“Excuse me, ladies.” A voice from the bed across the room, weak but familiar. “Have you forgotten about me?”
Laura turned about, then bolted across the room, stopping at the edge of the bed. “Oh, Ed,” she cried. “Thank God. I was so worried. I hadn’t heard. I am so, so glad to see you. You’re going to be okay?”
“I tried, Laura. How many dead?”
“I don’t know, Ed, but you are the real hero here—”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Charles had heard nothing from Banks. He liked the idea of leaving his parents a puzzle-type clue as to where he’d be, but without a hint of where he would end up, he was helpless. Banks was smart, Charles knew, and would try to protect The Order from just such a leak. Banks was ruthless, too. What were The Order’s plans for Charles?
Nothing to do but wait. Just wait until three o’clock when he’d leave for the Palace. He’d been told specifically to leave at three. So he would. Until then he’d pace, too keyed up to read or to eat or to think or to do anything but breathe in and breathe out.
Practical person that he was, Charles had written a last will and testament when he turned twenty-one. His only heirs: his parents. His trust fund, his estate, his art collection, his fleet of cars, all would revert to Chas and Rosabelle Scarlett. Not that they needed the money. They epitomized wealth. He had no one else, no other heirs. Should anything happen to him, when would they find out? How? Would Will Banks make good on his promise to let them know about their son’s heroic sacrifice? Would his mother turn his mansion into a shrine?
All for you, Dad, to make you proud. Finally.
CHAPTER SIXTY
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Every process executed in the incubator was monitored and recorded. Every moment of the undertaking was accounted for. Start inoculation. Complete inoculation. That sort of thing. And under the watchful eyes of sophisticated security cameras.
Stacy worked in the claustrophobic space, garbed as required in full-body cover and breathing through a respirator. God forbid even one of these ultra-virulent microorganisms escaped. She forced herself to focus on her chore, a routine replating of each series of cultures from one nutritionally depleted petri dish to another filled with fresh nourishing media. This task had to be repeated every twenty-four hours and certain procedures and tests and documentation had to be completed.
After her observation that Charles’s last foray into the incubator on Thursday clocked longer than usual, Stacy continued to wonder why. With every procedural step accounted for, why had he stayed forty-eight minutes inside rather than the usual forty-three?
While she waited for her Tampa culture experiment to complete the autopilot stage, she investigated the incubator research log. Charles’s and hers. The historical range had been forty-one to forty-five minutes. Never forty-eight minutes. She wondered why he’d been in there so long. Then she realized, that the guy had been sick. When you’re not feeling well, everything takes longer. Right?
When she thought about it, this small aberration no longer seemed important.
Stacy’s mind drifted back to the culture that she’d snuck in from Tampa, the purloined culture. What if it did match the cultures that the NIH had developed toward the end of their staph research tenure in Bethesda? What would that mean? Coincidence? Possibly. And what had Laura said about the two men working on this staph at the final phase? Norman Kantor, who had headed up the infectious disease research at Keystone Pharma after leaving NIH, and his junior colleague Victor Worth, who stayed at NIH but was reassigned to a project on fungi. Kantor had died of the Tampa staph, Laura had pointed out, and Worth had been there about the same time, visiting a relative. How weird was that?
That connection stuck in Stacy’s mind as she moved the bacterial material from plate to plate, watching the clock on the program monitor. She finished at forty-four minutes. A minute longer than her usual time, but she’d been so distracted, mostly thinking about the Tampa staph.
Charles had set a record for slow: forty-eight minutes. The oppressive heat of the incubator started to get to her—then came the realization that, if Charles had been febrile, as he’d claimed, he’d have rushed through the culture plating. With all the gear they had to wear, the temperature in the incubator was oppressive, marginally tolerable under normal circumstances, but with a high fever? He’d have rushed through the tasks, needing to cool down. Maybe her instincts had been right, and Charles had been up to something Thursday.
