Deadly Encounter

by DiAnn Mills

  An envelope from the health department caught her attention, and she opened it, knowing her license and state regulations were in order.

  Ms. Broussard,

  Health concerns in your subdivision indicate a potential problem with the water tower supply to your homes and businesses. Consuming the contaminated water leads to flu-like symptoms. Until the source of bacteria has been identified and treated, please cease from using tap water for drinking, cooking, bathing, and watering vegetable gardens. This includes pet care. The request is effective immediately.

  We regret the inconvenience, but for the health and safety of every person in your neighborhood, kindly adhere to these regulations until further notice.

  For additional information, you may call or e-mail us at the contact information in the letterhead. A representative will assist in answering your questions.

  Sincerely,

  Houston Health Department

  How strange. She reached for the landline on her desk and called the number. A man identified himself as from the health department.

  “I just received a letter indicating a water problem in my subdivision. Can you provide guidance for those of us who live and work here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We apologize for the disruption, but flu-like symptoms have been reported in epidemic proportions in your neighborhood. We’ve isolated the problem to what we believe is your water supply.”

  “When was the water tested?”

  “I’m not privy to those dates.”

  Why hadn’t she heard about an outbreak of flu until today? The twins had been her first notification. No one at the carnival spoke about the illness. “I understand. My subdivision consists of many residents who are not financially able to purchase water. Has any provision been made for them?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “What is the contaminated zone?”

  “Just your subdivision and the strip center where your veterinary clinic is housed. We’re encouraging residents to consider temporarily relocating until the problem is resolved.”

  “And who’s paying for this?”

  “We’re not able to say. Perhaps churches and community organizations will assist the unfortunate.”

  “Have you seen this neighborhood?” Her mind raced with how much bottled water would be needed for residents to continue living in their homes. She could help a few but not everyone. “What about Volunteer Houston? Would one of the organizations under their umbrella help?”

  “We’ve contacted them, and they refused. Their guidelines state the mayor must declare an emergency before they can get involved. We’ve received several calls today regarding this matter. Again, we regret the hardship for your community. Please check back for updates.” The man expressed his sympathy and clicked off.

  Stunned, Stacy deliberated her next move. Mass panic would erupt among the residents unless they were provided viable options. She phoned neighborhood friends to see if they’d received the same letter, which they had. Several small children and elderly suffered from the symptoms outlined in the letter.

  She contacted a friend whose family attended her church.

  “My sons are really sick. I called my husband about the letter. He’s been talking about moving out of the neighborhood, and this new development sealed his decision. It’s not safe here,” the woman said.

  Had the water infected a myriad of people? It certainly seemed so.

  Gossip would spill over into anger and very soon rage. A meeting with the residents would help, and she could hold it here at the clinic. One of the local churches came to mind, but the residents who weren’t believers might shy away. Foremost she needed a representative from the health department to conduct an orderly and informative session.

  How quickly could she make that happen? A call back to the health department eased her mind. The man demonstrated a willingness for a spokesperson to conduct a meeting. He’d pass along Stacy’s inquiry, and she’d be contacted before the end of the day.

  “Thank you.”

  The phone clicked in her ear, and her stomach swirled with acid and too much coffee. How would she spread the word about this meeting? She knew from experience that obtaining phone numbers for her neighbors was nearly impossible and e-mail a futility. She’d request official letterhead for credibility. The most efficient way to alert people would be to go house to house with flyers and speak directly to them. Not pleasant when some of the residents were hostile. She was a dog lover, but the canines trained to discourage visitors had her respect. The two-legged deterrents were worse.

  Did she have a choice when she wanted to protect others from an epidemic originating in their water?

  Alex opened his iPad to the Houston Chronicle and accidentally swiped on something that took him to where the obituaries were noted. He wouldn’t have paid attention except he saw a photo of the old man he’d met on Sunday at the carnival. Mr. Parson had been found dead in his home on Monday afternoon by a neighbor. The highly decorated man had fought in the Korean War and earned a Purple Heart for his valor. He’d risked his life to enter a combat zone three consecutive times to pull out wounded soldiers and was shot in the leg during his last trip. No wonder the man limped.

  He should call Stacy to offer his condolences. She’d had her share of deaths recently. Or was he fishing for an excuse to talk to her? Maybe an e-mail, but then he’d not hear her voice. Or a text . . . Friendship only.

  He chose to text.

  Sorry 2 hear about Mr. Parson.

  Busy day ahead. Every airport in the country was on elevated threat alert. Airlines grumbled about business and wanted Homeland Security to redefine the threat, but the caution remained until the persons behind the theft of the quadcopter had been found.

  A text soared into his phone. Thnx. Hard 2 believe he’s gone.

  Cause of death?

  Assumed heart attack. I found him. Sad.

  Alex groaned. How unfortunate for her to discover two bodies within a few days. He pursued the investigations of stopping those who caused death and destruction. But the average person left such repulsiveness locked outside their front door.

  Sorry. R u ok?

  Will b.

