“Sounds good. Come on in. I’ll put on more coffee.”
We went inside and I told her to grab a seat at the kitchen table. I knew she was checking the place out. Women do that.
“I’m redecorating,” I said.
“This is nice. Very homey.”
“I guess that’s one way to put it.”
“Is that your couch in the yard?”
“The sofa and I had a little disagreement. He moved out.”
The cat came over and wound itself around her legs.
“That one’s harmless,” I said, “but I can put him in the other room if he’s bothering you.”
She picked up the cat, and it began to purr. “I think he is a she.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. What is her name?”
“No idea. She was Gyro’s.”
“How did you end up with her?”
“Like a lot of other things around here, nobody else wanted her.”
Shep came over to snag some of the attention and Izzy petted her. “And your dog is…?”
“He’s a guy. I’m pretty sure of that.”
“No, I meant his name. What is his name?”
“Shep. Badge 4225, retired Philly police.”
“Hello, Shep,” she said. “No one wanted you either?” He barked once.
“Not many people are willing to adopt a dog that’s trained to chew your balls off if you make a false move.”
She laughed. I didn’t say it to be funny. I was warning her. I almost lost him once to Animal Control when he went after a Jehovah’s Witness.
When the coffee was done, we sat at the table and ate. I was starting to feel human again.
“About what happened at Pico’s,” I began.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
“I’m not. I just want you to know I appreciate your not punching me out for being a jerk.”
“It’s not a problem. Really. I was used to it with Birot.”
Nothing like being compared to a dead womanizer.
“So, what’s on tap for you today?” I asked.
“I got my workout in already and did a few miles in Fairmount Park. Detective Barnes asked for a volunteer to pick you up, and here I am. I may go sightseeing later. I’d like to see your Liberty Bell.”
“It’s just a bell.”
“I know. It’s what it stands for.”
“If you need a tour guide, I’d be happy to oblige. I know a nice cemetery at the north end of Independence Mall. Some of my favorite dead people are buried there.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
Chitchat isn’t my thing, but I managed to hold my own through breakfast until the phone rang.
“Matthews.”
“Agent Matthews, this is Dr. Williamson.”
“What’s up, Doc?”
“It’s about Mr. Driscoll.”
I guess my reaction was plastered all over my face, because Izzy asked what was wrong. I wanted to know the same thing.
“What about Billy?” I said.
“He’s running a temperature of 102° and he’s complaining of chills. We drew our first blood sample and it’s on the way to the CDC.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I told him I’d be right there.
“Did you take your temperature this morning?” he asked before I could hang up.
I lied. It’s what I do best. “Yeah, it’s normal.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” I said, but I wasn’t. I wanted to punch something. Anything. Somehow, in my twisted, angry brain that would make things right again for Billy. Instead, I said good-bye and hung up.
“Is everything all right?” Izzy asked.
“It’s Billy. He’s got symptoms.”
I put food and water out for Shep and the cat, and we left for the hospital. When we got there, there were twice as many doctors milling around as before. It was a regular circus. We found Williamson back by the monitors.
“How’s Billy?” I asked.
He looked over at Izzy.
“She’s with me,” I said, and introduced her. “How is he?”
He led us to an exam room where we could talk privately.
“I’m not an expert on this, by any means,” he began.
“No one is, Doc. Just spit it out.”
“After we spoke on the phone, Mr. Driscoll vomited. There was a small quantity of blood mixed in with the food and gastric fluid. We’ve started an IV to help with clotting, control the fever, and keep him hydrated. He was already on antibiotics. We’ll increase the dose as needed. He hasn’t complained of problems breathing yet, but we have oxygen on standby.”
“So, he’s got it?”
“We won’t know for certain until the blood test comes back, Agent Matthews.”
“Don’t bullshit me. He’s got it, doesn’t he?”
Williamson looked like a kid who’d been caught red-handed by his dad smoking in the laundry room.
“Ebola is spreading across Africa in the worst outbreak we’ve ever seen. The World Health Organization has been warning of a global pandemic since it first spread to the capital of Nigeria. It could be something else, anything’s possible, but everyone from the emergency room doctor who first called it when he saw Mr. Birot, to every other doctor who has seen the reports thinks it’s Ebola. But, please,” and he gave me that don’t-tell-mom look, “this is highly confidential. You can’t say anything until it’s confirmed. Panic would do more damage than the disease.”
“What are his chances?” I asked.
“He’s a healthy young man and he’s getting the proper treatment. Normally, I would say his chances are slightly better than slim.”
“But?”
“But the blood in his vomit worries me. That’s not one of the first signs of Ebola. It’s a middle-to-end-stage symptom. It doesn’t make any sense. The disease is progressing too rapidly.”
“Isn’t there anything you can give him?”
“There are no approved drugs for the treatment of Ebola. We can only mitigate the symptoms, keep him as comfortable as possible, and hope his body can fight it off.”
“What about that experimental drug that cured those two American doctors who got infected over in Africa?”
