by Scott Britz
“Maybe if I came in there with you . . .”
“No, Charles. We already talked about this. You’re out of practice, and you’d just be in the way.”
“Then switch on the intercom in her isolation tent.”
Cricket was losing patience with his interruptions. “She can’t hear you, dammit.”
“Please, Cricket. Even in coma, patients sometimes sense more than we know. I’ve got to talk to her.”
“Fine.” Cricket hit a switch on a small control panel on the side of the tent frame.
“Yolanda! This is Charles,” he blurted out. “I’m here, Yolanda. We’re doing everything we can. We’re going to beat this, whatever it is. And Bonnie and Chuck . . . they’ll be okay. I promise you, I’ll take care of them. Don’t worry. You need to focus all your strength on fighting this. Fight, Yolanda. Fight like hell. Don’t lie down and take this . . . this shit . . .” Gifford’s voice broke. “W-what has she got, Cricket? Is it food poisoning? Toxic shock? A stroke?”
“I don’t think we should discuss it over the intercom.”
Indeed, Gifford was not alone in the corridor. A janitor leaned on his floor polisher, gazing with morbid fascination at the activity inside Bay 1. “Okay, I agree. Can you come to the office?”
Cricket hesitated. She had fought him off just hours ago in that very same corridor. Two sheets of bulletproof glass between the two of them felt like a good thing. But he seemed genuinely worried about Yolanda. “Let me finish with these samples.” Zipping the vent flap shut, she carefully laid the blood tube onto a bed of gauze in one of two yellow plastic boxes labeled BIOHAZARD—BIOSAFETY LEVEL 4.
“One box is for us, Jean,” she said, handing it to the nurse, “and the other goes to USAMRIID in Fort Detrick, Maryland.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
With a last glance at the vital-signs monitors, Cricket headed through the air lock to the decontamination suite. Still wearing her biosafety suit, she entered a four-by-four shower and turned around slowly as half a dozen nozzles sprayed her with Lysol to disinfect the outside of the suit.
She wished Hank were here. He had gone to look in on Bonnie and Chuck at the Freibergs’ house, and she had urged him to get some sleep after that. He didn’t know much practical medicine, and there was no point letting him risk exposure in the lab bay. But his charcoal-and-musk voice and the rocky way he planted his feet had a calming effect on her. She needed that now—desperately.
As the Lysol nozzles timed off, Cricket moved to the next room and removed her biosafety suit, carefully hanging it up to dry. After throwing her green scrubs into a hamper, she entered a second shower, where she washed her skin and hair.
She had done as much as she could. Stabilized the patient, started a blood analysis, sent for reinforcements. In another hour or two the transport team would be here, and she’d be off the hook. Not a minute too soon, either.
Leaving her hair to drip dry, uncombed, Cricket threw on a fresh scrub suit. Stepping through the outer air lock, she saw Jack Niedermann rushing into the lobby. He looked cheerful, rested, and immaculately groomed, with a light leather jacket draped over his open-necked orange-and-white-striped shirt.
“Dr. Rensselaer-Wright! Dr. Gifford told me you would be here. It’s reassuring to know Yolanda’s in the hands of such a world-class doctor.”
“Skip the flattery. I don’t have time for it.”
“Of course. Have you figured out what’s wrong?”
“Not yet. There are tests pending.”
“Right, tests.” Niedermann smirked. “When you docs want to stall for time, there are always more tests, aren’t there?”
Cricket’s nostrils flared. “Can you follow me to the office? There are some things I’d like to ask both you and Charles.”
“Of course. Anything to help.”
The office, opposite the security station, was a small room containing a desk, a computer, some chairs, and a whiteboard. Next to the desk was a portable rack of vital-signs monitors that were receiving telemetry signals from Bay 1. Gifford had set it up himself, and he sat with his eyes glued to the displays as Cricket came in.
“This . . . this is just a complete shock,” said Gifford without looking up. A neglected lock of gray hair hung over his forehead. “Yesterday Yolanda seemed so healthy and strong.”
