Tainted

by Ross Pennie

He opened the fridge, reached into the back where he always kept a bottle of bubbly, and poured out two flutes before either of them said another word. He lifted his glass. “To all the wonderful scents in the world.”

  Colleen leaned in close and clinked her glass against his. “And to oil of bergamot,” she said.

  Her delicious scent rose from her skin and caressed his nose. “And jasmine,” he said, inhaling from behind his glass. “But only just a hint.”

  Colleen cocked her head just like Max did when he was puzzled. She sniffed her champagne and paused without taking a sip. “Green apples on warm toast,” she said. “Lovely.”

  Yes you are, he said silently.

  When they’d finished their supper, Zol brought out his notepad. He’d rather have taken Colleen on a tour of his house, showing her the restorations. But he knew that if he flirted any longer she’d think he was an ass. Retreating to emotionally safer ground, he said, “I’d like to hear about your visit with that girl’s parents.”

  “The Latkovics.” Colleen took a sip of water, then set her glass on the table. “It’s all very sad. I can give you the exec-sum before the others arrive.”

  “The what?”

  “The executive summary. The short version.”

  “You PIs are as bad with your lingo as doctors.” He smiled and flipped his pad to a blank page. “I’m all ears.”

  “They live in a tiny bungalow in that older neighbourhood off Upper Wentworth. The houses all look the same except for how they’ve been painted and had new porches added.”

  Zol had learned about the so-called victory houses in school. They’d been put up by the hundreds across Canada in the forties and fifties to house returning veterans and their families. “Modest folk in that part of town.”

  “The Latkovics seem the salt of the earth,” Colleen continued. “In their late fifties, I’d say. He works for the steel company, she’s in the hospital laundry.”

  “At Caledonian?”

  She nodded, and her earrings glinted in the candlelight. “They’re Yugoslavian. Crosses on the walls and no Cyrillic script anywhere, so I’d say they were Croatian. It was a bit of a strain to understand their accents. They both sobbed quite a bit, which made deciphering their words quite a challenge. But I don’t think I missed anything important.”

  “How forthcoming were they?”

  “Very. I think they’d do anything to discover why their daughter lost her mind.”

  “Is that how they put it? She lost her mind?”

  “Sums it up, doesn’t it?”

  Colleen summarized Tonya’s life in a few sentences — born in Canada twenty-seven years ago, high-school mathematics teacher and basketball coach, good general health, never travelled anywhere except to Mexico on holiday and to New York and Pennsylvania for basketball competitions. “And you know,” she said, lifting the last few bits of lettuce from her plate, “Tonya was a strict vegetarian — since she turned fifteen. Her parents were emphatic about that, and I gather not too pleased.”

  “Hmm . . . That makes two of them who didn’t eat meat — Tonya and Danesh. Complicates things a bit.”

  “How so?”

  “Those prions must be well and truly hidden — somewhere we might never think of looking. Not in any of your regular steaks, chops, or bologna.”

  “We shall just have to work by the PI’s motto.”

  “Which is?”

  “Keep your eyes peeled and your mind open to any possibility, no matter how extraordinary, how shocking, how contemptible.”

  Colleen put down her fork. “Tonya’s migraine headaches were rather a plague. She’d had them since childhood. Her father complained about the cost of the injections she was taking for them. Her drug plan didn’t cover them. Do you know what they would be?”

  “Sumatriptan, I would guess. Costs about twenty dollars a shot and sometimes it takes a couple to settle one bout of migraine. Drug plans limit the number of injections they’ll pay for.”

  “I don’t get headaches, but I gather certain foods and wines can bring them on.”

  “Yeah. And chocolate,” he said. Francine used to get migraines from chocolate, but she’d eat it anyway. Then she’d spend two days in a darkened bedroom expecting Zol’s mother to drive an hour back and forth from Brantford and coddle her like an injured princess.

  “I thought chocolate was bad for migraines,” said Colleen. “That’s why I found it extraordinary when I saw an opened box of chocolates on the desk in her bedroom.”

  “It was still there, a month after her death?”