Stacy stepped away from the computer input panel and gazed about the ceiling, noting the familiar cameras, lights flicking as usual. No doubt that would raise the suspicion of any attentive security guard. Like, why is Dr. Jones checking out the cameras?
Nevertheless, Stacy traced the perimeter of the room. The cameras seemed to cover every square inch, following her. Then she saw it. In the far corner, an area maybe a square foot of a lab bench was off-camera. She stepped to the space, looked upward, and dramatically waved. If this area was under surveillance, she’d have a visit from security the moment she reached her office. But she wanted to make sure. Before leaving, she bent down, closely inspecting the bench and the flooring beneath. She saw nothing but a bare surface. Why was she wasting her time in here?
Time to check out. After passing through the complex decontamination process, Stacy headed down the hall and around the corner to her office. With the cultures replated for this go-round, she was fascinated to find out whether security would show up to check her out. What would she tell them? Why had she been wildly waving at the camera? She found her office empty, poured herself a cup of coffee, then waited for the buzzer letting her know that the Tampa culture experiment was ready to read—the Tampa culture not yet officially in her possession.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Emma had never been a “lady who lunched.” Certainly, she’d had her share of business lunches, mostly tedious, none social. She had few close female friends and of those, most were married to rich and successful men. They shopped and gossiped and had their hair and nails done. Whereas Emma had worked fifteen-hour days, managed to raise seven children, and get a newspaper out.
But today being the first official day of her retirement, she accepted an invitation to a celebratory lunch at the Atlanta Press Club. Women only, a group of forty of her closest work associates, her small circle of friends, and her female children and grandchildren. A “dress-up” affair her own mother would have called it, and Emma would have given anything if her mother and her four sisters, now all deceased, could be there to share this special day. She was the last living sibling of the founding Goode family, all of whom had worked at the paper in one capacity or another. She missed them all.
But to look on the bright side, seated at the tables surrounding her were her own daughters, Patricia, Deborah, Maxine, and Caroline, her two daughters-in-law, and her youngest son’s fiancée. Even better, five of her precious granddaughters. She had eight, but the younger three needed a nap to get them through the evening festivities.
The ladies talked of everything and nothing, bouncing from civil rights to Howard Stern’s radio program. From the terrorist dubbed the Unabomber to the first AIDS-themed TV movie, An Early Frost. From the new world chess champion to the latest Challenger mission. From Paul McCartney’s Spies Like Us to Egyptian commandoes storming Malta to reclaim their hijacked jet.
Women who knew their current affairs. They had to; many were in the news business.
As dessert was served, a New York-style cheesecake surrounded by blueberries, the mood turned nostalgic as one after another of Emma’s cherished family and friends spontaneously shared a favorite memory.
“I don’t know how much of this I can take,” Emma said with a broad smile. “I signed on for tonight, knowing that there’d be speeches, but I thought you girls would give me a break.”
As the event came to an end, Emma, never one to waste food, t
old her daughters-in-law to take the extra cheesecake back for the “boys.”
“Grandma,” Karen, her eldest granddaughter, said, “they’re not going to need it with the dinner we have planned tonight. And guess what I heard just before we left to come here. John Kennedy Jr. is going to be here. He’s flying in to represent the Kennedys. You know how supportive they’ve always been to us. I had wanted to sit next to Eddie Murphy, but now—”
That announcement kicked off a new level of buzz, and amidst it, Emma was able to slip away with her granddaughter as her chauffeur.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30
There could be no mistake. Shaken, Stacy stood up and went to look out her office window, but retained nothing of what she’d just seen in the familiar hustle-bustle below. She returned to her desk, sat down, took a breath, and went over the data one more time. Her hunch had been right. The Tampa culture results and the 1977 experimental bacteria out of the NIH lab were too close to attribute to chance. Not precisely superimposable, but much closer than she’d had any right to imagine when she had the harebrained idea to secure a sample of the Tampa culture.
