by Ross Pennie
He showered and shaved, hoping the morning ritual would make him feel a bit more human. It didn’t. He dug through his suitcase for a clean shirt and underwear while Hamish took his turn in the can. Al, in tee-shirt and bikini briefs, was preparing breakfast in the kitchen.
“Coffee and waffles okay?” Al asked.
The waffles sounded like a stretch, even if they were smothered in real maple syrup. He might manage the coffee. “Sounds great. Thanks. Can I help?”
“Got it covered.”
A few minutes later, Hamish stabbed at a second mass-produced waffle from the plate in the centre of the table. He turned to Zol. “Know where these are made?”
Zol was halfway through the mug of instant Al had handed him. He found breakfast conversation impossible until he’d drunk at least one full cup of coffee. How could anyone live like this, no grinder, no coffee apparatus anywhere in sight?
When Hamish got no answer, he supplied it himself. “In Simcoe,” he told them. “A huge factory, just for waffles.” He looked at Zol, “Know how I know?”
Zol threw him a look that said Not a clue.
“A patient of mine. Truck driver. Every week he makes the circuit to Arkansas and back. A tractor trailer full of frozen waffles destined for Walmart.”
Zol forced down another swallow of the liquid in his mug that was masquerading as coffee. “They must eat a lot of waffles in Arkansas,” he said. It wouldn’t be authentic maple syrup they put on them, but something horrible and synthetic.
“No, no,” Hamish insisted. “Once Walmart receives them at their international headquarters, they repack them and send them off to every town in North America. Back here, even.”
Zol pictured freeways crawling with eighteen-wheelers hauling waffles from Simcoe to Arkansas to Yukon.
Al held his fork above the half-eaten waffle on his plate. “You mean this waffle was made in Simcoe, sixty minutes down the highway from here, trucked all the way to Arkansas, only to be trucked back again?”
“Dumb, eh?” Hamish said.
The caffeine was starting to kick in. “What was wrong with your patient, the trucker guy?” Zol asked. “He choke on a waffle and come down with some exotic infection?”
“Scrotal abscess,” Hamish said seriously. He hadn’t gotten the joke. “His testicles were floating in a bag of pus the size of a grapefruit. Group B Streptococcus.”
Waffle, syrup, and saliva spewed out of Al’s mouth. “Shit, Hamish,” he said, spluttering. “Not at the table.”
Hamish looked at Zol as if to say What’s the big deal? Pus is a natural biological substance.
Sometimes the guy just didn’t get it. As Zol’s mum liked to put it, how could someone so smart be so dumb?
Mum and Dad! He’d been incommunicado since last night. Mum could have taken a turn for the worse and Dad could be trying to reach him, the same way he’d been trying to find Max and Colleen. Getting that phone from 7-Eleven was now number one on his to-do list.
He put down his fork. “How did your guy get the infection?” He imagined these things started as ingrown hairs or innocent little zits on the privates.
“From driving a big rig for hours on end, stuck to a sweaty seat. I call it truckers’ balls. Especially bad for diabetics. Sometimes the infection gets so brutal they lose their boys to gangrene.”
Al had his hand clamped over his mouth. His face had turned pea-soup green.
“All that,” Zol said, “so we can pop a waffle in the toaster for a quick breakfast. How nice is that?”
Al scrambled from the table and scraped the remains of his waffle into the garbage. “You two can talk about all the gross things you like, I’m having a shower.”
“I haven’t told you about Winnipeg,” Hamish said after Al was out of earshot. He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “They’re threatening to report me to the College of Physicians.”
“Who? Not the guys at the National Microbiology Laboratory?”
Hamish nodded.
“Why’d they do that?”
“They know I lied about the samples from . . .” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “. . . Namibia.”
“How so?”
“Docs in Swift Current, Saskatoon, and Prince Albert have been seeing cases of non-healing blisters on hands and faces.”
“Anything like your lip and finger disease?”
“Identical. Winnipeg sent me photos.”
