In the Land of Milk and Honey

by Jane Jensen

  Ezra set his glass down, giving it a guilty glance. Suddenly, I felt uneasy. “That’s the milk I brought home last night, right? From the store?” I got up and went to the refrigerator. Inside was the half gallon of pasteurized milk from a national brand in its carton with a grinning cartoon cow. Unopened. Next to it was a plastic unmarked gallon I recognized all too well, the top quarter already gone. “Ezra! For God’s sake!”

  Ezra’s voice was steady but had a trace of apology in it. “Happened to go by Henry’s Fruit Market today and . . . I was thirsty.”

  Feeling sick and angry, I strode to the table, picked up Ezra’s glass, and carried it to the sink. There my temper and frustration overcame me, and instead of pouring it down the drain as I’d planned, I threw the glass of milk into the sink where it shattered and sent drops of milk flying everywhere.

  “Elizabeth!” Ezra was out of his chair, his face red.

  “How could you do that? You say Hannah knows me. How could you get that milk and drink it when you know—” My voice cracked. I was at a loss. “You didn’t see them, the Kindermans! You didn’t go into that house!”

  “Hush!” Ezra strode over in two big steps, put his arms around me, and pulled me close. “I’m sorry. You mentioned it . . . but—I truly didn’t know it meant that much to you. I won’t drink it again. Don’t be upset.”

  “Ugh!” I remained stiff in his arms. The thought of him waking in the night, vomiting . . . seeing him die in agony. One part of me knew I was being ridiculous. I was overreacting, like some kind of PTSD reaction to seeing those bodies, those children. The likelihood of there being anything wrong with this milk was minuscule. But still—

  There was a knock on the front door.

  “Who would be callin’ at this hour?” Ezra made no move to get the door, just kept soothingly rubbing my back.

  “I’d better see.” I pulled away, not entirely done being mad at him. Christ. If my own boyfriend didn’t listen to me about this . . . I wiped my eyes and walked to the door.

  I opened it to find Glen Turner standing there looking unhappy. “Sorry to bother you at home. I tried your cell, but it went right to voice mail.”

  “The battery’s probably dead. Sorry about that.” I stepped back. “Come on in. What’s going on?”

  Glen stepped into the living room. He looked around curiously—and his eyes found Ezra, who’d followed me from the kitchen. The two men studied each other silently with a distinct air of sizing each other up.

  “Um . . . Glen, this is my boyfriend, Ezra. Ezra, this is Dr. Glen Turner.”

  “Call me Glen.” He held out his hand.

  “Ezra.” Ezra shook Glen’s hand, but his face was closed off.

  “What’s happened?” I repeated.

  Glen straightened back up, his expression turning grim. “I’m on my way to Philly right now. People have been showing up at emergency rooms there with symptoms that sound like tremetol poisoning. Five people have died, two of them children.”

  “Oh no!”

  “The thing is—when doctors questioned them about what they’d eaten, all of them had consumed raw milk. And they all got it at a farmers’ market there in Philly, from a booth called Lancaster Local Bounty. The milk came from here, Harris.”

  “Oh my God!” I put a hand to my head as if that would make the information easier to absorb. Maybe I should have felt a touch of vindication for my gut’s sake, but I felt nothing but horror, horror for what had already happened and fear about what was still out there.

  I turned and glared at Ezra. “What did I tell you! And you were drinking it at supper!”

  “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Glen watched the two of us warily. “Anyway, I talked to Grady and he said maybe you could contact the woman who runs that Lancaster Local Bounty booth. Find out where she got the supply she sold at the market on Tuesday, and find out if she sold it or gave it to anyone else. I’m sorry to ask, but my staff and I need to check out this Philly outbreak. If you can get a list of from her tonight, my team can run it down in the morning.”

  “Of course. I’ll go right away.”

  “Thanks. You should call Grady. I think he wanted you to go with a partner. The woman’s name and address were sent to your e-mail. I’d, um, better go.” Glen looked at Ezra. “It was nice to meet you.” His tone was stiff and overly formal.

  A nod was Ezra’s only reply.

