by Ross Pennie
“Why do you say that?”
“I know there’ve been language barriers with most of these families, but still, we didn’t pick up so much as a hint of what the source could be when we interviewed them.”
“You think they’re purposely covering it up?”
She shrugged. “Could be.”
“How significant is it that only three out of the ten are white?”
She shot him a teasing look. “Are you saying brown people are more likely to lie?”
“Very funny. But look, everyone on the list seems vulnerable in some way. Half of them are refugees or immigrants here four years or less. How many of the cases speak English as a first language?”
“Only the three white guys and perhaps the woman from Ghana.”
“At least two of the white men were vulnerable. One lost his job and his pension in the department-store bankruptcy. The other worked part-time at minimum wage.”
Tasha was staring at her binder. “There are no doctors, lawyers, or accountants in here. I give you that.”
They both knew that viruses couldn’t distinguish between the hot shots and the underprivileged. But whatever was spreading this one was preying on the vulnerable. Exactly how was it doing it? If they figured that out, they might get to the bottom of the outbreak.
There was a firm knock at the door, but whoever it was didn’t walk in. Tasha raised her eyebrows and then opened the door.
Standing there with a smug grin on his face was the Health Unit’s front-desk receptionist, a slim young man named Jesse. He had perfect manners, a fine head for detail, a facility with numbers, a sharp wit, and an excessive need for praise. His duties included sorting out everything at the Health Unit that had to do with IT. He acknowledged Tasha with a brief nod and then beamed a huge smile across the room at Zol.
“Excuse me, Dr. Zed, but this just arrived from Winnipeg via the confidential email account. I knew you’d want to see it immediately, so I decrypted it and printed it out. No one else has seen it.”
He pranced into the room and handed the printout directly to Zol. The smirk on his face said, For your eyes only, Boss.
“Thanks, Jesse. Good thinking.”
The young man’s eyes were twinkling as brightly as his earrings. “Always glad to be of service, Dr. Zed. Please let me know if there is anything else I can do to help.” He spun on one heel and slipped out the door, closing it behind him.
“I think he’s gunning for a wedding invitation,” Zol said.
“Then he’s making eyes at the wrong person. Dr. Zed, my eye.”
Zol read the printout, a preliminary report from the lab in Winnipeg. The facts were simple, but making sense of them was tricky.
“Something you can share?” Tasha asked.
Zol rubbed his eyes. “Our first nine polio cases have tested positive for antibodies to Zika virus. In their blood and spinal-fluid samples. Results on the two cases from the weekend will be ready tomorrow.”
“Good God! Zika? That’s weird. What kind of antibodies? IgG or IgM?”
“Both. But stronger on the IgM.” They both knew that high levels of IgM signalled recent infection — within the past few weeks.
“Did they use PCR to test for the virus itself, or did the lab find only the antibodies?”
Tasha was right to be skeptical. Antibodies were viral footprints, not the microbes themselves. Like footprints everywhere, one microbe’s antibody could be confused with another’s. For these results to be absolutely convincing, the lab needed to prove that the Zika virus itself was in the victims’ blood or spinal fluid, not just some cross-reacting antibody left by another microbe.
There was a second reason to be skeptical about Zika. It was a tropical virus spread by a tropical Aedes mosquito. You’d never expect to see an outbreak in this country because Canada was too cold to support the required Aedes species.
He studied the page again. “They’re setting up the Zika PCRs right away,” he told her. “We should expect results tomorrow afternoon. Only then will we know for sure what we’ve got.”
“Every case simultaneously infected with two rare viruses? What does this mean?”
For a while, he couldn’t take his eyes off the printout. Then something clicked at the back of his brain and he googled “Geographic range of Aedes albopictus mosquitoes” on his computer. Together, they read the third hit listed.
Bingo! He’d remembered correctly. There had been sightings of a winter-hardy Aedes species as far north as New York State. They were Aedes albopictus, known as Asian Tigers because they came originally from Asia and sported black and white stripes. They were aggressive biters that preferred human settlements over untamed wilderness. They’d been introduced into the U.S. in shipments of used tires imported from Japan. The rubber provided insulation and protection for the mosquitoes’ eggs. When the imported tires were left out in the rain, the eggs hatched into larvae and matured into adults. Sometimes, these aggressive newcomers carried Zika virus.
“This means I start with my friend Dr. Polgar at the Niagara Health Unit,” he said. “Even on a misty day, she can see New York State from her office on the other side of the Falls. And I know she’s been on the lookout for those Asian Tigers.”
Chapter 20
“Hi, Szabo,” said Stephanie Polgar. “Good to hear from you. What can I do for you?”
On the telephone, the voice of Zol’s counterpart at the Niagara Regional Health Unit was low and mellow. Almost a decade ago, that voice had done a mean interpretation of Elvis’s “Are You Lonesome Tonight” and had belonged to Dr. Stephen Polgar.
