by Betsy Ashton
Toby pushed past me into Johnny’s room and pulled the curtains across the windows, effectively dismissing me. I would not be dismissed. I pulled the curtains aside and followed Toby in time to see him push a syringe into the IV port.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Don’t question me.” Toby’s cheerful façade slipped once again. “If it’s any of your business, I’m cleaning his port with saline.”
Since when does Toby have anything to do with an IV port? I’d never seen him touch them before. I left the room and was at the nurses’ station in five quick strides. I told the nurse in charge about my conversation. She walked to Johnny’s room and entered. I hovered just inside Alex’s, straining to hear anything going on across the hall.
“She must be mistaken,” I heard Toby say. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Bullshit!” I muttered.
Moments later, the curtain twitched aside and Toby left. No longer our friendly Toby the vampire, his scowl was a warning for me to stop interfering. The nurse assured me that Johnny was in good hands.
“Toby might have overstepped his bounds a bit, but he was only trying to help because we’re stretched thin,” she said.
I stared at Johnny, trying to see if there was any change in the way he looked or breathed. If anything, his breathing seemed less labored. Perhaps the antibiotics were winning the battle.
Alex roused, saw me standing in front of Johnny’s room, and demanded my attention. “Do you think I can have my Game Boy?”
I raised a finger and walked out to the room I no longer shared with Johnny. The Game Boy and some new games Johnny brought had been there since Q-Day—quarantine day. I’d kept the hand-held unit charged. I knew Alex would want it as soon as he felt better, and I would do anything to keep him from getting bored and restless.
“Oh wow! New games,” he exclaimed when I returned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WITH JOHNNY SLEEPING and Alex occupied with his Game Boy, nothing in the ICU required my immediate attention. I stumbled back to our room with napping on my mind, only to rediscover that I had no bed. The blue M&M, or whatever it was, was gone. Poking my nose into every open door, I found an empty room down the hall, pulled the door half closed, and stretched out fully clothed on the bare mattress. I punched a pancake-thin pillow into submission, wiggling around until my head rested between lumps.
Time to leave the monitoring of my sick family to the hospital staff, and the guarding against further intrusions to Emilie and Ducks. I set a mental alarm for two hours.
I woke more refreshed than when I lay down but by no means at ease. The crick in my neck was a persistent annoyance. I made a quick circuit of the ICU, which showed both of my patients asleep. After I grabbed what seemed like my thousandth cup of coffee for the day, I discovered Dr. Running Bear, Dr. Duval, Keith, and Sharon in the diagnosis room, on a conference call with the head of the Secret Service detail that hadn’t been quarantined.
“I’ll set up an observation perimeter at the back of the hospital,” Keith said. “I want eyes out there around the clock.”
“What do you want us to do if someone sneaks out? Apprehend or follow? Our job is Dr. Anderson’s protection, not undercover police work,” the outside agent said.
“Do neither,” Dr. Running Bear said. “We’re looking for a name and photos of anyone exiting the hospital or anyone coming to the loading dock. Since the delivery people are CDC or FBI employees, we shouldn’t have anyone from town hanging around.”
“So, are you asking a couple of the local FBI agents for help?” I butted in. I wanted every possible law enforcement officer on duty. “They’re trained in police work.”
“Already on it. They’ll work twelve-hour shifts patrolling the perimeter of the hospital,” said the outside agent.
“What about the local sheriff or the reservation police?” Sharon asked.
“I’m sure they’ll help as well,” said Leena, who’d entered on my heels.
“Let’s not get too many people out there. Remember, we need to act as if everything is normal. We don’t want to alert anyone who may be watching either inside or outside the hospital,” Dr. Duval cautioned.
“Most of the people who live on the reservation are hunters, right?” I asked. I had the semblance of an idea.
“Hey, we don’t want armed civilians patrolling the hospital grounds.” Keith hadn’t forgotten about the number of guns in the hospital. “Leave the police work to professionals.”