  An hour later, I stood outside a row house where Amber Kruger lived. It was squeezed on both sides by identical homes, like lovers trapped forever in an embrace. The street was in one of the trendy old neighborhoods of downtown Lancaster, the sort frequented by young urban professionals. It was gentrified enough that I was surprised to see recent graffiti. The narrow residential street had the word “cotton” spray-painted on the asphalt in two-foot-high neon yellow letters.

  Manuel Hernandez came jogging up with a welcoming smile. The ex-soldier was a relatively new detective and younger than me. He was my favorite peer in the department. Hernandez was tough but had a gentle spirit and was always eager to provide assistance, no matter how boring the grunt work.

  “Hey, Harris.”

  I returned the smile. “Hi. Guess we’re both working late tonight.” I checked my watch. It was just going on ten o’clock, so hopefully our target would still be awake. “Grady give you a rundown?”

  “Just that you need to interview someone, and there might possibly be more legwork tonight, depending on what you learn.”

  “That’s close enough. Ready?”

  “Always! Let’s do this, boss,” Hernandez quipped.

  I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t Hernandez’s boss, but his light attitude made me relax, and I was grateful. I was glad I’d gotten Hernandez tonight. The Lancaster Police Violent Crimes Department was so small that I often worked alone or with whomever was available.

  I knocked on the row house door. It was opened by a thin young man in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and thick socks. “Hi. Can I help you?”

  I held up my badge. “Detectives Harris and Hernandez, Lancaster Police. We have some questions for Amber Kruger. Is she available?”

  The guy looked surprised. “She, um, rents the apartment upstairs. I’ll go knock.”

  We stepped into the hallway while the guy took a set of stairs two at a time. The old row house had been converted into two apartments—one up and one down. The door to the downstairs apartment was slightly cracked open, and we could hear the faint sounds of a TV. The staircase turned so we couldn’t see the top of it, but I heard knocking.

  “Amber? There’re some people here to see you.” Pause. “Amber?” He knocked again.

  The guy came back down looking regretful. “She’s not answering.” He went to the front door and opened it, peeked out. “Her truck is here. Maybe she walked a few blocks to a restaurant or something, but I’d be surprised. She sounded pretty sick last night.”

  I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. “Sick? How do you know that, Mr. . . .”

  “Nick. Nick Smith. Well, my wife and I heard her in the night. Her bathroom is right over ours. It sounded like she was in a bad way, so my wife went upstairs and checked on her. But Amber just wanted to go back to sleep.”

  “Have you seen Amber today?”

  “No, but my wife and I both work. What’s this about?” Nick looked uneasy.

  “You have a key to that apartment, bro?” Hernandez asked him with a voice like velvet over a sledgehammer.

  “Um . . . yeah. Sure. We swapped in case . . . you know. Fire or whatever.”

  “Get it,” I said.

  —

  I instructed Nick to stay in his own apartment while Hernandez and I headed up. Knocking got no response, so I unlocked the door and cracked it open. “Amber? This is the Lancaster Police.”

  No
thing, not a sound. The air in the apartment felt stifling, suffocatingly hot, as if the occupant had turned up the heat hours ago and never turned it down. The heat made the cloying smell of the sickroom worse. I started breathing through my mouth, and Hernandez wrinkled his nose. It wasn’t pleasant, but it didn’t smell like death, thank God. I knew exactly what that smelled like.

  “Amber?” I stepped farther into the apartment and nodded at Hernandez to go check out the kitchen. I headed for the hall and the bedroom.

  I found Amber Kruger in bed. She was on her side in baby blue pajamas, covers cast off, knees curled up protectively into her chest. Her skin shone yellow-white, like the moon, and there was a sheen of sweat cast over her features. She looked young and petite with frizzy red-brown hair and freckles. And she lay so heavily on the bed she looked partially sunk through it.

