Germ

Gregor didn't move for a long time. He had studied war. He understood the power of demoralizing an enemy's citizens, of crushing their spirit and their will to fight. But he also knew that the tactic could backfire and result in a more determined enemy. Perhaps that wouldn't be so bad, he thought. He was sure Karl would respond in kind. Ten thousand this time. How many the next? One million was not out of the question. Karl didn't care. He had stopped caring decades ago.

Take my family, he imagined Karl thinking, and I will slaughter your children.

thirty-six

The Appalachian Cafe occupied a rustic brick building on a cheery block of downtown Knoxville, complete with wide sidewalks and a line of alternating old-fashioned streetlamps and mature trees. Modeled after the favored eateries of Europe, the cafe boasted a large front patio where wood-framed umbrellas shaded white metal tables. Now lunchtime on an outside kind of day, every table buzzed with business types. Microbrewed beer disappeared by the vat, along with whole crops of the latest trend in spinach salads. The image made Julia yearn for the day before yesterday, when she and Donnelley might have lunched in such a place and razzed each other over some investigative faux pas.

As she came up to the wrought-iron rail that separated the patio from the sidewalk, she scanned the diners for Parker. Everyone appeared to be laughing or smiling, which made her conscious of her own pouting mouth. Then she saw him, sitting across the table from a huge man who'd blocked him from view seconds earlier. They didn't look like brothers. He spotted her and nodded in greeting. She liked that: no conspicuous waves or shouts. Whether that meant he knew how to keep a low profile, she'd find out soon enough.

She had to enter the restaurant to get to the patio. The place exuded a smell like roasted almonds that made her mouth water despite her upset stomach. Only then did she realize that she'd last eaten more than twenty-four hours ago. Perhaps it was hunger and not only grief causing her stomach pains.

The hostess escorted her to Parker's table. Both men stood. They were positioned across from each other, leaving two chairs between them at the round table: one facing the street, the other facing the restaurant. She'd have preferred a seat where she could watch both of them at once. She settled for the one facing the street, putting Parker on her left, his brother on her right. She slipped the new gym bag off her shoulder and set it on the ground.

"I'm glad you came," Parker said, sitting again, scooting his chair close to the table.

She smiled politely and noted that he was wearing brand-new clothes, complete with factory-fold creases. Her new blouse had hanger marks on the shoulders, which her blazer hid. She took in the other man, his brother. He had to be one of the biggest people she'd ever seen. The hairiest too. But he possessed kind eyes and a ready smile. Where Allen was undeniably charming, perhaps a little too slick, this man was utterly and instantly likable. She hoped she wasn't simply needing a kind face and imagining it where it wasn't.

"We couldn't think of anything else to do," Allen said. "We had our reservations. I'd just as soon trust the waiter as a cop right now."

"I know how you feel," she said.

He gave her an inquisitive look, but she turned away.

"You're Dr. Parker's brother?"

"Stephen." They shook hands. In his, hers was small and pathetic looking.

"And call me Allen, please."

"You don't look like brothers."

"I got the looks," Allen said. "He got the . . . hair."

Stephen winked at her.

"Are you a physician?"

"He almost was," Allen said, a little harshly, Julia thought. "He dropped out two months short of graduation. He—"

"Allen, let's not go there." Stephen turned to Julia, his face softening. "I'm a pastor, and I have no idea what I'm doing here."

"Weren't you with Allen last night when he got attacked?"

"Yeah. I still don't know what I'm doing here."

She got it. What normal person would guess he'd be attacked by assassins and have to run for his life? "Me too. Allen, you too?"

"I know that everything was fine until your partner wound up on my operating table."

He was glaring at her, seeming to expect an answer to a question he hadn't asked.

"What are you saying?" she said.

He shifted in his chair. "I don't like being chased from my home. I don't like being shot at. I don't like my life being disrupted."

"You're acting like I had something to do with that."

"Didn't you?"

"No. I don't like it either. I've got a mother at home with multiple sclerosis, and I can't get to her, can't help her. The man you watched die on your table was my partner, yes, but he was also my best friend. He recognized one of the men who killed him. He thought he was a federal agent. So until I find out what's going on, I can't go back to my own agency, and I can't call in the troops. I'm out in the cold, and you're making it colder."