Tainted

by Ross Pennie

  RDIS listed thirty-two cases of aseptic meningitis in the year her mother got sick: one in July, two in August, none in September, twelve in October, thirteen in November, four in December. RDIS gave no identifying data for any of them and no indication of the exact cause of their meningitis, just that the infection was viral rather than bacterial. RDIS revealed the age, city of residence, and date of symptom onset for each case. And no other information.

  She studied the screen. Of the thirty-two cases in that year, twenty-nine occurred between October and December, about the time Rita Spinelli and Natasha’s mother got sick; twenty-one were adults, and all lived in Hamilton or its suburbs. It seemed a fair-sized cluster, which should have provoked alarm at the time. But it hadn’t; no one had ever said that her mother was part of a large outbreak. That’s the way it went: some outbreaks didn’t spark the public’s interest, others caused a furor — like the flesh-eating disease at Shalom Acres.

  From the top drawer of her desk, Natasha retrieved the keys to the filing cabinets in the library down the hall. The crucial details of every case of any illness reported to the health unit were locked away in there. Names, addresses, clinical summaries, detailed laboratory findings.

  She jangled the keys as she mulled the significance of the twenty-nine cases of viral meningitis. To make it into the database, all those people must have had laboratory findings conclusive, or at least highly suggestive, of viral meningitis. But the disease was often not severe enough to warrant either a spinal tap or the special cultures needed to detect viruses in body fluids. Many people had fever and headache for a week or so without any doctor sending them to a hospital for tests. Dr. Zol had once told her that during an outbreak there were at least five times as many unproven, unreported meningitis cases as patients with laboratory confirmations. Twenty-nine reported cases would have been just the tip of the epidemic.

  She strode down the hall to the library and unlocked the filing cabinet. She scanned the headings on the drawers: Bacterial meningitis, Chlamydia, Food poisoning, Influenza, Norwalk virus, Salmonella, Tuberculosis . . . Viral meningitis. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat as her fingers fished out the very last file from the back of the bottom drawer. She tucked the folder under her arm, locked the cabinet, and dashed back to her office.

  She riffled the thirty-two pages in the file for the year her mother got sick, ready to spot familiar names. At the sight of the name on the fifth sheet in the pile, she froze. Suneeta Sharma. She covered the page with both hands, embarrassed to read her mother’s personal details. She looked away, then swallowed hard and lifted her hands. The paper revealed nothing unexpected or embarrassing. Her mother had presented with fever, stiff neck, and severe headache; her spinal fluid had grown Coxsackie virus B5. Natasha squeezed her opal pendant and continued flipping through the pile of pages.

  Her stomach tightened each time she spotted a familiar name. When she finished, she closed her eyes and mouthed a silent thank you that Max Szabo was not among them. She’d found five familiar names besides her mother’s, all with Coxsackie virus B5 in their spinal fluid: Owen Renway, Rita Spinelli, Tonya Latkovic, Danesh Patel, and Kitty Ballyk, the host of Good Morning Hamilton. Could Kitty Ballyk be the TV celebrity her cousin was talking about, the VIP recently hospitalized at Caledonian with possible CJD?

  She pondered. This was an epidemic, all right. Her mother, four CJD victims, Kitty Ballyk, and fourteen of the others diagnosed with viral meningitis were infected with Coxsackie virus B5 in October, November, and December of the same year. Natasha thought about the three remaining CJD victims: Dr. McEwen, Delia Smart, and Joanna Vanderven. Had they had clinical meningitis but never been diagnosed? Or had they been investigated in another jurisdiction and their culture reports never sent to Hamilton? Delia Smart had lived half the year in Stratford. Joanna Vanderven travelled almost constantly.

  The public health laboratory, located in Toronto, performed the final identification of every Coxsackie virus isolated from anywhere in Ontario. Toronto would have the names of every Ontario resident from whom Coxsackie B5 had been cultured, no matter what hospital they’d visited. The Toronto lab wouldn’t share that information with someone as low in the hierarchy as Natasha, but she was certain they would send it if Dr. Zol or Dr. Trinnock asked for it.

