As he joined hands with his mother and father in prayers of thanksgiving, he contemplated the impact of his task for The Order. Is this how a suicide bomber feels before a mission? Not that his was a suicide mission, but Charles was too smart not to think that he might get caught, might rot in prison, or might even be executed. Chances were good the staph would be traced to his lab. Sooner or later.
“Son, did you know that the citizen swearing-in ceremony this week was the largest ever? Just think—”
“Wonder how many immigrants were white, if any,” Mother interrupted.
Charles had been trying to predict The Order’s target. A courthouse full of immigrants would make sense, but too late now for that. “We have to stop them,” he said, offering a simple, predictable response before ladling thick brown gravy onto his mashed potatoes.
“Dear, will you carve the turkey?” Mother asked. “And let’s discuss something pleasant.”
“What would it take to elect officials who would send all of them back?” Dad went on as he brandished the carving knife. “Instead we give them our jobs. Let them go to our schools, eat with our children. Admit them to our hospitals. No, we have to freeze them out. Economically. Economic reprisal. Control the economics. Control the money. Control the politics. Fight back with economic reprisal.”
Schools? Hospitals? Promising, Charles thought. Negro schools. Negro hospitals. Both logical targets for an attack. Apprehensively, he awaited Will Banks’s report on today’s meeting with The Order leadership. Charles was in; now that he was committed, he wanted the plan, his marching orders.
As he carved, his father yammered on about politics and economics. Neither of his parents realized that across their elegantly appointed dining room table sat the Angel of Death in his blue blazer and gray flannel trousers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28
THANKSGIVING DAY
At five o’clock on Thanksgiving evening, the trim Medjet lifted off into cloudy Tampa skies. Once Victor had reached Dr. Nelson by phone at her parents’, she’d called the doctor covering for her. Within the hour, Dr. Plant had signed the discharge papers. Victor suspected that the entire staff of Tampa City hospital was glad to get rid of their hush-hush HIV patient. Well, soon enough they’d have their hands full.
The jet plane interior was designed exactly like a hospital room. Two male paramedics tended to the patient and his hookups: two intravenous lines with antibiotics dripping in, a urinary catheter, a heart monitor, and oxygen flowing into the mask that covered his nose and mouth. To Victor’s amazement and delight, Matthew had continued to rally. His color was better, his blue eyes brighter, and he’d taken sips of water.
Victor considered briefly whether his murderous revenge fit Norman Kantor’s crime. No one could have foreseen that Matthew would respond to commercially available antibiotics, obviating the need for the investigational drug ticokellin. But suppose he hadn’t responded?
And the other infected patients? Collateral damage, Victor told himself, but that seemed so cold. Didn’t they have families, too? Especially that banged-up young boy. How would his father react as the staph liquefied and shut down his organs? But he was not that boy’s father. He had his own son to worry about. He could not afford remorse, but he did wonder how long the kid would live. The infected would succumb soon, including Norman. The hospital would be in chaos. He needed to be out of there.
As he settled into the Medjet seat next to Matthew’s gurney, Victor had an inspiration. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Keystone Pharma. Now that Norman Kantor was not only retired, but dead, wouldn’t they need to recruit a research scientist with exactly Victor’s expertise? Kantor had trained him. Once the lethality of the Tampa strain of staph became known, wouldn’t Victor be the researcher they’d desperately need? He pictured the pretentious Dr. Minn begging him to step in and develop the right chemical antibiotic.
For now, Victor would focus on Matthew. Within three hours they’d be met by paramedics at Washington National Airport. An ambulance would take Matthew to George Washington University Hospital, where he’d be seen by qualified doctors. Doctors who know how to treat AIDS patients. Now his son would have the absolute best medical care, Victor would make sure of that.