“What do you know about her medical history?” asked Cricket.
“History?” Gifford seemed startled. “There is none. She’s always been in perfect health.”
Cricket turned to Niedermann.
Niedermann shrugged. “Yes. Absolutely. Very healthy.”
“Did she undergo a medical evaluation when you hired her?”
“Well, sure,” said Neidermann. “For insurance purposes.”
“I need a fax of the report.”
“You’ve got it.” Niedermann pulled out his cell phone and began typing a text message.
“Had she traveled abroad recently?”
“No. Why?” asked Gifford.
“The symptoms are consistent with an acute hemorrhagic virus infection. It looks a hell of a lot like ebola.”
“Ebola?” Gifford frowned incredulously. “You’re a virologist. It’s natural that would be the first thing you’d think of. But it isn’t possible. No one’s been working with anything like that here. Yolanda never goes into the labs, anyway. She’s strictly an office girl.”
Nothing was impossible until hard evidence ruled it out. But Cricket didn’t need to argue. The diagnosis, whatever it was, would soon be confirmed. “I called USAMRIID, the Army infectious disease center at Fort Detrick, Maryland. I’ve asked them to mobilize their high-risk containment transport team. Their plane should arrive at the Air National Guard base in Bangor by eight or nine a.m., and they’ll helicopter in from there.”
Niedermann looked up from his cell phone. “What did you do that for?”
“USAMRIID has a formal agreement with CDC to deal with highly contagious infections in research personnel.”
“No. Absolutely not. You should have asked us about this first. We can’t permit it.”
“We? Who the hell are we?”
Niedermann slapped his cell phone shut and jammed it back into his pocket. “Your diagnosis is preposterous. Ebola? You can’t be serious.”
“Are you a doctor, Mr. Niedermann?”
Gifford held up his hand. “Hold on, Cricket. I think Jack may be right. Look at those monitors. Yolanda’s barely holding on. She wouldn’t survive the helicopter airlift, much less a two- or three-hour flight to Maryland. We’ll have to treat her here.”
“We, again? And who do you mean by we?”
“I mean you, Cricket.” Gifford raised his steel-wool eyebrows and looked fixedly at her. “Even if you’re right, there’s no one at Fort Detrick more experienced with these kinds of viruses than you are.”
“We have all the equipment you need,” Niedermann added. “The BSL-4 lab bays were designed to convert into isolation wards in the event of an outbreak. There are stocks of ribavirin, amantadine, ganciclovir, interferon, antiretroviral drugs, antisera for everything in the book. I should know. I signed the checks for it.”
“No.” Cricket looked away, at the leaden morning sky that showed through the small window. She had held herself together this far with the expectation that all would soon be over. Now she was beginning to feel trapped. “I . . . I don’t think I can do it.”
“Pshaw! What are you talking about?” said Gifford. “Of course you can. Who better?”
“There are things about me you don’t know, Charles. I’m not the person I once was. You don’t want to have me on this case.”
“Why in blazes not?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Goddammit, Cricket. Yolanda means a lot to me. I need you to pull yourself together.”
>
“I’ll stay with her until the transport team gets here. That’s it.”
“There will be no transport team,” declared Niedermann.
“I already called them.”
“Uncall them.”
“No.”
Niedermann’s face was flushed with anger. Raising his eyebrows defiantly, he grabbed the desk phone in front of him. “USAMRIID, did you say? That’s the Army, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Picking up the receiver, he brusquely punched a five-digit number—a campus extension. A prim woman’s voice come on the line. Niedermann addressed her loudly, as if for Cricket’s benefit. “Mrs. Walls, this is Jack Neidermann. I’m sorry to bother you this early, but we have an emergency. I’m trying to reach General Goddard. He may be on a flight back to Washington. Could you check, please? I’d like you to have the operator patch into the cockpit radio and ask for the general. I’ll be standing by at this number.”
