Bloodstream

by Tess Gerritsen

  Jack Reid stood up. “Can’t talk about solutions till we talk about why it’s happening in the first place. I hear from my boys that it’s the new kids in school, the ones who moved here from other cities, who’re causing most of the problems. Starting up gangs, maybe bringing in drugs.”

  Lincoln’s response was lost in a sudden crescendo of voices. Claire could see the frustration in his face, the deepening flush of anger.

  “This is not a problem from away,” said Lincoln. “This crisis is local. It’s our problem, and our kids getting into trouble.”

  “But who got them started?” said Reid. “Who got ’em going? Some folks just don’t belong here!”

  Glen Ryder’s gavel banged again and again, to no avail. Jack Reid had pushed a hot button with this crowd, and now everyone was yelling at once.

  A woman’s voice cut through the bedlam. “What about the rumors of a centuries-old Satanic cult?” said Damaris Horne, rising to her feet. It was hard to miss that wild mane of blond hair. Also hard to miss were the interested glances men cast her way. “We’ve all heard about those old bones they dug up by the lake. I understand it was a mass murder. Maybe even a ritual slaying.”

  “That was over a hundred years ago,” said Lincoln. “It’s completely unrelated.”

  “Maybe not. New England has a long history of Satanic cults.”

  Lincoln was fast losing control of his temper. “The only cult around here,” he shot back, “is the one you made up for your trashy tabloid!”

  “Then perhaps you’ll explain all the disturbing rumors I’ve been hearing,” said Damaris, keeping her cool. “For instance, the number six-six-six painted on the side of the high school.”

  Lincoln aimed a startled glance at Fern. Claire realized at once what that look meant. Clearly they were both surprised by the reporter’s knowledge of a real event.

  “There was a barn found splashed with blood last month,” said Damaris. “What about that?”

  “That was a can of red paint. Not blood.”

  “And those lights flickering at night up on Beech Hill. Which, I’ve been told, is nothing but forest reserve.”

  “Now wait a minute,” interjected Lois Cuthbert, one of the town selectmen. “That I can explain. It’s that biologist fella, Dr. Tutwiler, collecting salamanders at night. I almost ran over him in the dark a few weeks ago, when he came hiking back down.”

  “All right,” conceded Damaris. “Forget the lights up on Beech Hill. But I still say there’s a lot of strange and unexplained things happening in this town. If anyone here wants to talk to me about it later, I’m ready to listen.” Damaris sat down again.

  “I agree with her,” said a tremulous voice. The woman stood at the back of the room, a small, whitefaced figure clutching at her coat. “There’s something wrong in this town. I’ve felt it for a long time. You can deny it all you want, Chief Kelly, but what we have here is evil. I’m not saying it’s Satan. I don’t know what it is. But I know I can’t live here anymore. I’ve put my house up for sale, and I’m leaving next week. Before something happens to my family.” She turned and walked out of the hushed room.

  The high-pitched beeping of Claire’s pocket pager cut through the silence. She glanced down and saw it was the hospital trying to reach her. She pushed her way through the crowd and stepped outside to make the call on her cell phone.

  After the overheated cafeteria, the wind felt piercingly cold, and she huddled, shivering, against the building, waiting for an answer.

  “Laboratory, Clive speaking.”

  “This is Dr. Elliot. You paged me.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted us to call you on these results, since this patient’s deceased. But I’ve got some reports back on Scotty Braxton.”

  “Yes, I want to hear all the results.”

  “First, I have a final report here from Anson Biologicals on the boy’s comprehensive drug and tox screen. None were detected.”

  “There’s nothing about the peak on his chromatogram?”

  “Not on this report.”

  “This has to be a mistake. There must be something in his drug screen.”

  “That’s all it says here: ‘None detected.’ We’ve also got the final culture result on the boy’s nasal discharge. It’s a pretty long list of organisms, since you wanted everything identified. Mostly the usual colonizers. Staph epidermidis, alpha strep. Bugs we don’t normally bother to report.”