But Victor had no choice now—before the plane landed, he’d have to tell Matthew that he had AIDS. Had Cindy ever discussed the possibility with him? She hadn’t said so in her letter, so Victor doubted she had. But did Matthew have suspicions? What did the boy know about HIV? Having lived in San Francisco, probably enough. Whatever Matthew’s reaction, Victor would swear to be at his side, to never abandon him no matter what might ensue.
To assure Matthew’s comfort while they boarded the plane, he’d been sedated. As Victor watched the sedation wear off, the pilot announced cruising altitude and Matthew stirred, opened his eyes. With his free hand, he pushed aside the oxygen mask. Victor’s breath caught as Matthew’s dry lips parted in a shy smile.
“Where are we?” were his first words. “I know I’m in a plane, but where? Over what?”
“We’re still over Florida somewhere. Hey, not sure you should take that mask off.” Victor glanced at the paramedic now relaxing in a rear seat. The paramedic nodded okay.
“We need to talk,” Matthew said. “About what’s wrong with me and where you’re taking me. You know, I don’t even know what to call you. Victor? Dad? Father?” He grinned. “Pops?”
“Matthew, you are my son. Anyone can see the resemblance. But I don’t deserve for you to call me your father. I was not a part of your life.”
“Yes. We talked about all that, but it wasn’t your fault. Mom never told you about me, but there’s something else you need to know. I’m gay. There, I said it. Mom knew. But—”
“Yes, and I did know, son. No reason to let that come between us. I am your father and I want to be a part of your life.”
Matthew’s face relaxed, tears glistened.
Victor wasn’t ready for this conversation, yet he knew he must continue. “But Matthew, you asked what’s wrong with you.”
“I have gay-man’s disease, don’t I?” The tears started flowing, Matthew’s cardiac monitor picked up pace.
The paramedic returned to the gurney, reached for Matthew’s wrist, and took his pulse.
“Please, would you give us some privacy?”
“Pulse is up. The oxygen mask should go back on.”
“Yes,” Victor told the paramedic. “I’ll make sure.”
The paramedic retreated to the rear of the plane, but remained standing, keeping his patient in sight.
“They don’t call it that anymore, Matthew. They call it acquired human immunodeficiency syndrome.” Victor leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “But yes, I think that is what you have. And we’re going to a hospital in D.C. where they have all the resources to deal with it.”
“AIDS,” Matthew said, the tears starting to seep. “I knew guys in San Francisco who died from it. I know how bad it is.” The cardiac monitor alarm sounded. Victor reached for a handful of tissues from a box attached to the wall. Dabbing the tears from Matthew’s face, he replaced the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, ending their conversation. Victor felt his heart might break as his muffled sobs blended with those of his son until the jet’s wheels set down on the tarmac in D.C.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28
THANKSGIVING DAY
Despite holiday traffic and extra highway police on the roads, Laura ignored the speed limit, passing every vehicle on Route 41 from Bradenton to Tampa. What could have gone so drastically wrong since she’d left home feeling mildly concerned about Natalie, but with her life on an otherwise even keel? Now, Natalie’s symptoms alarmed Tim enough for him to rush her to the E.R? Three patients in her surgical ICU—or was it four?—had a strange infection. She’d been too upset to concentrate properly on what she’d heard. Her daughter needed her.
Laura headed st
raight from her reserved parking spot to the emergency room. The charge nurse stood, holding open the door. “This way, Dr. Nelson.” Without another word, she ushered Laura into a small, but private examining room. Another chief of surgery perk.
“Natalie!” Her daughter lay on a gurney, looking pale but not in acute distress.
Tim sat in the lone chair at her side and rose as Laura approached. “Laura, I hope I didn’t overreact, but when Natalie spiked a fever—”
“You did the right thing, Tim,” Laura moved past him to her daughter. “Does she have an acute abdomen, or doesn’t she? Appendicitis? Ovarian torsion? Do we have a diagnosis?” Natalie did have all the hallmarks of a surgical abdomen: abdominal pain, vomiting, and now a fever. Something had to be done, and quickly, Laura thought. Why had they not prepped her for surgery?
