by Sophie Weeks
Margaret's window was at the back of the house, so when she went downstairs, she was surprised to find Christopher already there, talking with Jon and Louise quietly. “It's not something we're going to sort out in a day, or even a month,” he said. “Believe me, I'm as anxious as you are to find out the cause. I've got the tribal elders giving me an earful, and my bosses too.” Then he looked up at Margaret and smiled, his dark, handsome face lighting up. “And she knows how to make an entrance too. Hello, gorgeous girl.”
“Hey, handsome,” Margaret said softly, hurrying over to give him a hug.
“So where are you two heading?” Jon said, changing the subject.
“The Belvedere in Calgary,” Christopher replied.
“And who did you bribe to get reservations?” Louise asked archly.
“The maître d’, naturally.”
“Big spender,” Margaret teased, and Christopher flushed like he'd made a gaffe, but she knew he liked it, too, liked the expansiveness of money to burn.
“All my money couldn't buy you a steak in this province tonight, though—I hope you're in the mood for something else.”
Margaret made a face. “The smell of cooked cattle is absolutely the last thing I want to encounter tonight. It reeks all over the spread.” She kissed both Jon and Louise on the cheek delicately.
“Have her home before dawn,” Jon said lightly. With another man, there might have been a real curfew, no matter how old Margaret was, but Jon trusted Christopher.
Christopher had rented a sensible Range Rover, and soon they were flying along the highway. He glanced over. “So do you want to discuss business now, or later?”
“Now, please. I plan to enjoy this evening, if that's all right.”
“The business part is mostly just that we don't know anything yet. Could be a prion like BSE—we just don't know. Between us, this is pretty much a worst-case scenario for this area. This is still heavy cattle land, and most people are living on a narrow edge.”
Margaret shifted unhappily. “I know.”
“My family too,” Christopher said, looking over. “I guess at least we can't lose the reserve, though that's kind of a questionable benefit.”
“Mmm. How are you handling being home again?”
“Badly,” he said ruefully. “Dad and I already had a shouting match over my disrespectful attitude and, uh, faggoty ways.”
“Are you?” Margaret asked, trying to convey with her tone that it was all right either way. Christopher had had a girlfriend, a gorgeous Italian blonde, the last she remembered, but anything was possible.
“Not especially faggoty, no,” he answered calmly. “Carla doesn't have any complaints. But just try telling my father that.” Then he shrugged. “What about you?”
“A little better. Dad and I get on … okay, now. But it wears me out. This place wears everybody out. There's no rest or pause, just work and more work. At least you can go hide out with your microscope.”
“Sure. I even get pats on the head for it. Everyone's very impressed with my dedication.” Christopher made a face. “I'm a big shot now.”
“Well,” Margaret said mildly, “you are.”
“I guess.”
“I saw Kate Willis the other day,” Margaret intervened, trying to distract him from his black mood.
“Kate … the girl who dropped out junior year?”
“Mmmhmm. She has the cutest little girl now. She still lives around here. Well … down at the crossroads, anyway.”
“Margaret, everybody we went to school with still lives around here. You and I are the only ones who actually escaped.”
“You're not fair to people around here,” Margaret said, shaking her head.
“Since when are you?” Christopher smiled a little bit. “Never mind, let's forget everything and just have a long delicious meal and catch up.”
Inside the restaurant, Margaret relaxed a little more: it was a beautiful place, and the lighting itself was a work of art, calculated to ease the diner into intimate conversation. It was a room dedicated to the pleasures of dining, for all that entailed, social and sensual both.
“So,” Christopher said, after they had ordered. “Boyfriend?”
“Not a one.”
“Wasn't there a guy?”
“Sometimes there's a guy, sometimes there's not.” That sounded a little more casual than Margaret's two ex-boyfriends had been, but it was more or less true.
“Alan,” Christopher remembered. “There was an Alan, and there was some kind of ring, when I saw you two years ago.”
“Okay, there was an Alan, but it was only a promise ring. He got a job in Minneapolis, and I just couldn't see it. Moving, I mean. How's Carla?”
“Spending the winter at her papa's in Venice, sulking because I couldn't come.”
“Did you ask her to come with you while you worked?” Margaret hazarded.
“Carla … wouldn't suit here. She barely knows what a small town is.”
“Are you scared she won't like your family, or that your family won't like her?”
Christopher ruffled his hair up uncomfortably. “It's not that simple, Margaret, especially not for the older people like my grandmother. The one time Carla made me put her on the phone so she could say hello, Grandma pretended to be deaf.”
“Sounds like her,” Margaret laughed. “What'll you do if it ever gets serious?”
“I'm not sure,” he said honestly. “How will I know when it's serious?”
Margaret shrugged. “In this case, when the birth control gives out, I guess.”
“Don't even joke about that. All her parents could talk about the last time we visited was grandchildren. Twenty-eight is way too young to be a dad. I work long hours.”
“I know,” Margaret said. “But so did your dad. So did mine. We're okay.”
“Besides, Carla has a career too. She's doing very well in her firm, getting a lot of work now.”
“Right. Well, as long as you're both happy. But I think you should take a break over the holidays, fly to Venice and surprise her.”
