Amanda's Story

by Brian O'Grady

  That was strange, he said to himself. His heart was racing, and everything about him was brighter and louder as the adrenaline surge reached his brain. He was attracted to her, both physically and emotionally. He had lost the love of his life eleven years earlier, and it had taken him nearly that long to accept the possibility that perhaps he could be happy with someone else. But there were proprieties; he wasn’t a teenage boy lusting after a picture in a magazine. Amanda was more than just a pretty face, and the connection that he had hoped for extended far deeper than a superficial physical tryst.

  His breathing and pulse slowed, and with an effort he mentally shelved the experience, noting that this particular shelf was getting crowded with unexplained experiences. He turned back to the matter at hand. He weighed the options while waiting for his corporal to confirm what he had already suspected. His phone rang again.

  “Yes,” he said, more like his usual self.

  “Dr. Martin carried a biohazard box with him and refused to have it searched. He did present the appropriate clearances for the material and was allowed to pass.”

  “Thank you, Corporal.” Bennett paused. “What do you suppose is in the box, Corporal Tator?”

  “I doubt it’s cookies, sir.” Now Tator paused. “Would you like me to have him detained?”

  “Yes. Inform security that Dr. Martin may be bringing potentially dangerous material into a secure facility, and ask them to detain the good doctor and whatever he is carrying.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tator said enthusiastically. The animosity directed at Martin personally and some of his officious and overbearing staff had filled Tellis like a poisonous gas since they had arrived.

  Bennett smiled. Martin’s hubris had presented him with a way out of his dilemma. He picked up the phone and hit a single button. “This is Colonel Bennett for General Dixon.” He waited for the general’s office staff to make the requisite transfers, but instead of the usual two or three exchanges, General Dixon answered himself.

  “Bill, I was expecting your call. I’m guessing Dr. Martin has arrived.”

  “Yes sir, he has, and in his possession is a biomedical container that he refuses to have searched.”

  “Unfortunately, that is his prerogative. I got a call earlier from the Secretary of Health and Human Services. She reminded me that Dr. Martin is to have unfettered access to Mrs. Flynn. Have you been fettering Dr. Martin when he has tried to access Mrs. Flynn?”

  “No sir.” Dixon’s tone was light and unconcerned and Bennett was worried that he was about to get brushed off. “Sir, I have a concern for her safety.”

  A short pause and a more typical Walter Dixon answered. “Explain,” he ordered.

  “I also received a call this morning, from Dr. Martin. He told me that for safety reasons Mrs. Flynn was to be placed back in isolation. The problem is that all of her cultures and tests have been negative.” Bennett was talking fast, trying to hook Dixon before the general’s notoriously short attention span cut the conversation short. “At this point in time there is no good medical reason to keep Mrs. Flynn, much less isolate her.”

  “Go on,” Dixon nibbled at the hook.

  “They have run eighty-nine tests on her, and at last estimate have spent twenty-three million dollars with nothing to show for it.”

  “The woman is alive, isn’t she?” Dixon wasn’t going to swallow the hook blindly.

  “That is true, sir, but no one can take credit for that. She never exhibited any signs of EDH 1 infection or any other illness. Just as we talked a month ago, there isn’t a single reason she couldn’t be released back into the public. Dr. Martin’s focus from the beginning has not been treatment but an investigation into her resistance to the virus, something that could be just as easily accomplished on an outpatient basis.”

  “Bill, you know I’m not a physician, so I have to rely upon you folks to do what’s right. I can’t possibly referee a medical dispute.”

  “This isn’t a medical dispute, sir; this is about ethics and morality.”

  “I’m sure Dr. Martin would have a different point of view, and he is one of the CDC directors, with the Secretary of Health and Human Services behind him.” Bennett was losing the argument to Martin, who wasn’t even on the phone.

  “I’m concerned that he intends to inject Mrs. Flynn with a reconstituted virus to gauge her response.”

  A very long pause followed. “Okay, Bill,” he finally said. “You are asking me to climb out on a limb with you, and if I do and you are wrong that will be the end of the both of us and the Combined Services Medical Group.” The CSMG was Dixon’s pet project, and Bennett was the man he had chosen to create it. “Is your concern strong enough to bear all that weight?”

  Bennett sorted through the evidence in his mind. Already the reports of a synthesized EDH 1 were making the medical rounds. In addition, the CDC workers in Tellis had been told that their stay was to be extended and that they were to prepare for a third round of biopsies and testing, which only made sense if the situation had changed. Only nothing had changed, at least not yet. Now Martin was literally on the doorstep with a biohazard container. “It is a very strong circumstantial case, General.”

  “I need something concrete, Bill.”

  “Let my lab techs examine what’s in his case. If I’m wrong, I will gladly escort him to Amanda and then resign. If I’m right and he infects her, we would be accomplices to her murder.”

  “That doesn’t sound like unfettered access.” His tone wasn’t as negative as his statement.

  “We are all professionals, working to achieve the same thing. What’s wrong with a little transparency?”