So far Natalie had not said a word.
“Laura, Natalie has to tell you something,” Tim said, but stopped as Duncan Kellerman strode into the exam room.
Laura moved closer to Natalie as the three doctors crowded into the small space.
“Duncan. I just got here,” she said. “Give me a minute to examine Natalie.”
“Hi, sweetie,” she said as she placed her hands on her daughter’s belly, automatically palpating, probing. But not finding what she’d feared.
“Mom, that hurts, but I—”
What was wrong? This didn’t feel like a surgical abdomen.
Kellerman spoke. “Thank God that you’re here. All hell’s breaking loose in the surgical ICU.”
Laura ignored Kellerman to focus her professional attention on her daughter. “Natalie, tell me exactly how you feel. I’m so sorry that I left you this morning. I thought—”
“Laura,” Kellerman’s voice again, “now would be a good time to listen to what’s happening in the hospital. I need you on the seventh floor.”
“Duncan, I’m with my daughter.”
“Mom, that’s all right. I’m really okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”
Natalie was not making sense. Lied? Sorry? About what? That she’d disrupted their Thanksgiving plans? So typical of Natalie, concerned about others, not about herself.
“We’ve got real problems, Laura,” Kellerman insisted. “A bizarre infection of some sort.”
“Laura,” Tim said, “Natalie seems stable, so while we’re waiting for her blood work, why don’t you go with Dr. Kellerman. I’ll stay here with Natalie.”
Laura turned to Tim for a fraction of a second. Why would he support Kellerman’s request?
Before responding, Laura stroked Natalie’s forehead: only a slight fever, not over 101.
“I’m okay, Mom. Just hurry back. I have to tell you something important. It’s about Trey Standish.”
“Okay, Natalie, we need your CBC results before we decide what to do. I will be back very soon. You just rest here. Tim will stay with you.”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell her,” Laura thought she heard Natalie say to Tim as she closed the exam room door. “She needs to know about Trey because—”
Trey Standish? Now that had made no sense. Standish? She tried to concentrate. Kellerman at her side, she headed for the seventh floor ICU.
“Your patient Bart Kelly is already dead,” he told her. “Others are seriously ill with a virulent, contagious infection. Not responsive to antibiotics.”
Laura willed Kellerman to shut up. She needed to focus on her daughter. She should not have left her, scared in the E.R., trying to share some secret. From the very beginning of her medical career, Laura had been faithful to her mantra: My first responsibility is my family. In any conflicting circumstance, I always will choose family over career. Including medical school, eighteen years and counting into her career, she’d never faced such a defining choice. Until just now.
On the elevator, Kellerman saw fit to lecture her. “The surgical ICU is your responsibility, and we waited for you to make major decisions that must be made.”
The first thing Laura noticed was an ISOLATION sign posted near the ICU door. Beside it, another: HOSPITAL STAFF ONLY. ABSOLUTELY NO VISITORS. Okay. Good to take precautions. But no visitors was a bit drastic.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28
THANKSGIVING DAY
Charles had saved room for pecan pie and that special caramel cake that his mother always served on holidays. Only this year, he was disappointed. Mom’s new diet, Dad’s cholesterol. All the maid offered him with the coffee was some low-fat custardlike pudding that tasted like, well, the stuff didn’t even have a taste. As soon as the servants cleared the table, Charles got up and left his parents’ home. He’d overindulged on turkey, cranberry-walnut stuffing, potatoes, you name it.
Letting himself into the mansion, he went straight for the kitchen, took out a spoon from the drawer, and pulled a half gallon of Haagen-Dazs butter pecan out of the freezer. He ate right out of the carton. Nobody here to scold him. Then he heard steps coming from the basement.
“That you, Will?” he called. He hadn’t expected Banks back until tomorrow. Had The Order already chosen the target?
