At seventeen, contemplating a career as a veterinarian and wondering whether there was a future in large animal medicine, Donna had made the rounds with the local vet after school and on weekends, working mainly for experience instead of pay. Rather than crushing an impressionable spirit as it would have a lesser-willed tomboy, that experience of watching the business suffer had toughened her, made her more determined than ever that large animal medicine was where she wanted to be.
Six years later, in her third year of vet school, another widespread drought produced a repeat performance. Only this time, the general economy was weaker, private loans more difficult to come by and help from the government practically nonexistent. Donna’s parents sold out at a substantial loss, draining their retirement account. Her father found work in construction while her mother cleaned houses. If it hadn’t been for her student loan and her parents’ insistence, Donna would have dropped out to help them.
That had been nine years ago. Her mother had since died of breast cancer and her father was still paying off the medical bills she’d left as her legacy. Donna sent him a check every month but she knew it wore on him, the long hours he put in building houses and still needing others to help him out. He was only 58, and while his body was strong, in his face he looked 70, with deep wrinkles, sunken cheekbones and eyes that could only be described as hollow. She wondered if things would have been different had he not been driven out of ranching, a profession he loved, and forced into a job that didn’t give him the same joy and satisfaction.
Today, Mr. Spalding looked very much like her father.
“I heard the news this morning.” His hollow eyes stared over her shoulder at the land and animals that had given him so much pleasure for so long. “Figured that’s why you asked to come out.”
Donna turned her head at the sound of a vehicle coming down the drive behind her. “That’s Mike Shafer. He’s with the CDC. They’re looking for any kind of connection between the people they’re seeing in the hospitals. Milk produced here locally might be one of those connections. Might be. We still don’t know what this is, Mr. Spalding. Whatever’s infecting your cows might well be infecting people, too. Or maybe it’s some sort of mold spore that we’re all coming into contact with that’s causing it.”
“Or maybe my cows are passing it in their milk and there are children dead because of it.” The matter-of-fact way he said it sent chills through Donna.
“Maybe,” she agreed, knowing right then that one word her voice nearly broke on would be all that she could manage. She practically ran to Mike’s SUV to greet him so she didn’t have to face that weary, dead look in Mr. Spalding’s eyes alone.
In the moment before Mike stepped out of his vehicle, he saw something unexpected in the self-assured vet: vulnerability. Like generations of men before, he responded to that look viscerally, automatically. He was out the door and reaching for her before he even had the chance to think. The step she took back, away from him, gave him that chance. He stopped abruptly and shoved out his hand. “Dr. Bailey, nice to see you again.”
Not sure what she thought he was going to do at first, Donna grasped the proffered hand a bit tardily and shook it. “Mr. Shafer. You’ve been busy, I see.”
He lifted an eyebrow, not sure he understood the remark.
“The newscast.”
“Ah. You saw it?”
“I didn’t, but everyone else seems to have.”
“That wasn’t my doing. But hospitals can’t really keep a flurry of unexplained illnesses and deaths to themselves for too long before the media gets wind of it. There was another spike in ER visits. My colleagues at the CDC are taking things a little more seriously now. The reconnaissance teams arrived last night. They’ll read my reports, do their own interviews and eventually come up with their own theories and conclusions. It’ll probably be at least a couple of days now before we get the lab teams out, so until then we’re on our own.”
“You still want to talk to the ranchers, then?”
“We’re ahead of the curve on this one. Once the teams move from the hospitals, I think they’ll be more willing to hear our reports.”
“Sounds like you’ve got your mind made up already.” Donna’s tone was bitter.
“No, I don’t. But I’m not going to turn a blind eye to coincidence either. And neither will my colleagues. Especially now. First we’ll see a local panic, then we’ll see state governors demanding answers, and after that congressmen and senators will speak out and the nation will begin to panic. By then it won’t matter if we can’t pinpoint the actual cause. All anyone needs to see is a newscast where a reporter is talking about infant deaths and there’s footage in the background of a couple of dairy cows stumbling around and there’ll be a public verdict of guilt by inference. We need to prepare for that.”
“That’s it then.”
Mike swung around, not having heard Mr. Spalding approach behind him. The rancher faced him, resignation plain in the stoop to his shoulders, the drawn lines at his mouth. Damn. “No, Mr. Spalding, it is not it. Not yet anyway.”
“That wasn’t a question, sir.” Mr. Spalding pointed out. “You already said it. It won’t matter if it’s not the cows themselves causing kids to die. Even if it winds up being some fungus in the wheat or corn and we burn the fields. Who’s going to trust anything that comes from around here, whether it’s milk or meat or eggs? Maybe in a season or two people will forget. But that season will bury us all. If the CDC doesn’t call for the slaughter of every farm animal out here, the buying public will. Can you really tell me that isn’t the case?”
The sad thing was, Mike thought, Mr. Spalding was spot on. History bore out his theory—many times over. The boycotts of chicken during the Avian Flu epidemic of 2005, beef imports during the mad cow scare of 2006, pork during the Swine Flu pandemic of 2009 and eggs during the salmonella outbreak in 2016 pointed directly to a public whose buying habits were controlled by fear rather than common sense.
