Lady Justice Page 4

  “In Florida, orange growers report this same infestation already has claimed more than half of this year’s crop. Due to the abnormally high rate of ill passengers, investigators suspect the contaminant was inadvertently introduced to Florida via an international airline flight from Paris. Florida state and Paris officials, however, deny responsibility, citing that identical cases have been confirmed simultaneously in seventeen countries.

  “Currently in the U.S., forty-one are dead, including a two-year-old boy who was on the Paris flight, and an additional eighty-seven are hospitalized and remain in critical condition. Back to you, Tim.”

  Tim Fargate, the anchor seated at the news desk, looked skeptical. “Are authorities telling you we’ve seen the worst of these ‘natural occurrences,’ Jade?”

  The wind whipped at her hair. Standing near the main entrance of Carnel Cove Memorial Hospital, she dipped her chin and responded. “On the record, no one is willing to commit. Off the record, they fear the loss of life and crops will mount significantly before the problem is arrested, Tim. Cipro, the current top antibiotic, is ineffective. Patients are just not responding.”

  Judge Abernathy’s knees went weak. He put down the knife and then slid onto a kitchen chair, his lips thinning, his somber expression turning grim.

  On the screen, so did Tim’s. “Has the infection been identified? And what physical impact is it having on people?”

  “Initially, doctors reported never having seen this exact infection, Tim. But in the last ten days, there’s been a growing consensus in the medical community that the infection is a mutated strain of encephalitis. Patients are suffering neurological damage similar to that seen in cases of EEE—eastern equine encephalitis. That means, doctors are reporting everything from flulike symptoms with various degrees of memory loss to total shutdowns of the autonomous nervous system, and as we’ve reported, of course, death.”

  Tim retained his on-camera composure, but a muscle in his cheek ticked and his eyes looked haunted—about as haunted, Judge Abernathy supposed, as his own would look if he were brave enough to check them in a mirror, which he wasn’t. Not now. And maybe not ever again.

  Jade ended her report, and her image disappeared.

  Tim’s returned. “Today, on the West Coast, yet another biological outbreak has been labeled a natural occurrence by authorities. California wine growers reported that, in the last two weeks, a rapid-spreading grape louse infestation has claimed sixty percent of all plants in the Napa Valley. State authorities report that this louse has genetically mutated and is resistant to all known pesticides. While every possible effort is being made, inspectors and growers fear that California’s wine industry and perhaps crops in other states will be destroyed.

  “In other news, the weather system we’ve been tracking has been upgraded to Tropical Storm Darla. Darla has been churning up the northern Gulf of Mexico for nearly a week. Chief meteorologists claim conditions are favorable for further, rapid intensification. Currently, sustained winds are fifty miles per hour, and the storm is moving due north at eight. Pressure is ten fifty-seven and dropping. Warnings have been issued from Tallahassee, Florida, to Biloxi, Mississippi. Highest strike probability is between Panama City and Pensacola, Florida. From all the models, it looks as if Darla is going to be a hurricane and she’s going to bear down on Carnel Cove. Local authorities have issued alerts, telling residents to take all necessary precautions immediately and warning people living in low-lying areas to be prepared for possible evacuation orders in the next few hours. Darla’s development during that time will be critical …”

  A hurricane and all this? The judge muted the TV’s volume and then held his head in his hands, atop the table. In his mind, he heard his dead wife’s voice. You did this, Andrew. You, and your lust for revenge. Why didn’t you just let it go? Why?

  Liz was right. Queasy, Andrew squeezed his eyes shut. He had wanted revenge so desperately; he had betrayed his country, the memories of his wife and son, and himself to get it. But sanity had returned, and when calm had prevailed, he had tried to turn things around. In December—within a week of Kincaid being appointed to the bench in the Cove—he had retired.

  His retiring from the bench should have been enough. Yes, he had betrayed himself personally and professionally, but he had lost his family; serving as a judge was all he had left. Retiring really should have been enough.