  Her ears burned as she thought of Dr. Zol inspecting the Krooner farm, giving that whacko butcher what-for without her. Perhaps she could convince Dr. Trinnock to make a formal request for the information she needed. All he had to do was sign a form. Those piggy eyes of his gave her the creeps, and as far as she could tell he barely knew who she was. But he might do as she wanted, as long as she didn’t mention Extendo-Tox.

  CHAPTER 32

  Lanny Krooner glowered beside the front door of his sausage kitchen, his feet planted wide, his gun cradled in his arms. As his thumb scratched at an itch on his chest, his eyes darted around the room as if he were weighing the methods of eliminating his inconvenient prey. Finally, he pointed the shotgun at Colleen and called across the room, “Little lady, stand up.” He gestured toward a cupboard above the counter. “There’s a roll of duct tape in there. Get it out.”

  Colleen stood and turned. Slowly. When her back faced Krooner, she looked calmly into Zol’s eyes and mouthed, “Not to worry. We’ll be okay.”

  As she lifted the roll from the cupboard, Zol noticed the checkerboard of light spilling through the window above the counter. Iron bars on a farm kitchen window? What else was Krooner up to in this place?

  “Tape his hands together,” Krooner shouted.

  Colleen bound Zol’s wrists in front of his chest, careful not to cut the circulation to his fingers.

  “What are you doing, for Chrissake?” Krooner barked. “You should o’ taped them behind his back.”

  A tiny smirk crossed her lips, but Krooner couldn’t see it.

  Krooner pawed the pockets of his jeans as if he were looking for something, then scowled. “Ah, to hell with it. Do his ankles. And make them good and tight.”

  She wrapped the tape around Zol’s ankles, leaving enough wiggle room for him to keep his balance if he got a chance to stand.

  “Now strap him to the chair.”

  When Zol’s thighs were bound to the seat of the chair, Krooner said, “Sit up straight, Doc, so she can do your chest. I don’t want you standin’ up or nothin’.”

  Krooner inspected Colleen’s handiwork, seemed satisfied, then waved his gun. “Now, little lady, you sit down. Gimme your hands.” After he’d trussed her up he pushed their chairs tight to the table.

  As Krooner headed for the door, Zol’s pulse pounded at his throat. Keeping quiet, following Krooner’s orders to the letter, had so far kept them alive — but had drawn them closer and closer to disaster. “So,” he called, desperate to at least say something, no matter how lame it sounded. “What . . . what are you going to do now?”

  “What do ya mean?”

  “Going to leave us here forever?”

  “’Til you rot?” Krooner laughed. “No. I decided you’re gonna get the same treatment as the mink. Painless and —” he chuckled “— guaranteed humane.”

  “But what about Morty?” asked Colleen.

  Krooner stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “Eh?”

  “You can’t just leave your brother on the floor in the dining room. He’s got a hole in his chest you could drive a truck through. What would your mother say?”

  “Shut up. Shut up about my mother.”

  “How did it happen, Lanny?” Colleen asked, her tone soft, motherly. “Why did you shoot him?” Colleen pressed, but gently. “Come on, Lanny, I know you’d like to come clean. Tell us why you shot your brother.”

  He leaned the gun against the door and rubbed his palms against his temples. His eyes filled with a mixture of hate and sadness. “Because he’s a big dumb asshole. And crazy as hell.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “What do you know about it?”

 
“He made you angry, didn’t he? And maybe scared.”

  “No shit.” Several moments passed while Krooner looked out the window, stared into the distance. Sweat poured from his face. “He was going to burn the money. All of it. Every goddamn penny we earned.”

  “Why would he do that?” Colleen’s tone was gentle, beseeching.

  “I told you. He went crazy. Lost his friggin’ mind.”

  “Lanny,” Colleen continued, “Morty’s a big guy. Pretty fierce by the look of him. Did he sic his dog on you?” With her hands bound together, it almost looked as though she were bestowing a blessing. “If you shot him in self-defence, that’s not murder. Not even manslaughter.”

  “Shut up.”

  She pointed at the door with her steepled fingers. “Then why don’t you take the money and run? That much cash will stretch a long way in Mexico. Or Central America. Get a head start. No one will find us for the rest of the day. You can be out of the country in a couple of hours. Take my car. Keys are in the ignition.”

