by Rachel Lee
"Oh, no. Not Alice."
Death was stalking too close. The residents of Santz Martina were, by and large, a healthy lot. The mortality rate was usually very low. He might see one or two deaths a month. Now he'd had three in a week.
And he'd watched Alice Wheatley die.
In his time as an E.R. surgeon, he'd watched more than a few patients leave this world. Car accidents, gunshot wounds, drug overdoses, heart attacks. He'd watched people fight with every last reserve of energy for that final breath, and he'd watched people seem to just let go, accepting their fate with an eerie peace. He'd seen a young man slide into tachycardia as the last of his life blood drained onto green sheets, muscles fluttering with the last expulsions of electrical impulses from a dying brain. He had seen death.
But he had never seen anything like this.
Wave after wave of revulsion swept over him as he made what he knew was a useless search for vitals. This woman was not simply dead. She had been savaged, from the inside out, and he had watched it happen. Now, with every touch, he felt bones turning gelatinous beneath his fingertips. And with every touch, he silently cursed any God who would permit such a horror.
Finally he rocked back onto his heels, staring at his hands as if wishing they could somehow possess and transmit a magic powerful enough to undo the terrible damage that had been wrought on Alice Wheatley's body. Whatever that magic might be, if it even existed, he knew one thing with an awful certainty.
He didn't have it.
He couldn't do a goddamned thing.
* * *
Kato's golden eyes glittered in the disquieting swirl of red and blue emergency lights. He was by no means relaxed, but he was at least compliant enough that Markie could dab at his wounds with alcohol swabs.
"You are one lucky pooch," she said, trying to sound reassuring and cheerful.
She could only imagine what the stinging scent of alcohol was doing to his canine nose, not to mention what the liquid itself was doing to the myriad tiny lacerations around his snout. Still, he did not move.
"You could have died crashing through that glass."
If he had an answer, he kept it to himself. Instead, his eyes simply bored into a space inside her head. If a dog were capable of a thousand-yard stare, this was it. She had to remind herself that he had sensed something beyond what she had seen.
And what she had seen had been horrific enough.
She knew she was in denial, focused on Kato as a way to avoid her own grief and horror. On the other hand, as a vet, she had long since internalized the old cavalryman's creed: "First the horse, then the saddle, then the man." Kato needed the attention, not only medically but also emotionally.
He'd known Alice most of his life, and animals feel shock and grief, too. There were countless stories of dogs who would run away from a new owner's home to sit at their old owner's grave, or by their old owner's house. She recalled stories of rescue dogs working the Oklahoma City bombing, and how their handlers had to deal with the dogs' growing depression at finding one dead body after another. The handlers had taken to covering a fireman with a bit of rubble and leading the dog to him, just so the dog could experience finding a live person. It was hardly surprising that Kato had a thousand-yard stare.
"How's he doing?"
Markie turned to see Declan standing beside her. His eyes looked as haunted as Kato's.
"Minor cuts on his snout. And he's pretty shaken up."
He nodded. "And how about you?"
That was a question she didn't want to answer, or even consider. "I'm hanging in there," she offered with a great deal more courage than she felt.
"Me, too."
At some point, they would have to talk about it. But not now. Right now it was too fresh, too raw. It was as if her soul had been scraped with a metal rasp, disbelief and pain oozing from the wound like bloody lymph. It would need to scab over before she could touch it.
She looked around, occasionally catching a glimpse of a face in a window here, another there. At the corner, old Loleen Cathan stood next to a lamppost, eyes closed, ebony skin almost invisible in the dark, lips murmuring, hands shaking a bead necklace. Loleen was something of an island institution. No one was quite sure how old she was; the guesses ranged from ninety on up. Hundreds of islanders called her "Gram," though Markie had no idea how many of them were blood descendants and how many simply saw her as the matriarch of the island's native population.
"What's she doing?" Declan asked.
"Praying," Markie said quietly. "The rattle of the beads is supposed to help guide the soul to heaven."
