Weapon of Choice (17 page)

“Went home sick. No joke, she was sick. Shaking chills. God, I hope she doesn't have whatever's going around.”

“Where's Kellerman?” Laura glanced around. “He insisted I come up here STAT and now he's disappeared.” She didn't have much confidence that the infectious disease specialist would be able to handle this rapidly deteriorating situation. Thank goodness that Stacy had offered to come to Tampa in the morning. She wondered whether he'd talked to her about the AIDS patient as she'd suggested. As for Matthew Mercer, good thing his father had taken him out of here. A weird infection like this is just what he didn't need. Even in isolation, physically separated from the seven patients in the main room, there always was the risk of cross contamination. With an immune-compromised patient, just a small break in sterile procedure could result in rampant infection. Mercer was lucky that his bacterial infection had responded so well to antibiotics—contrary to the prediction of his expert father who'd pushed her so hard to get that investigational drug.

“You need to take a look at these patients, Laura. Maybe something will jump out at you. I am tired, low energy. Really feeling the stress of this day. Not a young resident anymore,” he said, as Michelle approached them.

“Dr. Nelson, we are all so glad you're here.”

“Michelle, give me a quick rundown, please,” Laura said. “Ed, I know you're anxious to get to that chest tube.”

Laura watched with concern as Ed rose slowly from the chair like an old man, using his arms to push up. A terrifying notion stopped her.
Did he have it, too? First the charge nurse who'd gone home with shaking chills? And now her colleague?

First, Laura needed Michelle to brief her on the status of the seven patients inside this room.

Then she needed to call Roxanne; the director of nursing had to be updated on the severity of the raging infection-like phenomenon in the ICU. Roxanne would contact the ICU charge nurse who'd gone home, and she would monitor for signs of infection in the rest of the ICU nursing staff. Might as well ruin Roxanne's family dinner, too.

Then Laura could leave Ed Plant and Duncan Kellerman with the ICU, and she could devote her attention to Natalie. By tomorrow
morning, Stacy Jones would be here, sharing all her high-powered CDC expertise about this frightful outbreak. Laura looked around the ICU, bed by bed, feeling a shiver of alarm.
Would these patients be alive in the morning?

“Okay, Michelle. Here we go. Start with Mr. Kelly: what happened?”

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
28
T
HANKSGIVING
D
AY

Two paramedics in green scrubs met the Medjet when it touched down at Washington National Airport. Working in perfect synchrony, the men transported Matthew in a medically equipped van, Victor at his side, to George Washington University Hospital. The infectious disease staff greeted Matthew with warm smiles. The look of relief on Matthew's drawn face touched Victor. He knew by now that Matthew never took acts of human kindness for granted, always showed his gratitude.

Yes, Victor had been right to get Matthew out of Tampa. No hospital in the South could hold a candle to the advanced hospitals in the East, Victor was convinced. And for the treatment of HIV, the seven-hundred-bed George Washington University Hospital was second only to the San Francisco medical facilities that had built their AIDS expertise on treating victims for the past four years.

As soon as aides settled his son into a comfortable bed in a private room, Matthew had encouraged Victor to leave. “Have you slept at all?” he'd asked. “You look terribly tired. Go home. I'll be fine. And, thank you.”

Truth was, Victor had not slept. His back and forth to Florida and the all-night preparation of his cultures had taken a toll. Nor would he get any sleep that night. Too much had to be done.

“Tomorrow,” Matthew said, “I need to talk to you.” His voice trembled and he turned his head away from Victor, “About what all this means.”

* * *

Victor took a cab to his home in Bethesda, arriving in the dark of a moonless night. He'd left a few lights on in the house, to make it appear that someone was home. Now he questioned that decision. If someone looked inside, they'd see disarray. He'd come and gone so quickly, so urgently, yesterday, that he'd left clothes and papers lying around. Never Victor's style. His first instinct was to tidy up, but he knew he couldn't afford the energy now. Or the time. Anyway, who would be peering inside his house?

