A few people talked on cell phones; most stared out their windshields, hands resting on their steering wheels, waiting.
An attractive young woman in a pale gray business suit whizzed past Kate on a mountain bike. “Get off the sidewalk, you old bat,” she screeched. Seconds later the bicycle careened into a parked car, setting off an alarm, and the woman went flying.
A quick glance told Kate the young woman was beyond help. The gray suit jacket had turned a sticky maroon and the woman’s head tilted at an unnatural angle.
Kate wrapped her coat more firmly around herself, glad she hadn’t been subjected to another bloodbath.
She arrived at the clinic before anyone else. While she was turning on the lights in the waiting room, the phone rang. She settled herself at the reception desk and picked up the receiver.
A woman cried hysterically. “He’s dead! My baby’s dead.”
The wails continued for several minutes before they subsided into hiccupping sobs. “This is Gillian Grover,” the woman finally managed to get out. “My son Eddie vomited blood and when I dialed nine-one-one, I got a busy signal. What am I supposed to do now?”
Eddie Grover dead? He’d been a favorite with the nurses at the clinic, a Dennis-the-Menace sort of child with an unruly cowlick and a propensity for getting into trouble.
“Keep calling nine-one-one,” Kate said, though she knew it wouldn’t help. If by some miracle an ambulance could get to the Grover’s house, the boy would still be dead.
“Did Eddie go to the Broncos game a week ago?” she asked over a fresh spate of sobs.
A moment of silence, as if the incongruous question had shocked the other woman out of her grief.
“No,” she said at last. “He played hooky from school the Friday before the game, so my husband took our daughter Alice instead.”
“How are they feeling?”
“Alice, you mean?”
“Yes. And your husband.”
“They’re fine now, but they both got sick a few days ago.” She sounded defensive when she added, “I thought they had the twenty-four hour flu.”
“You did the right thing,” Kate said soothingly.
“But if I had taken them to the clinic, maybe Eddie wouldn’t have got sick.” Gillian started crying again. “It’s all my fault.”
“No, it’s not—” Kate began, but Gillian had already hung up.
At ten o’clock Dr. Amanda Hart waltzed into the clinic and frowned at Kate. “What are you doing out here? Where’s Joan?” She looked around the waiting room. “Where is everyone?”
“Stuck in traffic,” Kate said.
Dr. Hart nodded. “Tell me about it.”
“How did you manage to get through that gridlock?”
“I rode my old ten-speed.” She tilted her head back and shook her pale hair. “Did any staff make it in yet?”
“No.”
“Well, Dr. Bowers will be here soon. He’s coming on foot. We couldn’t even get out of our driveway this morning. Cars were packed bumper-to-bumper on Circle Drive. Where did they all come from? Not that many people live in the entire neighborhood.”
Kate smiled at the outrage in Dr. Hart’s voice. Amanda Hart had been born poor, but she had quickly adopted the supercilious attitude of the Bowers, the old-money family she had married into.
A loud rumble reverberated through the waiting room. Kate looked out the window to see Joan Wheeler, the twenty-two-year-old receptionist, climbing off the back of a vintage Harley Davidson.
After the driver had roared down the driveway, Joan dashed into the clinic.
“Do you know who that was?” she asked excitedly. “Harley. Harley Reese.”
Dr. Hart peered at her. “You know Harley Reese?”
“No. I hitchhiked—” Joan held up her hands as if warding off a blow. “I had to get to work, didn’t I? When I couldn’t get out of my apartment’s parking lot this morning, I could have stayed home.”
“Who’s Harley Reese?” Kate asked.
“Only the richest man for his age in Colorado,” Joan said. “He’s on the news all the time. I don’t understand half of what he says, but he’s soooo good-looking.” She sighed theatrically. “Money, looks, brains. What more could a girl want?”
“Enough of this foolishness,” Dr. Hart said. “I’m sure you ladies can find some work to do.”
***
Except for the computer, everything had been cleared off Kate’s desk. The room smelled of the industrial-strength disinfectant the cleaners had used to scrub away Rachel’s blood.
Breathing shallowly, Kate turned on her computer, pulled up her electronic daily planner, and stared at the date, wondering why it seemed so familiar. Then it hit her. Her birthday. The red death had pushed it out of her mind.
Forty-two years old and alone. How sad is that? Even sadder, the only person she wished to share the day with was a much younger, almost-engaged man.
Two hours later, she looked up from the files belonging to the few patients who had managed to keep their appointments. As if she had conjured him, there he stood, leaning against the doorjamb.
He gave her a slow, sweet smile, and her heart fluttered in response.
“I wanted to see what you looked like when you weren’t red.” He nodded approvingly. “You clean up nicely.”