  Whitt ok?

  Quiet

  Alex didn’t know much about the kid except he appeared close to Mr. Parson.

  Bummer. Take care. Why hadn’t he asked her out?

  Thnx again.

  Get your courage on. Would u want 2 have coffee sometime? 2nite?

  U r kidding!

  I’m serious.

  Am I still a suspect?

  Alex pressed in her number, and she responded on the first ring. Her voice held the lilt that transported him back to family and home.

  “Coffee, not an interrogation, to get to know each other better,” he said. “Purely platonic.” Who was he kidding?

  “Can I have the request in writing?”

  “Do you want the director to sign it?”

  “I’m teasing, Alex.”

  He chuckled. “You got me on that one.”

  “Any arrests?”

  “Not yet. Running down leads. So what about coffee?”

  “Alex, I’m not dating material. Life is extremely complicated, and the situation with Whitt is . . . demanding.”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “No.” She sighed. “Can’t believe I’m telling you this.” She explained the past several years with the boy, his parents’ mistreatment, and her filing for custody. “His parents are unfit in every sense of the word, but I’d not tell him that.”

  “When’s the hearing?”

  “Next week. My lawyer doesn’t see a problem, but I’ll feel better when it’s over. Both parents are currently in jail.”

  “I’m sure you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “Of course I have.” Her voice rose. “I’m sorry. No excuse for bad manners.”

  “Can I call you later this afternoon about coffee, and we can take Whitt with us?”
<
br />   “Guess I haven’t deterred you.”

  “Whitt might object, but I’m still interested in friendship.”

  “Really, couillon?”

  She’d called him a crazy fool in Cajun, and it touched him in a way he couldn’t put words to. His mother had referred to his dad with the same endearment. “Ah, yes.”

  “My schedule’s unpredictable and leaves little time for social activities, and then there’s Whitt. Have you ever been married, Alex?”

  “No.” She did have her blunt side.

  “Neither have I. The parenting thing is frightening. I’m prepared to make mistakes, but taking the first steps of a friendship sends up flares.”

  Did he want to continue seeing her, knowing the little professor was part of a package deal if things developed after the case closed? “My life is not my own either. I can be called out on a case day or night and have to cancel plans at the last minute. Some women can’t handle the unpredictable, and I understand. It’s obvious you care for Whitt, and I hope everything goes smoothly for the hearing.”

  “Appreciate it. Think about what I said before you decide to call again.”

  He laughed. “Yes, ma’am. And I’ll get back with you.” He ended the call, wondering if he’d officially lost his mind by asking out a woman who most likely would be raising a twelve-year-old. Alex had been a handful at Whitt’s age, and his behavior didn’t improve until he entered college and found an interest in the FBI.

  His gut told him to walk on. Ready-made families were for guys who had nine-to-five jobs. And he’d done exactly what he’d told Dexter wouldn’t happen.

  WHITT STOPPED AT A CONVENIENCE STORE on the way home from school and purchased a can of Mountain Dew. He allowed himself one soda per week on Wednesdays. The rest of the time, he drank tap water. Except in the morning when he mixed coffee loaded with chocolate creamer and syrup to counteract his habit of reading until 2 a.m. He’d taught himself to speed-read—it only heightened his craving for more knowledge. Weird, but his desire to learn about the world, past and present, helped him survive the chaos of his parents and bullies who used their fists instead of their brains.

  He stepped out of the store and popped the top. After a long citrusy swig that jolted his toes, he studied the decline around him. The area could use a renovation, but not many cared about mowing yards and planting flowers. Too many of them, like his parents, were more interested in dulling their senses to forget their miserable existence. But not all, and his mind swept through a few names and faces of respectable families. Unfortunately none of them had kids his age who were interested in science and world events.

  Why think about a friend when Xena listened? No fears the warrior princess would broadcast his nurturing-challenged parents from the rooftops or inform a well-meaning adult who’d make a report to social services. Mr. Parson had listened, and Whitt respected him for his sound advice to work hard in school and make something of himself.

  “Give to this world a gift that can only come from you,” Mr. Parson had said. “Discover a cure for cancer or a way to bring Jesus to the world. But above all, be a loving husband and father to your family.”

  “I promise,” he said. “I’ll make you proud, more than anyone ever imagined. Sometimes I think I want to be a vet like Miss Stacy, and other times I want to be a psychologist or a surgeon. But whatever I choose, I’ll have a PhD after my name by the time I’m twenty-one, and I’ll be working on another one.”

  A tear slipped over his cheek, and he brushed it away. Wasn’t fair about Mr. Parson, the one man he trusted now zipped out of his life.

  On his twelfth birthday, the older man gave him $150, said a man always needed an emergency fund. Whitt referred to it as disaster relief and deposited it in the bank. Now Mr. Parson was gone, but Whitt still had Xena.

  He loved Miss Stacy too much to reveal all of his inner thoughts—the nightmares and memories that boiled pure hate and rage. She might not want him anymore.

