He cracked the door open—and saw a man in a
black trench coat standing on his porch, streams of
water running down his lined face.
The stranger smiled, an open, friendly expression,
his eyes glittering bright with humor. "David Trapp?" David took in the man at a glance. Tall and thin,
maybe a few years past David's age, say forty-two or forty-three. His dark hair was plastered to his skull by
the rain, and he held a large manila envelope in one
gloved hand.
"Yes?"
The man grinned wider. "My name is Trent, and this is for you."
He held out the damp envelope and David glanced
at it warily, not sure if he should take it. Mr. Trent
didn't seem dangerous, or at least not threatening,
but he was still a stranger, and David preferred to
know the people he accepted gifts from.
"Do I know you?" David asked.
Trent shook his head, his smile unwavering. "No. But I know you, Mr. Trapp. And I also know what
you're about to go up against. Believe me, you're
going to need all the help you can get."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Perhaps
you have me confused with someone else."
Trent's smile faded as he extended the envelope, his
dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Mr. Trapp, it's raining. And this is for you."
Confused and not a little irritated, David opened
the door wider to accept the envelope. As soon as he
grasped it, Trent turned and started to walk away.
"Hold on a moment."
Trent ignored him, disappearing into the rain-
drenched shadows around the side of the house.
David stood in the doorway uncertainly, holding
the damp paper and staring into the pouring darkness
for another minute before going back inside. Once
he'd studied the contents, he wished he'd gone after
Trent, but by then, of course, it was too late.
Too late and only too obvious what he'd meant. He
knew about Umbrella and the S.T.A.R.S., but who does he work for? And why did he choose to contact
me?
Jill and Rebecca were studying the map while Barry
and Chris worked through the copied newspaper
articles. There were four of them, all recent, all
centered around the tiny coastal town of Caliban
Cove, Maine. Three of them concerned the disappear-
ances of local fishermen, all presumed dead. The
fourth was a rather humorous piece about the
"ghosts" that haunted the cove; it seemed that several
townspeople had heard strange sounds floating across
the waters late at night, described as "the cries of the
damned." The writer of the article had laughingly
suggested that the witnesses to the phenomena should
probably stop drinking their mouthwash before bed.
Funny. Unless you know what we know about Umbrella. The map was of the stretch of coast just south of the
small town, an aerial sketch of the cove itself. David
had uncovered a few facts about the area on a visit to
Exeter's library, uncomfortable using the S.T.A.R.S.
computer after Barry's call. The rather isolated
stretch had been privately owned for several years,
bought up by an anonymous group. There was a
defunct lighthouse on the northern rim of the inlet,
sitting atop a cliff that was supposedly riddled with
sea caves.
Trent's map showed several structures behind and
below the lighthouse, leading down to a small pier on
the southern tip of the open crescent. There was a
notched border that ran the length of the cove on the
inland side, presumably a fence. CALIBAN COVE was
written across the top in bold letters. In smaller type
just beneath were the words UMB. RESEARCH AND
TESTING.
The third piece of paper that Trent had given him
was the one that David didn't understand; there was a
short list of names at the top, seven in all:
LYLE AMMON, ALAN KINNESON, TOM ATHENS, LOUIS THURMAN, NICOLAS GRIFFITH, WILLIAM BIRKIN, TIFFANY CHIN.
Just under it was a somewhat poetic list of sorts, set
into the center of the page in curling font.
Jill had picked it up again and was reading it
carefully. She looked up at David, a half-smile on her
face.
"No question that we've got the same Trent here.
The guy's into riddles."
"Any idea what it means?" David asked.
Jill sighed heavily. "Well, one of the names here was in the material that Trent gave me—William
Birkin. We figured out that at least some of the others
were researchers at the Spencer facility, so I'm willing
to bet these people also work for Umbrella. Birkin
may not have been at the estate when it was de-
stroyed. I don't recognize any of the others."
David nodded. "I checked all of them with the
S.T.A.R.S. database and came up blank. The rest,
though . . . Is it a riddle of some sort?"
Jill glanced back at the paper, frowning as she read
it to herself again:
Ammon's message received/blue series/enter answer for
key/letters and numbers reverse/time rainbow/don't count/
blue to access.
Rebecca took the paper from her as Jill looked back
at David thoughtfully. "A lot of what Trent gave me seemed like pretty random stuff, but some of it related
to the Spencer mansion's secrets; the whole place was rigged with puzzle locks and traps. Maybe this is the
same deal. It relates to something you'll find."
"Oh, shit."
They all turned to Rebecca who was staring at the
top of the page, her face drained of color. She looked
at David with an expression of anxious despair.
"Nicolas Griffith is on this list."