After he lowered the shades on all the first-floor windows, he hurried toward the basement. From outside, no one could see any of this secret part of his home. He pulled out a key to unlock the door leading down to the basement. The basement windows were blackened and secured by metal grates; the door leading downstairs always double locked. But what if, in his absence, there'd been an emergency, like a broken water pipe, or a fire, and the fire department had to gain entry? They'd simply have to chop through the door. Victor shuddered at the ramifications.

Entering his basement laboratory, Victor faced the same scene he'd left: pipettes, petri dishes, graduate cylinders, and beakers scattered about on the workbench. Everything was just as he'd left it last night in his hurried getaway. For the first time since he'd left Tampa, the reality of his deeds in the Intensive Care Unit crashed into his consciousness. For a moment, he felt faint and grasped the edge of the workbench to steady himself.

Yesterday, in this room, the plan had seemed so straightforward, so righteous. Punish Norman to avenge Matthew, but in less than twenty-four hours, Matthew was recovering—without ticokellin. Norman? Had he killed him? Had he killed others to cover up his tie to Norman? How many had he infected? Was it five, or six, or maybe four? He couldn't be sure. His staph, after all, had never been tested in humans. Maybe the test tube virulence wouldn't translate to violent infection in humans. Maybe a yet-to-be-discovered natural antibody would combat the bacteria.

He remembered feeling convinced that he'd done the right thing. Had he? Or had he done something terrible?

“Too tired to think,” he said aloud. “Clean all this up. Dismantle the lab. Dissolve any trace of a staph organism.”

Victor rubbed his aching neck, longing for a massage. But he had work to do that could not wait. So he started collecting the laboratory glassware. Everything would go into the autoclave to be sterilized. Tomorrow, first thing, he'd crush the glassware and haul off the shards to a landfill.

What about the cultures he'd nurtured in his basement lab for all those years? “Autoclave them all,” he said aloud. Destroy every trace. Destroy his life's work. With clarity, almost mystical clarity, he now knew why he'd done what most people would consider crazy. Why had he kept his staph alive? He'd had an unrelenting, inner premonition that someday he'd need these cultures. And he had needed them to protect his son. When that need arose, he'd had the weapon and he'd used it to punish Norman.

Yes. But for Matthew's sake, he could not risk being caught. Victor was Matthew's only support.

Going to the walk-in incubator he'd installed in the far corner, Victor removed glass petri dish after glass petri dish. Using sterile technique, he placed them in the autoclave, set the temperature to Kill, and waited the required time. He repeated this procedure until all the cultures were dead. Every lethal trace of his bacteria—destroyed. Then he liquefied his supply of growth media, dumping the congealed mess down the drain and adding the empty container jars to the bin of glassware to be destroyed. He'd have to get rid of the equipment, too, but for that he'd need to rent a truck and make a trip to the dump. No time now. But with no trace of live bacteria, how suspicious would it be for a microbiologist to have some outdated laboratory instruments in his basement?

The sky had turned pinkish when Victor came upstairs from the basement. Ignoring the clutter everywhere on the first floor, he continued to the bedroom. He fell across his bed without undressing, too tired to worry about perhaps one infinitesimal, invisible staphylococcus having found its way onto his clothing.

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
28
T
HANKSGIVING
D
AY

Will Banks had ranted about white supremacy for twenty minutes, his face redder and redder, his tone belligerent, his speech peppered with obscenities that Charles, himself, would avoid using.

Stop playing games with me
, he wanted to scream at Banks.
Who do they want me to infect?

Banks stopped pacing and sat on the brocade ottoman, leaning right in Charles's face. He bared tobacco-stained teeth in a snarl. “Gonna hit 'em Saturday.”

Charles drew back involuntarily, eyes in a fixed stare. His pudgy body froze. “Not enough time—” he began.

Banks cut him off, his face within an inch of Charles's. “Saturday. Right here in Atlanta. Make it real easy for you. You're gonna take out a shitload of big shots. Ever heard of Julian Bond, Chuckie?”