She felt a blush creep across her face. “That’s all you came for?”
“That, and to take you to lunch.”
She gave him a doubtful look. “Is any place open today?”
“I saw a lunch room that seemed to be doing a booming business. The Black Forest.”
“I seldom pass up an opportunity to go to The Black Forest. Let me get my coat.”
Outside, he gestured to the bicycle chained to one of the columns supporting the porch roof. “Sorry I can’t give you a lift. Unless you want to ride on my handlebars.”
“That’s okay. We can walk. It’s only three and a half blocks.”
They had no trouble getting a table. Although the restaurant was busy, most of the customers were the drivers of the cars stalled out in front. They rushed in to place orders, then returned later to pick them up.
Shaking his head, Greg turned to Kate. “This is not at all the way I expected people to act today—so quiet and subdued.”
“People don’t believe they’re going to be inconvenienced for long. Life today is geared for things mostly working out the way they’re supposed to. I think they’re waiting, expecting things to return to normal any minute now.”
“What are they going to do when they discover things aren’t going to return to normal?”
She shivered. “I’m afraid we’re going to find out. A boy died today. He didn’t go to that Broncos game, but his father and sister did. They both had flu symptoms, but that’s all.”
He blinked. “So the red death is contagious.”
“Seems like it.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and she knew he too pictured her covered with blood.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “I came to tell you that you had nothing to fear from the jogger’s blood, but if the red death is contagious . . .”
“I know.” She kept her voice level for his sake. “Maybe they’ll discover a vaccine or a cure before I get it.”
He nodded, but didn’t look convinced.
A skinny young woman in jeans and a tee shirt, with six earrings climbing each ear and a vibrant streak of purple in her bleached hair, tossed two menus on the table as she scurried by.
“Back in a sec,” she called over her shoulder.
Greg glanced at the menu.
Seeing the surprise on his face, Kate said, “I can pay for my own meal.”
“It’s not all that expensive, it’s just . . . well, look at this place—ancient linoleum, mismatched tables and chairs, bright lights. For these prices, we should be served by buxom wenches in dirndls.”
Kate smiled. “What The Black Forest lacks in atmosphere, it makes up for with good food. They use real butter and heavy cream, and it makes all the difference in the world.”
“Yeah, but—turkey tetrazzini? Spaghetti? What kind of German restaurant is this?”
“It started out as a German bakery famous for its Black Forest cake. They did so well that when the catering service next door went up for sale, they bought it and combined the two businesses under one roof. A few years ago, they expanded even more to include lunch. Lottie Untermeyer, the owner, planned to redecorate, but she’s been so busy she never got around to it.”
“The owner’s a friend of yours?”
“Lottie’s daughter and my mother were close, so I became acquainted with most of the Untermeyers. You’d like Lottie. She’s a character—almost ninety, and still going strong. If I see her, I’ll introduce you to her.”
The waitress skidded to a stop.
“I’ll have the turkey tetrazzini,” Kate said.
Greg handed the menu to the waitress. “Make that two.”
When the food came, Greg took a tentative bite and nodded approvingly. “This is delicious.”
After eating a few bites, he got a phone call. He reached into a pocket for his cell. “Do you mind if I take this?”
Kate waved her fork. “Go ahead.” She tried not to eavesdrop, but couldn’t help hearing his side of the conversation. He seemed to be speaking to his girlfriend.
He closed the phone, crammed it back in his pocket, and beamed at Kate.
“I’m going to get married. We’re meeting tonight to set a date. I don’t know if I mentioned, but she’s Pippi O’Brien. You might have seen her on television. She works for Channel Ten.”
Kate nodded. “She’s a lovely young woman.”
He slumped in his seat. “This isn’t right, feeling so good when the world’s going to hell.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being happy. There’s enough misery in the world as it is. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that happiness is fleeting. You have to enjoy it while you can, regardless of the circumstances.”
“It’s hard to believe there could be worse circumstances.”
“Believe it.” Kate took a deep breath. “This morning when I couldn’t sleep, I got up and looked out the window, and I saw a garbage truck pull up in front of the house across the street. Two people in biohazard suits got out of the truck, went inside the house, and came out carrying a woman’s body. They threw it into the back of the truck, drove down a couple of houses, collected another body, and threw it in the truck, too. I stopped watching after that. I didn’t want to know how many other stops they had to make.”
Chapter 5
Monday, December 5 (p.m.)
Jeremy ripped the phone out of the socket and threw it across the room hard enough to knock a chunk of plaster out of the far wall. The phone pinged in protest, then fell to the floor, and lay still.
