“Oh, Frankie,” she said, sighing heavily. “Istvan doesn’t want to talk to you. You know that.”
“I need him, Alice.”
“Not this time, Frankie. He made me promise not to tell you.”
Carlucci hated all of this, but he felt like he had no choice. He got up from the chair, walked behind the glass cases, and opened her address and com number file drawer.
“Don’t do it, you bastard!” Her voice was anguished, but she knew she couldn’t stop him. Nothing would stop him now, not even guilt.
He thumbed through the cards with Alice’s fine and delicate handwriting, all in green ink. They weren’t in alphabetical order, which made things difficult; he had never figured out what her system was. Then he found it: Istvan Darnyi. He copied down the address. There was no other number; Istvan had done without a phone for years. Then he closed up the file drawer.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to her. But she wouldn’t look at him. There were tears on her cheeks, working their way down through the wrinkles. He felt awful.
He walked over to her and tried to kiss her cheek again, but she pulled away, holding up her hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Good-bye, Alice.”
But she still would not look at him, and did not answer.
Istvan’s address was an apartment in North Beach. Carlucci stood outside the building, looking up at the third floor. He thought about walking away without talking to Istvan, leaving the man in peace, but he couldn’t do it.
Istvan Darnyi had been a policeman for twenty years, a detective first in Vice, then Narcotics, and finally Homicide as his talents became apparent. What Istvan Darnyi was great at was finding people. He didn’t need much to work with, and in fact the less there was, the better he seemed to work. A name without any other information, or a photograph without a name, or no name, no picture, just some other miscellaneous bits of information, that was all he needed. Just something to start with.
Istvan never forgot anything, never forgot a picture or chart or table he had seen, and had an uncanny knack for putting disparate pieces of information together. But that memory was also his burden. The longer his career went on, the worse each job was. Because as he would start working on finding someone, working with little information, his digging inevitably led to associations with past cases, and once that began, he could not put aside any of the memories or images of those cases, which included crime scene photographs, autopsy photos, firsthand viewings of mutilated corpses, or the anguish of friends and relatives of the dead, all of it swirling around in his head, filling his dreams and turning them into nightmares, disturbing his sleep so badly that eventually he would hardly be able to sleep at all until the investigation was over. And even then it would take days for him to put everything out of his memory, since even the slightest reminder would trigger it all back full force.
It got to be too much. Divorce had been the first price he’d paid, but not the last. It was killing him. He applied for full disability, which was granted, and he resigned. He had always been a stamp collector, more a hobby than anything too serious, but when he retired he retreated completely into the philatelic world, trying to keep the rest of the real world out and away.
But Istvan and Carlucci had once been close friends, and twice before Carlucci had asked him for his help. He had known what it cost Istvan, but each time the case had seemed important enough. And after both times he had promised never to ask for Istvan’s help again. The last time, not quite believing Carlucci, Istvan had told Carlucci he never wanted to see him again, and he had disappeared. Until now, Carlucci had never tried to find him.
But here he was, feeling guilty, and feeling sorrow for his old friend. He truly had never intended to bother him again. So he made a promise to himself, that this time would be the last.
Apartment 3C. The name on the security system was Stephen Darnell. Carlucci pressed the button. A minute passed, then a harsh crackling voice answered.
“Yes.”
“Istvan. It’s Frank Carlucci.”
There was a long silence, no response at all. But the intercom sounded as if it was still open. The silence continued, Carlucci waited. Finally the door buzzed, and he pushed it open.
Istvan met him at his apartment door, holding it open.
“Hello, Istvan.”
Istvan just nodded, and closed the door as Carlucci entered.
Istvan led the way among tables and shelves, through two small rooms filled with boxes and albums of stamps, to the kitchen in the back. The kitchen was tiny, but bright, full of windows that looked out onto the street.
“Sit down,” he said. There was a square, wooden table with two chairs. In the middle of the table was a crystal vase with blue and yellow flowers. “I’ll make coffee.” He seemed sad and resigned, as though giving in to the inevitable.
When the coffee was done, they began. Carlucci told Istvan everything he thought might have any relevance, from the day Caroline asked him to help find Tito, to the quarantines imposed by the CDC. Istvan listened, asking an occasional question. They drank strong black coffee, and Istvan, after closing the kitchen door so the smoke would not get to the stamps, smoked one cigarette after another. For the first time in a year or two, Carlucci felt that strong craving again.
When he was finished, he handed the sketch artist picture to Istvan, who took it from him and studied it. They sat in silence for several minutes, Istvan continuing to smoke as he thought and studied the picture.
He nodded once, then looked at Carlucci, his expression still sad. “I’ll find her for you,” he said.
“Thank you, Istvan.” He paused, wondering if he could be convincing. “This will be the last time. I mean it. The next time I come to see you, it will be just for a visit. Just two old friends, talking.”
“Don’t bother,” Istvan replied. “We are not friends anymore.” He shook another cigarette from his pack and lit it. “I’ll call you.”