  “That sounds very reasonable, but I’ve had the displeasure of talking with Dr. Martin, and I don’t think reasonability is one of his strong suits. He seems to have a bee in his bonnet about all things military.” Dixon paused again. “I want you to escort Dr. Martin to the patient. Allow him to do anything he wants except administer medications to her. I will bump this up the chain one more time. Just so you know, my butt is starting to get a little sore from this entire situation.”

  It was a middle-ground decision, but one he could live with. He had hoped to escalate the situation that would in the end expose Martin, but Dixon needed to avoid an open conflict between the military and the CDC, which for now had the backing of a Cabinet member. “I appreciate that, sir. There is one more thing: we still have not been given permission to inform the patient’s family of her condition.”

  “This whole situation is starting to stink like a three-day-dead dog.” Dixon was a Texas native and dropped in a colloquialism at every opportunity. “I’m starting to share your concern. With one hand he makes this woman disappear, and with the other he convinces his boss to allow him to do anything he wants to her. It’s god damn Nazi Germany all over again. You watch that SOB and make sure that he doesn’t harm her, and you contact her family, personally. I’m going to put an end to this experiment in intergovernmental cooperation. Good luck, Colonel.”

  As soon as Bennett had replaced the receiver, it began to ring. “Yes?”

  “He’s here sir. Security has him in a conference room upstairs, and they tell me that he’s quite upset.”

  “Good. Keep him there. I have one more phone call to make.”

  ***

  “Professor?” An overly painted coed ducked her head into Emily Larson’s office. “You weren’t answering your phone …”

  “For a reason,” she said loudly. Emily knew she was hard to work with, and in the rare moment of introspection she vowed to try and change, but this was not one of those moments. She had one inviolate rule: she was not, under any circumstance, ever, to be bothered while she was writing. Years ago she had gone to a graphic designer and had them create a three-foot sign with a large red light attached warning the entire populace to stay out if the light was on. And at this moment the
light was most definitely on.

  The coed retreated behind the door but didn’t close it. “I’m sorry, but there is a telephone call that I think you need to take.” Her voice was below the level that only dogs could hear, but not by much.

  “Is it the President?” she screamed, without pausing her furious typing.

  “No, it’s …”

  “Is it Brad Pitt with a marriage proposal?” Her decibels had decreased, but she still threatened to shatter glass.

  “No, it’s a …”

  “Is it Jesus Christ, Mary, or Joseph?” She stopped typing, and the frustration was evident on her upturned face. “Come out from behind the door; you’ve already interrupted me,” she demanded, and the small girl reappeared. “Do I know you?”

  “No ma’am; I’m a work-study student.”

  “Who is on the phone?” The damage done and her thought lost, she lowered her voice and softened her tone.

  “It’s an Army officer. He said it was in reference to your niece.”

  Emily stared blankly. “Amanda?” The name pierced her heart. She had spent a month in Honduras trying to find someone who had any information about the fate of the Red Cross team, but had learned nothing more beyond the official story that all had been lost to a mysterious illness that had also killed more than a thousand Hondurans. Her stony heart had nearly broken when they told her that all the bodies had been destroyed at the site, which was still closed and cordoned off by the military. The US government had very little influence with the Hondurans, and all they could offer were condolences. Rumors of survivors abounded, and the internet was alive with sightings and the secret locations of the survivors. For a time, she and the Flynns—Amanda’s in-laws—chased down every lead, but each one came to a dead end. After nearly three months, all her hope had been exhausted and she secretly mourned the loss of her beautiful niece.

  “It’s line three.” The coed quickly closed the door.

  “This is Emily Larson,” she said.

  “Doctor Larson, my name is William Bennett. I am a colonel in the United States Army, and a medical doctor.”

  “Good for you. What does this have to do with Amanda?” Her suspicion meter was in the red.

  “Has anyone informed you of her whereabouts and condition?”

  “You sick bastard. I am going to have our campus police track this number and have you arrested.” She covered the phone. “Hey kid, whatever your name is, get in here!” she screamed at the door, which opened a moment later as her personal secretary walked in. “Caroline, where have you been? Track this number; it’s some asshole asking about Amanda.” Caroline hurried off.

  “Actually, it’s some asshole who is trying to update you about Amanda, but feel free to track the number. If you want I can give it to you.” Bennett said after Emily returned to the phone.

  “Nice try.”

  “All right, how about this: do you have internet access?”

  “Just keep talking; we’ll find you.”

  “I’m trying to tell you how to find me, if you’ll just take a moment and listen. Open your browser and type in this address.” Bennett rattled off a series of numbers and letters, and asked Emily to repeat them.

  “Combined Services Medical Group,” she read from the website. “Never heard of it.” She navigated through the site. “And indeed there is a Colonel William Bennett, but that doesn’t make him you.”

  “No, it doesn’t, but do you see the ‘Contact Us’ button? Punch it. See the number? That’s the one your police are tracking. Do you want me to wait, do you want to listen, or do you want to call me back?”

  “This is very elaborate.”