  But it hadn’t been. And now … this.

  Nothing about these biological disasters is natural, Andrew.

  He looked up from the table, out through the breakfast nook window. A robin sat on a low-slung branch in the magnolia he and Liz had planted the day they had moved into this house, nearly thirty years ago. She had known his mind then, and she knew it now. No, Liz. Nothing about them is natural.

  Natural or, he feared, unrelated. These incidents had to be parts of a coordinated attack launched for the Consortium by those bastard Global Warriors.

  Guilt churned with regret and bulged inside him. As usual, Liz was right. His lust for revenge had seduced him into getting mixed up with the Consortium. Its senior manager, some mysterious man the local director referred to only as the chairman, supposedly called it a business alliance, but in truth the Consortium wasn’t a hell of a lot different from the Mafia. It just ran corporations that manipulated stock, industries, and other corporations rather than illegal horse races, drugs, and gambling. Once a person was in with them, even on the periphery, he soon found out that the two were very much alike. Andrew, unfortunately, was in on the outer edge of that periphery. His only way out was death.

  His eyes burned. Blinking hard, he glanced back at the TV screen, watched the names of the dead scroll by. So many innocents … gone.

  And so many more would die.

  A dark pall settled over him. His own death couldn’t come soon enough. It would be a welcome relief, far easier on his conscience than living with knowing he could have done—

  What, Andrew? What could you have done?

  “Something. Just … something!” Frustrated, he lifted the knife and stabbed the turkey breast, and then swiped at the cutting board. He hit the mayonnaise jar. It fell to the tile floor and shattered.

  You couldn’t have stopped them alone, Andrew. But you should have at least tried. You should have gone to the FBI.

  He would have been dead before he had reached the field office door. And for that same reason—he stared at the mayonnaise splatters, at the jagged shards of glass—even now, he would not do a thing.

  Self-loathing washed over him. He ripped two paper towels off the roll mounted under the cabinet, and then bent to his knees on the floor to clean up the mess. In his position, he should welcome death. But he couldn’t. Not really. God forgive him, Liz and Douglas, his only son, forgive him, he should welcome death, but Andrew Abernathy, retired judge and formerly a man who lived his convictions, wanted to live.

  The telephone rang.

  Grabbing the edge of the counter, he heaved himself up. His knees cracked, protesting, and he answered the phone. “Abernathy.”

  “It’s me,” a man said. “Did you see the report?”

  The director of the Consortium. “I saw it. I suppose you’ve called to gloat.” With the coordinated timing of the biological incidents, and having tracked them all back to Independence Day, the authorities had to strongly suspect they had been acts of terrorism. Yet they clearly had no evidence of it. If they had any at all, they never would have labeled the incidents “natural occurrences.”

  “Gloat? Me?” The director chuckled. “Well, maybe a little, provided they believe these are natural occurrences and they aren’t just spreading misinformation under the protective umbrella of ‘national security interests’ to catch us off guard.”

  “How likely is that?”

  “Considering the political repercussions of leaving civilians totally vulnerable, and us giving Paris and Florida plausible deniability of responsibility by infecting seventeen—soon to be twenty-
one—countries? Slim, I would say. But either way, our interests are protected.”

  Andrew was disgusted. Why hadn’t he expected that the director would kill indiscriminately? Why had he assumed the director had a moral conscience? That even if he did not, the chairman did? Nothing came between that man and his profits.

  For someone who had spent a lifetime on the bench, judging people, Andrew had grossly underestimated the character of the director. And he had known the man nearly half his life. “Tell me there’s a vaccine.” The loss of crops could devastate the economy, but the loss of lives could devastate and cost far more.

  “Of course, there’s a vaccine. In fact, it was developed under a DOD contract for military applications, though, naturally, we’ve seen to it that its developmental progress has been grossly underreported.”

