by Susan Slater
“Do you want to come in?” Ben didn’t move to get out of the car.
“Probably shouldn’t.” Julie paused, then quickly added, “I have an early day tomorrow.”
But he didn’t think that was the real reason she turned him down. He leaned toward her and, hands cupping her face, drew her to him. Her lips parted and her arms went around his neck. The kiss was long and he could feel her breath quicken, keeping up with his own excitement. She pulled away.
“I’m going to be a real prude and say that I really need to be going.” She sounded a little breathless. “And maybe some little voice is telling me to keep our relationship on more of a business level.”
“Is that what you want?” Ben asked.
“Doesn’t have anything to do with wanting. I just think it’s best,” she finished ruefully.
“There’s always a chance that things might change.” Ben smiled, then opened the car door. “I’m not going any place.”
“I guess I’m not either.”
This time the kiss was chaste—almost, anyway—and then he got out of the car and started across the sandy dirt along the front of his grandmother’s house before he turned to wave.
+ + +
The shrillness poked at Sandy’s consciousness. Sprawled on his stomach, he waved it off and scrunched the pillow against his ear. His wife stirred, then turned to face the wall. Tuesday morning. Why was the alarm going off while it was still dark? He made a swipe at the clock’s glow-in-the-dark face and smirked when it clattered to the floor. He turned on his back as the ringing started again. The phone. He sat up, awake, and looked at the floor. The clock had stopped at four a.m.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Black, that young man they brought in this afternoon has gotten worse. The doctor would like you to be here.” The night nurse sounded harried.
“Who’s on call?”
“Dr. Burns.”
An older physician, not an alarmist. It must be serious. He was in the car before he remembered his cell phone. A nagging reminder of reality, but he was the one who insisted all the docs carry theirs at all times. He found it on the kitchen table, checked the battery, and snapped it to his belt.
A young man near death. They had struggled to save him. Could they have done more? Flying blind and nailing a target with a broad spectrum drug was like flinging a handful of sand at a wall hoping to hit a pin-sized villain. The chances were almost too minuscule to hope for success. So far, the CDC was still reporting that their tests were inconclusive. Inconclusive. If a word could make him crazy, that was it.
The predawn light robbed the Indian hospital of color and it stood pale and somber. Sandy parked in the far corner and jogged across the empty lot. Six cars lined the semi-circular emergency drive. Must be relatives.
He was at the top of the stairs when he saw members of the young man’s family waiting in the hall. He stopped and put a hand on a man’s shoulder and offered a few encouraging words to a young woman leaning against the wall. He could only hope that he wasn’t lying.
He pushed open the door to the examining room and nodded to Dr. Burns. The man on the table was on a respirator and hooked to IVs. Dr. Burns said something to one of the nurses and followed Sandy back out the door into the hall.
“Can we talk in your office?”
Sandy could tell by his expression that things weren’t going well. Stepping into his office, he pulled the door closed behind them.
“It doesn’t look good. Can you believe that a long distance runner, in top condition, could be fighting for his life?”
“Was there any warning?” Sandy asked.
“None, really. The family just thought he was tired from dancing. He had been fasting the week before the ceremony. So, it didn’t seem unusual that he would be fatigued. And it was hot out there yesterday.” Dr. Burns refused the chair Sandy had cleared. “I need to speak with the family. Prepare them.”
“Let me know if there’s any change,” Sandy said.
He watched Dr. Burns leave, then turned in his chair to face the computer. First, the mystery disease needed to be called an epidemic. Not a word that he’d get past the state health agencies easily, but it was time. Next, he’d have to meet with maintenance to seal off a ward at the back of the fourth floor. He thought they could manage a ten-bed area. Sandy only hoped it would be enough. Maintenance would also have to vent that area. New duct-work, new compressors. The air in the ward could not be recirculated. All air from that area would have to be released to the outside. That was pretty much standard procedure for isolation wards. He hoped the remodeling done a few years back had not complicated rerouting some of the ductwork.
