“Omigod Tom.”
“Calm down Martha, it’s going to be all right.”
“But the hospital is a good twenty minutes away. Maybe I should call Dr. Abbot.”
“No,” Tom flatly states “Matt needs more than that quack will give him. He needs medicine. Try to get him cleaned up a bit and down to the truck while I clean myself up.”
Frantic, Martha’s watery eyes dart around the room as she brings her fingers up to her lips to begin nervously biting them.
“Martha calm down. I’ll be back. Be strong for Matt.”
Behind them Matt retches weakly into the wastebasket—his color is fading fast.
Tom races down the hall to the bathroom and quickly turns the tap on full force in the basin. Cupping his hands in the water he splashes it on his haggard looking face and stares somberly at his reflection.
His skin is tough and leathery from long days spent working under the sun out in his fields. Crow’s feet have taken up permanent residence around his usually sharp and knowing brown eyes.
Absently scrubbing his hands and arms clean his mind focuses only on his son. “Martha!” he calls out “Get the thermometer out and take his temperature!”
Glancing down at the water in the basin he’s startled to see a red tinge to it. Examining his hands he comes across a cut he received earlier in the day while mending a fence. It’s bleeding slightly into the water. Must’ve scrubbed too hard, he reasons.
Toweling off Tom heads back down the hall to his son’s room never giving the cut another thought.
“Tom his temperature is 101.”
“All right we’re going.” Wrapping his arms around Matt he says, “Come on sport, we’re going to get you some help.”
Matt takes two steps before reaching out for the basket again and heaving from deep down into it. His tiny body shakes with the effort to expel fluids that are increasingly becoming short in supply.
“Dad,” he mouths quietly.
With Tom on one side and Martha on the other they take him downstairs and bundle him into the truck. Still in their robes they peel out of the driveway and speed all the way to Des Moines Hospital—pushed by their rising fears.
Dr. Henry Abbot pulls into the Palmer driveway as his digital display reads 2:13 am. Before he can even get the door open he’s met by the hysterical Mrs. Palmer.
“What took you so long?”
Grabbing his bag from the backseat he asks, “How is he?”
All Mindy Palmer can offer is a shake of the head and a flow of tears, but no words are intelligible.
Entering the Palmer house he moves down the hall following the light to Zack’s bedroom. Entering the room the smell of fever assails him. Quickly kneeling at Zack’s bedside he checks his vitals.
His pulse is weak while his eyes are vacant and unable to focus. His fever is spiking at 105 degrees—the boy is in serious trouble.
“How long has he been like this?”
Zack’s skin is blisteringly hot to the touch as Dr. Abbot feels his lymph nodes to find them swollen. “Mrs. Palmer?” he asks again.
Through tears she chokes out “Since supper he’s gotten worse.”
“Did you fill the prescription?”
“Yes.”
Looking right at her Henry asks, “Did you give it to him?”
She nods her assent limply and Dr. Abbot returns his attention to Zack. “What’s wrong with him?”
Henry chooses his words carefully. “I don’t know yet Mrs. Palmer. Zack’s lymph nodes are swollen with infection. The timing of his lapse suggests that he’s infected with a resistant strain of bacteria that was only helped by the antibiotic.”
“Oh God…”
“Mrs. Palmer you have to relax. Where is your husband?”
“He’s on his way home from work. He’s on the night shift.”
“Zack,” Henry says softly, “It’s Dr. Abbot. Can you answer a few questions for me? I need you to talk to me Zack.”
Wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm Dr. Abbot begins to take it when it crashes. Zack stops breathing with a final gurgle.
Time slows down for Henry as he kneels beside the bed and can hear screams behind him. Instinctively he moves to action and begins administering CPR. Counting out the compressions on his chest he then places his mouth over Zack’s and breathes air into his lungs.
Repeating the action several times more he cannot restart the boy’s heart. “I need an ambulance here now!” he screams at the hysterical mother who’s watching her only child expire in front of her.
Even as he shouts the directive Henry knows that no help will arrive in time. The seconds tick painfully away as he tries desperately to gain some kind of vital sign from Zack.
One minute passes with nothing.
Continuing the futile effort of CPR Henry is unwilling to lose this boy. More timed compressions followed by breath into the lungs bring about no response.
Two minutes without oxygen—three will bring brain death Henry knows. Still despite his efforts he can’t bring Zack back. Whatever is inside of him, whatever sickened him it finished him.
As three minutes slides by and he stops CPR to call it he can hear the screaming back at full volume as time speeds back to normal for him.
Turning to Mrs. Palmer who’s on the floor shrieking all Henry can do is offer his condolences.
She looks up at him and screams “You said he’d be all right!”
Chapter 13
His heart rate is a steady 160 beats per minute as Kazim El Said circles back for the final five miles of his morning constitution.
Facing east now he begins to see orange and yellow color bleed skyward into the black of night. One by one the stars overhead wink out as a new day begins to dawn.
Pushing himself harder sweat beads his forehead and starts to stain his warm-up jacket. He knows instinctively that he’s 15 minutes away from the motel and that he’ll be back hidden before the sun fully rises.
