Weapon of Choice (15 page)

The caller was a Dr. Duncan Kellerman from Tampa. Why was he calling her? Then she recognized the name Laura had mentioned when she'd asked Stacy for advice about that AIDS patient she'd done the biopsy on. Laura had informed her that Kellerman was a good ole boy. Did that translate to jerk?

After introducing himself in a long-winded speech about his professional attainments, Kellerman said he had at least three “difficult bacterial” infections in their ICU. What could she tell him about bacteria that spiked fevers to 105 degrees, caused severe respiratory distress, and didn't seem to respond to appropriate antibiotics?

“Dr. Kellerman,” Stacy interrupted, “I'm not a clinical consultant. I do experimental work for the CDC in Atlanta. I don't have a license to practice medicine in Florida.”

“One of my colleagues gave me your name. Dr. Laura Nelson. Do you not know her? She said she'd asked you to help her out.”

“Laura and I had talked about a suspected case of HIV virus. It sounded like full-blown AIDS, and I've spoken to your director of nursing, but—”

“No matter about that case, I've got three patients going bad. One is Dr. Nelson's patient—one of her lung reduction procedures.
We all know he's high risk, but there's a strapping nineteen-year-old boy who's going bad, too.”

“Look, I'm a research scientist. You're an infectious disease specialist: get cultures and cover them with broad spectrum antibiotics until you get the sensitivities back.”

“Look, missy, I have sick patients here. Laura Nelson left me your number the other day. When I called today, your associate, a Dr. Scarlett, said you were in Detroit and he gave me this number. I don't care if it's a holiday. I'd like some help here.”

Missy
? Did holiday intrusions from jerks like him go with the territory on her new job? If so, put me back in the lab.

“Here's what I'll do,” Stacy said, “I'll call Dr. Nelson. Assess the situation.” She hung up before he could say a word. But not until I've polished off Mom's pumpkin pie.

Lucy Jones could have fed the proverbial army, and that was, in reality, where she was heading after stuffing her four daughters with turkey embellished with her signature trimmings. To the Salvation Army, taking her traditional late-afternoon shift. As she prepared to leave, the girls cleaned up, chatting incessantly. When the last of the pots was put away, Katie headed to her boyfriend's mother's house. Sharon and Rachel, off to the feasts at their respective husbands' families. All three had invited their big sister along, but Stacy chose to stay at home, kick back, and reminisce.

Before she settled down, Stacy decided to tell Laura about Kellerman's call. Pausing to burp, she dialed Laura's parents' number. She'd probably catch Laura in the middle of dinner, but if she waited it'd be too late to do anything. Not that there'd be anything Stacy could do.

“Whelan residence.” A stong male voice. Too young for Laura's dad and not a kid.

“Uh, hi, this is Stacy Jones, I'm looking for Laura Nelson.”

“Oh, hi, I'm her son. Kevin. We haven't seen you for a long time, Dr. Stacy.” Stacy remembered when she'd first met Kevin. She'd stepped in to take care of Laura's kids when Laura attended
a medical meeting in Montreal. Kevin had been an adorable, tow-headed two-year-old. Could that have been sixteen years ago?

“So good to hear your voice, Kevin.” Of Laura's kids, Kevin had always been her favorite. “Hey, I'm sorry to bother you on Thanksgiving, but is your mom around?”

“Yes and no,” he said. “If I hurry, I can get her. She's about to leave. You know how it is, the hospital calls.”

Stacy waited as Kevin yelled, “Tell Mom she's got a call.”

She did know
how it is
. And that's one of the reasons she'd chosen research over clinical practice. How did Laura handle all this? Five kids, her research, her surgical practice, and the administrative crap that came with being chief of anything.

“It's Stacy Jones,” he heard Kevin say.

“Stacy, are you clairvoyant? I was going to call you as soon as I got back to Tampa.” Laura sounded winded and her voice a little shaky.

“What's up, girlfriend?”

“It's Natalie,” Laura said. “I never should have left her—”

“Laura, slow down. What's going on?”

