Outbreak by Robin Cook. Part four

Another man was sitting at the desk, torturing a paper clip into grotesque shapes. He looked up: “Why the hell didn’t you let me handle her?” Speaking made him cough violently, bringing tears to his eyes. He raised a handkerchief to his mouth.

“Because we don’t know who knows she was here,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Use a little sense, Paul. Sometimes you scare me.” He picked up the phone and punched the number he wanted with unnecessary force.

“Dr. Jackson’s office,” answered a bright, cheerful voice.

“I want to talk to the doctor.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s with a patient.”

“Honey, I don’t care if he’s with God. Just put him on the phone.”

“Who may I say is calling?” asked the secretary coolly.

“Tell him the Chairman of the Medical Ethics Committee. I don’t care; just put him on!”

“One moment, please.”

Turning to the desk, he said: “Paul, would you get my coffee from the counter.”

Paul tossed the paper clip into the wastebasket, then heaved himself out of his chair. It took a bit of effort because he was a big man and his left arm was frozen at the elbow joint. He’d been shot by a policeman when he was a boy.

“Who is this?” demanded Dr. Joshua Jackson at the other end of the phone.

“Heberling,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Dr. Arnold Heberling. Remember me?”

Paul gave Arnold his coffee, then returned to the desk, taking another paper clip out of the middle drawer. He pounded his chest, clearing his throat.

“Heberling!” said Dr. Jackson. “I told you never to call me at my office!”

“The Blumenthal girl was here,” said Heberling, ignoring Jackson’s comment. “She drove up pretty as you please in a red car. I caught her looking through the windows.”

“How the hell did she find out about the lab?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Heberling. “The fact of the matter is that she was here, and I’m coming into town to see you. This can’t go on. Something has to be done about her.”

“No! Don’t come here,” said Jackson frantically. “I’ll come there.”

“All right,” said Heberling. “But it has to be today.”

“I’ll be there around five,” said Jackson, slamming down the receiver.

Marissa decided to stop in Grayson for lunch. She was hungry, and maybe someone would tell her something about the lab. She stopped in front of the drugstore, went in and sat down at the old-fashioned soda fountain. She ordered a hamburger, which came on a freshly toasted roll with a generous slice of Bermuda onion. Her Coke was made from syrup.

While Marissa ate, she considered her options. They were pretty meager. She couldn’t go back to the CDC or the Berson Clinic Hospital. Figuring out what Professional Labs was doing with a sophisticated 3 HEPA filtration system was a last resort, but the chances of getting in seemed slim: the place was built like a fortress. Perhaps it was time to call Ralph and ask if he’d found a lawyer, except . .

Marissa took a bite of her dill pickle. In her mind’s eye she pictured the two vehicles in the lab’s parking lot. The white van had had Professional Labs, Inc., printed on its side. It was the Inc. that interested her.

Finishing her meal, Marissa walked down the street to an office building she remembered passing. The door was frosted glass: RONALD DAVIS, ATI’ORNEY AND REALTOR, was stenciled on it in gold leaf. A bell jangled as she entered. There was a cluttered desk, but no secretary.

A man dressed in a white shirt, bow tie and red suspenders, came out from an inside room. Although he appeared to be no more than thirty, he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses that seemed almost grandfatherly. “Can I help you?” he asked, with a heavy Southern accent.

“Are you Mr. Davis?” asked Marissa.

“Yup.” The man hooked his thumbs through his suspenders.

“I have a couple of simple questions,” said Marissa. “About corporate law. Do you think you could answer them?”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Davis. He motioned for Marissa to come in.

The scene looked like a set for a 1930s movie, complete with the desk-top fan that slowly rotated back and forth, rustling the papers. Mr. Davis sat down and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. Then he said: “What is it you want to know?”

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