Abbie hesitated a bit. “Nah,” she said.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“OK,” he said reluctantly. “But guess what?”
“What?”
“I’ll be getting you Monday. You won’t have to take the bus home.”
“Really?”
“Really!”
“Oh, goody!” she exclaimed. “Can we get an ice cream on the way?”
“Anything you want, honey,” he said. “Anything at all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, October 14
Baggy eyes. Pale skin. A slight but perceptible tic near the left corner of her mouth.
Susie McDonald looked as if she hadn’t slept in a month.
That was Brad’s impression, anyway, as she sat across from him in the Transcript’s conference room. For ten minutes she’d been describing a bout of sickness involving children at Morgantown Elementary, which her daughter attended. Now Brad had turned inquisitor.
“How many kids are we talking total?” he asked.
“At least a dozen that I know of.” She cleared her throat. Her throat had needed clearing a lot the last few days.
“Not that I doubt you,” Brad said, “but how did you come up with that number?”
“I’ve been calling mothers. Some I know. Others I heard through the grapevine. You have to understand, Mr. Gale, people are starting to talk. This isn’t Albany. Word gets around pretty fast in Morgantown.”
“I know.”
“I forgot to mention Ginny Ellis. She gave me some names, too. She’s a teacher. Lives up on the rise near me. Near you, too, as a matter of fact.”
“Sure. I know her. Her son is friends with my daughter.”
“Jimmy,” she said thoughtfully. “He’s one of the ones who’s been sick, you know. On and off, like most of them.”
An image of Jimmy at the county fair crossed Brad’s mind, followed by a distinct memory of Ginny describing the bad stomach that had almost kept them from coming. “Nice kid,” Brad remarked. “Seems pretty healthy to me.”
“Now. But who knows how he’ll be in another week? That’s one of the things I don’t get. These kids are drifting in and out of it . . . whatever it is. My Maureen has been like that. Sick for a while, then better, then sick again. Dr. Bostwick at first thought it was separate sicknesses. Like two colds in a row or something. You know how that happens sometimes.”
“What does he think now?”
“That it’s probably the same thing. That it has cycles of some kind.”
Brad scribbled a few notes on his trademark yellow legal pad. There was a story here, all right. You didn’t need Dan Rather to deduce that.
“You said the symptoms are similar?”
“Yes. There’s a bunch of them: abdominal pain, congestion, diarrhea, nausea, fevers—especially at night. Flu symptoms.”
“Except this isn’t flu season.”
“No. And tests don’t show any flu virus. Another thing that’s strange—not everyone seems to have all the symptoms all the time. I mean, one kid will have fever without cramps, another will have only nausea, and so forth. They can change. The kid who had fevers but no cramps might develop cramps and lose the fever.” She knitted her brow. “Am I making sense?” she asked.
“Perfect sense.”
“Sometimes you’ll even get a kid who has all the symptoms. Maureen’s been like that lately. That’s why we went back to Dr. Bostwick last week.”
“He sent you to Berkshire Medical.”
“Yes. Heaven only knows what it’ll cost. X-rays, blood tests, allergy tests, urine tests, another throat culture. We spent Friday afternoon there. We were back again this morning. It’s beginning to feel like we live there. It’s hard on Maureen. God, is it ever. On top of not feeling good, she’s scared. Scared like I’ve never seen a kid,” she said, her voice weakening.
“Do you have any results yet, Mrs. McDonald?”
“We know a few things it isn’t. It isn’t mononucleosis. It isn’t leukemia, thank the Lord, or hepatitis, or the flu. Beyond that . . . they just can’t say yet. All the tests aren’t back yet.”
“They can take awhile.”
For the first time in the interview Susie was close to tears. “That’s what’s so hard. . . .” She sniffled. “Not knowing.”
“I understand,” Brad said softly.
He was thinking of Abbie, of course.
Had been thinking of her for an hour, since this woman had called and asked if she could come in immediately, it was that urgent.