Laura told Stacy about the three recent phone calls. “One from Kellerman, the infectious disease guy I told you about. He reports a series of patients in the surgical ICU; febrile with rapidly developing pneumonia.” Before Stacy could tell her that Kellerman had called her, too, Laura continued. “Second, Ed Plant, who is covering for me, who wouldn't bother me if it wasn't serious, thinks my lung reduction patient is probably not going to make it. The third call, Stacy, is why I'm leaving right now for Tampa. It's Natalie.”

“Natalie? Where does she fit into all of this?” Stacy had pictured Laura surrounded by her five kids, her brother, sister, both parents.

“She complained of nonspecific abdominal pain this morning. I examined her, didn't think it was a surgical abdomen, and I let the girls talk me into letting Natalie stay home.”

“She's home? Alone?”

“Yes. Not really. Remember my friend Tim Robinson? He's the pediatric surgeon in Philadelphia who operated on Patrick.”

“Yes.” Stacy did remember him and always thought that Laura had something romantic going on with bachelor Tim.

“He's with her, they were to drive out here today, but he called to say he was taking her to the E.R. Now Natalie's running a fever. I'm heading to Tampa right now. I don't know what's going on with her or with the ICU patients. I planned to call and get your advice. I'm worried, Stacy. Really worried that we may have some weird disease down here.”

“I don't like the sound of this, Laura. There's no way I can do anything about it from here, but I can be on the first flight to Tampa in the morning.”

“Thank you, Stacy. I hate to disrupt your holiday. Please tell Lucy that I'm sorry.”

“You just drive carefully, Laura.”

She had never managed to mention Kellerman's call and his veiled demand that Stacy come to Tampa.

Stacy glanced out the window. A few fluffy flakes of snow had started to fall, as predicted, although no accumulation was expected. Since moving to Atlanta, she'd learned to live quite well without snow.

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
28
T
HANKSGIVING
D
AY

Polite, deferential, respectable: the creed of a well-bred Southern gentleman. Charles Scarlett's heritage and that of his father and his father's father before him. No crude language, not a trace of overt hostility. But just under the polished brass genteel surface, a rabid extremism had raged throughout his ancestral lineage. Did it burn within him, too? Did he believe in white supremacy? Really believe? Or did he embrace the cause to gain his father's respect? When he joined The Order, did he conceive of plotting the destruction of lives? Dream of personally releasing a bacterium that would prove lethal to many? How many, he did not know, could not know.

As he joined hands with his mother and father in prayers of thanksgiving, he contemplated the impact of his task for The Order. Is this how a suicide bomber feels before a mission? Not that his was a suicide mission, but Charles was too smart not to think that he might get caught, might rot in prison, or might even be executed. Chances were good the staph would be traced to his lab. Sooner or later.

“Son, did you know that the citizen swearing-in ceremony this week was the largest ever? Just think—”

“Wonder how many immigrants were white, if any,” Mother interrupted.

Charles had been trying to predict The Order's target. A courthouse full of immigrants would make sense, but too late now for
that. “We have to stop them,” he said, offering a simple, predictable response before ladling thick brown gravy onto his mashed potatoes.

“Dear, will you carve the turkey?” Mother asked. “And let's discuss something pleasant.”

“What would it take to elect officials who would send all of them back?” Dad went on as he brandished the carving knife. “Instead we give them our jobs. Let them go to our schools, eat with our children. Admit them to our hospitals. No, we have to freeze them out. Economically. Economic reprisal. Control the economics. Control the money. Control the politics. Fight back with economic reprisal.”

Schools? Hospitals
? Promising, Charles thought. Negro schools. Negro hospitals. Both logical targets for an attack. Apprehensively, he awaited Will Banks's report on today's meeting with The Order leadership. Charles was in; now that he was committed, he wanted the plan, his marching orders.

As he carved, his father yammered on about politics and economics. Neither of his parents realized that across their elegantly appointed dining room table sat the Angel of Death in his blue blazer and gray flannel trousers.

