Something Deadly

by Rachel Lee

  "You know," Chet said, "this is going to freak out the whole damn island."

  "I'm sorry about that," Declan said, "but we can't be irresponsible. Anybody who's worried is better off staying at home anyway."

  Hal's dark eyes reflected doom and gloom. "Remember what they tried to do to that town in Outbreak?"

  "Oh, jeez," Chet said. "Let's not even go there, okay?"

  "Right," Declan agreed. "We don't know what we have here. It might not be infectious at all."

  But he could feel they were sitting on a time bomb.

  * * *

  Ken Wilson died today. No one knows why, or if they do, they're not saying. I asked the medic about it. I've heard all kinds of stories about Caribbean bugs. Wouldn't that be my luck. Get drafted, avoid the Nam, and end up on an infected island.

  I should've left those bones alone. Bad luck to mess with bones.

  3

  At her clinic, Markie Cross repaired a dachshund's torn ear, quilting the two pieces of cartilage back together. It would never look quite right again, but it was better than leaving the cartilage separated. So much damage from another puppy's bite.

  She twisted her head, easing the tension in her shoulders. Mornings were for surgery. She'd already done one neuter, one spay, a tumor removal and extracted an infected tooth. If all went well, the ear should be the last surgery of her day. Then she could move on to the office visits, which she generally enjoyed, because they allowed her to interact with both patients and owners.

  A movement to the right caught her eye, and she glanced over to see Kato standing on his hind legs, looking through the window that separated the surgery suite from the rest of the clinic. He was looking more somber than usual this morning.

  Not that she blamed him. Last night hadn't exactly been pleasant, and it must have been worse for him. She had no doubt his nose had given him a far better picture of what had happened to Carter Shippey than the words had given her.

  He had seemed to like Declan Quinn, though, which was a rarity for him. Kato's usual habit was to stand several yards away and watch new people until he'd made up his mind about them, a process that might take multiple encounters. Last night, though, it was as if Kato had known Declan was there to help someone.

  She shrugged away the thoughts of last night and focused on her work. One more stitch, then done. The dachshund was already starting to wake from anesthesia.

  Markie's first routine client of the morning was one of her favorites, Dawn Roth. Dawn had more money than one person could possibly spend in a lifetime, but she remained amazingly unspoiled. Apart from volunteering in every conceivable way, she raised English mastiffs.

  To Markie's way of thinking, anyone who could handle two hundred pounds of slobbering dog was special. Someone who loved them enough to breed them, and love each of them as her own child, was a rare gift. To adopt one of Dawn's mastiffs required a background check that would have put the FBI to shame.

  Today her patient was Brindle Castlereagh, a champion female who was into late pregnancy. Brinnie, as Dawn called her, had gone into heat out of season. The result was going to be a litter that couldn't be registered, because the sire couldn't be identified. That didn't faze Dawn; she was caring for this litter as carefully as all the rest.

  "Isn't it horrible about Carter Shippey?" Dawn asked as Markie palpated Brinnie's belly, identifying two healthy and vigorous pups.

  "Soon now," she told Dawn. "Any day, in fact."

  "I thought so."

  "And yes, it's terrible about Mr. Shippey."

  "He was only sixty-three."

  Markie nodded. "He wasn't all that old."

  "No. To tell you the truth," Dawn said, her voice dropping, "it put me into a tailspin about Tim. He works so hard at his fishing business, and lately he's not even having time to play tennis or golf…."

  Markie patted Brinnie's shoulder, then turned toward Dawn. "Tim's a lot younger and very healthy. You know that."

  "So was Carter, I thought." Dawn shook her head. "Not that I really knew him all that well. I understand he was quite the character in his younger years, when he owned the boat."

  "So I'm told," Markie said. She had only known Carter Shippey as a somewhat grizzled old sailor who loved his dog more than life itself. He'd sold the boat and retired just after she'd come to Santz Martina. "I didn't know him well, either."

