The Burning Road

by Ann Benson

  No. He would wait, and he would try to gather intelligence before deciding what to do.

  If he opened the framed glass window and stuck his head out, he could just barely see the river. Across it lay the relative safety of the Rue des Rosiers, in the Marais. Was Kate there now, waiting in vain for him to see her? If so, there was only himself to blame. He had been curious about a strange new word whose meaning, when finally discovered, seemed insignificant compared to the woe it had caused him. Woe be to anyone … he recalled from the manuscript with a shudder. This Abraham, it seemed, was something of a prophet.

  God curse my curiosity, he thought dismally, for it is eternally my undoing. Had he not been curious about why Carlos Alderón had died, he would not have dissected his body, an act that ultimately brought about his forced flight from Spain. Had he not curiously inquired about a medical practice in Avignon, he would not have been conscripted by de Chauliac, then the agent of the clever and manipulative Pope Clement VI, to go to England as the protector of the royal family’s health. And once there, had he not sought a greater understanding of an English midwife’s claim of a cure for plague, he would not have had to escape to France.

  But then Kate would not have survived it. Nor would I.

  And in view of that conclusion, his woes seemed a worthwhile trade. He sat down on a small chair and tried to compose his thoughts, and in that state of relative stillness the odors of what he had been dragged through revealed themselves. There was a pitcher of water on a small table, and a cloth beside it. He followed de Chauliac’s bidding and cleaned himself, then put on the fresh clothing he had been given, his mind retracing all the while the events of the day, especially their final exchange of words. And despite his unhappiness, he realized with an unexpected but welcome start of pleasure that for the first time in many days his speech had been directed at someone other than himself; earlier the priests, then the students, and finally his erstwhile teacher. Now he found that something de Chauliac had said was stuck in his mind like a sinew of beef between two teeth. No matter how he poked and prodded, it would not go away. Something about tiny beasts in the air? It nagged at him, and he knew that he would have to pry it out for further examination.

  For despite the difficulty of his situation, he was once again curious.

  10

  Camp Meir, Janie entered into the search engine. She was curious, and she thought the search might lead someplace where a few answers might be lurking.

  The first hit was an on-line brochure advertising the place to the families of prospective campers. She went through each page carefully, visiting all the links, backpaging when needed. There were beautiful pictures of idyllic grounds, and photos of the insides of the cabins that she was sure were exaggerated in their cleanliness, for there were no cobwebs or horseflies, and no wet towels left on unmade bunks. Parents would like these pristine photos, but their kids would know better. There were detailed menus of the meals the camp served, followed by glowing resumes of the directors and supervisory staff. Wholesome-looking counselors in matching Israel-blue T-shirts and khaki shorts smiled out from a group shot in which they all had their arms linked together. And there were toothy photos of healthy-looking young boys with clean faces and golden tans, not a torn shirt among them. Happy campers, all.

  In the second Internet site, Camp Meir was high on an alphabetical list of summer camps where Hebrew was taught, and was linked back to the site she’d just visited. The third site was simply a directory of New York State summer camps, so she whizzed through it.

  But the last was far more interesting—it was the personal home page of a fourteen-year-old boy who had, among other activities he’d once enjoyed, attended Camp Meir. He wanted to hear from other camp alums. On the home page of the site was a photograph of the boy, smiling from his wheelchair.

  She bookmarked it, then printed it and stuck it in her purse.

  Mrs. Prives was still sitting at her son’s bedside, wearing the same tired-looking outfit Janie had seen on her each time she’d visited the room. She wondered if the poor woman had left the bedside for more than a bathroom visit, or if she had anyone—friend, family, neighbor—who could bring her some fresh clothing from home. If not, Janie decided, she would volunteer herself to make a clothes run.

  She was about to greet Mrs. Prives and voice the offer when the woman turned and faced her, and Janie was surprised by the dramatic, almost striking change in the look on her face. “There’s been an improvement in his condition,” the mother said excitedly. “He’s been waking up off and on.” Her smile was almost pathetically hopeful.

  Janie waited for a few seconds before saying anything. A change in consciousness, while a positive sign, didn’t necessarily mean much in terms of a spinal injury. But she held back that damning pronouncement and tried to make her own smile seem sincere. “That’s wonderful,” she said quietly. She went back to the door and looked out into the hallway—there was no one in sight, so she closed the door. Then she returned to Abraham’s bedside and gave the mother a permission-seeking glance. The mother nodded almost eagerly.

  She did a quick examination of the boy, searching for even the smallest indication that his condition truly had improved. But he was essentially the same, as far as she could tell from the cursory once-over. Then she scraped a few skin cells from one of his arms and dropped the swab into a plastic bag, which she sealed carefully. She eyed the computerized file attached to the foot of his bed with aching frustration, because her ID chip was not among those that would open its viewer. Even if Mrs. Prives gave permission for her to look at it, her lack of official status would make it nearly impossible to convince hospital administrators that she was worthy of a peek. And Chet would be of no help. He would thwart her, if anything.