He nodded. "Can't hurt."
The sound of wheels scrunching on grit drew her attention away from the old woman. The CDC van arrived. Finally. As Marshall Wilcox led a team of biosuited technicians into the house, Joe Gardner walked over to them. His eyes spoke of all too rare sleep, interrupted by Declan's call earlier.
"Another one?" he asked.
"Alice Wheatley," Declan said. "White female, age fifty-four."
"You found her?"
Declan looked at him for a long moment. "I watched it happen."
Joe pulled out a pocket cassette recorder, checked the tape and clicked the record button. "Tell me everything."
Markie felt the wound in her soul tear again.
* * *
"She was seizing when we got here," Declan said. "Or that's what it looked like."
It was the closest medical explanation for what he had seen. But seizure patients usually collapsed to the floor almost immediately, as the brain lost control of the body and balance gave way to gravity. Alice hadn't. It was as if something had been holding her up.
Joe nodded. "How long did the seizure last?"
"I don't know. It seemed like forever. I'd guess thirty seconds."
"After you arrived."
"Yes. I've no idea how long she'd been seizing before that."
"Of course." Joe paused for a moment, as if reluctant to voice the next question, although it had to be asked. "Why did…what brought you here?"
"She worked for me," Markie said. "I'd sent her home from work earlier. I wanted to check on her, see how she was feeling."
It wasn't the whole truth, but apparently Markie wasn't ready to tell the Centers for Disease Control about ghosts in the night and dogs that seemed to sense evil around them. Neither was he. The steady parade of death and ugliness in the E.R. had left him with an empty space where his belief in God had once resided. He wasn't about to replace that with a belief in evil spirits.
Joe looked at her. "And you are…?"
Declan watched her spine stiffen at his ever-so-subtly dismissive tone. "Markie Cross. I'm the island's veterinarian."
He nodded. "And what did the victim do for you, Ms. Cross?"
Declan had had enough. "Alice Wheatley was one of Dr. Cross's technicians."
He knew the emphasis on the word "Doctor" had dripped more bile than necessary, but he would be damned if some hotshot CDC weenie was going to disrespect Markie's education, experience and expertise.
"My apologies," Joe said. "So you sent the victim home. Was she ill?"
Markie seemed to weigh her words carefully. "I don't think so. More…spooked."
"Spooked?"
She nodded. "Needless to say, people are a bit edgy here. The dogs seem to be feeling it, too. We'd had a long day. I treated eighteen dogs who were chewing themselves raw. Then, last night, all the dogs erupted in a barking frenzy. Alice got…nervous. She'd had a long day. So I sent her home."
"Tell me about the dogs," Joe said.
"I was planning to do that today," Declan answered. "She called me yesterday. She thought it might be related to this…whatever it is. You know how busy we were at the lab. I couldn't get over here until tonight. I guess I was too late."
"Don't," Markie said. Her eyes said the rest: Don't protect me. Don't blame yourself. "Dr. Gardner, I took blood, skin and hair samples from all the dogs. My initial labs didn't show anyth
ing. No indicators of mange or fungal infections. Histamine and white cell levels were normal. I called Dr. Quinn and suggested he forward the samples to your lab for testing. He came over, and while we were discussing my findings, the dogs went berserk. Alice got nervous, and I sent her home. Dr. Quinn and I talked over the cases some more. He mentioned that the Shippeys' dog had shown the same symptoms. I…decided we should go check on Alice."
"What about him?" Joe asked, looking at Kato. "The victim's dog?"
"No," she said. "He's mine. I live a couple of blocks from here, so we walked over. He came along."
"And his wounds?"
"I guess he heard her seizing. He crashed through her French door. Minor cuts and scrapes. He'll be fine."
It was close enough to the truth, Declan thought. It might even be the truth, for all he knew. It was certainly better than making fools of themselves with tales of Annie Black's ghost. Or a secret government weapon.
"We'll need to quarantine him," Joe said. "For testing."
