Isolation Ward

by Joshua Spanogle

  A few bigwigs at the FDA had also taken hits. It wasn’t until a few days later that we found out who, exactly, Otto Falk and Ian Carrington had been talking to. A number were on administrative leave while their comrades there figured out what to do with them and figured out who else would fall. The FBI knew damn well what to do with them: you could almost hear the sound of knives being sharpened in Washington.

  So, while the forces of law enforcement whipped themselves into a frenzy, committed to taking down as many bureaucrats as possible, the forces of public health were finally able to take a breather. According to Dr. Verlach, the clampdown on group homes in Baltimore had effectively extinguished the miniepidemic there, though we ended up losing one more person to the disease. Ben Vallo—intrepid explorer of biology’s terra incognita—left me a message that the Junin-HIV virus did, indeed, match virus in Debbie Fillmore’s tissue, as well as virus in the tissues of all the other sick folks in Maryland. I didn’t tell him that Alaine Chen had told me as much; I didn’t want to hear the stream of profanity when Ben realized he’d pulled an all-nighter for nothing. In any case, we had an unfortunate new player on the viral scene. I prayed the genie was back in the bottle and would stay there, but as these things go, it was probably wishful thinking. For the time being, though, the genie was in an actual bottle, sitting in some BSL 3 freezer in Atlanta.

  If there was any good that came out of this wreckage, it was that Bill Steadman, the transplant surgeon at Pitt, did indeed have interest in Dr. Falk’s work. Steadman was shocked when I called him, of course, saddened that the transplant world had lost one of its luminaries under such circumstances. He must have known, too, that Dr. Falk’s data would be political poison for a few years, so he really did shoulder a burden in taking responsibility for what was left. He told me he would talk with the FDA, gather the data, speak with the families, and see what could be salvaged. There was little upside for him in the near term, and a lot of headache and heartache. His selflessness and career-be-damned swagger led me to believe he was the perfect choice to direct the second act. I comforted myself with the thought that someday, some kid who’d been written off as hopeless would be peeing volumes with his brand-new porcine kidney.

  Alaine’s funeral service ended, and Brooke and I opted not to go to the interment. I didn’t need to see Dr. Chen’s coffin lowered into the ground. I’d seen quite enough for closure’s sake.

  So we dragged our sorry corpses to yet another rental car. Our wounds meant no stick shift for a while, so Brooke’s BMW would get a good rest. The wounds—Brooke’s, actually—meant that I would be driving for the foreseeable future. I climbed into the driver’s seat. Brooke stretched out her legs and rested on her left hip. Her hand was on my leg.

  “You okay?”

  I wondered why she asked that, until I realized I’d been sitting, frozen, with my hand on the car keys for God knows how long.

  “Sure,” I said, but it was another lie. Though things had calmed down in the head, once in a while something would pop: snapshots of bodies draining blood onto a conference room floor, the sucking sound of the Surgeon’s stab wound, worries about whether the Surgeon would somehow beat his prosecution and make good on his threats. And then there was Alaine: her face just before she blew out the top of her head, my impotence to stop her.

  Anyway, I figured the best way to handle the meshugas was not to think about it. Let the shrink deal if it came to that. The tactic seemed to be for shit, though.

  I started the car. “I’m fine. Really.”

  Brooke reached over and turned off the vehicle.

  “What are you doing?”

  She shushed me and kissed my cheek. She kissed my forehead, my nose, my eyes, my chin, my lips. A hundred tiny contacts covering my face like raindrops.

  When she finished, she reached to the ignition and restarted the car.

  “Where to now, Doc?” she asked.

  Brooke and I had rented a small cottage a few hours north of San Francisco, near Eureka. There was a good small hospital there, with adjunct physical therapy. Actually, I didn’t know if the hospital or the physical therapy was quality, but it was far from the Bay Area and far from any CDC outpost. That made it good. We’d put down money for a month’s rental; one of my pet projects for the past few days was trying to figure out how to get reimbursed by my employer. Not much progress on that front.

