Deadly Encounter

by DiAnn Mills

  “Whitt, you’re a smart kid, and I’m sure you have everything managed expertly with the clinic and home, but here are a couple of suggestions.”

  “I could have missed something. Hold on while I get my list.” A moment later he told Alex he was ready.

  “Contact Stacy’s attorney and explain the circumstances. Let him know you’re at the hospital with her 24-7, and a friend is bringing you a change of clothes and looking out for you. Make sure whoever is taking care of the clinic can continue until at least Monday next week. Call her parents. There may be something in the family’s health history that could help the doctors.”

  “Hadn’t thought of family backgrounds.” He sighed. “I already forwarded the clinic’s calls to the other vet.”

  “Good. Have you eaten?”

  “I will when I work through the list.”

  Whitt was afraid to leave her. His stability had been seized from him, shaking him to the core. “When we hang up, get a to-go order at the cafeteria. Remember, you have money in your pocket. Eat healthy stuff, not junk. You can make calls between bites.”

  “If she wakes up and I’m not here—”

  “Leave a note. My partner and I will be there before noon.”

  “Okay. Are you calling social services?”

  “We can discuss what’s best later. Let’s take one step at a time.” The kid couldn’t take care of himself, and Alex had a responsibility to report the situation. He didn’t think Whitt would run, but intelligence and fear heated with emotions could cause a person to take drastic steps.

  STACY SENSED more people than Whitt occupied her hospital room. What time was it? She tried to move, and her whole body ached. Enough of this. She had to get home. Too much work to do. The custody hearing . . .

  “Whitt, are we alone?” Her eyes attempted to focus on the dear boy close to the bed while light streamed into the room. He touched her shoulder. She cringed at the incredible pain, and he jerked back his hand.

  “Sorry. Alex returned and brought his partner. The FBI is upon us again.” His shot at humor caused her to smile.

  That’s right. Alex had spent the night at the hospital. “More questions, gentlemen?” Might as well joke about it.

  “Just checking on you,” Alex said.

  “I’m good. Ready to go home. What time is it?”

  “Ten thirty.”

  “What’s the verdict? Will I live?”

  “I’m sure you will.” Alex’s smile didn’t match the apprehension in his voice. “You, Whitt, and I have a date at Starbucks. I hear he’s a double chocolaty chip Frappuccino fan.”

  “I look forward to it.” Would their time together really happen? Moistening her lips, she dug deep for strength to continue talking. “Thanks for stopping by. Alex, I need someone to call my attorney about—”

  “I handled it,” Whitt said. “Told him you were sick, but I didn’t say ‘hospital.’ Didn’t think he needed to know. He said with the preliminary work completed on our case, he’d see about getting the judge to approve custody without our presence. And if there’s a problem, he’ll reschedule the hearing. Since the parents are still in jail, I don’t know who’d protest except social services. Doc Kent is taking care of the clinic until he hears differently. I found your mom’s number in your phone contacts and called her. A little weird but she was nice. Your parents will be here in the morning.”

  Mom? Dad? Stacy closed her eyes. Dear Whitt. Dad would be the perfect role model for him. Maybe Dad would take him fishing. “What did you tell her?”

  He shrugged. “A strain of flu had you hospitalized. I asked about family health history and mentioned your symptoms. She didn’t have anything to report. I told her a trip here might make you feel better.”

  A tear slid down her cheek. “You covered the bases.”

  “Sure.”

  The ways she’d disappointed others with this untimely hospital stay dashed into her heart. “I need to get out of here. I’m afraid I’ve ruined our custody celebration, and what about your play on Friday? In my sleep stupor, did Mrs. Howe call? I’ve never told her how sorry I am about her husband’s death.”

  “No, she didn’t. Now don’t get all girly on me. The hearing’s in the bag.” Whitt had confidence in his words, but the uneasiness was there too.

  “Oh, Whitt. I do love you so much.” She touched his hand resting on the bed, although contact against her flesh stung. His hand was cold. “Would someone give me the doctor’s report? Flu is Tylenol and a prescription for Tamiflu. I feel like every breath is borrowed time.” Exhaustion spread through her. No energy. But desperation for answers caused her to crave more strength than her body offered. She glanced at Ric. “Are they keeping something from me?”

  He moved to her side. “Dr. Broussard, I’m not a medical professional, but I understand your concerns. Looks like the young man here is doing a fine job of taking care of you and your veterinary practice.”

  “Yes, he is. I just want to go home.” Then she remembered. “Have you received Lynx Connor’s confession and solved the crimes from that Saturday? Found out who threatened Whitt?” She gulped.

  “No, ma’am, nothing affirmative on either count,” Ric said. “But we’re on it.”

  So much easier to keep her eyes closed. “Alex, I need a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “Not for me. Whitt.” She took a breath. “Thanks. You’ve done so much. I . . . can be stubborn.” Her mind shadowed. “If I don’t make it, help Whitt.”

  “I promise,” Alex said without hesitation.

  Her precious boy whispered, “No, Miss Stacy. This is just flu. You’re going to pull through this.”

