Weapon of Choice

by Patricia Gussin

  “Yes, I am. Before he drifted off, Trey had been calling out—”

  “Mr. Standish,” Natalie interrupted in a rush. “Is Trey going to be okay?”

  “He has a fractured pelvis and two broken legs. They had to take out his spleen and fix a tear in his liver.” The man sounded so weary, Natalie thought. Had he been here the whole time, since the accident?

  “Now the nurses are worried about his temperature. Postoperative infection, they say, is quite common.”

  As tears started to flood Natalie’s eyes, she grabbed a fistful of tissues. Trey’s father stood and Natalie felt a strong arm encircle her. “Trey just has to be okay. I—” She stopped before she blurted out how much she loved him.

  “Trey never mentioned that he had a girlfriend. I mean a girlfriend that seems to care about him as much as you do, Natalie.”

  “I have to be honest with you, Mr. Standish. He didn’t say anything because of you and my mother.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Natalie looked at Trey. She thought his eyes fluttered when she spoke, but otherwise he was immobile. They did plan to tell their parents, eventually, about their decision to spend their lives together, to get married her first year of college, support themselves if need be. But they would keep the secret until after that lawsuit was settled one way or another.

  “Trey and I agreed not to say anything. Our families have a conflict, which we’re sure will pass with time.”

  “Natalie, what are you talking about?”

  “My mom is a doctor, and she’s testifying as an expert in the lawsuit against your company, so we—”

  “That Nelson. You’re her daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, you look just like her. I saw her video deposition last week. She made some good points. But I would never let my business interfere with my son’s happiness. I’m surprised Trey didn’t realize that—”

  “It’s just that he has so much respect for you and for Mrs. Standish.”

  “As I hope that you have for your parents,” he said.

  Laura turned to face him, feeling an instinctive trust. “It’s only my mother,” she said. “My father’s dead.”

  She then pulled away to touch Trey’s cheek. “He’s so hot,” she murmured. “Maybe Mom can do something.” Should she call her? She’d be so pissed that Natalie had faked an illness.

  “Let me introduce you to Trey’s mother,” Mr. Standish said. “He’s our only child so both of us have been here around the clock. She’s in the visitors’ lounge. I’ll go get her.”

  Again, Natalie leaned over to kiss Trey, letting her long hair fall over his face. “I love you, Trey. Please, please get better. Please, Trey.”

  Her attention on Trey, Natalie never saw the cluster of medical staff gather across the room. She did register the nurse’s anxious voice: “Dr. Plant is covering for Dr. Nelson. Call him STAT.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28

  THANKSGIVING DAY

  Charles’s badge got him onto the property, through building security, and into his lab. Because of the holiday, the building was almost deserted; he walked alone into his laboratory. What a break that on the very day The Order had called upon him, he had complete and exclusive access to what Will Banks called a “bioweapon.” Usually aloof, he took a moment to speak to the two armed men who guarded the secure incubator, commiserating with them about having to work the holiday—somebody had to feed the cultures and that somebody was him.

  Charles was a microbiologist and a geneticist. Though he had an M.D., he was well aware that he was no clinician. Neither was he a chemist or a toxicologist or a pharmacologist. His job description at CDC was specific: to genetically develop killer staphylococci. What happened after that was not his concern. Supposedly his fellow researchers used his cultures to develop new antibiotics that would work against new natural strains of staph that were sure to emerge. That, he assumed, was the official cover story. What the government—the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases—USAMRIID—really wanted were instruments of bioterror. Although never yet used to attack humans, his little clusters of round bacteria would kill like the plague, only quicker and with more pain.

  Naturally, he wondered where The Order would choose to deploy his bioweapon. Banks had said nothing about their choice of a target. When Charles had signed on as a soldier in The Order, he had sworn absolute obedience, total secrecy, and infinite allegiance. And Charles, if nothing else, was a man of his word. He’d been called a coward and wimp, but nobody could accuse him of ever breaking a pledge.

