Endgame
       Chapter 16
 

Dante looked down at Michelle. She would not open her eyes for him, would not stop her shivering, even under the heavy comforter. Watching her helplessly, he pulled a chair to beside the bed. He took his head between his hands and tried to gather his composure, shut the floodgates of emotions that this girl had so unassumingly, so quietly, so quickly burst open. There was guilt over what he had brought on her; panic of what to do with her now; worry for her, for him, and for his son; and longing which brought fear to the surface as well. All of these had been dead to him for so long that he did not know how to exorcise their possession of him.

Dante lifted his head as he heard Michelle's breathing change. It was too shallow and too loud. In Russia, he had heard it called a name that translated as "the death rattle." But he would not accept the sound he was hearing to be the same. Only two other moments in his life had Dante felt this out of control. He hated it as much now as he did then.

"You cannot do this to me. Stop it! Open your eyes!"

But Michelle would not abide. Dante glanced at his watch; three minutes passed the last time he had checked it.

Come on, Raz. Damn it.

Raz. Dr. Raz. No one called him either except for Dante because, to anyone else, he was neither. Neither existed anymore. Dante had met Dr. Ivan Razvantulescu in Russia.

In 1991, after traveling to Iran to negotiate an arms and information trade, Dante returned to Russia with what felt like the flu. Within days, he was hospitalized with tuberculosis. Expected to return to Iran the following week, Dante was given the best physician government money could buy so as to speed his recovery; Dr. Razvantulescu, or Dr. Raz, as the man allowed Dante to call him. Although Dante's Russian was excellent, he complained that the name was ridiculously long.

The doctor was amused. No one had ever shortened his name out of fear more than respect. At first, Raz was not too thrilled to be helping Dante, a man who was bartering all of the doctor's research for cash that would vanish as quickly as it arrived. Dante explained that he was merely the middle man, given packets of information that were marked DO NOT OPEN and TOP SECRET. Dante's intelligence, lawyer education, and most importantly, his drugs and women were what made him the unseen Russian ambassador to the Middle East. For days, the doctor let this be enough "business" information between the two until Dante recovered fully. Instead, they talked of common interests. The bargainer surprised the doctor. They were both ensconced in technology and talked of its possible future applications. They both loved literature. Dante was surprised that Raz did not think so highly of Dostoyevsky as did he. And Raz was certainly impressed when, towards the end of his hospital stay, Dante gave the doctor a huge box of Cuban cigars worth half a year's salary in Russia.

Dante knew that the doctor treated only him and then left the hospital. He figured Raz was something much more than a medical doctor to the Russian government. On the day he was to be released from the hospital, Dante boldly asked Raz exactly what all his job entailed. And just as boldly, the doctor revealed it all to him.

As Dante suspected, Raz was not just a MD but had a Ph.D. as well. He was very prominent and well know throughout the Russian government because of his specialty, infectious diseases. In the early '60's, the young Romanian doctor proved his genius IQ as he developed and tested a vaccine against several mutations of the common cold virus. The USSR heard of his progress and knew how to put it to work for its greater good. Promised and given wealth, Raz went behind the Iron Curtain to head a not-so-little team specializing in biotechnology - biological warfare. His discovery of specific genetic patterns in mutating viruses, led to the creation of monsters, that until very recently, as with Ebola and Hanta, the world had never seen. When the smallpox vaccine came out, Dr. Raz and his team had enough "foresight" to see that within 20 - 30 years, very little of the population, specifically the American population, would have any immunity to the disease.

"So, to this day, hidden in our laboratories, we have kept several batches of live smallpox preserved, awaiting future use," he told to a rapt Dante.

Throughout his formative years, Raz had been taught about the evil American capitalist empire. Spies had brought back irrefutable proof that America had a very active and prolific biological warfare program of its own. These weapons he was helping to develop, Raz believed they would be as nuclear weapons were; weapons of peace with neither side willing to risk the destruction.