  She nodded, but the words wouldn’t form audibly. She peered into his serious gray eyes and silently vowed not to abandon him like his parents. She’d fight these symptoms and win.

  DEXTER CONCLUDED the day would be long the moment he received the blood test results for Dr. Stacy Broussard. This wasn’t a rare case of canine brucellosis that had affected a human, but a genetically engineered strain, designed to inflict damage. His first call was to James Nisse.

  “We have a potential biological problem,” Dexter said and revealed the test results. “Dr. Broussard has come in contact with brucellosis, and the public needs information immediately. We’ve never dealt with this strain before. According to her physician, she’s very ill with flu-like symptoms.”

  “When I talked to her last week, she indicated others in her community were experiencing flu symptoms.”

  “Let’s hope her case is isolated, but my concern is otherwise. I’ll send a response team to her clinic. Begin testing canines in her care and search files for those she’s seen in the last few months. James, we’ll get protocol into place. I’ll contact the FBI now.” He glanced at his watch. “Can you meet me at the Woman’s Hospital in one hour, say eleven thirty?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll contact her physician, inform him of the findings and that we’re on our way.”

  “Dr. Broussard may be able to help us expedite the communication process,” James said.

  “Or she may be too ill.” Dexter concluded the conversation and phoned Houston’s FBI director with the findings. On the way to the hospital, he called Alex. “Has your supervisor contacted you?”

  “No. What’s going on?”

  “Dr. Stacy Broussard has been diagnosed with a genetically modified human brucellosis, likely contracted from a canine. The FBI director will release a statement before the day’s complete.”

  “I’m at the hospital with her now. Is the strain airborne?”

  Dexter blew out a sigh. “Not usually. Airborne contagion is extremely rare, but not an impossibility, especially with one that’s been genetically engineered. Canine brucellosis in its singular form is transmitted through contact with the infected dog’s bodily fluids.”

  “In short, you don’t know what you’re dealing with until further testing.”

  “Right. I’m m
eeting James Nisse from the health department at the Woman’s Hospital. Her physician will have met with her by then.”

  Stacy watched Dr. Maberry enter her hospital room, wearing a mask. He opened a cupboard and pulled out a handful of masks. After distributing one each to Whitt, Alex, Ric, and her, he requested they place them over their mouth and nose. She must be highly contagious. He wore the same unreadable features, and she wanted information now.

  “Stacy, I need to talk to you.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. No emotion. “We’ve found the source of your illness.”

  The doctor gave no indication of promising news. “Shall I brace myself?”

  He studied her as though forming words for a huge disappointment. “It’s called human brucellosis. You’re acquainted with canine brucellosis.”

  “The disease is extremely rare, and I use every precaution.” Shock rippled through her. “It’s a bacterial infection that dogs normally transmit sexually. There isn’t an available cure. This is what has made me so sick? Could this be a case of false testing?”

  “Stacy, we’re positive. Unfortunately this is a strain we’ve never seen before.”

  Clenching her fist, she geared herself for what she feared would be potentially devastating. “What do you mean?”

  “A strain that’s been genetically engineered to be five times more powerful.”

  “Recombinant DNA.” Whitt lightly touched her arm.

  “Exactly,” the doctor said. “Our first concern is taking care of those infected and preventing the disease from spreading to others.” He shook his head. “Then learning why someone would develop the disease, which is the reason the health department and the director of Houston’s LRN have been called in. Representatives will be here shortly.”

  She’d talked to the LRN director about the water fraud. The laboratory used CDC protocol. Fear coursed through her. “Explain this to me.”

  “If you’ve been infected, others will be or are too. There’s a real risk of extreme contagion.”

  “Oh no,” she whispered. The carnival on Sunday flashed across her mind . . . the men, women, and children who’d attended the event. Those who were sick. But the dogs in her care were healthy. Except Xena. She’d never tested the Lab. A single dog could infect the others. . . . Her gaze flew to Whitt. A lump the size of a golf ball formed in her throat. “Someone needs to contact the dog owners who were present at the petting zoo. I think four total and Xena makes five.”

  Whitt picked up the phone. What about Mr. Parson? Xena had licked him in the mouth. Had Stacy’s neglect caused his death? “Wait. Whitt, how are you feeling?”

  “Just tired, Miss Stacy. I’m okay.”

  “Fever?”

  “Nah.”

  “Please, have the doctor examine you while he’s here.” She flashed concern at Dr. Maberry.

  “This is a serious matter, Whitt,” the doctor said. “We have no definitive indication the disease is transferred from humans, but until we have that confirmed, we’re initiating precautions. Those entering the room must wear a mask and gloves. Your door will remain closed. Procedures will be posted outside the door. Any visitors who suspect they are ill, have heart problems, diabetes, cancer, compromised immune systems, etc. will not be permitted. That also means anyone under the age of sixteen and the elderly. Whitt, I’ll need to run a blood test on you.”

  Whitt laid the phone on the bedside table. “Look, I don’t have insurance or money.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said.

  “Only if I can pay you back.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  Whitt trembled. “Are you finished so I can call Doc Kent? Or do you have other questions for him?”

  “Please contact him, now,” Dr. Maberry said.