“What—” Charles managed to clamp his mouth shut. Julian Bond, who'd just received the Bill of Rights Award from the American Civil Liberties Union of Georgia? Oh, he'd heard an earful about that from Dad. That and Bond's recent appearance in
Time
magazine. Bond definitely would be on The Order's hit list. But how to get to him?

“Payback time,” Banks sat back with a grin. “No more of him polluting the airwaves with crap on that
America's Black Forum
. We're gonna teach those diversity people and the Southern Poverty folks a lesson. But they're never gonna see it comin', that's the beauty.”

Charles's mind churned, trying to process what Banks was saying. He'd been trying to visualize the kind of target The Order would choose. Some crowd scene. But a celebrity target? No, he had not expected that.

“Remember when you said that you could put the bacteria in room-temperature liquid. That they could survive for a decent period of time, like several hours.”

Charles nodded, still keeping still.
How was he going to do this?
A million questions swarmed.

“There's a party Saturday night at the Palace Hotel, Bond is gonna show up. And the swanky ballroom is gonna be full of black people plus white people kissin' up to black people.”

“The Palace?” Charles asked. “What kind of a party?”

“Some kinda celebration or anniversary thing for a black bitch runnin' the
Atlanta Daily Reporter
—African American rag. Been in her family a long time, some kinda shit like that. The important point is the guest list. You're not gonna believe it, Chuckie—all the uppity-up black folks in Georgia will be there. You got Bond, he's buddies with the
Reporter
bitch. You got Young and you got Jackson.”

Atlanta Mayor Andrew Young and the previous mayor, Maynard Jackson?
Speechless, stiffening his neck to keep from cringing, Charles did his best not to look away from Banks.

Snickering, Banks pointed at Charles's face.

Must look stricken. He'd never been any good at poker.

“Gotcha, didn't I?” Banks leaned back, his laugh now a hearty roar.

Charles relaxed. “You sure did, you jerk. Almost gave me a heart attack, Will.”

“That's not all,” Banks ignored Charles and continued. “Their families will be with those fools. A family affair. Bitch from the
Reporter
has fifteen
grandchildren
. All gonna be there, my boy.”

“I don't want to infect kids,” Charles protested, “if that's what you're saying.” He'd always had a soft spot for kids. Why, he'd never know. The only kids he knew were Russell Robertson's and them, just barely. He'd almost passed out that time when Russell's
wife handed him a baby to hold. He didn't know what to do, but the baby had cooed and smiled, until it spit up stinky white crud. And now that baby had no father.

“Yeah, we got young and old. Ideal demographs, the leadership said.”

“Demographics,” corrected Charles, mechanically, not that he wanted to educate Will Banks.
What was the maniac going on about anyway
?

“Whoa, Will, I'm not following you.” Charles had been gritting his teeth, as if that would stop the words spewing out of Banks's mouth. “
In the kitchen.” “Cream puffs
?”
“Profiteroles
?” The words suffocated him, as if he were laying in a grave and each word another shovelful of dirt.

“It's your show, Chuckie.” Banks shrugged. “I'm just the stage manager. You get the bacteria into that Palace Hotel kitchen and load it into those cream puff things.”

“Impossible.” Charles felt better, realizing that this idiot scheme could never work. Preposterous. Will Banks may be able to charge in with heavy weapons, but walking into a fancy hotel and—

“You got a better idea?” Banks snapped back. “See, The Order's got a guy inside. The top pastry chef. Been in a sleeper cell for a while, just like you; waitin' and waitin'. And this is his chance. He said it would work. It's a big party, he'll need an assistant. You come in—with your test tubes or whatever you keep them deadly germs in.” Banks gestured with his index finger, as if scooping whipped cream, and pointed at Charles. “You just get those germs in the creamy filling of the cream puffs or profiteroles, whatever.”

“But—”

“I know what you're going to say, not everybody's gonna eat one. True, but this pastry chef claims that this is the most popular dessert at Palace events, a famous delicacy, the hotel specialty. Don't worry, Chuckie, we'll get plenty of 'em. They won't be havin' any more fancy social events in white people's hotels for a long while.”