  “Believe me, her room is like a shrine. They’ve touched nothing. The rest of the house is spotless, but that bedroom hasn’t even been dusted.”

  “I guess you didn’t sneak a chocolate.”

  “Of course not.”

  “It wouldn’t do to eat the evidence.”

  Colleen threw back her head and laughed. Her coppery-blonde ponytail swayed with a natural beauty. “Besides,” she said, “I don’t like creamy centres.”

  “They weren’t those Swiss ones they sell at Four Corners, were they?”

  “Swiss? I didn’t notice. And there was nothing on the box to say where they’d been purchased. But wait a sec.” She opened her scribbler and scanned her handwritten notes. “I did write down the name of them: Lorreaux Chocolate Fruit Explosions. The logo is the cutest little bird with black wings, a yellow breast, and —”

  “A long curved beak.”

  He felt sick.

  “Zol, you’re as white as a salt pan.” She held out her glass to him. “Here, have some water.”

  He took three gulps and gave his head a shake.

  “What’s wrong?” Colleen asked.

  “Max eats those chocolates every week. He loves the little bird, the honeycreeper, on the box.”

  “You get them at Four Corners?

  “Yeah, our Saturday ritual.”

  “I see.” Colleen patted his forearm with her hand then rested it there. She looked serious for a moment, then her face lightened. “But really, I don’t think there’s a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pressed the warmth of her palm into his forearm. “Six degrees of separation.”

  “What?”

  “Hamilton’s not a huge city.”

  “And?” he said.

  “We all must be connected. At least to some extent. As it turns out, I shop at the same Polish deli as Tonya’s mother.”

  He gulped another mouthful of water. “But we’ve linked two of our cases — Hugh McEwen and Tonya Latkovic — to those very chocolates.”

  Colleen leaned forward and held his gaze with hers. “Tell me — can you actually get CJD from eating chocolates?”

  “Well, maybe. In theory, anyway — if they’re made with gelatin produced from the bones of infected cows.”

  Colleen released his arm and sat back in her chair. “Well, let’s not panic,” she said. “The others will be here shortly, and we shall soon see how far this connection goes.” She folded her serviette and placed it on the table. Her eyes crinkled as she flashed a nurturing smile. “I’m guessing that this time Monday you’ll be laughing at the notion of chocolate CJD.”

  CHAPTER 13

  At seven forty-five, Zol asked the assembled threesome — Colleen, Hamish, and Natasha — to bring their notes and join him at the table in the sunroom. Through the open shutters overlooking the Escarpment, the black expanse of Lake Ontario held its mirror skyward. Ever punctual, Venus was casting her eye over the orange plumes shooting from Hamilton’s lakeside steel mills. Mars would come later to guard the sweaty backs of the midnight shift as they stoked the flames of prosperity.

  While the men in the mills roasted beside their molten furnaces, the souls around Zol’s table smouldered with their own private irritations. Hamish, still frustrated that an early summons to the ICU had prevented him from running any mitochondrial experiments in his laboratory, rubbed his hand across the bristles of hi
s flat-top. A clump of freckles at his wrist caught his eye, and he smiled at the remembered warmth of Kenyon’s palm.

  Natasha’s anger at having to break her dinner date with Bjorn had cooled to disappointment. It could be worse — she could be at her parents’ bored to cinders by the anxious patter of a pharmaceutical salesman with too much gel in his hair. Besides, her date wasn’t broken, just postponed until the club scene started hopping.

  Serene composure may have been Colleen’s hallmark, but she was struggling to maintain it. She felt as though she were on probation — every time she opened her mouth, Hamish replied with a little edifying lecture. And since Liam’s death five years ago, she’d never been attracted to a man with the strength of what she was feeling for Zol. It frightened her that it was happening so quickly. A man with a son posed a bundle of complications she didn’t need, but she felt drawn to Zol, complications and all. And she hadn’t even seen Max yet, just peeked into his bedroom. If he were anything like his father, she knew he would be a sweetie.

  Zol, of course, was steamed on several fronts. His tensions flared as his mind wandered to thoughts of Max, the chocolates, and Trinnock’s ridiculous deadline. He pulled the one-dollar coin from his pocket and weaved it through his fingers with a practised hand. The fluid tango of coin and fingers slowed his pulse.