32
IT WAS RAINING again, and the sound of it spattering against the windows was soothing. Caroline lay on top of the sleeping bag spread across the old wood and canvas cot, eyes closed, listening to the rain. She was sick, and she was afraid to tell Cage.
Fever made her head swim, and she felt sick to her stomach. Swallowing was difficult, and there was a sharp and throbbing pain at her temples. It had come on so quickly, she hadn’t been prepared for it. All this time, struggling with her fear of the Gould’s, and now she may have contracted a disease that would kill her in a matter of days, not years. Crazy.
She opened her eyes and sat up slowly, leaning back against the wall for support. Where was the telephone? She couldn’t remember. Her eyes ached. Maybe it was just a bad flu. Yeah, and maybe she was going to live to be ninety years old.
She looked around the room, and finally saw the phone on top of the small bookcase near the window. She had to call Cage, if only to tell him to stay away. She had volunteered to help out at the street clinic, and when she didn’t show up, he would come looking for her.
After resting for a minute or two, she got to her feet and walked over to the phone. She picked up the receiver, then sat in the chair by the window. She raised the window and stuck her empty hand out into the rain. Yes, it was cool. She cupped her hand, let it fill with rainwater, then brought it back in and splashed it across her face. It felt great. She did it twice more, then sat back in the chair and punched in the clinic number.
Cage came anyway, as she’d known he would.
“Don’t touch me,” she told him when he came into the apartment. “Stay away.” And she was reminded of Nikki sitting at the curb outside the clinic after crashing the pedalcart, yelling at Cage to stay away from her.
But he didn’t stay away. “You know how many times I’ve been exposed to this disease?” he said. “Between Nikki and Tito and the other people I’ve seen at the clinic in the past few weeks? Way too many times. I must have some kind of natural resistance or i
mmunity to it.”
“Lucky you.”
“Besides, we don’t know that that’s what you have.”
She glared at him. “Yes we do.”
He shook his head. “The incubation period’s too short. Even if you were exposed to it the very first day you were in the Core, it hasn’t been nearly as long as the time between Nikki’s exposure and when she came down with it.”
“We don’t know when I was exposed. Besides…” She frowned, thinking about Rashida. “The incubation period has been getting shorter.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
She told him what Rashida and the Fat Man had said about the changes they’d noticed, their thoughts and speculations about the disease.
He didn’t say anything after that, but he made her take something for the fever, then put her back to bed. After making some tea for both of them, he sat in a chair that he pulled up near the bed.
“You should go,” she tried again. “You should just leave me alone.”
Cage just shook his head. She lay back on the cot and closed her eyes. She was glad he was here.
33
CAGE FELT AS if his life were coming apart on him. He thought maybe the whole world was coming apart.
He sat in a chair by the open window of what had once been Nikki’s apartment, listening to the night sounds of the Tenderloin and watching the lights and people on the street below. Caroline was sleeping on the cot just behind him, and he listened to her breathing, which at the moment was calm and even.
Core Fever. There wasn’t much doubt now. She had it, and she had it bad.
He couldn’t believe he was going to go through this all over again. He’d never had much of a chance to recover from Nikki, and he felt completely unprepared to watch Caroline die. But, like so much else these days, he didn’t have a choice. Not one he could live with, anyway.
It had been just two days since she’d called him. He had brought one of the clinic cots and moved into the apartment; he’d also brought extra sheets and blankets for Caroline to sleep in instead of the sleeping bag, hoping to make her more comfortable. He still worked his shifts at the clinic—he had to; things were falling apart there, too—but he slept and ate here, and nursed Caroline, feeding her when she could eat, making broth and tea for her, providing her with a steady stream of cold damp cloths for her face. He helped her make her way to the bathroom, and helped her shower once or twice a day to stay clean and cool. She tried to get him to wear gloves whenever he touched her, but she had given up on that after the first day.
They were seeing probable new cases of Core Fever every day at the clinic, and there was nothing they could do for those people. They had no facilities to care for them, no rooms or beds or staff. All they could do was send them home, where they were more likely to expose family members and friends and neighbors.
As far as Cage was concerned, the quarantine around the Tenderloin had become completely unconscionable. Clearly a majority of cases were inside the Tenderloin, but more cases of Core Fever were appearing outside the Tenderloin every day. In fact, cases were being reported outside of San Francisco, even as far away as New York City—not in the traditional media, which was being uncharacteristically reticent about those cases, but among doctors and other health professionals.
But the CDC was still claiming that the cases outside the Tenderloin were not Core Fever, and so maintained the need to continue with the quarantine. With no real hospital facilities in the Tenderloin, and no effective ways to isolate those who came down with Core Fever, the quarantine was turning a bad situation in the Tenderloin into a nightmare—leaving people who were dying without even the benefits of comfort care, and severely exacerbating the transmission of the disease.
