With the way cleared for its analysis, he grabbed the double test tube containing the swab and headed for the door. He was met there by the shadow of a visitor on the frosted glass. Whoever it was showing up without an appointment was just gonna be out of luck, he thought, throwing the door open before any knock came.
“You’re not going anywhere until we’ve had a talk,” Mark Blackledge said, pushing on Broussard’s chest with his fingers. He crowded closer, trying to force Broussard back into his office, but Broussard held his ground.
“I’m the epidemiologist on this case, not you,” Blackledge groused. “Where do you get off following up leads without consulting me?”
“I told you we should check out the docks, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“We’d have done that.”
“Why are you so upset? By splittin’ up, we maximized our effort.”
“We didn’t do anything. You went behind my back without authorization—just to humiliate me.”
“I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but your feelin’s were way down my list of priorities. I’ve lost an assistant to that virus and there’s no tellin’ how many more people in this city are at risk. It’s even reached to Natchez. I’ve also got two friends who are apparently in the hands of the murderous thugs who brought the virus here. I’ve got no time to coddle an egocentric, self-absorbed screwball. Now, get outta my way.”
At that moment, Broussard heard a sound at his feet. Looking down, he saw the plastic test tube he’d been holding lying on the floor. Finally, he caught on and every sphincter in his body puckered. He looked imploringly at Blackledge, who took a step backward, pointing at the vicinity of Broussard’s mouth.
“Andy . . .”
Broussard brought his hand to his mustache, where his fingers touched the blood seeping into it from his nose.
20
“Andy, I’m afraid you’re in trouble,” David Seymour said through his mask. He looked at the chart in his hand. “Your electrolytes and kidney function are still okay, but you’ve got a PT of thirty-five, a PTT of sixty-five, and your platelet count is only ninety K.”
“Which means I’m probably in the early stages of DIC.”
“I think so. You’re also tachycardic and hypotensive and your hematocrit is thirty-two, so you’re probably losing blood somewhere, most likely into your upper GI tract.”
Broussard’s headache had changed from feeling as though someone was traveling across his brain on a pogo stick to a diffuse ache that extended down his neck and across his shoulders. He lifted his arms from the sheet covering him and checked the backs of his hands. The sudden shift to a closer plane of focus sent his head spinning. His vision blurred. A table in his gut tipped and his stomach slid off it. Mercifully, the episode passed as quickly as it had come and his vision cleared. So far, there was no sign of bleeding under his skin.
“Our first priority is to get that bleeding under control. So we’re going to start you on some fresh frozen plasma and platelets,” Seymour said. “Since we’ll also be drawing a lot of blood, I’ve ordered the staff to rig you up with an arterial as well as a venous line.”
Broussard groaned at the thought.
“I know it won’t be any fun, but we also need a nasogastric tube so we can monitor your stomach contents. I don’t think at this stage there’s any blood in your lungs, but I’m having a portable X-ray machine sent up to get a chest picture just to be safe.”
Standing next to Seymour, also gowned, gloved, and masked, Mark Blackledge said, “Andy, I’m really sorry this happened.”
“So am I,” Broussard replied. About all that was visible of Blackledge’s face were his eyes, in which Broussard saw himself already in his casket.
“I believe he’s a little jaundiced,” Blackledge observed.
“I’m not dead yet, Mark,” Broussard said. “And I’m still conscious. So don’t call me ‘he.’”
“Sorry. You look a little jaundiced.”
Seymour tapped the chart. “With these LFTs, that’s not surprising. Andy, we’ve got some ribavirin on the way, too. We’ll add that to the mix and then . . .”
I’ll either beat this or die, Broussard thought. Now that it was close at hand, Broussard found that death didn’t frighten him. The prospect that there might soon be a Broussardsized hole in the universe brought no terror or self-pity. It was where everyone was heading eventually, and it was, he believed, like falling asleep.