  After the others had settled, Zol pocketed the loonie and asked that they start with thumbnail sketches of the seven victims. He nodded toward Natasha in deference to her talents as an epidemiologist, and suggested they build the foundation of their investigation — the epidemic curve — by presenting the cases in chronological order.

  He led off with Delia Smart, stage actress, age fifty-eight. She had first shown signs of forgetfulness a year ago. Eleven months later she slipped into a coma and died at home, shrivelled almost to nothing.

  Natasha followed with the case of Joanna Vanderven, socialite and former model, age forty-three. She began forgetting things in March and died unexpectedly in June — a disturbance of the heartbeat.

  Then Natasha recited the case of Danesh Patel, car salesman and former mechanical engineer, age forty-nine. His memory problems started in April. At the end of June he walked into high-speed traffic and died instantly.

  Hamish raised his hand and related the story of Owen Renway, accountant and tax collector, age forty-two. He became forgetful in May, stopped going to work in July, and choked to death on a steak dinner in October.

  Colleen gave the details of Tonya Latkovic’s death. The twenty-seven-year-old math teacher became tearful, restless, and moody a few weeks before the end of the school year. She wandered off on Halloween night without putting on her winter coat. Her body was found the next day at the bottom of the Escarpment. She had bled to death from a fractured femur.

  Hamish continued with the case of Hugh McEwen, the dentist, age thirty-four. In June, he started becoming tearful, his behaviour erratic. In September, he committed suicide by taking an overdose of morphine and nitrous oxide.

  Natasha wrapped things up with the case of Rita Spinelli, age thirty-eight. She owned a popular dress shop and was well-known for her vivacious personality. In mid-summer, she lost interest in her business and was easily provoked to anger and tears. Like Danesh Patel, she wandered onto a highway. Only three months separated the onset of her symptoms and her death.

  The collective weight of the cases descended on the group. No one spoke. Zol fingered the loonie in his pocket. His stomach tightened as he pictured Max in the darkness of the cinema. Hamish gazed through the window. Colleen folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes, pondering the fiery crash that had consumed her Liam.

  The only sound at the table was the scratch of Natasha’s pencil completing a graph on her notepad. She held it for the others to see. She’d drawn seven stars to mark the dates the victims first showed symptoms. One star sat in November, March, April, and May; there were two in June and a final one in July. Moons marked the timing of the deaths. There were two in June, one in September, and four crowded October.

  “Thanks, Natasha,” Zol said, impressed with the clarity of her impromptu graph. “It’s pretty clear we’re dealing with a cluster.”

  “You mean an epidemic,” Hamish said, the strength of his voice an unexpected presence at the table. “We might as well call it what it is.”

  “I hate that word,” said Zol. “It stirs everyone up.”

  Natasha’s head bobbed in agreement. “And then we have to un-stir them.”

  “But you’re right,” Zol said. “It is an epidemic, with a new case every month since March.”

  “And we might as well face it,” said Hamish, pointing his finger toward the window. “There must be cases out there we don’t know about. I’m sure it won’t be long before another turns up on Banbury’s table.”

  Natasha gasped. “More cases?”

  Hamish shrugged. “Bound to be.”

  “We’d better get busy,” Zol said. He looked at Natasha. “You’ve brought your laptop?”

  She reached for the briefcase on the floor beside her chair, lifted out the computer, and placed it on the table. “I’ve got a template database ready to go.”

  While the computer warmed up, Zol looked around the table. Hamish’s untouched water glass caught his eye. “By the way, Hamish,” he said, “what’s happened to your voice? It’s so clear.”

  Hamish’s cheeks glowed. “Green tea.” He stroked his neck and looked at his glass, clearly uncomfortable at his voice being the focus of attention. “Ken — Kenyon Cheung — served me some when I was at his place today. It started working right away.”

  “Really?” Zol replied. “You should market it.”

  “Well, I did buy —” His voice cracked and faded. He forced a cough before an embarrassed smile hit his face. “I did buy some.”

