Exposed (25 page)

USAMRIID
Inside the hot zone

Every time Colonel Benjamin Platt entered a hot-zone suite he was taken a back by how ordinary it looked. On the outside of the thick steel air-lock door it certainly gave the impression of entering something extraordinary, with the bright red biohazard symbol accompanied by DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT WEARING VENTILATION SUIT. The ID code looked like a digital keypad that could be a prelude to a flight deck. Entry required tapping in the correct code and going through a long list of procedures that when done correctly rewarded you with a voice and flashing green light that indicated YOU ARE CLEARED TO ENTER. All of this, including the gasp of air released from the lock, would insinuate something spectacular existed on the other side. And although the stark and sterile room should have been a letdown, Platt always felt a sense of reverence when he entered.

Yellow air hoses snaked out of white walls that were painted like a Jackson Pollock exhibit, thick clumps of epoxy splattered haphazardly. Similar gobs of white bulged around outlets and plugs, sealing any cracks. A strobe light hung from the ceiling, an alarm that automatically was triggered if the air system failed. Metal cabinets lined one wall, a long counter on another, and a third was a viewing glass to the outside world.

Platt grabbed one of the yellow cords and plugged in his suit. Immediately the roar of air filled his helmet and his ears. McCathy had barely looked up at him, not willing to take his attention from the work his double-gloved hands were finishing. He had prepared four glass slides and had four microscopes, side by side, ready to view each individually.

Finally looking up, McCathy waved Platt over next to him. He placed each slide in its respective slot. Then he checked with a glance down the eyepiece of each microscope, giving a twist, sometimes two twists, to focus.

“FROM LEFT TO RIGHT,” McCathy yelled over the noise as he stood back. Platt could see the sweat on the older man’s face, fogging up the inside of his helmet. McCathy pushed the plastic against his face, leaving a smear but it didn’t distract him. He pointed to each of the microscopes. “EBOLA RESTON, LASSA, MARBURG AND EBOLA ZAIRE.”

Platt nodded. McCathy had put the viruses in order from best-case scenario to worst-case. As much as Platt hoped it was Ebola Reston he knew that wouldn’t explain why Ms. Kellerman’s body was crashing.

“I’LL NEED TO HIT THE LIGHTS,” McCathy told Platt, holding up a remote-control device. “IT’LL BE BLACK AS NIGHT IN HERE. WE CAN’T RISK BUMPING INTO EACH OTHER.”

Platt nodded again. His heart was back to banging in his chest, almost louder than the air pressure in his ears. It wasn’t the impending dark that caused the banging, although he knew better scientists than himself who would never attempt the combination of claustrophobia, darkness and a hot zone.

“YOU STAND THERE AND LOOK IN THOSE TWO MICROSCOPES.” McCathy pointed at the two directly in front of Platt. “I’LL TAKE THESE TWO. THEN WE WON’T BE RUNNING INTO EACH OTHER.”

Platt stared at the microscopes. McCathy would have Ebola Reston and Lassa fever. He had Marburg and Ebola Zaire. Don’t let either of them glow. He would welcome total darkness.

“READY?” McCathy asked, holding up the light-switch remote.

Platt placed his hands on the edge of each microscope so he wouldn’t fumble in the dark. He nodded again.

The room went pitch-black. There was nothing that emitted light. Not a red dot on a monitor. Not a crack of filtered light. Not a single reflection. He couldn’t even see McCathy who stood right beside him.

He found the eyepiece of the first microscope and tried to look through. His faceplate made it difficult. He saw only black. And now his heartbeat pounded so hard he thought the vibration might be obscuring his view. The faceplate was flexible plastic and Platt pressed it down until he could feel the eyepiece of the microscope solidly against his eye sockets. Still, he could see nothing.

“ANYTHING?” McCathy yelled from beside him.

“NOTHING FROM THE FIRST ONE.”

“NOTHING HERE.”

Platt waited. Sometimes it took a few minutes for the serums to mix and cause a reaction. Still, there was nothing. He reminded himself: Marburg on the left, Ebola Zaire on the right. He pulled back, took a deep breath and positioned himself over the other microscope, repeating the process.

“NOTHING HERE,” McCathy yelled about his second sample.

