Alexander Death(67)
Thank you, Mr. Bowen.
Heather read those lines of transcript again and again. The talk of the devil and witchcraft came from one Sammy “The Steal” Bowen, nicknamed after his signature move from his glory days on the Fallen Oak High School baseball team. Heather knew this from earlier in the transcript, when he'd made a point of explaining his nickname in as great a detail as the interviewer would tolerate.
Sammy was now a fifty-six-year-old peach farmer on the outskirts of Fallen Oak. He'd been interviewed by a CDC physician at the temporary testing center set up at the Fallen Oak High gymnasium during the town's quarantine. He'd shown up for testing and free provisions, as everyone in town had been ordered to do.
The CDC doctor had quickly dismissed the farmer's rambling about witchcraft, as Heather herself had done when Darcy Metcalf first told her about Jenny Morton. But after the things she'd seen, Heather was much more open to talk of the bizarre and inexplicable.
Now Heather sat in Tricia's hospital room, sifting through the investigation data on her laptop—anything to keep her mind off what was happening to Tricia, and her own powerlessness to do anything about it. A couple of months of chemotherapy had brought no measurable results. Tricia lay in her bed now, a permanent grimace of pain etched on her face even as she slept, her skin white as paper.
Heather wondered how she could check out the farmer's story. The miraculous healing had supposedly happened at farm owned by a family called McNare. Their contorted, diseased bodies had been collected and frozen by the CDC, like all the fatalities in Fallen Oak, while Heather and others tried to figure out the cause of Fallen Oak syndrome.
She could try to find other witnesses, if any were still alive. Maybe she could figure out which EMS workers had been at the scene and try to get their account. Or she could call Jenny's father, who had supposedly been healed by Seth, but Heather didn't exactly have a warm friendship with Jenny's and Seth's families. In the past, she'd gone to their homes in the company of armed Homeland Security officials, some of whom had beaten up on Seth. Those were the same federal forces from which Jenny was currently hiding. Jenny and Seth hardly owed Heather any favors—to them, Heather was the villain.
On top of all that, Heather wanted to be discreet. She didn't want Homeland Security, or even Schwartzman, asking questions about why Heather was making unauthorized contact with a person of interest. The Barrett family was actually pursuing litigation against Homeland Security and the CDC for harassment, destruction of property, and assault. It probably wouldn't go anywhere, but Heather was supposed to stay hands-off for now.
Heather looked again at Tricia. A thick knot of drool slid down her cheek, and Heather carefully wiped it away with a paper towel. She had to be careful touching her daughter, because the chemo made her hypersensitive—just touching Tricia's hand could make her scream in pain. Despite the chemo, the leukemia showed no sign of stopping its advance. Tricia's time could be very short.
Despite her past conflicts with Seth, and her personal dislike for the spoiled rich kid, Heather would have to beg him for help, at the risk of losing her job, and maybe facing criminal charges if she pissed off somebody high enough. None of that really mattered, though. Tricia's life was more important than any sense of duty Heather might feel for her job and her government.
“Tricia, honey, I have to go,” Heather whispered, gathering up her purse and her car keys. “I'll try to get Daddy to come sit with you.”
Tricia didn't reply. Her heart monitor was the only sound in the room.
***
“Time to get crunked up from the stump up!” Wooly said. He navigated the tree-lined sidewalk of Wentworth Street, which was crowded with drunken students spilling out from the fraternity houses. “The guys said you're pretty cool. I think you're getting in.”
“Good,” Seth said indifferently. He followed Wooly to the front porch of a three-story blue house with wraparound porches on every level. Metallic Greek letters were nailed to the front of the house: Sigma Alpha Theta. Wooly, an old friend from Seth's Grayson Academy days, had dragged him to the formal pledge events. Tonight was an informal event, keg parties at all the houses. On Saturday, Seth would find out whether he'd been accepted into the fraternity.
“Skunker!” Wooly said, greeting one of the guys who'd attended Grayson with him and Seth. Wooly was shaking hands and clapping arms all around. “Chaderino! Rickster! This is my buddy I was telling you about, man, S-to-the-dog Barrett.”
The fraternity members greeted Seth, and he didn't really bother trying to learn their names. They looked interchangeable to him: polo shirts, khaki shorts, expensive watches, shaggy hair.