“You’ve probably seen it all before,” said Dien. “The lab work has backed up, there’s too much red tape to change that. The hospitals’ staffs are not up to handling this heavy a case load this long. There’s pressure coming from the local paper and newscasters and that’s causing trouble. Some of the local physicians are not answering our inquiries for a variety of reasons. And we’re running short of beds in critical care and we have almost nothing left in quarantine.”
“Damn damn damn,” said Jeff softly. “Damn it all to hell and perdition.”
“Sounds about right,” said Wil as he took out his car keys and indicated the door. “I’m in lot A.”
—Sylvia Kostermeyer and Weyman Muggridge—
At midnight Sylvia realized that neither she nor Weyman had eaten dinner. On reviewing the day, she was surprised to recall that their last meal—if that was the word for it—had been tuna sandwiches more than thirteen hours ago. The low ache in her head began to make more sense and she pushed back from the charts and printouts spread across the table. “We’ve got to take a break.”
Weyman, his eyes slightly bloodshot, met her gaze. “How much more is there to do?”
“Enough that we can’t get it done in the next hour. I’m worn out, Weyman. I need something to eat and a hot bath and two or three glasses of wine. Ten hours of uninterrupted slumber would also be nice.” She made herself stretch and heard the protesting snap of her joints.
“Ten pounds of prime-quality uncut diamonds would also be nice, but you’re no more likely to get that than you are to have that much sleep.” He yawned suddenly and widely. “You’re right. We’re both worn out.”
His yawn was contagious, and brought moisture to her eyes. “Let’s find a place that’s open and buy the food, okay?”
“That place down by Ocean Beach Park is open all night. We could go there; it’s out of the way, I know, but there isn’t much open around here. Unless you want hamburgers.” This afterthought was so lacking in enthusiasm that Weyman laughed.
“Heaven forfend,” he said as he began stacking their material in a single heap at the end of the table. “It won’t take too long to get there at this time of night, will it?”
“Twenty, twenty-five minutes, probably.” She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. “We can take the Expressway.”
“You direct me,” said Weyman, though he was reasonably certain he could find the restaurant on his own.
“Too bad the Moonraker isn’t open this late. They’ve got great food there.” She got slowly to her feet, thinking as she did that it was a good idea to wear her athletic tights instead of panty hose—if she had the panty hose on her ankles would be the size of grapefruits by now.
“Another time,” Weyman said with a worn-out grin.
“You’re on.” Her coat was hanging in the closet down the hall, but her jacket was draped over the back of her chair. She started to pull it on and was stopped as Weyman took over for her. “Thanks.”
“I’m just an old-fashioned boy, Sylvia. My mama brought me up to do for ladies.” He shrugged into his own tweed jacket and then fished in his pocket for the keys to the door. “How soon will this floor be open in the morning?”
“Probably about seven-thirty, maybe earlier.” She swallowed another yawn and wondered if she would be able to stay awake through supper. “Makes sense to lock the door if we’re not going to be in until later.”
“Okay.” He found the key, and as they left the room took the time to lock up. A freshening wind met them as they went to her car on the far side of the parking lot. “I thought San Diego was supposed to be warm all year round.”
“It depends on what you compare it to,” said Sylvia as she clutched her coat more tightly around her.
“It’s frigid compared to Bangkok. Great. But I’m getting cold.” He chattered his teeth as demonstration.
“Weyman, it’s after midnight and we’re only a few miles from the ocean.”
“The way this wind feels, the Pacific is filled with icebergs,” he said, undaunted by her practicality. He made a show of holding the door for her and then went around to the passenger side of the car.
“One of these days, I’ll hold your door for you,” warned Sylvia as she turned the key in the ignition.
There was little traffic on the streets at this hour of the night. For two blocks they were flanked by Jeep Suburbans filled with sailors in uniform who were bawling out the words to the All Electric Kitchen’s latest hit, but that was the only incident in their drive. When they reached the restaurant, they found a dozen cars in the lot and lights blazing.
“It looks inviting but garish,” said Weyman as they started up the walk to the door.
“That about sums it up,” Sylvia agreed. Weyman had taken her arm and she was not certain how she felt about this courtesy. “The food’s good and the service is pretty fast,” she added, in the hope that it would make their meal seem more ordinary.
“Fine.”
They were seated in a booth, windows at their backs, and a seven-foot television screen off to the right. “I haven’t seen the news in days,” Sylvia said, mildly chagrined.
“You’ve had things on your mind,” Weyman reminded her. “What’s the country up to?” He glanced at the screen. “Reruns.”
“The sea bass is fresh,” their waitress announced as she walked up to the table. “So’s the trout. The rest were flash-frozen. We’re out of swordfish.”
They ordered, and when the waitress was gone fell into an uneasy silence. From time to time they glanced at the screen where images flickered.
“Commercials,” said Sylvia unnecessarily as the face of a local realtor praised his new “quake-resistant” condos.