Platt barely positioned his faceplate and he could already see it. It wasn’t a faint glow. It was bright. He sucked in air and shoved his eyes hard against the microscope. Below him it looked like a night sky with a glowing constellation.

“Holy crap,” he muttered. He jerked his face away and found the other microscope. Nothing there. Back to the other. Still glowing, even brighter now.

“WHAT IS IT?” McCathy yelled.

“I’VE GOT ONE GLOWING.”

“I KNEW IT. WHICH ONE?”

Platt had to stop himself. He had to slow his breathing. He needed to think. He needed to remember. Marburg, left. Ebola Zaire, right. The pounding in his heart was no longer a problem. It was as if all sound, everything around him had stopped, had come to a grinding halt. Everything except for his stomach, which slid to his feet.

“IT’S EBOLA ZAIRE.”

Saint Francis Hospital
Chicago

Dr. Claire Antonelli stared at the image of Markus Schroder’s liver. On the desk in front of her were various other images and test documents. She had gone over all of them more than twice. The man behind her was seeing them for the first time and even he was quiet. In fact, Claire found it unsettling how quiet Dr. Jackson Miles had become.

She glanced back at him. His deep-creased face was a perpetual frown. She remembered him once calling his wrinkles “well-deserved life lines.” He had those life lines for as long as Claire had known him, even back when he shepherded her through a tough residency, taking her under his wing when her all-male class made it clear that she was their outcast. Dr. Jackson Miles told her then that if he could become the first black chief of surgery then she could certainly overcome the discrimination she was dealing with.

“The liver’s enlarged,” she said, obviously only as a prompt.

“But otherwise doesn’t look unusual.” He didn’t take his eyes off the image, studying it as if it was a puzzle. “What about typhoid or malaria?”

“I’ve had him on antibiotics with no effects. Not even a break in fever.”

“E. coli or salmonella?”

“Not according to the blood tests,” Claire said and released a sigh. These were questions she had already asked herself. Confirming or dismissing them out loud to her onetime mentor didn’t make this any easier. “I thought perhaps a liver abscess or a gallbladder attack but the ultrasound doesn’t seem to agree.”

“Might not show it.”

Claire watched Jackson Miles rub his jaw with a huge hand that always surprised her in surgery when it was able to delicately work through the smallest incisions.

“I’ve sent off for more extensive blood tests, but I’m not sure I can wait. He’s becoming more and more unresponsive. I’m concerned he’ll slip into a coma.”

“Any chance he was exposed to something?”

“According to his wife even contracting malaria or typhoid is a stretch. At first I considered E. coli or anthrax. There was that farmer last year, remember who contracted anthrax somehow from his own cattle? Vera, Markus’s wife, told me they make periodic visits to Indiana. A family business she still owns, though someone else runs it for her. She said she hangs on to it for sentimental reasons.” Claire stopped herself when she realized it sounded like she was rambling. Too much. It was too much information. She didn’t need to go over everything out loud. “Markus works in Chicago as an accountant for a law firm.”

“Anyone else at the law firm sick?”

“I’ve already thought of that, as well.” Claire ran her fingers through her hair, trying to settle herself. She was operating on little sleep and cold pizza. The adrenaline high from seeing a healthy and happy Baby Haney had worn off. “There’s someone out on maternity leave,” she told him. “Another with a broken leg. No one with flulike symptoms.”

“Do you think the wife would agree to exploratory surgery?”

“What are you thinking?”

“There may be something latched onto the liver or kidneys that’s not showing up in the ultrasound.”

“You’ll do the surgery?” she asked and made sure it didn’t sound like a student asking her mentor for a favor.

“Get the wife’s approval.” He nodded. “We’ll both scrub up and take a look-see.”

He made it sound so matter-of-fact that Claire could almost believe it’d be that easy. Then he patted her arm with his gentle bear paw of a hand, and smiled down at her.

“We’ll do our best,” he said, detecting her apprehension, her skepticism. “That’s all we can do.”

Claire hoped Markus and Vera Schroder would see it that way.

Saint Francis Hospital
Chicago

Dr. Claire Antonelli stared at the image of Markus Schroder’s liver. On the desk in front of her were various other images and test documents. She had gone over all of them more than twice. The man behind her was seeing them for the first time and even he was quiet. In fact, Claire found it unsettling how quiet Dr. Jackson Miles had become.

