Invasion by Robin Cook
“I suppose,” Beau said. He thought it unlikely but couldn’t think of any other explanation. He’d convinced himself there was no way the object could have been at fault.
“Beauuuuu!” Cassy called through clenched teeth.
Beau swung himself up behind the wheel of his 4×4. As he did so he absently slipped the curious domed disc into his jacket pocket. Pitt climbed into the backseat.
“Now I’m going to be late,” Cassy fumed.
“When was your last tetanus shot?” Pitt questioned from the backseat.
A MILE FROM COSTA’S DINER THE SELLERS FAMILY WAS IN the final stages of its morning routine. The family minivan was already idling thanks to Jonathan, who sat expectantly behind the wheel. His mother, Nancy, was framed by the open front door. She was dressed in a simple suit befitting her professional position as a research virologist for a local pharmaceutical company. She was a petite woman of five foot two with a Medusa’s head of tight, blond curls.
“Come on, honey,” Nancy called to her husband, Eugene. Eugene was stuck on the kitchen phone, talking with one of the local newspaper reporters whom he knew socially. Eugene motioned he’d be another minute.
Nancy impatiently switched her weight from one foot to the other and eyed her husband of twenty years. He looked like what he was: a physics professor at the university. She’d never been able to coax him out of his baggy corduroy pants and jacket, blue chambray shirt, and knitted tie. She’d gone to the extent of buying him better clothes, but they hung unused in the closet. But she’d not married Eugene for his fashion sense or lack of it. They’d met in graduate school, and she’d fallen hopelessly in love with his wit, humor, and gentle good looks.
Turning around, she eyed her son, in whose face she could definitely see both herself and her husband. He’d seemed defensive that morning when she’d asked him about what he’d been doing the night before at his friend Tim’s house. Jonathan’s uncharacteristic evasiveness worried her. She knew the pressures teenagers were under.
“Honest, Art,” Eugene was saying loud enough for Nancy to hear. “There’s no way such a powerful blast of radio waves could have come from any of the labs in the physics department. My advice is to check with some of the radio stations in the area. There are two besides the university station. I suppose it could have been some kind of prank. I just don’t know.”
Nancy looked back at her husband. She knew it was difficult for him to be rude with anyone, but everybody was going to be late. Holding up a finger she mouthed the words “one minute” to Eugene. Then she walked out to the car.
“Can I drive this morning?” Jonathan asked.
“I don’t think this is the morning,” Nancy said. “We’re already late. Shove over.”
“Jeez,” Jonathan whined. “You guys never give me any credit for being able to do anything.”
“That’s not true,” Nancy countered. “But I certainly don’t think putting you in a situation of having to drive while we are in a hurry is appropriate.”
Nancy got in behind the wheel.
“Where’s Dad anyway?” Jonathan mumbled.
“He’s talking with Art Talbot,” Nancy said. She glanced at her watch. The minute was up. She beeped the horn.
Thankfully Eugene appeared at the door, which he turned to and locked. He ran to the car and jumped in the backseat. Nancy quickly backed out into the street and accelerated toward their first stop: Jonathan’s school.
“Sorry to keep everybody waiting,” Eugene said after they’d driven a short distance in silence. “There was a curious phenomenon last night. Seems that a lot of TVs, radios, and even garage door openers suffered damage in the area around the university. Tell me, Jonathan. Were you and Tim listening to the radio or watching TV around ten-fifteen? As I recall the Appletons live over in that general area.”
“Who, me?” Jonathan questioned too quickly. “No, no. We were…reading. Yeah, we were reading.”
Nancy glanced at her son out of the corner of her eye. She couldn’t help but wonder what he really had been doing.
“WHOA!” JESSE KEMPER SAID. HE MANAGED TO KEEP A steaming cup of Starbucks coffee from splashing into his lap as his partner, Vince Garbon, bottomed out their cruiser on the lip of the driveway going into Pierson’s Electrical Supply. It was located a few blocks away from Costa’s Diner.