“Zmapp? Two things. The first is that no one knows if that drug actually helped or not. With proper treatment, some people recover on their own. Without rigorous trials, saying anything at all about its effects would be sheer speculation. But second, and more importantly, there were only a handful of doses of Zmapp in existence and every one of them was sent overseas and administered to existing cases. The company has said it will take at least a year to make more.”
“What else can you do?”
“They’ve tried transfusions from Ebola survivors with some success. Their blood carries the antibodies that fight the disease. That’s one possibility. We’ve asked the CDC to run a cross-check to see if any of them is a match for Mr. Driscoll’s blood type.”
I looked through the glass at the people standing around watching Billy like he was some kind of sideshow freak. One of them was an older guy in street clothes.
“What did you tell Billy’s father, that he has malaria?”
“Mr. Driscoll’s father already knew. That’s why he flew out here. He’s agreed not to speak to anyone about it, but perhaps a word from you would reinforce that.”
“Can I talk to Billy?”
“Maybe in an hour or so. He’s resting now.”
“Okay. I’ll stop back later. Call me when you have anything.”
“I will,” Williamson said.
“One more thing. What about the others: the ambulance squad, the docs from the emergency room, the people on that list?”
“I’m still waiting on a callback from Jefferson Hospital. One of the twelve who witnessed the incident came in this morning to be checked out. She’s fine. We sent her home with the same instructions we gave you. You are taking y
our temperature twice a day, aren’t you?”
“You bet.”
We left the doc and joined the gawkers’ convention outside the isolation room. I went up to the guy in street clothes. He looked like he hadn’t slept well.
“Mr. Driscoll?” I said.
When he turned to face me, I saw Billy in his eyes. “Yes?”
“I’m Special Agent Bam Matthews, Billy’s partner. This is Isabelle, a friend.”
We shook hands with him and exchanged the usual lead-ins people offer up to get a conversation going. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“How’re you holding up?” I asked, after we’d covered the weather.
“I’m all right. They gave me a room down the hall with three squares and cable TV. We’re trying to get someone to come stay with William’s grandmother so my wife can fly out too. I hope she can get here before…”
“Military man?” I asked, cutting him off.
“Retired. I served my country for twenty-five years. In his own way, that’s all William ever wanted to do. He made us both proud.”
“Billy’s a good man. He’s tough. He’ll pull through this.”
The way Mr. Driscoll looked at Billy through the glass, I could tell he wasn’t buying it. He’d seen the face of death before and knew it was staring right at his son.
“Mr. Driscoll, I know the doctor asked you to keep mum about this. I also know what your first reaction was, because it was mine too, but warning people now to try and save lives will start a shit-storm that can only end badly for everyone.”
“I know,” he whispered.
It was easy to see where Billy got his moxie. I told him to hang in there, and Izzy and I left. She drove us into Philadelphia to the lot where I’d left my car. I found it there in pretty sorry shape. The tires were slashed, two of the side windows were broken, and “Love child” was spray-painted on the hood. The guy manning the lot didn’t speak English too well, but Izzy knew Spanish and translated for me. Apparently mine wasn’t the only car vandalized overnight. He handed me a card with the lot owner’s insurance information on it and told me to call them about getting reimbursed. I contacted a towing outfit near where I lived, gave them the address, told them to bring a flatbed and take the car to a local garage that a friend of mine owned. I then called my friend and left a message on his machine to expect what was left of my Gremlin.
“Do you want to go to Pico’s since we’re near?” Izzy asked. “You look like you could use a drink.”
“No, let’s go take that tour.”
I directed Izzy back to Independence Mall and we parked in the garage underneath. She wanted to see the Liberty Bell, so we walked up to Liberty Bell Center and stood in line for almost an hour so she could get her two minutes of face time with America’s one-ton hunk of copper, protected by 3/8” bulletproof glass. It’s funny what makes people happy. We got ice cream from a stand on the mall afterward. That’s what did it for me.
“I saw the bell when it was still in Independence Hall,” I said. “That was back when you could touch it. Then they moved it to the mall for the Bicentennial in 1976 so more people could see it. They put it behind these velvet ropes and just asked everyone not to touch it. That’s all it took. People were different back then. Nicer. More respectful. About fifteen years after that, some knucklehead from Nebraska went after it with a hammer. That’s when they moved it behind eleven million dollars worth of glass, steel, and granite.”
“And you don’t like that?” she said.
“I don’t like the idea of putting liberty in a cage. That’s where the criminals belong.”
We took an official guided tour of Independence Hall, a forty-minute carriage ride around the historic district, listened to a local choir sing on the steps of Carpenters’ Hall, and walked up to Christ Church cemetery. I really know how to show a girl a good time.
“Thanks for the lift and the breakfast,” I said. “The Six is just a block over. I should be able to borrow a company car and take it from here. Do you want me to walk you back to the garage first?”
“Don’t you want to show me your office?”
“It’s nothing to write home about.”
“But I’ve never been inside an FBI building.”
“It’s worse than my house.”