He checked his watch. Four thirty-five. A tap on the door; Sandy looked around as it swung open. Dr. Burns stood in the doorway and, catching Sandy’s eye, shook his head before turning back into the hallway.
Gone. A young man in his twenties. Sandy reached for the phone. Pres usually got to the lab early. They needed to mobilize. Set up a lab in New Mexico. Probably at IHS on hospital grounds. The cement block maintenance building would be the easiest to remodel.
“I agree with having a base there. I can reassign lab techs and have you staffed by Friday. The same with equipment; we’ll have everything you’ll need in place by the weekend.”
Pres assured him he would get back to Sandy with details. But Sandy needed to get his crew started on the remodeling. Thank God, he had everyone on his contact list. He dialed the chief of maintenance. Sandy needed to get the ward set up by noon. He wrote himself a note. He’d have the nurse on duty check the supply of disposable masks, gloves and gowns and hold a seven-thirty staff meeting.
The chief of maintenance called back immediately. Yes, the remodeling had made allowance for redirecting air flow from certain areas of the hospital. He thought the fourth floor ward would be no problem. The chief was reading from a set of plans he had at home but would confirm once he got to the hospital. The maintenance building would need the same venting, reinforced doors, possibly its two windows blocked. He hadn’t sounded happy about the deadline, seventy-two hours, but Sandy knew he’d try to make it. He’d have a report before noon.
There could be no visitors allowed in the ward. Sandy would have warnings posted at the reception desk. He’d have to increase staff at the Tewa clinic. Maybe another ambulance. He’d check with Twila. The docs at IHS in Albuquerque needed to be briefed and schedules changed to allow two doctors on duty at night. He hoped they wouldn’t need more.
They had blood and tissue samples from Ben’s grandmother, the Hispanic construction worker, and now Peter Tenorio. And, there had been the five previous deaths including the governor. There was no reason to think they were not related. The symptoms were the same, only the age group was now different. The death toll was at eight.
He’d put a rush on equipment. He knew the hospital needed a minimum of two new ventilators. He’d make certain that the clinic in Tewa had one. The mechanical device that forced air into the lungs while it forced fluid out would probably save lives if used in time. Time. It was the one thing they didn’t seem to have.
+ + +
“Santa Fe is on line one,” Gloria said from the doorway.
“Who in Santa Fe?” Sandy was still in the Dockers and sweatshirt he’d put on at 4 a.m. He checked his watch. Eleven-thirty.
“Someone important.”
“Did you get a name?” Sandy tried to keep his exasperation from showing.
“No names but I got a title.”
“And?”
“She’s a director.”
“Thanks.” Sandy pressed the blinking button. “Dr. Black, here.”
“Sharon Walters, New Mexico Department of Tourism. If I can believe the papers, we’ve had another death?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “And, if I can believe the papers, you have no idea what is killing people. Just what are you people doing besides scaring everyone half to death?” Her voice rose and wobbled slightly, but it was appare
nt that she would continue. “I’ve gotten calls from all over the United States. Four of the major hotels in Albuquerque are reporting a forty percent drop in reservations compared to last year at this time.”
She stopped to take a breath. “We have the Fair coming up, the Balloon Fiesta; this is the busiest time of the year for New Mexico. Some merchants make enough during the Balloon Fiesta to live on the rest of the year. This is the height of summer visitors to our national parks and monuments before kids have to start school. The next thirty to sixty days will make or break this state’s economy. Do you understand that?”
Sandy listened to the frenzied tone of her voice and wished he wasn’t so tired himself. In a state where fifty thousand people got paychecks generated by the 2.8 billion dollar tourist industry, he could empathize.
“I don’t think it’s a matter of understanding the hardship of the situation. An epidemic always ...”