He had been trying to get through to his wife, his agent, his lawyer, his publicist, anyone, but each time he made a call, he got a busy signal before he finished punching in the numbers.
Staring at the dead phone, it suddenly hit him that he knew someone here in Denver to contact. Gabriel Weiss, the lawyer who had acted as a liaison between the producers of Cry of Hope and the Colorado Film Commission. Weiss could find a way out of Colorado; he had a reputation as a man who got things done.
Jeremy searched through his wallet for the card the lawyer had pressed into his palm when they first met. He reached over and plucked his cell phone off the nightstand where he had dropped it after he found it could pick up no signal outside the state. After a few tries, he managed to get through to the lawyer.
“I need to get out of Colorado, Gabe.”
“You and three million others,” Weiss responded.
“Isn’t there someone you can call? The governor, maybe, or the mayor?”
Weiss chuckled. “The governor left Saturday night before the quarantine went into effect, a special junket, he said, but rumor has it he’s shacked up with a call girl in D.C. until the quarantine is lifted. And the mayor, who got left out of the loop, is barricaded in his mansion and refuses even to talk on the telephone in case the red death seeps through.”
“There has to be someone who can get me out of here.” Hearing his voice ascending into hysteria, Jeremy stopped and took a deep breath. “Money is no object,” he said evenly.
“Let me see what I can do. Where can you be reached?”
Jeremy recited his cell phone number and the phone number for his suite.
“I’ll get back to you as soon as possible, but be advised this could take days.”
“I don’t have days. I have to leave now.” Fury, like bile, rose in his throat. “My plane is here, but I can’t get off the ground. The National Guard wouldn’t let me. And my rental car is stuck near Tiny Town. I tried to drive through the mountains yesterday morning, but the roads were clogged with people trying to escape.”
“They weren’t trying to escape. Hardly anyone knew about the red death or the quarantine yesterday morning. What you experienced was normal traffic brought to a standstill. I used to live in the mountains until I realized I spent more time in my car than in my house.”
“I want to get out of here,” Jeremy said.
“I understand. I’ll get back to you.”
After Jeremy hung up, he paced his rooms for what seemed like hours, willing the phone to ring. On one of his last passes around the suite, which shrank with every step, he tripped over the hotel’s phone. He picked it up and replaced it on the bedside table, then took the elevator to the lobby.
“One of the phones in my suite is out of order,” he told the young woman behind the desk.
“We’ll get that fixed right away, Mr. King,” she said breathlessly.
Jeremy checked his pocket to make sure he had his cell, then stepped outside.
He gagged as the putrid air filled his lungs. Coughing and sputtering, he threaded his way through the idling cars to the other side of the street, then set off down Broadway.
He entered the surplus store several blocks away to give his respiratory system a break, but as he wandered among the shelves, he realized how ill prepared he was for his escape. He scurried up and down the aisles, grabbing everything that caught his eye.
A sleeping bag. No, two. He was too old to sleep on the cold, hard ground without the extra padding. Camouflage fatigues. Rations. Canteens. A twenty-gallon receptacle for water. Water purifying tablets. A good hunting knife. A dusty case of sardines. (How did that get here?) A backpack.
He kept piling things on the counter, barely aware of what he was doing. The fever stayed with him until he paid for his purchases with his Platinum Visa.
He stared at the mound of merchandise, wondering how to get it back to the hotel.
“Do you want help out with that, sir?” the paunchy, middle-aged salesman asked. The suggestion of respect in his voice told Jeremy that the man had recognized him.
“I walked from my hotel downtown,” he said.
“Jack!” the salesman roared.
A teenage boy slouched out of the back room. “What?”
“Box this stuff, load it on a couple of hand trucks, and help this gentleman take it wherever he wants.”
Jack made no effort to comply.
“I’ll pay you, of course,” Jeremy said.
The boy disappeared into the back room and returned with an armful of empty boxes.
***
By eight o’clock, Jeremy was sick of the ever-shrinking hotel suite, sick of waiting for a call that didn’t come, sick of his own company.
Wishing desperately for the wide-open spaces of his ranch, he went outside to roam the streets of Denver, which finally began to empty. He ended his journey at The Lucky Star, a place he had discovered last night during another spate of aimless wandering. The seedy bar normally wouldn’t have appealed to him, but it fit his mood. Besides, after being a cop in more than a dozen films, and a firefighter in two, he felt as if he belonged.
He propped himself on a barstool.
“Scotch and soda,” he said.
The bartender, a lank-haired individual with grooves of discontent etched on his otherwise nondescript face, continued to polish a glass. He held it to the light, squinted at it, then placed it in the rack with the clean glasses. Jeremy could clearly see a lipstick smear on the rim.