  “What do you take me for, some sort of bumpkin? I might talk like a farmer, but I’ve been runnin’ a million-dollar operation here. I’m gonna take the money and run, all right, but not ’til I’ve neutralized the two o’ you.”

  Colleen raised an eyebrow at Zol, clearly exasperated at carrying the ball by herself.

  He pictured Max alone at the breakfast table, toying with his cereal. “You bastard, Krooner. What are you going to do, turn us into sausages? Sell us at I and W Meats and Four Corners?”

  Krooner lifted his gun and aimed at Zol’s chest. “I bet you shop at Four Corners all the time and don’t give a shit about their crazy prices. Ever try my sausages, Doc?”

  Zol swallowed hard and stared unblinking into Krooner’s wolflike gaze.

  Krooner stiffened. “That dame at I and W phoned me yesterday. Spoiled the damn good thing I had going. Told me she wouldn’t buy no more stuff off me.” He wiped his sweaty cheek with his shirt sleeve.

  “I’ve eaten your sausages, Mr. Krooner,” Zol said, without blinking. “Are you going to let us in on your secret ingredient?”

  Krooner kicked at a solitary pebble on the floor. The edges of his mouth curled upward, exposing his eye teeth. “There’s something about fine ranch mink and the luxury market. Rich dudes just can’t get enough of it. Inside and out.” He chuckled and looked to see if his captives got the joke. He narrowed his eyes, seemed to ponder a moment, then sneered at Zol, “Hey, now I know who you are. You’re the bastard that ratted on me. Called I and W. And ruined everything.”

  Colleen wasn’t smiling, but her face exuded motherliness. “Look, Lanny. Killing Morty must have been an accident. Why don’t you clear out your safe and get the hell out of here.”

  “I’m gonna do that, little lady, but before I go I’m gonna eutha nize you. That’s what we call it in the business. Euthanize. It means you’re gonna fall asleep. Just like the mink. Carbon di oxide. Completely odourless, as they say. You won’t smell nothing, and it won’t hurt a bit. Trouble is, you’re never gonna friggin’ wake up.” He backed out of the door, and Zol heard him turn the key in the lock.

  Zol watched through the window as Krooner’s figure retreated. He counted to five before he whispered, “Jesus, Colleen. What are we going to do?”

  “Act fast. He’s a nutcase. Been eating his own sausages, by the look of him.”

  Zol surveyed the spotless kitchen. The counters were clear, all Krooner’s machinery put away in cupboards. “This place is immaculate. But there must be plenty of knives somewhere.”

  “You’re the expert with a knife. Free our wrists and our ankles, then cut the rest of the tape just at the back, and under the seat, so he won’t notice. When he puts down his gun, we can jump him.”

  “But what if he sees we’ve fiddled with the tape? He’ll shoot us on the spot.”

  “You’ve got a better idea?”

  Zol hopped, chair and all, to a chest with three drawers under the counter beside the sink. The top two drawers opened easily but contained nothing the least bit sharp. Not even a fork or a corkscrew. He leaned down to snag the handle of the bottom drawer and nearly toppled to the floor.

  “Quick,” Colleen whispered, “get over here. He’s coming back.”

  The chair legs thumped and clattered as he hobbled back to the table.

  Krooner threw open the door, his face like thunder. “What’s all that racket?” he asked, brandishing a heavy-looking wrench as if it were a billy club. His scowl dissolved into miffed surprise at finding his captives in the same spot as he’d left them. He checked their bindings and grunted in satisfaction. He went out again and returned almost immediately wheeling two large gas cylinders on a dolly. Stencilled lettering on the side said, Medical Gas — Carbon Dioxide.

  Zol’s heart pounded in his ears as he watched Krooner stuff two tea towels under the back exit then confirm that it was locked. He checked the windows above the counter, then ripped the phone cord from the wall. Zol looked at Colleen for a flicker of encouragement. All he saw was stone. The confidence, the motherly concern had vanished from her face.

  The cylinders hissed to life when Krooner opened their valves with two spins of his monkey wrench. He said nothing as he pocketed the wrench and backed out the door, pulling it shut behind him. Keys jangled, the deadbolt clunked, his shoes crunched on the gravel path.

