The Judas Virus Read online

  Praise for The Judas Virus

  “A fast-paced medical mystery with believable characters and plenty of twists and turns.”

  —Leonard S. Goldberg

  Other Bell Bridge Books by Don Donaldson

  The Memory Thief

  The Judas Virus

  by

  Don Donaldson

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-319-1

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-298-9

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2003 by Don Donaldson

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A mass market edition of this book was published by Berkley in 2003

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo credits:

  Photo (manipulated) © Anton Petukhov | Dreamstime.com

  Texture (manipulated) © Lunamarina | Dreamstime.com

  Syringe (manipulated) © Dmitry Panchenko | Dreamstime.com

  :Evjn:01:

  Prologue

  KAZAKHSTAN

  THIS SHOULDN’T BE happening, TR thought as the truck hit a big pothole in the ruined highway. I’m not supposed to be here.

  The truck dropped into another hole, throwing him against a crate. He struggled to his feet and banged on the cab window with his fist. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”

  He could hear the two members of the French team in the cab laugh at him. Then the truck hit another hole, probably on purpose.

  Laugh it up boys, TR thought. Soon, things won’t be so funny.

  How he hated those two. They called him Le Boucher, the butcher, because they thought his mouse dissection technique was too aggressive and careless—their way of diminishing him. As though they were so damned superior. Well, it wouldn’t be long now, and it’d be their turn.

  But this was not the plan. By now, TR should have been in Tselinograd with Bill Lansden, his leader. TR wasn’t there because Lansden’s wife had been in a bad car wreck back in the States, and Lansden had to depart early, leaving TR to finish packing the equipment and take it and himself out with the French.

  And after nine weeks, was he ever glad to be going. He looked out the back of the truck at the endless prairie, unbroken by any living thing except green wheat, stretching endlessly to the horizon. It was a hellhole even without the epidemic they’d all come to fight.

  What a fiasco. Fly eight thousand miles, bring in a ton of medical equipment and supplies, only to discover that a French team had arrived for the same purpose the day before.

  The damn Kazakhstanis had sent out pleas to the US and France and didn’t tell either country about the other.

  The two teams had combined forces and traced the strange illness that had killed fourteen of the villagers to a microbe carried by the local mice, which had overrun the place after a big snowstorm had buried a bumper wheat crop the previous year. The snow hadn’t melted until spring, giving the furry little monsters more food than they could consume. So they’d done what all animals do under those circumstances; they’d created a population explosion, which had led to infestation of even the wheat thatch on the village roofs.

  The two teams had determined that the disease organism was expelled from infected animals in their urine. Invariably, some of this urine made its way through the thatch into the villagers’ homes, and when the floors were swept, microbe-laden dust was inhaled by the home’s occupants. That much the medical teams had established for sure. But they didn’t have the equipment to determine much about the bug, except that it was completely destroyed in infected individuals within an hour after death, and it was a virus belonging to the hanta genus. To learn more would require sophisticated equipment neither team had brought.

  The truck banged into another pothole, bouncing TR into the air and jarring his spine so hard when he came down that his teeth clicked.

  Jesus, doesn’t this thing have any springs on it?

  The two teams had agreed to publish the results of their work together. And when the French had proposed that they take all the blood samples and do the molecular biology work, that dope Lansden had agreed. He’d paid no attention when TR suggested dividing the samples and giving each team a set—too much trouble, Lansden had said. His position on this was crazy. So TR had taken charge. And for all their insulting behavior and attempts to dominate the study, he’d decided that the French should go home empty-handed.

  The truck suddenly slammed to a stop. Three men dressed in camouflage fatigues, all of them armed with machine guns, materialized out of the wheat twenty yards back.

  TR turned and looked over the cab, where he saw a Jeep containing more armed men blocking the road. They’d apparently been hiding in the ravine to the right.

  The ones behind the truck began screaming at TR in Russian and motioning for him to get out. He jumped to the pavement and was spun around so he was facing the field flanking the road. A foot in his back sent him sprawling onto the shoulder. He tried to get up, but was held on his knees by a gun behind his ear. As he realized that this was the traditional Russian method of execution, the contents of his stomach turned rancid.

  The men from the Jeep pulled the Frenchmen out of the truck and forced them to their knees beside TR.

  “You don’t understand,” TR whined. “I’m not with these other men. I’m—”

  The guy with the gun at TR’s head shouted at him and pressed the pistol harder against his skull. To his right there was a gunshot, and the Frenchman who’d been driving the truck let out a faint grunt as though he’d been hit in the gut. In his peripheral vision, TR saw the man fall face forward into the wheat.

  Then, beside him, not three feet away, another shot sent a bloody aerosol and pieces of the remaining Frenchman’s skull flying before he, too, crumpled onto his face.