Jesse was in his middle fifties and was still athletic. Most people thought he was no more than forty. He was also an imposing man with a bushy mustache to offset the thinning hair on the dome of his large head.
Jesse was a detective lieutenant for the city police and was well liked by his colleagues. He’d been only the fifth African-American on the force, but encouraged by his record, the city had commenced a serious recruiting effort toward African-Americans to the point that the department now racially mirrored the community.
Vince pulled the unmarked sedan around the side of the building and stopped outside an open garage door next to a city squad car.
“This I got to see,” Jesse said, alighting from the passenger seat.
Coming back from a coffee run, he and Vince had heard on the radio that a repeat, small-time crook by the name of Eddie Howard had been found after having been cornered all night by a watchdog. Eddie was so well known at the police station that he was almost a friend.
Allowing their eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dim interior, Jesse and Vince could hear voices off to the right, behind a bank of massive floor-to-ceiling shelving. When they walked back there they found two uniformed policemen lounging as if on a cigarette break. Plastered to a corner was Eddie Howard. In front of him was a large black-and-white pit bull who stood like a statue. The animal’s unblinking eyes were glued to Eddie like two black marbles.
“Kemper, thank God,” Eddie said, holding himself rigid while he spoke. “Get this animal away from me!”
Jesse looked at the two uniformed cops.
“We called and the owner’s on his way in,” one of them said. “Normally they don’t get here until nine.”
Jesse nodded and turned back to Eddie. “How long have you been in here?”
“All freakin’ night,” Eddie said. “Pressed up against this wall.”
“How’d you get in?” Jesse asked.
“Just walked in,” Eddie said. “I was just hanging out in the neighborhood and suddenly the garage door back there opened by itself, like magic. So I came in to make sure everything was okay. You know, to help out.”
Jesse gave a short derisive laugh. “I guess Fido here thought you had something else in mind.”
“Come on, Kemper.” Eddie moaned. “Get this beast away from me.”
“In due time,” Jesse said with a chuckle. “In due time.” Then he turned back to the uniformed officers. “Did you check the garage door?”
“Sure did,” the second officer replied.
“Any sign of forced entry?” Jesse asked.
“I think Eddie was telling the truth about that,” the officer said.
Jesse shook his head. “More weird stuff happened last night than you can shake a stick at.”
“But mostly in this part of the city,” Vince added.
SHEILA MILLER PARKED HER RED BMW CONVERTIBLE IN HER reserved spot near the emergency-room entrance. Flipping the front seat forward, she eyed her stricken VCR. She tried to think of a way of getting it, her briefcase, and a separate stack of folders into her office in one trip. It seemed doubtful until she saw a black Toyota utility vehicle pull up to the unloading bay and discharge a passenger.
“Excuse me, Mr. Henderson,” Sheila called out when she recognized Pitt. She made it a point to know everyone by name who worked in her department, whether clerk or surgeon. “Could I see you a moment?”
Although obviously in a hurry, Pitt turned when he heard his name. Instantly he recognized Dr. Miller. Sheepishly he reversed directions, descended the steps from the loading dock, and came over to her car.
“I know I’m a tad late,??
Sheila glanced at her watch, then back at Pitt. “You’re slated to start medical school in the fall.”
“That’s true,” Pitt answered with his pulse rising.
“Well, at least you’re better-looking than most of the ones in this year’s crop,” Sheila said, hiding a grin. She could sense Pitt’s anxiety.
Confused by the comment, which sounded like a compliment, Pitt merely nodded. In truth he didn’t know what to say. He had a sense she was toying with him but couldn’t be sure.
“I’ll tell you what,” Sheila said, nodding toward her back seat. “If you carry that VCR into my office I won’t mention this egregious infraction to the dean.”
Pitt was now reasonably certain that Dr. Miller was teasing him, but he still felt it better to keep his mouth shut. Without a word he reached in, lifted the VCR, and followed Dr. Miller into the ER.
