Something Deadly

by Rachel Lee

  Dec nodded thoughtfully. "Do you have any ideas?"

  "Not yet. So far we haven't found a single living or partly living thing in Shippey's body. Not so much as a prion."

  "What about chemicals?"

  "Nothing unusual so far. But we'll keep testing." Joe yawned and stretched. None of them had slept since the previous morning. "So tell me again how this island works. If you had an outbreak of say, influenza, what kind of epidemiology would you expect to see?"

  That was an easy question. The other doctors at the hospital had often talked about that, since they'd had an influenza outbreak two years before. "We all live pretty closely on this end of the island. I'd expect to see a number of cases reporting simultaneously, and then a rapid spread through the town and schools. It'd hit the other end of the island somewhat later, carried over there by household employees."

  Joe nodded. "How long?"

  "Last time it was flu, and it only took a week for full contagion."

  "I would have expected that." Joe yawned again. "Between you, me and the fence post? This isn't going to be an easy solve."

  "Do you have to sound so damn happy about it?"

  Joe laughed. "Admit you're intrigued, doctor."

  Declan was. But he wasn't happy to admit it. Not at all.

  * * *

  Tim Roth wasn't happy, either. He'd cornered Steve Chase on the way out of the hospital.

  "Let's take a drive," he'd said, his hand tightening on the man's forearm.

  They'd climbed in his Land Rover and wound their way up into the hills, where he pulled off onto the shoulder. To their right, six hundred feet below, a white beach was empty despite the picture-perfect teal expanse of the Caribbean. To their left, a handful of blackened, chiseled stones fought a losing battle with the underbrush. They were the sole remains of a plantation house that had been burned to the ground two hundred years before.

  "Why here?" Steve asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Why here, of all places?"

  "You need to calm down," Tim said. "Quinn had his eyes on you. You're a public figure."

  "Declan Quinn is my doctor," Steve said. "If he was concerned, it was strictly medical."

  "Maybe. Probably. But we don't need the attention." Tim pointed to the ruins. "It's rubble, Steve. Dust and ash, just like she is."

  Steve's chin set. "Carter Shippey said he saw her. Carter wasn't the type to make up stories."

  Tim hesitated, then met his gaze. "Carter was a fisherman. He'd spent his life at sea. Tall tales are as much a part of a sailor's life as salt spray."

  "You're a fisherman."

  "I'm a businessman," Tim countered. "I send rich people out for day trips with a bottle of champagne, a case of beer and the hope that they'll catch a marlin to hang on a wall. The sea isn't a mystery. It's a cash cow."

  He paused for a moment. "And Annie Black isn't a ghost. She's a legend you tell to make people feel like they're buying a slice of the supernatural with their five-thousand-square-foot Colonial Georgian with verandah and pool. She's an extra five grand on the asking price. That's all."

  "And the Shippeys are still dead. Of unknown cause."

  "Exactly." Tim sighed and repeated the words. "Of unknown cause. Could be a virus. Could be some chemical he got hold of at the high school shop. There's just no reason to assume they were killed by a two-hundred-years-dead murderer."

  Steve shifted uneasily, eyeing the blackened stones again. "I didn't say that."

  "No, but it's crossed your mind ever since Cart opened his damn mouth."

  Steve nodded, and Tim pressed on.

  "Look, we've lived on this damn island most of our lives. If the ghost of Annie Black were hanging around, don't you think somebody would have seen something at some time? But nobody ever has. So relax. Besides, ghosts are bullshit, and you know it."

  "My sister saw one in our house in New York."

  Tim sighed. "Yeah. Right. A twelve-year-old hysteric home alone at midnight sees a ghost. That's one for the headlines."

  Steve flushed, but this time it wasn't an unhealthy color. "Okay. Okay."

  Tim clapped Steve's shoulder bracingly. "Annie Black's ashes were strewn all over this island two hundred years ago. That's a lot of time for wind and rain to work. There couldn't possibly be enough left of her to do anyone any harm."

  At that Steve laughed nervously, and the two men headed back into town. Steve even managed not to look over his shoulder as the burnt-out husk of the old plantation fell away behind them.

  But he felt Tim was somehow lying to him. And he felt someone watching.

  * * *

  Jones and Perlman bought it today. Shit, this is starting to be like Nam. Nobody will say anything. But I know. Hell, everyone knows. Jackson said he saw it happen to Jones. One minute he's sitting in his barracks room, working his damn crosswords. The next minute, he's shaking like a leaf. Then he's dead. Flat dead.

  Word is the CO called Washington last night. Of course, he's not going to tell us anything. We're just peons. Bunch of damn draftees who'd rather be sitting home, smoking some weed, listening to Jimi Hendrix and painting flowers on the VW minibus. That's how they see us. Worthless.

  They're going to kill us all.

  6

  The day turned out to be extraordinarily busy for Markie. She'd half expected that most of her appointments wouldn't show because of the fear of contagion. Instead, she was overrun by pet owners worried about dogs that had begun to chew their own fur off.

  After the fifteenth time Markie had prescribed an antihistamine and said, "It's just nerves. This will calm him down and stop any itching that may be contributing," it suddenly struck her: the island's dogs were having nervous fits. Out of the blue. She usually only saw this kind of thing with separation anxiety or in an extremely high-strung dog, and never this many cases in a single day.

  Looking at case sixteen, she heard herself asking, "Was Candy barking last night?"

  "She went crazy," Candy's owner, Celeste Worthington said. Her beautiful cocoa-skinned face was creased with concern. "All that barking. Did you hear how the dogs started up?"

  Markie nodded. "I sure did."

