by Mara, Wil
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For Tracey. Always, for Tracey.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to extend my deepest gratitude to the many terrific people who gave of their time and considerable talents to assure that this book hit all the proper high notes. First and foremost, to my wife and children, without whom my world would possess neither light nor beauty. To Melissa, for her boundless patience, riotous good humor, and perfect editorial touch. To Tom, for his immovable faith. To Miriam, for her masterful juggling of the details. To Matt, for some great relief pitching. To Marty, Elinor, and Robert, for their priceless “tech support.” To Jane and Patti, for their early comments and suggestions. To Edward “Doc” Block, for being forthright enough to make me see that the first few titles really were awful (“Virus Mutatus?! Uh, no—that sucks.”). To Robbie, for one helluva good quote. To Scott and Andy, because I gotta slip them in there somewhere. To Janet and Mark, and also to Tony, with genuine appreciation. And, of course, to my continuing readership.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue: A New Illness in Three Parts
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
Books by Wil Mara
Copyright
PROLOGUE
A New Illness in Three Parts
Monday, September 24
Ramsey, New Jersey
DAY 1
Bob Easton prided himself on his health; always had. It made him feel just a little bit superior to everyone else, especially the smokers, the drinkers, the dopers, and the guys who ate eggs and bacon for breakfast, pork roll for lunch, and spare ribs for dinner. They were all fools. The human body was a temple, and you didn’t desecrate the temple.
He watched his diet to the point where he drove his wife, Bernice, out of her mind. He inspected everything before he put it in his mouth, brooded over “Nutrition Facts” charts, and could quote Men’s Health articles from memory. He also exercised—a brisk jog every morning at precisely five thirty, followed by a short calisthenics regimen in the makeshift gym in their basement. His friends either made fun of him or were openly jealous. Nevertheless, he vowed to keep it up until he was no longer able, which he prayed wouldn’t occur until he was in the Centenarians Club. That was his goal—three digits. And his physician, Dr. Petralia, thought he had a decent chance of making it. “You never get sick,” Petralia said during the last checkup. (Easton had two per year, religiously.) “And it’s not easy to die if you don’t get sick, right?” Sitting on the cold exam table in his blue paper smock, Easton smiled and nodded. That’s right—no sickness, no death. And I don’t get sick … ever.
Except he was sick now. He was very sick.
* * *
The biggest mystery was how it happened in the first place. He had personal policies designed to protect against illness. One was to avoid others who weren’t feeling well. If he heard someone coughing at the plant, he’d send them home. (As a floor manager with seniority, he could do this.) If someone blew their nose more than once in a restaurant, he’d leave. He also avoided schools and day care centers; they were bacterial playgrounds. This led to several fights with his oldest daughter, Kelly. She lived nearby and couldn’t always pick up her two sons, who were in first and third grade respectively. Yet she knew not to contact her father even in an emergency. He wouldn’t go near a public restroom. If he had no choice, he’d stand a foot back from the urinal and wouldn’t flush. (If he had to take a crap, he’d wait until he got home, no matter how dangerous it was to his intestines.) He also used a paper towel on the doorknob when he went out. Nothing, in his opinion, was more vile than a public-restroom doorknob. He had a recurring nightmare about being forced to lick one.
So how did this happen?
The fever came first, stirring him from a deep sleep. He stumbled out of bed, dizzy and disoriented, and collided with the bathroom door because he didn’t realize it was closed. This awoke Bernice, who asked if everything was all right. He grumbled something unintelligible, and she drifted away again. When he flicked on the light switch, the glare exploded with such intensity that the pain in his head ballooned until it felt like his skull was cracking open.
He dug through the medicine cabinet because he believed there was a thermometer in there somewhere. He couldn’t locate it and thought about asking Bernice for help. Then he decided to forgo the inevitable sarcasm that would surely follow. He continued searching through the standing army of outdated prescription bottles, over-the-counter medications, travel-size containers, skin creams, and body lotions, and finally found it inside a repurposed Tupperware container that was also home to an old comb (with loose strands of hair still in it, he noticed), a pair of scissors, and several dental tools of questionable origin. He retrieved some cotton balls and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and then sanitized the thermometer beyond reason.
After setting the tip under the wet flesh of his tongue, he pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. He knew this was no way to gauge a fever, but he did it anyway. The heat was something close to nuclear. I’m on fire! He felt around in different places. I’m cooking inside my skin.… He inspected himself in the mirror and saw a face that was deeply flushed, the cheeks bright red. It was like looking at someone else.
The thermometer beeped and Easton looked. Then he wish he hadn’t.
102.5°F.
He took it a second time, and it went up to 102.7 degrees F. Some crazy voice in the back of his mind said, When you get to a hundred and three, sell!
