Weapon of Choice (28 page)

“So this Dr. Kellerman calls you and you drop everything and head for Tampa? Stacy, I know you earned a medical degree, but your focus now is research. Research relating to virulent, infectious staph. Doesn't that seem like quite a coincidence?”

Where was the woman going with this? Yes, it was quite a coincidence. But coincidences do happen.

“There was something else, Dr. Cox,” Stacy said, starting to sweat in the small of her back.

She must have found out that I took the staph, Stacy feared. Can I make her understand that I need to test it myself? To see whether the specific strain in Tampa is related to the strain developed initially at the NIH. Why should it be? Her thoughts raced. That research was closed down several years ago. But a crazy idea had occurred to her when she heard a Dr. Norman Kantor, a NIH scientist, was one of the infected Tampa patients. Talk about coincidences. Could he somehow have infected the hospital? But how? And why?

“Yes?” Cox was staring at her now, a curious stare.

“My friend, Laura—Dr. Nelson—called me back, too. She wasn't at the hospital when the infection started; she was out of town with her family for Thanksgiving. But Dr. Kellerman called her in. She found out her teenaged daughter Natalie had been admitted to Tampa City Hospital.”

“I'm confused. She's out of town with her family. But her daughter's in Tampa?”

“Yes. Laura was worried. The daughter is seventeen and hadn't gone away with the rest. Laura has five kids.” Stacy paused in mid-ramble. What did the director care about Laura's family? Madeleine Cox had no kids, wasn't married; word had it she didn't believe a woman could be both a professional and a mother.

“You lost me, Stacy. I don't understand how you got yourself in the middle of this—although I'm glad you did. Because you acted fast, we had our rapid-response team already in place last night. Tampa City Hospital is in lockdown. We should have this bug contained. Next, we'll have to characterize it. That'll be your lab's job. Run every bio and genetic screen that you can get your hands on. We'll get culture material to you by mid-afternoon. In the meantime, get everything set up.”

By mid-afternoon? Stacy let out her breath. Cox had no idea after all about the purloined culture. Stacy could start the biogenetic profile on the culture she'd taken from Tampa right away. Once she got the official culture via the CDC, she'd be well into characterizing the staph stain. And if her hunch was right, what would she do next?

“Stan Proctor told me that you wanted to stay in Tampa to watch how all this plays out,” Cox was saying, “but I told him you're needed here. You have talent, Stacy. I'm pleased about your promotion. Stan went to bat for you with some powers-that-be who pushed for Charles Scarlett. I'm sure we made the right choice.”

Cox rose from her chair, again checked her watch, “I really have to go.”

“Please, Dr. Cox,” Stacy said, almost reaching for her sleeve so she wouldn't leave yet. “Can I make a request?”

“Of course.”

“Dr. Nelson's daughter, Natalie Nelson. Will you check personally, please, that she's doing okay?”

“I'm going to be very tied up,” Cox said. “The media, you know. I'll be prepped on the flight to Tampa, so—”

“She has the staph,” Stacy blurted. “Her boyfriend was one of
the ICU patients. Before anyone knew what was going around the unit, she had physical contact with him.”

“My lord. Yes, Stacy, of course I will. I didn't realize. Of course you didn't want to leave your friend and her daughter. How is the boyfriend?”

“He died. Natalie's condition is worse. Last I heard, waiting on ticokellin. I hope you will look in on her as soon as you get there. We were able to get a limited supply of ticokellin, but I'm not sure how they're allocating it.”

“I will. And we appreciate how you worked with Keystone Pharma and the FDA to bring in the drug so expeditiously. Dr. Jones, you're not only a world-class scientist, but you've got the makings of an administrator, too.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cox.” Stacy reeled from the praise. Madeleine Cox, director of the CDC, was not given to compliments.

Cox gathered up her purse and hefted her leather briefcase over her shoulder. Reaching for her rolling case, she suddenly paused. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you. An invitation. For tonight. A posh affair at the Palace Hotel. Cocktails, dinner, dancing, the works. Just one problem. I have only one ticket so you can't bring a date.”

“I don't think I'll have time to go, but thanks,” Stacy said, knowing she'd be working into the night on the Tampa staph.

