“What about him?” Selma asked quietly.

“You arranged to have him brought here to Stebbins.”

She said nothing.

“With,” Trout continued, “the intention of having him buried here on the family farm.”

“How do you know about that?” she demanded.

“Does it matter?”

“You’re not supposed to know about that. No one’s supposed to know. The judge and the prison guaranteed it.”

“I don’t think anyone knows but me,” said Trout as he stepped up onto the first riser and put his foot on the second. Selma held her ground.

“That’s a bullshit statement,” she fired back. “You’re here for a story and whether I say anything or not, you’re going to tell the world. That’s what you reporters do. You find people who have been hurt and you dig into their wounds. What’s that expression? ‘If it bleeds, it leads?’” She shook her head. “Why would I want to talk to someone like you?”

“Okay,” said Trout, “fair enough. Reporters trade in pain. It sells papers. Everyone knows that. And this story will get out, no doubt about it.” He stepped up so that he was almost eye level with her. “It’s your call, though, as to whether it gets out with your voice and opinion included … or not.”

“Is that a threat?”

Trout spread his hands. “It’s journalism.”

“You’re a shit.”

“And you’re an ex-whore,” Trout said flatly, dropping all pretense. “Let’s start there and see if we can get somewhere interesting.”

Aunt Selma folded her arms across her breasts and studied Trout with the frank coldness of a butcher appraising a side of beef. Then she smiled. It was small, just a curl of one corner of her mouth.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s have a talk.”

But before Trout’s smile could blossom on his face, Selma pointed a sharp finger at Goat. “Not him, though. This doesn’t go on the camera. I got about a spoonful of self-respect left and I can keep that intact if I can say that it’s your word against mine. No pictures, no video, no tape recorder.”

Trout thought about it, then nodded. He turned to Goat. “Wait in the car, okay?”

“Sure,” said Goat. He turned and trudged down the lane and vanished behind the Explorer.

Trout turned back to Selma. “Shall we go inside and—”

“No,” she said flatly. “There’s a lady from church in there and she don’t need to hear this.”

Ah, thought Trout, the Cube.

Without another word, Selma walked down the steps and headed toward a rust-colored barn that stood by a creek sixty yards into the field. Trout put his hands into his pockets, used his left thumb to click the button on his digital tape recorder, and followed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF

THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The president went through the day-code ritual with Lorne McMasters, feeling his gut tightening as he did so.

“Go ahead, Lorne,” he said when the protocols were completed and the secure line verified.

“Mr. President, there has been a deliberate but unauthorized release of one of a Class F biological in rural Pennsylvania.”

“Terrorists?”

“No, Mr. President. One of our guests.” McMasters quickly brought the president up to speed on Volker, Lucifer 113, Rockview, Homer Gibbon, and the real possibility of an outbreak in Stebbins. As he spoke, corresponding information filled the screen on the president’s laptop.

“My God,” breathed the president. “Where are we on containment?”

“Law enforcement agencies have been notified, Mr. President,” said McMasters. “Local law in Stebbins may be compromised, but we’re coordinating with the state police in Pennsylvania and Maryland. However, we’re going to need the National Guard to lock down the entire area.”

“I’ll call Governor Harbison immediately. Stay on the line.” The president punched a button. “Janine, please get Governor Harbison on the line. Code One emergency. Also, get the national security director and the secretaries of defense and state in here. Now.”

His secretary had the governor of Pennsylvania on the phone in under a minute.

“Mr. President,” began Harbison, “what a pleasure. What can I—”

The president cut him off. “Teddy, I need you to listen to me. Time is critical.”

He hit Harbison with both barrels.

CHAPTER THIRTY

CONROY’S ACRES

Goat peered around the Explorer and saw Selma and Trout walking down a crooked lane toward a barn, their backs to him. Goat opened the hatch, set his heavy camera inside and took out a smaller unit. He checked to make sure the coast was clear, then sprinted to the near side of the house.

He moved along the side of the gallery, then, when he was sure it was safe, he climbed onto the porch using the side steps. There were three windows on the side and he moved to the first one, where he knelt and peered in through the bottom corner of the window. The glass was smoked gray with grime but still clear enough for him to see the living room. Couple of big armchairs that looked like they were a thousand years old; mismatched sofa. Various tables and cabinets filled with all kinds of collectible crap. Decorative spoons, plates with Disney characters, a collection of porcelain bunnies. Bunnies? He loved it. Juxtaposition always worked in stories like this. Hooker with a soft side. Or, maybe hooker who’d become a sad, lonely old lady surrounded by cheap tchotchkes. Sweet.

