Chapter 36—Aftermath
“Mark! Help me push this!”
Mark ran to help Finster push the dumpster to block the back door. Heather was crouched near a car. She traded shots with the cops investigating their van.
Someone tried opening the door just as they blocked it. Finster stood back and took the detonator from Mark. He pressed a button. “That should take care of them,” he said.
A bullet whizzed by Mark’s head. “Mark!” Heather yelled. “Distract them!”
Mark stood still, not knowing what to do. “Mark!” she called out again. He hopped to life and sprinted at the cops. He swung the toolbox wildly, eyes closed. They fired at him, bullets bouncing harmlessly off his chest.
Heather hit one of the cops. The other dragged his partner away, firing blindly. “Officer down!” he shouted. “We got an officer down!”
The bank door flung open, knocking the dumpster aside. Lydia stepped out and Finster immediately socked her twice. She collapsed. But more troubling was the whispering gas, pouring out the door. Finster pushed Mark to Heather’s electric company van. Heather covered them.
“What about our van?” Mark asked.
“We’re leaving it. It’s untraceable,” Finster said. “Heather, come on!”
She jumped into the driver’s seat. “You got any grenades left?” she asked Mark.
He opened the toolbox and pulled one out. She took the grenade and threw it at the police cars blocking the exit. Chunks of asphalt and debris rained on their van as it exploded. Finster drove straight through the pile of cars, ramming them out of the way. Heather fired behind them until she ran out of bullets. They merged into the inner city’s rushing traffic.
“Well, that worked out well,” Heather said. “Lost all the hostages and got beaten by their little team.” She threw the gun in the back. “Is anyone following us?”
Finster checked the rearview mirror. “I don’t see anyone.” Mark thought the man looked horrible, as if he would collapse at any minute. “That’ll change soon. They have the van’s description.”
“Want me to drive?” she asked.
“No, I got it,” he said. “I’ll ditch the van after I drop you guys off.”
“At least I managed to snag one prize,” she said, showing her glove. Mark peered closely and saw a dried, scarlet stain. “Lydia’s blood. Wiped it off the floor.”
After Finster left them at the warehouse, Mark immediately went to the restroom. He stayed in there for a good hour, sitting on the toilet as chills overwhelmed his body. He shook his head as the scenes of guns, fighting, and violence replayed in his head. I can’t do this. He had willingly been part of all that had happened, whether he was in on the entire plan or not—releasing a disease, committing numerous crimes. He had broken his promise as well. Arnold had died.
No, everything wouldn’t be alright. Mark buried his face in his hands. He was a criminal now, on the run from the police. Why? Why didn’t I leave?
Waves of nausea passed over him like the tide. He continued to beat himself up as he emptied the contents of his stomach. He had had no choice in the matter. He couldn’t match Finster’s strength, he wasn’t immune to Heather’s gas, and the less he thought about Whyte’s or Rooke’s capabilities, the better.
I’m weak. I can’t do anything!
When he finally left the comfort of the cold porcelain, Heather made Mark dye his blond hair jet-black and change clothes. She opted to be, like Finster, a fiery redhead herself and changed into a blazer. She wore the blue scarf, noting that it was softer than the black one.
Mark’s new hair color felt weird and unnatural. He looked like an entirely different person. “That’s the idea,” Heather told him when he voiced his thoughts aloud. “Might have to get a fake ID for you, too.”
Once his natural hair color was sufficiently hidden, Heather seated Mark for a haircut. He squirmed at first. “Relax,” Heather said. “I’ve done this before.”
“How many times?” he asked, watching her work in the window.
“Enough that I could be a barber,” she said, snipping some strands. “Hold still.”
Mark rubbed his stomach. It gurgled. He leaned over, pain rushing through him again. “Hey, are you going to be sick?” Heather asked.
“No,” he said, straightening up. “I just—I just can’t do this.” He waved his hand around. “All of this.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Heather said. She combed a tuft of hair and cut it.
“I don’t want to get used to it. I can’t get used to it,” he said.
“You don’t have a choice now,” Heather said.
“Did I ever?”
She paused a moment, then cut some more hair. “No. I suppose not. It you hadn’t accepted Rooke’s offer. ..” She left the answer to Mark’s imagination.
He rubbed his hands together. “How can you work for people like this? It doesn’t bother you at all?”
Heather laid aside the scissors for the moment. He turned around. She pointed at her scarf, thrusting the growing bulge at him. “You already know what this can do,” she said. “How it’s capable of two different toxins. But what you don’t know is that if I don’t empty this thing at least every few hours, the toxins will enter my system and kill me.”
Mark gaped. Then he thought back to her standing on the balcony in the dead of night, expelling the gas into the air. Every few hours, around the clock.
“I live by this thing,” she said, “24/7. Rooke promised me a cure. I would do anything to get rid of this.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mark said. She picked up the scissors and continued cutting.
“It’s fine. I’ll deal with it. I’m just frustrated with Rooke. He may try to act like he’s working on my cure, but I can tell he’s been putting it off. His number-one priority is finding a cure for his father, so he keeps telling me, ‘We’re working on it.’ ” She spun him around, appraising his new hair. “There you go.”
“Curing him?” Mark asked. “You mean he’s searching for a cure to Lou Gehrig’s Disease?”
Heather crossed her arms, looking down at Mark for a few seconds. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That’s why he created the SN91.”
Mark froze. He studied Heather’s eyes, but she was serious. Then like a great epiphany, he connected the dots. That’s how Rooke found a cure for the SN91. It was also how Finster was able to procure canisters full of the disease. So did that mean Heather and Finster were the ones responsible for the release of the disease into other countries?
“Yes, we did release the SN91 in some of the countries,” she said, as if she already knew his next question. “I helped out with the MD89 a few years ago.”
“But why would he create that? Why would you spread it around?” Mark asked. The “Whys” began to pile up. Why had he not been told any of this? Why?
“As a means to study it,” she said. “Rooke figures the secret to a late-term cure lies in studying the disease in its entirety: its growth, its life cycle, everything. So he created his own version that’s as organic and natural as the real thing, but far more potent and fast-acting. It progresses quicker so he can study all of its intricacies, hoping the remedy for each stronger version will help Leonard. As to why we spread it, Whyte’s orders. Heads-up: you’ll probably be helping us with that soon, too.”
He should’ve assumed Whyte would be the reason. Whyte and Rooke, working to spread these horrors. “Why would Whyte want to spread them?”
“To instill fear,” Heather said. “Corner the market by manufacturing antidotes to diseases.”
So they were terrorists. Mark couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t take anymore. He fell off his chair, dry heaving. His eyes stung.
“I can’t do this,” he said, crying. It was all too much. “I’m not like you guys. I can’t kill someone. Didn’t you see me in there? I couldn’t even shoot anyone! I hesitated!”
She was silent, allowing him to fall to the floor and sob. “I wish I could still he
sitate,” she finally said. He looked up at her. Heather knelt beside him and patted his shoulder, allowing him to cry for several minutes. Then she handed him the scissors. “You may as well learn how to cut hair.”
He accepted the scissors and she helped him up. Heather sat in the chair. Mark stood behind her and followed her instructions.
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