“The germ is spreading to the rest of my body. If they can’t get the infection under control, they’re going to take my leg. Dr. Standish, my surgeon, says that if they do it, they’re going to cut it off way up here. He was going to let matters drop there for the time being, but fucking Puchalsky—excuse my language, officer—felt the need to add that the operations may not stop with the leg.”

Chapter 41

CHAPTER 41

To remove responsibility from the individual is no different than to laden them in shackles.

—LANCASTER R. HILL, LECTURE AT MARIETTA COLLEGE, OHIO, MAY 1, 1938

Lou leaned up against Vaill’s sedan and gazed skyward, stealing a moment’s rest along with the chance to contemplate the gut-wrenching new developments. The man lying in the isolation suite was hardly the warrior who could once go fifteen rounds opposing ranked professionals. The visit with Cap had lasted fifteen minutes before he started to fade. Lou left with a promise to return soon, but kept the timetable vague. They had returned the FBI-issued Windbreakers to the trunk and Vaill had his suit jacket back on.

“Tim, this changes everything,” Lou said. “I can’t be locked up anywhere, my hotel room included—not if they could operate on Cap at any time. More important, I’ve got to keep looking for Humphrey or someone like the people at the CDC who can put his theories into practice.”

Vaill looked at him disapprovingly.

“You can’t do that, Lou. Anything you do right now risks compromising my work. I’ve got to manage this investigation, and unfortunately, because I can’t trust anyone connected with the agency, I have to do the important parts alone.”

“Look, I know how—”

Lou stopped speaking. Tim Vaill wasn’t listening. Instead, he was staring up at the glass and steel façade of the main building, his eyes squinting rhythmically. It was the same distant look Lou had seen in the interview room.

“Oh, God,” Vaill murmured.

Hyperventilating, he dropped to one knee, pressing his hands across his eyes.

Lou dropped down beside him.

“Another headache?”

Vaill managed a nod.

“I’m going to get you into the ER.”

“No!”

Lou checked his pulses, paying closest attention to his carotids.

“Is this the same as you’ve been having—the same as the one last night in the interview room?

Another nod.

Lou opened the passenger’s-side door, and helped him in. The hyperventilating was becoming even more marked.

“Jesus,” Vaill muttered, now holding his head on both sides as if to squeeze the pain into submission.

Standing outside the open door, Lou gently lifted his lids apart and checked his pupils. Abnormally dilated, but equal in size, and symmetrically constricting a bit to the light.

Almost certainly not a stroke, hemorrhage, or clot.