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He took a breath and said, “Will you at least do this much? I have a scientist in my office, a Dr. McReady. She’s possibly the best virologist we have and she wants to talk to you. She has some things to tell you about Lucifer that you don’t know. And she would like you to open a dialogue with Dr. Price at Zabriske Point.”
“Who at where? I don’t know that person.”
“That,” said Blair, “is the point. Price is the man who knows more about the Lucifer project than anyone.”
“And Zabriske Point?”
“It’s a bioweapons research laboratory in Death Valley.”
“Since when do we have a lab there?”
“We’ve always had one there.”
“You knew about this and I didn’t?”
Blair offered a chilly smile. “Yes, sir. It’s my job to know about such places. Just as it’s my job to advise you when the national security is in genuine peril.”
The president’s eyes were hooded as he considered that.
“Okay, Scott. Go fetch your mad scientist.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
ROUTE 653
BORDENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
Goat squeezed himself against the passenger door, long legs pulled up, arms wrapped around them, trying once again to hide behind his own limbs. Once again failing to accomplish an impossible task.
Beside him, Homer Gibbon steered the Cube from lane to lane. Windshield wipers slapped back and forth. On the radio Townes Van Zandt was singing about how he was “waitin’ around to die.” Homer had the volume so loud that it hurt Goat’s head and made his eyes twitch. Homer sang along, knowing every word.
When the song ended and a softer outlaw song by Willie Nelson started playing, Homer turned the volume down. Outside the rain was so heavy that the wipers were doing almost nothing. Homer never slowed down, though. He cruised at a steady seventy.
Goat found himself praying for an accident. He was willing to take his chances in a head-on collision. He eyed the wheel, wondering if he dared grab it and spin them into the oncoming headlights.
Maybe.
Maybe.
As if he could read Goat’s mind, Homer said, “Don’t be thinking bad thoughts, son.”
Goat squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
The killer beside him chuckled.
They drove.
Then Homer said, “Tell me about yourself, boy. What kind of reporter are you?”
When Goat could trust that his voice wouldn’t squeak, he said, “I … I’m a cameraman.”
“What—you ain’t even a reporter?” Homer’s mouth hardened. “The fuck?”
“No, I’m a reporter, but I mostly do camerawork. And video editing. And social media.”
“Social media? What’s that shit?”
“Twitter, Facebook, stuff like that.”