“Epidemic? You’re using words like epidemic?” Sandy held the receiver an inch from his ear. Better. “ABC World News Tonight aired a special that quoted some half-assed medical professional who warned would-be tourists away from New Mexico. And now you’re using the word ‘epidemic’? Just join forces and let outsiders shut this state down? Do you have any idea how long it will take New Mexico to bounce back from this type of adverse publicity?”
“Has anyone contacted ABC World News about a retraction?”
“Peter Jennings has promised to ‘rephrase’ what the consultant said, but the damage has been done.”
Sandy thought her voice sounded deflated. The hurricane had run its course.
“How can I assure you that we’re acting as quickly as we can and as responsibly? Forty government physicians and public health officials will be meeting at the New Mexico State Laboratory this weekend to plan a strategy for investigation and control. I will personally let you know our decisions.” Sandy braced for another harangue and wasn’t prepared to hear a click on the other end of the line. Hung up. She actually hung up. He didn’t like the feeling of hysteria.
“Dr. Black? They want you upstairs right away,” Gloria said. Her short roundness filled the doorway.
“What’s wrong?”
“Another person with the mystery flu. Peter Tenorio’s fiancée. They just brought her in.”
“I’m on my way.”
The second floor looked the same as it had at four a.m., only the faces of the relatives huddled in the hall had changed. Sandy nodded in greeting and pushed through the doors to the examining room. The young woman was still in street clothes, but he recognized her as the one standing in the hall last night. She had not been unstrapped from the gurney.
“Too late.” One of the new doctors pulled his mask down and walked toward Sandy.
“Symptoms?” Sandy asked.
“The same. She collapsed at the funeral for her fiancé.”
“Makes you suspect exposure to a common carrier,” Sandy said.
+ + +
The squat block building, once gray and unobtrusive, hidden behind the hospital, now sparkled with shiny ductwork on its flat roof and a fresh coat of white paint. Twelve specialists took turns around the clock entering data—test results, Ben’s interviews, case histories of UARDS victims from across the United States—anything that might prove helpful in narrowing the search. Disease transmission and risk factors were pressing issues.
Another half dozen specialists ran tests, blood, tissue, secretions from noses and throats. Both groups looked for common links. Sandy balanced managing the clinic with as much time behind a microscope as he could spare.
“Hey everybody, I’m still short two dollars; the pizza guy’s waiting.”
A young lab tech had been put in charge of dinner. Sandy grimaced. Wasn’t this the third evening in a row they’d had pizza? Judging by the age of the group around him, he might be the only one watching his cholesterol. But he wasn’t pointing a finger. He might differ with them over food choice, but he couldn’t fault their tenacity and brilliance when it came to research.
In the week since the lab had been set up, a normal repertoire of respiratory viruses had been examined and eliminated. First, influenza, then adenoviruses, cytomegaloviruses and so on. Next, they investigated toxins—herbicides, heavy metals, poisonous gases—and came up with nothing; then, plague, Brucellosis and Q fever; and again, the same dead end. No one wanted to say that it might be something “new” until every other possibility was exhausted.
As they started the second week, Sandy thought the group was edgy; frustration was high, joking minimal. Between the lab in Albuquerque and the CDC in Atlanta, a total of 25 diseases had been tested for and eliminated. The sudden flooding of the patient’s lungs was the symptom linking the victims, but it was also the major stumbling block. No hemorrhagic fevers were known to be native to North America. And not one of the victims had traveled overseas or entertained foreigners.
FIVE
Johnson was clearheaded that morning. He’d slept like a baby for the first time in days. This was the moment. The day he’d been waiting for—no, had worked for. Even his wife seemed relieved that he hadn’t awakened in the middle of the night and wandered about the house. She didn’t even comment when he whistled off-key in the shower. He ate a big breakfast of ham and eggs and tortillas and beans, then took an extra fifteen minutes to fix his hair. Suddenly the world was a beautiful place.