Of course, given the choice, he’d rather stick around awhile longer . . . haggle a few more times over the price of a painting with Joe Epstein, have afternoon tea again in Paris in the Salon Pompadour at the Hotel Meurice on the Rue de Rivoli. . . . He pictured the Meurice’s crystal chandeliers, the Louis XV almond-tinted wood-paneled walls with their gilt garlands, the portrait of Mme de Pompadour presiding over the patrons. And he’d really love to have read all of Louis L’Amour’s novels. But he’d had a fine, long life. Considering how many people younger than he had come through the morgue, and how many had showed up on the obituary pages of the paper, and how many friends he’d lost, he’d done all right.
On the other hand, departing this life hemorrhaging from every orifice wasn’t the most dignified way to go. In any event, he wasn’t going anywhere until he knew what that shiny speck was.
“David, I had a big test tube in my pants pocket when I came up here. Where is it?”
“Probably bagged with your clothes,” Seymour replied.
“Would you run it down for me? I’m gonna have someone come by and pick it up.”
“Sure. We should have it decontaminated, though.”
“Will you see to it?”
“Of course. I’ll leave it at the nurses’ station.”
“It’s important, so put it in the care of somebody responsible.”
“I’ll give it to Doris Knight, the unit coordinator.”
Despite his aching head and a touch of vertigo, he remembered her from when he’d visited Natalie. “I’ve got a banger of a headache and some nausea. . . .”
“I can give you something for the nausea, but I don’t want to be too aggressive with that headache. If you start bleeding into your brain, I don’t want you so doped up you won’t be able to tell me what’s happening. But I think we can safely go with some Tylenol. I’ll go and write the orders and check on that test tube. Meanwhile, get some rest and try not to worry.”
Seymour left and Blackledge went with him. Through the glass in the door to the staging room, he saw Blackledge shake his head and say something to Seymour. Then they disappeared into the hall.
Turning to the nightstand, he picked up the telephone receiver, intending to call Charlie Franks, but his eyes were now functioning independently, so instead of one set of numbers, he saw two that slowly drifted toward each other until they almost touched before springing apart and beginning the cycle again.
He stabbed at the button for the operator and hit the faceplate. On his second try, he got it. He gave the operator the extension for the ME’s office and had his secretary page Franks, feeling too rocky to get into a conversation with her about where he was.
Finally, Franks answered.
Too nauseated to sit up any longer, he slid down in the bed and closed his eyes. “Charlie, hi, it’s me, Andy. I’ve got myself in kind of a spot and need some help.”
“If I help you this time, how do I know you won’t just get yourself in the same predicament again?”
“No games, please. This is serious. I’m upstairs in the TB isolation ward . . . as a patient.”
“Oh my God. You haven’t . . .”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Yes, sure, of course I’ll help . . . anything. God.”
“I need you to take somethin’ over to the Tulane EM facility for me.”
“Where is it?”
Broussard took a breath to answer and realized he didn’t know where the sample was.
“Andy . . . where is it?”
“I
. . . It’s . . .” He had the distinct feeling it was somewhere close . . . not in the office . . . The nurses’ station. “At the Pulmonary Unit’s main nursin’ station. Ask for Doris Knight. She’s got it. It’s a sample of somethin’ I found on the body of that strangulation victim. I’ve already told the people at Tulane it should be treated as infectious, but you should stress that again to ’em. And also remind ’em I need the analysis ASAP. Call me as soon as it’s delivered. I’m at five-six-eight-three.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’ll be doin’ better when I know what that sample is.”
He then lay back to rest. With his eyes closed, he saw the image of Natalie sitting on the floor, her clothes covered with blood, her mind addled, unable to speak. If he didn’t get the results of that analysis quick, he might be in no shape to deal with it.
Before he realized it was going to happen, he vomited, spilling black blood in a large sunburst on the white linoleum floor.
“GET ME ANOTHER CUP of unleaded, will ya?” Dilly Dillenhofer said, slipping another dripping spoonful of fried egg into his ugly kisser. He had a fat face and slack rubbery lips that made him look like a special-effects creation that had a hand up his neck instead of an esophagus, but the eggs kept disappearing.