  But she let it go, because in truth Janie doubted that the electronic file would show much of anything beyond what she already knew. And she didn’t have the heart to tell this hopeful mother that achieving consciousness was not going to be Abraham’s most difficult challenge. Not only is he paralyzed, she thought, but if he’s conscious, he’ll be aware of it too. Still, it was an obvious joy to his mother, who surely deserved to have her weighty vigil lightened, if only for a brief time.

  So Janie kept her thoughts to herself and turned to another matter. “That camp Abraham went to, where he had the injection for that beaver thing—I’d like to look into that a little further, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Why?”

  “From what you’ve told me I think he might have been exposed to something called Giardia. It’s an organism that can cause disease, and it’s spread by contact with any water source the spores live in. The symptoms can sometimes be hard to detect,” she lied, “but there can be”—she glanced suggestively toward Abraham—“aftereffects. Years later, sometimes.”

  Mrs. Prives’s smile faded. “Oh, dear, I had no idea … no one said anything at the time.”

  “Well, it’s not widely known, and to tell you the truth we weren’t paying a lot of mind to things like Giardia during the worst of the Outbreaks. DR SAM had our complete attention. But I wondered if you might have kept any records from that time.”

  “I didn’t keep anything. Last time we moved I threw out everything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.” She made a thin smile. “You get tired of carting it all around after a while, and after the Outbreaks, well, all those papers seemed sort of unimportant, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” Janie said with a nod.

  “But I don’t remember seeing anything like that when I did the last purge.”

  “Would you mind if I contacted the camp and asked for Abraham’s records?”

  “No. Not at all.” For a moment, Mrs. Prives paused, her expression both pensive and troubled. Then she looked directly into Janie’s eyes. “You don’t suppose …” She couldn’t seem to finish the question.

  That his stay at that camp might have had something to do with his current situation? You betcha. I ju
st don’t know what yet. But again, she lied. “I doubt it. And I don’t want to speculate. Though I do think it’s worth looking into. I’ll need a letter of authorization.” She reached into her bag and took out a piece of paper and a pen. “I brought one with me, on the off-chance that—”

  Mrs. Prives grabbed the letter and pen and scrawled her signature at the bottom of the letter without even reading it. “Anything you think will help.” She handed the letter back, a bitter look on her face. “Have you heard anything yet … about the funding?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I’m still on it, though. And I’ll keep on it until I run out of options. We’re not even close to that point yet.”

  “Good. I want to thank you for your perseverance.”

  “Let’s just hope it pays off.” She paused briefly. “So what have they told you here, about Abraham’s waking up?”

  “They haven’t told me anything.”

  Janie gave her a look that said Then how—

  “Dr. Crowe. I’m his mother. A mother knows her child.”

  Janie couldn’t disagree.

  She was brittle from lack of sleep and confused by the night’s events, and she should have just gone home for lunch and stayed home for a nap so that when she woke up again, her mind would actually be working and she could make some sense out of the crazy maelstrom that suddenly seemed to be swirling all around her.

  Please, let me just go to sleep, and when I open my eyes again, let it be Christmas, with all these problems solved. An unwanted Christmas melody drifted through her brain, with unfamiliar words—

  It’s beginning to feel a lot like London.…

  Her stomach started to knot. Oh, please, no. Not London. Let it feel like anything but London.…

  … with its compudocs and biocops and smiling friendly people who would turn you in for sneezing without a hankie, but only after an impeccably polite offer of tea. It had seemed so genteel when she’d first arrived, so civilized and orderly, but by the time she escaped, she was clicking her heels and screaming, There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.…

  But today even the notion of home didn’t hold its customary appeal, for reasons Janie didn’t have to think about. She did what her sleep-deprived mind told her to do, and walked to a nearby diner for a caffeine hit and maybe a bite of lunch.

  On an ordinary day she would seat herself at the most hidden corner table she could find, flip open her laptop in front of her, and proceed to digest both her sandwich and the local Net news at the same time. She would skip from international news to national news to science news to sports news, and then if she had time, she’d guiltily survey the People magazine site. It was a predictable, familiar daily routine, disrupted by her sudden and painful lack of hardware.

  And every time John Sandhaus had ranted about computers having too much power and predicted the eventual rise of the technochallenged, declaring them in advance the new Bolsheviks, every time he’d hurled something at his own computer and prayed for the overthrow of the big databases that seemed suddenly to know everything about everyone, Janie would shake a finger in his face and say, Bite your tongue, neanderthal. How would we live without computers?

  Here she was, answering her own question with the purchase of a newspaper.

  But the sad fact was that the “newspaper” machine was nothing more than an Internet terminal with printing capabilities, and one that allowed her to pay with her ID sensor, at that. She flattened her hand against the credit receptor on the machine and pressed a button, then stood back and watched while it inscribed, on regulation newsprint, a copy of the local gazette that had been updated within the hour. She knew that some of the newer machines even folded them.