And not because of the incident on the bus. He’d already forgotten that. He was thinking of Abbie because she went to the same school as Maureen McDonald. Breathed the same air in the same classrooms and the same halls. Drank the same water from the same bubblers, which were connected through the same mains to the same municipal wells. Ate the same snacks from the same cafeteria. Was in contact with the same children, five days a week, every week.
He remembered the mental note he’d made Abbie’s first day of kindergarten. The note to have one of his reporters inquire about lead paint and asbestos that might still be lurking in Morgantown Elementary. He tended to discount asbestos; the symptoms didn’t fit. Lead poisoning was something else again. If lead had found its way into food—yes, there was a chance it might be responsible. What he knew of the symptoms more or less fitted what she was describing.
“You don’t think these are unrelated cases, do you, Mrs. McDonald.” It was a statement.
“No.” She was starting to regain her composure.
“Do you have any theory about what it might be?”
“Of course I do. It’s all I’ve been thinking about the last month. Me and my husband. Yes, we have theories. Pick one. One day we think it’s something in the water; the next day it’s got to be some kind of strange new virus that some kid brought back from his summer vacation in Mexico or wherever. If my daughter had ever had a blood transfusion, I might even think it was AIDS.”
“But she hasn’t.”
“No. There’s no way it could be AIDS. I—I don’t think so, anyway. Unless she found a needle we didn’t know about, and—”
“I think that’s absolutely impossible.” Brad reassured her.
“I—I suppose you’re right. It’s just that . . . well, your mind gets to working and . . . you’re a father. You understand.”
“Of course. Have you been to the principal?”
“Yes. Last week. I had an appointment.”
“And what did he say?”
“He just about laughed at me,” she said, and the memory of it was making her angry all over again. “Kids are always getting sick, he said. Especially inside a school, with such close contact—kids sneezing, or wiping their noses, or horseplaying around—germs are inevitable, he said. And germs cause sickness. He spoke as if I was one of his students.”
“He hadn’t noticed an unusual rate of absenteeism.”
“No. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ he said. Those were his words exactly. So I gave him the list of the names I’d made. He looked at it, counted them up, and handed it back to me. ‘This all?’ he said. Can you imagine it. ‘This all?’ I wanted to hit him. I honestly thought I was going to hit him.”
“Does Dr. Bostwick know you were coming to talk to me?”
“No. Does that matter?”
“Not really. I’m not an expert on public health, but wouldn’t he be the place to start? That doesn’t mean we won’t do a story because we certainly will. But isn’t it his job to do something?”
“To a degree. He can order more tests, and he has. And he can notify the state Health Department. He did that, too, he told me. I got the impression they weren’t too interested either. That’s why I came to you. I thought an article might . . . you know, get them off their asses. Because I think it’s a problem, a really serious problem, and not only because of Susie. I mean, these kids are still sick, and no one seems to know what
the hell is causing it. I think it’s spreading, and it’s only a matter of time before . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
Brad stopped scribbling, stood, and looked out through the glass into the newsroom. Good. Rod was at his desk, reading the paper.
“Do you mind if I have one of my reporters talk to you? Rod Dougherty. He’ll be doing the story. He’s one of our best, believe me.”
“Not at all.”
Brad went into the newsroom. He quickly briefed Rod, then told him the story was to be his highest priority. If it took a week to do, fine. If it meant a trip to Boston, fine. Just get to the bottom of this.
“Mrs. McDonald, this is Rod Dougherty,” Brad said when they returned. “Rod, Mrs. McDonald. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Saturday, October 18
They were in woods a half mile from Charlie’s cabin, still on his property, alongside a stream that was sufficiently clean and cold to support a healthy population of native brook trout. It was a brush-choked, trout-filled stream, the existence of which was probably known to only five or six people, including Jimmy and Charlie, whose father had first brought him here.
Charlie wasn’t fishing this afternoon. He was teaching his nephew how to make a snare.