  Brooke asked, “No Tim Lancaster?”

  “Tim who?”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  I was supposed to meet Tim in an hour at the Santa Clara Health Department, but had no intention of doing so. Surprisingly—or not so surprisingly, I suppose—my stock had risen at CDC. I have to admit, the rapidity with which I went from persona non grata to something of a company superstar was shocking. Brooke had always been a golden girl, so the events of the previous days just added to her shine at Santa Clara and at CDC. The folks in Atlanta are always thrilled when an alum makes good.

  I’d called Tim Lancaster early on the day after Alaine was killed. The first words out of his mouth were “It hurts me to do this, Nate, but . . .” He said he’d already filed the necessary paperwork for a formal disciplinary hearing at the CDC home office. I should have hung up the telephone on him then, but I was sleep deprived and not thinking straight. Instead, I filled him in on what happened. After I’d finished, he said he needed to make a few calls. Most likely he was looking for corroboration of my story. Anyway, fifteen minutes later, he called back and said he’d be on the next flight to SFO.

  For the next few days, I’d been pretty successful in avoiding the Commandant. He did intercept me a couple of times, but I was able to fake delirium twenty minutes into the meetings. I claimed it was the painkillers. Tim didn’t believe me, but like I said, my rep was good and he let me off the hook. He was getting quite a boost, too, from my exploits and I think felt somewhat indebted. Maybe he even felt guilty for having put me on the block just a few days before, though that would be too human an emotion for the guy. In any case, I should have played him for more concessions, perks, or advancement, but what I wanted most of all was for him to leave me alone. He had my written reports and we could confer in Atlanta in a month. If he really wanted, he could go to the police and look at the reports there, he could go to the FBI and look at my reports there. There was no shortage of words from Dr. Nathaniel McCormick.

  CHAPTER 102

  I helped Brooke out of the car and we slowly made our way up to her apartment, to begin the task of packing for a month. The lease started that day, and I didn’t want to lose any time. Packing for me was a cinch: the bloodied clothes I’d been wearing for a week were in a landfill somewhere, and I’d purchased exactly three new outfits for the trip. Five minutes, and I was finished, and that’s with only one hand in action. Brooke, however, was another matter. If I’d had my druthers, she’d take a couple bikinis, a sundress, jeans, and maybe a sweater for the cool evenings. I didn’t think she’d need a bra or panties. Brooke promptly nixed my overblown sexual fantasies, and we filled two suitcases with clothes and toiletries. Oh, yes, and a bag for all the dressings, gauze, pills, and salves we needed for recuperation.

  The apartment phone rang as we were zipping the last of her suitcases. I answered, but no one was there.

  Brooke, who was lying on the bed, asked who it was.

  “A hang-up,” I said.

  She looked at me, worried.

  “Just a hang-up,” I said again.

  In truth, though, I was worried, too, irrationally so. Though we both tried to shake it off, the subtext here was that our friend with the blistered face had somehow escaped, and was now checking to see if we were home so he could take care of unfinished business. I half-contemplated calling the cops to make sure the Surgeon was still in custody. But that would be silly, no? All my mental baggage was channeling itself into misplaced anxiety, right?

  “Let’s get some of this stuff in the car.”

  With one hand and aching shou
lders, I couldn’t haul much. I grabbed a suitcase and locked the door behind me. I was still nervous about Brooke, and the damned elevator was taking too long, so I opted for the steps. Hurrying the best I could, I shuffled to the carport and threw suitcase number one into the trunk, then sort of half-jogged back across the parking lot, up the stairs, and to the apartment.

  I stopped at the door. I heard a voice, male. My heart began to thud. I pictured the Surgeon in there, spewing his tough-guy talk before he put a bullet through Brooke’s head. As quietly as I could, I put the key into the lock. Then I turned it fast and pushed open the door, rushing in.

  I hit a body. The two of us stumbled across the room, striking the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

  “What the—?”

