Mirrors (21 page)

Outside, it was
a “code orange” day, a meteorological euphemism for hot, putrid air. Even the short walk from our house to the car left Eve and me in sweat.

We drove to the emergency department of the hospital where the obstetrician on-call for the weekend from the practice taking care of Eve had instructed us to meet him. I stopped at the front entrance to leave Eve off and told her I would join her after parking.

“No,” she insisted, kissing me goodbye.

“I’m staying!” I repeated. “I want to be with you!”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “He just wants to check me for a low-grade fever.”

Along the way, we had argued about whether I should remain. The doctor, husband, and father-to-be in me insisted I stay.

“I’d rather you get your work done so you won’t be absent later,” she said. “I’ll get daddy to pick me up.”

“Then, call me,” I said, reluctant to depart.

We hugged cheek-to-cheek, her skin warm.

I drove back home, parked the car, and walked to Metro, my shirt becoming a towel along the way. In the cool of the train, the fabric dried only to moisten anew as I trod the familiar route to the UNIT. Inside, I made my way to the lab where I found Brubeck wearing a pair of goggles. He looked up at the last moment, setting down a pipette.

“Jason, just the man I want to see!” He nodded over his shoulder. “I’ve got preliminary results on the guinea pigs.”

He led me to another section of the laboratory where, after donning gowns and gloves, we entered a windowless room with metal shelves stacked to the ceiling. At intervals, step-ladders stretched to the highest levels. The sound of pit-patting feet carried through the musty air. We stopped before three cages set apart from the others.

“As you recall,” Brubeck said, “we agreed to test three groups. In each group, we have six guinea pigs.” He pointed to a cage labeled,
Group 1: controls (chow without
XK59
).
“How do the animals look to you?”

I watched them move about briskly. “Healthy.”

He nodded, pointing to the next cage labeled,
Group 2: chow +
XK59
(1 part per billion)
. “As you recall, this was the concentration of XK59 in the shrimp.”

“How long have they been eating the chow?”

“Eight hours.”

The animals appeared to be as healthy as those in the first cage, which didn’t surprise me because in my mouse studies I had to spike the chow with 10 parts per million XK59 to produce fatal bleeding. That represented a concentration of XK59 10,000-fold greater than the level the guinea pigs had eaten.

“So what we’re seeing here,” I said, “is that chow laced with 1 part per billion XK59 is insufficient to cause bleeding. Taking it a step further, if we assume guinea pigs are a reasonable proxy for humans, 1 part per billion XK59 in shrimp would be insufficient to cause bleeding in humans. Something else boosted the level of XK59 in the victims a thousand-fold higher to 1 part per million.”

“What do you think did it?” Brubeck asked.

“I’m still betting on
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
.” I held my breath for the third cage.

Brubeck pointed to it, and my hopes were dashed. Behind a card reading,
Group 3: chow +
XK59
(1 part per billion) + Vibrio parahaemolyticus,
six guinea pigs moved about energetically.

“
Damn
, they’re healthy,” I lamented. “That shoots my theory about
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
causing elevated levels of XK59 in the victims.”

“Perhaps it’s too early to see anything,” Brubeck replied.

“To the contrary, every one of the humans fell ill within eight hours of eating shrimp, so we should be seeing similar results here.”

“Let’s ride it out a few more hours before we draw conclusions.”

I saw no other choice.

As I entered
the Amygdala, Eve called.

“I’m at the obstetrician’s still,” she said. “They examined me, drew blood, and took a urine sample. They want to do an ultrasound now of my chest to make sure there’s nothing in the lungs or nearby that explains the fever and breast mass.”

Unwelcome diagnoses entered my mind, including lymphoma, a cancer of the lymph system, and sarcoidosis, an autoimmune disorder that could affect the chest cavity. Both could explain the duo of fever and breast mass.

“Did they mention any specific possibilities?” I asked.

“No, only that they wanted to view the lungs and the compartment between them, the media … mediast …”

“Mediastinum.”

“That’s it. I’m going down the hall to get the ultrasound now.”

“I should have stayed with you!”

“No, I called daddy. He’s coming to join me.”

“Call me when you’re done, promise?”

She gave me her word and hung up, leaving me staring at the wall.

I went to
Flagstaff’s office along the perimeter of the Amygdala. He had his legs propped on the desk, trousers riding to the top of cowboy boots that looked larger than life.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

I closed the door. “I’m quitting.”

He pointed to a chair.

“I’m having nightmares about Muñoz—jeep blowing up … body parts … blood-stains. Add to that my wife’s pregnancy and breast mass.”

He eyed me silently.

“What would
you
do in my situation?” I asked.

He seemed to look within before replying. “Ride it out.”

“
You
weren’t in Ecuador, and this isn’t
your
wife.”

“I was referring to horses,” he explained. “In the past, I rode horses to get through tough times, and I was suggesting you resort to whatever method you have that might resolve your problems.”