Whatever Christopher's response to that might have been, it was lost as his cell phone began vibrating. He apologized and stepped out of the dining room to take the call. Margaret didn't mind—she was more than happy to sit there by herself, taking luxurious mouthfuls of food that she hadn't had to cook and looking around with interest at the clothes of the other diners. But then Christopher returned, and his face was so tense and worried that she picked up her evening bag and stood, even before he said, “We need to go.”
Margaret hurried off to get their coats while he paid and apologized, and it was only when they were in the Range Rover again that she had a chance to say, “What's happened?”
“A couple of bleeding ulcers, I hope.”
“I don't understand.”
“Dr. Barton has a couple of patients with bloody diarrhea.” Then Christopher drove fast, fast enough to leave Margaret white knuckled as she tried to process what that meant. If humans were exhibiting the same symptoms as the cattle, then the quarantine would be extended to people. If it was viral, they were all in danger of infection.
Christopher seemed to be thinking the same thing, for he said, “If you want, I can leave you here in Calgary.”
But Margaret shook her head. “No—I need to make sure everyone's all right.”
“Are you sure? Your dad wouldn't want—”
“My dad needs me,” Margaret said softly. “He hates it, he can't even say it, but there's too much for him to handle. And if one of the girls gets sick, I need to be there.”
“Families. Hard to get away from, huh?” Christopher ran his hand through his hair, agitated.
When they reached Hilltown, Christopher said, “I'll drop you home. It's going to be a long night for me.”
But Margaret said, “Can't I come?”
“Do you really want to? These people are sick, and your family is well. If it's viral …”
“I know. But
you're going.”
“I have to,” he pointed out, “and frankly, I'm not too thrilled with the prospect.”
But Margaret set her jaw in a way that evoked her father. “I want to know what's going on.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
HILLTOWN WAS DARK AND QUIET when they pulled into the clinic. The door was locked, but when they knocked, Dr. Barton threw open the door. He looked them up and down. “Evening, folks. Sorry to ruin your night out.”
Inside, Christopher pulled off his coat. “Please, please tell me they have histories of severe gastric distress.”
Dr. Barton shook his head. “Nothing more than a bout or two of gastroenteritis.”
“Who is it?” Margaret interrupted.
“Snyder and his wife. I've got their kids at my place, my wife's keeping an eye on them.”
Margaret knew the Snyders slightly. They were subsistence farmers, scratching out a living on just a few acres.
“Well,” Christopher said, taking the mask Dr. Barton offered and pulling it over his face. “Let's find out what Mr. and Mrs. Snyder have been doing.”
“They don't have any cattle out there,” Margaret said, adjusting her own mask.
“Sheep? Goats?” Christopher asked.
“A couple of fat pigs that were put down,” Dr. Barton said. He led them into the back of the clinic, where two cots were set up. Margaret paused at the stench emitting from the bedpans beneath the cots.
“I've got them both on an IV to prevent dehydration. There's not a lot else I can do—they need endoscopy to find the bleeders.” Then he raised his voice and said, cheerfully, “How are you folks feeling?”
“Like I'm shitting out my guts,” the man groaned.
“Fair enough,” Christopher said. He seemed pretty unfazed by everything, and he sat down between the two cots. “Let's start with everything you've eaten for the last week. What did you have for dinner tonight?”
“Can of beans,” Snyder spat, glaring at his wife, who had her face turned listlessly to the wall.
“Yum,” Christopher said flatly. “And lunch? Have either of you eaten any food produced in the province today?”
“We're not stupid,” Snyder said, but his wife gave a little choked sob.
She turned, then, and looked at the doctor. “Are the kids okay?”
“They're fine so far,” Dr. Barton promised her. Then he leaned down, wiping her brow himself, like the gentlest of nurses.
Mrs. Snyder mumbled something, and her husband snapped, “Shut up, Dinah!”
“Why don't you shut up?” Christopher replied, irritated. “If you want to get well, you'll tell us everything.”
Dr. Barton had a little more experience with bad patients, though, and he ignored Snyder entirely. “Dinah,” he said quietly. “Did you want to tell us something? We're worried about you both and the children. We need to know everything so we can make sure no one else gets sick.”
Margaret watched quietly from the corner. She understood Christopher's impatience, but she also knew that Dr. Barton's was the better technique. Christopher had a scientist's temperament—he wanted all the facts laid before him neatly, and had no time for anything that kept him from solving his problem.
Dinah whispered something, so softly that neither Margaret nor Christopher could hear it. Dr. Barton bent his head. “A pig?” he said.
“You stupid bitch,” Snyder snapped, then looked at the doctor and Christopher wildly. “You can't prosecute a man for keeping his livestock. Who the hell are you to come around and tell us what to do?”
“I think you've got bigger problems than prosecution right now,” Christopher pointed out. “What did you do with the pig? Eat it?”
“Larry said the curing would make it all right,” Dinah moaned. “We didn't eat any, I swear.”
But Dr. Barton picked up her thin hand from the rough blanket that covered her. He turned it over gently and looked under her nails. “You two do your own butchering?”
“What, I'm gonna pay someone else to do it?” Snyder glared.