  An instant from his own death, TR rolled onto his back and yelled, “Nicolai Butuzov! Nicolai Butuzov! Amerikanski! Amerikanski!” Expecting to be shot in the face, TR raised his arms as if they could protect him.

  A burly guy dressed like the others, but wearing a military beret, had been inspecting the contents of the truck. He turned now and barked an order in Russian. He left the truck and walked over to TR. In heavily accented English, he said, “How do you know Nicolai Butuzov?”

  TR had suspected from the start that the name his contact had used was probably an alias, but shouting it had done the trick. “I’m the one who hired you, for Christ’s sake.”

  The burly Russian gave another order, and the assassin looming over TR stepped back. The Russian extended a hand to help him up. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  Chapter 1

  ATLANTA, 12 YEARS LATER

  CHRIS COLLINS CAUGHT Jamie Mallon, one of the hos
pital’s circulating nurses, just leaving the OR.

  “Jamie, do you have a minute?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Last week you worked with Dr. Blake on a laminectomy. Did Dr. Doyle, the cardiovascular guy, come into the OR at any time during the procedure?”

  Chris was working a hunch. In the last two weeks, three patients in the hospital had developed strep A infections in their surgical wounds. One case would have raised her eyebrows, three was an epidemic. As the hospital’s medical director of infection control, it was her job to contain this thing. Since strep was an organism carried by people and not by contaminated water or instruments, and was most often transmitted into wounds during surgery, she had concentrated her attention on the OR personnel in each case.

  Dr. Tom Doyle had been the surgeon of record on two of the three cases, but not the third. Interestingly, the OR log sheets had shown that the laminectomy case Chris had asked Mallon about had been done in OR #4, which was right next to the room where Doyle had performed a triple bypass that had become infected. And the two surgeries had been done on the same day at the same time, a fact too intriguing to ignore.

  “Dr. Doyle . . .” Mallon said, thinking back. “Was he listed in the log?”

  One of Mallon’s responsibilities as circulating nurse was to keep a list of everyone who entered the OR during a procedure.

  “No.”

  Mallon’s brow furrowed, and her eyes flashed. “Are you suggesting I didn’t do my job properly?”

  “Not at all. It’s just that I know sometimes things get hectic in there, and you’re trying to do three things at once, and sometimes, very rarely, a little thing like keeping the personnel log gets neglected.”

  Seeing that Chris was so understanding, Mallon let her defenses down. “The laminectomy,” she said, once again examining her memory. Then she hit on something. “He was there . . . for just a minute. Stopped in to tell Dr. Blake that he had to drop out of the fishing trip they had planned.”

  In Chris’s mind, this pretty much sealed the deal. Doyle was the carrier. The pager in her pocket began to vibrate. She touched Mallon’s shoulder in a show of appreciation, thanked her, then looked at the number on the pager: her office. In keeping with the hospital’s rule against cell phone use on the wards and most other parts of the hospital, she headed for the nearest house phone.

  “Paula, this is Dr. Collins.”

  “Your father’s here to see you.”

  My father?

  She hadn’t heard from him in twenty-nine years, not since he’d left her mother for another woman.

  My father, here? “I’ll be there shortly.”

  She hung up and stood for a moment, her mind grappling with what she’d just heard. It couldn’t be. Paula must have misunderstood. Then she began to remember what it had been like for her and her mother struggling financially without her father. And how she’d felt growing up: inadequate and somehow at fault for making him leave. How even now, with her mother dead, she faced life alone, unable to trust any man enough to let them get too close, unwilling to ever put herself in a position to be left again. Even knowing where these feelings came from, she hadn’t been able to shed them. The truth will set you free? Not always, brother.

  No, that wasn’t him waiting for her. He’d ignored her for nearly three decades. Why would he crawl out of hiding now? And after what he’d done, he wouldn’t dare show himself.

  In addition to her duties as medical director of infection control for Good Samaritan, Chris was part of a three-member private infectious disease practice housed in the physician’s office building next door. The call she’d just taken had come from there. So, even with the new crossover between the two buildings on the third floor, she faced a fairly long walk.

  Though she would have bet that the man waiting for her was not her father, the anger she’d resurrected in thinking about him was a wind at her back, propelling her through the halls even more briskly than usual. Upon reaching the entrance to the main office, she took a moment to gather herself, then went in.

  Almost all their practice came from being called in by other physicians to manage infections acquired by patients already in the hospital. So they seldom had a full waiting room, which is why they only had a couple of chairs, mostly for drug reps who dropped in. Thus, when Chris walked through the door, there was only one man there. He stood expectantly, and they stared awkwardly at each other.