  "But I know his wife, Marilyn, from my work at the school. She teaches English, you know. A wonderful woman. She and Carter had such plans…." Dawn's voice trailed off. "Well." She visibly gathered herself.

  Markie straightened and sat in the chair next to Dawn's. Brinnie, sensing Dawn's discomfort, gave her owner a sloppy kiss. Dawn managed a chuckle.

  "I'm worrying for no reason," she said. "Sometimes people die young. But most don't, right?"

  "Right," Markie said. "But when it's someone near our own age, it makes us really uneasy."

  "Yeah. I think I'll go home and make Tim a key lime pie. He loves my pies. When we first got married, he was always so tickled when I'd bake one. I haven't done that for him in years now."

  "That sounds like a wonderful idea."

  "Yeah, it does." Dawn was suddenly smiling again. "I'll call you when Brinnie decides to whelp, then."

  "Yes, do. I want to be there." Mastiffs sometimes had trouble giving birth, and none of Dawn's ever whelped without a vet present. Markie loved the opportunity to be there; most dog owners didn't bother, and nearly everyone on the island had their pets neutered anyway. Seeing puppies born was becoming something of a treat for her.

  After Dawn left, Markie noticed that Kato had vanished from the back rooms of the clinic, no doubt gone to his cool retreat in the farthest reaches of the kennel. The reason was soon evident, as Markie discovered that her next three patients were cats.

  Kato took after his husky forebears in his dislike for cats. At least he merely disdained them and didn't look upon them as part of the food chain, as many huskies did. The cats, of course, weren't insulted. They disdained him as the lower order creature he clearly was.

  Once the cats were gone, and the iguana and the rabbit arrived, Kato reappeared, licking the rabbit comfortingly and regarding the iguana with sympathy as Markie cleaned and patched a festering wound in its side.

  The day passed as so many others before it had, with only two differences: Declan Quinn popped into her mind dozens of times, and by the end of the day she was wishing she had invited him in for coffee last night. And she couldn't shake the memory of Kato's low, mournful howl.

  * * *

  "I am not going to quarantine this island," Stan Freshik told Declan on the phone. He was the chief of the emergency management team, a good man who was used to dealing with hurricanes, not diseases. He had plenty of excellent evacuation plans, but no quarantine options. Such an eventuality had never been considered. "Do you have any idea what kind of panic that will cause?"

  "It's going to cause a panic anyway," Declan told him flatly. "I can't keep this a secret. That would be criminal. And CDC is already sending a biohazard response team. If you won't shut us down, they will."

  "Jesus, Dec. You don't even know what this is. You can't say for sure it's contagious."

  "But I can't say for sure that it isn't. I can't even tell you how long its incubation period is, if it is contagious. I wish I could. But my point is, there's going to be panic whether you declare a quarantine or CDC does. My advice to you is to get some planning underway and take the first steps, because you might be able to minimize the public response if you start right away. Because once CDC gets here, the shit is going to hit the fan."

  Stan's sigh was both irritated and impatient. "God damn it!"

  "That's not going to help anything," Dec reminded him. He was looking through the window at the cooler where the body was once more stashed. "You know I have the authority. I'm the chief medical officer on this island. Consider this a heads-up. CDC will be here by five."

  "By five? My God, that's
not any time at all."

  "Exactly." Dec glanced at the clock on the wall. "Seven hours. I suggest you shut down the airport first. If you don't call the Coast Guard, I will."

  "If this isn't contagious…"

  "Then you can have my head on a platter. Stan…" Declan hesitated. Finally he said, "I'm scared, too. But we have to do the responsible thing."

  When he hung up, assured that Stan would do what was necessary, Declan continued to stare into the autopsy theater. Because he had already had two unprotected exposures to Shippey's body, he had canceled all his appointments for the day, not wanting to risk infecting a patient.

  It was sort of like sitting on death row, he thought sourly. Trapped here with that body, basically. He'd already sent Hal home, with strict orders to stay there. At least Hal didn't have a family.