This is his favorite time of day. Everything is still and calm, the only sounds for miles around being the steady rhythm of his feet on the pavement and the cawing of crows over the rows of cornfields.
Not for the first time since arriving in town he shakes his head at the seemingly endless expanse of corn. A man could almost drown in the thick of those fields, he reckons.
The forecast is for another mild fall day. Looking up Kazim confirms that the sun will have no place to hide in the cloudless sky.
A little breeze kicks up from the south rustling the stalks of corn as he rushes past, dying down quickly behind him.
Reaching the gravel parking lot of the motel he slows his pace. Taking a quick look around he sees no prying eyes—as expected—and enters his room.
His cell phone is beeping on the bedspread. It’s against protocol to not have it with him at all times. Breaking the rules is not like him at all, but he’s never been able to bring it along with him on his morning runs.
Having the device strapped to his hip he knows would feel alien and intrusive upon his reverie. Scooping it up he sees a message has been left for him.
Speed dial returns the call and in moments he’s listening to the voice that he’s come to know so well. “Where were you?”
“Running,” he says as if the answer were obvious.
“Why didn’t you have your phone with you?”
“I did,” he lies “It was off. I didn’t realize.”
“You have more work to do.” Right down to business the voice instructs “Vladimir Tesla has gone missing.”
“How long?”
“It’s been four days since a confirmed sighting.”
“We seem to be having a problem keeping tabs on our scientists lately.”
“Irrelevant now,” the voice says in a tone that conveys dislike at the point being made. “Find him and bring him back alive. I don’t need to tell you how important it is that we not lose Tesla now that Markov is gone.”
“I’ll find him
,” Kazim says in a harsh tone dripping with confidence. “No way two of these jokers slip past me.”
“Pray that you’re right,” the voice says, “Everything that we’ve worked for will be lost if you cannot find Tesla before it is too late.”
“I’ll find him,” Kazim repeats. “Where was he last seen?”
“We set him up with a place in Des Moines. Our surveillance shows that he hasn’t been home in days but we believe he’s still in the area. He’s not made any withdrawals from his bank or charged anything to any of his credit cards. Plus, we don’t really believe that he’s smart enough to run.”
“Then I’ll start the search in Des Moines,” Kazim says, “I’ll call you when I’ve found him.”
A shaft of sunlight peaks through a crack in the drawn drapes and finds its way to shine on the closed eyes of Angela Lincoln as she lies in bed.
The bed is empty beside her as Donald is up and long since went downstairs to read his Sunday morning paper.
Opening her eyes to the day she rolls over and stretches to try and wake up. Memories of last night come flooding back to her.
A more excruciatingly boring experience she can scarcely recall. She spent the majority of the evening pretending to listen to all the people that Donald feels are important ramble on about the minute details of their exhausting lives.
But then there was the coatroom—with Alex.
For fifteen minutes anyway her evening looked up before Alex had to scamper off to his needy wife. Blinking away the sleep she holds the memory in her mind enjoying the texture of it completely.
A smile comes unbidden to her lips.
Getting up she saunters to the bathroom and turns the hot water on in the shower. As the water warms up she loses herself in her mirrored reflection, watching as the steam gradually crowds her out.
Stepping out of her nightgown she hops into the shower’s spray of hot water. The feel of the water on her skin is invigorating. Slowly it reaches to every part of her and melts all her tensions away.
The bad memories of the previous evening wash away down the drain. As she stands there allowing the water to work its magic on her, her mind begins to come around to today and more importantly to tonight and her plans with Alex.
He told her last night that Victoria was going to her parents tonight for a visit and he begged off saying he had work to do. And work he will.
After twenty minutes in the shower Angela turns the water off and steps out into the thoroughly steamed bathroom. Taking a towel off the rack she wipes the mirror clean and pats herself dry.
Standing there naked she gazes upon herself and has to admit that she looks damn good for her age considering she’s had two children. Her blond hair rests damply on her shoulders before she brushes it to one side. There in the mirror she sees an athletic and lithe figure accentuated with curves in all the right places and fairly perky breasts. No doubt about it she muses Alex is one lucky man.
Putting her dressing gown on over her still damp body, the silk fabric clings to her supple skin. Leaving the bathroom she heads downstairs for the kitchen praying with each step that Donald will not be there.
In the kitchen she finds Cody slurping up a bowl of sugary cereal but no sign of Donald.
“Good morning honey.”
“Morning Mom.”
“What have I told you about eating that trash?”
Cody makes a face saying, “It’s not trash Mom—it’s energy.”
“It’s sugar and nothing else,” Angela replies “Where is your sister this morning?”
“Don’t know.”
“And your father, have you seen him?”
“Yeah,” Cody perks up with the childlike excitement that comes with having a story to tell. “He had to leave after he got a phone call. Said there was an emergency he had to attend to.”
“An emergency,” Angela says, “Really. Did he say what?”
“Not to me but the way he left it has to be something big.”
