“Professional Labs? Yeah, they’re out on Bridge Road,” said the proprietor. He was in the dry-goods section, showing bolts of cotton to a customer. “Turn yourself around and take a right at the firehouse. Then after Parsons Creek, take a left. You’ll find it. It’s the only thing out there ‘cept for cows.”
“What do they do?” asked Marissa.
“Darned if I know,” said the storekeeper. “Darned if I care. They’re good customers and they pay their bills.”
Following the man’s directions, Marissa drove out of the town. He was right about there being nothing around but cows. After Parsons Creek the road wasn’t even paved, and Marissa began to wonder if she were on a wild-goose chase. But then the road entered a pine forest, and up ahead she could see a building.
With a thump, Marissa’s Honda hit asphalt as the road widened into a parking area. There were two other vehicles: a white van with Professional Labs, Inc., lettered on the side, and a cream-colored Mercedes.
Marissa pulled up next to the van. The building had peaked roofs and lots of mirror glass, which reflected the attractive tree-lined setting. The fragrant smell of pine surrounded her as she walked to the entrance. She gave the door a pull, but it didn’t budge. She tried to push, but it was as if it were bolted shut. Stepping back, she searched for a bell, but there was none. She knocked a couple of times, but realized she wasn’t making enough noise for anyone inside to hear. Giving up on the front door, Marissa started to walk around the building. When she got to the first window, she cupped her hands and tried to look through the mirror glass. It was impossible.
“Do you know you are trespassing?” said an unfriendly voice.
Marissa’s hands dropped guiltily to her sides.
“This is private property,” said a stocky, middle-aged man dressed in blue coveralls.
“Ummm. . . ,” voiced Marissa, desperately trying to think of an excuse for her presence. With his graying crew cut and florid complexion, the man looked exactly like a red-neck stereotype from the fifties.
“You did see the signs?” asked the man, gesturing to the notice by the parking lot.
“Well, yes,” admitted Marissa. “But you see, I’m a doctor . . .” She hesitated. Being a physician didn’t give her the right to violate some-
one’s privacy. Quickly she went on: “Since you have a viral lab here, I was interested to know if you do viral diagnostic work.”
“What makes you think this is a viral lab?” questioned the man.
“I’d just heard it was,” said Marissa.
“Well, you heard wrong. We do molecular biology here. With the worry of industrial espionage, we have to be very careful. So I think that you’d better leave unless you’d like me to call the police.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Marissa. Involving the police was the last thing she wanted. “I certainly apologize. I don’t mean to be a bother. I would like to see your lab, though. Isn’t there some way that could be arranged?”
“Out of the question,” the man said flatly. He led Marissa back to her car, their footsteps crunching on the crushed-stone path.
“Is there someone that I might contact to get a tour?” asked Marissa as she slid behind the wheel.
“I’m the boss,” said the man simply. “I think you’d better go.” He stepped back from the car, waiting for Marissa to leave.
Having run out of bright ideas, Marissa started the engine. She tried smiling good-bye, but the man’s face remained grim as she drove off, heading back to Grayson.
He stood waiting until the little Honda was lost in the trees. With an irritated shake of his head, he turned and walked back to the building. The front door opened automatically.
The interior was as contemporary as the exterior. He went down a short tiled corridor and entered a small lab. At one end was a desk, at the other was an airtight steel door like the one leading into the CDC’s maximum containment lab, behind which was a lab bench equipped with a type 3 HEPA filtration system.