China Lake

by Meg Gardiner

  I said, ‘‘What data is that?’’

  ‘‘From CDC—the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, in Atlanta. That’s where the coroner sent Jorgensen’s tissue samples to be analyzed, to confirm the diagnosis.’’

  Ah, those nasty germ doctors whom Chenille expected to poison us any day. Sally went on. ‘‘And a bunch of people who came in contact with him have to get PEP.’’

  She was really getting into this. I said, ‘‘What’s PEP?’’

  ‘‘Postexposure prophylaxis. The emergency room doctors and nurses, lab technicians, firefighterparamedics—everyone who was exposed to Jorgensen has to take the rabies vaccine.’’

  My brain froze. ‘‘Sally, I was exposed to Jorgensen.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘That night, before he got hit by the truck. I fell through the plate-glass window with him, and I got cut.’’

  ‘‘You can’t get rabies from that kind of casual contact.’’

  I felt my throat constricting. ‘‘You don’t understand. When he came into the church he grabbed me. He was crying and spitting, and you said that saliva—’’

  ‘‘Oh, my gosh.’’

  Jesse came over to me, his face troubled, mouthing, what? I found a piece of scratch paper and wrote CDC on it, and pointed to his laptop computer.

  Sally said, ‘‘Maybe you should get in touch with your doctor, Evan.’’

  Rabies kills up to seventy thousand people worldwide every year. Dog bites cause most cases in the developing world, but American victims usually contract the disease when bitten by a wild animal. In one gruesome instance eight people died after receiving infected corneal transplants. Rabies affects all mammals, and the outcome is almost always fatal.

  That was the CDC Web site, sugarcoating things.

  The World Health Organization site was no better. Nor the Pasteur Institute’s. They were all epidemiological fright wigs, scaring the piss out of me.

  Rabies incubates in the central nervous system, generally for three to twelve weeks, and during that time the infected animal—or person—shows no sign of illness. Eventually, however, the virus reaches the brain and erupts into pain, paralysis, insanity, and death. Just six people are known to have survived the disease.

  You get better odds with Ebola. I didn’t sleep.

  At dawn I called my doctor’s office, telling her service, yes, page her, get her out of aerobics class or off the toilet and have her call me, and on second thought have her meet me at her office in half an hour. I was there in twenty minutes, waiting on the steps with the sun on my face, surrounded by orderly, bright flower beds, imagining how I’d look when I started foaming at the mouth.

  Soon the doctor came up the walk carrying a coffee mug, with the News-Press tucked under her arm. She was a stylish woman in her fifties named Lourdes Abbott who had a no-nonsense manner and a perpetual furrow between her eyebrows.

  ‘‘Come on in.’’ Inside, she started flipping on lights. ‘‘I’ve already talked to the Public Health people about this. They’ll be contacting you for an interview.’’ She tossed the paper on her desk. The rabies story was prominent. She pointed me to a chair. ‘‘Talk.’’

  I told her about Jorgensen screaming and spitting in the direction of my face. She drank from her mug.

  She said, ‘‘Do you remember being hit with saliva?’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure. I didn’t have to wipe it off, but . . . I don’t know.’’

  Her furrow deepened. ‘‘Show me where you were cut.’’

  I held out my hands, where scabs were now faded, and parted my hair to indicate nicks on my scalp.

  She said, ‘‘How did you take care of these cuts afterward?’’

  ‘‘My boyfriend washed them out at home about half an hour later.’’

  ‘‘Soap and water?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Then antiseptic and Band-Aids. And I showered and washed my hair.’’

  ‘‘Why do you keep scratching at your back and abdomen like that?’’

  She declined to comment on the wasp stings. She just wrote everything down, and then stared at the page.

  She said, ‘‘I think the risk to you is low. In fact, I question whether you’ve even been exposed. However, you had broken skin, and Dr. Jorgensen had confirmed rabies. It’s a gray area, but call me risk averse. I’m going to recommend that you get vaccinated. ’’

  I nodded, oddly both frightened and relieved. She described the vaccine schedule, five doses administered over a twenty-eight-day period. A jab in the arm, not the stomach like in the old days. I kept nodding, saying, ‘‘Right, let’s do it.’’ She insisted this was precautionary, playing it safe. My head bounced up and down like a beach ball. I told her that Curt Smollek and Isaiah Paxton might have been exposed. Then I asked whether rabies was more common than I had known, and told her about the coyote attacking Abbie Hankins in China Lake.

