Weapon of Choice (11 page)

In the background, Laura had heard the phone ring. She'd signed out for the weekend, so the hospital wouldn't call. One of these days she was going to order a separate line for the kids. Or was it already too late? Next year the twins would be off to college; one line would work fine for just her and Patrick.

“Mom, it's for you.” Nicole yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

“Okay, I'll take it in my bedroom. Natalie, I'll be right back.”

Laura picked up the phone on the nightstand. She breathed easier in her sanctuary. For the first five years after Steve died, she'd kept the room exactly as he'd left it. In his job as anchor on a Tampa news channel, he'd accumulated a wall of honor plaques, photos of himself with important people, that sort of thing. Then one day, about two years ago, on impulse, she'd assembled all his accolades on the dining room table, gathered the kids, and officiated as they selected their favorite mementos of their dad. She'd done that much for Steve. She'd preserved for the kids an almost devotional memory of him. But a deserved memory? Five kids. Five different answers to that question. With Steve's memorabilia decorating the kids' rooms, Laura's space became her own. She could indulge her taste for Laura Ashley designs, a favorite decadent indulgence.

“This is Laura Nelson.”

“The ravishing doctor, I presume.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Tim.”

“I'll be right there,” he said.

“Pardon?” Laura never knew what to expect from her good friend, Tim Robinson, a pediatric heart surgeon. They had met when both were medical students in Detroit. They had a history, more or less. Now Tim was a prominent pediatric cardiac surgeon at Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. He'd been there for Laura in a professional and personal capacity seven years earlier, when Patrick underwent dangerous heart surgery at Tim's hospital. That year, they'd spent Thanksgiving together for the first time. Ever since then, she and Tim had carried on a long distance, now-and-then relationship.

“Laura, my dear, I'm on a stand-by flight to Tampa. I should get in by two thirty. I'll grab a car at the airport and drive to your parents' place. That is, if I'm still invited. You haven't replaced me, have you?”

“Tim, that's wonderful. Mom will be thrilled and the kids, too. There's just one thing—”

“Uh-oh. I
have
been replaced.” The disappointment in his voice made Laura giggle. Their friendship was so weird. Close, but not intimate.

“No, nothing like that. You're still the one. It's Natalie. She woke up this morning with abdominal pain and vomiting. I was just doing an exam.”

“But you know better—a mom is never objective. You're going to have to take her to the E.R. or call in one of your surgical buddies.”

“I'm not sure. She doesn't have a temp and the pain is not localized.”

“I've gotta hop on this plane, Laura. But tell you what, if there's any doubt about Natalie's abdomen, and you don't feel comfortable taking her to your mother's, you go ahead with the other kids. As soon as I get into Tampa, I'll drive over to your place. If you decide to leave Natalie, I'll check her. If she's okay, she can ride to your mom's with me. If not, I'll call you and I'll take her to the E.R. You're only an hour away. You can meet us and see what's what. She's probably got a viral gastritis and she'll be a lot better in a
couple of hours. Make sense? Say yes, because my flight's boarding.”

What about mom?
Laura thought, torn between her mother's perfect holiday and her desire to stay with Natalie.

“Now would be a good time to say yes,” Tim said. “I've got a history of taking good care of your kids.”

“Yes,” Laura said.

Back to Natalie. Nicole was sitting on her own bed, speaking in a voice too low for Laura to hear.

“Hey,” Laura said, “that was Tim. He's on his way to Tampa.”

“That's great.” Nicole looked as if she meant it. “Football on the beach is going to be a blast. Tim, Uncle Ted, and us. And Uncle Dale, but being French, he's not too good. Mom, I think you should leave Natalie home. She's throwing up like crazy. Marcy will be home later tonight.”

“Yeah, I'll be okay,” Natalie said. “Marcy will be back from her sister's. Maybe Mike or Kevin could come and get me in a couple of days so I won't miss seeing Aunt Janet and Uncle Ted. Or I could drive down in our car. By then, I'm sure I'll be fine.”

Laura didn't like the girls driving on their own except back and forth to school.

“We'll see,” Laura said, resuming the bedside exam position, fingers to the center of Natalie's abdomen. She pushed gently at first, then harder; holding, then suddenly releasing the pressure. No rebound. Good. Whatever pain she was having did not require rapid surgical attention.