  But there were others who'd already been exposed: Carter Shippey's wife, certainly. The cops, the crime scene team and all of Carter's friends and family.

  He could, he supposed, judge himself to be no more contagious than anyone else. But he was. Decon suit notwithstanding, from the instant he had cut into the body, this entire morgue had become a death zone. An airborne virus couldn't be contained by a mere door.

  The morgue had its own air circulation system because of the highly contagious diseases that were sometimes autopsied here, so whatever it was shouldn't spread beyond the morgue very fast, especially since a slightly lower atmospheric pressure was maintained in here. Nothing was too good or too expensive for the wealthy.

  But this wasn't a maximum security biocontainment facility. It was state of the art for the routine types of contagion that were expected, but it was not proof against the worst that Mother Nature could offer.

  Declan had never had any desire to be on the cutting edge of research. Doctoring people had been his highest ambition. It gave him no pleasure at all to consider that he might have discovered a brand-new disease.

  * * *

  Happiness filled Kato when the day was over and he and Markie began their evening walk home. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy being at the clinic. Being so near to other animals, especially dogs, filled him with joy, even when they hurt and needed his attention. But today there had been too many cats.

  He'd learned from Markie at a very early age that cats were off-limits. He couldn't begin to understand why—they clearly smelled like prey—but it seemed that many humans actually liked the creatures. So, to please Markie, he simply departed the vicinity of any feline.

  Which was not to say he didn't occasionally pretend that his tug toy was a cat. But dreams were only dreams.

  Traveling down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, he noted that some human had recently passed, leaving a trail of illness in the air. He tested it, drawing quick bursts of air into his nose and expelling them through his mouth. No, it was not the smell of last night.

  As they passed one house, a small dark dog yapped annoyingly from behind a window. Oh-look-oh-look-another-dog-another-dog-oh-look-oh-look! Kato gave the dog a dismissive turn of the head. Such a waste of energy. He preferred to remain silent and watchful. One's voice was meant to sing, and singing was reserved for special occasions: play or need or union. Otherwise, silence aided the senses in being watchful.

  The world was a plethora of smells: flowers, grass, trees, people, animals, insects…oh, the joy of filling his nostrils with the teeming life of the world.

  But then the pungent scent of fear wafted to him. Faint, it seemed to come from elsewhere. He sucked it in, concentrating on it, following it along the sidewalk as best he could at the end of a leash. Markie was not cooperating. But then, he'd long since realized that Markie didn't have a real nose. He sometimes pitied that little thing on her face, so useless. On the other hand, he could taste the wind for her. And her eyes and hands were far more adept than his. They worked well together.

  The fear-smell went away, then returned as they rounded a corner onto his own street. He lifted his head, sucking it in, and felt his hackles stir.

  Last night…last night he wasn't sure what he had smelled. He had merely felt compelled to follow it, despite Markie's objections. Sometimes she just didn't know what was truly important.

  But Kato found himself remembering last night, the smell he had followed, the way all the dogs around had grown frenzied, some with anger, some with fear. Not all barks were the same, though most had been protective.

  Then there had been the scent. A different scent. One he had never before known. And it had led directly to death. Terror and death, two very powerful smells.

  He would have left, but somehow it had seemed important to remain, to make sure his mistress knew there was danger. He hoped she had understood.

  Now the lingering scent of fear led him to a palm trunk. He sniffed around it, getting glimmers of how local dogs had been doing lately. Most were happy and healthy. One or two were angry. A female was beginning to enter heat. And one…Kato sniffed the sad scent and made a whimper of sympathy.

  "Kato?"

  He ignored her. Moving upward, he finally zeroed in on the aroma that had called to him from so far away. Fear. Terror. Bad thing. Fresh. Recent. Large dog, healthy, but terrified.

  The hair on Kato's neck rose, and he backed away from the tree. Something was very wrong in his world. He would need Markie. And she would need him.