There was a moderate amount of activity, particularly from a few early-morning fender-benders. Fifteen to twenty patients were waiting in the waiting area, as well as a few more back in the trauma section. The staff present at the front desk greeted Dr. Miller with smiles but cast puzzled looks at Pitt, particularly the person Pitt was scheduled to relieve.
They walked down the main corridor and were about to enter Sheila’s office when she caught sight of Kerry Winetrop, one of the hospital’s electronic technicians. Keeping all the hospital’s monitoring equipment functioning was a full-time job for several people. Sheila called out to the man, and he obligingly came over.
“My VCR had a seizure last night,” Sheila said, nodding toward the VCR in Pitt’s hands.
“Join the club,” Kerry said. “You and a bunch of other people. Apparently there was a surge in the TV cable line around the university area at quarter after ten last night. I’ve already seen a couple of players that people brought in early this morning.”
“A surge, huh,” Sheila remarked.
“My TV blew up,” Pitt said.
“At least my TV’s okay,” Sheila said.
“Was it on when the VCR blew?” Kerry asked.
“No,” Sheila said.
“Well, that’s the reason it didn’t pop,” Kerry said. “If it had been on you would have lost your picture tube.”
“Can the VCR be fixed?” Sheila asked.
“Not without essentially replacing most of the guts,” Kerry said. “To tell you the truth it’s cheaper to buy another one.”
“Too bad,” Sheila said. “I’d finally figured out how to set the clock on this one.”
CASSY HURRIED UP THE STEPS OF ANNA C. SCOTT HIGH School and entered just as the bell announced the beginning of the first period. Reminding herself that getting freaked out was not going to help anything, she rushed up the main stairs and down the hall to her assigned class. She was in the middle of a month-long observation of a junior English class. This was the first time she’d been late.
Pausing at the door to brush hair from her face and smooth the front of her demure cotton dress, she couldn’t help but hear the apparent pandemonium going on inside the room. She’d expected to hear Mrs. Edelman’s strident voice. Instead there was a mishmash of voices and laughter. Cassy cracked the door and looked within.
Students were haphazardly sprinkled around the room. Some were standing, others were sitting on the radiator covers and on desks. It was a beehive of separate conversations.
Cracking the door further, Cassy could see why there was such chaos. Mrs. Edelman was not there.
Cassy swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry. For a second she debated what to do. Her experience with high school kids was minimal. All her student teaching had been at the elementary-school level. Deciding she had little choice and taking a deep breath, she pushed through the door.
No one paid her any attention. Advancing to Mrs. Edelman’s desk in the front of the room she saw a note in Mrs. Edelman’s script. It said simply: Miss Winthrope, I will be delayed for some minutes. Please carry on.
With her heart accelerating Cassy glanced out at the scene in front of her. She felt incompetent and an imposter. She wasn’t a teacher, not yet anyway.
“Excuse me!” Cassy called. There was no response. She called more loudly. Finally she yelled as loudly as she could, which brought forth a stunned silence. She was now graced with close to thirty pairs of staring eyes. The expressions ran the gamut from surprise to irritation at being interrupted to outright disdain.
“Please take your seats,” Cassy said. Her voice wavered more than she would have liked.
Reluctantly the students did as they were told.
“Okay,” Cassy said, trying to bolster her confidence. “I know what your assignment was, so until Mrs. Edelman arrives, why don’t we talk about Faulkner’s style in a general sense. Who’d like to volunteer to get us started?”
Cassy’s eyes roamed the room. The students who moments earlier were the picture of animation now appeared as if cut from marble. The expressions of those who were still looking at her were blank. One impertinent red-headed boy puckered his lips into a silent kiss as Cassy’s eyes briefly locked onto his. Cassy ignored the gesture.
Cassy could feel perspiration at her hairline. Things were not going well. In the back of the second row she could see a blond-headed boy engrossed with a laptop computer.
Stealing a glance at the seating chart in the middle of the desk blotter, Cassy read the boy’s name: Jonathan Sellers.