Then, in 1979, a small and thought to be contained explosion occurred at their plant in Sverdlosk. However, a tiny amount of anthrax was released into "civilian air." Raz was sent in to treat the victims, sent to cover up the truth of the cause and watched 69 people die horrible, suffering deaths. The doctor's distaste for his vocation found its origin in those 69 gravestones. But still, he decided to press forward with his research.

"The human being's capacity for rationalization can never be underestimated," he said to Dante, his regret plain.

The doctor told himself Sverdlosk was a freak accident that would not happen again. After all, he was serving his country, protecting it from the evil capitalist empire that was America. But then the wall came down in Germany. At first, nothing seemed any different in the heart of the mother country. But Germany became the finger that pushed the dominos into their fall. How quickly corrupt the government became, corrupt and desperate for money. Raz watched his research, his life's work sold to the highest Middle Eastern bidder, radical Islamic fundamentalist groups. He watched his country be played for a fool. For he knew that if these groups ever became displeased with Russia's actions, Russia would find its own weapons turned against it.

"Do you know I have created a genetically engineered plague that combines a hemmorrhagic fever (soon to be known as the Ebola Virus) with Venezuelan Encephalitis. My team and I have combined smallpox with that same virus, created a nerve gas ten times more potent than America's Sarin. And now all of it is in the hands of people whose hate knows no limit, in the hands of people who believe they will be rewarded in the 'after-life' for killing."

Dante found himself genuinely horrified. "Why do you continue doing it then?"

"Dante, there is only one way to retire from my job."

"Could you not sabotage it all?"

To this Raz laughed.

"Do you think I have not planned countless ways of doing so? Do you know that the plant where I lead my team is six stories high and two football fields long. The central factory there is filled with 10 giant fermentation vats, each meant to brew 5,000 gallons of anthrax microbes -- enough to kill every man, woman and child in America many times over? Do you know that my plant is only one of six such facilities."

"So you are just going to continue producing death," Dante accused.

"What choice do I have?"

"I can give you a choice, Raz, if you will let me, if you want it bad enough."

"What do you mean?"

"You may see me as a merely a front man for your government, but I assure you, there is much more to me than that. I have ways and means that are far beyond what you would expect, and far beyond what your government knows. I can give you a new identity, Raz, if you want it. I can change your name, your past. I can erase your identity."

Raz stared at Dante in amazement.

"Why? Why would you want to do this for me?"

"Why not? You treated me even though you would have rather not have. You could have been rude and condescending to me, unaware of my status and influence, but you were not. You chose to hear me out. But most of all, I could use a doctor."

"How is that?"

"From time to time, I have found myself in need of a doctor who would need to answer to no one. That would treat me, my associates, or perhaps even my enemies, and be able to keep quiet about it. Do you understand?"

Raz would only nod his head.

"If I give you a new life, Raz, would you be willing to be my physician on call. I could personally finance your own private practice. How does that sound," Dante questioned, displaying his best smile.

"They will come looking for me."

Dante's grin faded. "I am sure they will, but it will not matter. When I say I can erase your identity that includes your appearance as well. Not talking about radical plastic surgery, Raz, but a slight adjustment would not hurt, no? You are too old for that long hair anyway. And until it goes completely gray, you will need to change its color. And, of course, colored contacts for your eyes. Are you willing to do all of that for freedom, Raz?"

"I do not think I would call it freedom, do you?"

"What choice do you have," Dante asked, mocking Raz.

"Where will we go?"

Dante's smile returned as he took the doctor's question as an affirmation to his offer. "All over. How does the Caribbean sound? Australia, New Zealand, Hawaii, Africa?

That was nearly ten years ago.

With his private practice an hour's drive from Springfield, Raz drove as fast as he could without making himself a target for the highway patrol. His mind was cluttered with questions, fears, and memories.

Raz had not learned of Dante's true motivation until they were sitting on a yacht late at night off the coast of Australia a few years ago.

"You have got all of this power and money, Dante, but nothing else. Do you not get lonely? I know that something else is driving you. I see it so clearly in your eyes."

Raz did not know if it was the multiple beers consumed, the lulling sway of the boat, the full moon, or all of them combined that made Dante reveal his life's story, his ultimate intent that night.