David nodded. "You know who he is?"
She looked around at all of them, her young face
openly distressed. "Yeah, except I thought he was dead. He was one of the greats, one of the most
brilliant men ever to work in the biosciences."
She turned back to David, her gaze heavy with
dread. "If he's with Umbrella, we've got a lot more to worry about than the T-Virus getting out. He's a
genius in the field of molecular virology and if the
stories are true, he's also totally insane."
Rebecca looked back at the list, her stomach a
leaden knot.
Dr. Griffith, still alive . . . and involved with Umbrel-
la. Could today possibly get any worse?
"What can you tell us about him?" David asked. Rebecca's mouth felt dry. She reached for her glass
of water and drained it before looking at David.
"How much do you know about the study of
viruses?" she asked.
He smiled a little. "Nothing. That's why I'm here." Rebecca nodded, trying to think of where to start.
"Okay. Viruses are classified by their replication
strategy and by the type of nucleic acid in the
virion—that's the specialized element in a virus that
allows it to transfer its genome to another living cell.
A genome is a single, simple set of chromosomes.
According to the Baltimore Classification, there are
seven distinct types of viruses, and each group infects
certain organisms in a certain way.
In the early sixties, a young scientist at a private
university in California challenged the theory, insist-
ing that there was an eighth group—one based loosely
on dsDNA and ssDNA viruses—that could infect
everything it contacted. It was Dr. Griffith. He pub-
lished several papers, and while it turned out that he
was wrong, his reasoning was brilliant. I know, I read
them. The scientific community scoffed at his theory,
but his research on virus-specified inclusion bodies in
the cytoplasm without a linear genome ..."
Rebecca trailed off, noticing the blank expressions
on their faces. "Sorry. Anyway, Griffith stopped try- ing to prove the theory, but a lot of people were
interested to see what he'd come up with next."
Jill interrupted, frowning. "Where did you learn all this?"
"In school. One of my professors was kind of a
science-history buff. His specialty was defunct theo-
ries .. . and scandals."
"So what happened?" David asked.
"The next time anyone heard from Griffith, it was
because he'd gotten kicked out of the university. Dr.
Vachss—that was my prof—told us that Griffith was
officially fired for using drugs, methamphetamines,
but the rumor was that he'd been experimenting with
drug-induced behavior modification on a couple of
his students. Neither of them would talk, but one of
them ended up in an asylum and the other eventually
committed suicide. Nothing was ever proved, but
after that, no one would hire him and as far as the
facts go, that's the last anyone heard of Nicolas
Griffith."
"But there's more to the story?" David asked.
Rebecca nodded slowly. "In the mid-eighties, a private lab in Washington was broken into by cops
and the bodies of three men were found, all dead of a
filovirus infection—it was Marburg, one of the most
lethal viruses there is. They'd been dead for weeks;
neighbors had complained because of the smell. The
papers the police found in the lab suggested that all
three men were research assistants to a Dr. Nicolas
Dunne, and that they had allowed themselves to be
deliberately infected with what they understood to be
a harmless cold virus. Dr. Dunne was going to see if
he could cure it."
She stood up, crossing her arms tightly. The agony
those men must have endured; she'd seen pictures of
Marburg victims.
From the initial headache to extreme amplification
in a matter of days. Fever, clotting, shock, brain
damage, massive hemorrhaging from every orifice,
they would've died in pools of their own blood.
"And your professor thought it was Griffith?" Jill asked softly.
Rebecca forced the images away and turned to Jill,
finishing the story the way Dr. Vachss had. "Griffith's mother—her maiden name was Dunne."
Barry let out a low whistle, as Jill and Chris
exchanged a worried look. David was studying her
intently, his gaze cool and unreadable. All the same,
she thought she knew what was going through his
mind.
He's wondering if this changes things. If I'll go with
him to see this Caliban Cove facility, now that I know
it's being run by people like Griffith.
Rebecca looked away from David's intense scrutiny and saw that the rest of her team was watching her,
their faces tight with concern. Since that terrible night
at the Spencer estate, they'd become like a family to
her. She didn't want to leave, to risk never seeing
them again. . .
. . . but David's right. Without the support of the
S. T.A.R.S., nowhere will be safe for any of us. And this
would be my chance to contribute, to do what I'm good
at . . .
She wanted to believe that it was the only reason,
that she'd be going to fight the good fight, but she
couldn't help the tiny shiver of excitement that ran
through her at the thought of getting her hands on the
T-Virus. It would be a golden opportunity to study
the mutagen before anyone else, to categorize the
effects and pick apart the virion right down to its
smallest capsid.
Rebecca took a deep breath and blew it out, her
decision made.
"I'll do it," she said. "When do we go?"
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