As soon as he got on the internet, however, it was clear that MI-5 was censoring it. He should have expected it, given this cave they were keeping him in, but he was disappointed that he didn’t have access to his old email account. They hadn’t yet given him the phone call that he’d asked for with someone from the CDC either. He wouldn’t have minded if they’d listened in, if only because they might begin to believe the truth of what he was saying. They also hadn’t let him call his Uncle Ted, which was starting to annoy David a lot. He wasn’t a terrorist, and they shouldn’t be allowed to treat him like one.
The internet was so much vaster than four years ago, and there was a lot more information to sift through. The papers started piling up in the printer, and every few minutes, David got up to retrieve what he’d printed out and stick it in the duffel bag they’d brought him. Honestly, he couldn’t even begin to articulate how excited he was to have so much information at his disposal once again. Admittedly, he wasn’t too happy to learn that regular old penicillin wouldn’t work to fight the Black Plague when it came around. He needed streptomycin, which wasn’t the same, wasn’t made the same way, and would mean acquiring a bunch of ingredients Anna didn’t have access to. It was frustrating.
He did acquire some new recipes for penicillin, though again, the ingredients were going to be a bit hard to come by in the Middle Ages. The best recipe was created in a medium which included corn steep liquor. Corn was a New World food and didn’t exist in Britain in the Middle Ages. He would have to figure out what else they could use that was close to the same. “When do I get to talk to someone at the CDC?” He looked up at Natasha.
“We’ll see how the day goes,” Natasha said.
David ground his teeth. The day was almost over. He rose to his feet for the eighth time, glancing at Natasha’s downturned head as he dropped the extra pages that always seemed to print at the end onto the table. For a second as he looked at them, he wavered on his feet, and the text on the papers blurred. He couldn’t chalk it up to standing too fast, because this was the third time it had happened in the last twenty minutes.
He was losing the battle with his body and could no longer deny the symptoms that had only gotten worse since he’d spoken with his father on the pier at Cardiff: his throat was so sore he could barely swallow around it, he was hotter than normal, and he had a headache. In the past, even before he found himself in the Middle Ages, he could often fight off being sick simply by being determined not to be sick, but the power of positive thinking wasn’t working for him today.
He sat in his chair and stared at the keyboard, trying to figure out what to do. Natasha still wasn’t paying attention to him. She had a notepad in front of her, since apparently (except for his laptop and her powered off cell phone) no electronic devices were allowed in his interrogation room, and she had just asked him to relate how King Edward had died. Her eyes tracked between her writing and the papers David had printed out but hadn’t yet put into the backpack, most recently on the Black Death.
David made a split-second decision and gave into temptation, following through with a plan he’d been concocting for the last hour but had been nervous about implementing. He lay his head down on the table in mid-explanation. Given that he had been relating the story of the fight with King Edward where David had punched the king in the face, it wasn’t too surprising that Natasha noticed he’d stopped talking.
Her pen hovered over the paper for a second, waiting for him to continue, and then she looked up. The sight of David with his head on his arms brought her to her feet in an instant. “What is it?”
“I don’t feel so good.”
Natasha’s hand hovered over David’s head, but she didn’t touch him. “Is that a rash on your cheek?”
Other than the one-way glass which was darkened so it didn’t show color well, David hadn’t had a proper chance to look at himself since he’d arrived in the twenty-first century. If he’d had a rash earlier on the ship, Cassie or Callum would have noticed it, so maybe it had just developed. His throat sure hurt; he wasn’t faking that either, and now that his head was on the table, it felt good to close his eyes. “I probably have scarlet fever. London was experiencing an upsurge in cases when I left, and we’d established an infirmary at Windsor to take care of patients.”
Natasha backed away from him, taking little steps at first, but then faster ones as she closed in on the door.
“It’s okay.” David put out a hand, which stopped Natasha’s retreat, but she didn’t move forward to take it. “I looked it up and scarlet fever is just strep gone bad, which I didn’t know before. It’s common in this world too, though I’m kind of old to get it.” He’d also read that since scarlet fever derived from strep—as in strep throat—you could get it twice, though it wasn’t a common occurrence. That wasn’t good news. Anna and Bronwen were counting on the fact that they’d both had scarlet fever as children to provide them with immunity.
David’s stomach clenched at the thought of their babies, and the threat untreated scarlet fever could pose for them. He needed to get home. Though now that he thought about it, he wouldn’t do anyone any good as long as he was sick; it was better all the way around for him and everyone else that he was here. Once again, the world shifting had come through for him, more than at the initial moment where it had saved his life. For all the technology that MI-5 was throwing at the problem, they weren’t going to be able to rationalize their way out of this one. He didn’t have any midichlorians in his bloodstream. A supernatural explanation for his world shifting was the only one that made sense to David, and at this point, he was pretty sure he didn’t want to inquire any more deeply into it than that.
Natasha was still staring at him, so he flopped the same hand in her direction. “A good dose of penicillin, and I’ll be fine.”