Every industry had recovered, eventually. But, yes, there had been casualties along the way. Survival of the fittest didn’t apply just to biological entities. Smaller, less adaptable companies had simply not been able to outlast the boycotts. Panicked consumers had given no considerations to the results of their indiscriminate behavior. As a consequence, their thoughtless actions had not resulted in mitigating the spread of disease. No, the only results of the boycotts had been to drive smaller ranchers out of business, giving more power to larger operations; homogenizing price and quality; and ensuring more crowded, disease-prone conditions on ranches to meet consumer demand once something else came along to claim the public’s attention.
And the general public, Mike knew, would continue on, righteous in their delusional belief that their uninformed, knee-jerk reaction had likely saved their own life or the life of a loved one, happily oblivious to the countless industry lives they’d displaced or destroyed in the process.
Now, one of the first casualties of the current crisis stood before him. Not a statistic to be graphed, but a wearied man staring at impending tragedy. Mike had seen that look up close and personal only once before: on his uncle’s face when his home of 35 years had burned to the ground and he was left adrift and directionless, his dog dead, his mementos of past lives and loves that had crossed with his gone, no insurance or savings to rebuild, and—at 74—no time to recapture the comforts he had lost.
Mike wanted desperately to say something of inspiration to Mr. Spalding. But just as he hadn’t found the words for his uncle, he had no words of hope or encouragement that wouldn’t ring false against the inevitability of what was to come.
Instead, he looked Mr. Spalding dead in the eye. “You’re right. All hell’s about to break loose around here. You have 24, maybe 48, hours before it does. I don’t know what you need to do to get your business affairs in order, but you better start now. You, your distributor, the other suppliers—you’ll all be media targets. You won’t be able to hide the number of dea
d or diseased animals you’ve had in the last few weeks, but you better be prepared to show that any milk shipped to market didn’t come from any of them. It won’t help in the long term—probably nothing will—but short term the people who do business with you will appreciate your efforts.”
Mr. Spalding’s expression didn’t change. Only a slow nodding of his head indicated he’d heard.
Donna was glad he wasn’t an overly emotional man. Though his calm resignation was eerie in its own right, it was still infinitely better than having him strike out at those around him or weep or curse, if only because a more emotional response would surely draw a like reaction from her. Tomboy background notwithstanding, estrogen still ruled her emotions. “When you make a decision about the cows, have Dan give me a call,” she said.
Mr. Spalding’s expression did change then. His mouth drew tighter and his eyes widened as he focused on her. “Dan’s been in the hospital since last Saturday. A stroke, they think.” A shadow passed over his face. “With any luck, he won’t remember any of this. Or even care.”
In other circumstances, Donna would have been appropriately shocked at the sentiment. But these weren’t other circumstances, and Donna knew Mr. Spalding and Dan both, and could appreciate not only that the remark was made in kindness but that the Dan she’d known would approve of it. She nodded. “Then you call me if I can help, whatever you decide.”
“One way or another, you’ll hear from me before the end of the day.” He tipped his hat once toward each of them—“Dr. Bailey, Mr. Shafer”—before turning and walking away.
Mike drew a deep breath, then let it out noisily, his cheeks billowing with the pressure. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t want to do field work for a living.” He slumped against the SUV. “Who’s Dan?”
The question surprised Donna, who’d expected Mike to focus on the cattle or the business or something more large picture. That he was interested in more personal details impressed her. “He’s Mr. Spalding’s foreman.”
“You heard what he said about the stroke? It fits. Ranchers in close contact with affected stock are turning up in the hospitals as stroke patients. There’s a correlation, I’m sure.”
“You don’t think it was a stroke?”
“I think it’s the same thing the kids have and what these cows have. Hospital personnel are just more likely to see it as a stroke because of the age and the symptoms. When your ER is packed with patients you don’t look for exotic diseases when a perfectly good explanation is staring you in the face.”
“Damn.”
”Yeah. Me too.”
“What’s next?”
“We could keep spreading joy at more dairy farms, or there’s a business around here that deals with wild animals of some kind. I’d like to see if they’re having the same problems. Triple E Enterprises—have you been out there?”
Donna laughed low. “I don’t know anyone who has. They won’t even return my calls. One of the ranchers found the remains of a white tiger a couple of weeks ago and I can’t find anyone to claim it. Thought it could be theirs, but if they have permits—and the sheriff told me they do—I don’t know why they wouldn’t just say it was one of theirs if it was. Unless they’re afraid of a lawsuit.”
“Meaning—?”
“We think it killed a few calves before it died. But the ranchers can write off the losses. I don’t think anyone around here would press charges. Triple E’s been there nearly ten years and no one’s had any trouble with them before. But really, all I know about them is that they have permits for holding exotics. Could be they’re ranching wildebeests as an alternative to beef and don’t have any predators out there at all. But I have been told there’s a lot of security around the place. I don’t know how much luck you’ll have getting in.”