Looking back up, Cassy tried again: “Okay, everyone. I know it’s cool to kinda zone out on me. After all I’m just a student teacher and you all know a lot more about what goes on in here than I do, but…”
At that moment the door opened. Cassy turned, hoping to see the competent Mrs. Edelman. Instead the situation took a turn for the worse. In walked Mr. Partridge, the principal.
Cassy panicked. Mr. Partridge was a dour man and a strict disciplinarian. Cassy had only met him once when her group of student teachers was going through their orientation. He’d made it very clear that he was not fond of the student-teaching program and only agreed to it under duress.
“Good morning, Mr. Partridge,” Cassy managed. “Can I help you in some way?”
“Just carry on!” Mr. Partridge snapped. “I’d been informed of Mrs. Edelman’s delay, so I thought I’d stop by to observe for a moment.”
“Of course,” Cassy said. She turned her attention back to the stony students and cleared her throat. “Jonathan Sellers,” she called out. “Perhaps you could start the discussion.”
“Sure,” Jonathan said agreeably.
Cassy let out an imperceptible sigh of relief.
“William Faulkner was a major American writer,” Jonathan said, trying to sound extemporaneous.
Cassy could tell he was reading off his LCD screen, but she didn’t care. In fact, she was grateful for his resourcefulness.
“He’s known for his vivid characterizations and, like, his convoluted style…”
Tim Appleton sitting across from Jonathan tried vainly to suppress a laugh since he knew what Jonathan was doing.
“Okay,” Cassy said. “Let’s see how that applies to the story you all were asked to read for today.” She turned to the blackboard and wrote “vivid characters” and next to it “complex story structure.” Then she heard the door to the hall open and close. Glancing over she was relieved to see that gloomy Partridge had already departed.
Facing the class again she was pleased to see several hands up of people willing to get involved in a discussion. Before she called on one of them, Cassy gave Jonathan a tiny but grateful smile. She wasn’t sure but she thought she caught a blush before the boy looked back down at his laptop.
3
11:15 A.M.
OLGAVEE HALL WAS ONE OF THE LARGEST TIERED LECTURE halls in the
But Beau was finding it uncharacteristically hard to concentrate at today’s lecture. It wasn’t the professor’s fault. It was Beau’s. To the dismay of his immediate neighbors as well as himself, he couldn’t stop fidgeting in his seat. He’d developed uncomfortable aches in his muscles that made it impossible to get comfortable. On top of that he had a dull headache behind his eyes. What made everything worse was that he was sitting in the center of the hall four rows back and directly in the line of sight of the lecturer. Beau always made it a point to get to lecture early to get the best seat.
Beau could tell that the speaker was getting annoyed, but he didn’t know what to do.
It had started on his way to Olgavee Hall. The first symptom had been a stinging sensation somewhere up inside his nose causing a wave of violent sneezes. It wasn’t long before he was blowing his nose on a regular basis. Initially he’d thought he’d caught a cold. But now he had to admit that it had to be more. The irritation rapidly progressed from his sinuses into his throat, which was now sore, especially when he swallowed. To make matters worse, he began to cough repeatedly, which hurt his throat as much as swallowing.
The person sitting directly in front of Beau turned and gave him a dirty look after Beau let out a particularly explosive cough.
As time dragged on, Beau became particularly bothered by a stiff neck. He tried to rub his muscles, but it didn’t help. Even the lapel of his jacket seemed to be exacerbating the discomfort. Thinking that the leadlike object in his pocket might be contributing, Beau took it out and put it on the desk in front of him. It looked odd, sitting on his notes. Its perfectly round shape and exquisite symmetry suggested it was a manufactured piece, yet Beau had no idea if it was. For a moment he thought that perhaps it could have been a futuristic paperweight, but he dismissed the idea as too prosaic. More probable was that it was a tiny sculpture, but he truly wasn’t sure. Vaguely he wondered if he should take it over to the geology department to inquire if it could be the result of a natural phenomenon like a geode.