“And the EM findings?”
“Matchstick particles. Identical to ours. That’s what got them suspicious.”
Zol leaned back in his chair and massaged the painful crook in his neck. Things were starting to make sense. Winnipeg realized it was too much of a coincidence that the ultra-rare, hybrid virus that Hamish had sent them last week was now turning up in three Saskatchewan cities.
“It didn’t take a genius to figure out that my specimens didn’t come from Namibia.”
Hamish’s problem with the national laboratory aside, there was one question that mattered more than anything else. “Do any of these Saskatchewan blister cases have acute liver disease?”
Hamish shook his head. “Believe me, I asked right away. As far as Winnipeg knows, no outbreaks of jaundice, hepatitis, or liver failure in any of the prairie provinces.” He paused and made a dismissive gesture with his fork. “Except for a minor outbreak of hepatitis A traced to bean sprouts from a hydroponic operation near Moose Jaw.”
Bean sprouts. They got you every time. If it wasn’t viral hepatitis, it was salmonella or E. coli.
Zol took another bite of mass-produced waffle. Not so bad, considering its cross-continental perambulations. “Are they any closer to fully characterizing the particles?”
“They’re not saying. But they will. And when they do, they’ll hog the academic limelight.”
“Look on the bright side,” he told Hamish. “Winnipeg tipped you some important information we could never have proven on our own.”
“Like what?”
“Dennis Badger’s contaminated tobacco has made it halfway across the country. At least as far as Saskatchewan. Those matchstick particles prove it.”
Hamish rolled his eyes. “Terrific.”
“Did you tell them about Wilf Dickinson finding those same particles in cigarettes manufactured on our local rez?”
“Of course not. I’m not crazy.”
Zol swallowed the last of his so-called coffee. It was cold and tasted like charcoal, but he could feel the effect of the caffeine. “Why the complaint to the College of Physicians?”
“The guys in Winnipeg take their public-safety mandate very seriously. My less than truthful story about the blister specimens I sent them got their director onto his high horse.”
“Did you come clean?”
“More or less, but it was too late. By then, the guy was ready to burst a gasket. Gave me a thorough blasting on the phone. Said their institution is built on trust, which I had subverted.”
“Subverted? That’s stretching it, for crying out loud.” He put his hand on Hamish’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. The College won’t take away your licence. The worst they might do is send you a stern letter that demands a response.”
“Not according to the man in charge of our nation’s premier reference laboratory.”
Zol looked at his watch. Seven-forty-five. “I know you’ve got to get to work. But a couple more things before you go.”
Hamish raised his eyebrows.
“Can I use your study today? My Simcoe office is bugged and I don’t dare go home. Badger’s probably blanketed the place with microphones and scanners.”
“Sure, the computer’s login password is on the underside of the keyboard. And there’s an extra set of house keys in the top drawer of the desk.” He folded his serviette, pushed away from the table, and set his dishe
s in the sink.
“How quickly will you be able to get our samples tested for traces of Tammy’s 5-FNN?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. There’s a mass-spec genius in our building. He’s got a federal grant to build the next generation explosives detector for use in airport security — something passengers can walk through without stopping. He’s usually up for a challenge.”
“Can he do it today?”
Hamish held up both hands defensively. “I haven’t the faintest idea how long these things take. Could be an hour, could be a week. How will I find you?”
“Email me. My Google account.”
“It hasn’t been hacked?”
“If the Badger is that good, we’re screwed.”
He’d change the login password first thing, just in case.
CHAPTER 35
Shortly after ten-thirty, Natasha helped Marcus set the table back on its legs. They’d been looking under it and under the chairs. And inside the sugar bowl. For bugs. Not germs, of course; Marcus kept the Nitty Gritty spotless. The other kind, which were a lot more sinister. “Sorry about this,” she told him, “but we have to be sure no one can eavesdrop on our conversation.” She wasn’t prepared to share the information Guelph Veterinary College had faxed to her a few minutes ago with anyone but Hamish — and Dr. Zol, when he got his new phone working.