Then the face of one of the regional newscasters appeared, her face elegant and serious. “This is Nan Kinny in Sacramento with headlines of the stories we’ll feature at our six A.M. newscast: Governor Guy Derelli has declared an environmental emergency in nine southern California counties. At a special news conference yesterday evening, the Governor said that all necessary measures were being taken to control the toxic factors. On the national front, the National Center for Disease Control in Atlanta has issued a general advisory regarding Taji’s Syndrome to all western states and President Hunter has said that he might extend the advisory to the entire country if circumstances warrant it. In Los Angeles, Horace McReddy said that the Screen Actors’ Guild would support the ASCAP strike if the—”
“Oh, my God,” whispered Sylvia.
“That’s—” Weyman began but was interrupted.
“I can’t believe it. What’s been going on?” She had started to rise, hands flat on the table.
“Hey, Sylvia,” Weyman said gently, putting a restraining hand on her ann. “We can’t ask the set. We’ll pick up a paper on the way out, and I’ll get on the phone to Jeff first thing in the morning.”
“There can’t be that many cases, can there?” she pleaded with him, facing him as she took her seat again. “I mean, I can understand about Southern California, but the rest of it . . . You said that there were cases in Portland and Seattle, but this sounds a lot worse, doesn’t it?”
“It doesn’t sound good,” said Weyman. “But you’ve seen the printouts. Something had to be done; you said so yourself.”
“But my God . . .” She looked back at the television as if it could provide more information on request.
“Jeff’ll straighten it out,” Weyman said, hoping it was so. “I’ll try to find out how much of it is his decision and how much is pragmatics and politics.”
“Like the Tunis Flu,” she sighed. “What a mess.”
“Except that so far as we know, we have a single form of TS, if only we knew what it was.” He looked up as the waitress returned with their food. “Smells great.”
Sylvia stared at the plate as it was set in front of her; her tongue felt like terry cloth and the fragrant steam that rose from the broiled albacore made her slightly nauseated. She blinked. “I don’t know if I can eat,” she admitted. “I . . . I’m shocked. Food doesn’t . . . well—”
“Take a taste,” Weyman advised. “If you don’t want it after two bites, no big thing, but give it a chance, okay?” He had already reached for the bread and was tearing a slice in half. “It’s been a long day and tomorrow ain’t gonna be no shorter.” He made his Southern accent much stronger and got a half-smile.
“Did you really talk like that when you were young?”
“According to my family, I surely did, honey,” he continued in the same vein. “Most of ’em still talk this way. Me, I took on airs when I got my medical degree, as they always remind me.” He grinned at her and went on in his usual speech, “Try the rice, too. It’s good.”
“All right,” she said, and obediently picked up her fork. To her surprise, she was ravenous. Each bite was more delicious than the last and she could not bring herself to stop, even though she was afraid that she was being impossibly rude to eat so voraciously.
“See?” Weyman said between mouthfuls, “it isn’t so bad after all.”
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Because I did it myself a couple of times while we were working on the Silicon Measles investigation. I let myself get worn out and then not eat.” He spread butter over his bread and handed it to her. “Jeff forced food into me then. I’m just passing on the lesson.”
“Say thanks to him for me sometime,” she said, her embarrassment passing.
When they were through with supper, Weyman insisted that they order dessert and a glass of port. “There’s not enough alcohol to fuddle your wits but it will take the edge off. You need it more than coffee.”
She was skeptical enough to order a pot of tea as well, and sipped nervously at the dark, heavy wine. “My mother used to make a drink for us when we were kids and got all wound up, Warm milk with a little port and honey in it.”
“Makes sense,” said Weyman, watching her. “Let’s figure to get to work at nine tomorr—this morning. I don’t think that we need to push any harder than that.”
“What?” She was so startled she almost dropped her glass.
“Work. Morning. We don’t need to start before nine.” His lips did not move but his eyes smiled. “What did you think I meant?”
Her face reddened. “Nothing.”
“This isn’t the right time or place to proposition you, if that’s what you were thinking,” he said lightly.
Her blush deepened. “Of course not,” she lied.
“For one thing, I’m too tired.” He lifted his glass to her. “I won’t say it hasn’t occurred to me, but there’ll be a better time.”
Her face grew somber again. “Will there?”
—Jeff Taji and Susan Ross—
THERE WAS no attempt made to conceal the hostility Susan felt at Jeff’s intrusion. She sat on the sofa in the living room of her brother’s house and glared at her unwelcome visitor. “I don’t know anything that could help you,” she told him without apology. “You came a long way for nothing.”
“But perhaps you do,” Jeff said, apparently unaware of her attitude. “That’s the thing that comes to light in complex investigations like this one: so often there are those who know something and are not aware of it. If you’re willing to answer a few questions, I’ll make this as brief as possible.”
“What questions?” Her hands became fists in the drape of her skirt. “I have to pick Grant up in forty minutes.”