  Charles moved about the incubator, a space lined with enclosed shelves housing petri dishes of culture plates on one side and cubicles, all equipped with stainless-steel laminar flow hoods, on the other side. He’d identified the exact cubbyhole where he would stash his set of duplicate culture plates. The temperature and humidity would be ideal, and now that Stacy was moving up, he’d have daily access—which meant he’d have to hold off on his request for a transfer to another department. Banks had hinted that they’d be put to use soon, within days. The sooner, the better. What he was doing may be technically easy, but risk was everywhere. He had only to glance at the sophisticated camera system and all the auditory and motion detectors scattered about. His obsessive personality helped him mentally map where each device was situated so he could evade each mechanical roving eye. At least he thought he could.

  Could The Order have chosen a political target? Release the bacteria at a civil rights forum? Or were they planning to attack a hospital? One of the newly integrated schools? The possibilities were endless. Would The Order claim credit for the attack? Probably not. With so many members of The Order already in jail, the leadership might rather sit back and gloat privately.

  But most importantly, would they consult him about where and how to release the staph? Would they want him to play a part? Or would they try to appropriate the cultures and send someone else to get the bacteria to the target? Charles had tried assiduously to explain to Banks—his sole contact from The Order—that the bacterial growth phase was ultraaggressive. If not precisely controlled, the culture would burn itself out before its prime—only tens of people would die rather than thousands. Well, maybe that was what The Order wanted. Charles did not know the endgame.

  Charles emerged from the incubator. Mission accomplished. Duplicate cultures of flesh-eating staph safely hidden away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28

  THANKSGIVING DAY

  “What is it you don’t understand?” Victor demanded. “My son is to be moved. Now. Medevac personnel have cleared him. George Washington University Hospital will admit him. Matthew has signed all the releases.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Worth,” said a young female in Discharge, “I need a physician’s approval. It’s hospital policy.”

  “Doctors have pagers. Page a doctor. Now.”

  “I already did so, sir. Dr. Kellerman isn’t answering his page, and since he’s not signed out to another doctor, we have to wait for him to call in.”

  “I can’t wait. Do you know how much a medevac transfer costs? Will the hospital pay for that?” Victor didn’t give a damn how much the flight cost. Matthew had to be moved well out of range of that infected ICU. Now.

  “I’ll try again,” the administrator said.

  Victor’s fingers drummed on her desk. He couldn’t afford this delay. Even if Matthew was protected to the extent possible by the isolation protocol, the risk of exposure was increasing by the minute.

  “Not picking up.” The clerk frowned.

  “Then call Dr. Nelson,” Victor demanded. She’d at least tried to intervene to get ticokellin for Matthew.

  The woman consulted her directory. “Dr. Plant is covering for Dr. Nelson. Let me put you in touch with Dr. Plant.”

  Victor already had called her home, had left an urgent message requesting a
call back. So far, nothing.

  The woman dialed a number, waited, and then handed over her phone.

  All was in order for a transfer, Victor explained; he merely needed a signature.

  The male doctor wished he could help, he said, but since he had not actually treated Matthew—

  Every minute of this struggle escalated the odds that Matthew would come in contact with the bacteria that was, at this very moment, killing Norman and the others. Every minute.

  “Dr. Nelson operated on him, and you are responsible for her patients.” Victor felt his voice rise at least an octave. He must not sound as if he were losing control. “Okay,” he said, “then put me in touch with Dr. Nelson.” He added, “Please?”

  “She’s out of town with her family,” Dr. Plant said. “I really don’t think she’d—”

  “Look,” he said, “I’m a doctor. She and I have collaborated on this patient’s care. She supports his transfer. She gave me her private number, in case something came up.” Victor had the scrap of paper ready and read off the Tampa number.

  “Well,” Dr. Plant said, “I didn’t realize—”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28

  THANKSGIVING DAY

  The Jones family didn’t live in the inner city anymore, but in a two-story brick house, just inside the Detroit city limit near 8 Mile Road and Grand River Avenue. Stacy Jones, M.D., M.P.H., sat at the foot of her mom’s Thanksgiving dinner table, riveting the attention of her three younger sisters. She was Harvard educated, and employed by the CDC. Federal benefits and job security—and miracle of miracles, she’d just been promoted to director, Experimental Staph Section. Not bad for a thirty-two-year-old black woman from the Detroit ghetto.