I raised my right forefinger before folding my hand into a clam shape. Sharon elbowed her Rottweiler. “She wants you to be quiet and listen.”
Keith growled.
“What I mean is, do any of you hunters have motion-detection cameras?”
“It’s illegal to use them, Max. But I see where you’re heading,” Dr. Running Bear said. His eyes may have been bloodshot, but his mind was alert. “Some of the biologists over at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque probably have a couple to monitor migrating animals.”
“If we could get them on loan, you could set them around at likely exit paths. That would extend the reach of your security measures, wouldn’t it, Keith?”
“Interesting idea, Max,” said Sharon. Keith nodded.
“Several environmentalists have these cameras, too. They watch for poachers, illegal hunters, and tourists out picking rare plant specimens. There’s no flash, so no one would know he was being photographed. I’ll make some calls. Who should they contact?” Dr. Running Bear asked.
Keith gave him the name and number of the agent outside.
###
In the four o’clock briefing, no one mentioned new surveillance protocols. We didn’t want the unidentified culprit to know that we were actively hunting him. Dr. Duval reported on patient status and the new admissions.
“We admitted two more children overnight from the same family on the reservation. They have rashes, fever, and body aches. More cousins who live in the same house have similar, though more minor, symptoms.”
The children’s father was assigned a room at “the inn,” our darkly humorous name for the unused wards. Maybe “Hotel California” would have been more appropriate—we all checked in and couldn’t check out.
“We will move the rest of the family into quarantine to monitor them for signs of infection. With these new cases, we have overflowed the ICU and need to expand the Med-Surg ward as an isolation ward,” Dr. Duval finished.
Dr. Running Bear pointed to Nurse Gilligan, who held up a handful of papers. “If you have been sleeping on that ward, please see the nurse for your new room assignments. Several of you will be moved to the maternity wing.”
“Really?” one of the fathers snorted with contempt.
“We aren’t admitting any mothers about to deliver, so we might as well use the beds.” Dr. Running Bear smiled to reassure parents. “If you want a place to sleep, that will be better than a plastic chair in one of the lounges.”
As for the outside world, Dr. Duval reported that the media had latched onto the story about a cluster of unknown illnesses felling children on the San Felipe Reservation. She read from a story in the local paper: “Doctors are tight lipped, but we have reliable sources who tell us the children all have bubonic plague. The CDC has placed San Felipe Hospital under quarantine. We’re following this closely and will bring you updates as they happen.”
Bubonic plague? The media makes it sound like we’re about to experience the return of the Black Death from the 14th Century.
“It’s good no one in the media knows about the pox,” I whispered to Sharon, “or we’d have panic over misreporting a smallpox outbreak.”
“You got that right, girlfriend.” Sharon’s eyes never left the front of the room, but she reached over and squeezed my hand.
Dr. Duval stepped forward, her eyes dark with anger.
“Someone inside the hospital has been talking to the press. I do not know who it is, and I do not need to
know, but it stops now. I cannot keep you from confiding in your families. I can only ask that you not do so. Anyone you talk with might be the reliable sources mentioned on the local television station.”
“Misinformation can lead to panic, which is the last thing we need,” Keith said. “I don’t want to confiscate your cell phones, but I will if you don’t give me your word you won’t talk to the press again.”
Dr. Duval continued, “It is natural to want to answer questions in times like these, but we have enough to manage without an army of reporters trying to get inside and pushing their microphones into our faces.”
The father of the baby who died jerked his head toward the window. “Too late. They’re here.”
Outside, satellite trucks filled the circular drive, where the CDC trucks and vans had parked just over a week before. Sharon’s limousine, the black Suburbans, and the CDC vehicles were around back. The local FBI also parked in the rear when any of its agents were on the premises.