“I hope this won’t take that long; I’ll do my best to be as brief as possible.” Jeff referred to a leather-bound notebook, although he had no reason to do so—he knew all the questions since he had written them. “You see,” he went on after closing the notebook, “we’re drawing a blank. So we’re going back to the first reported cases of TS and we’re trying to find out what those cases had in common, if anything.”
“The people who got the disease are dead, that’s what they have in common,” Susan reminded him bluntly.
“Yes. And most of them were young. Before the summer of last year, as far as we can determine, no one had ever contracted this disease. And as of last autumn, only a few had.”
“You mean Kevin?” she asked tightly. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Yes. He was one of the first to . . . to die of it. We’re hoping that we might discover how the disease got started by learning as much as possible about the first victims.”
“Harper said you’d already got the family health history. Why do you have to talk to me? Isn’t that enough?” Her voice got harsher with each challenging word.
“It might be, but you know as well as I do that there are a great many things that never get into such records.”
“If you mean the trouble we’ve had with Grant, ever since we found out about it, there’s been no attempt to—” Her features grew more stark.
“No, no; nothing like that. I hope you won’t mind if I assume that you’re willing to tell me how your children have been in the last two years. You certainly know more than Sam Jarvis does about them and you’ve got a different perspective than Harper.” He smiled and wished he wore glasses; he knew how useful they could be in changing the “feel” of a question.
“We could have done this over the phone,” she said resentfully. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”
“Well, with the blood work and PAST scans we have ordered, I thought we might just as well do it all at once.” He watched her stiffen with disapproval. “What’s troubling you, Missus Ross?”
“It’s bad enough that Kevin’s dead, but you refuse to leave it alone. You’re bringing it all back. You’re making a case for it. You won’t let it be. How are we supposed to get over it if you keep it under our noses all the time?” She got up and paced down the room. “Grant’s started to make a little progress here and you don’t understand how disruptive your presence here can be. You come in here, ordering tests and scans and all the rest of it. It was bad enough to have all the kids put through the Standard Public School Blood Screens.”
Jeff did not attempt to argue with her. “It’s never been an easy thing to know where the right to privacy stops and public safety begins. The SPSBS is up for review in two years—who knows? Now that we’ve got the AIDS vaccine, it might be reversed.”
“You wouldn’t like that, would you? If the Supreme Court decided that you weren’t entitled to so much intrusion, you’d have to find some other way to do your work.” Her chin came up. “I wish you’d find some other way now.”
“Missus Ross, your husband has authorized the tests; I hope you’ll be willing to permit them.” He watched her as she picked up a magazine, then set it back down. “Your son Kevin was a tragic loss for you. I hope that we can spare your family and other families further grief.”
“Naturally,” she said dryly. “What does it matter, anyway? You’ve got your permission already, from Harper. You don’t need anything from me. All you have to do is take your document along to the hospital and get the court to order Grant and me to appear.”
“Is there anything I can say that might convince you I don’t mean to impose on you, that my only purpose is an attempt to stop a dangerous and deadly disease?” He had risen but did not move either toward her or away from her.
“I doubt it,” she said. “And I don’t think it matters one way or another if you have ‘noble’ motives. You’re here because you want your ass covered and you’re using my family to do it. So get it over with and go back to Atlanta and file your reports. And leave us alone.”
“Thank you.” He said it without sarcasm but also without any vestige of patience. “I’ll notify the hospital t
o be ready for tests first thing tomorrow morning. And it might interest you to know that there are four cases of TS in the Santa Rosa Community Hospital right now.”
“Then we’re probably too late. That’s what Sam told us after Kevin died — that by the time he got to the hospital it was already too late.” Her eyes glittered with tears but she refused to weep.
“Missus Ross,” said Jeff mildly, “do you watch the news?”
“Yes,” she said guardedly, unprepared for this change of direction in his questioning.
“And you will agree that there has been some mention of TS, but that it hasn’t been emphasized,” he went on, as if discussing the weather.
“Probably the Public Health Exemption at work again,” she said nastily.
Jeff neither confirmed nor denied, though it was true. “Who do you watch most of the time? Which newsman?”
Now Susan was truly puzzled. “John Post,” she answered as if it were a trick question.
“John Post’s youngest son—fourteen-year-old named Aaron—is in the hospital in Shreveport with TS and has been for the last two weeks. Post suggested that the feature his network is preparing not hide that fact, but that he would prefer a balanced presentation so that he would—”
“You’re making this up!” Susan shouted at him.
“I wish I were,” Jeff said. “My colleague, Doctor Howell, sent me confirmation of this last week.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said directly.
“It’s the truth, whether you believe it or not,” said Jeff. “And by Saturday night, the whole country will know it. Yesterday Elizabeth Harkness taped an interview with Aaron in his quarantine room. They’ll show it on Final Edition.”
“I don’t believe you,” she repeated.
Jeff went on as if he had not heard her. “I’m telling you this in the hope you will step thinking that my request for all this extra information is capricious or intended to shore up my position with the government. I want to stop TS. I wanted to stop it as soon as I learned about it.”
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