  She frowned. ‘‘You’ve come in close proximity to confirmed rabies twice within the space of seven days?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Two hundred miles apart.’’

  Her furrow turned so deep that the bottom lay in shadow.

  ‘‘Dr. Abbott?’’

  She tapped her pencil against the notepad. ‘‘I don’t want to speculate.’’

  Speculate your ass off, I almost shouted. ‘‘Please.’’

  ‘‘There is a significant reservoir of the disease among wild animals in California. But this is highly unusual. Either it’s a statistical anomaly, or we’re seeing evidence of an emerging outbreak.’’

  Dr. Abbott sent me to the emergency room at St. Francis Medical Center for the first injection. I felt numb. While I waited for my shot, edgy thoughts suggested themselves—about germs, and coincidence, or the lack of it. And it all went back to Dr. Neil Jorgensen.

  Coming out of St. Francis with a Band-Aid on my arm, I decided to stop by the medical building down the hill on Micheltorena Street, where Jorgensen and Mel Kalajian, late MDs, lovers, and partners in plastic surgery, had kept their offices. In previous times, the parking lot had gleamed with expensive cars, especially Neil Jorgensen’s latest Porsche in some blazing color. Now the lot was empty. But the office door opened when I turned the knob. Seeing no one, I called out, ‘‘Hello?’’

  From the back a voice answered, ‘‘Right there.’’

  A moment later a chunky woman in a green suit, with tiny rimless glasses and her hair in a twist, came around the corner. She stopped when she saw me.

  ‘‘Oh—I was expecting Dr. Marsden. Are you with his practice, Ms. . . .’’

  ‘‘Delaney. No, I’m not. I’m . . . I knew Dr. Jorgensen.’’

  She set down the file folders she was carrying. ‘‘Because the office really isn’t open.’’ She glanced around at the waiting room, with its soothing gray carpet, Gorman prints of Navajo mothers, and coffee table covered with issues of Fortune magazine. On the counter were wilting flower arrangements with sympathy cards taped to them.

  She forced a smile. ‘‘Sorry, it’s just that I’m expecting another surgeon who’s thinking of buying the practice.’’ She put out her hand. ‘‘Esther Olson. I’m the office manager.’’

  I didn’t know how to work into the conversation I wanted to have, but Esther Olson sounded as if she wanted to talk. I said, ‘‘Any chance that the new doctor will keep the staff on board?’’

  ‘‘Who knows?’’ This time her smile failed, flat out.

  ‘‘Had you been with Dr. Jorgensen a long time?’’

  ‘‘Thirteen years. Since before Dr. Kalajian joined the practice. Oh. Who would have believed, both of them . . .’’ She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. ‘‘When Dr. Kalajian passed away, we didn’t think we could keep the practice going. Dr. Jorgensen was a wreck, and some patients didn’t want to come to an office where a man had been . . . where someone had expired. But we pulled together and Dr. Jorgensen soldiered on. . . .’’

  I had forgotten that Mel Kalajian was murdered in this bui
lding. Now I recalled that he had interrupted a robber. Olson’s gaze lengthened, giving the impression that she was seeing the office as it had been in happier, more profitable times, when Neil Jorgensen had snipped, peeled, and liposucked Santa Barbara’s richest. On his best days Jorgensen could turn an eye lift into an excavation. On his worst . . . I shuddered to think of him operating when, as Olson described it, he was a wreck.

  She brought herself back. ‘‘Did you know Dr. Kalajian too?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘This must have been an awful year for you.’’

  She took off her rimless glasses and cleaned them on a handkerchief. ‘‘Yes. Ever since that night in July . . . when I got that horrible phone call from Dr. Jorgensen, telling me that Dr. Kalajian had been . . . that he was gone.’’

  ‘‘Dr. Jorgensen was the one who found his body?’’

  It was a question too far. She put her glasses back on and scrutinized me.

  She said, ‘‘I’m sorry. How did you say you knew Dr. Jorgensen?’’