“I can always try this.” He flipped his wallet open to his ID card and, in his best G-man imitation, intoned, “Shafer. CDC. We have a few questions for you.”
Donna laughed. Mike looked hurt. “Your ID’s upside down.”
“Damn. How do the real guys get it right all the time?” He motioned down the drive with exaggerated flair. “If you know the way, I’ll follow.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
DONNA HAD NEVER TURNED west on 114A off of 68 before. The dark black asphalt road stood out among the many other side roads that were dirt or gravel. She suspected the road was privately maintained as the long run of it—nearly eight miles—up to where it forked off was whisper smooth and rut free. From the fork the road to the north turned into the more typical gravel-topped lane that could chew a new set of tires up in less than a year. Donna followed the fork to the southwest where the same smooth rubber-friendly asphalt ran through the hills and hollows. At one point, she caught a glimpse of a tall stockade fence, then shortly after that thick stands of bur oaks and junipers appeared, crowding along either side of the road and effectively limiting vision to the roadway ahead and behind.
At last, about three miles from the fork, the road widened into a lot with a gatehouse, a rolling gate that looked like it could stop a semi and enough turnaround space to encourage people who didn’t belong to do just that. As Donna slowed, the guard on duty emerged from the gatehouse, his phone in one hand, the other hand palm out in an authoritative yet not unfriendly suggestion to stop. Considering the option—ramming into the steel-barred gate ahead—the guard’s approach seemed overkill.
The guard, dressed in comfortable jeans and boots with an ID badge hanging from the pocket of a plaid shirt, touched the brim of his cowboy hat and tipped his head her way. “Ma’am, this is private property. Do you have an appointment?” Donna didn’t miss the guard’s gaze as it slid behind her to where Mike was pulling up at her bumper. The guard wasn’t armed that she could see but she suspected there was a camera on her and that, by the way he held the phone, reinforcements weren’t far away.
Donna leaned out the window and called back to Mike, “He wants to know if we have an appointment.”
Mike was already sliding out of the SUV and reaching into his pocket. The guard stiffened and his thumb covered a red button on the phone. When Mike’s wallet appeared, the guard relaxed but his thumb didn’t waver.
“We don’t have an appointment but we’d like one,” Mike said, flipping his wallet open in the guard’s direction. He cocked an eyebrow toward Donna. She squinted at his credentials to be sure they were right side up, then smiled and gave a quick nod behind the guard’s back.
“Do you have a warrant, sir?” the guard asked.
“No. Just some questions for your boss.”
“Wait here. I’ll see if there’s someone available.” The man stepped back into the small guard house with its black plate window.
Well aware there was likely surveillance equipment on them, they stayed where they were, Mike drumming his fingers along the back end of Donna’s truck while they waited.
After a couple of minutes, Donna heard the guttural strokes of a 4-wheeler approaching the other side of the gate as the gate itself started to slide open. The guard stepped back out. “If you’ll follow the escort, she’ll show you where to park and take you to the reception area. You’ll be meeting with Ms. Helen Marsh. She’s the director of marketing and press relations.”
Donna and Mike exchanged surprised glances. For all the buildup, being invited in on the merit of a CDC badge alone seemed too easy.
Past the gate a manicured lawn sprawled toward a group of single-story red brick buildings at the end of the drive. To either side, impressive stockade fences that reminded Donna of the forts she’d seen in movies rose a good twelve feet high. She thought she’d been kidding about the wildebeest theory, but after seeing the fences she decided she might actually be on to something.
She and Mike parked in front of the first of the buildings. Their escort, a young woman in khaki pants and navy shirt, simply said, “Follow me, please,” and led them to a walnut-appointed foyer where they were pointed to leather chairs. “Ms. Marsh will b
e just a moment.” The escort disappeared behind a pair of French doors.
A small camera hung discreetly in the corner of the room. Mike appreciated its visibility. Cameras in banks and retail stores were visible for a reason. The owners wanted you to know you were being watched. It was an unspoken warning for you to stay on your best behavior. Too, it was a promise to clients that their safety was being watched over. While hidden cameras had grown ubiquitous and the general populace knew there were few public or private areas not being electronically patrolled, a visible camera just felt more honest. In a subtle way, that made him feel better about whatever secrets Triple E was hiding. At least they were hiding them openly.
However, where there were cameras in a business there could also be microphones, and that made having any sort of open conversation awkward. So, after checking his phone for any updates on the alert, Mike took the time to study the woman who had taken a chair perpendicular to his. Unlike the Southern women in Atlanta he’d grown up with and the government agents in Maryland he was used to working with, she was feminine in a non-pretentious way. Tight jeans and a snug blouse showed off delicate curves. Her hair was pulled back from her forehead in a utilitarian ponytail, and her tanned face didn’t have a smudge of makeup that he could see. While she didn’t have the kind of stunning beauty that made married men consider new pickup lines, she had a comfortable, approachable look that men like—well, men like him—found easy to be close to. A totally superficial judgment, he knew, but all he could go by sitting silently in this comfortable yet somewhat sterile room.
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