  A Department of Defense contract. This wasn’t good news. The contaminants could be part of the nation’s biological arsenal. “So the DOD has the vaccine, then?” Why weren’t they treating the people hospitalized?

  “Actually, they don’t. We do.”

  Oh, God. “What about food supplies?” The U.S. fed most of the world. If the Consortium played too loose and free with their contaminations, the country and a large segment of the world would face famine and starvation.

  “Relax, Andrew. Our storehouses are full. The supply is more than adequate, and we’ve got an effective pesticide.”

  Relax? He was holding people hostage for a life-saving vaccine and pesticide, all while sounding like a gleeful kid who had gotten his cake and now gets to eat it, too, and the director expected Andrew to relax? No one in his right mind could relax. “When are you going to release the vaccine?” Hundreds were hospitalized. Without the vaccine, they would die, and both men knew it.

  “Soon enough. Bidding is still in progress.”

  Icy fingers tapped his spine, and Andrew cringed. “You’re selling it to Americans, too?”

  “Of course. We’re in business to make money. Who has more to lose than the U.S.?”

  Until now, nothing had been said about involving Americans. Had the Consortium solicited bids from research centers? Pharmaceutical companies? Andrew grimaced, snatched up the turkey, slung it into the trash bin under the sink, and then slammed the cabinet door. “People need that vaccine now.”

  “Trial studies haven’t yet been done, Andrew. We need them to prove the military applications to potential buyers. The chairman assures me that once that’s been accomplished, bidding will close, and the vaccine will be supplied to victims.”

  The son of a bitch was running trial studies on the public without their knowledge. Appalled, horrified, Andrew snagged the knife and cutting board, rinsed them off in the sink, and then dried his hands. Still feeling dirty, he washed them again. “What about the food?” Food imports were one of the few aspects of the U.S. economy that operated without a trade deficit. It was the spine of the economy. Without food, not only were people facing starvation, the U.S. economy was facing collapse.

  Collapse the economy, and you collapse the government.

  Andrew stiffened, his hip bone slamming against the edge of the counter. Pain shot up through his stomach, cinched his chest. During the course of history, that economy-to-government relationship had proven true. With the Consortium manipulating events, and their Global Warriors implementing them, the possibility of that strategy happening to the U.S. now seemed only too real. Was that the chairman’s ultimate goal? The director swore it was strictly financial gain, but all of these attacks felt like … more. “I asked, what about the food?”

  “I told you to sell off your agricultural stocks. You did it, didn’t you?” the director asked, sidestepping a direct answer.

  Andrew felt nauseous. He had followed the director’s recommendation and had dumped all agricultural investments right after quarterly earnings reports had driven prices up six percent. That was just days before news of the biological incidents had first hit the wire. It would be months before U.S. authorities definitively determined the economy had been targeted and attacked—if they ever figured it out. The Consortium’s Global Warriors never left loose ends. Andrew knew that for fact. He’d turned every stone and found nothing; no way out. “Yes,” Andrew said, suddenly weary to the bone. “I cashed out.”

  “Then you’re finally a rich man. I suggest you invest in Egyptian cotton,” the director said. “Soon. And enjoy being at peace, Andrew.”

  He sipped iced tea from a chilled glass, hoping to ease the raw burn from his throat so his stomach would settle down and he wouldn’t vomit. “I’ll be at peace when I know for fact Gabrielle Kincaid is the judge she’s supposed to be and not the Justice Department investigator I’m afraid she could be.”

  “What’s the difference? Either way, beyond your acting as judge, she can’t tie you in any way to the Warriors or their cases. How many times must I tell you that before you believe it?”

  “How many times must I tell you there’s something about her that isn’t right?” Her image flashed through his mind. “She’s too smart and pretty, and she’s too skilled. In my experience, women are either mental or physical. Few excel at both. She does, and I’m telling you, she’s dangerous.”