Jimmy didn’t have a drop of Quidneck blood, or the blood of any other tribe, but since his infancy, his interest in the outdoors, his respect for it had rivaled Charlie’s at a similar age. Charlie considered it a sign of the quality person he was surely going to be as an adult.
“Why do we want to put it here, Uncle Charlie?” Jimmy sniffled. His cold had come back about a week ago. Since then he’d been battling a runny nose.
“See these?” Charlie said, pointing to a set of small tracks that ran up to the stream and back into the forest.
“Yeah.”
“These are turkey tracks. Turkeys have been drinking here.”
“You mean Thanksgiving turkeys?”
Charlie chuckled. “No. Wild turkeys. After becoming almost extinct, they’ve come back in great numbers. But they’re still very, very shy. But that doesn’t mean you can’t trap them. You just have to know what you’re doing. Now watch.”
Charlie selected a young sapling about his height. With his knife—a bowie knife with a worn scrimshaw handle, a gift so long ago from his father—he trimmed off the branches. He tested the sapling’s flexibility and resistance by pulling it low to the ground. He cautioned Jimmy to stand back. He released it. It shot back into position with a fierce whistle. Perfect.
With his hatchet, he hacked two forearm-length pieces of branch from a nearby maple tree. He carefully sharpened the ends and made notches in each. A third length of maple he whittled into a stake about three feet long. He notched that, pounded it into the earth with the head of his hatchet, then arranged the two other pieces to form a triangle. That was the trigger.
All that was left was the lariat and the bait. His father had taught him to use hemp for the loop, but Charlie had discovered ordinary hardware cord was superior. He tied one end to the sapling. From his coat pocket he withdrew an ear of corn. He pierced it with the point of one arm of the trigger and attached the cord. Gently he released his hold. Snares were delicate, tricky affairs. If you weren’t careful, you could be snatched up yourself. This was an expert job.
It had been a year since he’d made a snare, and he was pleased to see he hadn’t lost his touch.
“There,” Charlie announced, pleased. “We come back tomorrow, and dinner will be waiting. Wild turkey is very good, you know. Roasted on a spit over a slow fire. You eat it like chicken, but it tastes much better.”
Jimmy didn’t respond.
Over the last half hour he seemed to have become increasingly uninterested. It wasn’t like him. Jimmy had always been fascinated by anything Charlie showed him in the woods. He was preoccupied now, but not with the snare. Since that day he’d been playing Rambo . . . had seen the wolf . . . Jimmy had not set foot in the woods. Any woods, a fact he wasn’t about to admit to his uncle.
Jimmy was remembering that terrible day now. The memory was vivid, too vivid. It was as if it could happen all over again, somehow had to happen all over again.
Out of sight a squirrel suddenly chattered.
Jimmy started, looking wildly around, his eyes wide, his mouth open. Charlie could sense his fear.
“W-what was t-that?”
“A squirrel,” Charlie explained. “That’s the way they usually sound. Angry. Except for jays, they’re the angriest animals in the forest.”
“Are you . . . sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.” He looked his nephew in the eye. Jimmy looked down. “Jimmy?”
“Yes?” he said timidly.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. I just thought it was—”
“You can level with me, you know. Brothers can always level with brothers and know it won’t go any farther.”
“I just thought it was a—a squirrel. Honest.”
Charlie placed his hands on Jimmy’s shoulders. Jimmy tried to squirm away, but Charlie wouldn’t let him. “You can’t fool your uncle Charlie,” he said firmly. “You didn’t think that was a squirrel. I know it, and you know it. Now are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“Well . . .”
“Is it wolves?”
“Yes,” Jimmy admitted. “I’m afraid of the wolf.”
“But there aren’t any wolves,” Charlie said, “as I’ve told you. There haven’t been wolves here for hundreds of years. Since the English came and chased them away. Like I’ve told you, you have to go a thousand miles to find a wolf. Unless it’s in a zoo, and there aren’t even any zoos around here.”
