Weapon of Choice

by Patricia Gussin

  “Laura, how is Natalie’s boyfriend. Trey? Nicole told me all about him. Everything, including the birth control pills you discovered.”

  “Mom, he died.”

  Laura heard a gasp, then silence. Finally, her mother said, “Maybe you should talk to Nicole.”

  But she hadn’t yet talked to Natalie. “The boys? I never had much chance to see Mike and Kevin. They’ll go back to school tomorrow and—”

  “They won’t go back until Natalie is okay. Neither of them.”

  “I think she’s going to be okay, Mom. She’s in and out of delirium, but when she wakes up, she’ll want to know about Trey. What should I do? Should I tell her right off or wait until she’s stronger?”

  “Talk to Nicole,” her mother repeated. “She’ll know. Natalie and Nicole have always had a secret language, some kind of unique communication.”

  A brief silence on the other end before Laura heard her other twin daughter’s urgent tone. “What did you tell Grandma about Trey?”

  “Honey, he didn’t make it. He died of the staph bacteria. He was one of the first infected, too many days before we got the new antibiotic.”

  Nicole burst into a breathy sob. “Mom, Natalie will not be okay without Trey. They loved each other. I mean, deep love. We’re young, but Natalie loved him so much. She wanted to tell you, but—”

  “Nicole, she did tell me before she fell into the coma. And I am so sorry that I accused you—”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Nicole said between sobs. “Why didn’t you tell me that she was in a coma?”

  “That happened before she got the drug, but now she’s coming out. What am I going to tell her about Trey?”

  “You’re sure that she’s not going to die, Mom? You’re sure?”

  “All I can say, honey, is that she’s rallying. Her vital signs are better, temperature not so high. She’s starting to wake up, ask about Trey, then slip back to sleep.”

  “Because if you think she’s going to die, don’t tell her. Just say that he’s getting better, but that she can’t see him yet. But, Mom, if you think that Natalie will get well, she’ll never forgive you if you don’t tell her the truth. That’s what you’ve always taught us. Even though we may not always have been one hundred percent honest with you. Natalie and I talk about this a lot. We need to know the truth.”

  “I’ll tell her as soon as she seems stable enough. Maybe this evening, but I feel so inadequate.” Laura had told so many people of all ages and all races and all religions that their loved ones had died. But how could she impose this agony on her own daughter? For an instant she wondered if she was the right one or Tim or another doctor, Kellerman maybe.

  “You have to do it, Mom. She needs to hear it from you. Even if you’re going to court against his dad. That really scared Natalie. That she and Trey would be like Romeo and Juliet, the families hating each other.”

  “I wish she’d told me,” Laura said. “The beryllium case involving Mr. Standish is not personal. But—”

  Nicole finished her sentence, “But, you’d have read her the riot act about being too young. Even though you and Dad met when you were only eighteen.”

  “I do understand, Nicole. She loves him.”

  “Mom, when you tell her. She’ll be devastated. More than you know. Promise me you will stay with her. I mean, totally. Do not go off to see the other patients. No matter if she tells you to go ahead. Stay with her and don’t leave her alone, not even with Uncle Tim.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  Stacy called Dr. Cox on the director’s secure, private line. “Identical results,” she announced, “to the culture I took from the Tampa City Hospital lab. Technically, not identical, but close enough.”

  Stacy could hear Cox exhale. “My God. That means that the staph strain we’re fighting in Tampa is based on the same one the NIH transferred to the CDC bank just before the NIH shut down their staph research program. The strain Victor Worth and Norman Kantor developed at the NIH when they worked there together.”

  “And both of those two were in Tampa City Hospital at the time of the outbreak.” Stacy tried to sound professional, but she couldn’t quite keep the excitement out of her voice.

  “We’ve confirmed that Worth did visit Kantor in the ICU.”

  “Coincidence?” Stacy asked. “Or planned?”

  “Norman Kantor’s wife claims she was surprised to run into Worth that afternoon in the hospital cafeteria, told Worth about her husband’s medical problems, brought him into the ICU to see Kantor.”