  “You’re worrying needlessly,” the director said. “No one in the Justice Department—or in the entire government, for that matter—knows the Consortium exists.” His tone changed, placated. “Look, forget about her. Forget about all of this. Go up to the camp, do a little fishing, and just relax. Everything is under control.”

  “You’re underestimating Gabby Kincaid.” The robin left the magnolia branch and flew off, beyond Andrew’s line of sight.

  “I’m not. Listen to me, Andrew. She’s irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant?” Andrew couldn’t believe it. “She can bury us.”

  “No, she can’t. That’s why I called. Orders have been issued, my friend.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” The orders had to be from the chairman. The director issued orders to everyone else and only took them from the chairman.

  “Gabby Kincaid will be dead by dawn.”

  Chapter Six

  Carnel Cove, Florida Friday, August 2

  Gabby snatched up the receiver and punched down the flashing line. “Judge Kincaid.”

  “Please hold for Vice President Stone,” a woman said.

  A few seconds later, Sybil came on the line. “Gabby?”

  She removed her reading glasses and dropped them onto the desk in her chambers, eager to talk with her best friend. “Tell me this is good news. I’ve had a wicked day.”

  “I take it you’re busy—it’s nine P.M.”

  “Up to my ears,” Gabby said, rolling her shoulders to work out the crackles. “An angel came out of nowhere today with a gift that’s going to help me wrap up this mission. As soon as we get off the phone, I’m heading to the lab to verify a few suspicions.” Soon she would know if Judge William Powell’s unexpected death had been innocent, or if he had been murdered.

  “I hope it pans out. You’ve been down there too long.”

  “You sound like Max.” No huge surprise that the two people closest to her would pick up on her thoughts. “I swear I’ve had it, Sybil. When this is over, I’m never going under deep cover again.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean it.”

  “You always mean it.”

  She did. She had meant it when she had been active duty Air Force in Special Operations, and again now as a senior covert operative in the Special Detail Unit, where she worked only high-risk Special Projects. Personally, she’d had enough. “This time is different. I’m burned out. Totally.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sybil said, still lacking conviction. “Either way, you’re still on for the first week of September, right?”

  Vacation. “Absolutely. It’s a ritual.” They had vacationed together every year since they had been college roommates. Gabby stretched back in her chair and rubbed at her stiff neck. “Where ar
e we going?”

  “Jonathan votes for Tibet.” A hint of laughter tinged her voice.

  “Veto. You’re the one who is engaged. I’m still single. Do you really want me to risk my soul by snagging myself a monk?” She stared down at the lamplight glinting on her desktop. Reflections of her gold gavel and crystal ball shone in the glossy wood. “How about England?”

  “Honestly, Gabby. If I try to drag Jonathan through another castle, there probably won’t be a wedding. Besides, I was hoping for something a little more obscure.”

  As only old friends can, Gabby interpreted Sybil’s true meaning. She wanted to go someplace where she was less known and more apt to blend in with the masses. It wasn’t a realistic thought, considering a detail of Secret Service agents guarded her every step, but Gabby understood Sybil’s craving to get out of the public eye. “You could tell Jonathan I vetoed Tibet and then let him choose someplace else.” Pure mischief seeped into Gabby’s tone. “How about we commune with nature? The Florida swamps are obscure. Actually, they’re private and impressive, I hear.”

  Sybil laughed, hard and full. “You’re such a bitch, Gabby. Crazy, too, if you think I’m going through that again. I’ve had all the swamp time I can stand in one lifetime. Maybe two.”

  “But I’m sure it’d be far more relaxing this time. No jumping out of a plane with a bomb strapped to you to get to it—”

  “Gabby.” Warning edged Sybil’s tone. “These are not pleasant recollections. It was hell out there.”

  “Hey, you survived.” Movement caught her eye at the window. She looked over and watched a car creep down Main Street. Traffic on Main at this time of night was unusual enough that it piqued her curiosity. She moved to the window, but the car had disappeared onto Highway 98 and was now out of sight. “You should feel fantastic.”