The Judas Virus

by Don Donaldson

  “Okay. Wayne, we’re going to leave you alone now,” Boyer said. “If you start to feel uncomfortable or unusual in any way, call the nurse.”

  “I haven’t felt comfortable or usual in months.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. Thanks for coming back here tonight. Are you going home now?”

  “Yes.” Michael looked at Mary Beth.

  “And I’ll page you if there’s any change,” she said.

  “Good night, Chris,” Wayne said. “Thanks to you too . . . for coming back.”

  “You’ve been through a lot in the last thirty-six hours,” she said. “Try to get some rest.”

  And so Chris left the hospital without noticing that the backup respirator still had no filter cartridges in it.

  THIRTY MINUTES AFTER checking on her father, as Chris walked through her front door, the phone rang. It was Michael.

  “I just got a page from the hospital. He’s developed a slight cough. It’s very minor; intermittent and dry.”

  “Any other changes?”

  “No. Temp is still holding steady.”

  “There’s no point in rushing back there for this. But keep me informed.”

  Figuring that she’d better stay readily available, Chris turned on the TV and found a movie to watch. She fell asleep in her chair before it was over. The phone never rang again that night.

  Chapter 7

  MICHAEL BOYER WAS still in a state of disbelief as the elevator doors opened and Carter Dewitt, Monteagle’s VP for business affairs and finance, got on.

  “Hello, Michael,” Carter said, punching the button for the fifth floor. “You look kind of disoriented. Nothing wrong, I hope.”

  Dewitt had thin lips that he usually held pinched into a smirk that made it appear as though he thought everything you were saying was a lie. But the man and the myth were two different things, for Dewitt was actually a nice guy who had just seen too many padded budgets.

  “I guess you’re aware that we did our first pig transplant on Monday.”

  “As much as that isolation ward cost the hospital, I genuflected and faced the east to celebrate the occasion.”

  “Well, the patient is doing incredibly well. We had a bit of a scare early on when he developed a little fever, a rash, and a cough, but it all cleared up without treatment. A successful human transplant normally takes about a week to reach full function. It’s only been three days, and we’re already there with Mr. Collins.”

  The elevator reached the fifth floor, and Boyer got off with Dewitt so he could finish his story.

  “Generally, we don’t remove the suture clips in a transplant incision for a couple of weeks, but the unsutured wounds from his drains are already so well healed they’re nearly invisible. So those clips can probably come out in another day or so.”

  “Sounds like you picked an ideal candidate.”

  “We did, didn’t we?”

  “When will you do another?”

  “Too soon to think about that. We need to wait awhile and see how this case plays out . . . Make sure it stays as good as it appears now.”

  “I do hope your program begins to make money in my lifetime.”

  Boyer hit Dewitt gently on the shoulder with his closed fist. “Your happiness is all we strive for.”

  IT WAS MARY Beth’s night off at the hospital, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Going to law school part-time and working a forty-hour week were taking a toll on her, so she decided to turn in early.

  Exhausted, she slept soundly for six hours, but then woke at 3 a.m., feeling warm and thirsty. On the way to the kitchen, a tickle in her throat made her cough. At the kitchen sink, she filled a glass from the tap and drank deeply. Remembering that she hadn’t brushed her teeth before going to bed, she thought about doing it now, but when she reached the bathroom, she shuffled on past and returned to bed. Had she not ignored that small act of dental hygiene, she would have seen in the bathroom mirror that her face was speckled with a rash.

  “GINNY, WAKE UP.” Dominic Barroso shook his wife by the shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” Ginny said, opening her eyes. “Did I oversleep?”

  “I don’t think you should go in tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  Dominic gave her a hand mirror. “Take a look.”

  She lifted the mirror and saw that her face was mottled with pink blotches.

  Dominic put his big hand on her forehead. “And you feel a little feverish.”

  Then she coughed. “Oh, you’ve got something all right,” Dominic said.

  “These are the same symptoms my patient had night before last,” she said, referring to her stint as the third-shift nurse on Monteagle’s experimental transplant ward.

  “So what was it?”

  “Nobody said, but it only lasted that one night. He’s fine now. So it couldn’t have been much of anything. But I think you’re right. I’m scheduled to return to the regular ICU ward tonight, and I wouldn’t want to carry anything in there, even if it doesn’t cause any more harm than this.” She looked at him quizzically. “How’d you know I had a rash? Wasn’t the light out? Were you watching me sleep again?”

  “You’re so beautiful. I can’t help it.” He stroked his wife’s long brown hair. “You should wear it down like this all the time.”

  Ginny mock-slapped his hand. “Oh, I’m sure that would go over well at the hospital. Hand me the phone, would you?”

  Ginny entered the number of her supervisor at Monteagle.

  “Val, this is Virginia. I’ve got a little cough and a rash, so I thought I’d better stay home tonight.”

  “That means I’ll have to scramble to get someone to fill in,” Val said. “But you’ve made the right decision. So you probably won’t be in tomorrow night either . . .”