She now had a dilemma. The legitimate sample coming via CDC courier still had not arrived. And she had uncovered vital information. She had confirmed the connection between the staph ravaging Tampa and the staph grown by the NIH in Bethesda, preserved here in the CDC Atlanta archives. She knew of the professional connection between Norman Kantor and Victor Worth, and she knew both were in Tampa. One a victim of the staph; the other the father of a patient. How did these connections add up? Could she afford to wait for the arrival of the Tampa culture, redo the testing, report the results all in due course? She decided to call Laura.
Whoever answered at the hospital reported that Dr. Nelson was under quarantine.
“I’m from the CDC,” Stacy insisted. “Put me through. If she’s in quarantine, the EOIP team will know exactly where she is.”
The individual manning the phones did not know what to do. Not good, Stacy noted. In an emergency such as this epidemic, incoming communications must be triaged with confidence. She asked to be transferred to Natalie Nelson’s room.
Tim answered, telling her that Laura was expected back at any moment from checking the ICU patients. Laura’s mobility, along with anyone who circulated in the hospital, was severely hampered by the bulky equipment they had to wear. “But you’d know all about that since it’s your agency calling the shots.”
“I have to talk to her,” Stacy said. “I’ve directly connected the bacteria that’s killing patients in Tampa to the bacteria developed in the Bethesda NIH lab.”
“I’m too tired to think. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but—”
“Hold on, Stacy, Laura’s getting suited up to come in, and she has somebody with her. Somebody I recognize from seeing her on TV. Your big boss, Dr. Madeleine Cox, the director herself.”
“Good,” Stacy said, “I’d asked her to personally check on Natalie. Do you mind if I hold on? I may need to talk to her, too.”
Stacy felt sweat in the small of her back. Should she tell Director Cox, or should she hold off for now? Protect herself—and the Tampa City lab director who’d provided the staph sample? She had a few moments to temporize while Laura and Dr. Cox conferred in Natalie’s room.
“Dr. Cox,” Laura said, “I so appreciate your taking time to check on Natalie.”
“I understand she got the ticokellin infusion. You have your friend Dr. Jones to thank for that. She put two and two together pretty quickly. If not for her, I don’t know how long it would have taken to convince me to send our EOIP team down here.”
“Yes, I know,” Laura said, already at Natalie’s side, looking reassured by the steady beep-beep of the heart monitor, then dismayed by the pallor of her still unconscious child.
The director of the CDC consulted her notebook. “Your daughter was injected almost four hours ago. She should be showing signs of improvement.”
“Tim,” Laura said, “about Natalie?” Before he could answer, she recovered her etiquette, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Dr. Cox, let me introduce you to my friend, a peds surgeon from Children’s in Philadelphia, Dr. Tim Robinson. He’s been here the entire time with Natalie, while I’ve been shuttling between my patients and my daughter. ”
“Holding her own,” Tim said, the telephone receiver still in his hand. “Not worse. Not much better. Since you went upstairs, Laura, she has not stirred. To be expected, since she’s sedated.” He nodded to Dr. Cox, “It’s good of you to be here. And good timing, Dr. Jones is calling.” He held out the phone midway between the two women. “I believe she wants to talk to both of you.”
“I’ll take it,” said Dr. Cox.
Laura watched as the director listened to whatever Stacy had to say. She shot a questioning look at Tim, who only shrugged.
Laura and Tim heard the rhythmic heave of Natalie’s respirator.
“Stacy, I don’t know what to say.” Dr. Cox’s back was to them, as she hunched over the phone.
“You put me in a precarious position.” Another pause, then a huge sigh. “All right. I’ll act on it, but you’d better jump on those cultures. The courier should be there any minute.”
Dr. Cox tapped her foot as she listened to more from Stacy.
“I have to get on this now. I’ll go over the details on this end with Dr. Nelson. And, no, you can’t decline the party tonight. You must be there. As appropriate, make my apologies. Make sure that everyone knows how serious the situation is in Tampa—why I’m not at the banquet. Etcetera. By the way, you’ll be seated at the table headed by Congressman John Conyers of Michigan, and his assistant, Rosa Parks.”