"I don't think that's possible," Markie said.
"He had an open wound, and he touched the victim. He could be infected. Or a disease vector. We either quarantine him or I'll have to order him destroyed."
She rose and looked him in the eye. Her voice was low and even, but there was no mistaking the anger. "And what…exactly…Doctor…are your facilities for quarantining an eighty-pound wolf hybrid?"
"We usually—" he began, but Markie cut him off.
"CDC usually calls on local animal control or veterinary hospitals to quarantine animals. Well, my clinic is that local facility. I'll quarantine him."
"I…"
"Dr. Cross is the expert on animal medicine," Declan said. "Her clinic is licensed. I'm sure it meets federal standards for animal quarantine."
"This is my profession," Markie said. "I'll keep Kato in quarantine, isolated from the other animals in the clinic. If he shows any symptoms, I'll take samples and forward them to you. Unless, that is, you and your team have the training, experience and resources to deal with an adult wolf?"
"No," he said, glancing at Kato's golden eyes. "No, you're quite right, Dr. Cross. You handle the animal patients. We'll handle the humans."
He turned and walked away.
"Jackass," Markie muttered.
"He's a bit full of himself," Declan agreed.
"He's not the only one," she said.
"What?" Dec felt a shudder of shock hit him.
"You're a good man, Declan Quinn. And a good doctor. But please, don't patronize me. I've handled my share of bureaucratic assholes in my life. I don't want or need a protector."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to…"
"I need a friend, Dec. Not a knight in shining armor. A friend. An equal. Please."
The look in her eyes hurt almost as much as anything that had happened in the past week. In that instant, he realized how much she'd come to mean to him. And how much that frightened him.
"I'm sorry, Markie. I was wrong."
She seemed to weigh his words for a moment, studying his eyes, then looked down. She reached out to touch his hand. "You had honorable intentions. I overreacted."
"We're both a little wired," he said.
"More than a little." She looked at Kato. "And I need to get him home…into quarantine."
"I'll walk you," he offered. "There's nothing more I can do here, and my car's there, anyway."
"Thanks," she said. "I'd like that."
After picking up Kato's leash, she tapped her thigh, and Kato came to heel. As they passed Loleen Cathan at the corner, Declan heard the woman whisper almost soundlessly.
"Annie wadda be gran bad wam."
The streetlights came back on.
* * *
Steve Chase was almost blessedly asleep when the phone rang. His wife's snore broke off in midroar, then resumed its sawlike rasp. He loved that woman, but there were times when he wanted to put a plastic bag over her head and let her snore herself into oblivion permanently.
Like tonight. Sleep was dancing at the far edges of his consciousness, stubbornly darting away nearly every time he caught it. Tonight his wife's snoring was a major irritant. When the phone rang, it at least gave him an excuse to leave the bedroom and go to the living room. An excuse, maybe, to fall asleep on the couch, which approached the comfort of a medieval rack but which was at least silent.
"Hullo," he said, sounding more asleep than he was.
Abel Roth's voice boomed angrily into his ear. "What the hell is happening on this island?"
Steve blinked, no longer even hopelessly flirting with sleep. His entire body stiffened to rigid attention, and he stood in the dark, listening to a friend and colleague talk down to him as if he were a troublesome neighborhood brat.
"I beg your pardon?" he said. This wasn't like Abel Roth. Yes, he held the power on this island—not so much because he was governor as because he was Abel Roth, banker to the world—but he didn't usually need to demonstrate it directly. A subtle word here. A shake of the head there. This…this was…
"Does the Governor's office have an issue with the Senate?" Steve asked, his tone stiffly formal.
"Oh, don't get on your high horse with me, Chase," Roth said. "You're the Senate President. What the hell are you guys doing about this mess?"
"If you could give me a clue…"
"Alice Wheatley just died. I got a call from Bill Thomas." Bill Thomas was a member of the island's police force, a man who was bucking for a promotion by whispering in influential ears. Steve cordially disliked the man.
