The Last Hour (30 page)

I grabbed both sides of her face and whispered urgently, “You have to go back.”

Her eyes were huge, and tears were streaking down her face. Her skin had gone pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She was still just slightly transparent, and that scared the crap out of me. We both ignored the doctor who began CPR compressions.
 

“I’m afraid,” she said. “What if I die? What if this is it? What about you?”

I swallowed and said, “You’ll be fine, Sarah. I promise. I think this is the only way. You need to go on without me, and ... I’ll figure something out.”

She shook her head, struggling against me again, and said, “I can’t!”

“Do it!” I said, my voice breaking. “I need you to go take care of Carrie.
Do it!”

Her entire body was shuddering, and she closed her eyes and said, “Okay. How?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just ... imagine. Pretend you’re back in there.
Believe
it.”

She closed her eyes, her face slack. I could still see the terror in her expression, but she was fighting it. I was afraid too ... afraid that she wouldn’t go back, and that being separated from her body for so long would break whatever tenuous hold she still had on the real world, that she would drift off, that her body would die and she’d be condemned to wander out here, not dead but not alive, not
anything
. I had to do whatever it took to help her get home.

Whatever it took.

I was still holding the sides of her face, and I said, “Promise me you’ll take care of her.”

“
What?”
she screeched.

“Promise me, damn it,” I said, my voice breaking again. “Promise me you’ll watch out for Carrie!”

Her voice didn’t hold terror any more. It held grief, as tears began to pour out of her eyes, welling over. My own tears fell down on her face, mixing with hers, and she said, in a shaky, quiet voice, “I promise.”

And then I closed my eyes, and
willed
her back into her body. I pictured her at the Morbid Obesity concert, a huge grin on her face as she banged into the punk rockers in the mosh pit, every inch of her alive and vital and beautiful. I pictured her as Carrie had described her, a tiny little girl with a huge personality that could fill up a room all on its own. I pictured her holding Carrie’s hand.

And that’s when something crazy happened, as if all of this wasn’t crazy enough. I stopped deliberately picturing things, but my mind was still filled with images. Images from
her
memory. I saw her, looking in the mirror, five years old, as she and Jessica took a ballet class together, two tiny twins, one light, one dark. I saw her in a park, staring as blood welled up out of her palm, and her much older sister Carrie, reassuring her as she pulled the glass out.

I saw her at a crowded table in a restaurant, all of her sisters around her, as she made faces at a blonde, spiked-haired, much younger Crank Wilson.

Sarah tumbled to the ground when a young, red-faced Randy Brewer stuck his foot out and tripped her, and then he chuckled and laughed as she ran away, mud on her dress.

The visions kept coming, more vivid, more colorful as she grew older. Now she was in middle school, walking down the hall hand-in-hand with Jessica when a boy pushed between them and said, “Freaks.” Six months later, staring in the mirror at herself the first time she’d worn all black. The next morning she punched a boy who had been bullying Jessica.

I saw her, improbably, in a bowling alley. I could feel the weight of a pair of combat boots, a tight t-shirt, the hand of a boy on her side, the boy who was the first—and last—to ever kiss her.

I saw her standing across the room from Jessica, throwing books and screaming.

I saw her sister Andrea, crying. Packing. Refusing to say what was wrong, why she was leaving.

I saw her in the backseat of Carrie’s Mercedes, behind me, arms crossed over her chest as she stared out the window and then saw the approaching Jeep and panicked.

I swallowed, feeling a lump form in my throat when I realized that if she didn’t make it, if I wasn’t able to get her back in her body right now, then she might not ever get that second kiss. She might not get a chance to go to another concert. She might not get a chance to see Andrea again and find out what went wrong. Just like the boy in Dega Payan, the boy whose life was cut short too soon, the boy who I couldn’t save, no matter how many times I went back there in my dreams, no matter how many times I wished it away, no matter how many times I begged God for forgiveness that I hadn’t saved his life.

I couldn’t go back and save that boy’s life. But I could do what I could here. Maybe this was a chance for me too, not just for Sarah. Maybe this was a chance to do something right.

Her eyes flew open, and she whispered, “I’m sinking. Don’t let me go.”

I poured every inch of love that I had into her. Every instinct of compassion. Every moment that I wanted her to have. I closed my eyes and
wished.
And then my hands slipped, no longer touching her spirit, but instead, flailing against the insubstantial but all too real body below me. The air left me in a sudden rush as I exhaled, and I opened my eyes, suddenly feeling all alone.

Sarah was gone.

I stumbled back, feeling myself waver, as if I were in shock. I stared down at my hands and flinched, because I could see through them. I could see the floor through them. I held them up in front of me, and they were shaking, and right through my insubstantial fingers I could see Sarah, with the doctor pounding on her chest.

And then the nurse shouted, “We’ve got a pulse!”

I collapsed beside her bed. And then I saw Daniel, standing in the doorway. His eyes were wide with fear.

“D
octor Thompson? I’m Richard Moore.”

I smiled and shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Moore. Please ... call me Carrie.”

“Richard, then.”

I was standing in the main lobby of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, one of the many buildings on the sprawling NIH campus. Doctor Moore, who would be my fellowship supervisor, was one of the preeminent scientists in the Infectious Diseases Division. He was a tall man, almost my height, with gaunt, angular features and sunken cheeks.
 

“A little bit later this morning we’ll take you down to get your paperwork done. Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“No, it was pretty straightforward,” I replied. In fact, I’d had a frustrating morning. After a brief phone conversation with Ray, who was still dealing with his sudden assignment to Fort Myer, I’d taken the elevator down to the garage, where my car had been parked since being shipped from Texas. And it wouldn’t start. No idea what was wrong, but the engine refused to turn over.
 