  The man was pinned between me and the counter. Not the Surgeon, but someone just as sinister. Tim Lancaster.

  “What the F, Nate?” he said, brushing himself off and rubbing his hip where he’d collided with the Corian countertop. “I know you have an unabashed love for me, but come on.”

  Brooke was on the couch, smiling.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I had to talk to you before you headed out to wherever you’re heading. Why aren’t you telling me where, by the way?”

  “Because we don’t want you to know.”

  “Right.”

  I looked at my boss, who, it seemed, hadn’t done much sleeping in the past few days. I turned to Brooke, who still had the Cheshire cat smile plastered to her face. “He threaten you?”

  She giggled.

  Back to Tim. I asked, “Was it you who called and hung up?”

  “Of course. I didn’t want you running out on me.”

  “Nice move, Tim.”

  “It worked.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

  I let that one sink in, let Tim wonder whether I had a gun and whether I’d plug him if he ever sneaked up on us again.

  “Here,” he said, picking up a FedEx envelope from the floor and offering it to me. I waved my bandaged hand. “Oh. Forgot. Right.” He ripped off the tab, pulled out a cream-colored piece of paper. The top heading read “Office of the Director.” I glanced through the short letter. Basically, the director was commending me for my courage, resourcefulness, blah, blah, blah.

  I looked at Brooke, who, I now noticed, also held a cream-colored piece of paper. “Congratulations,” Tim said. “There’s going to be a short ceremony in Atlanta later this week to honor you two. It won’t be a big deal. Lunch with the director, a short speech by you.”

  “Great,” I said. Two visions popped into my head. One: sitting on a porch, looking out over the Pacific, reading some thriller trash. Two: glad-handing in Atlanta, chatting with the giants of public health, choking down some government-issue coq au vin. Simple decision.

  “Okay,” I said, “we’ll be there. Well, I can’t speak for Dr. Michaels, but I’ll be there, at least.”

  “Really?” Tim said.

  “Of course. Just let me know when.” I dropped the paper on a coffee table. “I’ll have my cell on. I’m pretty sure we’ll get reception where we’re going, but if not, I’ll call you with the landline number.”

  Tim nodded a few times. “Okay, okay.” He clapped me on the back.

  “Jesus—!” I yelped.

  “Oh, sorry, Nate. Forgot. Okay,” he said. “Well, Dr. McCormick, seems you’re learning a few things about politicking. Good for you.”

  “I learned from the best.” Though I couldn’t be sure, I think Tim took that as a compliment.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s all I wanted for now. Think about the offer, Brooke.”

  I looked at her. “They want me to come back to CDC,” she told me.

  Tim nodded in a paternal, giver-of-life way. I wanted to heave. I said to Brooke, “Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in.”

  Tim laughed. “The Sopranos,” he said. “I love that show.”

  Yeah, that and . . . well, I wasn’t going to give him a lesson in pop culture.

  He opened the door. “Okay, I’ll see you in Atlanta.” I thought he was about to rip the cord and leave, but we weren’t so lucky. “I’ll call you later today or tomorrow with the details about the ceremony. Also, we’re going to have some more questions about Tobel and Chen and their work with the bug. Take your computer—”

  “Computer was stolen, Tim. When they broke into my car.”

  “I’m sure Brooke won’t mind if you use her computer. I’ll send you a few files today, which I’d like you to look over by tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I’ll let you go now. Enjoy yourselves, you two.”

  Brooke and I both said our thanks.

  Tim almost closed the door, but stopped again. It just never ends with this guy. “Again, good work. Really good work. I have to apologize for . . . well, for throwing some obstacles in your way, but that was just . . .”

  I waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. You did what you had to do.”

  He nodded, pleased, and said, “Anyway, good job. You’re both on the fast track now.”

  “I can feel the wind in my hair.”

  “Good. Well, enjoy the rest.”

  Bye-bye, Tim.