  The custody hearing couldn’t happen soon enough. He could log on to her computer and learn more since he’d memorized how she changed her password on a weekly basis, but accessing the device without her permission seemed wrong, like stealing. Not cool, and he refused to go there unless it was critical. In case the judge ruled against him, he’d established an escape route with a place to start over miles away from here. The CDC’s website gave him valuable info about emergency preparedness. Following their guidelines, he’d assembled his disaster supply kit and kept his eyes and ears open.

  By habit, he glanced at his backpack. Risky to stash money there, but he’d inserted a secret compartment where no one could find it. Over six months ago, he’d developed a plan after social services made a house call. At the time Mom was sober and played the role. She wanted Whitt around because he had the only steady income. He gave her a little on occasion, not because he owed her but because she threatened to call the agency to pick him up.

  Whitt’s plan had foolproof stamped on it. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to put it into action.

  Stacy watched Whitt ride into the parking lot from school and chain up his bike. Soon he’d be her son, and they’d be a little family. She craved an opportunity to love him completely as a mother. If the judge chose to award custody later to his parents or someone else, he’d always have her love.

  He entered the clinic, wearing his familiar grin.

  “How was school?” she said.

  “Good. I finished the edits on my English lit paper. I’d like for you to read it. Any feedback would be welcomed.” He reached inside his backpack and handed it to her.

  Not sure why he wanted her to read it, yet the thrill of reading his work gave her a sense of pride, and she cherished every word. “Excellent job,” she said. His written communication skills, including grammar and punctuation, far exceeded her skills. But now she was versed in the styles of the poets who’d won the Nobel Prize in Literature.

  “What suggestions do you have?” he said.

  Quick, Stacy. She returned the paper. “You have an extra space in the header.”

  He nodded. “Contentwise.”

  “Organized. Informative. Will this be an online submission to the teacher?”

  “Yes. The hard copy is for you.”

  “A photograph of each poet? Or for a contemporary one, a link to a recording of the author reading his work?”

  He gave her a high five. “I’ll get on it. How was your morning?”

  “Fairly quiet.”

  “Does that mean your new phone is operational?”

  “It is. Do you feel okay?”

  “Perfecto. Why?”

  “Just checking. Some of the kids who were at the carnival have the flu.”

  “I’m healthy.” He slid a sideways glance at her. “What has you stressed? Are you sick?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Something’s wrong because I see little squiggly lines in your forehead.”

  She drew in a breath. If she kept the health department’s recommendations from him, he’d find out or worry about whatever was bothering her. She handed him the letter.

  He read and folded it neatly before returning it. “What actions have you taken?”

  She told him what had transpired with the phone calls.

  He paced the reception area of the clinic. “Why wouldn’t they talk to each resident about the potential danger? Release a statement to the media? Put up posters? Take out newspaper ads? Talk to pastors and schools? Where’s their community-minded spirit and communication skills?” he said. “From what you’ve told me, they’re shoving the problem onto our shoulders. Like, ‘Don’t use the water, and we’re sorry for the inconvenience.’”

  “I’ll learn more when the representative contacts me.” She pointed to a notepad. “My questions are here, and I’m sure you have additional ones.”

  He scrunched his forehead and read her scribblings. “If it were me, I’d contact the local media and get them out here. Channel 5 ha
s the most viewers. Suggest they interview residents and hear what we’re up against. Three reasons why—number one, it could expedite the health department’s involvement. Number two, the news would show how our community desperately needs help, and number three, it takes some of the burden off those who care about our little neighborhood.”

  “You’re a genius.”

  He grinned. “So it’s been said. You’d have come to the same conclusions.” He nodded toward the back of the clinic. “I’m starved. Did you bring the leftover brisket?”

  “With buns, chips, and ranch dressing.”

  “Stupendous. Have you eaten?”

  “Go ahead. I’m going to make a few calls first.”

  Whitt leaned against the wall. “Since Saturday, one mess after another has clogged your head. How can I help?”

  She blinked back the wetness. “Be yourself, and pray things resume to normal.”

  “Not too normal. The custody hearing is hovering like a storm cloud.”

  “God’s will, Whitt. Although I’m anxious, the scales are balanced on our side. How about saddling up on Sunday afternoon and taking a long ride together? It’ll be hot, but we can take the horses to a tree-lined trail.”

  “I’m all over it.”

  “Figured so.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “By the way, on the way home from school, I saw a man nailing up signs—‘Cash for your house.’ I wonder how many people in our neighborhood will take him up on the offer after the health department letter.”

  “If he’d invest some dollars and flip the houses, I’d help him.”

  He laughed. “Hope the parents’ landlord is the first to sell out.”

  “Me too.” Poor boy. Once he’d loved them, but they’d crumpled any trace of affection. One day she and Whitt would have to face issues squarely and deal with the pain. But not today. Change the subject. “How was school?”

  He shook his head. “Reverting to an old topic doesn’t make the problems disappear. But I’ll play. I finished math early and did the assignment for tomorrow.”