On the table was his eye patch and the corset he wore to keep from looking so well fed when he hit the streets with his cup. When anyone was so unkind as to point out that the crutch resting against the chair next to him was an unoriginal idea, he’d always say, “So sue me for plagiarism,” which he pronounced with a hard g.
Nick Lawson signaled the waiter for another cup of coffee. It was useless, he knew, to expect Dilly to tell him anything while he was eating.
Finally, when his plate was clean and he’d drained the last drop of coffee from his cup, Dilly let out a satisfied sigh. “Ain’t nothin’ like a big greasy breakfast to get the old ticker goin’ in the mornin’.”
“Talk to me, Dilly,” Lawson prodded.
“What I got for you is sort of a referral,” Dilly said, wiping at some egg yolk on his shirt and discovering it was from yesterday’s breakfast.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t personally have any information relatin’ to your problem, but I know a guy who might.”
“Who?”
“I get to keep the fifty, right?”
“Only if this guy delivers. Otherwise, it goes on my account.”
“Fair enough, I guess. Go over to the French Market and look for a guy sells straw hats.”
“What’s his name?”
“They call him Igor, on accounta he’s got funny shoulders.”
“How come I never heard of this guy?”
“Maybe you ain’t as smart as you think.”
“I HOPE THAT TUBE isn’t too uncomfortable,” David Seymour said through his mask. He was referring to the plastic fire hose running into Broussard’s stomach via his nose.
They’d put the arterial line in at his right wrist and the venous line at the front of his left elbow. He also had cardiac monitor leads taped to his chest. Next to the bed on the side opposite the nightstand, four IV monitors slyly winked numbers at him. Overhead, his cardiac monitor showed his blood pressure and his heart waves.
The Tylenol hadn’t done much good and he was having trouble concentrating, so that before he could formulate a reply, Seymour’s question broke up and fell to the floor. Then he remembered . . . the ng tube.
“You couldn’t find one a little bigger, could you?”
Seymour’s eyes attempted a smile. “I’ll see if we can find one,” he said. “Maybe with a big brass nozzle on the end.” He patted Broussard’s shoulder. “That’s good, Andy. Fighting back with humor . . . I’ve always thought that humor, even with a sarcastic twist, helps the immune system. I’ll check on you later.”
Lying there alone, plumbed and wired like a physiology experiment, Broussard didn’t feel humorous. He felt lousy and defeated. With only machinery for company, he turned inward, imagining himself in the land of L’Amour, as a great black horse galloping alongside a herd of stampeding buffalo, the prairie stretching before them. The buffalo . . . so powerful, their onslaught unstoppable, their hooves shredding the turf . . . And while he was with the buffalo, their strength became his and he felt better, so that when the phone rang, he let the herd go on without him and he stayed behind to answer it.
“Broussard.”
“Dr. Broussard, this is Monica Martin at the Tulane Fine Structure Facility. We have the results on that sample you sent over. It’s an alloy of chromium, molybdenum, and cobalt, called F seventy-five.”
“What’s it used for?”
“Almost exclusively for making surgical implants and instruments.”
“Okay. Thanks for respondin’ so quickly.”
He hung up and closed his eyes. Surgical instruments . . . That rang a bell, but the sound was muffled by his aching head. He let the thought go and rejoined the buffalo, which had merged with another herd, so they now spread over the prairie from horizon to horizon. Intent on overtaking the leader, the great black horse ran hard, his mane blowing in the wind . . . the smell of buffalo overpowering, the sound like ten Niagara Falls . . . so powerful, so strong, and their strength was his.
Broussard’s eyes opened wide and the buffalo disappeared. Grinding wheels . . . the final polish of surgical instruments . . . the glitter . . . S and I Fabrication on N. Peters Street, out of business since John Cates died, but he was sure the building was still there.