News crews staked out monitoring stations all around the front. Vans with local and network news logos jockeyed for positions, raised transmission masts, and swung dishes toward satellite locations to broadcast live. We could see wild gesticulations from cameramen, but we couldn’t hear anything. Reporters smoothed their hair and checked to see that their blouses were tucked in, or straightened their ties, before recording stand-up comments.
Dr. Running Bear held up his hand to quiet the murmurs seeping from every crevice in the cafeteria. He nodded to Keith, who moved to the windows.
“Sorry, folks. From now on, the blinds remain closed.”
Again, the contemptuous father questioned Dr. Running Bear. “Are you afraid we might write messages on napkins and hold them up?”
“It could happen, although I think you understand the gravity of our situation and won’t do anything like that,” Sharon said. “Please note that some of these outlets use parabolic microphones to eavesdrop through windows, so please be careful what you say in the cafeteria or in the lobby in particular.”
“We’ll do everything we can to protect your privacy and that of your families while you’re here. To that end, I know some of you won’t like this, but there can be no more smoke breaks on the loading dock,” Dr. Running Bear continued.
General muttering signaled dismay at the revocation of this last, small freedom.
Dr. Duval seconded his pronouncement. “It has been my experience that reporters are remarkably inattentive to health precautions if they can break a story. In Indonesia after the tsunami wiped out a large part of Ache Province, reporters climbed over bloated bodies of the dead to get a good photo. Many contracted cholera after contact with contaminated water, even though they were properly warned.”
“We’ll lock down this hospital even tighter than it is. No one is to speak to the press under any circumstances.” Keith peered around the crowd. “Do I make myself clear?”
Heads nodded.
“Nurse Gilligan has plenty of nicotine patches. Please see her as soon as possible,” Dr. Running Bear said.
I felt even more claustrophobic. I couldn’t step outside; now I couldn’t look outside, either.
Dr. Duval looked at the father of the girl who had died from plague, and then at two other families whose children were in nearby rooms. I sure as hell hadn’t talked to anyone outside of Ducks, Whip, and Emilie. Oh, and Eleanor and Raney, but none of them would talk to the press.
“Did any of you talk to the local paper?” The doctor’s words seemed mild enough on the surface, but her tone was anything but.
Parents shook their heads—all but one mother, whose child was infected with hantavirus. She shriveled into herself, shoulders hunched, head pulled in. Dr. Running Bear saw the movement. He went to her and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Look at me, Mrs. Nakai.”
She raised teary eyes.
“Who did you tell?”
“Only my son,” her voice quavered.
“And your son works for the New Mexican over in Santa Fe, if I remember?”
“He does. I only wanted him to know what was happening to his baby brother.”
“Did you tell him his brother has hantavirus?” Dr. Duval asked.
Mrs. Nakai’s voice shrank into her body. “I did. I told him he wasn’t as bad as the children with plague.”
“I understand.” Dr. Running Bear turned back to the rest of the room. “Mrs. Nakai meant no harm, but you can see how easily harm was done. Not only are the media here, but the reporters have the wrong information. You can expect calls from worried family members who hear we have bubonic plague. We do not, I repeat, we do not have bubonic plague here in the hospital.”
“The media latched onto one word, plague, and misreported the story. The more they repeat bubonic plague, the more likely we are to have a panic. From now on, Dr. Running Bear and I will brief the press daily at ten in the morning,” Dr. Duval said.
“You said my daughter died from plague,” said the father, standing in protest. “If it’s not bubonic plague, what killed her?”
Dr. Duval stood next to Dr. Running Bear, the two of them a formidable wall against ignorance. “We have pneumonic plague. It is a cousin of bubonic plague, and, like its cousin, it responds well to antibiotics.”
“But if antibiotics work, why did my daughter die?” asked the man. Arms crossed over his chest screamed that he was believing none of the explanations.
“Your daughter came in with pneumonia and pneumonic plague. She was too sick to be saved,” Dr. Running Bear said.
