Contagious Page 78

“But sir,” Doc Harper said, “you can pick up the phone and have a replacement for him sent from one of the companies at Fort Bragg here in . . . what, three hours?”

“I don’t need a replacement for him. I need to find out what happened. There’s no way one redneck should have taken out four soldiers.”

“Colonel, we just pulled a .308-caliber bullet out of that boy’s shoulder,” Doc said. “Three hours ago he was facedown on a dirt road bleeding all over the place.”

Ogden checked his watch. “It’s sixteen hundred right now. I want him talking by seventeen hundred, got it?”

“He’s my patient, sir,” Doc said. “As soon as he wakes up, he’s yours, but I’m within my rights to say that I will not bring him out of it early.”

Ogden sighed. Couldn’t have Doc Harper bitching about putting wounded troops at unnecessary risk, not when that general’s star was so close. He’d have to ship Doc Harper out soon, though, get someone else in here who followed orders no matter what they were.

“Who’s with Climer?” Ogden asked.

“Brad Merriman,” Doc Harper said. “The guy they call ‘Nurse Brad.’ ”

Ogden nodded. He knew Nurse Brad. Good kid. Medic first class, but somewhere along the line the boys started ripping on him for being a “male nurse,” and the nickname stuck.

“You and Merriman both sit with Climer,” Ogden said. “If one of you has to take a crap, the other is staring at Climer to see if he wakes up. And when he does wake up, you call me immediately, you understand?”

Doc Harper nodded and saluted, then turned and walked out.

Charlie didn’t like being such a hard-ass, but he needed answers. Three of his soldiers killed. The only known enemy unit a thirty-one-year-old civilian named Ryan Roznowski who had stolen a mail truck and tried to run the roadblock. The postman assigned to that truck was missing and presumed dead.

Roznowski had four triangles. He also had a wife, who was nowhere to be found, and a house that showed signs of a struggle, including blood on the living-room floor. Charlie knew that triangle hosts were dangerous, sure, killers, no question, but a guy with a hunting rifle setting a postal van on fire, then taking out four trained soldiers? It just didn’t add up.

But it wasn’t all bad news. They had finally succeeded in capturing a live host. Mission accomplished. That’s what made the general’s star a lock, just as long as he didn’t fuck anything up.

But that star would come at a price—more names in his Little Blue Book.

Neil Illing.

James Eager.

Joel Brauer.

If he’d been able to put a full squad at each checkpoint, nine men instead of four or five, those boys might still be alive. Maybe he should have brought the other two companies. No, his plan was solid; it allowed for the maximum situational flexibility under the circumstances. If they’d had more time, if he’d had more men . . .

If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, what a wonderful Christmas it would be.

He’d write the families later that night. The best part of the job, really, telling some proud mom that her son had died while serving his country.

“Corporal Cope! Get in here!”

Cope was in the tent before Ogden even finished the second sentence. He must have been waiting right outside, just in case he was needed. You didn’t get guys like Cope all that often.

“Sir?”

“Where the hell are my updates on the air search?”

“Nothing so far,” Cope said. “All recon flights came up negative. Satellite squints say the same thing. Doesn’t look like there’s a construct within at least fifty miles.”

Damn it. It had to be out there. Bernadette Smith had tried to escape. So had Ryan Roznowski. How many infected had slipped out, either between the roadblocks or before Ogden arrived? No maps this time: none in Smith’s car or at her house. Same for Roznowski, and the Jewell place was a cinder. No clues.

If they were going to find the gate’s location, once again it was all up to Perry Dawsey.

APB ON CLAN JEWELL

Dew Phillips sat in the MargoMobile’s computer room. He and Perry had the room to themselves. Gitsh, Marcus, Margaret and Clarence were all in the Trailer B containment cell, locking down a feisty Bernadette Smith.

Dew wanted to hit a certain chief of staff, then rub her face in broken glass and finish up with a nice saltwater spritz on the fresh cuts.

“Dew, you okay?” Perry asked. “You’ve got veins pulsing in the top of your big bald head.”

“I’m not okay,” Dew said. “Fuck, we had them.”

Vanessa Colburn was the reason the Jewells had escaped. If she’d just let Murray do his thing, Dew would have that family in custody right now.

“We almost had who?” Perry said.

“The Jewells. Those bodies we found in the fire? Not the Jewell family. We don’t know who the woman is. The man was Wallace Beckett. Identified from dental records. They’re guessing the dead kid is his son, Beck. They searched the Beckett house, found Nicole Beckett chopped up and stuffed into a laundry hamper.”

“But Margaret said the man had triangles.”

“That’s what’s fucked up,” Dew said. “Wallace Beckett did have triangles. The Jewell family was a man, a woman and a kid. We found the bodies of a man, a woman and a kid, and the man had triangles. Sounds familiar, right? Man gets triangles, goes gonzo, whacks his family.”

“Wait a minute,” Perry said. “You’re saying the Jewells killed three people, including a host, so we would think it was a nice neat package while they skipped town?”

“Try to keep up, college boy,” Dew said. “Clan Jewell pulled the switcheroo on us. We didn’t even bother to search the fucking area.”

“Then who is the woman?”

Dew shrugged. “Who knows? It’s not Candice Jewell, though. They know that from dental records, too. So we have three bodies, none of which belong to the Jewells. The Jewells, who are nowhere to be found. If they took off right when they started the fire, we’re talking a fifteen-hour head start. They could be fucking anywhere.”

Chapter end