“Porter looks more dyspeptic than usual this morning,” Doc Ingersoll observed through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“It’s the story,” Corey said. “He was supposed to kill it, but it wouldn’t die.”
“Like Dracula,” Doc said.
“Yeah. What’s the total number of cases now?”
“I make it thirty-four verified plus uncounted rumors. There’s stilla few authentic reports coming in, but the big freak-out seems to have been Friday.”
“I wonder if thirty-four is enough for the Department of Health and Human whatever-it-is to take notice,” Corey said.
“They’ll probably wait until the victims form a political action committee,” said Doc.
Corey smoothed out on his desk a map of the United States he had bought on his way into the office. With a red felt-tip pen, he made a dot at the location of each of the new reported cases of violent seizure. Three areas of the map were speckled with the red dots — New York, Milwaukee, and Seattle — but there were isolated incidents in Connecticut, Nevada, Oregon, and Chicago.
“You’re probably right,” Corey said, “but I’d hate to think our entire government is run by assholes like the one I talked to in Washington.”
“When you’ve been around as long as I have,” Doc told him, “you’ll learn that the asshole factor in government cannot be overestimated.”
One of the high school girls who worked at the Herald during the summer approached the desk.
“Mr. Macklin?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a lady outside asking for you.”
“Asking what?”
“She wants to see you.”
“Get her name and number.”
The girl hesitated. “She seemed, well, kind of upset.”
“I’m upset, too. The whole world’s upset. Tell her I’ll get back to her.”
The girl seemed about to say more, but Doc Ingersoll gave her a tiny shake of the head and she went away.
“Probably wants us to send somebody to cover her garden club,” Corey said, intent on the map. “You say the new outbreaks are slowing down?”
“So it seems. We had twenty Friday and Friday night, seven Saturday, five Sunday, and just two so far today.”
Corey frowned. “Damn. I kind of hate to see our epidemic peter out.”
“You would have loved the black plague,” Doc said.
Corey looked at him. “What the hell, I’m not killing these people. I’m just writing the story.”
“It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it,” Doc intoned.
The high school girl returned. “Uh, the lady says it’s really important.”
“I’ll bet,” Corey said. “Tell her I’m tied up interviewing the pope.”
“She says she’s a doctor of biology or chemistry or something like that. From Biotron up by Appleton, you know.”
“Oh?” Corey looked up, interested for the first time.
“She says it’s about the people who’ve been going ape. The ones you been writing about.”
“Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.”
When the girl had gone, Corey spoke to Ingersoll. “Biotron — isn’t that a fertilizer plant?”
“Also pesticides. It’s a division of Global Industries.”
“Government contracts?” Corey asked.
“I suppose. Smell something?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s go talk to the lady.”
His years as a reporter had taught Corey the error of forming preconceived pictures of people he had not met, but he was not prepared for Dr. Dena Falkner. Somehow the combination of chemistry and biology gave him a mental image of an angular woman with a sharp nose, rimless glasses, and sensible shoes. What he found waiting rather impatiently in the outer office was an athletic-looking young woman with great legs, a good chest, and that powerful combination of caramel-blonde hair and brown eyes.
“I’m Corey Macklin,” he said, feeling the pull of the liquid brown eyes. “And this is Doc Ingersoll.”
“I’m Dena Falkner.”
She extended a slim hand and shook with each of them in turn. Corey found her grip firm and cool.
“I’ve read your stories on the strange seizures people have been having,” she said.
“Yes?”
She drew a deep breath and plunged in. “I think it may have all started with an accident at the Biotron facility just over two weeks ago.”
Corey stared at her as though his oyster stew had just yielded up a pearl. He said, “Let’s find an office where we can talk.”
They found an unused conference room and took seats at the table, Corey and Doc Ingersoll on one side, Dena on the other. Corey made scribbled notes as Dena related what she knew of the events at Biotron, and Doc asked pertinent questions. She told of her concern over the sudden disappearance of Stuart Anderson and Dr. Kitzmiller’s subsequent evasive response to her questions. She told them about the link between Andrea Olson Keith, the first Seattle victim, and the area sprayed by the Biotron helicopter. Corey added what he knew of Hank Stransky and DuBois Williamson, placing them both in the same area at roughly the same time.
Dena concluded with the nighttime visit of Lloyd Bratz. She repeated what he told her of Stuart’s fate in the Biotron infirmary and Dr. Kitzmiller’s request for silence.
“I’m glad you decided to talk after all,” Corey said.
“As a matter of fact, it was sort of decided for me. This morning there were an unusual number of people missing at the plant. Called in sick, I was told. When I went to Dr. Kitzmiller to ask about it, he suddenly became unavailable. Something is going on, and when I saw your name on a story about the seizures across the country, I thought this might be the place to start checking.”
Doc asked, “Do you think there’s a connection between the sick calls at Biotron and the botched spraying job?”
“There might be. It seemed worth looking into.”
Corey spread out his notes out on the table along with the map of the United States. The three of them sat in silence for a minute, studying the papers. They all looked up at the same time.
Corey said, “Doc, does this sound to you like it sounds to me?”
Ingersoll lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of his last. He inhaled, coughed, and wiped a hand over his face. “What it sounds like is that Biotron sprayed some kind of poison into the air that infected three people who happened to be on the road driving by, or in Hank Stransky’s case, working on a construction job. Three people plus one copter pilot, according to Dena’s story. Those people suffered this crazy seizure just about a week after their exposure. They, in turn, infected an unknown number of others who were stricken about a week after the original three victims.”
“And if those people each infected others,” Corey said, “the possibilities are staggering. If this doesn’t sound like an epidemic, I’m Rona Barrett.”
“Wait a minute,” Dena said. “There were other people exposed at the same time. Lloyd Bratz was in the helicopter with Stu. There must have been other men working with Hank Stransky. Andrea Keith was in a car with her grandfather, and the New York man, Williamson, was driving with his wife. As far as we know, the others weren’t affected. Why?”
Corey turned to Ingersoll. “Doc?”
“Search me. If it was something sprayed into the air at Biotron that caused the initial infection, it just means some people are susceptible and some aren’t. Why, I can’t tell you.”
“Where do we go from here?” Dena said.
Corey began gathering up his notes. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going back to my desk to rewrite this story. I’ve got something now that even Nathan Eichorn will have to admit is good for a page-one series.”
“Just a minute,” Dena said.