Blood List(87)

"Yep. Lefkowitz was doing Frank's dirty work and didn't even know it."

Gene turned around for the first time. Paul Renner leaned against the doorframe, a compact pistol pointed at the floor. Gene knew he had no chance of taking him down from fifteen feet away. Another man, maybe, but Renner was way too fast. His blood pounded in his ears as he stared at the face of the man who had killed Jerri Bates. Somehow, he kept his voice calm.

"Does it include names of patients?" Gene asked.

"Of victims, yeah."

"How many, Paul?"

"Over ten thousand." Paul's voice held no emotion.

"My God. Are they on the disk?"

Paul shook his head. "Only the dead ones. I'm keeping the rest of the list myself."

"Why?" Gene asked.

Paul didn't respond.

"Why did you come here, Paul?"

"Can it be cured?" Paul asked back. Something in his voice sounded desperate.

"We're not sure. People are looking into it. Why?"

"Not your business, Gene."

"Why not turn the list over to the FBI?"

"FBI are scum, Gene. What do you think they'd do to those people?"

Taken aback, Gene didn't reply at first. "I'm not sure."

"I am," Paul said.

"Okay, then, what about the CDC?"

Renner gave him a sad smile. "I will at some point. There's something I need to take care of first." He frowned at the floor.

"Who's Kevin Parsons?"

Paul snarled. "I said it's none of your fucking business."

Gene cleared the couch in a single leap. Paul flinched and pulled the trigger. The bullet blasted a mound of fluff from the armrest. Gene slammed into him. His full-body check carried them both into the doorframe. Paul gasped for breath as Gene slammed his spine into the wooden molding. The pistol fell from his grip.

Gene backed up half a step and body-checked Paul into the doorframe again. Paul head-butted Gene in the nose. Gene felt cartilage crush under the force and stumbled back a step, tears in his eyes. If he gets any distance, I'm a dead man. Gene swung with a wild haymaker, forcing Paul to duck and splattering them both with blood from his broken nose. With the killer crouched before him, Gene kneed him in the side of the head. Paul fell backward into the living room, scrambling on all fours to regain his feet. Gene charged after him.

A swift kick to the knee knocked Gene crashing to the floor. Paul rolled out of the way, flipped to his feet and turned toward the door. Gene grabbed his left foot with both hands and twisted, hard. Paul tumbled to the floor and cracked his head on the coffee table. Gene dove on top of him, grabbed him by the throat, and hammered him in the face with his fist.

Gene hit him again, and again. Paul's eyes lolled sideways, his bloody mouth open. His eyes snapped into focus as Gene cocked back for another blow. Gene recoiled as knuckles slammed into his throat. He fell back, sucking in air.

Paul scrambled to his feet and bolted out the door.

Gene grabbed his gun off the counter, and shoved the COM bead into his ear while he ducked out the door.

"Sam!" he gasped. "I'm in pursuit of Paul Renner." He took the stairs two at a time. "Backup. Now!"

"On it," Sam said.

Bullets ricocheted through the entryway as he reached the bottom of the stairwell. He took cover behind the door, counted to three, and looked out. More shots peppered his position, and he ducked back.

Tires screeched. Gene rounded the corner, his pistol leading. A blue sedan peeled away. He unloaded his gun, shattering the back window and punching holes in the trunk. The car took a hard left and disappeared from view.

"Blue sedan headed north on Wisconsin Ave," he said into the COM. He gave the plate number.



They found the car ten minutes later. There was no sign of Renner.



* * *



April 18th, 1:22 PM PST; Motel 6; Reno, Nevada.



A week later, Paul sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes half closed. His right hand held the list of names from Emile Frank's computer, his left held a pen. Behind him a perky news anchor droned on about the Methadone Psychosis Syndrome scandal and the continued civic unrest it had been causing, a video-feed of a mob scene behind her. Half-listening, he stared at nothing in particular, lost in thought. He heard her say a name he recognized and looked up at the TV, surprised.

Gene Palomini stood in front of a blue curtain, an American flag on a stand over his left shoulder. He had haggard bags under one eye, a fading yellowish bruise around the other, his nose swollen, and his government-issue dark navy suit rumpled. It would have been hard to make a more striking difference with the perky, cute little anchorwoman. The FBI agent read from a script, staring into the camera. His face was a mask of rage, but his voice was as steady as Paul had ever heard it.