No Immunity

turned off the phone, and started down the mountain.
    By the time she got to Vegas, it would be business hours in Atlanta. She’d call the CDC, track down someone who at least knew someone who knew her. She’d find credibility. She’d have to. How7 else was she going to convince them there was a threat of epidemic in a body that had disappeared? She’d have to convince them; no one here was going to take the word of an out-of-state private eye, not against the word of the sheriff.
    But first she had to make it through Gattozzi.

CHAPTER 38

    The radio knob turned easily between Louisa Larson’s fingers as she moved from one band of static to another. Bursts of song shot out, only to be shrouded in great hisses and grindings. She’d gotten a station up here at this time of night often enough before. Why couldn’t she find it now when she needed the calming company of music, even music she didn’t like? It had to be somewhere on the dial.
    Unless the station had closed. Up here in the open, that broadcast could have been coming out of some guy’s garage a hundred miles away. The “station” could close when he went out for a beer. She tried to remember if there had been commercials, newscasts, anything to suggest legitimacy. Of course she couldn’t remember. If her mind were that clear, she wouldn’t need to bother with finding music. She ground the knob to the left and clicked the car into silence.
    Just as quickly the picture of Juan and Carlos was back ‘n her mind. The symptoms they presented were close to Lassa, but—Louisa shook her head—her guess was designer virus. She knew viruses; in her residency she had learned enough to know she wanted nothing to do with them. She could have applied to CDC or the military program. She had gone a hundred eighty degrees away, to family practice.
    But it didn’t matter.
    Bright lights burst out of the dark. The Doll’s House. She slowed, checking the parking area for Grady’s truck. Not there, as far as she could tell.
    She pictured the boys’ feverish faces. Anything could be happening to them. The thug figured they were in Gattozzi. But Grady could have met someone at the Doll’s House and passed them on, abandoning them up here like he did in Vegas. They could be dead already. She pressed harder on the gas pedal. She was already speeding, not that it mattered on this road. She had to get to the boys.
    Abruptly she braked. She was losing it. She’d driven two hours and now she was just guessing. Pull yourself together, Larson! The little thug does know something’s happening in Gattozzi. How far behind would he be by now, half an hour? She could sit here by the side of the road in the cold and dark and wait. Or turn around and go back to the Doll’s House. With that clunker of his he’d be rolling in to the pumps on fumes.

    Reston Adcock pulled off 93 five miles north of the Doll’s House. The unpaved road paralleled the highway and would take him right up to its back door.
    The car bounced into a pothole. Adcock held the wheel steady and let the car slow. His headlights looked like beacons in the dark. If he’d been more than a few miles away from the Doll’s House, he’d have been pissed, but this he could handle, and it was worth it for the cover it gave him.
    He was real tempted to cut back onto 93 and assure himself that that do-nothing Tchernak’s boss was speeding south. All he needed now was her to deal with. The Weasel could handle Tchernak. Tchernak was twice his size, but that’s what weapons were for. Could he count on McGuire to take out a woman? One thing you learned in the oil-exploration business was you do what you have to.

    Cecil McGuire had had ample time to contemplate Grady Hummacher and Reston Adcock as his Barracuda moved steadily up 93. The car had picked up speed on the straightaway. He was almost at the Doll’s House now. He didn’t know what he’d find in the next few hours, but he’d been around enough to know it wasn’t going to be pretty.
    Cecil AlcGuire, the Weasel, had come to a very satisfying conclusion. Ten thousand dollars was hardly a substantial total payment for what this job was turning into. Reston Adcock needed him. When he got to this place, he’d make it clear to Adcock that ten thou couldn’t be the total payment, it was just the opening bid. This case was the chance of a lifetime. Only a fool turns his back on a jackpot. Once Adcock saw his work, he’d realize the danger of saying