  He was wearing black slacks and an eggshell-colored sport coat over a black turtleneck. His brown hair, receding in front, hung to his shoulders in back. Round wire-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee completed the impression that he was either a creative-type guy or wished to look like one. Chris had only two pictures of her father: a fuzzy full-length snapshot taken when he was twenty, and a better head shot made around fifteen years ago. This man bore some resemblance to her father, but she still found it hard to accept that this was him. Beyond her general disbelief, she remembered him as being a lot bigger. But of course, everything seems bigger to a six-year-old than to an adult. And she clearly wasn’t seeing him at his best, for there was no doubt in her mind that he was seriously ill. His skin had a distinctive yellow-green hue, and the waistband of his turtleneck rested on a potbelly probably caused by fluid accumulating in his peritoneal cavity. A classic case of liver failure.

  He spoke first. “Hello, Chris. You’ve grown into a beautiful woman. And all this . . .” He gestured to the offices. “You should be very proud of yourself.”

  Not wishing to play this scene out in front of the practice’s secretary, Chris said, “Let’s talk in my office.”

  He followed her there, and she shut the door. In part because she really did need proof of who he was, but also appreciating the subtext in the comment, she said, “I’m going to need some identification.”

  He flashed a shocked expression, then nodding in resignation, he reached for his wallet, from which he produced a driver’s license that he handed to her.

  The name on the license was Wayne Collins. It was him. She returned the license, then showed him her back as she crossed the room. She stepped behind her desk and sat down. “Why did you do it?”

  “Leave?”

  “What else would I mean?” she replied, her brows knitted, a chain reaction boiling in her green eyes.

  She hadn’t invited him to sit, but moving carefully, like a cat doing something it knows is forbidden, he put himself in the only visitor’s chair. He leaned forward, his hands dangling limply from the armrests, his gaze directed at the mahogany panel on the front of her desk. His tongue snaked out and caressed both corners of his mouth. Then he looked up.

  “It’s hard to explain . . . I don’t really understand it myself. I just felt . . . smothered. It’s not that I didn’t love you. A part of me did, but another part couldn’t accept all the responsibility. And your mother and I . . . we just were so different from each other.”

  “Did you ever hear of child support?” Chris snapped. “We could have used a hand.”

  “I’ve barely been able to support myself. I had a novel published about fifteen years ago. Billy Runyan it was called.” He raised his eyebrows in hope. “Did you know?”

  “Afraid I missed it.”

  Her father snorted. “You and the rest of the world. I’ve written three others, all unpublished, so I guess I’m a misfit there too. I’ve been able to eke out a living by writing assembly instructions for furniture and toys. Put nut A on bolt B . . . that’s me. But you . . . Chrissy, you’ve accomplished so much despite what I did.”

  “That’s the way I look at it, too.”

  “I’m sure you don’t think I have any right to feel like I’m part of your accomplishment, but I do. I have to, because you’re the only element in my whole miserable life that has amounted to anything. Yo
u never knew it, but I was at your medical school graduation, feeling as proud as any of the other fathers.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know you were there?”

  “I didn’t want to ruin your big day.”

  “Maybe if you’d have written or called or come to see me a couple of times while I was growing up, you wouldn’t have had that to worry about.”

  “I’ve considered that more times than I can count. It’s hard to think that your tombstone, if you can afford one, should read, ‘Here lies an alcoholic who abandoned his family and pissed his life away.”’

  This made Chris even angrier. She was the injured party here. She was the one entitled to throw the spears, but now with his self-pitying whining he was trying to deprive her of even that. Infuriating as this was, his obviously grave condition kept her from retaliating.

  “Is that what destroyed your liver—alcoholism?”

  “They trained you well.”

  “It’s pretty obvious.”

  “My doctors tell me I need a transplant. I’ve got medical insurance that’ll pay for it, but only at the program in Kansas City. The waiting list there for my blood type is twenty-eight months. And they say I probably won’t last that long.”

  “Won’t they move you up if you suddenly take a bad turn?”

  “They would if I didn’t have a history of alcoholism. They’re very strict in their program and require six months of sobriety before I’d be eligible for special placement. And I’ve only been clean for ninety days. I’m doing the twelve steps with AA, but three months doesn’t cut it. To complicate matters, you know how in cirrhotic livers the blood flow backs up and produces varicose veins in your esophagus . . . Well, mine are huge, and ten weeks ago, one burst. The blood just gushed out. So much that I went into shock. If I hadn’t gone down in a public place, I’d be dead now. But paramedics got to me in time.

  “My docs say it could happen again at any moment. If it does, even with prompt medical care, I could die or have brain damage . . . I mean beyond what you probably think I have already. There are other transplant centers that aren’t quite so rigid about the alcoholism, but I don’t have a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to give them for their services.”