  “Amber?” I knelt by the bed and put my fingers to Amber’s throat, dreading to find the flesh stiff and cold. But it was soft and there was a pulse, faint and slow like the final notes of a slow orchestral march. Thank God! As if to confirm the diagnosis of life, a tremor racked through Amber’s body. I had the strangest thought—that Amber was in the crack between life and death and her body was trying to shake her loose one way or the other. She didn’t waken.

  “Shit.” I pulled out my cell phone and called dispatch. “I need an ambulance right away. And call Lancaster General and have them ready for a critical patient with tremetol poisoning.” I gave Amber’s address. Thankfully, the hospital wasn’t far. As I put the phone in a pocket, Hernandez touched my shoulder.

  “She gone?” he asked quietly.

  “No, but she’s going.” I stood up, ignoring the hand he offered. As a female police officer, I’d learned to never accept any gesture that underlined my femininity, no matter how innocent the intention.

  And now what? I felt useless. If this had been a heart attack or hypothermia, a broken leg or car accident, my training would tell me what to do. But I had no idea what might help tremetol poisoning. I wished I’d asked Glen Turner that question.

  “Can you get a warm, wet cloth from the bathroom,” I asked Hernandez. I sat on the bed. “Amber? Amber can you hear me?” I picked up her left hand—it was damp and chilled—and rubbed it briskly.

  Hernandez brought the cloth. “Should you be that close?” he asked worriedly. “I mean, is she—”

  “It’s not contagious. Not like that.” At least, I hope not.

  Amber’s eyelids flickered briefly.

  “Amber? Can you stay with me? The ambulance is on its way. Hang in there.” Please don’t die. You don’t deserve this, and I have to know where you got that milk, and where you sold it.

  From the distance came the blessed sound of sirens.

  —

  By the time Hernandez and I reached the hospital, Amber was already in the ER.

  “You gonna wait?” Hernandez asked when it was clear there wouldn’t be news anytime soon.

  “Yeah, I’ll stay. But you should go home. There’s nothing you can do, and we can’t both fall asleep at our desks tomorrow.”

  “If you say so, boss. Promise you’ll call me if you need me?”

  “Pinky swear.” I smiled.

  Hernandez gave a jaunty salute and left me to my solitary vigil in the waiting room.

  I texted Ezra to let him know I wouldn’t be home. Then I phoned Glen Turner and told him about Amber’s condition. “I did a quick search of her bag and her truck, but I didn’t find anything like a list of suppliers. I’m going to wait here to see if she wakes up.”

  Glen sounded tired. “If you could, that would be helpful. I’ll be in Philly all night. Text me if her condition changes.”

  “Will do.”

  There was nothing else I could do, so I closed my eyes, hoping for a few hours of uncomfortable sleep in the waiting room chair. I must have drifted off, because a voice woke me up.

  “Detective?”

  “Yes?” Blinking awake, I stood up, still half-asleep.

  I swayed, and the doctor, a thirtysomething Indian, steadied me with a hand. “Sorry if I startled you.”

  “No. It’s fine.” I shook my head, trying to dislodge the fuzz that coated my brain. “Amber Kruger?”

  “She’s in ICU but stable for the moment. I’m Dr. Ambati. Can we talk?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I checked the time. It was just after four A.M. The doctor led me out of the waiting room and into a corridor. Poking his head in a small examining room to verify it was empty, he gestured me inside. He half sat, his hip on the exam table, and clasped his hands in his lap. There was a frown of concern on his otherwise smooth face. “I heard they have this tremetol poisoning in Philadelphia right now as well. And the CDC is working on this?”

  “Yes. We believe Amber is connected with the Philadelphia outbreak. It’s vital that I speak with her.”

  The doctor nodded. “She isn’t conscious yet. But I’m hoping in the next few hours . . . Her blood work shows severe metabolic acidosis, certainly enough to kill her. But I spoke to the CDC, and they confirmed a treatment of intravenous bicarbonate. That should reduce the acid in her blood that’s caused by the tremetol and, hopefully, enable her to recover. I suspect it will take a few days or even weeks for it to pass through her system though. And from what I’ve read, she may have permanent weakness in some of her muscles.”

  “So there is a cure for this?” It was hard to believe. I’d begun to think of tremetol like strychnine—a one-way pass to certain death.