  “Is there anything unusual growing out?”

  “Yes. Vibrio fischeri.”

  She scribbled the name down on a scrap of paper. “I’ve never heard of that organism.”

  “Neither had we. It’s never turned up in a culture here. It has to be a contaminant.”

  “But I collected the specimen straight from the patient’s nasal mucosa.”

  “Well, I doubt this contamination came from our lab. This bacteria isn’t something you’d find floating around in a hospital.”

  “What is Vibrio fischeri? Where does it normally grow?”

  “I checked with the microbiologist in Bangor, where they did the cultures. She says this species is usually a colonizer of invertebrates like squid or marine worms. It forms a symbiotic relationship. The host invertebrate provides a safe environment.”

  “And what does the Vibrio do in exchange?”

  “It provides the power for the host’s light organ.”

  It took a few seconds for the significance of that fact to sink in. She asked, sharply: “Are you saying this bacteria is bioluminescent?”

  “Yeah. The squid collects it in a translucent sac. It uses the bacteria’s glow to attract other squid. Sort of like a neon sign for sex.”

  “I’ve got to go,” she cut in. “I’ll talk to you later.” She disconnected and hurried back into the school cafeteria.

  Glen Ryder was trying to quiet down the audience again, his gavel thumping ineffectually against a chorus of competing voices. He looked startled as Claire pushed her way to the speakers’ table.

  “I have to make an announcement,” she said. “I have a health alert for the town.”

  “It’s not exactly relevant to this meeting, Dr. Elliot.”

  “I believe it is relevant. Please let me speak.”

  He nodded and resumed banging the gavel with new urgency. “Dr. Elliot has an announcement!”

  Claire moved front and center, acutely aware that everyone’s gaze was on her. She took a deep breath and began. “These attacks are scaring us all, causing us to point fingers at our neighbors, at the school. At people from away. But I believe there’s a medical explanation. I’ve just spoken to the hospital lab, and I have a clue to what’s going on.” She held up the scrap of paper with the organism’s name. “It’s a bacteria called Vibrio fischeri. It was growing in Scotty Braxton’s nasal mucus. What we’re seeing now—this aggressive behavior in our children—may be a symptom of infection. Vibrio fischeri could cause a case of meningitis we can’t detect with our usual tests. It could also cause what doctors call a ‘neighborhood reaction’—an infection of the sinuses, extending into the brain—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Adam DelRay, rising to his feet. “I’ve been practicing medicine here for ten years. I’ve never come across an infection of this—what is it?”

  “Vibrio fischeri. It’s not normally seen in humans. But the lab’s identified it as an organism infecting my patient.”

  “And where did your patient pick up this bug?”

  “I believe it was the lake. Scotty Braxton and Taylor Darnell both swam in that lake almost every day last summer. So did a lot of other kids in this town. If that lake has a high bacterial count of Vibrio, that could explain how they’re getting infected.”

  “I went swimming last summer,” said a woman. “A lot of adults did. Why would only the kids get infected?”

  “It may have to do with what part of the lake you swim in. I also know there’s a similar infectious pattern for amoebic meningitis. That’s a brain
infection caused by amoebas growing in fresh water. Children and teenagers are most often infected. When they swim in contaminated water, the amoeba enters their nasal mucosa. From there it reaches the brain by passing through a porous barrier called the cribriform plate. Adults don’t get infected, because their cribriform plates are sealed over, protecting their brains. Children don’t have that protection.”

  “So how do you treat this? With antibiotics or something?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  Adam DelRay let out an incredulous laugh. “Are you suggesting we dispense antibiotics to every irritable kid in town? You have no proof anyone’s infected!”

  “I do have a positive culture.”

  “One positive culture. And it’s not from the spinal fluid, so how can you call this meningitis?” He looked at the audience. “I can assure this town there is no epidemic. Last month, the Two Hills Pediatric Group got a lab grant to survey blood counts and hormone levels in kids. They’ve been drawing blood on all their teenage patients in the area. Any infection would have shown up in their blood counts.”