  Zol pointed to the floor. “It’s okay. CO2 is heavier than air.” The gas would settle first along the floor and, with luck, take some time to reach their noses.

  “Easy for you to say,” Colleen told him, and pointed at the shorter distance between her nose and the floor.

  He hopped to the counter and the set of drawers. If he were to have any chance at finding a knife, he had to open the bottom one. But he couldn’t reach the handle, even with his arms outstretched, his shoulders straining in their sockets. Again he leaned too far. The chair wobbled and started to topple. He jerked backward to regain his balance, then shook his head at the close call. He would never get himself upright if he crashed to the floor. And his nose would be right in the thick of the carbon dioxide.

  Maybe he could hook his shoe under the drawer handle. He eased away from the drawers and lifted his two bound feet off the floor. With his legs extended, his feet hovering opposite the bottom drawer, he worried the handle with the toes of his shoes. But his Florsheims wouldn’t fit under the slender handle, and with his ankles bound together he couldn’t slip the shoes off and try a bare toe. He kicked at the handle in frustration. Sweat streamed from his face. His thighs trembled at the strain. His feet crashed to the floor and his arms to his lap.

  Colleen’s chair clattered as she hopped toward him. She lifted her foot, fit her toe under the handle, and pulled. Nothing. On her third attempt the drawer flew open, the weight of it toppling her. She crashed to the floor, her chair knocking the drawer shut on the way down.

  “Shit,” muttered Zol. “You okay? Did you hit your head?”

  On her side, she blinked, then groaned a few words that sounded like I’m okay.

  He slid her sideways so her fingers approached the drawer handle. “Here,” he said, “pull it open.”

  She reached for the handle. Though her hands and wrists were bound, her fingertips were agile enough. She tugged. The drawer opened. She lay too low to see into it, but from his chair Zol spotted a paring knife underneath a metal spatula.

  “Oh, thank God. I see a knife.”

  Colleen’s cheek scraped against the floor while her hands fumbled in the drawer. He directed her to move her fingers to the right, a bit further right, then farther back. She closed on the spatula.

  “No, that’s not it. That’s a spatula. The knife is underneath it. Feel for the handle. It’s wooden. Skinny. There, you’re touching it. Careful. No, you’re pushing it away.” Damn. Why couldn’t she just pick the stupid thing up? “Start again. Just small movements. I’ll talk you through it. Okay, just a little to the right. No, that’s left. To
the right, toward me. No, the other way. Come on, Colleen, the other way. An inch further toward me. Hey, what are you doing?”

  She wasn’t listening. Her fingers twitched aimlessly over the implements in the drawer.

  “Come on, Colleen.”

  He’d been so preoccupied with directing her hands that he hadn’t been watching her face. When he looked at her, nausea filled his belly.

  Her eyelids looked like they were made of lead. Her breaths puffed in and out like a steam locomotive at full speed. Pathological hyperpnea. Damn. The effect of the carbon dioxide.

  “Come on,” he shouted, kicking her chair. “Colleen. You’ve got to stay awake. One more try. The knife is right there, next to your fingers. Scoop it up.”

  She raised her chin and opened her eyes, gritted her teeth, and pinched the small handle between three fingers. She started to lift it but it slipped. She found it again but again it slipped. Finally, she squeezed it between her fingertips and managed to lift it from the drawer. But before Zol could catch it, the knife clattered to the floor. Colleen’s eyelids flickered then closed, and her head slumped to the linoleum.

  Zol’s mind boiled. Should he tip her chair upright so her face was out of the worst of the carbon dioxide? No. She was unconscious, and safer on her side where she wouldn’t choke on her tongue. If he could free himself, he could carry her into the fresh air. But how was he going to reach the knife if he couldn’t reach the floor?

  His eyes found the kitchen counter. Maybe he could grab the edge, tip himself forward, and ease onto his knees. Damn, he should have thought of that before.

  The back of the chair whacked him in the neck as he went down. His vision clouded, but he managed to grab the knife. He angled the familiar-feeling tool toward his left wrist. A strange way to handle a paring knife, but his fingers seemed to know what to do.