The white Chevy Suburban handled like a tank. He’d rather drive his Ford Bronco any day, but this was official tribal business. He needed to drive the official car with the tribal seal on the sides. He was going to meet with the Andersons in Santa Fe. By the end of the day, he’d be a rich man. A very rich man. This was the day. He could hardly contain himself. As the honorable Johnson Yepa, new governor of the Tewa Pueblo, he would sign the papers that would bring gambling to Indian land. The first casino gambling for a pueblo.
Johnson maneuvered the four-wheel-drive vehicle through traffic on Interstate 25. He was going to be late. But then he was on Indian time. Everyone knew Indians never watched the clock. Being ‘on time’ had no meaning. Besides, what were they going to do? They needed him as much as he needed them. He’d made all this possible, hadn’t he? They knew they needed to be nice to him. They knew they needed to pay him.
Johnson’s thoughts lingered a moment on his wish-list. The powerboat was still number one. He had almost made his decision. One of those thirty-foot jobs with lots of horsepower. Something he could pull over to Arizona, maybe take a couple friends along, or just park at Elephant Butte and enjoy whenever he wanted. But then a car was tempting, a red convertible. He’d definitely decided on that new Caddy. The turnoffs to Santo Domingo and San Felipe Pueblo flashed by.
He laughed. He really had his foot in the ol’ Chevy’s gas tank today. Maybe he’d make the pueblo buy him a Caddy and put the official seals on its doors. They ought to. He was going to bring in seventy-five to a hundred new jobs, maybe more. The old governor had thought gambling would ruin the village. How many times had Johnson seen neighboring pueblos turn down offers to get out of poverty. He’d show them. Six months from now, his people would be thanking him. Praising him.
The siren caught him off guard. He pulled to the side of the highway and got all of his papers together. The cop who approached was young. Johnson didn’t know him. Too bad. He usually didn’t get tickets when he was on business.
“Sir, your driver’s license.”
“Something wrong, son?” Johnson used his best ‘I couldn’t possibly have been doing something wrong’ voice, but he had a hunch it wouldn’t work with this kid.
“Well, I clocked you doing 89 miles per hour. This stretch of I-25 is posted 75 miles per hour. You seem in a big hurry to get somewhere, sir.” Johnson handed him his license and vehicle registration. “Let me check these and I’ll be right back.” The young officer walked back to his patrol car. Johnson waited. He didn’t want to think about the Andersons. Father and son were both clock watchers a
nd it seemed like the cop was taking a long time. Johnson watched a jack rabbit hop from one thicket of chamisa to another.
It did give him time to gather his thoughts, decide what he was going to say about what had happened. How could he explain nine deaths when only the governor was supposed to die? That afternoon was so clear in his mind. The governor stood by the door waiting to talk with Johnson before he walked across the parking lot to attend the senior’s meeting at the community center. Johnson stepped into his office with the packet of seeds in his hand. The seeds that had come from the investment group—pumpkin seeds, a favorite of the old man, only these were special, treated in a lab to cause illness and death.
Johnson shivered. He could hear the governor asking if he wanted to go to the meeting. Johnson promised to stop by later and he could still remember the prickle of sweat that had popped out on his upper lip when he’d opened the foil pouch and offered the governor the seeds. “Very plump,” the governor had said. Then, in a scenario that Johnson relived over and over, the governor took the bag—the whole packet—and deftly dumped its contents into a basket on his desk already filled with cream-beige flat seeds and mixed the contents by shaking the basket up and down a couple times. With that, he spun on his heel and walked out the door, the basket under his arm.
Johnson had been shocked into inactivity. What should he have done? Before he could make a decision, Mary, the secretary, stuck her head in the door and said she needed Johnson’s signature on some travel vouchers—right then—before he went to the meeting. He followed her back into the reception area.
He hadn’t had time to think. He couldn’t arouse suspicion by grabbing the basket away from the governor—not after he’d made a gift of the seeds. And how would he have been able to tell the difference between tainted and fresh? His hands were sweaty now thinking about it; he was leaving damp smudges on the steering wheel.