  “And?” Stacy prompted.

  “The wife didn’t stay. Kantor sent her out. When she got back, she asked her husband how it went. Kantor told her, ‘Worth has a knack for making himself a pain in the ass.’ That was it. End of discussion. Never again mentioned the name Victor Worth.”

  “So—”

  “But,” Dr. Cox said. “Thursday morning during a shift change, Worth was seen again in the main ICU. He had no reason to be in there. Wasn’t on any patient’s visitor list. His son was still a patient—but in the isolation room. A surviving ICU patient said that she can identify Worth as being in the ICU that morning. She’d assumed he was a staff doctor. He skipped two beds, hers and the one next to hers. Those two are the only patients in the ICU who survive. Agents are headed to Worth’s house in Bethesda now, with a warrant.”

  “This was—murder?” Stacy asked, horrified. “He deliberately infected helpless patients? Why?”

  “We don’t know why,” Cox said. “His only connection is to Dr. Kantor. Why the others? We don’t know. Maybe we will soon when he’s apprehended.”

  “They have enough to arrest him?” Stacy asked, doubting herself for the first time. Had she done the right thing? Victor Worth is a fellow scientist. What if she’d made a mistake? Verified the wrong premise?

  “The FBI team has his address,” Cox said, “We’ll see. And meantime, you’d better scurry home and get dressed up for the gala tonight. You’ll be surprised at who all is there, Stacy. Oh, and by the way, Dr. Nelson’s daughter is improving. I know you’re glad to hear that.”

  Stacy was. If only she could skip that dinner tonight and crash into bed. But Director Cox had left her no out, so Stacy left the CDC thinking about her nail polish color choice.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  Stephen King’s Skeleton Crew held no interest for Charles, so he tossed the book aside and slouched in the lone chair facing Lonnie Collins’s desk.

  He watched the clock tick by. Five o’clock came and went. No Lonnie. Nobody interrupted his solitude until he heard a key turn in the door.

  Turning in his chair, he faced a stranger.

  “Don’t recognize me, hey?”

  He knew the voice, all right. Nothing else about Will Banks was familiar. Unremarkable suit and tie, shiny buffed-leather shoes, and what must be makeup. Or a mask. Bank’s pasty, lean face was bulked up and tan. His hair, normally a dull brown, was a sandy blond, with sideburns you could call stylish.

  Before Charles could speak, Banks said, “I’m here as a guest tonight, Chuckie.”

  Charles watched Banks crack a wide smile, “Think I’ll pass on the dessert, though.”

  “Thank God you showed up,” Charles said, still looking his handler up and down, shocked by the drastic change in his appearance. “I’ve got to know where to go once the—” He found that he couldn’t say the words.

  “Once that you’ve infected a roomful of degenerates with flesh-eating bacteria?”

  “You need to tell me what to do, where to go.”

  “Chuckie, I don’t got to tell you anything. Show me where the bacteria are now. Lonnie’s getting close. He’s got the pastry shell shit all lined up. All the ingredients for the creamy filling. Yummy. I want to see your shit now.”

  Charles stood and bent to pick up his satchel. “It’s in here,” he said, “in test tubes. I’m going to use this speci
al syringe.” He pointed to the cylindrical object in the bag. “Hook up a needle, and start injecting the fillings of the profiteroles, one by one.” He pressed down his right thumb, as if on a plunger.

  “Why not just dump the nasty little bugs in a big mixing bowl?” Banks asked.

  “Too dangerous. No reason to contaminate the kitchen. I don’t want innocent people hurt. Just the banquet attendees.”

  “Okay by me,” Banks said. “So you’re good with this?”

  “My duty to The Order,” Charles saluted, right hand to heart. “I want to make my parents proud. Get to a safe place. Start all over. You will let my mother and father know, won’t you? Where to contact me?” Charles already savored their praise. They’d not expect him to do something so potent, so brave.