“Yeah, Chuckie, where the fuck were you?” Banks stepped into the kitchen. “You got an important mission, you gotta stay on call. We’re in combat mode, you can’t go runnin’ to Mama and Daddy’s. Don’t fuckin’ care if it is Thanksgiving. That where you were?” He held out his hand for the carton of ice cream. “Give me that.”
“What did The Order decide?” Charles asked. Just the question made him queasy, and he gladly surrendered the carton.
Banks grinned, dipped in with the same spoon, and swallowed a lump of the butter pecan ice cream. “Creamy. Only the best for Chuckie. What, you didn’t get enough to eat over there at the ancestral mansion?”
“Did The Order decide?” Charles repeated.
Will took another mouthful and grinned. “Indeed they did, Chuckie. Indeed they did, and you’re the star player, my man.”
Charles backed into the nearest kitchen chair and sat down. He had overeaten; his stomach felt uneasy.
“We’re on, my man. You’re gonna do the deed. I got all the details.” Banks patted the right front pocket of his tattered jeans. “You’re gonna release those bad ass germs and all we gotta do is stay out of the way and enjoy the show. I can hear the moans and groans and gnashing of teeth already. Those people are gonna die, my man. And it’s not going to be pretty, is it?” Banks stooped and leaned over Charles so they were face to face. “That right, Chuckie? Not pretty?”
The Order had chosen Charles.
“Not pretty,” the star player managed to reply.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28
THANKSGIVING DAY
During her training at Detroit City Hospital, Laura thought she’d seen every variety of pain and suffering, but never anything like this. When the door to the ICU swung open, she heard herself gasp. Yesterday, the unit’s seven occupants were doing reasonably well, most drifting in a sedated state close to sleep, their monitors steadily blinking and beeping. Now, she faced sweat-soaked patients writhing on damp sheets, some shaking violently. Patients who’d been recovering twenty-four hours ago, should be getting better now, not worse.
The plague came to mind. The bubonic plague; scourge of the Middle Ages. Pulmonary failure followed by organ shutdown. Signs and symptoms: shortness of breath, shaking chills, raging fever that melted organs. Back then, antibiotics had not existed; they did now, thank God. She scanned the patients, their beds arranged in a semicircle facing a central nursing station. What she saw in the last bed made her steady herself against the closest supply cabinet. Bart Kelly, her carefully selected lung reduction patient, so chipper yesterday, lifeless, covered with a white sheet.
She felt a hand grip her shoulder. “Laura, thanks,” Ed Plant said, “for coming back—glad you’re here. I don’t know what to make of this. They’re deteriorating right before my eyes.”
Her col
league’s disarray stunned her. His red hair had lost its styled perfection; blood and body fluids stained his pressed white pants and starched lab coat. But his expression scared her the most. Amber eyes widened in terror, his face so white you could count each freckle.
She felt a tremor in his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s take a moment,” Laura said, indicating two vacant chairs behind the nursing station.
“I can’t. I’ve got to get a chest tube into bed seven. He’s a young kid. Take out the fluid. Radiology is shorthanded for the holiday and they can’t get the on-call staff to answer their phones. So no portable x-rays. And he’s too critical to take downstairs.”
Laura looked to bed seven before something struck her as strange. Despite so many patients taking a turn for the worse, she saw only two nurses in the room. ICU standards called for a one-on-two ratio. Where were the other two? And where were the aides? The only other personnel on the floor was chief resident Michelle Wallace and she was inserting a central line into Mr. Mancini in bed five with no one even assisting her.
“Where is everybody?” Laura asked. “Not a good time for a coffee break.”
“The staff is worried, Laura,” Ed said. “Something frightening is happening, a virulent infection of some type. The AIDS patient we had here spooked everybody in the first place, and now they think we’ve got the next plague.”
So she hadn’t been the only one to invoke the specter of plague. And why wasn’t Ed wearing protective clothing?
Weapon of Choice Page 12