  “I’m betting I will.” She told Val why she thought so, then said, “Dr. Boyer wants to be informed of any illness in the staff caring for Mr. Collins. So he needs to be told about this.”

  “I’ll call him. You take care of yourself.”

  IT HAD BEEN nearly midnight, and Michael Boyer had been asleep when the emergency call came. Now, standing in front of his open locker in the Monteagle surgery dressing room, he was wide awake. A patient who had received a human liver transplant two days ago was leaking bile into his abdominal drains. Tests had confirmed that there was a defective connection between the patient’s bile duct and that of the transplant.

  It seemed like these things always became evident at some ungodly hour of the night, which Michael actually enjoyed. The hero riding to the rescue. Not on a white horse, but in a white Porsche. The similarity in the sound of horse and Porsche did not enter into Michael’s decision to buy the car, it was just an added bonus.

  As Michael was unbuttoning his shirt and thinking about what he had to do, his pager went off. He returned the call on the wall phone next to the locker room door.

  “Michael Boyer answering a page.”

  “Doctor, this is Valerie Pettis. I just had a call from Virginia Barroso, the third-shift nurse who’s been taking care of Mr. Collins She’s feeling a bit under the weather tonight and isn’t coming to work. But that won’t be a problem for you. She’s been so bored taking care of just the one patient that she asked to go back to her regular ICU duties. So I’d already scheduled a different nurse to replace her.”

  “Has this new nurse read and signed the pertinent information form?” He was referring to the document explaining the potential risks that animal organ recipients posed for health care workers.

  “It’s all taken care of.”

  “And she’s been checked out on our isolation protocols?”

  “Yes.”

  Because Wayne was doing so remarkably well, Michael ha
d already filed Wayne’s brief symptoms two nights ago under “things too inconsequential to think about.” So, instead of asking for more details on Ginny Barroso’s illness, he simply said, “Okay, good job.”

  CHRIS TURNED TO Michael after examining Wayne’s transplant incision. “It looks totally healed. I can barely even see where the clips were, and you took them out only yesterday.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Michael said. He put his gloved fingers on the faint line that marked the incision and pressed. “Wayne, does that hurt?”

  “No.”

  He moved along the incision line and pressed in another place. “There?”

  “No.”

  “Or there?”

  “No.”

  Michael looked at Chris. “It’s not even tender. Wayne, have you always healed this fast?”

  “Other than when they fixed those veins in my esophagus, this is the only real surgery I’ve ever had. I don’t have any frame of reference.”

  “Surely you’ve cut yourself from time to time.”

  “Little cuts, sure. But I don’t know what would be considered fast for that.” He thought a moment. “I fell off a diving board at a quarry once and cut my knee on some rocks when I was a kid. It took six stitches to close that wound, and I don’t remember the doctor being impressed with the way I healed then. Want to see something else unusual?”

  “What?”

  Wayne held out his two thumbs side by side. “Look at the base of each nail where that little white arc should be.”

  Michael examined the two nails and turned to Chris. “His lunulas are gray. Take a look.”

  “What are lunulas?” Wayne asked.

  “They mark the front edge of the germinal zone that produces the nail.”

  “I can tell you that they weren’t gray before I checked in here.”

  “Any idea what caused that?” Michael asked Chris. “His nails look healthy.”

  “You got me. Maybe there’s been an invasion and proliferation of pigment cells in that area.”

  “Wayne, you’re just full of surprises,” Michael said.

  “Here’s another one. I want to get out of here. When can I do that?”

  “Your illness put you in a very poor nutritional state, and while that is improving, you’re not yet where I’d like to see you. And we still need to closely monitor your immunosuppressant levels, blood chemistry, and liver function.”

  “Tell me what I should eat, what I should avoid, and I’ll do it. And can’t all that other stuff be done on an outpatient basis?”

  “Let’s give it the weekend, and then on Monday, we’ll see.”

  After they left Wayne’s room, Michael said to Chris, “There’s no question that his progress has been remarkable, almost eerie, but I hate to turn him out into the world with no supervision. I don’t know what kind of relationship you two are going to have after this, but would you let him stay with you for a little while after I discharge him?”

  “I rarely cook for myself. I’m no one to rely on for nutrition.”

  “I just want him to have some structure around him and whatever emotional support you can provide.”

  “I might have trouble there, too.”

  “For a week. Just give him that.”

  Chris stood silent for a second, grappling with the idea of living with her father for a while longer. Finally, she said, “A week. That’s all I’m agreeing to.”

  SEATED AT HIS computer, Dominic Barroso let out a whoop. He got up, reached for his cane, and hobbled into the bedroom, where Ginny, now fully recovered from whatever had caused her rash and those other symptoms last night, was putting up her hair before leaving for the hospital.

  “You know that eighteenth-century silver tea service I listed this week? The high bid is already eleven thousand. And I only paid three for it. This is great. It might have taken a year to sell it in the shop. Online, everything sells so fast.”