  “Yes, it’s pretty straightforward. We need to counteract the acid in the patient’s blood using an IV solution until the body has flushed the toxin enough to rebalance itself. Unfortunately, the toxin works fast. The CDC says it can kill within twenty-four hours. If patients don’t know to seek treatment—”

  Or won’t. Like the Amish.

  “Have you seen any other cases at this hospital?” I asked. “Amber had to have gotten the milk that made her sick from a local farmer.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’ve been on since eleven, and I checked with the nurses. We haven’t had any cases in the past twenty-four hours at least. Or if we did, we didn’t know what we were looking at. That’s what scares me, Detective Harris. Because it would be easy to diagnose this as flu if a GP didn’t do the blood work. Sending a patient home with the advice to rest is the worst thing they could do.”

  “I understand.” By now, sleep had fled and I was already organizing in my mind. I had to speak to Glen Turner and Grady. They needed to make some kind of public statement and soon. And it was bad news that no other patients had appeared at Lancaster General. Someone else local had to have gotten sick from the milk Amber was selling, if only the farmer’s own family. If they weren’t coming into the hospital, they could die.

  “Well, I’ll send out an e-mail to all our doctors and staff so we can be looking out for it,” Dr. Ambati said.

  “Thank you. As soon as I get a chance to speak with the CDC liaison, I’ll let him know what you said. Would it be possible to see Amber now?”

  “You may. Though I’m not sure when she’ll wake up, or how cognizant she’ll be when she does.”

  I looked at my watch. “I’ve got nothing better to do until at least six A.M.”

  “Very well. This way.”

  —

  I dozed off again in the chair next to Amber’s bed. A crick in my neck woke me. The light of sunrise was just appearing outside the window. I looked at the figure in the hospital bed. In the dim light of the room, Amber’s eyes were open. They were a deep brown, and they glistened with tears.

  “Hey.” I leaned closer. “Do you need me to call a nurse?”

  “Where am I?” Amber whispered.

  “Lancaster General. You’ve been very sick. We found you in your apartment and called an ambulance to bring y
ou here.”

  Amber snuffled a breath, as if she would normally get upset about that but she was just too damn tired. She started to close her eyes.

  “Amber. I’m Detective Harris with the Lancaster Police. It’s very important that I speak to you.”

  Amber’s eyes opened again, but they were hazy and unfocused. “Me?”

  “Yes. You got sick from raw milk. And so did a number of people in Philadelphia who bought milk from you at Tuesday’s farmers’ market.” And some of them died. I didn’t think that would be helpful information at the moment.

  Amber’s eyes widened. “No. That’s not possible.” There was disbelief in those eyes, and pain. In Grady’s rundown he’d mentioned that Amber was twenty-nine, only three years younger than I was myself. But right now she looked childlike and completely adrift.

  It might not be protocol, but I took Amber’s hand anyway. It felt clammy and limp, completely lacking in strength. “I’m afraid it is. It’s very important that you tell me where you got the raw milk you sold on Tuesday. Others may get sick if we don’t find the source.”

  Amber swallowed. Her eyes searched the bedside table. There was a glass and a small pitcher of water there, so I poured some and helped Amber lift her head and shoulders off the bed and take a sip. Even that much effort exhausted her, and I laid her back down when her strength gave out. There was a miasma of heat and stale sweat and something bitter coming off her. God, she was sick. No one should be this ill, not from eating or drinking something they thought was good for them.

  Amber muttered something.

  “What?”

  “Is it . . . E. coli?”

  “No. It’s not E. coli. It was caused by a plant the cows ate, and the toxin was passed on in the milk. Please, Amber. I really need those names.”

  “So tired.” Amber blinked her eyes open, hard. “Got milk at three farms Tuesday. Levi Fisher, Willow Run Farm, Bird-in-Hand. Amos Bender on Driskell in Paradise. Jacob Keim, Soudersburg Road.”

  Oh, thank God. I drew a notepad from my pocket and quickly wrote the information down. I needed to get this to Glen immediately.