“I got the samples,” Aretha said. “Thank you, and I’ve already inoculated new tissue cultures.”
“Great,” Jack said. “Have you spoken with Warren about getting in the game tonight?”
“Yes, and I’m happy to say I’m playing with you guys.”
“Perfect,” Jack said. He passed her Warren’s ball, but before she could step out onto the court to take a shot, the playing teams came in theirdirection. “And I guess there’s no need to ask you if you have any results yet from the MPS machine.”
“Correct,” Aretha joked. “You’ll be the first to know. I want to let it run another eight hours at least. The more time that passes, the higher the chances of success. I also spoke again with Connie Moran of the CDC.”
Jack again made a pained expression, as he’d done the last time they were together when she’d told him she’d contacted the CDC.
“Don’t worry,” Aretha said. “I’ve not given her any more details, and she hasn’t asked. For her it is just an unknown. But what I wanted to say is that she, too, is using the MPS machine, and they are far more experienced with it than I am. There’s a good chance they can have a result way before me.”
“If they do and come back with a weird virus, don’t spill the beans about its origins. What I didn’t tell you is that my boss at the OCME is also my wife.”
“Really,” Aretha said. “Wow. I’m impressed.”
“Well, it raises the consequences if the CDC suddenly shows up and starts nosing around. I’ll be in the doghouse big-time, domestically and professionally.”
“Got it,” Aretha said. The playing teams swept back toward the other basket as the ball changed hands. Aretha stepped onto the court and drilled a moderately long shot. Jack rebounded.
“What I also wanted to tell you is that the CDC also used the electron microscope on the sample,” Aretha said. “And contrary to what the people in New Jersey told you, they did see virus.”
“That’s interesting,” Jack said. Suddenly the thought occurred to him that Dr. Stephen Friedlander could have been lying. Prior to that moment, the idea had not entered his mind. Unfortunately, there was no way to know. It wasn’t like he could call and ask.
“Connie said she was going to email me some of the photomicrographs,” Aretha said. “I can forward them to you if you are interested.”
“By all means,” Jack said.
It took another half hour for Jack, Aretha, Warren, Flash, and Spit to get into the game, but once they did they functioned as a well-oiled machine. They won their first game so easily that they became overconfident and ended up being defeated in the second. Disgusted with themselves, they slunk off the court. No one person had been at fault. Everyone had missed baskets that they should have made.
“That’s it for me,” Jack said. Like the others, he was eager to atone for his poor performance, but he was feeling guiltier about having abandoned Laurie to deal with her parents alone than he was feeling embarrassed about his play.
“Ah, come on,” Warren pleaded. “Let’s not let these mothers feel they are better than us. One more game, that’s all I ask. Look at the way they’re strutting around like they are kings of the mountain. Shit!”
“Sorry,” Jack said. “I’m on borrowed time as it is. If I don’t go home now, I’ll have to come and park on your couch. And ultimately, you don’t want that.”
“That’s a hell of a lot better than letting these bastards think they’re so great. One game. Be a sport!”
“Sorry,” Jack said. Once he made up his mind, he was adamant. He said goodbye to Aretha and encouraged her to contact him the moment she had anything. He bumped fists with Flash and Spit and commiserated anew for their combined ignominy before starting out for home.
By now the rest of the playground was deserted. So were the sidewalks along the street. At the curb Jack waited for a yellow cab to pass before he started across, but he didn’t get far. Off to his left he saw the lights in the Chevy Suburban that Warren had pointed out earlier suddenly switch on. Then the vehicle quickly swerved out into the street and lurched forward in Jack’s direction with a screech of tires.
For the next second Jack debated whether he should dash forward to get to the other side or retreat to the curb behind him, but the delay cost him the opportunity to do either. The Suburban now screamed to a stop and the driver leaped from its cab. He was one of the tallest men Jack hadever seen, and he was armed. In his right hand he had an automatic pistol with an attached silencer. The suddenness of the episode had Jack momentarily paralyzed. It was as if he were watching the unfolding event on a screen rather than as a participant.
At the same instant the man was jumping out of the car, Jack was aware of a burst of activity from another parked SUV to his right and behind him. But he didn’t turn to see what it was. He was hypnotized by the man in front of him who’d come around the front of his SUV and raised his silenced gun with both hands and pointed it at Jack.
The noise that followed was like someone striking a couch cushion with a baseball bat, not once but quickly several times in a row. They were the kind of sounds that were felt as much as heard. Jack started, expecting he’d been shot but confused as to why he didn’t feel anything. Then, to his mounting shock, the man in front of him, who was no more than twenty feet away, fell over backward as if he’d been smacked in the face by an invisible hand.
The next thing Jack knew was that four men rushed by him, heading toward the downed individual. By now Jack had recovered enough to run ahead himself. He reached the group as three of the men hastened to hoist the stricken man off the pavement by his arms and his legs. The fourth man leaped into the Suburban, whose engine was still running. It was like a team executing a maneuver that they had practiced many times.
“What the hell is going on here?” Jack demanded. But the men, who Jack could see were all relatively young and of Asian descent, ignored him. Once they had the tall gunman off the ground, they wasted no time. They again went past Jack at a run, awkwardly carrying the stricken individual, who was not moving. At that moment the first Suburban laid a bit of rubber as it accelerated down 106th Street in the direction of Columbus Avenue.
From the direction of the playground Jack could hear someone yell his name, but he ignored it. Instead, he rushed after the mystery men lugging the wounded man. “Who are you people?” he shouted.
The busy men didn’t bother answering or even to look at Jack. They concentrated on literally tossing the unconscious man into the backseat of the second black Suburban, then jumping in themselves. Jack tried to grab the arm of one of the men but received a vicious Karate-style blow to his chest for his effort, which caused him to stagger backward to retain his footing.
With yet another screech of tires, the second Suburban sped off in the direction of the first. At the same moment, a sizable contingent of fellow basketball players reached Jack’s side, where he was standing dumbfounded in the street. Among them were Warren and Flash.