"What did she die from?"
"That's what I mean!" Abel bellowed. "Why the hell aren't you on top of this?"
The last of Steve's strength seeped away. "I didn't know…." But he sounded weak and apologetic even to his own ears.
"Three deaths in less than a week from a cause unknown! Why aren't you people all over the CDC? Good God, do you know what this is doing to property values? Not to mention that the locals will be calling for our heads before long."
If Steve hadn't been so unnerved himself, he might have heard the merest hint of fear in Abel Roth's own voice. Fear because the deaths were spreading, fear because he couldn't get off his own damn island.
And fear that the delicate balance of power that was Santz Martina might crumble. As things stood, the Roth, Chase and Morgan families had a virtual license to print money…so long as they took care of the people who did the grunt work. The territory was ostensibly a democracy, with an elected governor and senate, but no one ran against the handpicked candidates from the three families. Even if someone had, he would have lost. The people were happy with the way things had been running. Everyone got a slice of the good life, so why complain?
But if this epidemic spread and the government seemed powerless to stop it, all of that would change. Opposition candidates would rise up, perhaps even win. And the island cash cow might well disappear.
But at that moment Steve Chase was beyond such thoughts. Terror washed though him in hot and cold waves. Another one. Just like the Shippeys.
"I'll…I'll look into it, Governor," he stammered finally.
"You do that." Abel Roth slammed the receiver down.
Steve didn't hang up his own phone. Instead, he stood staring at the receiver in his hand, thinking that just yesterday Gary Morgan had suggested Alice's yard as another possibility. At Tim's behest, Steve had issued a permit for the water department to dig there.
Just today. And now Alice was dead.
His knees buckled, and he sagged onto the couch, shaking all over.
11
"It's got to be a weapon," Dec said. In the fluorescent light of Markie's kitchen, she looked as pale as a corpse. At the moment, he wasn't sure he had much more color himself.
Whatever Kato had sensed still had him spooked. The dog had stationed himself at the sliding glass door, staring steadfastly into the dark, twitching not so much as a muscle.
"Oh, yeah," Markie s
aid, her voice sarcastic even though the idea had been her own suggestion. "A weapon. Sure. It makes dogs bark and chew at themselves, and kills individuals with pinpoint precision. Something that Kato was trying to bite. My God, Dec, if it was a weapon, how come it didn't kill us both when we got there?"
He wished he had an answer, but there wasn't one.
"You heard what Loleen said. You heard what Alice saw tonight!"
"Oh, for the love of Pete! There's no way I'm going to swallow a ghost. There's a physical cause for this, including for the hallucinations. We just have to find it."
She sagged onto one of the stools and released a long, unsteady breath. "I hope you're right." Then she burst into tears. "Alice…oh, Alice…"
It wasn't much, but at least it was something he could do. Drawing close to her, he wrapped both arms around her and held her tight, letting her tears flow over both of them.
And in his mind's eye, the horrific vision of Alice in her final, deadly spasms played over and over.
Over Markie's head, he saw Kato, posted like a sentry at the last line of defense, painfully alert. That dog knew more than he did. More by far. And Dec was quite certain that when he discovered the truth himself, he wasn't going to like it.
He had a feeling that he was being forced through a door to ideas and beliefs that he'd long ago shut out. His brain had recorded images he could not accept and it refused to let them go.
Markie stretched and yawned, and in the way of such things, Dec's own body cried out for a yawn.
"You're tired," Markie said.
"So are you," he replied. He wasn't sure where this was going, nor where he wanted it to go. "Are you going to be able to sleep?"
She nodded. "I don't think I'll have much choice. However I feel otherwise, I'm exhausted."
He could see the tension in her face. He had no doubt his own face bore the same strain. Part of him wanted to stay here with her. Part of him knew better than to ask. And another part of him was too afraid to.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" she asked.
"Of course," Dec said. "You're sure you're okay?"
She looked at Kato. "I'm well protected."