  CHAPTER 103

  A half hour later I had Brooke in the car, the front seat reclined the whole way so she could lie on her side. She had a map and a couple of Diet Cokes. We were ready. I pulled out of the parking area and pointed the car east to the highway, then north to Eureka.

  On the 101, Brooke asked, “So, you’re really going to go to this ceremony?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to. I don’t know if I can sit on a plane for six hours.”

  “Be brave.”

  We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, which, I have to admit, always makes me a little emotional. The whole experience is just so damned breathtaking: the russet bridge itself, the great expanse of the Pacific on your left, the sweeping expanse of North America on your right.

  I was so overwhelmed, I pulled off at a parking lot at the northern side of the bridge. Well, maybe I had some other plans, too, besides taking in the vista.

  “What are you doing?” Brooke pushed herself up and looked around.

  “Nice view.”

  I reached into the backseat and fished around in my new shoulder bag.

  “It’s going to be dark by the time we get there, Nate.”

  “That’s okay. There.” I pulled out my cell phone and dropped it in my lap. I grabbed Brooke’s computer bag and dropped that in my lap. “You have anything really valuable in here?”

  She looked confused for a moment. Then, “No way. You’re not taking the laptop.”

  “Come on.”

  She dropped onto her side so she could use her arms. She grabbed at the computer bag, laughing.

  “No,” she said through the giggles. “Give me that. Besides, I know there are no landlines where we’re going.” That was true. Drat: no file transfers from Tim Lancaster.

  I put up a little more of a fight, then let her have the computer. She said, “I knew you weren’t going, you asshole. Why’d you let Tim think you were going?”

  “Asshole is as asshole does.” I opened the car door. “You coming?”

  “No. I think this is stupid. Besides, I’m comfortable.”

  I smiled at her and stepped out of the car, cell phone in hand. I rounded the car and opened her door and made another grab for the computer bag. She gripped it like a teddy bear. Women are so damn possessive.

  The breeze was good, the air cool. I ambled to the walkway that would take me over the Golden Gate. The sun was falling in the west, electrifying all the colors around me. I passed tourists of all stripes: fat, skinny, European, Asian. Some smiled as they passed me. I wondered why until I realized I was wearing a grin from ear to ear. If I were a jumper, they’d tell the cops, “He just l
ooked so happy. We never thought he’d . . .”

  And I guess I was happy, for that moment at least. But I knew it was fleeting. I’d changed. All the bitching and cynicism aside, I’d always had faith that things would turn out okay in the end. That’s the way in this country, right? Just on the other side of that new house, new job, new diet plan; just after med school, the Ivory Coast, or the next outbreak investigation, life would be better. There was that unshakable faith in perfectibility, in our power to make things right. I suppose I lost that. And somewhere in the previous few days, I lost, too, the illusion that I was the best guy for the job, that I was the most honorable, that I was the most competent. As Tim Lancaster and the rest of the world took their turns patting me on the back, I couldn’t be sure who they were congratulating. Certainly not a savior; certainly not a rising star. Like Alaine Chen, I didn’t know who I was anymore.

  One thing I could be sure of: I was broken, as broken and empty as Kincaid Falk lying eviscerated in his earthen hole. I didn’t know if the cracks would ever be repaired. But on my walk across that stunning bridge, looking forward to four weeks nuzzling a woman with whom I was probably falling in love, none of that seemed to matter. The tourists were right: I was, somehow, happy.

  It took me ten minutes to walk to the middle of the Golden Gate. I stood there, gazing over the San Francisco Bay, at the white sailboats scattered across the indigo water. A man to my right asked me to take a shot of him and his family, thrusting a nice digital camera at me. I begged off and the gentleman seemed hurt until I waved my wrapped flipper at him. He got the picture, so to speak, and wisely took his electronica elsewhere.

  Alone at last, I pulled out the cell phone. I really wished I had Brooke’s computer, but this would have to do. I scrolled through the list of names until I got to Lancaster. I hit the Call button.

  After three rings, Tim answered. “Dr. McCormick, what’s up?” he asked, reading my number from his caller ID.