He raised the camera and shot the room from various zoom levels.

The second window revealed a dining room with a table with one end piled high with stacks of mail and piles of old magazines. The other half of the table was set out for tea. China pot, two mismatched cups, sugar bowl that was a souvenir from Atlantic City, opened pint carton of half-and-half, and a plate of cookies. As he had walked away Goat had overheard Aunt Selma tell Trout that she had company. A lady from church. No sign of her, though, so Goat moved on. As he swung the camera across the window he thought he saw a piece of shadow detach itself and moved toward an open interior door. Goat shifted around to the rear window of the kitchen to try and get a better view, but the figure was gone.

It had been a figure, too. A person. The church lady? Probably, he thought, though it had seemed too large.

There was nothing else to see downstairs so he moved to the yard, which was as dreary as the front of the house—diseased elm trees supporting a threadbare hammock filled with last year’s rotted leaves, a picnic table with one missing leg that sat unevenly on cinder blocks. Junk that made a statement about a life spiraling downward, so he shot it all. This was all background footage. There was nothing actually happening here, so he clicked off the camera and trudged back to the Explorer to kill time plugging the story on Twitter.

Goat did not see the shadow that moved slowly from window to window, watching him go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

HARTNUP’S TRANSITION ESTATE

“Give a hand!” Dez called, and two paramedics erupted from the back of their ambulance and sprinted to meet them. Dez knew them—Don and Joan. A male and female team who looked like they could have been siblings: they were both tattooed and muscular, neither had much of a neck, and they looked like they had bulldog genes somewhere in their DNA.

“Is that a throat wound?” Joan asked. She reached for Diviny, but Dez batted her hand away.

“Careful,” Dez warned, “he’s a biter … and he’s spitting some nasty black shit.”

“Get the gurney,” Don said, and Joan peeled off back toward their vehicle. She pulled it out and began loading equipment onto it. JT and Dez held onto the squirming Andy as Don bent forward as close as he dared and lifted the edges of the Izzy to try to see the wound.

“What’s the nature of the wound?” demanded Don.

“Bite,” said Dez.

Don flicked a look at her. “What kind of bite?”

“Human.”

“Christ. Looks ragged as hell. But he hasn’t bled through the dressing, so I’m going to leave it in place. We need to get him to an ER stat.”

“That’s the plan,” Dez said between her teeth.

“Why’s he cuffed?” Don asked.

“He went crazy,” JT said. “Reason unknown. Killed at least two other officers, possibly three.”

The paramedic gaped at JT. “Bullshit! I know Andy and—”

“You ever known him to eat anyone?” Dez said sourly.

“You’re out of your mind, Dez, Dez…”

“Really? Take off the spit mask and bend a little closer,” she said. “After he’s done eating your face we can have this conversation again.”

Joan returned with the gurney and collapsed it down. “What’ve we got?” she asked Don.

“They said Andy lost it and started attacking people.”

“Killing people,” JT corrected. “Jeff Strauss, Mike Schneider, and maybe Natalie Shanahan.”

Joan’s face went white. “Oh my God!”

“I’m telling you,” insisted Don, “that’s impossi—”

Diviny surged forward so unexpectedly that Dez and JT almost lost their grip on him. The young officer’s teeth bit the air inches from Don’s nose.

“Holy rat fuck shit!” Don screamed as he fell backward against the gurney.

“Stop screwing around and get the backboard,” JT yelled as he and Dez wrestled Andy back down.

The paramedics were stunned for a moment. Dez saw the spark of disbelief flare in their eyes and knew exactly how they felt. Impossible. Every damn thing was impossible. Then they snapped back into the moment and went to work.

The backboard was a body-length piece of heavy-gauge plastic with holes along the edges that served as handholds or places where a patient could be secured. It took the four of them three minutes of sweating and cursing to force Andy Diviny onto the board, cuff his wrists to the sides, and secure his legs with duct tape. Better equipped departments had expensive strapping for these kinds of situations, but out here in the sticks duct tape was quick and durable and always available. Joan wrapped the tape around and around each shin. Then she repeated this around his midthighs and chest.