She glanced back at him. His deep-creased face was a perpetual frown. She remembered him once calling his wrinkles “well-deserved life lines.” He had those life lines for as long as Claire had known him, even back when he shepherded her through a tough residency, taking her under his wing when her all-male class made it clear that she was their outcast. Dr. Jackson Miles told her then that if he could become the first black chief of surgery then she could certainly overcome the discrimination she was dealing with.

“The liver’s enlarged,” she said, obviously only as a prompt.

“But otherwise doesn’t look unusual.” He didn’t take his eyes off the image, studying it as if it was a puzzle. “What about typhoid or malaria?”

“I’ve had him on antibiotics with no effects. Not even a break in fever.”

“E. coli or salmonella?”

“Not according to the blood tests,” Claire said and released a sigh. These were questions she had already asked herself. Confirming or dismissing them out loud to her onetime mentor didn’t make this any easier. “I thought perhaps a liver abscess or a gallbladder attack but the ultrasound doesn’t seem to agree.”

“Might not show it.”

Claire watched Jackson Miles rub his jaw with a huge hand that always surprised her in surgery when it was able to delicately work through the smallest incisions.

“I’ve sent off for more extensive blood tests, but I’m not sure I can wait. He’s becoming more and more unresponsive. I’m concerned he’ll slip into a coma.”

“Any chance he was exposed to something?”

“According to his wife even contracting malaria or typhoid is a stretch. At first I considered E. coli or anthrax. There was that farmer last year, remember who contracted anthrax somehow from his own cattle? Vera, Markus’s wife, told me they make periodic visits to Indiana. A family business she still owns, though someone else runs it for her. She said she hangs on to it for sentimental reasons.” Claire stopped herself when she realized it sounded like she was rambling. Too much. It was too much information. She didn’t need to go over everything out loud. “Markus works in Chicago as an accountant for a law firm.”

“Anyone else at the law firm sick?”

“I’ve already thought of that, as well.” Claire ran her fingers through her hair, trying to settle herself. She was operating on little sleep and cold pizza. The adrenaline high from seeing a healthy and happy Baby Haney had worn off. “There’s someone out on maternity leave,” she told him. “Another with a broken leg. No one with flulike symptoms.”

“Do you think the wife would agree to exploratory surgery?”

“What are you thinking?”

“There may be something latched onto the liver or kidneys that’s not showing up in the ultrasound.”

“You’ll do the surgery?” she asked and made sure it didn’t sound like a student asking her mentor for a favor.

“Get the wife’s approval.” He nodded. “We’ll both scrub up and take a look-see.”

He made it sound so matter-of-fact that Claire could almost believe it’d be that easy. Then he patted her arm with his gentle bear paw of a hand, and smiled down at her.

“We’ll do our best,” he said, detecting her apprehension, her skepticism. “That’s all we can do.”

Claire hoped Markus and Vera Schroder would see it that way.

The Slammer

The telephone on the wall startled Maggie again. She had been so engrossed in her Internet computer searches that she hadn’t noticed someone come in and take a place by the window.

When she looked up, Platt’s eyes were on her, so intense, so penetrating she didn’t want to meet them. He knew something and it wasn’t good news. She took her time, closing a file, signing off a site and all the while letting the phone ring and letting him stand there.

“Thanks for the computer,” she said when she finally answered. “You’re about to tell me I’m going to get a lot of use out of it, right?”

He just stared at her and she could see his jaw was clenched too tight, so tight that the muscles twitched.

“You’re always trying to preempt me,” he said, his expression remaining unchanged.

“Sorry, it’s a habit. I’m usually the bearer of bad news. I’m not used to it being the other way around.”

“Are you always this cynical?”

“I chase killers for a living.”

“Awww…” He smiled, tilting his head back as if that were explanation enough. “You’re used to throwing people in the slammer, not being in it yourself.”