  * * *

  Declan watched the two CDC team members, fully suited, working on Carter Shippey's remains. Remains seemed the only word for that travesty of a body on the table. But as far as Declan could see, there had been no further deterioration since this morning.

  Behind him, another suited member of the team spoke. "The physical deterioration occurred overnight?"

  Declan turned to face Marshall Wilcox, the team leader. "Most of it, yes. At least the part that was visible."

  "So let me see if I have this right. Last night you were called to a sudden death of a sixty-three-year-old male, retired fisherman."

  "That's correct."

  "And you'd given him a physical only a month ago and found him to be fit?"

  "As fit as a much younger man, yes." It was unnerving talking to someone who was hiding behind a decon suit and hood, breathing his own air, a man whose voice was coming through a speaker.

  "And upon examination of the body, the only unusual thing you noticed was a sponginess."

  "That's correct. He felt doughy. But he wasn't swollen as far as I could see. At that time his face appeared locked in a rictus of terror."

  "Not unusual with heart attack deaths."

  "No, I've seen it before."

  "Okay." Wilcox came over to stand beside him. "And the way he looked when we got here was the same way he looked this morning when you pulled him for autopsy."

  "That's correct."

  "And nobody else is sick?"

  "Not yet. Not that I know of."

  "Not even his wife."

  Declan shook his head. "She called me a couple of hours ago, wanting my autopsy results."

  "And you told her?"

  "That I needed to run some extensive blood work and tissue tests before I could say anything. That it might be a while before we pinpointed the exact cause of death."

  A slight movement of Wilcox's hood seemed to indicate a nod. "Good. Well, from what I've seen so far, I'm going to support your quarantine of the island. In the meantime, I don't see any need for you to hang around here."

  It was a clear dismissal. Declan felt pinpricks of anger in his face. "He's my patient."

  "He's our patient now," Wilcox said flatly. "You don't have the facilities or knowledge to handle this."

  Declan turned to face him, forcing Wilcox to do the same. "Just what is 'this'?"

  Wilcox hesitated. "I don't know. We've never seen anything like it."

  The icy finger crept up Declan's neck again. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

  "At this point, I'm not sure we even have a contagious disease," Wilcox continued. "I can't think
of a single disease that dissolves everything in the body except the skin and nervous system."

  "Me, neither."

  "But…" Wilcox hesitated. "At this point, given the victim's social involvement, I'd say that exposure has to have been extensive. So there's no reason you can't leave here and go on with life. If you really want to help…"

  "I do."

  "Then you can help me with demographics. People know you and will talk to you more easily."

  Declan was only too willing to help however he could. "What do you need?"

  "Start with his wife. Find out if she noticed anything at all unusual in his behavior in the past week or two. Then see if you can build us a list of everyone he routinely comes in contact with, so we can start interviewing them."

  "That's going to be a big list."

  Wilcox nodded again. "As fast as this hit him, that gives me hope."

  "Hope?"

  "You haven't had a new case in nineteen hours. That you know of. Unless this has a long, silent incubation period, this may be the last of it. Or it might not be disease at all."

  "That's what I'm thinking," Declan said, for the first time admitting the nagging feeling that had troubled him all day. "The longer I sat here thinking about it, the more I began to think he had a toxic exposure of some kind."

  "That could well be. We'll have a better idea after we complete the tests. In the meantime, Doctor, your help with demographics will be appreciated. We're only five people."

  Declan left, stepping out into fresh air for the first time since six that morning. The tropical sunset was just beginning, a gorgeous display of reds, golds and pinks that filled the entire western sky. He filled his lungs with the soft sea air, washing away the taste of antiseptics and death that had permeated him…to his very soul, he thought unhappily.

  Then, squaring his shoulders, he climbed on his Harley and rode through town toward the Shippey house. He had no doubt Marilyn was there, surrounded by friends, people who were now scared half to death because the island had been quarantined.

  Marilyn was at home, but she wasn't surrounded by friends. She was all alone, her face tear-streaked and swollen.