  “What grant are you talking about?” asked Claire.

  “From Anson Biologicals. To confirm baseline normals. They haven’t reported anything unusual.” He shook his head. “This infection theory of yours is the most crackpot thing I’ve heard yet, and it comes without a shred of evidence. You don’t even know if Vibrio is growing in the lake.”

  “I know it is,” said Claire. “I’ve seen it.”

  “You saw a bacteria? What, do you have microscopic vision?”

  “Vibrio fischeri is bioluminescent. It glows. I’ve seen bioluminescence in Locust Lake.”

  “Where are the cultures to back it up? Have you collected water samples?”

  “I saw it just before the lake froze over. It’s probably too cold now to grow out viable cultures. Which means we won’t have confirmation until we do water sampling in the spring. These cultures take time to grow. It could be weeks or months after that before we get an answer.” She paused, reluctant to make her next suggestion. “Until we rule out the lake as the source of this bacteria,” she said, “I recommend we keep our children from swimming in it.”

  The uproar was expected and immediate.

  “Are you crazy? We can’t let an announcement like that get out!”

  “What about the tourists? You’ll scare off the tourists!”

  “How the hell are we s’posed to make a living?”

  Glen Ryder was on his feet, banging at the table. “Order! I will have order!” His face florid, he turned to confront Claire. “Dr. Elliot, this isn’t the time or place to suggest such drastic action. It needs to be discussed by the Board of Selectmen.”

  “This is a public health issue,” said Claire. “It’s a decision for the health department. Not politicians.”

  “There’s no need to involve the state!”

  “It’s irresponsible not to.”

  Lois Cuthbert shot to her feet. “I’ll tell you what’s irresponsible! It’s getting up there, without any evidence, with all these reporters in the room, and claiming there’s some deadly bacteria in our lake. You’re going to destroy this town.”

  “If there’s a health risk, we have no other choice.”

  Lois turned to Adam DelRay. “What’s your opinion, Dr. DelRay? Is there a health risk?”

  DelRay gave a derisive laugh. “The only risk that I can see is that we’ll be made laughingstocks if we take this seriously. Bacteria that glow in the dark? Do they sing and dance too?”

  Claire flushed as laughter burst out all around her. “I know what I saw,” she insisted.

  “Right, Dr. Elliot! Psychedelic bacteria.”

  Lincoln’s voice suddenly rang through the laughter. “I saw it too.”

  Everyone fell silent as he rose to his feet. Startled, Claire turned to look at him and he gave her a wry nod, a gesture that said: We might as well hang together.

  “I was there that night, with Dr. Elliot,” he said. “We both saw the glow on the lake. I can’t tell you what it was. It only lasted for a few minutes, and then it vanished. But there was a glow.”

  “I’ve lived on that lake all my life,” said Lois Cuthbert. “I’ve never seen any glow.”

  “Me neither!”

  “—or me!”

  “Hey, Chief, you and the doc sniffing the same thing?”

  New laughter erupted, and this time it was directed at both of them. The outrage had turned to ridicule, but Lincoln didn’t back down; he bore the insults with calm equanimity.

  “It may be an episodic occurrence,” said Claire. “Something that doesn’t happen every year. It could be related to weather conditions. Spring flooding or a particularly hot summer—we had both this year. The very same conditions that occurred fifty-two years ago.” She paused, and her challenging gaze swept the audience. “I know there are people in this room who remember what happened fifty-two years ago.”

  The crowd went silent.

  The reporter from the Portland Press Herald asked, loudly: “What happened fifty-two years ago?”

  Abruptly Glen Ryder shot to his feet. “The board will take it under advisement. Thank you, Dr. Elliot.”

  “This should be addressed now,” said Claire. “The health department should be called in to test the water—”

  “We will discuss it at our next board meeting,” Ryder repeated firmly. “That’s all, Dr. Elliot.”

  Cheeks burning, she walked away from the speakers’ table.