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
28
T
HANKSGIVING
D
AY

At five o'clock on Thanksgiving evening, the trim Medjet lifted off into cloudy Tampa skies. Once Victor had reached Dr. Nelson by phone at her parents', she'd called the doctor covering for her. Within the hour, Dr. Plant had signed the discharge papers. Victor suspected that the entire staff of Tampa City hospital was glad to get rid of their hush-hush HIV patient. Well, soon enough they'd have their hands full.

The jet plane interior was designed exactly like a hospital room. Two male paramedics tended to the patient and his hookups: two intravenous lines with antibiotics dripping in, a urinary catheter, a heart monitor, and oxygen flowing into the mask that covered his nose and mouth. To Victor's amazement and delight, Matthew had continued to rally. His color was better, his blue eyes brighter, and he'd taken sips of water.

Victor considered briefly whether his murderous revenge fit Norman Kantor's crime. No one could have foreseen that Matthew would respond to commercially available antibiotics, obviating the need for the investigational drug ticokellin. But suppose he hadn't responded?

And the other infected patients? Collateral damage, Victor told himself, but that seemed so cold. Didn't they have families, too? Especially that banged-up young boy. How would his father react as the staph liquefied and shut down his organs? But he was not that boy's father. He had his own son to worry about. He could not afford
remorse, but he did wonder how long the kid would live. The infected would succumb soon, including Norman. The hospital would be in chaos. He needed to be out of there.

As he settled into the Medjet seat next to Matthew's gurney, Victor had an inspiration. Why hadn't he thought of this before? Keystone Pharma. Now that Norman Kantor was not only retired, but dead, wouldn't they need to recruit a research scientist with exactly Victor's expertise? Kantor had trained him. Once the lethality of the Tampa strain of staph became known, wouldn't Victor be the researcher they'd desperately need? He pictured the pretentious Dr. Minn begging him to step in and develop the right chemical antibiotic.

For now, Victor would focus on Matthew. Within three hours they'd be met by paramedics at Washington National Airport. An ambulance would take Matthew to George Washington University Hospital, where he'd be seen by qualified doctors. Doctors who know how to treat AIDS patients. Now his son would have the absolute best medical care, Victor would make sure of that.

But Victor had no choice now—before the plane landed, he'd have to tell Matthew that he had AIDS. Had Cindy ever discussed the possibility with him? She hadn't said so in her letter, so Victor doubted she had. But did Matthew have suspicions? What did the boy know about HIV? Having lived in San Francisco, probably enough. Whatever Matthew's reaction, Victor would swear to be at his side, to never abandon him no matter what might ensue.

To assure Matthew's comfort while they boarded the plane, he'd been sedated. As Victor watched the sedation wear off, the pilot announced cruising altitude and Matthew stirred, opened his eyes. With his free hand, he pushed aside the oxygen mask. Victor's breath caught as Matthew's dry lips parted in a shy smile.

“Where are we?” were his first words. “I know I'm in a plane, but where? Over what?”

“We're still over Florida somewhere. Hey, not sure you should take that mask off.” Victor glanced at the paramedic now relaxing in a rear seat. The paramedic nodded okay.

“We need to talk,” Matthew said. “About what's wrong with me
and where you're taking me. You know, I don't even know what to call you. Victor? Dad? Father?” He grinned. “Pops?”

“Matthew, you are my son. Anyone can see the resemblance. But I don't deserve for you to call me your father. I was not a part of your life.”

“Yes. We talked about all that, but it wasn't your fault. Mom never told you about me, but there's something else you need to know. I'm gay. There, I said it. Mom knew. But—”

“Yes, and I did know, son. No reason to let that come between us. I am your father and I want to be a part of your life.”

Matthew's face relaxed, tears glistened.

Victor wasn't ready for this conversation, yet he knew he must continue. “But Matthew, you asked what's wrong with you.”

“I have gay-man's disease, don't I?” The tears started flowing, Matthew's cardiac monitor picked up pace.

The paramedic returned to the gurney, reached for Matthew's wrist, and took his pulse.

“Please, would you give us some privacy?”

“Pulse is up. The oxygen mask should go back on.”

“Yes,” Victor told the paramedic. “I'll make sure.”