Marcus’s eyes danced above his ginger goatee. “I never realized you guys discussed such top-secret stuff back here.” He polished the table top with the tea towel he always carried slung over his shoulder, then stopped and pretended to look serious for a moment. “You need me to swear an oath of secrecy to the health unit?”
“Just keep feeding us treats.”
He smiled again and touched her arm. “Who will be joining you, Dr. Szabo?”
“Just Dr. Wakefield.”
His hand darted away after the briefest of seconds, but his eyes didn’t stop twinkling. “Should I rustle up a couple of lattes?”
Hamish was unpredictable when it came to beverages. He was as likely to order a lemonade as a latte.
“For now, just one, please.”
“How about a slice of lemon loaf?” When he saw she was hesitating, he teased, “Just took it out of the oven . . .”
She could smell the irresistible aroma from here, and she had skimped on breakfast. And now that Guelph had come through with its surprising goat-farm data, she was in a mood to celebrate. “Sure. Sounds great. Thanks.”
“Coming up.”
Had Marcus been flirting, or was he like that with all his female customers? A bit of both, she decided, then watched as he greeted Hamish at the front door with a wide grin. Hamish waved his hands dismissively and didn’t smile back when Marcus took his coat. Hamish looked anxious and hyper-focussed as he strode toward her and slid into the chair opposite. As usual, he didn’t bother saying hello. It would be nice if some day a little of Marcus’s manners rubbed off on the brusque Dr. Wakefield.
“You checked for bugs?” he whispered. “I trust you do know what I mean?”
“Marcus and I made a careful sweep. And I left my phone at the office.”
“Mine’s in the car. And I didn’t see any vans parked nearby.”
“I think we’re okay.”
Ordinarily, this cloak and dagger stuff would seem silly, embarrassing even, except that when Dr. Zol had phoned her a couple of hours ago he was majorly upset. And rightly so. It was awful not knowing whether Dennis Badger had apprehended Colleen and Max on their way to the safe house, or if they were fine and Colleen was being super cautious about their location.
“Any news about Colleen and Max?” Hamish asked, no longer whispering.
“Nothing, I’m afraid.”
“If he doesn’t hear from them in the next hour or so, he’d better call the police. The longer people are missing, the less like they are to be found aliv —”
“Please, Hamish.” How could he talk like that? “I’m sure Dr. Zol will do the right thing. He always does.”
“Did he give you the number of his new cellphone?”
Natasha opened her purse, wrote the ten digits on a slip of paper, and handed it to him. “Here you are. It’s not working yet.”
“Why not?”
“Apparently, 7-Eleven has some sort of glitch that’s slowed down their registration system.”
If he’d noticed her hands were trembling, he didn’t show it. Heck, she could be wearing only a bikini and he wouldn’t notice. He scrutinized the number, as if committing it to memory. “This new one better be bug free,” he told her, as if getting a phone from 7-Eleven had been her idea, and a poor one at that.
Marcus arrived with her latte and slice of cake. He set them in front of her and took Hamish’s order for a club soda, no ice. As Marcus headed back to the bar, he dragged a lip-sealing finger across a little smirk on his mouth. He wouldn’t be smirking if he knew the dangers they were facing. There was a lot more to this job than lemon loaf and lattes, no matter what it looked like.
She turned back to Hamish. Making small talk with him was practically impossible at the best of times. Today, he was clearly preoccupied, as if he’d rather be anywhere than sitting across from her at the Nitty Gritty, waiting for a club soda. “Any news from your colleague with the mass spectrometer?” she ventured. She knew it was too soon to expect any results, but she had to say something to fill the void.
He frowned and studied his watch. “Give me a break, he’s only had the samples for an hour.”
“Can he process them today?”
“Going to try.” His eyes met hers and darted away. “But if you knew anything about chemistry, you’d know these things do take time.”
She churned her latte with the spoon, destroying Marcus’s artistic frothy swirls. “Organic chem was my minor in undergrad.”