  The meeting continued, loud and rancorous, as suggestions were tossed out. There was no further mention of her theory; they had unanimously dismissed it as not worth further discussion. Someone suggested a nine P.M. curfew—all kids off the streets. The teens protested, “Civil rights!” “What about our civil rights?”

  “You kids have no civil rights!” shot back Lois. “Not until you learn responsibility!”

  It went downhill from there.

  At ten P.M., with everyone hoarse from shouting, Glen Ryder finally adjourned the meeting.

  Claire remained standing at the side of the room, watching as the crowd exited. No one looked at her as they filed past. I’ve ceased to exist in this town, she thought wretchedly, except as an object of scorn. She wanted to thank Lincoln for supporting her, but she saw that he was under siege, surrounded by the Board of Selectmen, who were plying him with questions and complaints.

  “Dr. Elliot!” called out Damaris Horne. “What happened fifty-two years ago?”

  Claire fled toward the exit, Damaris and the other reporters trailing after her as she kept repeating, “No comment. No comment.” She was relieved when no one pursued her out the door.

  Outside, the chill wind seemed to slice right through her coat. Her car was parked some distance from the school. Thrusting her hands in her pockets, she began to walk as quickly as she dared along the icy road, squinting against the intermittent glare of headlights as other cars pulled away. By the time she reached her vehicle, she already had the keys out, and was about to unlock the door when she realized something was not right.

  She took a step back and stared in shock at the pools of flaccid rubber that had been her tires. All four of them had been slashed. In fury, in frustration, she slammed her hand down on the car. Once, twice.

  Across the road, a man walking back to his own car turned and looked at her in surprise. It was Mitchell Groome.

  “Something wrong, Dr. Elliot?” he called out.

  “Look at my tires!”

  He paused to let a car drive past, then crossed the road to join her. “Jesus,” he murmured. “Someone doesn’t like you.”

  “They slashed all of them!”

  “I’d help you change them. But I don’t suppose you’d have four spare tires in the trunk.”

  She did not appreciate his weak attempt at humor. She turned her back on him and stared down at the ruined tires. Her exposed face stung from the wind, and the chill of the frozen ground seem
ed to seep through the soles of her boots. It was too late to call Joe Bartlett’s garage; he wouldn’t be able to get four new tires till morning, anyway. She was stranded, furious, and growing colder by the minute.

  She turned to Groome. “Could you give me a ride home?”

  It was a deal with the devil, and she knew it. A journalist must ask questions, and barely ten seconds into the drive, he asked the one she’d expected:

  “So what did happen in this town fifty-two years ago?”

  She averted her eyes. “I’m really not in the mood for this.”

  “I’m sure you’re not, but it’s going to come out eventually. Damaris Horne will track it down, one way or the other.”

  “That woman has no sense of ethics.”

  “But she does have an inside source.”

  Claire looked at him. “Are you talking about the police department?”

  “You already know about it?”

  “Not the name of the officer. Which one is it?”

  “Tell me what happened in 1946.”

  She faced forward again. “It’s in the local newspaper archives. You can look it up for yourself.”

  He drove for a moment in silence. “It’s happened to this town before, hasn’t it?” he said. “The killings.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe there’s a biological reason for it?”

  “It has something to do with that lake. It’s some sort of natural phenomenon. A bacteria, or an algae.”

  “What about my theory? That this is another Flanders, Iowa?”

  “It’s not drug abuse, Mitchell. I thought we’d turned up something in both boys’ blood—an anabolic steroid of some kind. But the final tox screens on both of them came back negative. And Taylor denies any drug abuse.”

  “Kids do lie.”

  “Blood tests don’t.”

  They pulled into her driveway, and he turned to look at her. “You’ve picked an uphill fight, Dr. Elliot. Maybe you didn’t sense the depth of anger in that room, but I certainly did.”

  “Not only did I sense it, I have four slashed tires to prove it.” She stepped out. “Thank you for the ride. Now you owe me something.”

  “Do I?”

  “The name of the cop who’s been talking to Damaris Horne.”