“Now, I am interested.” She took my arm. “Which way?”
It’s hard to say no to a lady latched onto your arm and packing heat. We walked the block to 600 Arch St., I got her a temporary ID at the front desk, and we took the elevator to the eighth floor where I hang my shingle. I call my office the Inner Sanctum, not after the old radio show, but because it’s one of the many inner offices without a window. Only bigwigs like Fink got a window seat.
“It’s certainly filled with memories,” Izzy said, looking around at the mess.
I kept my desk, my chair, and my one and only guest seat cleared off. The rest was fair game for long-term storage.
“I’m a hoarder,” I said, picking up the phone. I rang through to procurement. “Ted. It’s me Bam. I need a car. What have you got that you can loan me for a couple days?”
“Nothing,” he said, and explained why.
I thanked him and hung up.
“No luck?” Izzy said.
“The vice president is flying in later today to speak at a campaign rally. All the loaners were given out to agents working the motorcade route.”
“They didn’t ask you?”
“They probably did, but it’s a voluntary assignment to give the locals an assist.”
“And you don’t volunteer?”
“I didn’t vote for the guy.”
I started rummaging through my top desk drawer. I knew it was in there somewhere.
“What are you looking for?” Izzy asked.
“The bus schedule. One stops at the foot of the Ben Franklin Bridge that will drop me pretty close to home. I can hoof it from there.”
“I’ll take you home, Bam.”
“You’ve done enough, thanks.”
She folded her arms across her chest and sized me up like she was trying to decide whether to punch me in the gut or kick me in the nuts. I was beginning to like this girl.
“Does it always take deadly force to get you to accept a favor?” she said.
“Jimmy’s going to want that car back.”
“He told me I could have it as long as I want.”
“I’ve got two stops to make on the way home. You good with that?”
“How can I say no to such a mysterious invitation?”
We left the office. My cell rang just before we went underground into the Mall parking garage. It was Charles Evers, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Philadelphia field office. I listened to what he had to say, answered, “Yes, sir,” and hung up.
“That was my boss. It seems Carmine’s mouthpiece contacted the D.A. this morning about filing harassment charges against me, so I’ve been removed from the case and placed on administrative leave.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to see Billy.”
I was glad we got out of Philadelphia when we did. The police were already setting up barricades along Vine Street and on the Camden side of the bridge. It was going to be a hell of a mess for everyone. When we got to the hospital, we were able to see Billy, if you can call it that. He was lying flat on his back in bed.
“Junior,” I said. “You awake?”
They moved the mike closer so it hung over his bed.
“Bam?” Billy whispered.
“Yeah, it’s me. How’s it going?”
“Can you get me some water?” he asked.
The nurse standing by his bed put some ice chips to his lips.
“Thanks.”
“No problem, kid. Did you find out any more for me on that guy in Northeast Philly?”
“I’ve been a little busy, Grandpa.”
His feeble attempt at a smile was tearing me up. Izzy put her arm around me.
“What? Why?”
“Politics,” I answered, not wanting to upset him with the real reason. “Don’t sweat it. We’ll tackle this one together when you get out of this joint.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m feeling a little tired. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.”
“You do that, Junior. I’ve got a few things to take care of. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. I’ll bring breakfast. Okay?”
The poor kid was already asleep. We left and hunted down Dr. Williamson who was trying to eat lunch in peace in one of the exam rooms.
“Sorry, Doc,” I said. “Is this a bad time?”
“There are no good times right now, Agent Matthews. I haven’t seen my family in two days.”
“I’ll bring you some real food tomorrow. How’s that?”
He smiled. “Thanks. It’s the coffee that’s the real killer here.”
“I’ll add a Box O’ Joe and a dozen doughnuts. I’ll even throw in bagels and cream cheese if you can just give me some good news.”
“He’s a fighter,” Williamson said.
“Any word on the others?” I could tell by the way he picked through his club sandwich that he was weighing his options. He was a good man. “How many?” I said.
“Two of the first responders so far, but just mild symptoms, nothing like Mr. Driscoll. Their first blood samples were sent to the CDC about an hour ago.”
“What about the bystanders?”
“We admitted three of them after you left. We’ve set up separate operating rooms for each to isolate them.” He shook his head. “We simply don’t have the facilities or staff to quarantine and treat people in an epidemic.”
“Has the CDC said anything about the Belgian’s sample?”
“Trying to get through to anyone there right now is impossible. I left a message. That’s the best I can do.”
I tried Tom Stalter at the CDC on my cell. The call went right to voicemail. “Tom, it’s me, Bam. I’m looking for an update. Call me, day or night. Just call me.”
One of the other doctors stuck her head in the door. “Dr. Williamson, you need to see this, stat.”
We followed her to a nurse’s station where people were crowded around a TV set watching the news. The text stripe at the bottom of the screen said it all: Ebola Outbreak in Philadelphia. The reporter was talking to a woman standing outside her house, wearing a surgical mask. They flashed her name: Phyllis Jones.
The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller Page 6