But by his last words, he was talking to himself. Natasha had fled. David lifted his head, surveying the room and the door which Natasha had left open behind her. He had a moment where he thought about getting to his feet and following her, maybe even running, since he wasn’t as sick as all that, but he abandoned the idea. He didn’t think he’d get far. Better to try this first. He rested his head on the table again. The black lacquer felt cool on his cheek. He closed his eyes.
A minute later, though it could have been longer since he thought he might have fallen asleep without meaning to, he opened his eyes to find the room full of people in full hazmat suits: white coveralls and helmets, taped at the wrist and ankles, with rebreathers making them all sound like Darth Vader. Satisfaction coursed through him. MI-5 was taking his illness seriously. The hazmat suits alone told him they were concerned that his brand of scarlet fever was new—or rather, old—or maybe just that he was extremely contagious. Considering the number of people in the Middle Ages who died from what was a very treatable disease in the twenty-first century, David couldn’t blame them for being concerned.
Someone shook his shoulder. “Sir. Sir.”
“What?” David lifted his head, and then decided he’d been better with it on the table. No way was he getting out of this now that he’d started it. As he’d discovered when he’d taken Ieuan to the twenty-first century, once you were on the medical train, it was nearly impossible to get off. And in this case, he didn’t want to.
“We need a stretcher,” the man said to someone behind him. “When is the ambulance due to arrive?”
“Any minute, sir,” a second man said.
“And the quarantine unit at the hospital?”
“Dispatch said that by the time we get him there, they’ll be ready.”
David observed the next half hour through eyes kept at half-mast. The two men who had spoken first were joined by a third, and the three of them placed him onto a stretcher. A fourth person—David thought she was a woman—stuck an IV in his arm and hung the solution bag above his head on a metal hook. The first man had him stick out his tongue to culture his throat.
“This is a classic presentation of
scarlet fever,” he said to the person standing at David’s head, handing off the culture to him while accepting a syringe. He pushed up on David’s side, forcing him to roll onto one hip, and then, without warning, jabbed the needle into David’s rear.
“Ouch!” David said. “What was that?”
“Benzathine penicillin,” the man said.
“Whatever happened to pills?” David said.
“For this, they don’t work as well,” the man said.
Then they wheeled him out of the interrogation room and down the corridor to the elevator.
“We’ll take care of you, son,” said the third man, who’d arrived last. He spoke in American English.
David turned his head to one side, trying to make out the face behind the man’s plastic mask. He couldn’t see much beyond a lock of gray hair, which fell across the man’s forehead, and owl-round glasses through which he gazed speculatively at David.
“Thank you.” David closed his eyes. He really did feel terrible. And for all that he would have been much happier were Lili here, part of him was glad that she wasn’t. Even though he longed for her touch on his forehead, he wouldn’t want her to worry about him more than she already did.
The elevator doors opened, and the men wheeled David inside. They rose up, and then when the doors opened, Natasha was standing in the entrance to the garage. She, too, wore a hazmat suit, and she walked with him as they wheeled his stretcher to where the ambulance was parked.
The change in scenery had David feeling momentarily alert. Not only was he out of interrogation, but they were taking him out of the MI-5 building! “I’m surprised they’re letting you walk around,” David said to Natasha. “You were exposed to me. Why aren’t you quarantined too?”
“Why do you think they’ve made me wear this suit?” she said. “I’ll be given my own bubble at the hospital, just like you.”
“A bubble, huh?” David said. “That’ll be fun.”
“I really appreciate what you’ve done for me,” Natasha said, deadpan, and for the first time, David understood what Callum might have seen in her. Admittedly, she hadn’t been at her best and had been uniquely stressed out for the last six hours dealing with him.
“What about Cassie and Callum?” David said. “They could be sick and not know it.”
“My God.” Natasha came to a full stop. She pulled her phone from the messenger bag she wore diagonally across her chest and dialed awkwardly through the gloves that impeded her fingers.
David missed the beginning of her conversation since he was being loaded into the ambulance, but after a few minutes, Natasha climbed into the back with him. She grinned wickedly. “Driscoll will share my prison if he’s not careful.”
“Are they sick?” David held his breath. His plan depended on the three of them being in the same place. Since he didn’t know where Cassie and Callum were, he had to do the best he could with what he had to work with.
“Not yet,” Natasha’s phone rang. She looked at who was calling and then answered. “Do you have them?”
David couldn’t see her face pale behind the plastic face guard, but he could tell from her tone of voice that she was worried. “Well, find them!” She hung up.
“Where are they?” David said.
“Driscoll ate with them in the cafeteria not long ago. He told them to stay put while he saw to—” Natasha cut off what she’d been about to say, “—some other business, and they disappeared.”
“Surely you have cameras everywhere?” he said.
Natasha paused before speaking. “Not enough, apparently, since they aren’t on any of the video we do have. Security is backtracking through it now to find where they were last seen.”