“Ouch,” Natalie said, with a slight flinch.

“Okay, what's going on with your period? When did your last one start?” Laura noticed that Natalie glanced at Nicole. The girls had started menstruating five years ago and seemed always to be on the same schedule.

“Don't look at me. I just started mine and I'm not the one who's sick,” Nicole said.

“I haven't started my period yet,” Natalie said, “but it'll probably start soon.”

“In that case, I think you may have Mittelschmerz,” Laura decided.

“What's that?” Nicole said. “I hope it's not some kind of, you know, venereal disease?”

Laura expected at least a grin from Natalie, but instead, got a sudden flood of tears.

“Hey, she was just kidding,” Laura said, propping Natalie up on the pillow again. “Mittelschmerz just causes painful ovulation. The pain can be pretty bad, but it's nothing serious.”

“So, I'll be okay?” Natalie wiped her eyes with the corner of the sheet. “If only I could stop puking. I'm going to throw up again.”

Natalie climbed out of bed and hurried for the bathroom across the hall.

“Grandma would be so upset,” Nicole said, “if we missed Thanksgiving dinner. And now that Tim's coming—”

“Tim offered to stop by the house and check on Natalie if she's still feeling too sick for the trip. Then he'd drive her up, later.”

“Perfect.” Nicole's face brightened. “When's he supposed to get here?”

“About four hours,” Laura said, “but I'm not sure I should leave her.”

Natalie, still in her lavender pajamas, flopped back into bed.

Nicole jumped up. “Mom's got the perfect solution,” she announced. “Tim's coming, right? So we can all go and leave you here to rest. And in about four hours Tim will be here.”

“And Marcy will be back this evening,” Laura repeated, smoothing Natalie's polka-dot sheets. “You sure that's okay, sweetie, or do you want me to stay here with you and let Mike drive the others to Anna Maria?”

Natalie gave the faintest of smiles. “I'll be just fine. You go ahead. If I try to go now, I'll just throw up all over the car. I probably do need rest. Tim's a doctor, if I get any worse, he'll know what to do.”

Laura felt Natalie's forehead. Normal. Just to be by the book, she verified. Thermometer read 98.6.

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
28

“Mercer, Matthew is off the critical list,” reported the hospital information clerk.

Back in Tampa last night, Victor had gone straight to the hotel and called the ICU. He'd asked to speak to the nurse, found himself on hold for a long time, and then heard a harried-sounding voice say that, just today, Matthew had rallied.

“Is he awake?” Victor had asked. If so, he would drop everything and get to the hospital.

“No. He's sedated. Off the respirator, though.”

Did she mean that Matthew had improved so much? Or had the doctors just given up? Once they figured he had AIDS, in their ignorance or even repugnance, would they just take him off the respirator to let him die?

“Should I come in to be with him?” he'd asked.

“Mr. Mercer is stable and he's quite comfortable. Leave your contact information, Dr. Worth,” the nurse insisted. “I'll call you if anything changes, I'll be on until seven in the morning.”

Encouraged by this report and knowing he desperately needed sleep, Victor chose to defer his hospital visit until first thing in the morning.

He'd checked his cultures and secured the tubes again inside his carry-on before climbing into the hotel bed, and setting the clock for six a.m. Exhausted as he was, he remained awake, tossing and flailing as he replayed in his mind the past month. Matthew's arrival in his life. His covert ticokellin research. His hospital visit to
Kantor. Everything churned in his head until he got up, snapped open his briefcase, and pulled out a pad of lined paper.

Had he forgotten anything important? Was his timing right? Would he be able to get close enough to Norman Kantor to infect him? Would the onset of infection be rapid enough? Would anybody see him administer the dose?

Was there any way the bacteria possibly could be traced back to him? Victor scrawled notes to himself. No question he was doing the right thing. The bastard had denied Matthew a lifesaving drug. He did not deserve to live.

At four a.m., still unable to sleep, Victor called the hospital again. He spoke to the same nurse, and she reported that Matthew had stayed off the ventilator, and was breathing comfortably on his own. Then Victor knelt at the bedside in his hotel room and prayed. Matthew believed in God—Cindy had raised him as a Catholic—but Victor didn't know any Catholic prayers except snippets of the Lord's Prayer. He repeated them over and over before he climbed into bed again and drifted off to sleep.