  ‘‘I knew him in a professional capacity.’’

  ‘‘You’re a doctor?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  I really must train myself to lie reflexively. Esther Olson was no dummy—she may have idealized Neil Jorgensen, but she knew how often his patients looked in the mirror and decided to sue.

  She said, ‘‘You’re a lawyer?’’ Quickly she eyed my jeans and T-shirt. ‘‘A process server?’’ She took a step back, as if to prevent me from touching her with a summons and complaint I might have hidden in my bra.

  ‘‘A lawyer,’’ I said. ‘‘But I’m not here because of any court action, Ms. Olson.’’

  ‘‘For God’s sake, the man is dead. Can’t you people leave him alone?’’

  ‘‘I called the ambulance for him the night he was hit by the truck.’’

  ‘‘Oh . . .’’ She had been pointing toward the door, about to kick me out, but now her fingertips went to her lips. ‘‘You’re the bystander. We’ve been wondering if we’d ever meet you.’’ Her lips began trembling. Softly she touched my arm. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  She gestured to a sofa. ‘‘Please, I’m sorry, sit down. I’ve so been wanting to talk to you. You’re one of the last people to have spoken with the doctor. He never came out of his coma, you know, but you were there— maybe you can tell me what happened and help me understand what led him to that church. I need closure on this.’’

  Her eyes were bloodhound sad. I didn’t want to tell her that Jorgensen had ended his life screaming the F-word. Instead I explained how he had interrupted the service, saying, ‘‘He was quite upset.’’

  ‘‘You were inside the church? I thought . . . the paramedics said . . .’’ She withdrew several inches. ‘‘Are you a member of the Remnant?’’

  ‘‘No. Not a chance in hell.’’

  I told her a bit, and she drew closer again. She said, ‘‘They’re vicious people, the Remnant. They picketed Dr. Kalajian’s funeral.’’

  ‘‘Ms. Olson, this will sound strange, but I’m going to say it anyway. I think that somehow the Remnant was responsible for Dr. Jorgensen’s death.’’ She stared, and I said, ‘‘I know it sounds crazy.’’

  ‘‘No, you’re right. I can’t put my finger on why, exactly, but you’re right.’’

  Leaning forward anxiously, she again asked me to describe Jorgensen’s final minutes. I tried to convey his confusion and foul anger. She shook her head.

  ‘‘That had to be the illness,’’ she said. ‘‘He just wasn’t like that.’’

  Actually, in my experience he had been a virtuoso at conjugating the verb fuck, but Olson wouldn’t have considered that a testimonial. I said, ‘‘Do you have any idea how he contracted rabies?’’

  ‘‘None. It’s simply inconceivable.’’ She exhaled sharply. ‘‘And now those people have to take the vaccine. . . . Watch, next thing they’ll be filing lawsuits against his estate. You mark my words.’’

  Not wanting to get my butt kicked through the door, I decided against telling her I was one of those people. Changing the subject, I said, ‘‘Dr. Kalajian’s murderer. Was he ever captured?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘I understand that Dr. Kalajian interrupted a robber who was after drugs.’’

  ‘‘That’s what the police think. But . . .’’ She scrunched up her mouth, clearly trying to decide whether she wanted to get into this. ‘‘It bothered Dr. Jorgensen, and now it’s bothering me. The circumstances . . . just don’t add up.’’

  She told me the sequence of events leading up to Mel Kalajian’s death. It was a weeknight in early July, and Kalajian had been visiting postsurgical patients at St. Francis. He left the hospital at seven thirty and walked back to the office, which was closed by then.

  Kalajian, said Olson, was a tall, well-built man in his early forties. He took care of himself, working out five days a week at the gym.

  ‘‘He lifted weights, you understand? He was strong.’’

  He had gone into his office. Then—perhaps noticing lights that shouldn’t have been on, or hearing a noise—he went to one of the treatment rooms, which was outfitted for minor surgery. It was his penultimate act in life.

  From the disarray in the room it was clear that Kalajian had put up a fight. From the amount of blood pooled around his body it was clear that he had fallen on the spot where he was stabbed. He had been rammed through the chest with a liposuction cannula.