  Stacy had paved the way for her sisters, and they respected and admired her. Sharon was a labor lawyer in the Detroit firm where she’d interned. Rachel, following in her mom’s footsteps, a social worker in inner-city Detroit, and little sister, Katie, was in her third year of med school at the University of Michigan in nearby Ann Arbor. Stacy beamed at her sisters, and accepted congratulations on her promotion. When they’d finished the Thanksgiving prayer, she gazed with pride and love around the table of five women. Her sisters had not always looked up to her, she vividly recalled. Stacy had gone through a rough phase when she’d turned thirteen in 1967, the year both of her brothers were killed in the Detroit riots. Look where the Jones family was now. Accomplished. Together. Happy, if not complete.

  Preparing the meal had been a team effort. Stacy had flown in from Atlanta last evening and her sisters all lived locally. Mom was alone now in the house, and the girls had been trying all morning to convince her to move into a townhouse in the suburbs. Lucy said she’d think about it.

  “Or, you could move down to Atlanta with me,” Stacy said. “No more shoveling snow.”

  The phone rang in the kitchen, and Lucy jumped up to get it.

  “She never stops,” Stacy said, “and she’ll never leave Detroit.” Her sisters nodded. Mom would never leave Anthony and Johnny though they had died eighteen years ago.

  “For you, Dr. Jones,” Mom said, nodding at Stacy, then looking at Katie. “Next we’ll be calling you Dr. Jones, too.”

  “Guess I better take it.” Stacy managed another couple of mouthfuls of stuffing. “Part of this promotion is being available for emergencies.”

  The caller was a Dr. Duncan Kellerman from Tampa. Why was he calling her? Then she recognized the name Laura had mentioned when she’d asked Stacy for advice about that AIDS patient she’d done the biopsy on. Laura had informed her that Kellerman was a good ole boy. Did that translate to jerk?

  After introducing himself in a long-winded speech about his professional attainments, Kellerman said he had at least three “difficult bacterial” infections in their ICU. What could she tell him about bacteria that spiked fevers to 105 degrees, caused severe respiratory distress, and didn’t seem to respond to appropriate antibiotics?

  “Dr. Kellerman,” Stacy interrupted, “I’m not a clinical consultant. I do experimental work for the CDC in Atlanta. I don’t have a license to practice medicine in Florida.”

  “One of my colleagues gave me your name. Dr. Laura Nelson. Do you not know her? She said she’d asked you to help her out.”

  “Laura and I had talked about a suspected case of HIV virus. It sounded like full-blown AIDS, and I’ve spoken to your director of nursing, but—”

  “No matter about that case, I’ve got three patients going bad. One is Dr. Nelson’s patient—one of her lung reduction procedures. We all know he’s high risk, but there’s a strapping nineteen-year-old boy who’s going bad, too.”

  “Look, I’m a research scientist. You’re an infectious disease specialist: get cultures and cover them with broad spectrum antibiotics until you get the sensitivities back.”

  “Look, missy, I have sick patients here. Laura Nelson left me your number the other day. When I called today, your associate, a Dr. Scarlett, said you were in Detroit and he gave me this number. I don’t care if it’s a holiday. I’d like some help here.”

  Missy? Did holiday intrusions from jerks like him go with the territory on her new job? If so, put me back in the lab.

  “Here’s what I’ll do,” Stacy said, “I’ll call Dr. Nelson. Assess the situation.” She hung up before he could say a word. But not until I’ve polished off Mom’s pumpkin pie.

  Lucy Jones could have fed the proverbial army, and that was, in reality, where she was heading after stuffing her four daughters with turkey embellished with her signature trimmings. To the Salvation Army, taking her traditional late-afternoon shift. As she prepared to leave, the girls cleaned up, chatting incessantly. When the last of the pots was put away, Katie headed to her boyfriend’s mother’s house. Sharon and Rachel, off to the feasts at their respective husbands’ families. All three had invited their big sister along, but Stacy chose to stay at home, kick back, and reminisce.