  “Of course,” Banks said, “once you’re settled.”

  “And that will be where?”

  “I’ll be back for you once the guests are enjoying dessert. Look for me in a busboy getup. I’m your master of disguises, so don’t be scared. I’ll get you out of here. And I’ll make sure Mama and Papa are proud of their Chuckie.”

  “Will, I told you to call me Charles. I think I deserve more respect. Okay?”

  “You just be ready when Collins comes to get you. Do your thing. I’ll take care of the rest, Chuckie.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  The evening news played on Stacy’s bedroom TV as she flipped through clothes in her closet looking for the most appropriate attire. She imagined the ladies arriving, coiffed, gowned, and bejeweled. The Goode family ladies especially. Stacy had seen the daughters’ and daughters-in-law’s photos often enough, in coverage of fashionable Atlanta political and social events. The Atlanta Daily Reporter had been as financially successful as it had been politically influential.

  She had lots of classy business suits, but precious few cocktail dresses and nothing that qualified for the label, gown. She had laid out on her bed a dress with an embroidered tunic over a short white pleated skirt. Next to it, she placed the black satin bridesmaid number, knee length, straight skirt, scooped top. She wasn’t thrilled with that one either, but figured November called for a darker outfit. She was about to replace the white dress on its hanger in the closet when she heard the evening news anchor introduce the next news story.

  In Philadelphia, Keystone Pharma today announced that Dr. Victor Worth has joined the company as director of Infectious Disease Research. In a late-breaking press release, respected Keystone CEO Paul Parnell, made the disclosure, noting that while at the National Institute of Health, Dr. Worth was instrumental in the discovery of a new class of antibiotic drugs effective in treating resistant staph. Today the tragic bacterial epidemic threatening the Florida’s west coast has—

  Stacy stared at the news footage of a man identified as Victor Worth, shaking hands with the Nobel Laureate Paul Parnell renowned for developing the cure for a lethal adenovirus prevalent in Africa.

  Stacy wondered if Director Cox knew about Worth’s new post at the pharma giant. Would that make the FBI think twice about taking action against him for his suspected criminal role in causing the Tampa infections? She looked at the clock. No time now to speculate. Once again, she cursed Charles Scarlett. If not for him, she’d be in Tampa tonight with Director Cox, instead of trying to make herself glamorous enough to step out into Atlanta society. Just the thought of those four-inch heels was painful, but she could not delay much longer the moment when she’d have to slip her feet into the pumps. She zipped up the bridesmaid number, feeling the black satin soft against her skin. The soothing instant passed, and something in the back of her mind kept her off kilter—Charles Scarlett? What about the incubator log? No time now, she had to be out of the door. With reasonable traffic, she had just enough margin to arrive at the Palace fashionably late.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  The Keystone Pharma jet en route to Tampa with a ticokellin shipment for the hospital dropped Victor off at National Airport in D.C. For him, the day had been wildly successful. He’d signed the employment agreement and the confidentiality and noncompete agreements in the presence of Dr. Minn, his new boss, and the vice president of Human Resources. Then they showed him to the palatial executive suite of the CEO, the illustrious Paul Parnell. Norman Kantor had boasted of traveling to Stockholm with the wealthy gentleman for the Nobel Prize ceremony. Well, Norman, it’ll now be me basking in Parnell’s benevolent presence.

  And to his astonishment and unadulterated delight, Paul Parnell asked if he’d be willing to participate in a press conference announcing his joining the research staff. Paul explained how important it was to try to reassure the public that all possible resources were being focused on a cure for the deadly staph now invading Tampa. Clearly, Dr. Minn had briefed the CEO on Victor’s claim that he had the antibiotic drug that would prove effective against the staph: ticokellin’s sister compound, biskellin—a compound without the risk of aplastic anemia. Victor’s chest puffed up with pride, knowing that he would be seen across the country on tonight’s evening news.