  Olson said, ‘‘The police weren’t forthcoming, except to say that they thought a drug addict had broken into the office. Dr. Jorgensen couldn’t get any more information out of them no matter how strongly he insisted.’’

  I pictured the stalemate at the police station: Jorgensen arrogant and grief-stricken, the police defensive, hackles up.

  ‘‘Dr. Jorgensen thought a patient was involved.’’ She looked to see if I was skeptical.

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘When the police let us back in the office, Dr. Jorgensen found something. It was just a little thing, but he thought it was significant. He found a sheet of paper under the receptionist’s desk, from a patient’s file—the information sheet they fill out when they first come in. He went to stick it back in the file, but the file was missing. He was convinced that someone had taken it, someone who didn’t want anyone to know they had been here. Which would be someone involved in the robbery and murder.’’

  I guess I did look skeptical.

  ‘‘I know that’s a leap. But he tried checking out this patient. Her name was on the information sheet. It turns out the name, the address, everything was fake.’’

  ‘‘Did he tell the police?’’

  ‘‘Yes. But they thought it was a dead end. Whoever’s fingerprints were on the sheet, they had no police record. The police never came up with a real name. After that they lost interest.’’

  ‘‘What was the name she gave?’’

  ‘‘I don’t remember. It wasn’t anything distinctive.’’

  ‘‘Do you know anything? Age? Ethnicity? The reason she came in?’’

  ‘‘No, and I couldn’t tell you even if I knew. That would violate doctor-patient confidentiality. Why?’’

  ‘‘Because I bet Dr. Jorgensen thought she belonged to the Remnant. When he burst into the church that night, he pointed and shouted, ‘She knows.’ ’’

  Her neck stretched and tightened. ‘‘Oh, my God.’’

  She glanced at the file cabinets and computer systems behind the front counter. ‘‘Do you think you could recognize her?’’

  ‘‘Possibly, if she’s from the Remnant.’’

  ‘‘Come here.’’ She went behind the counter and flipped on a computer. ‘‘Our recent patient files are on the computer, and they include photographs. We have digital-imaging software that allows the surgeon to alter photos, to show the patient how they’ll look after their procedure.’’ The computer booted up. ‘‘I shouldn’t be showing this to you. But if you think you
can recognize this woman . . .’’

  ‘‘I won’t spy on personal data, I promise.’’ I sat down at the desk.

  She said, ‘‘There are hundreds of files. All I know is that this woman was Dr. Kalajian’s patient, and—’’

  Just as I set my fingers on the keyboard, there was a knock on the door.

  Olson said, ‘‘There’s the buyer. Listen, go on and search the database. But please don’t say anything while I give him this tour.’’

  An older man came in wearing a bespoke suit and a look of polite curiosity. Olson starched on a smile and marched across the room, her hand extended like a saber.

  I started by searching for names I knew. Tabitha Delaney. Nothing. Good. Chenille Wyoming, Shiloh Keeler, Glory Moffett. Nothing. I set search parameters to bring up Kalajian’s female patients from the past year and began clicking through files, starting with A. Up flashed photo after photo of middle-aged skin, adipose tissue, marbled flesh and lumps and massed unhappiness, all within the normal range of human design. B, C, D. More faces looking for gratification via the knife. E, F, G. An occasional birth defect or disfigurement as the result of accident or disease.

  H through N. Up popped a Technicolor shot of someone’s ass. It was a stupendous ass, its immensity evident even in 2-D, but skillful lifting and repacking had molded it into rounded twin powerhouses—regal Clydesdale buttocks. Kalajian had been an artist.

  My eyes fell on the patient’s name. Olson, Esther. Just then she came back into the lobby, chatting with the new doctor. Quickly I clicked to the next file.

  There she was. The longing, slightly nervous look in her eyes grabbed at me. The name on the file read, Peters, Kelly, with a big red notice attached: PAYMENT OVERDUE. Looking at the before photo, I now knew why she had that scar at the corner of her left eye. Kalajian had removed a blue-ink tattoo of a teardrop.

  It was Glory.

  My heart was thumping. This was what I had hoped to find—confirmation that the Remnant had been here. Yet to think that Glory might have killed Mel Kalajian made my eyes ache.

  Olson walked the doctor outside. I began printing the file.