Cox ignored her response, set down her briefcase, and reached into her purse for an ivory-colored envelope, one of those expensive ones, heavy paper, elaborate calligraphy. She handed it to Stacy. “High priority,” Cox said. “The
Atlantic Daily Reporter
banquet tonight—in honor of Emma Goode. You do know who she is?”

In the African American community who did not know the name Emma Goode?

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

Victor had been miffed when Keystone Pharma called to say no planes were available. How can that be? he'd asked. After all, he was giving up a weekend to get them out of a jam. He was told the company's private jets had to be diverted to Tampa because of an emergency there. But he cheered up at the offer to have a limo pick him up at the airport and drive him to corporate headquarters. Quite a change of attitude from his last trip to Keystone, he mused.

On his way to Washington National Airport, Victor had stopped at the hospital to check on Matthew, to tell him that he'd be back too late that night to see him, but that he'd be there first thing in the morning. He found Matthew breathing easier, his skin less mottled, and his attitude cheerful. They'd talk tomorrow about arrangements for Matthew's discharge on Monday and his subsequent transfer to California.

During the flight, Victor pondered a professional problem. In his anxiety to rid his home of all traces of the experimental staph, he had destroyed years of his clandestine research. Now, when called upon to lead Keystone Pharma's new drug program, he no longer had the data that would propel them into the future. A shortterm solution would be to go with the biskellin analog rather than the more toxic, but cheaper ticokellin—but in his basement he'd been developing a whole new generation of antibiotics. How could he not have kept a backup copy of his results in a secret, safe place?

The flight turned turbulent, and Victor was the last passenger to be served before the attendants were told to take their seats. As
Victor reached for his coffee, the plane bounced, splashing the hot, brown liquid all over his white dress shirt and pale-blue tie. “Soda water,” he called. He thought he heard a hollow, “Sorry, sir.”

So, shaken by the bumpy flight, coffee-stained, he showed up at Keystone determined to drive a hard bargain, not to be bested by the corporate honchos.

Dr. Minn greeted Victor and introduced him to the vice president of Human Resources, Al Mills. They drank coffee in the H.R. conference room this time, served in china cups with matching saucers. Yes, he had vaulted up the food chain.

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

Charles took great pride in his home, built in the French Normandy style in 1945 on three wooded acres. Bountiful clusters of midnight-blue rhododendron surrounded the white mansion and lined the drive leading from the road. Everyone commented on the rhododendron. Not that he was into gardening; the huge blue-flowering plants had been there when he purchased the place three years ago.

Stan Proctor's reaction yesterday had been typical. Not many thirty-three-year-olds boasted a six-bedroom house, custom-designed pool complete with gazebo, three-car garage, and lush gardens. But isn't that what trust funds were for?

This morning he walked outside, noting that the pool cover was sagging and that the gardener had failed to remove a ladder leaning against the trellis. Mental note: call the lazy Negro. Even in his mind, he did not use the other
N
word lest it slip from his lips as the wrong moment. When you work for the government these days, you had to be careful. Civil rights advocates had infiltrated every agency. He thought about Stacy Jones. Never could he have endured being subordinate to her. Nor would he be. Instead he'd infect the whole lot of partying African Americans and any whites who chose to party with them. He'd been chosen to execute the preemptive strike.

Charles had two concerns. He had been mulling over what Russell's wife had told him. She thought that The Order was planning an explosion or water contamination. She'd shared her fears with him. Had she shared them with anyone else? Could Russell have
gone to the police before The Order took him out? If he had, they'd know Charles's name. Would they put him on a watch list? Could they be following him? He couldn't help feeling smug. He'd done nothing to arouse suspicion. He'd gone to work yesterday, come home sick, had a visit from his boss, stopped by the Palace Hotel, but what of it? Then he'd gone to his friend's viewing and back home.