Eric Ralston had become unreachable. The number he’d given Cage had been disconnected, and calls to the CDC in Atlanta went nowhere. If nothing else, he wanted to try to shame or guilt Eric into arguing with his colleagues for a dismantling of the quarantine, but he couldn’t do that if he couldn’t even talk to him.
The only positive thing Cage had heard in recent days were a couple of unconfirmed reports of people surviving Core Fever. But with no way yet to make a certain diagnosis, no antibody test or anything like it, it was impossible to know for sure if the survivors had actually contracted Core Fever rather than some other serious illness.
Yes, he decided, the whole world was coming apart.
“Cage?” Caroline’s voice was quiet.
He turned around and looked at her. She was lying on her side, eyes barely open.
“How are you feeling?”
“Terrible.”
“Do you think you can eat anything?”
“No. But I’m thirsty.”
The water pitcher beside the cot was nearly empty, and the water was tepid, so he fixed a fresh batch of ice water, filled a glass, and held it for her, putting the straw in her mouth so she could drink without raising her head.
When she finished, she turned onto her back and closed her eyes. “Thanks,” she said.
“Sure. Anything else?”
“Not right now.”
There was a long silence, and he thought she had gone back to sleep. He sat and watched her steady breathing, feeling an ache in his chest. He hadn’t known her very long, but he’d come to like her quite a lot, and he couldn’t believe he was going to lose her before he’d even had a chance to really know her.
“Cage?”
“Yes.”
“Have you told my parents yet?”
“No.” He hesitated. “I wanted to be sure. I was going to call them tomorrow.”
“Don’t.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Don’t tell them.”
“Why not?”
“What’s the point? So they can worry themselves sick, waiting to hear that I’ve died? They can’t come here to see me, I can’t get out, so what’s the point?” She closed her eyes again, breathing hard for a few moments.
“They’re your parents. They’d want to know. They’d want to talk to you. You might want to talk to them.”
“No,” she said one final time, opening her eyes to look at him. “Wait until I’m dead.”
34
CARLUCCI WAS DRIVING himself and Andrea crazy, wandering around the house, unable to sit still, until Andrea told him to stay put somewhere or get the hell out of the house. So he finally retreated to the basement and his trumpet, hoping that music would relax him.
It didn’t help.
He was waiting for too much, unable to do anything except wait—for the quarantine to end so Caroline wouldn’t be trapped inside the Tenderloin; for Istvan to get back to him about the missing woman; for some other break to materialize from Ruben and Toni or one of the other teams; for some resolution to the Core Fever situation. It was all making him nuts, and he felt like he was on speed, frazzled and jittery and wanting to rip off his skin.
The basement door opened, and Andrea came down a couple of steps. Miles Davis was on the stereo, the sound track from Siesta, haunting and beautiful.
“Turn that off, please.” Andrea had to raise her voice above the music, but her tone was strangely uneven, her expression fixed and lifeless.
Something was wrong.
He grabbed the remote and cut off the music. The sudden silence was disquieting. He set his trumpet beside him on the couch and sat forward.
“What is it?”
Andrea took another couple of steps down, then sat on the stairs.
“Cage called.”
“Caroline?” He wanted to stand up, but he felt suddenly immobile.
She nodded. “She’s got it. Core Fever. She’s got it.” She gazed helplessly at him. “She asked him not to call us. But he thought we would want to know.” She slowly shook her head from side to side. “But I don’t,” she said, her voice getting quieter, harsher. “This is something I don’t want to know at all.” And then she put her face in her hands, elbows on knees, and began to cry.
Incredibly, the day got even worse. He would not have thought it possible.
Andrea was sitting out in the backyard, staring at the garden, or perhaps at nothing at all. She hadn’t moved for more than an hour after asking to be left alone. He stood at the kitchen window, looking out at her, wishing he could do something to comfort her, wishing he could do something to comfort himself, and wishing more than anything else that there was something he could do for Caroline. But he had been wishing that for years, and he could no more do anything for her now than he ever could.
The phone rang, and when he answered it there was someone babbling hysterically at him.
“Wait a minute, wait…just a second and calm down. Who is this?”
The babbling finally broke, there was some sniffling and wheezing, then, “Mr. Carlucci?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Paula. Paula Ng.” Christina’s roommate.
“Paula, what is it?”
“Oh, Jesus, Mr. Carlucci. It’s Tina, I think she’s got it.”
He thought his heart stopped. Certainly his breathing did, and a strange, very quiet rushing sound filled his ears, and something funny happened to his vision, as if it had become pocked with bits of glitter.
“You think she’s got what?” he finally managed to say, wondering if his voice was loud enough for her to hear. He could imagine only one answer to his question, but he had to ask it anyway.
“Core Fever. Oh, God, Mr. Carlucci, I don’t know, maybe it’s not, but she’s so sick, and she was getting those rashes across her chest, and we didn’t know what else it could be, but no one out here’s supposed to be able to get it, but what else, I don’t know, Tina got so scared and I got scared and—”
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