Victor woke to the noisy alarm clock. Thanksgiving Day. Retribution Day.

He got out of bed and, even before taking a shower, rechecked his cultures. They looked healthy, as well they should, in their nutritious broth now at room temperature. After replacing the glass tubes in his carry-on, he dressed in light-gray slacks and the new aquamarine-color shirt that Matthew had given him for his birthday. Before heading for the hospital, he went over the notes he'd made in the middle of the night. Holding the paper in his hands, he blinked once, then again, as a jolt of acid erupted from his stomach, burning the length of his esophagus. The omission in his plan was so blatant that it terrified him. Could he have been so fixated on harming Norman that he'd left Matthew vulnerable.

He needed to get Matthew out of that hospital before the lethal staph took hold. Picking up the hotel phone, he called information and within minutes was connected with a medevac provider. Yes, they had the resources to transport a patient such as he described.
He left out the HIV part of Matthew's condition. Yes, they'd meet him at Tampa City Hospital. Next Victor called the HIV specialist at George Washington University Hospital, a physician who had collaborated with the NIH on joint projects. Plans for Matthew's transfer were efficiently confirmed.

Arrangements made, Victor headed to Tampa, his cultures tucked away in the carry-on.

No matter how hard hospitals try to look cheery for the holidays, they never succeed. The struggle between life and death doesn't take breaks. The staff is cut to almost skeletal levels. The unlucky ones manning the floors just wanting to be home with their own families. Subpar morale—and service not peak, either. Victor hoped that the Thanksgiving staffing level would help him implement his scheme.

By the time Victor arrived at the seventh floor ICU desk, the nurse who had attended Matthew last had already left. The arriving nurse was getting ready to take report for the new shift, but she offered to check on Matthew first.

“Your son is doing well,” she reported. “Still sleeping, and his blood gases off the ventilator are okay.”

Before Victor could ask anything more, the clerk manning the desk announced, “We're ready for report.” Turning to Victor, she said, “Why don't you wait inside the ICU, sir?”

Enter the ICU. Had he heard correctly? Access to the main ICU had been the weak link in his plan. The clerk who'd just come on duty was clueless of the fact that Matthew Mercer, the patient they were discussing, was in an isolation room, not in the main ICU.

Victor knew he would have to act before anyone noticed him. He thought he had maybe five minutes, maximum. No way he could have predicted exactly how he'd implement the inoculation phase, but he knew without a doubt that speed, precision, and safety were essential. The staph he'd cultured was so virulent that he could not risk even one organism straying from his target.

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
28
T
HANKSGIVING
D
AY

Pounding on his bedroom door awakened Charles Scarlett on Thanksgiving morning.

“Wake the fuck up and let me in,” Banks's voice shouted.

What the heck was he doing up at the crack of dawn? Banks usually slept until noon, especially after an all-nighter. And he never came out of his basement cave. Since nobody else lived in the house proper, Charles slept in the nude, never locking his bedroom door. Before he could throw on a pair of shorts, Banks was in the room. Not his usual lethargic self, but hands on hips, agitated, black eyes glaring, shoulder length hair a glossy auburn brown.

“You serious about that germ shit you talked about last night or you just blowing smoke up my ass?” he asked. Charles fumbled to tie the drawstrings of his old workout shorts.

He hadn't slept much, second-guessing himself. Could he uphold his oath to The Order? Could he carry out the plan that he'd proposed to Banks last night? Did he have the balls to walk into his high-security laboratory, cause a distraction or whatever, and walk out with a vial of a flesh-eating staphylococcus that could resist any antibiotic? Bacteria so deadly it was considered a potential bio-weapon and was protected by armed guards, 360-degree cameras, and electronics to monitor sound and motion. Charles had security clearance and he knew the exact placement of every culture and every camera. And now, with Stacy Jones being
promoted
—how could he even accommodate to that word, that concept—he would
be in control of the incubator system for the department. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Maybe that promotion was the key to unlock a momentous opportunity. But the bravado that had braced him when he'd presented his proposal last night, eluded him this morning as Will Banks got in his face, so close that Charles could smell his rank breath.