When he finished, Dante received no response from the doctor, and before the moment could get any more awkward, he rose, saying, "Well that is enough for tonight, no?"

Raz merely nodded and said, "Good night, Dante."

Dante, already walking away, held up the back of his hand to wave.

Raz watched his employer, his comrade, disappear below the deck. All along, he had tried to convince himself it was not so, but on that yacht, the doctor faced the fact that he worked for a man as volatile as the tiny vials of anthrax he had held not so long ago. Wealth and intelligence driven by revenge; a more lethal combination than anything the doctor had ever created in a lab.

A blaring horn and blinding headlights returned Raz to the two-lane highway before him. He swerved back into his lane, missing a car and its irate driver by inches.

"Hey! You freakin' idiot," Drew screamed at the car that nearly hit her head on at 55 miles per hour.

But she knew that could just as easily have been her. Drew was trying to focus on the task of getting from Ray's parish to home but was not doing too well. Her palms were damp, her entire body shaking. She kept thinking of the letter she had held in her hand barely fifteen minutes ago.

"My God, Ray," Drew let out as she finished reading the letter his father had given Ray on his eighteenth birthday.

"God, indeed. Do you see now why I chose this way, Drew. This was the only way to keep from becoming that," Ray said, his voice cracking slightly as he pointed to the letter.

Drew looked up and saw tears in the priest's eyes. Without thinking, she got up and put her hand to his cheek.

"You haven't told anyone about this. You've had to keep the fact that your father's alive, is after Carmen, that Danny's your brother to yourself for all this time? Ray, you must be dying inside."

Ray wasn't thinking either. He was tired of thinking. He took in Drew's embrace without hesitation and wept. The last time he had cried so deeply, so openly, he was reading his father's letter for the first time.

When he finally quieted, Drew pulled away first.

"Ray, what are we supposed to do? Why, Ray? Why would he take Michelle?"

"To get to his son," Ray said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "To turn Danny against his mother."

"Well, that wouldn't be hard. The police are already suspicious of Carmen."

"I know. So was I. But you didn't see her face after her last fight with Danny. I've never, never seen Carmen that scared. She would've had to have been an idiot to do something so obvious and extreme as to blow up the Bauer house. Everyone, especially her son, would think she did it. Carmen is not an idiot."

"Well then how's your father's plan supposed to work?"

"I don't know, Drew. Unless... unless he plants evidence the police will find linking Carmen to the bomb."

"This is crazy, Ray. We're talking about a ghost of a father and my dead friend being undead. We don't know anything," Drew spoke as she paced Ray's office.

"I know that none of the other families would have wanted to bring this trouble onto themselves."

"You mean none of the other mob families would have wanted to challenge the Santos position," Drew asked incredulously.

"No. Not only do they fear Carmen, they know Danny is dangerous. He is no Mick. He's extremely smart. Not the kind of smart you and I talk about, Drew. He's mob smart. He's been able to get himself and his family out of ordeals, mob and police-related, that other families could only hope to be as lucky. They know Danny will soon be head of the Santos syndicate, so if they went after anyone in the family, it would be him, not Michelle. They would not want an enemy as powerful and intelligent as Danny bent on avenging his young wife's death, you know?"

"Ok, so what are we going to do, Ray? Huh?"

"Wait for more evidence to prove me right."

"Well how long will that take?"

"Knowing my father like I don't, it could be days or months or years. He's waited this long."

"How am I to go on like everything's normal? How am I to keep this to myself," Drew asked looking desperately into Ray's eyes. And then she realized, "I'm going to have to keep this from Jesse. Oh no. How am I gonna go back tonight and act like everything's the same with him?"

Ray gently pressed his hands into her shoulders, looked her in the eyes, and said emphatically, "You have to, Drew. I don't know how, but you have to. If this gets out beyond you and me, I know my father will hear about it, and he'll wait for only God knows how much longer." And doubt creeping into his voice, Ray continued, "That is, if I'm right about all of this. In that letter, you read it, Drew. It says he has people everywhere, paid ears, and I believe him."