“Up and at ’um,” Clark Starling says as he runs his nightstick across the iron bars of the cell.
Raising his head from the hard bench Will Sullivan fixes the deputy with a complacent stare.
“Breakfast is served,” Clark opens the cell door and sets an ancient metal tray down on the concrete. Even from across the cell Will can tell the meal will be about as comforting as the accommodations.
Relocking the door Clark twirls the ring of keys around his finger as he returns Will’s stare. “You mind if I ask you a question Sullivan?”
Silence.
“I’ll take that as a no. Why do you want to spend your time in here? Our hospitality notwithstanding, why don’t you just tell us where your parents’ remains are? For chrissakes, they’re your own parents man.”
“I can’t.”
Surprised to get an answer Clark pushes the issue “You can’t? Why not?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Will answers in a somber tone. Looking away he asks, “The other day—Tyler, I think his name was—is he all right?”
“You are a strange one, you know that Sullivan.”
“Please,” Will pleads.
Taking pity on the broken man before him Clark answers, “He’s in the hospital…it doesn’t look good. You knew him right? He helped you…”
Will nods guiltily, “I never knew his name—I didn’t want to know their names.”
“Then why do you want to know how he is?”
Turning his chin down into his chest, Will answers in a mumbling voice that is undecipherable. “What was that?” Clark asks.
Whispering to no one in particular Will shakes his head saying, “I’m not heartless…it-it just has to be this way.”
Over and over again he repeats the mantra almost convincing Clark that he’s had a break from reality. That is until Will looks up at him and in his calm eyes Clark sees the cold grip of sanity. It causes him to step back from the encounter.
“I’m not heartless…I’m not…I’m not…”
Whether he says this to convince Clark or himself, Clark would not like to say.
Chapter 14
The Board of Health building is an old brownstone situated between tall trees on Dennis Street about one block south of the Community Centre. Upstairs towards the back is the office for the County Health Department Director.
This Sunday morning the office is quiet when Donald Lincoln enters in search of Dr. Danny Gordon. He finds him behind his oak desk looking much the worse for wear.
“Jesus Danny,” he asks, “What did you sleep in those clothes?”
“Donald thank God you’re here.”
“Yes I’m here. Now what was so urgent that you couldn’t have just said over the phone?”
Danny removes his glasses and cleans the lenses with the tail of his untucked shirt. “Some things,” he begins, “Are better said face to face.”
“I’m listening,” Donald says enticed.
“We had a tragic death early this morning.”
Shocked Donald asks, “Who?”
“Zack Palmer. Dr. Abbot woke me up early to tell me the news. The speed with which the boy crashed apparently scared Henry pretty good. He said he had never seen anything like it. Zack was a healthy kid—this infection shouldn’t have overwhelmed him.”
“Jesus,” Donald whispers as he reaches for a chair.
“It gets worse I’m afraid.”
“Worse…?”
“Tyler Perry was taken to the hospital from police custody two days ago. The latest news from Des Moines is that he’s gotten progressively worse and is now fighting for his life.
“Plus, and this is just rumor at the moment,” Danny prefaces what he’s about to say. “Word has it that Tom and Martha Brown rushed Matthew to Des Moines Hospital last night. I’ve got my people working on corroborating the story as we speak.
“The details, sketchy as they are, seem to describe fairly similar symptoms to that which killed Zack. The two boys were friends Don
ald.”
The gravity of the situation is draining the color from Donald’s complexion. Uneasily he asks, “If the rumor is true, what does it mean?”
“Most likely that they were both exposed to the same thing and it could very well be contagious—especially since at present I have no way of connecting Tyler to the boys. Donald, upon confirmation of Matthew Brown’s condition I want to call in the CDC on this. We’re going to need their help.”
“Of course,” Donald says, “Whatever you feel is necessary Danny, just do it. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Pray that this isn’t what it looks like.”
With a pot of coffee in her hand Mary Osborne makes the rounds of her tables. The café is mostly empty this morning with only three tables occupied.
The reason for the poor business is of course less than a block away. She can already hear the church bells ringing out a call to the God fearing citizens of Stillness.
Topping up the cups of two customers she wanders over to the booth next to the corner and sits down across from Beatrice Rohm. “I would’ve thought that you’d be in church this morning Bea.”
Running her finger around the rim of her coffee cup Bea replies “Derek didn’t feel up to it this morning.”
With a shake of her head Mary says, “You need to be tougher on that boy. You’re his mother, not his friend.”
“And you’re not a mother so what would you know about it!”
Startled by the outburst, Mary leans back in the booth while the other customers furtively glance in their direction.
In the silence that follows Mary takes a good look at her friend trying to gauge where her head is at. Right off Mary notices how tired she looks. She looks plain worn out.
Even in her youth Beatrice Rohm wasn’t classically beautiful. She’s always struggled with her weight and has never been wealthy enough to dress in expensive clothes and jewels.
Now at 45, dark circles under her green eyes, sagging skin under her chin, and the thinning of her sandy colored hair have robbed her of what little beauty she had.
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