When Jeremy finally had his drink, he tossed it back, making a point not to look at it.
“Another,” he said, banging the glass on the bar.
“Hey, Jeremy,” someone called out. “Come join us.”
Jeremy turned around to see a ruddy man beckoning to him. Who? Oh, right. Dick Whelan, a fireman, one of his drinking buddies from last night.
He took his drink to the booth. Dick started to introduce him to his buddies, then stopped in mid-sentence and stared over Jeremy’s left shoulder.
“Christ, that is one fine piece.”
Jeremy craned his neck to see what caught Dick’s attention, and the familiar pulse pounded in his groin.
Standing in the doorway, scanning the bar, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Well, maybe not the most beautiful, but she’d do in a pinch.
“Who is that?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off the tall, model-thin redhead with the aquamarine eyes.
“Pippi O’Brien,” Dick Whelan said.
“The Channel Ten weather girl,” someone else chimed in.
“Greg Pullman’s girlfriend,” Dick added. “You met him last night. He’s the reporter you talked to about the quarantine.”
“The pretty boy?”
“That’s the one.”
Jeremy watched Pippi glide to the bar and perch on a stool. Without even a nod to Dick and the others, he hauled himself out of the booth and ambled straight for her.
***
Pippi rummaged in her purse for a mirror, more to take her mind off her upcoming date than because she needed to check her appearance. She had thought that after telling Greg she’d marry him everything would be fine, but she felt as confused as ever.
“What’s a nice woman like you doing in a place like this?”
Pippi winced. Why couldn’t men leave her alone? Or come up with a more original line. She turned her back on the man and busied herself with the mirror, hoping he would take the hint and go away.
He moved closer, giving her a whiff of boozy breath. As she leaned away, she caught a glimpse of him in her mirror.
Her heart stopped. Then it began beating wildly.
Jeremy King! Jeremy King was coming on to her!
Without moving, she said coolly, “Is that the best you can do?”
“It’s all I’ve ever needed.”
I’ll bet it is.
She turned to face him and practically fell off the stool when she felt the full force of his personality. No wonder they called it star-power; it was like being bathed in the light of a thousand suns.
She batted her eyelashes. “Maybe it’s not the line, ever think of that?”
Jeremy smiled at her. “You’re adorable. Where have you been all my life?”
A wave of heat surged through her body. She dropped her eyes. When she raised them a moment later, she managed to speak calmly.
“Right here for part of it, but I’ve always dreamed of going to Hollywood. What’s it like being an actor?”
“Not much different from being a weather girl.”
Her eyes widened. “How do you know what I am?”
He smiled at her as if to say he knew things about her even she didn’t know. She lost herself for a minute, but the pain in her hands brought her back. She looked down to see that she gripped the small mirror so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She relaxed her hands and took a surreptitious glance at her image. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright.
“There are a lot of differences,” she said, tucking the mirror into her purse. “Doing what I do, I won’t be able to get my name in a star on the sidewalk in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater like you did.”
“That whole thing is so silly. You know how it got started?”
Pippi shook her head no.
“In 1927, an actress by the name of Norma Talmadge accidentally stumbled onto a freshly laid sidewalk outside the theater. The press, egged on by studio publicity agents, made a big deal about it, and it became a tradition.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Jeremy King! It was as if he had stepped out of her plasma TV into her life.
“I watched Mesa Grande on television last night,” she said. “The movie you did with Janet Richards. I envy her. She has it all—money, fame, great marriage.”
“Money and fame, but not a great marriage. Her husband cheated on her.”
“How could he look at another woman? Janet’s so gorgeous.”
Jeremy smiled. “It’s one of those stories that could only happen in Hollywood. Janet accused her husband of seeing someone else. He swore he was faithful, but she hired a detective. When the detective sent her pictures of her husband having sex with a woman, she didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved: the detective had taken pictures of her and her husband. Then she looked at them more closely and realized she didn’t remember ever being in that particular hotel room. Turns out her husband met a lingerie salesperson who looked exactly like Janet. So, in a strange way, he was faithful—to her looks.”
Pippi laughed. “Tell me another story.”
“Okay. There’s this actor who plays rough, tough guys, but he’s so terrified of speaking in public he seldom makes appearances, not even on talk shows to promote his films. He has a reputation for being a nice guy, which he usually is, but there are times when it all gets too much for him, so he goes into a bar, the seedier the better, and picks a fight.”
“Who is he?” Pippi asked.
Jeremy beckoned to her.
She leaned her head toward him. He put his lips to her ear, but the sound of her raging blood drowned out the name he whispered.