“I know, but . . . the wolf . . . it came back. Last night.” And with that he burst into tears.
Charlie was surprised. Since coming East, he’d seen his sister and her son on several occasions. The nightmares Jimmy had been experiencing in August had ended, and there had been only passing references to the wolf—usually when Ginny wasn’t listening and always with the beaming pride of a child who knows he’s conquered another of his fears. The wolf simply wasn’t an issue any longer; Jimmy, in fact, had forgotten Charlie’s promise by phone from Reno to chase it away. And although Charlie’s own dreams continued to feature a wolf, he’d almost come to believe it had nothing to do with Jimmy.
“Is it the same wolf?” Charlie asked gently when Jimmy’s tears had subsided.
“Yes.”
“It was in your room?”
“Yes. It talked again. It said it didn’t forget me.”
“Then what did it do?”
“It went away again.”
“Did you tell your mother?”
“Unh-unh. She doesn’t believe me. Do you believe me, Uncle Charlie?”
“Of course, I believe you, pardner.”
“Can you make it go away, Uncle Charlie? Please? Can you make it go away so it never comes back again?”
“Sure I can,” he said. “No problem. I can take care of it.”
It was precisely then, as the words were leaving his mouth, that a blast of wind swept across the tops of the trees, bending them, rattling their leafless branches, producing a moaning sound that reached down into Charlie’s bones. The ground shook.
Hobbamock.
The word pierced his consciousness like a sharpened stake. Hobbamock. Quidneck for the cold northeast wind, the wind that brought the dreaded storms Yankees called nor’easters. Quidneck, too, for “Great Evil Spirit.”
Over their heads the wind intensified. It was suddenly, inexplicably cold, an early blast of winter. Down through the trees it penetrated, deeper, stronger, until it was whipping Charlie’s and Jimmy’s hair, raising the blood in their cheeks, stinging their eyes. Jimmy clung fiercely to Charlie’s legs. Jimmy was crying again. Louder than before. Sunset was a good three hours away, but the woods suddenly were dark, as if a total eclipse were begi
nning.
With a whipping sound, the sapling snapped erect, closing the snare around an invisible prey.
“Oooooh . . .” Jimmy blabbered.
“Come on,” his uncle ordered, forcing calm into his voice. “It’s just rain coming, that’s all. If we hurry, we might beat it.”
He didn’t believe it was rain coming. He believed it was Hobbamock.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Wednesday, October 22
At 1:10 P.M. on Wednesday, October 22, Dr. Henry R. Hough, an epidemiologist from the state Health Department, stepped out of his Toyota Celica and walked briskly into Morgantown Elementary’s principal’s office. In his briefcase he carried a clipping that had reached his Boston office by express mail.
Rod Dougherty’s story had not solved the mystery of what was making so many kids sick, but it had painted in no uncertain strokes a picture with something very wrong in it.
It was the kind of story Brad liked to call an ass kicker:
“MYSTERY DISEASE” WORRIES PARENTS,
PROMPTS OFFICIALS TO SEEK STATE HELP
BY RODNEY DOUGHERTY
Staff Writer
MORGANTOWN, Oct. 20—Town and school officials admit they are concerned by a rash of sickness that has hit children at Morgantown Elementary hard this fall. The illness—which causes cramps, vomiting and diarrhea, among other symptoms—is of unknown cause.
Officials say they plan to ask the assistance of the state Health Department, which has the necessary expertise for an investigation.
“At first we thought we were dealing with some kind of very early flu,” said Dorothy Garland, school nurse and also a member of the Morgantown Board of Health, “but now we’re not so sure.”
“It’s a mystery disease and I’m scared,” said Susie McDonald, whose daughter, Maureen, a kindergarten student, has been sick on and off since August.
“I want answers, and I want them now,” added an angry Justin McLaughlin, father of a second-grade boy who has missed an entire week of school and who remained sick this morning.
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