Niedermann covered the mouthpiece of the handset. “General Goddard, for your information, is the Army’s chief of staff. I think that makes him the boss of USAMRIID.”
“Why are you insisting on this? For Yolanda? Or for something else?”
“Like what?”
“The Methuselah Vector.”
Niedermann harrumphed. “This has nothing whatever to do with the Methuselah Vector.”
“It couldn’t, Cricket,” added Gifford. “The Vector isn’t a hemorrhagic virus. In fact, it’s not pathogenic in any way. We tested it hundreds of times over in animals and . . . in man. Never so much as a hiccup.”
Niedermann sneered, “You saw Subject Adam yourself, only hours ago. Did he look like he had ebola?”
“Still,” said Cricket, “a scandal right now would put quite a monkey wrench into your plans, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would,” said Niedermann. “There are always crackpots out there—bio-Luddites, conspiracy theorists, sensation-mongers—ready to seize on any unfortunate coincidence to shut down the wheels of progress. If a rumor got out, it would be disastrous. To the public, perception is reality.”
“Are you willing to jeopardize Yolanda’s life over . . . public relations?”
Gifford shook his head vigorously. “That’s unfair, Cricket. We’re trying to do what’s best for her.”
Niedermann gave Cricket a smug look. “To answer your question honestly—yes, it is worth jeopardizing one person’s life. Her life, my life, your life. Anyone’s. That’s harsh, but as a scientist you should have the detachment to see it. The Methuselah Vector promises to save untold millions. The sacrifice of one person would be insignificant compared to that.”
The phone rang.
“Thank you for calling back, General,” said Niedermann as he switched to speakerphone. “We have a staff member here at Acadia Springs who’s gotten sick, and we’re all very concerned about her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said a voice desiccated by Scotch and cigars.
“Yes, well, a visiting CDC official seems to have jumped the gun and requested military transport of the patient to USAMRIID in Fort Detrick.”
“Fort Detrick? Jesus Christ!”
“Yes, it’s a pretty horrific case—”
“What the hell are we dealing with?”
“We don’t know. But I’d like to countermand that order. It’s premature. I would still hope for logistical and laboratory support, as needed. But the patient transport needs to be canceled. Could you get in touch with the commanding colonel at the base?”
“It’s Sackler. Colonel E. DeWitt Sackler. Sure, I can call him.”
“Thanks. I really appreciated our talk last night, and I look forward to seeing you Friday in New York.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Okay. Bye for now.” Niedermann couldn’t resist a triumphant flourish as he hung up the phone.
“You bastard,” said Cricket.
“Okay, call me names. But it’s the best thing for Yolanda.” Niedermann gestured toward the door. “Now, get in there and do your medical magic.”
“No. I refuse.”
Gifford looked shocked. “You can’t. Would you abandon a patient?”
“She’s your patient now. You just took on the responsibility.”
“I don’t have the experience to deal with this. I’m not an infectious-disease specialist, and I haven’t practiced medicine in decades. You’re the only one who’s remotely qualified.”
“Then pick up the phone and tell General Goddard that the transport’s back on.”
Niedermann rocked forward, rising an inch or two on the balls of his feet. “I won’t do that.”
“Please, Cricket,” said Gifford. “Jack’s right. We need your help. Help us. Help Yolanda.”
She saw through it all. The sons of bitches were willing to play with a young woman’s life just to avoid a PR scandal. But wasn’t she equally guilty? The transport would certainly have been dangerous. Wasn’t she, too, being reckless, just to hand off responsibility for the case? Only a handful of people in the world knew how to treat an acute hemorrhagic virus infection, and she was one of them.
Gifford stared at her with a haggard, almost sickly look.
“All right, you win,” she grumbled. “But remember—I’ve warned you. If she dies, her blood is on your hands.”
“I don’t expect her to die. I expect you to save her.”
Cricket stormed out, back toward the air locks, the showers, and the changing rooms. The bastards had won. It was their game now, and it was they, and not she, who would have to answer for it if she fell apart. But for as long as she could, she would fight for her patient. She would pursue every clue, every track of evidence—no matter where the search led. She would do what she was trained to do. She would do her job.