  Zol heard sounds of scurrying at the front door. Two sets of winter boots clacked against the slate floor, and muffled voices murmured from beyond the kitchen. A moment later, Max burst into the sunroom leaving a wake of discarded mitts, toque, scarf, and parka. He threw his arms around Zol’s neck, squeezed hard, and blurted at the top of his voice, “Any brownies left?”

  Zol laughed, then sniffed at Max’s sweatshirt in imitation of a bloodhound. “Hey, you smell like a popcorn factory. Did you even watch the movie?”

  Max pulled a face but his eyes still danced with glee. “Daddy. Of course we saw the movie.”

  “How was it?” Zol asked him.

  Max released Zol’s neck. “Awesome.” He surveyed the table as though looking for brownie crumbs. He was in luck. The entire batch — less the two he’d already eaten — was still on a plate in the kitchen.

  “Did they find Nemo?” Natasha asked.

  Max danced on one foot and then the other, fidgeting. “Yep.” He turned toward Cory, who’d crept into the room and was purring at his feet.

  Zol grasped his son by the shoulder. “Max — I want you to meet our guests. You know Dr. Hamish. And Natasha from the office. And this is Mrs. Woolton.”

  Zol watched Colleen’s face as she extended her hand. She gave Max the same nurturing smile Zol had found so appealing that first day in her office. “Please, call me Colleen,” she said in a voice that was soft but not patronizing.

  Max held his tongue between his teeth and stared at Colleen’s long, golden braid. “Um . . . hello,” he said, shaking her hand. His eyes swept the table a final time, then he leaned down, scooped up the cat, and skipped out of the room with Cory in his arms.

  Zol followed him to the front hall, said goodbye and thanks to Ermalinda, and locked the door behind her. When he returned to the sunroom, Natasha, Colleen, and Hamish sat huddled around the computer. Like wide-eyed youngsters at a Ouija board, they were peering at the screen and pointing in a dozen directions.

  “Looks like there’s lots to keep you guys busy,” Zol said. “I’ll leave you to it while I get Max settled.”

  Three hands waved in cursory acknowledgement,
but no eyes lifted from the screen. Natasha’s fingernails clicked against the keyboard. As Zol strolled from the room he wondered whether anyone else saw the irony — a small team of brains racing to find that spot in the universe where deadly prions had ambushed seven other brains, and maybe countless more.

  “How’s it going?” Zol asked when he returned to the sunroom half an hour later. He’d let Max have one more brownie, helped him brush his teeth, read him a bedtime story, then tucked him under his Star Pirates duvet and handed him two CDs in place of a second story. Max made a face, but quickly lost himself in music that only a seven-year-old could enjoy a thousand times over.

  “Max is a sweetie,” Colleen said. “And he’s settled already?”

  “Hope so,” said Zol, aching with pride. His heart swelled whenever adults took to Max, but with Colleen the stakes had risen higher. He craved her approval of his son, her acceptance of Max’s crooked arm, her affirmation that Zol was a good dad.

  “Natasha’s database program is extraordinary,” Colleen continued. “You can put all kinds of things in and it organizes them. Instantly.”

  Zol leaned over the table and breathed in the lingering citrus of Colleen’s scent. “Coffee will be ready soon. Find a hot spot yet?”

  “Nothing striking,” said Hamish.

  “We haven’t really looked,” Natasha said. “We’ve only just finished inputting the data.”

  Colleen threw back her shoulders and stretched her arms. “Coffee would be great. Thanks.”

  “Do you want to see what we’ve got so far?” Natasha asked.

  “Sure,” Zol said. “Let’s plug the laptop into the TV.” He retrieved a cable from a shelf below the television and handed one end to Natasha. “This works with mine. It should work with yours.”

  At the press of a button on Zol’s remote, the image of the database bounced from the laptop to the wide-screen TV. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, pointing to the wicker armchairs and loveseat.

  Hamish moved to the loveseat. Colleen took one of the chairs, Zol the other.

  “We’ve organized the data into tables,” Natasha said from her place at the computer. “This might be a good time to read them. Some connections might pop out at us.”