Dr. Duval nodded. “Please, when your family asks, tell them we do not have bubonic plague. Please also tell them we are treating the disease with antibiotics. Dr. Running Bear and I will handle the press.” What she didn’t say was that pneumonic plague spread ten times faster than the Black Death.
The meeting broke up; I checked in on Johnny and Alex before an early dinner, which I ate alone by choice. I wanted some me-time to sort out my thoughts. I was no closer to an answer than I had been earlier in the day. After an insipid grilled cheese sandwich and a halfway tasty cup of potato-leek soup, I settled back with a coffee. With the cafeteria blinds closed, this had become yet another place where the difference between day and night didn’t exist.
Emilie called. “I can’t get any feelings right now. Do you think he left the hospital?”
“Boy, do I wish that were true.” I stared at the covered windows, behind which were beautiful vistas of wild desert. “No, dear child. Keith had his men surreptitiously conduct body counts. Whoever is behind the outbreak is still inside. No one is missing.”
“He’s gone silent, then. He’ll have make a move sooner rather than later. When he does, Mr. Ducks and I will follow him.”
“I’m glad you can from a distance. I’d have no worry to spare if you two were close by.”
“We’re never far away. Love you, Mad Max.”
“Love you, too, my dear.”
Answers played hide-and-seek and fears chased each other through my mind—I’d about run out of childhood metaphors when Dr. Gupta entered the cafeteria. She paused, until I waved her over. After she selected her food, I scrutinized her face, hoping to see good news writ large. I didn’t see anything, small or large, good or bad. I saw a short, weary woman.
“How’s Johnny?” Dr. Gupta stirred sugar into hot tea after wrapping the bag around her spoon to extract the last drops.
“Sleeping when I left. Leena says that’s what he needs, but his condition remains unchanged. He still hasn’t woken up.” I stared into my cup and wondered where the coffee had gone. Surely, I’d fetched it less than ten minutes earlier. A quick glance at the wall clock showed I’d been sitting lost in thought for close to an hour. I excused myself and returned with yet another refill.
“She’ll call me if there’s any change,” I continued. “I thought the antibiotics would have started to work by now.”
Dr. Gupta frowned. “His constitution may be resis
ting the treatment. I’ll speak to Dr. Running Bear about changing his medication. We have more than one in our arsenal.”
To take our minds off of the crisis, we chatted about her children—she had four—and Emilie. We both missed our families. At least I was here with Alex and Johnny. The thought gave me a tiny bit of solace, even though one of my men was on the mend and the other was closer to death than I wanted to admit.
At last one of the hidden answers could be found. “May I ask a question? What do nurses use when they clean out an IV port?”
The virologist chewed and swallowed.
“Generally, we use saline solution. If we don’t have that, we might use distilled water.”
I lapsed into silence while my brain replayed what Toby had done that morning. I explained my concerns.
“That’s standard procedure, Max. We flush the port before injecting medications unless we are pushing the meds through a solution bag on a stand.”
“Do lab techs normally handle medications or do procedures like cleaning IV ports?” I pushed.
“Not usually, but these aren’t normal times. Anyone with basic training can push medications through an IV port. All it takes is a bit of guidance, the right drugs in an injectable solution, and a doctor’s order to release the medication. That said, having a technician dispense medications would be a serious breach of protocol. Not that too many of us are standing strictly on protocol right now.” Dr. Gupta glanced at the drawn shades.
I bobbed my head, as much indicating that I wasn’t done thinking about this as agreeing with her assessment of the situation.
“I thought Johnny was getting his antibiotics through the solution bag, not by direct injection,” I said. Something still wasn’t sitting right, and it had nothing to do with too much caffeine, which turned my stomach into an acid pit.
“You’d better check when you get back upstairs.”
“Oh, I will. To change the subject, will you tell me more about these BSLs? I may have heard of them, but I’m sorry to say I paid no attention. Now, I want to know everything I can.”