All right, gentlemen, she thought, still seething. You’ve got your way. But you aren’t going to like it.
Two
I’M TRYING TO EXPLAIN TO YOU, Dr. Waggoner,” said Cricket, shouting over the din of a tenor voice screeching to a shimmering electric-bass ostinato. “If you would turn down that noise, you just might understand that.”
“That’s not noise. It’s Radiohead.”
“It’s about fifty decibels too loud.”
“It helps me to think.”
Cricket reached across the bench and switched off the CD player.
Wycliff Waggoner, known to everyone on campus as Wig, almost let his thick, round glasses slip off his nose as he gaped in exasperation. “Don’t touch that. Don’t touch anything in this lab. Everything has an exact place and setting.”
That was hard to believe. The three long benches of the lab were piled high with papers, upright glass columns, DNA sequencers, centrifuges, electroporators, pipettes, glass plates, and hundreds of half-empty bottles labeled in an illegible scrawl. The sinks were filled with unwashed glassware.
“I just want information,” said Cricket.
Waggoner’s eyes looked like two small beads behind his glasses. “I don’t have the kind of information you’re after.”
“I need to know what viruses you’re working with, Dr. Waggoner.”
“Why?”
“Because a woman is sick, and I need to know what she has and where she got it from.”
“Yolanda Carlson?”
“Yes.”
“She works for Jack Niedermann. Why don’t you go ask Jack Niedermann what viruses he’s working with?” Waggoner spoke in a monotone—not a trace of irony.
“I can get Dr. Gifford to order you to open up this lab.”
Waggoner’s eyebrows arched against his high, pale forehead. “If you do, don’t move anything. Don’t touch or move anything.”
“I’ll touch everything,” she said, provoking him out of sheer exasperation. “I’ll turn every last pie
ce of equipment in this room upside down.”
“That’s insane.”
“Then answer a few simple questions.”
Waggoner pointed to a seven-foot-tall upright freezer in the corner. “Will you turn that freezer upside down?” I don’t have time for this, Cricket thought. But his face was strictly deadpan. “You said you’d turn everything upside down. Will you turn that upside down?”
“Sure. If I need to.”
Waggoner’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m beginning to believe you.”
“Good. Then start cooperating.”
“There’s that word again.”
“What word?”
“Cooperation. People always use it when they want something from you.”
Cooperation. Cricket had gone into her hard-boiled, by-the-book mode. She did it by reflex, like a porcupine throwing up its quills, whenever she sensed opposition. It wasn’t just Waggoner. Nearly everyone she had dealt with this morning had been on guard. Despite her illustrious name, she was an outsider in a clannish institution.
“Why are you giving me such a hard time, Dr. Waggoner? I’ve heard you’re a pretty brilliant fellow. PhD from Stanford. Postdocs at the National Institutes of Health and the MRC Laboratory in Cambridge. And yet, here you are, pretending to be stupid.”
“I don’t know you, that’s all.”
“Let me clue you in, then. I’m a person who can shut this laboratory down with one phone call. I can have them put a padlock on the door. I can make you write up an inventory of every scrap of DNA you’ve worked with for the past ten years. When I get mad, the claws come out. Do you want to see my claws come out, Dr. Waggoner?”
Waggoner looked into her eyes for a full millisecond. “Claws? No,” he said with astonishment, as though she had meant exactly that.
“Look, I’m in a hurry. A woman is dying. I have eight more floors to go in this building alone.” Although she had kept in close telephone contact with Jean Litwack, she was anxious to get back to Yolanda’s bedside. The survey had dragged on longer than she had planned.
“Okay. Human rhinovirus, serotype eighty-seven, strain F02-3607-Corn.”
“I see—you work with the common-cold virus. Is that all? Have you done any experiments with ebola, Lassa fever, Marburg virus, yellow fever?”
