Page 3 of Capitol Matters

I tailed Donovan into the darkened building. So dark I wondered if Avery really had cut the power. The area we entered was a cavernous void until my eyes adjusted enough to make out the shapes of stacked boxes lining the walls. No sooner had I discerned the path forward than did a yellow light beam across my face.

“Jesus,” I grunted and swatted at it.

The metal-bodied Maglite flew loose from the hand that had offered it but vanished before clattering to the floor.

“You want to try that again?” Avery asked, holding an identical light below his chin so it lit his features ghoulishly.

I took the flashlight this time and aimed it ahead, where its beam intersected four others. We passed through the garage area to another closed door, this one outfitted with a keypad lock.

Vinton body-checked the door. With a resounding thunk, it sprung open, and the big man strode through.

The next area came with cool air and a plethora of shiny steel tables and cabinets. We’d arrived in theworking part of the lab, or some portion of it. Even with the lights off, it managed to be blinding. Flashlights reflected from one surface to the next like a carnival hall of mirrors.

“I’m gonna grab supplies,” Vinton said, heading toward a hallway to the right. “You all get busy.”

“Busy doing what, exactly?” Ripley asked. “We’re supposed to destroy the research, but that could be any of this.”

“Or all of it,” Donovan added.

I walked the perimeter of the room, sweeping my Maglite over microscopes, racks of empty test tubes, and stopping on a large refrigerator.

I remembered how this got started. Grimm’s Capitol work, and proximity to Maximus Lyle, put him in earshot of all the latest gossip. With the plague running rampant, news revolved around it, and resources were being dumped into the search for a cure.

Last week, DiaLogix leaked word that they had made “significant strides” in combating the effects of the plague. It sounded more like treatment than a cure, but Grimm wanted none of it. He claimed he needed more time, and the best way to buy that was to halt forward progress.

Tugging the fridge open, I aimed my flashlight inside. More test tubes, fully loaded, and resting alongside tray upon tray of tiny glass vials. The printed stickers on the fronts of the racks made as much sense as any prescription medication label. Each vial was coded, probably with batch numbers, or variants, or serums, or whatever the hell this stuff was.

I was still snooping when Donovan came up and peered around me.

“Is that it?” he asked.

Pulling out a couple of vials, I called over to Ripley, “What do you think, Rip?” I waved the vials in the air. “Looks like free samples to me. I’ll try one if you will.”

“Idiot,” Ripley muttered. He walked forward to snatch the samples from my hand. Uncapping one, he gave it a sniff.

Vinton closed in. “Well?”

A crashing clatter made us all jump and turn to find Avery beside an upset table, dusting his hands. His shirt collar and ascot tie poked out the top of his zippered white suit like a moth trying to shimmy out of its cocoon. While we watched, he moved to a nearby countertop lined with computers. He grabbed the first one, stringing wires, then hurled it to the floor.

“What the hell?” Vinton shouted.

“Some tasks require finesse. Others need broad strokes.” Avery gestured vaguely to the vials Ripley held. “Whatever they’ve concocted over there is documented here.” The next computer shattered on the ground. “You think they don’t record their research? And you think not one of them will remember how they came up with this cure?”

He swept his arm across the next available surface, knocking a centrifuge machine and accompanying rack of test tubes into the growing pile on the floor.

“If Grimm really wanted to delay things,” the conjurer continued, “he should have had us burn this place down with the scientists inside.”

“No kill like overkill,” I muttered.

“Wait and see,” Avery replied. “They’ll be back at it in a week.”

Donovan shot me a worried look while Ripley wrinkled his nose at the open bottle.

“Fuck all, I don’t know,” he said and set it on the table behind us. He tipped his head toward Avery. “I hate to say so, but he’s probably right.”

“I usually am,” the conjurer sang.

“Doesn’t matter.” Vinton massaged his forehead. Doubtless his pea brain had been taxed by all the chatter. “All we’ve gotta do is what we were told then get out.”

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