He reached for the telephone and called Phil Gatlin.
“HEY, BUDDY, COME HERE.”
Roy shifted his grocery bag to his other arm and studied the flea market vendor beckoning him.
The fellow was standing in a stall that sold huge straw hats with lots of floppy loose ends around the brim. He carried a disproportionate amount of his weight in his shoulders, which were lumpy, as though he’d stuffed his shirt with socks. His face was wide and he had stiff, dry hair that formed a corona around a circular bald spot on his crown, so that his head resembled the hats he sold.
Believing this was just a flea market come-on, Roy turned to go.
“Don’t leave,” the guy said. “I don’t just sell hats; I also deal in information, and I have some that you very much need.”
Roy turned, appraised the guy again, and walked to the stall.
“What information?”
“No.” The guy shook his head. “Payment on delivery.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
Roy started to leave, but the guy grabbed his arm, quickly pulling his hand back to safety when Roy fixed him with a cold stare.
“It’s about a warehouse,” the guy said, “and something about to happen there.”
That got Roy’s attention. “How do you come by this information?”
The guy shrugged and glanced toward the gate that led to the trailer where Roy had kept Kit and Teddy. “I’m an observant guy and a good listener.”
“How much?”
“Fifty.”
Roy put his sack down on the edge of a table and got out his wallet. After buying the things they’d needed to make the warehouse semihabitable, only seventy-three dollars was left from the money he’d taken from Kit and Teddy’s accounts. He withdrew two twenties and a ten and held them out. When the guy reached for them, he snatched them back and grabbed the guy’s wrist. “I wouldn’t proceed unless I was absolutely sure I was offering a product worth the price.”
“It comes with my guarantee.”
Roy let him go and handed over the money.
“There’s a newspaper reporter on his way to your warehouse right this minute,” the guy said. “Is that worth the price?”
“Why would he be interested in my warehouse?”
The guy lifted his eyebrows. “It’s not so much the warehouse as what’s inside.”
“What does this reporter look like?”
He hesitated, as if he
was thinking about asking for more money.
“I wouldn’t press my luck,” Roy said.
“He’s blond and wears his hair in a ponytail.”
Roy had more questions, but he could spend no more time asking them.
“I think I’ll take one of your hats, too,” he said.
Obviously puzzled, the guy reached for one on the table, but Roy stopped him. “One of those,” he said, pointing at a pile in a box on the stall floor.
“They’re all the same,” the guy said.
“I like that one, on top,” Roy insisted.
Shrugging, the guy turned and bent down to get the hat.
As Roy cut the vendor’s throat, he made sure he severed his trachea so he couldn’t cry out. He wiped his knife on the vendor’s shirt, returned the knife to his pocket, and picked up his bag of groceries.
“CALL HIM,” TEDDY SAID. “If he’ll go for it, there’ll never be a better time.”
Breakfast for all of them but Roy had been a commercial packaged sandwich and a carton of orange juice. Wanting apple juice with his sandwich, Roy had gone out to find some, leaving Larry as the only obstacle to freedom.
Kit took a long look at Teddy and inhaled deeply. “Larry, I need to use the bathroom,” she shouted.
The door opened and Larry said, “You’ll have to wait until Roy gets back.”
“I can’t. I have to go now.”
Larry didn’t answer, but his manner became hesitant and unsure.
“I’m not kidding about this,” Kit said.
His face full of conflict, Larry walked to the mattress and helped Kit to her knees. “Wait there.”
He went back into the other room, quickly reappearing with his knife in one hand and his gun in the other. Circling behind Kit, he knelt and cut the twine binding her feet.
“Okay,” he said. “Take everything slow now.”
From her kneeling position, it was a simple matter for Kit to get on her feet. Heart beating so hard in her ears she was sure Larry could hear it, she moved to the doorway, Larry following a few feet back.
At the bathroom door, he instructed her to swing her hands away from her body. He cut them free and quickly stepped back.
Louisiana Fever Page 21