The first time I had ridden horses was with Eve in Australia. We went riding again during a visit to Zion National Park, but that was the only other time I’d been on a horse. On our farm in Wisconsin, we had a few cows and pigs, but no horses.

“I think it’s best I quit,” I repeated.

He lowered his feet and sat up. “Then go home. Be with your wife. Take the time you need.”

“That easy, huh? Pick up and leave?”

“
I
did.”

I scrunched my face. “I don’t understand.”

“I left the Marine Corps.” He diverted his eyes, holding them in a steady stare on the wall. In the silence, I saw a look of solemn pain. When he turned back to me, his eyes had sunken.

“I was twenty-five at the time,” he explained, “and had just completed a tour of duty. They offered me a bonus to re-enlist, but I refused because I’d lost my best friend in the Horn of Africa, another Marine we called ‘Cherokee.’ He and I were the sole Native Americans on our team, a group of equestrians. We spent months riding the gorges and canyons of Somalia rooting out extremist training camps. By day, the temperatures soared above 100 only to drop below freezing at night. One day, while crossing a river bed, we took fire. We galloped to a nearby slope, but when they shot our horses, we fled on foot. The only way to escape was to scale a series of terraces leading to a summit. The taller of us were able to climb faster than others. One by one, we succumbed to steady fire. Below me, several terraces down, Cherokee took a bullet to the back. To help him would have meant certain death. I pushed on. When I reached the summit, I looked back and saw a sickening sight: bullets riddling Cherokee’s body to the point it looked like corn popping in a kettle. Only a handful of us made it out. When we returned with reinforcements, I found Cherokee impaled on a post like a scarecrow. It was then I decided to leave the Corps after my tour of duty. I returned to Arizona and took up my old job of breaking-in wild horses. After work, I rode in the desert for hours on end, wrestling with demons in my mind. I still fight them today.”

He returned his eyes to the wall, a refuge, it seemed. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper: “There comes a time to walk, Jason—or, in my case, to ride—and this may be yours.”

I said nothing; to do so would violate a sacred silence. I watched him grasp his forehead. He squeezed the skin until it turned white.

“Go,” he said, pointing to the door.

I shook my head. “No.”

He scowled. The demons, it seemed, were alive.

“Who’ll take my place if I ditch?” I asked.

“What does it matter?”

“I want to know who it’ll be.”

“Crystal Petersen from CDC.”

“What will you have her do?”

“A number of things, but first she’ll follow-up on that spider you collected from Bhanjee’s condo. We gave it to an expert at the Smithsonian. He’s going to identify it.”

“Who is the expert?”

He handed me a card. “Feel free to see him on your way home. But if you’re not coming back, we need your ID and a signed pledge of silence about your detail.”

I slipped the card into my pocket and left.

I went to
my office and retrieved a bag of cashews I had stored there earlier. Tossing a few into my mouth, I inspected the card Flagstaff had given me …

Gart Spilbat, Ph.D.

Arachnologist

Smithsonian Institution

I dialed the number on the card.

A whispery voice answered, “Spilbat.”

I introduced myself. “You have my spider.”

“I’m sorry, but have we met?”

“
Distamus ab aliis
,” I said.

He paused. “
Proprius orbis
. Yes, Flagstaff told me you collected the spider.”

“What sort is it?”

“Dunno; still checking.”

“Is it venomous?”

He laughed nervously. “Damn right it is! I pity its prey.”

“Can I see it with you?”

“Of course.”

“I’m on my way.”

I crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and walked to the mall. When I reached the Natural History Museum, I climbed the steps with a throng of summertime visitors. Inside the foyer, I noticed a tall, lanky man standing beside a wooly mammoth. Wearing suspenders over a long-sleeve denim shirt, he was tall and gaunt and had a pointed beard that dropped a third of the way down his chest.

I approached him. “Dr. Spilbat?”

He leaned to my level. “
Distamus ab aliis
.”

“
Proprius orbis
,” I replied, finding it awkward still to utter the words.

“Protocol,” he apologized. “Come to my office.”

Walking beside him, I saw little in the way of skin. In addition to the thick beard, he had an unruly crop of grey hair that extended well below the nape of his neck. Neither combing nor shaving seemed to be in his repertoire.

We passed through an entry marked
Private—Employees Only
. Drawing a pipe from his pocket, he slipped it between his lips. “Yes, I’m aware of the non-smoking policy, so I won’t light it.” He relaxed his shoulders and grinned, revealing a set of yellow incisors.

“How long have you worked here?” I asked.

“Thirty years.”

“And when were you recruited to the UNIT?”

“Early this morning; they summoned me to collect the spider.”

He seemed put off by small-talk for he picked up his pace, leaving me a step behind as we entered a dark, narrow passage that led to an expansive warehouse-like area that made me feel uncomfortable. We traversed it to an alcove at the distant end, an architectural after-thought that Spilbat claimed for an office. It had a lone window overlooking the mall, but the view was blocked by a tower of books. A cluttered desk filled much of the alcove, the remainder occupied by microscopes and cabinets with catalogued specimens.