During their four years of public health training together, Zol and Polgar had enjoyed an easy camaraderie built on the similarity of their ages and their heritage. Their parents were born in Budapest and had fled to Canada as political refugees during the short-lived Hungarian revolution of 1956. Polgar had been a congenial beer-drinking buddy with a sympathetic ear when Francine ran off to her ashram in India. Max was only one year old at the time. As it turned out, Francine did her guys a huge favour by leaving them; she was suited neither to motherhood nor an organized routine, and life with her would have been loveless, traumatic, and chaotic. When things had gone sour at home, Polgar’s friendship got Zol through it.
Last year at a conference in Toronto, Zol was startled by a tall woman who sidled up to him and said, “How’s it going, Szabo?” In the context of the high heels, the shoulder-length hair, the sizeable breasts, and the glistening red lips, the familiar voice floored him. When the voice told him, “My name’s Stephanie, and I’ll give you a second to pick your jaw off the floor before someone tramples it,” Zol wanted to sink through the carpet.
It took a couple of days of sitting with Stephanie Polgar at the conference for Zol to begin to adjust to her physical persona. The longer the two of them talked shop and reminisced about the old days, the more Zol accepted the whole package.
Today, Zol got down to business. “We’ve had some developments in our polio epidemic.”
Stephanie sucked in a breath. “You mean it’s spread outside your region?”
“So far, no. The Ministry has every health unit on the lookout, but we’re the only ones who continue to be blessed. Have you seen anything suspicious?”
“One neuro case that turned out to be Guillain–Barré. But that’s it. You’ve got a fresh lead, haven’t you? I can hear it in your voice.”
“A couple of leads. Which is why I called you.”
“Moi, good buddy? What do you need from me?”
Zol explained that Winnipeg had found Parvo-W virus and anti-Zika antibodies in samples of blood and spinal fluid taken from his polio cases.
“Zika, eh?” Stephanie said. “Are they going to run PCRs on the spinal fluids?”
Stephanie knew her stuff. “We’ve been promised results for sometime tomorrow,” h
e told her.
“And meanwhile, you’re thinking maybe I’ve been hiding Zika infections acquired on my turf? Cases I didn’t report to the Ministry?”
“Of course not, but —”
“It’s okay, Szabo. I understand. You’re grasping at straws. But I can assure you we’ve had no locally acquired Zika in Niagara. At least . . .” She paused, then added, “none that we know about.”
“Do I hear a but in there, Stee . . . Stephanie?”
She ignored the slip. “Three local seniors did pick up Zika in the Dominican Republic a few months ago. On winter holiday packages to Punta Cana. Didn’t turn out to be anything serious. Just mild fever and a rash.”
Stephanie cleared her throat then paused as if debating with herself. She had more to say, but the phone line went quiet. Zol didn’t fill the silence. Hoping for something juicy, he held his breath.
Finally, she let out a long sigh that sounded like capitulation. “All right,” she said, “I do have something for you. It’s going to be formally announced by the Ministry later this week. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, so you can’t say anything until —”
“Oh, my God! What do you have?”
“Calm yourself, buddy.”
“Sorry.”
“Well . . . we do have a few Aedes albopictus. Right here in River City.”
Tasha was going to be astounded. Even Hamish was going to be impressed. “Asian Tigers have crossed the border?”
“In the interest of political correctness, they’ve dropped the Asian from the name. If you can’t manage Aedes albopictus, call them Aedes Tigers.”
“How did you find them?”
“I’ve got an excellent mosquito surveillance team. They caught them in their traps. Never found them here before, of course.”
The first documentation of Aedes albopictus anywhere in the Great White North was a huge deal. And perhaps a giant piece in his polio puzzle. “At the Falls?”
“No, downriver. In the northeast corner of our region. At a little place called Virgil. You’ve probably stopped there for peaches and tomatoes on the way to Niagara-on-the-Lake.”
Zol knew the popular hamlet well. It was surrounded by orchards, fruit stands, and show case vineyards. From May to October, the area was flooded with wine enthusiasts, foodies, high-end shoppers, and drama-festival patrons. Under the right conditions, Aedes mosquitoes transmitted not just Zika, but dengue, yellow fever, and chikungunya, any of which could be lethal. Shit!
“You think tourists brought the Aedes Tigers over the border with them?” Zol asked. “From New York State?”
“Unlikely. Our tourist season has barely started. But I don’t mind telling you, those Aedes albopictus buzzing next door have been worrying me for some time. We only have the Niagara River dividing us from the U.S., and it’s pretty narrow in places.”
“Were any of the Tigers carrying human pathogens?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, eh?”
“You’ve sent them off for testing?”
“I wanted to send them directly to Winnipeg, but the Ministry insisted I follow their time-wasting protocol.”
There was no point in hiding his disgust. “Don’t tell me you sent your Aedes Tigers to the Provincial Lab in Toronto?”
“Yeah, I know. It’s the least efficient lab on the damned continent. But your favourite boss, and mine, Elliott York, is hoping to make the public-health discovery of the decade. His personal cred would skyrocket if revealed that a tropical disease or two had hitchhiked into his jurisdiction.”