“Where’s Director Cooke in all this?” David said.
“She and Smythe will meet us at the hospital. They weren’t on-site when this happened.”
David nodded, surprised she was telling him all this. “This could have been handled better, you know.”
“I know,” Natasha said. “Believe me.” She gazed out the rear window of the ambulance.
David reached out a hand and touched her knee. “Can you tell me what’s really going on?”
But Natasha had turned to look towards the front seats. “What’s the hold up?”
“Rush hour traffic,” said the driver.
David craned his neck so he could see through the gap that led to the front seats of the ambulance. Except for Natasha, who was several inches shorter than the men, everyone looked the same in their hazmat suits. He knew only that the man who’d spoken was the American.
“So find another route,” Natasha said.
“We have to get all the way up to the Heath,” he said.
“What about using the siren?” David said.
Natasha stood to peer into the driver’s cab and then sighed, looking down at David. “Too many cars in too small a space.” She sat back beside him and made a motion as if to put her chin in her hands but was stymied by her helmet.
“You might as well talk to me while we’re waiting,” David said. “Who am I going to tell?”
“You never know,” Natasha said, but then she leaned forward, her hands dangling next to his IV drip. “Ever since last November, we’ve been on alert to any change in our readings. Since I was promoted to head of Cardiff station, we’ve been working on your case full time.”
“Up until today, everyone must have been pretty bored,” David said.
Natasha shrugged. “It’s typical for us to work a case for many months without a lead. Anyway, when Callum called, we already knew where you were, though admittedly, finding you in the middle of the Bristol Channel was a bit of a shocker.” Natasha leaned even closer. “Within two minutes, Director Cooke knew as much as I knew. Our response was out of my hands, especially after the disaster of last winter.”
“It wasn’t Callum’s fault that my parents escaped him,” David said. “Didn’t someone else botch their capture at that hotel?”
“That someone else is now Director Cooke’s second-in-command in London,” Natasha said. “A man named Smythe. He convinced Director Cooke and her superiors that if she’d left your parents in his hands, he could have salvaged the situation. Since Callum wasn’t here to defend himself—”
“It looks like he screwed up,” David said.
“That was true until today,” Natasha said. “Director Cooke spoke to me after her conference with Callum and admitted, not even grudgingly, that bringing you back here, convincing you that he was on your side the whole time when he was really still working for us, was an impressive piece of tradecraft.”
“That’s what Callum told her?” David was feeling much better, not necessarily because the drugs had kicked in, but because things were happening now and he was out of that interrogation room. As far as he was concerned, the ambulance could take as long as it wanted to get to the hospital. For the moment, he was a tiny bit free.
“I was meeting with you at the time, so I wasn’t present myself,” Natasha said, “but she seemed pretty pleased with him. Smythe, on the other hand, wasn’t looking too chuffed.”
Which could hardly be more excellent if David had thought of it himself. That Callum was such a convincing actor had to be the reason Callum and Cassie had been allowed to wander freely throughout the MI-5 building—or freely enough that Driscoll couldn’t find them. Not for one second did David believe that Callum had been working for him only because he hoped one day to return to MI-5 with David in tow. That might have been his thought initially, and quite honestly, it was a good one. But David knew Callum better than Natasha did, and he was pleased to learn that his friend was such an impressive liar.
“We’ve learned—”
But David never learned what Natasha was going to tell him, because the driver of the ambulance chose that moment to jerk the vehicle out of place, the ambulance careening forward, half on the sidewalk, half on the road. Given the way the streets were parked up on both sides, that couldn’t l
ast long. Natasha had to grasp a handle above her head, and the third technician who’d been sorting through the contents of the ambulance on David’s right let out a yelp.
The ambulance crashed back down to the level road and then swung around a corner to the right. The driver finally turned on the sirens and he wove the ambulance in and out of traffic, heedless, as far as David could tell, of anyone’s safety, even their own. David had never driven a car in the modern world, but when he was young, his mom would often take a circuitous route rather than wait in a traffic jam. She’d insist that even if they arrived at the same time as they would have otherwise, some movement was better than no movement, especially with a sleeping kid in the car. The ambulance driver must have decided having a medieval king with scarlet fever qualified too.
Natasha gasped as the ambulance swerved again, but then it steadied. Natasha didn’t say anything else to David. Perhaps she’d thought better of her confidences.
David rested his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. It seemed Callum had a plan too. David was looking forward to seeing what it was.
Chapter Fourteen
September, 2017
Callum
As they listened to the warning bell, sirens sounded from outside too. Cassie crossed into the office opposite and looked out the window to the street below. Callum followed and looked with her. Two ambulances and four police cars pulled down the ramp into the underground car park.
“Do you think all that’s for David?” Cassie said.
Callum found himself shaking his head in disbelief. “I want to say that it couldn’t be, but given the Office’s preoccupation with him and his family, I fear it is. We need to get to him now.”
Castaways in Time (The After Cilmeri Series) Page 14