He pointed to her chair and started to sit in the one on his side, but stood back up and waited for her. She didn’t want to sit. She’d rather take bad news standing up, or better yet, pacing. But he looked so exhausted. His freshly washed hair was still damp. Dark bags puffed out under his eyes. A white smear of something—soap perhaps—left on his chin, bright white against the stubble. And he had changed clothes, a William and Mary T-shirt and navy sweatpants. But the same white Nikes.

“So something tells me you didn’t just get back from a leisurely jog?” she asked as she took her seat.

“No jog this morning.” He followed suit but sat up straight when she thought he looked as though he’d rather slump down and stretch out like he had before.

“I may have found something,” she told him only because she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his news yet. “I think this guy might be duplicating certain pieces of unsolved or old crimes.”

“What makes you say that?” He looked curious but nothing more.

“I have a mailing envelope I found at the Kellerman house so I’ve been searching—”

“You removed evidence from a crime scene? A hot zone?” Now he was on the edge of his chair.

“I double-bagged it.” When his brow stayed furrowed, she offered, “It was with me, on my person and inside here now, so I’d say it’s as safely decontaminated as I am for the moment.” She stared him down, didn’t flinch. “Don’t you want to know what I found?”

“You know I could charge you with obstructing a United States Army medical operation.”

“Oh, sure. Go ahead. What are you going to do to me? Throw me in the Slammer?”

They stared each down again, gunslingers, neither willing to be the first to look away. Finally he did. His free hand went up to his face, fingers rubbing deep at tired eyes, and then they wiped down to his jaw, getting at the white smear; all the while he sank back into the hard plastic chair, but he kept the phone pressed to his ear.

“I’ll need to process it,” he finally said.

“It’s yours.”

Maybe he expected her to argue. Maybe he was simply tired.

“So what did you find?”

She explained it him, about the return address, about James Lewis and the Tylenol murders from September 1982, about Mary Kellerman and Mary Louise Kellerman, about the towns’ names being almost the same and how this killer wanted the anniversary to be commemorated with a crash.

“What was in the envelope?” he asked.

“Nothing except an empty plastic bag with a zip lock. I didn’t open it. It
is
evidence.” She smiled at him. She was trying to make amends. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, the Kellermans were definitely exposed to something,” Platt said. “But it wasn’t cyanide. I almost wish it were that simple.”

“It’s not a poison or a toxin?”

“No. It’s not a poison.” A slow shake of the head as if he wished it had been. “Not a toxin.”

She waited.

“I know you have a medical background.”

“Premed in college,” she said. “It was a long time ago.” He was making her a colleague so she’d understand his angst. Yet minutes ago he had treated her like an opponent, obstructing justice. Maybe it was simply his exhaustion. She hadn’t slept, either. “Please just tell me,” she said, the impatience slipping. “I don’t need it candy coated but I don’t need all the techbabble.”

This time he took a deep breath. Sat forward again. His eyes never left hers.

“Ms. Kellerman has been exposed and her body has been invaded by a virus. It’s been trying to replicate itself inside her. Inside her cells. Bricks of virus, splintering off, exploding the cell walls then moving through the bloodstream onto the next cell.”

Maggie was sure she had stopped breathing at the word
virus
. She didn’t need to hear more, but Platt continued.

“It’s a parasite like one you hope to never see. A parasite searching for a perfect host.” He stopped himself as if trying to find a better way to explain it. As if trying to remember something from long ago. “The biggest problem is that humans aren’t a perfect host. They last maybe seven to twenty-one days. The virus almost always destroys them. Then it bleeds out. It spills out of them and looks for a new host to jump to.”

“You sound like you’ve seen it before.”

“That village I told you about, outside Sierra Leone. I held something similar in my gloved hands.” He said it reverently, quietly, like a whisper or maybe a prayer.

“But you didn’t get sick.” Maggie hated that she sounded so hopeful when his face did not look it.

“That was Lassa fever. Also a Level 4 hot agent. Same family of viruses. But nothing like this.”

She closed her eyes and sank back into the chair. She didn’t wait for him this time. She didn’t need to.

“It’s Ebola, isn’t it?” she asked as she kept her eyes closed and leaned her head back.

The phone’s receiver stayed pressed against her ear so she could still hear him clearly. So she could hear him over the catch in her breathing, the ache in her chest, the slamming of her heart against her rib cage.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s Ebola Zaire.”