The second concern was more worrisome. After the profiteroles had been served tonight, it would take at least an hour for people to start getting sick. Charles had to hand it to Will Banks and The Order for choosing the dessert course. The victims would go home, start feeling ill during the night with fever and muscle pain. By morning they'd have difficulty breathing, high fever, extreme muscle pain, and horrible sores all over their body. They'd then start pouring into area hospitals. By mid-afternoon, panic will have set in, and by evening, the staph would have invaded body tissue. External lesions eating through skin and muscle. Internal organs under attack and susceptible to failure. This was the nature of the staph they were engineering at the CDC. Bioterrorism, masquerading as biomedical research. No wonder USAMRIID brass at Fort Detrick threatened to shut down this program just as they had a parallel effort several years ago at the NIH. In 1969, the United States outlawed organisms for bioterrorism, and in 1970, toxins.

Of course, he couldn't be sure of the timing of symptoms since his staph had only been tested in vitro—test tubes, petri dishes, not in vivo—people or even animals. But Charles was still uncertain as to what would happen to him. Why hadn't he been instructed what to do or where to go after dessert had been served? Was someone from The Order going to whisk him out of the Palace? Banks, perhaps? By tonight would he be in one of The Order's safe houses? Somewhere in North America or overseas? Maybe Canada, The Order liked to hang out in Canada. Or the Caribbean. Maybe the South of France—he'd mentioned Nice to Will. There was an excellent biotech lab there. Perfect for someone with his skills.

Charles walked the perimeter of his property and when he'd come full circle he checked his watch. Ten o'clock. The sky was
blue, the sun promising to take the chill out of the air. All was serene among the rhododendrons and Charles promised himself that wherever he ended up, he'd plant lush beds of the spectacular plant. He'd read that the genus rhododendron, which includes azaleas, grew almost anywhere in the world.

He'd gone outside without a jacket and it was time for him to say goodbye to his grounds.

Entering the warmth of his home, his mind drifted to his lab at the CDC. Had he left any trace yesterday? When Stacy got there, would she find anything out of order? She was a suspicious, small-minded woman, always looking to find something that he'd done wrong.

And how long would it take the CDC to track the Palace outbreak to him? But so what? He'd be far away from Atlanta, with a whole new identity. And the pride of his parents.

According to the plan, Charles had two hours before he was scheduled to enrich the media for his cultures. He strolled through his house to the front door and out to the porch to pick up his copy of the
Atlanta Constitution
. As he turned to go indoors, he opened the paper and scanned a front-page headline, “Fatal Staph Infection Rampant at Tampa Hospital.”

Was it possible that Stacy had something to do with this? Could she, too, be trying to commit mass murder with the staph strain from the CDC lab? Impossible.

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

Laura slept until Tim tapped her on the shoulder at nine thirty on Saturday morning. Three and a half hours of sleep since the alarm had awakened her on Thanksgiving morning, fifty hours ago. Like the old days when she'd been a resident, only she'd been younger then.

“I thought you'd want to wake up, but I hated to—”

“Of course, Tim.” Laura sat up. “How is Natalie?”

“I just checked.” Tim sat down next to her on her cot. “Her heart rate is rapid, her PO2 is low despite optimal ventilation, her temp's at 104.8.”

She leaned in to him as close as she could in their bulky isolation suits, feeling the tears start to trickle down her cheeks. “So high, even with the icepacks,” she said, her voice shaky.

“Ma'am, I'm a nurse with the CDC, with the experimental drug,” a voice announced. Laura had never been called ma'am in this hospital.

Laura looked to the tangerine polyester garbed person, a man this time, judging by the bass voice.

“You already signed, waiving all liability, so I just have to confirm the patient's identity.” He walked over to Natalie, picked up her hand in his gloved one, and checked her wrist bracelet. “Natalie Nelson. Yes.” Then he looked at Laura. “Ma'am, are you Dr. Nelson?”

“Yes,” Laura said. Not wanting chitchat. Just wanting that drug flowing through Natalie's veins.

“This is the last dose we have in house,” the nurse said, holding up the vial of amber-colored liquid. “I was told to get it to this room. I've heard lots of people talking about you tonight. My CDC colleagues and the nurses here. They are real grateful for you being there for your patients, but honest to God, I didn't know that your own daughter was one of the infected ones. God bless her, ma'am—I mean, doctor—and you, too.” Then he turned to Tim, “And her father—? God bless you, too.”