"I won't tell, Ray. You can trust me. After all the things I've done, I don't know how I can expect you to believe me, but do. I don't want to tell Jesse anyway. It would only make him blame me more."

"What are you talking about, Drew?"

"What's worse? The fact that because of me, Michelle gets blown up in a house bomb or that because of me, she's being held hostage somewhere by your insane father?" Once more, tears traveled down Drew's cold cheeks.

Ray handed her a tissue. "Listen to me, Drew. No, I don't want you telling Jesse any of this. But if he blames you for any of what's happened to Michelle, then he's not loving you the way you deserve. You know, Mick would have probably seen Michelle somewhere else, and knowing him as I unfortunately did, he would have pursued her all the same. Don't you see? If you hadn't been there on that beach, Michelle could have been raped. I don't understand why Jesse can't see it that way. And anyway, I don't think my father would hurt Michelle. If she is really still alive and with him, then he plans on keeping her alive, ok?"

Drew wiped her tears away with the tissue and looked up at Ray.

"Thank you. Thank you for not judging me. You see something good in me, huh? Well that's better than what I see most of the time."

Ray lifted her chin with his finger and gently said, "Stop it, Drew. Please, don't talk like that. Things happen that change a person. I should know."

Forcing herself to pull her face from his touch, Drew uttered, "I need to go." She looked at her watch. It was almost 1 a.m.

Ray glanced down to his, "Oh Drew, I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"That's ok, Ray. It's ok. Are you going to stay here?"

"Yeah, I pretty much do my best thinking in here."

Drew looked over to the crucifix hanging on the wall behind his desk. "Ok, but try to get some sleep. It's been a long day.

Ray nearly laughed aloud. "Yes, and you try to be careful driving home, ok?"

"Ok," Drew said. And so quickly Ray had no time to react, she hugged him, pressed her lips briefly to his right cheek, turned and walked out the door.

Ray stood there staring into the space she had just vacated. He was going to have a hard time thinking anymore tonight.

"What the hell took you so long," Dante barked as he opened his door for the diminutive doctor.

"Would you rather have me explain to a policeman my reason for speeding?"

Dante did not respond as he stormed through the living room headed for the bedroom where Michelle lay struggling to live. Raz followed.

"Why have you wasted my time, Dante? Why have you wasted her time," the doctor asked angrily, looking at the woman/child dying in the bed. "You should have brought her to my clinic."

"I told you the equipment you would need to bring. Can you not give her the antibiotics intravenously?"

"Dante, what is the matter with you? You know I have to do a culture of the lung fluid to see if what I am dealing with is bacterial or viral. If it's viral, you know the antibiotics will do her no good. I need to run blood tests, perform X-rays. Dante, you know this. What is going on? Who is she to have you so frantic?"

"You are in no position to ask me quest-"

"Danny," Michelle interrupted Dante's retort. Her eyes remained shut, perspiration falling to the side of her face. And barely audible, she repeated her husband's name.

Raz burned his eyes into Dante, let go of Michelle's wrist, and stared motionless at his employer before finally saying through clenched teeth, "How many innocent lives have to die before you are finished... comrade."

'You are wasting my time, comrade," Dante responded as he angrily tucked the covers more tightly under Michelle. "Help me wrap her up and let's go! Where is the oxygen?"

"It's in my car. Dante, she needs emergency care, now. It will take an hour to get to my clinic."

"No it won't."

"What? Have you bought the Springfield police, too," Raz asked sarcastically as they both lifted Michelle gently from the bed.

"No. But I have ways of finding out exactly where the patrols are staked out. Perhaps we should sit her down and let her die so I can explain the system in detail to you."

Ignoring Dante, Raz opened the door leading to the garage. "Dante, she is dying and will die if we don't get her to a nearby emergency room."

'No! She will not die. If she does, then you will bring her back from the dead," Dante shouted as he carried Michelle to his car.

Raz did not have to look into the man's eyes to know that he truly would expect as much from the doctor. Reluctantly, he climbed into the back seat of the BMW with Michelle. And with her head in his lap, he gently laid the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. As Dante squealed out of the garage, Raz prayed to a God that for years he had professed not to believe in.