  Dominic had owned a small antique shop until the arthritis in his right knee had destroyed the slippery cartilage cells that lined the articulating surfaces of the joint. Now, when he tried to walk, bone grated directly on bone.

  With his mobility severely restricted, he was unable to operate his business the way it should be run. Because of this, he decided to close the shop and sell off the stock through an Internet auction house. He’d let his part-time clerk go, but kept Ben, the warehouse man, to pack and ship all purchases. Ben was such a reliable employee that Dominic had only to call him and tell him where to send each item that sold.

  The whole operation was so easy to run from home, and the items he listed sold at such good prices, that Dominic quickly saw that even with a bum knee, he could not only stay in the antiques trade, but earn more than when he’d operated the old way.

  “And guess what we’re going to do with the profits from that tea service—put them on a new car for you so you don’t have to drive that old wreck anymore.”

  Ginny slipped the last pin into her hair and grabbed her bag. Before leaving, she kissed Dominic on the cheek. “That’s very thoughtful. Now, while I’m gone, I want you to think again about that knee replacement we discussed. Our medical insurance will cover it, so the cost is not a concern.”

  “I know. I just don’t want to go through that.”

  “You’ll never play major league baseball if you don’t.”

  Dominic smiled. “And I was so close before my knee gave out.”

  “Just think about it.”

  After Ginny left, Dominic reviewed the bids on the other fifteen items he had listed on the auction site, then he worked on his business records for a while. A little before midnight, he went to the thermostat and turned on the air conditioning.

  His first cough came while he was thumbing through the new issue of Art and Antiques. He didn’t catch on to what was happening until the red blotches appeared on his arms.

  The time between Ginny’s exposure in the transplant isolation ward and her first symptoms was approximately forty-eight hours. In Dominic’s case, it took half that time.

  Chapter 8

  TR SLOWED HIS car so he could watch the tall blonde in the green dress from behind for as long as possible. Her skirt stopped about four inches above her knees, showing off shapely calves and enough of her thighs to make his heart ache. Knowing that with the right man this woman would probably do almost anything sexually—and that he would never be that man—made him hope her face was homely. Sometimes it happened. The inexplicable shuffle of genes occasionally gives a woman a fine body and then abandons her when it comes to her face. But as he passed her and looked in his rearview mirror, he could not find solace in that possibility, for she had cool, elegant features.

  And you could bet she was bright too. In his experience, the gorgeous but dumb blonde was a fantasy made up by inadequate men to protect their egos from the unattainable. When women looked like the blonde in the green dress, they always had a quick mind they could use to verbally slice you like a cucumber if you approached them.

  But he still wanted her so badly it made his head hurt. He had a lot of headaches from yearning. His car was new, but it wasn’t the Jag he wanted, and that made his head hurt. He owned his own home in Little Five Points, a bungalow they called it, but he wanted a sprawling estate in Buckhead. And that made his head hurt. He wanted to walk up to his gardeners after they’d just planted a large dogwood and say “not there, over there.” He wanted to fly everywhere first class and wear designer suits and drink wine that hadn’t been bottled last year.

  He was a bird tied to the earth.

  His IQ was in the near-genius range. So why couldn’t he figure out how to get a dollar from every adult in this country? One dollar is all it would take. Or maybe two. Then he could fly. And that blond bitch he’d just passed wouldn’
t be so eager to give him a hard time.

  In his mirror he saw her leave the covered walkway that ran along the commercial strip’s storefronts and go to her car, where she put the purchases she was carrying in the trunk. Then, instead of getting in her car, she headed back to the walkway. On impulse, TR turned left at the first opportunity and drove back toward her car.

  The lot was packed, but he found a slot close to where the blonde had parked. He got out and walked to her car, his eyes darting about him. Satisfied that he wasn’t being watched, he slipped between the two vehicles separating him from the blonde’s car and moved forward in the narrow space until he reached her left front fender. After another quick look around, he got out his pocketknife and dropped to one knee.

  Crouching like that made his headache worse, but the hiss of escaping air as he worked his blade into the side wall of her tire was more than adequate compensation. He quickly made his way around to her remaining tires, then feeling as though he’d struck a blow for men everywhere against sharp-tongued sluts, he returned to his own car.

  But now, with each heartbeat, he felt as though a depth charge was going off in his brain. He got behind the wheel and popped open the glove compartment, where he shuffled through the crap in there until he found his pills.

  No time to look for water now . . .

  He shook two of the tablets into his hand, then threw them into his mouth and chewed them. They tasted horrible, bitter and metallic. But he knew they’d work. They always did. And his headache would go away.

  The pills could stop his headaches, but the desires that kicked them off lingered, sometimes for days, producing such a feeling of despair he had often thought he should just end it all.

  In the months following the murders of the two Frenchmen, he had been so afraid their assassination would bring the authorities to his door he had put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. But the bullet had ricocheted off his skull. When the police came, and he’d regained consciousness, he told them he’d been the victim of an attempted carjacking. Though they hadn’t believed him, the lie had kept the truth from becoming known at work, which would have been impossible for him to bear.