I’ll call Petralia at nine and get in there first thing. Meanwhile …
He sorted through the over-the-counter meds, found nothing for fevers that hadn’t expired, and settled on a washcloth soaked in cool water. Then he eased back into bed, where Bernice was snoring away like a sailor. His heart pounded in the stillness, and he began feeling the aches for the first time—neck, elbows, fingers, and knees. Like an old man on a park bench, he thought, throwing bread crumbs to the birds. He slept fitfully for two hours, was barely able to move when he awoke, and stayed there in his flannel pajamas feeling grossed out by the heat and sweat of his own body. My sick body, he thought with a mixture of depression and irritation.
Bernice initially responded, as he expected, with dumbfounded astonishment. She stood at the foot of the bed studying him, apparently in search of some sign of deception. Then, utilizing the gifted insight that he always found infuriating, she said, “You don’t look so good
.”
“I appreciate the penetrating diagnosis.”
“Should I call your doctor?”
“I’ll do it. Please get me the phone.”
It was going on seven thirty at this point; too early for Petralia to be in the office. Still, Easton got the answering service to make the first available appointment. His heart sank when he was told by the operator that “Doctor P” was away on vacation in Greece and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. She asked if he would like to make an appointment with Dr. Fisher instead. Easton considered it briefly, then declined. Ol’ Doctor P had been his man for the last twelve years and knew his body better than anyone. He wasn’t about to start fresh with some kid whose diploma still had wet ink on it.
Bernice, in the baby blue nightgown that Easton thought of as part of the Golden Girls Collection, shuffled to the doorway and stopped. Her eyes were nearly bulging with timid astonishment; she could not remember the last time her husband had been unwell.
“What time is your appointment?”
“He’s not there today.”
“He’s not there?”
“He’s on vacation.”
“Oh…”
Easton sat hunched over on the bed’s edge, hands bunched together as if in prayer. Around the edges of his closely shorn silver hair, tiny beads of sweat had formed.
“I’ve, uh … I’ve got to go to ShopRite and get something.”
“Isn’t there anything in the cabinet?”
“No, I didn’t see anything for fevers that was still good.”
We haven’t had anything for fevers since the kids were here, Bernice thought. That seemed like an eternity.
“Do you want me to drive you?”
He could sense the concern in her voice, and it softened him. He gave her a sideways glance and smiled. “No, but thanks. I’ll be okay.” He finished with a quick wink, which he knew she always loved. She smiled back.
In truth he felt worse than before, and if anyone else were offering the lift, he would’ve taken it without hesitation. But no one, in his opinion, was a lousier driver than his wife; he’d just as soon go on roller skates. No, this was something he had to do himself.
When he took the first step out of bed, the room spun. He leaned against the dresser for support. Perfume bottles clattered against one another; two brushes tumbled to the carpet. When Bernice stepped in to help, he held his hands up and assured her he was fine. A small voice told him he was, in fact, quite a long way from fine. Nevertheless, he struggled into jeans and a sweatshirt.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought over-the-counter medication, and he was overwhelmed by the array of choices. Sudafed, Robitussin, Mucinex, Vicks … antihistamine cough and cold suppressant, nondrowsy nasal decongestant, multisymptom expectorant … coated caplets, liquigels … day and night, extended release … original flavor, orange, cherry …
“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered before coughing into the crook of his arm. It was wet now, phlegmy. He settled on something with the words FEVER REDUCER and COLD AND FLU. That sounded reasonably close.
“Oooh, you look awful, Bob,” the woman at the register said as she inspected him over her half-moon glasses. Her name was Doris Whittenhauer, and she was the Gal Who Knew Everyone.
“Thanks, Doris. I feel awful, too.”
“Are you sure this is the right stuff for what you have?” She waved the box in the air.
“Do you know what I have?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
He coughed again, so violently this time that several heads turned.
Whittenhauer leaned back with a grimace. “Seriously, I think you should call your—”
“I already did. He’s on vacation.”
“So go to whoever’s covering for him.”
“I just might,” he replied, and now he meant it. Yes, Fisher was just a kid, but Easton could swear his condition had diminished even in the brief span since he first walked in. Something’s not right.…
The woman standing behind him was Katie Milligan, a plain and wholly unattractive thirty-four-year-old who’d held the same clerical position in the town’s public works department since her first summer following high school. She opened her tiny purse and took out a tissue as soon as she realized Easton was the same man who’d been hacking his lungs out when they were in the medicine aisle together. She covered her nose and mouth and took a step back when Easton sneezed mightily and caught only part of it in his hands. His eyes were red and watery, his skin pale. She agreed with the cashier that he needed to see someone, but she didn’t inject this into the conversation. As a general rule, she did not enter conversations unnecessarily. She lived alone with a tankful of tropical fish and a hundred old books, and that was just fine with her.
She watched in horror as Easton, finished with his transaction, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his lumberjack’s coat. It left a shimmering string of snot in its wake, which he seemed not to notice.
As he passed through the automatic doors, he looked down at his change. This was a lifelong habit. Count your change, always. The medicine rang up at $6.53 (which he thought was a rip-off), and he’d paid with a ten. So he should have $3.47 left.