  Before she settled down, Stacy decided to tell Laura about Kellerman’s call. Pausing to burp, she dialed Laura’s parents’ number. She’d probably catch Laura in the middle of dinner, but if she waited it’d be too late to do anything. Not that there’d be anything Stacy could do.

  “Whelan residence.” A stong male voice. Too young for Laura’s dad and not a kid.

  “Uh, hi, this is Stacy Jones, I’m looking for Laura Nelson.”

  “Oh, hi, I’m her son. Kevin. We haven’t seen you for a long time, Dr. Stacy.” Stacy remembered when she’d first met Kevin. She’d stepped in to take care of Laura’s kids when Laura attended a medical meeting in Montreal. Kevin had been an adorable, tow-headed two-year-old. Could that have been sixteen years ago?

  “So good to hear your voice, Kevin.” Of Laura’s kids, Kevin had always been her favorite. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you on Thanksgiving, but is your mom around?”

  “Yes and no,” he said. “If I hurry, I can get her. She’s about to leave. You know how it is, the hospital calls.”

  Stacy waited as Kevin yelled, “Tell Mom she’s got a call.”

  She did know how it is. And that’s one of the reasons she’d chosen research over clinical practice. How did Laura handle all this? Five kids, her research, her surgical practice, and the administrative crap that came with being chief of anything.

  “It’s Stacy Jones,” he heard Kevin say.

  “Stacy, are you clairvoyant? I was going to call you as soon as I got back to Tampa.” Laura sounded winded and her voice a little shaky.

  “What’s up, girlfriend?”

  “It’s Natalie,” Laura said. “I never should have left her—”

  “Laura, slow down. What’s going on?”

  Laura told Stacy about the three recent phone calls. “One from Kellerman, the infectious disease guy I told you about. He reports a series of patients in the surgical ICU; febrile with rapidly developing pneumonia.” Before Stacy could tell her that Kellerman had called her, too, Laura continued. “Sec
ond, Ed Plant, who is covering for me, who wouldn’t bother me if it wasn’t serious, thinks my lung reduction patient is probably not going to make it. The third call, Stacy, is why I’m leaving right now for Tampa. It’s Natalie.”

  “Natalie? Where does she fit into all of this?” Stacy had pictured Laura surrounded by her five kids, her brother, sister, both parents.

  “She complained of nonspecific abdominal pain this morning. I examined her, didn’t think it was a surgical abdomen, and I let the girls talk me into letting Natalie stay home.”

  “She’s home? Alone?”

  “Yes. Not really. Remember my friend Tim Robinson? He’s the pediatric surgeon in Philadelphia who operated on Patrick.”

  “Yes.” Stacy did remember him and always thought that Laura had something romantic going on with bachelor Tim.

  “He’s with her, they were to drive out here today, but he called to say he was taking her to the E.R. Now Natalie’s running a fever. I’m heading to Tampa right now. I don’t know what’s going on with her or with the ICU patients. I planned to call and get your advice. I’m worried, Stacy. Really worried that we may have some weird disease down here.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this, Laura. There’s no way I can do anything about it from here, but I can be on the first flight to Tampa in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Stacy. I hate to disrupt your holiday. Please tell Lucy that I’m sorry.”

  “You just drive carefully, Laura.”

  She had never managed to mention Kellerman’s call and his veiled demand that Stacy come to Tampa.

  Stacy glanced out the window. A few fluffy flakes of snow had started to fall, as predicted, although no accumulation was expected. Since moving to Atlanta, she’d learned to live quite well without snow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28

  THANKSGIVING DAY

  Polite, deferential, respectable: the creed of a well-bred Southern gentleman. Charles Scarlett’s heritage and that of his father and his father’s father before him. No crude language, not a trace of overt hostility. But just under the polished brass genteel surface, a rabid extremism had raged throughout his ancestral lineage. Did it burn within him, too? Did he believe in white supremacy? Really believe? Or did he embrace the cause to gain his father’s respect? When he joined The Order, did he conceive of plotting the destruction of lives? Dream of personally releasing a bacterium that would prove lethal to many? How many, he did not know, could not know.