  Now on his way from the airport to George Washington University Hospital, Victor felt exhilarated. Light traffic so far; chances were good he’d reach Matthew’s room in time for the evening news. How proud his son would be. And for Matthew, the medical benefits would be incalculable. Access to top care through Keystone Pharma’s connections. In Victor’s position as head of all infectious disease research, he could handpick the most promising HIV cures, authorize clinical trials, provide access to antiviral medications currently under development by research institutes throughout the world.

  But when Victor reached Matthew’s room, his son was not alone. A young man looking about the same age as Matthew, with dark-brown hair, dark brooding eyes, and a neatly trimmed moustache sat on Matthew’s bed, holding Matthew’s hand, leaning in close as if to hear Matthew’s every breath.

  Victor had planned to try again to convince Matthew to remain with him in Philadelphia, not to return to San Francisco. But as he watched the two men together, Victor felt his hopes slipping away.

  “Father, this is Vern,” Matthew said. “I told you about him. We live together in San Francisco.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  Emma knew the preparation had been elaborate, but she had not anticipated the detail planners would lavish on her special night. The Atlantic Daily Reporter logo decorated every tablecloth; the Palace ballroom walls all had been papered with oversized photos of the early days, dating back to before her birth, through the years of her father’s tenure, through the years of hers, and right up to two days ago, with wide-angle color shots of the paper’s Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless. If only her siblings were here. She was the last survivor of her generation.

  “Look, Grandma, that’s you,” the younger grandchildren squealed as the huge screen that dominated the stage started rolling a slide show of Emma’s life.

  And then the parade of well-wishers. Most she knew. Some she did not. Many were famous. Some were civil rights leaders. Some, popular entertainers. Most were black. Many were white. A few were Asian. Even fewer were Hispanic. Tonight, Americans of African descent were the majority. Her own fifteen grandchildren were the only kids in the ballroom—and not all of them kids anymore, she reminded herself, with one granddaughter in medical school.

  As Emma stood, draped in the satin of an emerald-green designer gown that defined to perfection her slim, almost youthful figure, she felt blessed, yes. But she couldn’t fend off nostalgic feelings as her life floated in front of her on the big screen. She missed Edward as well as her parents and siblings. They would never have believed this fairy-tale evening at the Palace Hotel.

  Soon it would be time to go in to dinner, Emma thought. Would there be time to greet all the guests? She hoped so. It was the least she could do, considering that they’d come to honor her. Still hard for her to bel
ieve.

  Stacy arrived at the Palace Hotel, just a few minutes before dinner was to be served. Traffic had been unreasonable, even for a Saturday night in Atlanta. She valet parked and made her way to the grand ballroom where she stood in a receiving line to meet the regal lady, who stood erect in her emerald-green gown. Emma Goode was seventy, but if it hadn’t been for the gray that streaked her pulled-back hair, she couldn’t get a senior citizen movie ticket.

  Looking around the elegant room, Stacy saw no one she knew. If Madeleine Cox had been able to attend, Stacy knew Cox would be hobnobbing all over the room. Didn’t that go with the territory of her status as director of the CDC. But she did recognize the gentlemen in the tuxes conferring near the bar: Maynard Jackson and Andrew Young. And joining them, Julian Bond. If only her mother were here. Lucy Jones loved Julian Bond. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw another of her mother’s favorites. John F. Kennedy Jr. Mom remembered him as the little boy saluting his father’s casket. A sad memory, but after losing two sons of her own, Mom seemed to cherish sad memories.

  Stacy couldn’t even imagine being in a room with so many important black people. People who had made a difference in so many lives, hers included, she thought. Stacy’s father had died when she was ten years old. Standing here, about to say happy birthday to Emma Goode, she thought how proud he’d have been, the same feeling that she’d had when she graduated from Harvard. Her dad and mom had not had the opportunities that she had, thanks in large part to people in this room, people of both races.

  She moved ahead in the line, still thinking about her dad—how deeply Dad had valued education. When Stacy reached the guest of honor, she extended her hand to introduce herself, careful not to squeeze Emma’s delicate hand too hard.