He was fingering through the coins when the punch came. Not a real one, for there was nobody within twenty feet of him. But it felt real enough—like the boxer’s fist in the center of his gut. The money tumbled from his hand, the bills fluttering down and the coins bouncing everywhere. He wrenched out a terrible sound and staggered to the nearest car to steady himself. His mind swirled; his breathing became heavy.
When the second punch arrived, he fell to the ground in a heap. With his hands pressed against his stomach and his dignity stripped away, he rolled around on the blacktop groaning. Several people came rushing over, asking if he was okay. He wanted to say Do I look okay? but couldn’t summon the breath. The third and fourth shots weren’t so bad, but they furthered the humiliation by causing him to urinate in his pants. A small crowd had gathered now, and several were on their cell phones calling for an ambulance.
A message flashed through Bob Easton’s brain: This isn’t a cold. This is something else.
DAY 3
If the management at Bally’s Hotel and Casino had a way of checking, they likely would’ve been puzzled by the fact that each of its 345 guest rooms had its thermostat set between 70 and 78 degrees F—except for the one on the seventeenth floor that was occupied by Ms. Doris Whittenhauer, supermarket checkout clerk from Ramsey, New Jersey. By 4:30 A.M., with the air conditioner blowing at maximum for the third straight hour, the temperature had fallen to 62 degrees F. The heavy gold curtains had been pulled shut, eclipsing a magnificent view of the Atlantic Ocean. Thus, the only illumination came from two night-lights Doris brought along—one in the bedroom and one in the bathroom. She always took night-lights with her when she went on her regular trips to Atlantic City.
She sat motionless and naked in the tub, which was filled to the edge with water chilled by the ice cubes she’d requested from room service. Two champagne buckets stood dripping in their tripods outside the doorway. The woman who answered the phone when Doris called the second time said, “Didn’t we just send one?” Doris didn’t reply; she just hung up. When the knock came at the door, she said to leave it out there, she’d get it in a minute. Then her trembling hands reached out and grabbed it—hands that barely looked human anymore.
It began Tuesday morning, about twenty-four hours after the encounter with Easton. At the age of fifty-two, Doris knew her body well enough—the sudden drop in strength meant an illness was coming on. (She always imagined a pressure gauge with its needle moving slowly to the left.) But the trip to AC was already set in stone. She’d received a postcard from Jennifer, her personal casino hostess, more than a month ago. It said a comp room was ready whenever she wanted it. She started going down there with her ex, Alan, back in ’96 when they were still trying to keep the marriage afloat. As
it turned out, he had not one but two girlfriends tucked away in the area—the first at Caesars and the second at the Taj. The final straw for Doris was when the Taj bimbo showed up at Bally’s one evening and demanded to know who she was. Alan managed to talk his way out of it, and Doris let him. It was over anyway.
In spite of the soap opera, she made some friends at Bally’s and, truth be known, liked coming down from time to time. It was a quick and inexpensive way to escape the routine and recharge the batteries. Alan did the right thing after the divorce and disappeared, moving to Texas to live with a brother. She never heard from him again, which was great. As the years passed, Doris went from a Gold Club member to Platinum, and then Diamond. That meant free rooms, food, and booze, as well as the end of having to wait on line for anything. The staff treated her like the Queen of Sheba, quite a respite from the grind at the supermarket.
She hadn’t been down in almost three months. She wasn’t a big fan of the shore between Memorial and Labor Day. The casinos were elbow to elbow with every obnoxious out-of-towner. The best time to go, she had learned, was in May or September—warm enough to stroll the boardwalk and breathe the sea air, but still far outside the nightmare of tourist season.
Jennifer booked her a deluxe suite this time—wide-screen plasma TV, a smaller one set into the bathroom mirror, art deco accents, everything granite and walnut.… Gaudy, but she liked it. She also had over four hundred dollars in comp money. Her plan was to spend two days courtesy of the house, playing the slots and maybe a little blackjack, getting a twenty-four-ounce porterhouse at the Reserve (her favorite), and, hopefully, seeing the girls—Susie from Manahawkin, Alexandra from Margate, and Lynn from Smithville. She didn’t have their phone numbers or email addresses, didn’t even know their last names. But they were part of the fabric of her Atlantic City world, and she found comfort in their company.
She realized an illness was on the way as she was setting the last of her things into her suitcase. She immediately connected it with Easton and cursed him out loud. Probably the damn flu, she thought. So much for the guy who never gets sick. Well, flu or not, she was going down there. She’d been looking forward to it and badly needed the break—three twelve-hour shifts in the last week alone, plus her boss, the twenty-eight-year-old manager of the store who had been there for only half a year but had the unbeatable qualification of being the owner’s son-in-law, had been an even bigger jerk lately than he usually was. The idea of sitting home with an ice pack on her head watching reruns of M*A*S*H was out of the question. Besides, she hated having plans ruined at the last minute. She’d have to be in the hospital on her way to emergency surgery before she let go of this trip.