“Maybe you should if you're hanging up pork to cure with your bare hands and not scrubbing afterward,” the doctor replied absently and stood up. “Just try and rest. The ambulance will be here soon to evacuate you.” He nodded to Christopher and Margaret, who followed him back into the front. “I couldn't say for sure, but that sounds like your answer. They butchered that pig, and she cooked dinner without scrubbing up.” He rubbed his forehead. “I'll have to send the kids in too for observation.”
“You have some samples for me?” Christopher said, and he took the specimens. “I'll get on these tonight.”
“Is there anything else we can do?” Margaret said, pulling off her mask.
Dr. Barton shook his head. “No, go on home and rest. Look after your family and make sure your dad hasn't hidden a cow away somewhere for a midnight snack.”
It was only then that Margaret realized that while none of them had hidden a cow away, she had probably done something equally stupid. “I ate an apple. Today.”
“What?” Christopher stared at her. “I told you—”
“I know! But the apple was good. Everything else was rotted except that one box of apples. I was going to show you …” Margaret fumbled in her evening bag and pulled out a little crabapple
“What part of 'everything that grows here is bad' did you not understand?” Christopher demanded. He took the apple, scowling at it.
Dr. Barton looked worried. “Any signs of gastric distress?”
Margaret shook her head. “Not at all. I feel fine.”
“Should we send her to the hospital?” Christopher asked, completely ignoring Margaret, which irritated her.
“I'm not being sent anywhere. I'm going home to bed,” she said sharply.
And Dr. Barton nodded. “I'm not going to stick her in a quarantine unit with no symptoms, that's foolish. Margaret, be careful with yourself and call me if you have so much as a loose stool, all right?”
“I will,” Margaret promised, pulling on her coat. She knew she should feel frightened, but mostly she just felt tired and worried. Back in the vehicle, she looked over at Christopher. “It was just an apple.”
“You might as well have eaten a mayonnaise sandwich out of the garbage,” Christopher grumbled. “I can't believe you did that. Now I get to add potentially lethal apples to my samples. That's fantastic. I wasn't worried enough before, I suppose.”
Margaret didn't think she had to explain herself to Christopher. When she'd seen that box of apples in the middle of so much waste, it had seemed perfectly safe: everything else had been showing signs of decay, and surely the one whole, sound fruit should be eaten. She changed the subject. “Does knowing how they got it help you?”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “If Barton is right and they haven't just been making out with the livestock. It's acting like a prion.”
“Prion?”
“It's a protein particle. Like BSE, BSE is a prion too. But it could still be a nasty bacteria. I'm not sure.”
“Can't you just look at the samples and see what shouldn't be there?”
Christopher gave her a disdainful glance. “Right. I'll just glance through the millions of microbes hanging out in these cows' colons and figure it out on the spot. It takes a long time to isolate something when you don't really know what you're looking for.”
By that time they were pulling up the drive to Sandy's Acres, so all Margaret said was, “Sorry, I didn't know.” When he stopped in front of the house, she gave him a little smile. “Thanks for dinner. Well, appetizers. They were good.”
“I'd say we'll try again, but I don't know if anyone's going to be allowed in or out of this county for a while.” Christopher gave her a tight smile. “Just what we always wanted, right, to be quarantined with our families?”
“Yeah.” Margaret reached for the door, but Christopher caught her wrist, stopping her. She looked at him curiously.
“Disinfect everything in your kit
chen,” he said. “And for God's sake, don't eat any more apples.”
“I'll be careful.”
“Good. I can't lose the only person I know will help me run away.” Christopher grinned then, and Margaret laughed slightly. When Christopher had tried to run away at fifteen, she'd loaned him her piggy bank for the trip.
Margaret went inside the house and noted that it was after ten o'clock. There was still a light in the office, though, and she found her father there, hunched over the computer and typing slowly. “What are you doing?” she asked, leaning against the door frame.
“Letter to the bank,” he said, straightening up and turning to face her. “I bet they'll be getting plenty of those. I'm asking them to extend our credit.”
“Do you think it'll work?”
“Maybe,” Jon said, pursing his lips. Then he shook his head, “No use borrowing trouble because I can't borrow money. How was your dinner?”
“Brief,” Margaret said. “Christopher got called back here for an emergency almost as soon as we got there.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“The Snyders have bloody diarrhea. Dr. Barton thinks they butchered a sow and didn't wash up afterward.”
“Butchered a sow? Are they crazy?”
“Apparently Larry Snyder thinks bacon is immune to disease,” Margaret shrugged. She hesitated for a moment, thinking about the apple, then said instead, “Are you okay? What did you guys have for dinner?”
“Ramen noodles,” Jon replied. “Spiced with only the finest hermetically sealed seasoning packets.”
“Good.” Then she paused. “They're probably not going to let anyone out of the county for a while, Christopher thinks. Public health risk.”
“Figures it would be that moron Snyder who gets the whole place shut down,” Jon said. “Everyone's fine here, as far as I know. I didn't exactly ask about bowel movements.”
“I guess I'll do that.” Margaret pressed her palms over her eyes for a moment. “I'm going to go change.”