  But not this one. She folded the paper herself, enjoying the comfortable, familiar crinkly sounds the newsprint made as she forced it into obedience. With the still-warm paper tucked under one arm, she picked up a sandwich and coffee from the deli counter and wove her way through the landscape of tables until she found one that was suitably remote. She sat down stiffly, feeling suddenly old and tired.

  Then she put the paper down on the table so the top half showed and read the boldface headline:

  HEALTH OFFICIALS FEAR NEW OUTBREAK

  It took her breath away. This was the second such report she’d seen in as many days. But DR SAM had been so much a part of their lives that it was seldom deemed newsworthy. It was reported in the mainstream press only when it hit hard and fast.

  She set down her coffee cup. So this must be serious.

  “Administrators of the town’s only elementary school were forced to close the building until further notice.…”

  Oh, no, not children, please not any more children.

  It was a thousand miles away. But the victim Caroline had told her about lived no more than twenty miles away. Outbreak miles could be very, very short, depending on how the carrier traveled.

  There must be some good news in this thing, she thought unhappily. She turned the paper over and read the next offering.

  POPULAR ASSISTANT COACH DIES IN BICYCLE MISHAP

  And the subheadline, just below it:

  Unexplained accident prompts call for investigation from university officials.

  There was a photograph. It might have been two or three years old; there was no goatee and the hair was longer. But it was unquestionably the man Caroline had enticed into leaving his computer terminal a few nights before.

  The adrenaline surge was almost overpowering. Though Janie’s stomach was long empty of the breakfast Tom had made her eat earlier, it seemed suddenly to want to toss back out the very memory of that meal. Nausea flooded through her, and a veneer of cold clammy sweat appeared on her skin. The newspaper slipped from her hands and fluttered noisily to the floor.

  People all around her stared momentarily, and she met their prying eyes with an almost menacing look that said Not your business. When she felt unwatched again, she closed her eyes and pressed one hand against her forehead. She forced herself to pick up the paper and read the accompanying article, though she was terrified of what the text might reveal.

  … an experienced cyclist with a perfect safety record … on his way home from work on the bicycle path … his usual route … deserted stretch … no obvious cause for going into the ditch … helmet saved him from head injury, but his neck was broken, and he apparently died instantly.

  She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She spoke the name Caroline, unsure of whether it would recognize her trembling voice, but it did. She picked up after two rings.

  “We have to tell Michael,” Caroline said on hearing the news.

  “I know,” Janie said. She dreaded his reaction.

  She wouldn’t come to the station, but insisted on meeting him in the square, where no one else could hear them.

  “Dear God,” he said when he read the story. “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand? The man is dead, all of a sudden. And we were with him just a few days ago.”

  “It could be nothing more than a crazy coincidence,” Michael said as he tried, with little success, to refold the paper.

  “Michael, please. You’re a cop. You know this sort of stuff never turns out to be a coincidence. My house gets broken into and they take nothing but my computer. Which just happens to have some interesting, stolen data on it. Then this guy, who happens to have had a part in the acquisition of those data—”

  “He wasn’t aware of that, so he couldn’t possibly have told anyone—”

  “He didn’t have to. The sign-on ID on the terminal at the computer bar was his. I mean, I was concerned about someone thinking it was him if the entry got discovered, but I was worried about an official investigation. It never occurred to me to think that something like this might happen … and we were so careful to set it up so he couldn’t even be charged. All I wanted to do was get these data, and now … oh, God.”

  “Janie, there’s nothing terribly odd about a
bicycle accident, people die in them all the time, and a broken neck is often the cause.”

  “Michael, why are you here?” Janie said abruptly.

  He seemed confused by her question. “Because you called me. You asked me to meet you.”

  “No. I mean why are you here in this country?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’ll tell you what—you’re here because when people were suddenly dying of plague in London, and Caroline’s DNA showed up under the fingernails of one of the victims, you didn’t buy it as just a coincidence.”

  He stared at her for a moment.

  “Because like most people with half a brain, you believe that true coincidence is a very rare thing. But I haven’t even told you everything yet. This morning I had a bizarre e-mail message, with no return address. It was the second one I’ve had from someone by the same nickname—Wargirl. The first one was just a ‘Hi, who are you’ e-mail, and I thought it was a random transmission, or maybe a kid playing with the computer buttons. But this one said ‘Do not be afraid.’ ” She paused for a moment. “It came at a time when I was afraid, apparently with good reason. I don’t think it was a fluke.”

  Michael didn’t openly agree with her hypothesis, but he had no reasonable counterargument with which to refute it, either. “I can look into the investigation and see what the inside word is. It’s not always the same as what you read in the paper.”

  She gave him a cynical look. “No. You’re kidding. You’ve completely shattered my faith in the news media.”