  “Put me on hold and call the number. I will have my staff put you right through.”

  A sliver of hope sliced through her painfully. She had raised Amanda after the death of her mother, when the poor girl was just fourteen. The loss of her niece, Emily’s last relative, had been completely devastating, at least by Emily Larson standards. Every moment, thought, and action since had been colored by it, and Emily doubted that would ever change. She quietly put the call on hold and dialed the number.

  “Combined Services Medical Group,” a male voice answered.

  “Well, you are organized, I’ll give you that. I would like to speak to the man in charge.”

  “Certainly, Doctor Larson; he’s expecting your call.”

  “Did I pass?” It was the same voice that called itself Colonel Bennett.

  Emily’s face immediately flushed and her heart started beating wildly. Hope almost exploded out of her chest, and for a moment Emily had trouble catching her breath. “Where is she?” Her voice cracked with uncharacteristic emotion.

  “She is back in the United States and by all accounts is doing well …” Bennett tried to continue, but Emily was flooding the phone with loud sobbing interspersed with inarticulate words and the occasional “Thank God.” She went on for more than a minute.

  “So, she is alive?”

  “She is alive. I saw her earlier today.” His confirmation prompted another emotional outburst, but it lasted only about half as long as the first. “I know that this has to be quite a shock to you.”

  Suddenly, Professor Emily Larson returned. “Where has she been? Why weren’t we informed? How did …”

  It was Bennett’s turn to interrupt. “She has been in strict quarantine in a US military facility. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has been directing her care.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why none of us were informed of her whereabouts. For Christ’s sake, you let us believe that she was dead. Do you have any idea what we have been through? It’s unconscionable!”

  “I agree, but it was not my decision. Technically I am violating an executive order by contacting you.”

  Emily’s anger slipped into neutral as she digested what Bennett had just said. “The CDC, huh. Bureaucrats masquerading as doctors.”

  “Not all of them,” Bennett said. “At the moment,” he said with emphasis, “she is under the care of Doctor Nathan Martin, Director of the Special Pathogens Department. It is my suspicion that not many people outside of that department are aware that she has been held for nearly three months. Perhaps if more people were aware, her current situation would improve.”

  “And I gather that you are not in a position to do that.”

  “Doctor Larson, I am simply making a call that should have been made a long time ago, and informing you of your niece’s unique situation.”

  “Did anyone else survive?”

  “No,” he said definitively. Emily’s mind pushed aside the elation, relief, and joy and began to sort through the logistics.

  “Well, I can sure as hell make people aware. I think I’ll start with the senior senator from Georgia; Saxby Chambliss just happens to be a friend of mine.” She shifted mental gears again. “When can I see her?”

  “Only after she is released.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Emily cursed. “All right, when can I talk with her?”

  “I believe that I can help you with that. It may take an hour or so to arrange.”

  “Good. I will call you back at this number in one hour, and I swear before God that if you are not who you say you are and this is some elaborate hoax I will hunt you down like a dog.”

  “I would expect nothing less, Doctor Larson. Call me back in one hour.”

  Emily slowly hung the phone up. She tried to temper her joy with the possibility that Bennett either wasn’t Bennett and/or couldn’t produce what he promised, but her heart and thoughts raced wildly. She stared at the phone and focused on the speed button labeled “Flynn.” She debated whether to call Lisa and Greg. They had stayed in Honduras weeks after she returned home, hoping to find someone who knew firsthand what had happened, and finally left with nothing more than official apologies. Lisa had
taken the loss of Amanda hard. Coming almost a year after losing her son and grandson, she had aged ten years in the past three months. She would greet the news with uncontrolled emotion and Emily was afraid for Lisa if things didn’t turn out well. She decided to wait, and turned her mind to what it was best at: getting things done.

  It took her less than five minutes to track down the senator and get him on the phone. “Senator, I need your help,” she said.

  ***

  In at least one way, Amanda was glad to be back in the cell. Her head throbbed, and the isolation afforded her sore brain the opportunity to rest, away from the unguarded minds that surrounded her. It had been hours since she had been escorted from the dorm room that had served as her home for nearly a week, and after settling back in, everything had come to a halt. She was alone; the observation room beyond the glass was as empty as the monitoring room above. She stared at the cameras that had recorded her every move for almost three months, but they too seemed to have been forgotten. For the first time in weeks her mind was free of other voices, except one.

  William Bennett still floated through her consciousness. Their encounter had formed a mental connection that tugged at her, inviting her to continue the exploration of his mind. And perhaps a little more.

  After their initial encounter, Amanda allowed herself to glide across their bridge three more times. Her first trip was little more than a quick glance. Frightened by their original encounter, as soon as she felt the pull of his mind towards hers she quickly retreated back into herself. But even as she fled the attraction tore at her, threatening to once again merge their two consciousnesses. After a moment of confusion, she was fully back to herself, but Bennett’s presence was all around her. She could feel his frustration and concern, and a warm flush filled her as she realized that she was the focus. His coherent thoughts began to fade, but his emotions lingered.