Luckily, I’d been compulsively early anyway, and it was a simple matter to make arrangements with the concierge to have the car towed to the dealership, then walk to the Bethesda Metro and catch a train to the NIH campus, then follow the signs. I’d arrived here with fifteen minutes to spare.

“Well, come on then, I’d like to introduce you to the team.”

I followed Doctor Moore to the elevators. I was new here, and with any new situation I’m hyperaware of my surroundings, or nuances in people’s expressions and tone. And I couldn’t help but be aware that Doctor Moore, who wore a wedding ring, kept glancing in my direction, his eyes scanning my body in an unmistakable way. It was creepy, and as we stepped on the elevator, I said, “Can you tell me about yourself, Richard? Married? Kids?”

His eyes swiveled back to the door of the elevator as it closed, and he said, “Yes. My wife is also with NIH, and we’ve got two teenagers.”

“Oh, how nice,” I replied.

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. Teenagers can be a handful.”

“Do they go to school in Bethesda?”

“Yes, at BCC.”

“Oh! I was there for my first two years of high school.”

“Really? I didn’t realize you were from the area.”

I shook my head. “I’m not, I’m from a Foreign Service family. My Dad was assigned at Main State for three years, so I went to school here.”

“And Columbia and Rice. You came with very strong recommendations. Professor Ayers spoke extremely highly of your work.”

The door to the elevator opened, and we stepped off.
 

“Our offices are all on the seventh floor here.”

We walked down the hall, and he showed me the break room and the labs, then my own office. It was small, but had a window, which was a step up from the tiny office I’d shared at Rice.

“You’ll have three graduate assistants, but they don’t start for another week. They’ll be down the hall in the cube farm.” He looked at his watch and said, “Aggh, we’re late. Let me show you the conference room, the team is meeting this morning. This is only once a week, but it can be an ordeal.”
 

“Oh?”

He gave a weak smile. “Sometimes the knives come out at our meetings. I’d like to tell you we’re all one big happy family. But I’m sure you understand. Academic jealousy. Infighting. I’m sure you’ve experienced it elsewhere.”

I grimaced. “I’m afraid so. Is that common here?”

He grunted, nodding. “Yes. Be prepared ... you’re a bit young and inexperienced for a fellowship of this nature. That won’t sit well with some.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to prove myself,” I said.

“Well, if your thesis work is any indication, that’s won’t be a problem. I understand you’re the primary author on a couple of upcoming papers?”

“Yes ... both of them in The Journal of Infectious Diseases.”

“That’s truly quite an accomplishment at this stage of your career.”

We came to a stop in front of an open conference room. Through the glass wall, I could see half a dozen men and women sitting around a large table in various stages or relaxation. It could have been an academic or business gathering anywhere in the world, though the dress was decidedly more formal than what I was used to at Rice, where jeans were the typical uniform. I was glad I’d followed my instincts and worn a conservative grey suit that morning, with a light blue top. Perhaps it was the proximity to Washington, DC, and the fact that this was, in fact, a government institution. The men all wore suits and ties, though one of them, a balding, red faced man at the back corner of the table, had his tie pulled down a few inches.
 

 
Doctor Moore led me into the room.

“Team,” he said, “I’d like to introduce Doctor Carrie Thompson, who comes to us by way of the Rice University Ecology Department. For those of you who don’t bother to read your email…”

“That would be all of us,” the balding man interrupted.

Moore grimaced and resumed, awkwardly, “Again ... for those of you who don’t read your email, Doctor Thompson is a behavioral ecologist, and the scientist who identified the vector for community acquired MRSA showing up in Midwest cattle. Her papers on that research are going to be published in the Journal of Infectious Diseases next month.”

Closest to me, on the left side of the table, was a woman a few years older than me, perhaps in her mid-to-late thirties. Brunette, pale, with frown marks on both sides of her mouth. She looked at me with a droll expression and said, “Imagine that. A behavioral ecologist?” Her voice had just a tinge of contempt to it.

I didn’t know quite how to take it. So, I followed my normal pattern, and simply pretended it hadn’t happened. I reached out a hand and said, “Call me Carrie.”

She was startled into taking it. “I’m Lori Beckley. Microbiologist.”

I recognized her name, and I wanted to eliminate her hostility and turn her into an ally as quickly as possible, so I said, “Not the Doctor Beckley who did the work on the New York City MRSA mutations?”

Her eyes widened. “I am. Though I wasn’t lead author on those papers, I’m surprised you recognize my name.”

“Actually,” I said, “The genome mapping you did was essential for our papers.”

She smiled. “Perhaps I’m going to like you after all, Carrie. Call me Lori, and have a seat.”

She pulled out the chair between her and the balding man. He looked up at me as I walked toward the seat and said, “Good lord, you must be seven feet tall.”

One of the two women across the table from him, a short redhead with an unnaturally snub nose, said in a sharp voice to the balding one, “Best watch it, Renfield, you don’t want to end up with another sexual harassment case.”

He waved a hand in a scoffing manner and said, “That was blown all out of proportion.” Then he turned to me and held out a hand. “Doctor Warren Renfield. Also a microbiologist.”

I took his hand and smiled. He held on considerably longer than was appropriate, and it made my skin crawl.
 

The redhead said, “I’m Lila Renfield. I’m an epidemiologist and this reprobate’s wife, though that may not last if he ever holds your hand that long again.”

Lori, to my right, said, “Don’t listen to them, Carrie. They constantly fight about everything. It’s really very tiresome.”

The final two at the table were introduced. To Lila Renfield’s right was Han Zheng, an epidemiologist, and to her left was Karina Harris, another microbiologist. I was at least somewhat familiar with the work of everyone at that table: all of them had published on the growing MRSA threat, and all of them had substantial research to their credit.