He looked surprised, as if she’d never seemed smart enough for the intricacies of organic chemistry, then he tightened his lips and made that my-opinion-is-the-only-one-that-matters gesture with his hand. “The guy has assayed nicotine before, so Tammy’s 5-FNN, a close molecular cousin, should be easy for him. Unless 5-FNN is unstable, of course.”
She put down her spoon. “Actually,” she told him, “the fluorine at the five position makes the molecule quite stable. The readings should be more reproducible, and the results more reliable, than would be the case if the fluorine were, say, in the three position.” She was careful not to smirk. As her mother would say, it would be unseemly.
“Whatever,” he said flatly, “let’s hope he comes up with useful results by the end of the day.”
She returned the spoon to her latte and stirred slowly. Hamish had called at eight-thirty this morning and told her he had something important to discuss, but only in person. He demanded she drop everything and meet him at the Nitty Gritty. But now he was staring out of the window as if there was so much in his head he didn’t know where to start. Maybe he expected her to keep breaking the ice on their conversation until he was ready to burst forth with some startling revelation. Fine. She’d kick things off by telling him how she’d solved his lip and finger outbreak. Thanks to Dr. Zol’s tip from his friend the vet, and today’s fax from Guelph, she had fit the pieces together. Though she was thrilled to hand Hamish the solution to the origin of the blister lesions on a platter, she had no delusions that he’d congratulate her on her handiwork.
“I got a fax from Guelph today,” she told him. “From the vet school.”
“What did they want?”
“It’s the other way round. They’re helping us explain the origin of those intriguing matchstick particles in our rez tobacco samples and in your lip and finger lesions.”
“I don’t know why you’re calling them my lesions. They’re from my patients, not from me personally.”
She let that pass and waited for his next q
uestion. She could tell by his dilating pupils that she’d piqued his curiosity.
“What does Guelph know about hybrid viruses?” he said.
“They’re experts in epidemics involving farm animals. They sent me detailed data on an outbreak of orf virus infection on three goat farms in Brant and Norfolk counties.”
“No way,” he said, aiming his frown at her. “That can’t be true. We confirmed there’s been no orf virus activity in Ontario anytime this year. I made calls to vets’ offices, and you were supposed to make a thorough check through your sister health units. Didn’t you do it?”
“I did. And indeed, there’s currently no evidence of orf activity anywhere in the province. But —”
“But what?”
“There was a significant outbreak two years ago. Among dozens of milking-goats.”
“Why didn’t you know about this until today?”
“Orf infection isn’t on the list of reportable illnesses. No one is obligated to tell us when they’ve diagnosed a case. More to the point, it’s primarily an animal pathogen. Either way, our public-health database has no record of it.”
“Sounds like a hole in the system. Were there human cases along with the goats?”
“Guelph knows about four goat handlers who developed orf lesions on their fingers during the farm outbreak. There could have been others. Guelph keeps detailed data only on animals.” She pulled the fax from her briefcase along with the annotated map she’d made of Brant and Norfolk counties. She’d highlighted all the tobacco-growing areas in blue, and the orf-infected goat farms in yellow. She hadn’t used red and green because she knew that Hamish was colour-blind and couldn’t distinguish crimson from chartreuse. His shirts and ties were all some shade of blue.
She spread the map on the table and watched while he examined it. “Do you see what I see?” she asked him, half afraid he was about to blow her nice little theory out of the water.
“Of course. I’m not blind. Well, maybe colour-blind, but . . .” His face flushed a deep scarlet. She wondered how he’d interpret the colour of his cheeks if he looked in a mirror at this moment. He buried his nose in the map for a good minute before he said, “Gotta admit it. This is pretty cool. And the timing is perfect.” He was on the verge of smiling, and even looked intrigued by her efforts. Now, it was her cheeks that were blushing. “Look,” he said, his voice rising as he ran his fingers over her map, “every orf-infected goat farm is surrounded by tobacco fields.”