What was that all about, Laura wondered. A Michigan native, she knew all about Representative Conyers. He’d stood on top of a car during the Detroit riots, trying to quell the looting and the burning and the sniping. And Rosa Parks, the first lady of civil rights, sitting at the table with Stacy? And what had the CDC director heard from Stacy that involved details she had to go over with Laura? Dr. Cox had just hung up the phone.
“Okay, Dr. Nelson, I need to take you into my confidence, and Dr. Robinson. Are you both okay with confidentiality?”
“Yes,” Laura and Tim said as one.
“Before Stacy left the Tampa City Hospital, she was able to get her hands on a culture of the staph we’re dealing with—a sample the CDC did not authorize, I’m afraid. But back in our Atlanta lab, she did some tests. She’s determined that the Tampa staph strain is almost identical to that developed about nine years ago at the NIH by Dr. Norman Kantor and Dr. Victor Worth. Now Dr. Kantor, a patient in your ICU is dead, and Dr. Worth, who was visiting a patient here, has returned to Bethesda. Talk to me, what’s the connection?”
Tim kept silent, looking at Laura, deferring to her.
“Tim’s from Philadelphia,” Laura explained. “Since arriving at Tampa City, he’s never left Natalie’s side. He’s had no interaction with either Kantor or Worth.”
Tim simply nodded, a silent assent.
“Let me tell you all I know.” Laura related to Dr. Cox the story of her recent Tampa City patient, Matthew Mercer, and his father, Victor Worth, and Dr. Worth’s link to deceased Tampa City patient, Dr. Norman Kantor, retired research head of Keystone Pharma. “Having an AIDS patient in the ICU, even though he was in isolation, spooked a lot of the staff, and we started out short staffed that day, Thanksgiving, when the breakout happened.”
Dr. Cox listened, asking questions about Victor Worth: exactly when he arrived, exactly how he arranged for the discharge of his son.
Laura answered to the best of her knowledge.
“I need to call the FBI,” Dr. Cox concluded with another sigh. “You’ll be asked more questions, I’m sure. Again, our discussion is confidential, please. This all may come to nothing more than a horrible coincidence. In the meantime, my most sincere wishes for your daughter’s recovery.”
Laura absorbed Dr. Cox’s revelations. Had Victor Worth inadvertently brought the staph into Tampa City? But didn’t he tell her he now works in mycology? Then she remembered what Bunnie had said.
“Dr. Cox,” she called.
The director turned.
“This may mean nothing, but one of the Tampa City staph victims, ICU housekeeper Bunnie Miller, said she saw someone doing something to the patients as would a doctor. But Bunnie didn’t recover. Maybe someone else saw something.”
After Dr. Cox left, Laura called her mother, talked to each of her children, tried her best to reassure them. If Natalie was no better by tomorrow, she didn’t know what she’d tell them.
Laura gently hung up the receiver. She then took Tim’s arm and led him from his vigil at the bedside chair to the cot, where she coaxed him to lie back against the lone pillow. When he’d closed his eyes, she covered him with a light blanket. Her only wish now was to sit in the chair by the bed and hold Natalie’s hand.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Charles changed from khaki pants and pale-yellow golf shirt to jeans and a black tee shirt to a navy-blue suit with a crisp white shirt and a striped blue tie to black dress pants and a blue button-down shirt, no tie. Just how was an assistant pastry chef with murder on his mind supposed to dress?
No reason he’d attract attention on his way into the hotel, and once in the kitchen, he’d be wearing a chef’s white coat and checkered pants. He was more worried about his exit from the Palace that night, trying to foresee glitches in the scenario.
Would the profiteroles be injected as they sat on baking sheets? Or as they were transferred from the sheets to the individual dessert plates? Or would he do it once they sat on the individual plates? He’d not been paying close enough attention to instructions. He’d have plenty of time to work it out with Collins. Based on the classy banquets he’d attended, dessert would be served as the speakers began their accolades, honoring this one or that.
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