He pulled back slightly. “You’re thinking of becoming an actress?”
She could only nod.
“I have one of my agent’s cards at my hotel suite. Why don’t you come back with me, and I’ll get it for you.”
She giggled. “Is this one of those ‘come up and see my etchings’ things?”
“If you want,” he said softly.
Suddenly all the air seemed to be sucked from the room. She looked at him. Their eyes met and held.
“What about your wife?” she said in a voice she barely recognized as her own.
“We have an understanding. As long as I’m discreet, I can do as I wish.”
Pippi searched his eyes. She thought he lied, but she didn’t care. There was something dangerous about him that thrilled her to the core of her being.
***
Greg hurried toward The Lucky Star, trotting in his eagerness to see Pippi.
He stopped abruptly.
The ring? Where was the ring?
He searched his pockets with increasing urgency.
Oh, there it was—safely stashed in his jacket pocket.
When he entered The Lucky Star, there was a sudden hush, and he thought he heard his name whispered.
Then someone yelled, “Hey, Pullman, seen Pippi lately?”
Several people snickered.
A man, so tall, muscular, and dark-skinned he seemed to block out all light, appeared by Greg’s side.
Greg took an involuntary step backward. “Jeez, you startled me. I wish you’d make some kind of noise instead of sneaking up on a person.”
Jim Clayton’s lips twitched. Then the smile faded and his naturally menacing expression returned.
“Let’s take a walk.”
“I’m meeting Pippi. Can’t it wait?”
“No. I have something to tell you.”
Once outside, Jim didn’t say anything.
“What?” Greg said. “You’re scaring the heck out of me. Did something happen to Letisha or one of your kids?”
“They’re fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Me? Why would you be worried about me? I’ve never been better in my life. Pippi’s agreed to marry me, and she’s meeting me here at ten tonight to set the date.” He checked his watch. “It’s almost that now. She should be along any minute.”
“She was already here. She and that actor, Jeremy King, left together.”
Greg smiled complacently. “She’ll be back.”
Under the streetlight, Jim’s balding head gleamed like bronze as he moved it from side to side. “Not tonight she won’t. They were draped all over each other when they left, and everyone could tell what they were up to.”
Greg’s knees buckled. He took a step backward and slumped against a parked car.
“Look, Greg, if it’s any consolation, I doubt it means anything. I know she loves you, but she’s scared and confused and not at all sure what she wants.”
“Poor Pippi,” Greg said softly.
“You’re taking this better than I thought you would.”
Greg rubbed his eyes. “I’m too tired right now to feel much of anything.”
“Would you like a ride home? The streets are mostly clear now.”
“I noticed. What happened?”
“All of us on the job, including detectives, desk sergeants, secretaries, dispatchers, even some of the brass, have spent the past several hours directing traffic. We’re under strict orders to have the streets cleared by midnight tonight. What a mess. Hundreds of vehicles abandoned and thousands totaled.”
Greg pulled his notebook out of his shirt pocket. “What did you do with them?”
“If we found room, we pushed them to the side of the road to be dealt with later, but most got towed outside the city someplace.”
“Did you ever discover what caused the gridlock?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Too many people died while driving to work today. And if that isn’t enough, we have a mass mutilator to contend with. Can you believe it? Someone’s going around beating corpses to a pulp. Three so far.”
Hearing a strange note in Jim’s voice, Greg said, “Are you okay? You don’t sound like yourself.”
Jim laughed humorlessly. “I’m not myself. I don’t know what I am now. I don’t know if I’m still a detective. I don’t know if I’m still a cop. Hell, I don’t even know if I’m still working for the good ol’ U.S. of A.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My bosses are still my bosses, but I’ve been advised that when I see someone from FEMA, I must take orders from them. I’ve been advised that when I see someone in a military uniform, I must take orders from them. I’ve been advised that when I see someone in a UN uniform, I must take orders from them, and if they’re speaking a foreign language, I must find an interpreter to figure out what the hell they’re trying to say.”
Feeling as if he had been doused with a bucket of ice water, Greg jerked upright. “Who’s really in charge here?”
“To the best of my understanding, it’s the commanders of the UN troops. According to my bosses, every major emergency in the world now comes under the jurisdiction of the United Nations. Even FEMA and the U.S. military have to take their orders from them.”
“I thought we were under quarantine. How did all those people get here?”
“Supposedly FEMA has a base of operations in Colorado Springs, and the UN troops were doing maneuvers at Fort Carson, so they were already here, but some Germans were flown in from their military base in California before the quarantine went into effect. That’s right. Their military base. The Germans have been deeded a base, the first permanent foreign military base in the United States, with no Americans in the chain of command.”