Elliott York was a well-known grandstander. He wouldn’t want the guys and gals over there in the frozen wilds of Winnipeg, Manitoba, to be the first ones to tell the world that tropical viruses were now residing here in dreamy Ontario. York would be positively salivating at the chance to announce that a deadly disease or two was poised to ride on mosquitoes’ wings into the rest of the country. Any press release from his office would suggest that he, Dr. Elliott York, had discovered the whole infected Aedes Tiger thing singlehandedly.
“If the Tigers were not brought in by tourists, do you have any theories on how they got here?” Zol asked.
“Like you, Szabo, we’re following up a few leads.”
“Any hints? Imported rubber tires, maybe?”
“How about letting a girl and her team have a crack at the puzzle first? Before the hotshots come knocking.”
“I get it.”
“We’ll keep each other posted, okay? I’ll let you know if our Tigers are infected with Zika, and you can tell me if any of your polios have been enjoying the delights of Niagara-on-the-Lake . . . Deal?”
“Deal. And, uh . . . Steph. Thanks a lot, eh?”
Chapter 21
At school on Monday, still distressed beneath the weight of Friday’s travesty against Marwan, Max felt that he and Travis had turned into celebrities in a sick kind of way. Many of their classmates had seen Trav’s blog post over the weekend — he’d made it as respectful of Marwan’s dignity as he could — and some of them had read Saturday’s front-page shocker in the Hamilton Spectator. It was headlined: Deadly Slashing Hits Upper Paradise Barbershop.
At lunchtime, kids crowded around their table in the cafeteria and asked what seemed a zillion stupid questions. Two doofuses wanted to know if Travis had any wicked forensic-type photos of the blood-spattered victim. Yeah, right, thought Max, fighting back the tears, we took pictures of Marwan’s final gory minutes so we could remember the kid, not much older than us, who used to joke around and bring us Cokes while we were waiting to have our hair cut. It was a relief when the bell rang to signal the start of afternoon classes.
By the time the school day was over, and they’d trudged the fifteen minutes home, Max felt as sweaty as Bo Dallas and Zack Ryder after a couple of rounds in the ring. April had set a heat record in Southern Ontario, the first week of May had turned unseasonably cold, and today it had turned stifling again. Like most of the other kids at their school, Max understood that global warming really was a thing, even though some days were too cold and wet to do much outside. In science class, their teacher talked about how it was going to be a bumper year for mosquitoes, cicadas, and gypsy moths.
Travis tore into the fridge and pulled out the OJ while Max set out two glasses. In Trav’s house, they never drank it straight from the carton. His mom was strict about that. So Travis poured, and they both guzzled. Max’s dad said he wished he’d bought shares in a Florida orange grove before Travis came to stay.
Max’s laptop dinged in his backpack. It had picked up the house wifi, and his Facebook Messenger was now live after almost seven hours of silence. Their school made the kids keep their phone notifications off while they were on the premises, and none of them had the password to the school’s wifi for use on their own devices. Max had heard some parents complaining that the policy was draconian. Other parents, like Dad and Trav’s mom, thought it was spot on.
Max finished his OJ and opened his laptop while Travis guzzled a second glass of Florida sunshine.
hello KB. i worry again.
Yeah, Omar? What’s wrong?
TRAVMAN is there?
He says hello.
no school for me today.
Are you sick?
father does not want me to get paralyzed.
Sorry. Don’t understand.
girl down the street. name jamila. my father visit her at
hospital emergency on saturday. she got the polio they talking about on tv.
Oh. How bad is she?
on machine because paralyzed.
You mean a breathing machine, a mechanical ventilator?
i guess.
Sounds serious. I’m sorry. Is she a friend of yours?
sort of. she okay about my leg.
she from syria. hama city.
I
s that near where you come from?
less than 2 hours in my father e-class.
Travis jumped around the kitchen, upended a chair, and nearly knocked over the juice carton.
“Hosam used to have an E-class Merc?” Travis said. “Incredible! But now the poor guy has to take the bus to work. I saw him getting off once. At the stop on Upper Paradise near the barbershop.” Travis pointed to the keyboard. “Ask him what engine it had. The two-litre four or the twin-turbo V6? I bet it was the V6.”
My dad says we shouldn’t obsess about the polio. We’re probably
not going to get it.
but i sit beside jamila on the bus.
Don’t you walk to school? Sir John A Macdonald, right?
school trip. niagara falls.
When was that?
one month ago. maybe less. i forget.
And you sat beside her on the bus trip? Both ways?
i know i am gonna get the polio from jamila.
and then i am gonna die.
Omar. Stay calm. My dad says you can’t get this polio from just
sitting beside someone who has it.
Travis tugged at Max’s shirt. “But maybe he kissed her, or even . . . Ask him.”
Did you kiss her?
no!!! she wear hijab. and too old to be gf. she is 17.
I’m sure you’ll be fine, Omar. But if you do start feeling sick, let me know.
My dad will take care of you.
but KB, your father is not a doctor. u tell me he werk
for goverment.
He’s a doctor who works for the government. Sort of like a detective.
And he’s in charge of investigating the polio and stopping it from making more people sick.
he know lots about the polio? he can help jamila?
I’ll talk to him about it.
but KB. very important. do not tell him my name or
my father name. u remember? grandmother grave?
No names. We promise.
good. i trust you.