  Panic rose. She refused to ask if this strain produced a death certificate because preliminary indications weren’t available. “What about an antibiotic? For animals, we use multiples.” Her mind swept over the cases where owners chose long-term antibiotics and isolation of the animal rather than euthanasia—the latter she’d never recommend. “I encourage you to check with the AKC Canine Health Foundation. New strides are made every day.”

  Dr. Maberry hesitated. “That was one of my calls. There isn’t a cure. To treat you, we’ll change to a combination of streptomycin and doxycycline. If your body reacts positively, then we can use it on other patients who are infected with the same strain.”

  “Intravenously, injections, or pills?”

  “Injections.”

  “Will you alert the residents of my neighborhood?”

  “The health department is handling the notification.”

  “When can I be released?”

  “Your temperature is 102.5. Does that answer your question?”

  She drew in a sharp breath. “If the strain has been altered, how does it affect the incubation period? Ultimate prognosis?”

  “Unable to determine at this time.”

  What kind of future was ahead of her? Animals aborted and had to be isolated. That was no life for a human. “Like a dog, I could live with this forever?”

  “Stacy, we can discuss long-term prognosis when we have a consensus from the experts studying the disease. You could respond, then have a relapse, or the symptoms could continue. We also have no idea how effective the drugs will be in treating this modified strain of brucella.” He stared at her chart, obviously in shutdown mode.

  “I’m sorry to upset you, Dr. Maberry. Reality is I have no idea how to cope with this. On a much smaller scale, I deal with not having the resources to cure animals. When that happens, I feel helpless and angry at the same time.”

  His gaze lifted to hers. “People have varying reactions to bacterial infections like this. One could be introduced into an area, and some would have no reaction at all. Others experience a few symptoms and they’re back on their feet. And others become very ill. Like you.”

  Before she could question him further, Whitt interrupted. “Excuse me. I have Doc Kent on the phone. He wants to talk to your doctor.” Whitt handed the phone to Dr. Maberry, who walked into the hallway with the phone.

  “What did he say?” she said.

  “Mostly listened. Told him about the possibility of Xena carrying a strain of the disease. If she has it, we’re looking at a critical situation.”

  Her thinking was muddled with the fever. What Dr. Maberry wasn’t saying about the infected spoke the loudest . . . Children and older people. Those whose immune systems fought an ongoing battle with disease. Why would anyone develop such a despicable thing? Closing her eyes, she fought the extreme fatigue settling on her. But she couldn’t sleep until questions were addressed.

  When the FBI agents left the room, she reached for Whitt’s hand. The movement sent pain coursing through her body. “I won’t give up.”

  “What can I do to help?” he said. “I can’t make you well and nothing else matters.”

  That’s when his dam broke, and she was powerless to comfort him.

  “I love you,” he said. “You’re my real mom.”

  ALEX RODE ON THE PASSENGER SIDE of Ric’s Camaro to lunch. One minute he focused on the case, and in the next he wrestled with the genetically engineered human brucellosis.

  “When I analyze all that’s happened since Stacy rode into the clearing, this looks like a crazy scheme with her as a pawn,” Ric said.

  “When you figure it out, I want to be the first to know. A murder, a stolen quadcopter, a water hoax, a plan to purchase apparently worthless property, and now a bacterial infection that could be deadly.”

  Ric shook his head. “I’m sending a request to LA to question Connor about the latest development. His plea bargain is sounding better, except if he killed Howe or left a disease-carrying dog in Houston, he gets a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  “The money from buying worthless property isn’t worth the risk of a murder charge.”

  “Something is. Do you want to talk about the personal
side of this?” Ric said.

  “Not sure I can put my thoughts into words. Separating the case from the woman has become a hurdle.”

  “Obviously you have feelings for her and Whitt.”

  “I guess. How did I allow this to interfere with my ordered life?”

  “You’re human, and despite the woman who attempted to draw you into her crimes a few years ago, you’ve developed a bad case of Stacy Broussard.”

  “When you put it that way, it’s less ironic.”

  “It is what it is.”

  Alex’s heart plummeted to his toes, and he tossed his attention to his partner. “You think she’s dying.”

  Ric stared at the road. “How long can she maintain the high fever?”

  He’d prayed for her, but God could have other plans for her. “There are several doctors on it.”

  “All right. Bro, I need to ask you something, as a friend. Real personal. Have you two been intimate?”

  Alex stiffened. “That is a personal question, but no.”

  “Hey, just thinking about you catching the same illness.”

  “It’s okay, and I’m fine. More concerned about Whitt. He can’t live at the hospital. There’s a custody hearing tomorrow, and he and Stacy were supposed to be there, but her attorney says their absence is not a concern.”

  “If the attorney fails to convince the judge, social services will want to be reassured he’s okay. Do you think he’d take off?”

  “If a decision goes against him? No doubt in my mind. And considering his intelligence, he’d find a way to beat the system. He lied to Dr. Maberry about being her foster son. I asked him to tell the attorney that Stacy’s in the hospital, but he chose otherwise. He has guts.” Alex wanted to trust the kid, but his actions jarred the trust level. “I gave her my word to look out for him, but it might not be something he’d want.”