  "They did that the other night, too. But this time…" Celeste shook her head. "It was worse, Markie. Candy barked until she was hoarse, but she didn't calm down like she did the other night when the dogs stopped barking. She started running in circles, like she was chasing her tail, bouncing off the furniture. Then, when she was too exhausted to do it anymore, she curled up and started nipping at her hind leg. At first I thought she had a flea, but when I got up this morning…Well, you can see what she did."

  Indeed. A huge patch of fur was missing from the inside of Candy's thigh, and the skin beneath was scabbed and bleeding. The worst one yet. "There's a lot of this going around all of a sudden."

  "I know." Celeste's gaze reflected uneasiness. "I talked to some of the others in the waiting room."

  Markie nodded again and began to apply salve to Candy's irritated skin. "I'm doing scrapings to see if there's some kind of fungus going around among the dogs. It'll be a few days before I know for sure, though. In the meantime, we'll try to calm her and keep the itching down."

  Celeste and her pet left a few minutes later. Candy didn't seem happy with the cone Markie had put on her and was howling mournfully. Kato, who'd been nearly invisible all day, watched the poor animal leave.

  Markie squatted down, stripping her rubber gloves and tossing them in the waste pail before scratching him behind the ears. "Where have you been all day, big boy?" Usually he would have been out here with her playing nurse to all the dogs. Instead, he'd vanished.

  Kato answered, a deep almost mournful sound. It didn't last long, but Markie felt it carried a huge portent of some kind. "Do you know what's going on here?"

  Wolf eyes held hers steadily, but Markie couldn't read what was behind them.

  She scratched him for another minute, then straightened. Her assistant, Donna, came into the cubicl
e. "Four more of the same," Donna said as she began to disinfect the steel examining table.

  "Great. Do me a favor, will you?"

  "Sure."

  "Run down Dr. Declan Quinn. I need a word with him."

  Donna looked at her, as if sensing something, but merely gave a nod. "You got it. Your next patient is in the other room."

  "Who is it?"

  "Sparky Vasquez. Same complaint."

  "Jeez."

  "Yeah," said Donna. "Jeez."

  * * *

  It was evening before Declan finally called Markie at home. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just got your message. I've been out all day, and my receptionist didn't page me. Is something wrong?"

  "Something's definitely wrong. I don't know if it's related to this epidemic, but you need to know about it."

  Dec was silent for a couple of beats. Then he said, "How about we get together somewhere? I'm on a cell."

  And cell transmissions on this island were anything but secure. Not that anyone would listen in on purpose, but the signals sometimes got crossed. "Sure. Where?"

  He thought a moment. "Most everything is closed. My place?"

  He gave her the address and said he would be there in fifteen minutes. She promised to meet him.

  She pulled on a pair of sneakers and grabbed her purse, but Kato took it upon himself to decide that she wasn't going to leave the house.

  Despite his customary stoicism, he still had his playful moods, and when he got into one, the word "persistence" took on an entirely new meaning. He planted himself in front of her as she headed toward the door. She tried to step around him, but he moved to block her way again.

  "You wanna play, huh?" Bending, she grabbed his scruff and tugged lightly.

  Ordinarily he would bow, the international canine signal for "playtime." But this time he didn't. Nor did he try to shake her hand off his scruff. He just stayed right in front of her. She threw his big fuzzy play ball. He didn't even glance at it. She found a rawhide bone and made as if to gnaw on it, then offered it to him. He merely huffed.

  "Kato, I have to go out!"

  As she moved, he once again planted himself in front of her, his golden gaze defying her.

  Markie knew he was the gentlest wolf hybrid on the planet. She'd raised him from a pup. He slept on her bed, went nearly everywhere with her and not once in his life had he shown the slightest aggressive streak.

  Until now.

  His eyes went feral, pure wolf. She knew better than to argue with him.

  "Kato?"

  He favored her with the slightest twitch of his tail, but his expression was still fixed.

  "Kato, I have to go see Declan."

  A low, throaty moan answered her. Something clearly was disturbing him. There were times when she wished she could speak dog, or he could speak human.

  Finally she squatted and looked him straight in the eye. "Okay. What will it take for you to let me go?"

  He headed straight for his leash by the door and nosed it. Then he returned to his guard posture in front of her.

  "Okay," she said, giving in. "Okay. I just hope Dec doesn't mind you shedding all over his furniture."

  With that, Kato let her move. He stood docilely while she put the leash on him and trotted at heel to the car with her. In the front seat, he sat erect, with his head out the window testing the breeze.

  And his eyes were still feral.

  * * *

  Tim Roth made his way around the coastline toward the north end of the island where his family lived. He knew his father wasn't going to welcome him, but that didn't matter anymore. He was going to show the old man up very soon. The thought filled him with anticipatory glee.

  The sun was just beginning to set, a vision of reds and golds that made him decide to detour inland to the old Black plantation. Give Annie Black, the bitch, credit for knowing where to build a house. She'd picked a hillock at the crest of a spiny ridge that stretched like a gnarled root from the base of the dormant volcano to dominate the southern peninsula. There wasn't much she wouldn't have seen from this hilltop.

  It was a piece of property he wished he could sell. His father, of course, would never permit it. The indigenous peoples considered the place taboo, and old Abel Roth wasn't about to trample on their sensibilities. Tim thought his father was way too considerate of such things. After all, these people hadn't been slaves since the Revolution of 1809, when they'd cast off British rule. But they had long memories and told Annie Black's story as if it were yesterday. Hence, Abel left the land untouched. A big chunk of the island.

  Tim planned to change that once the old man was dead.

  He pulled his car up to the burnt-out ruins and planted himself on one of the tumbled stones, enjoying the peacefulness of the deserted place and the glories of the tropical sunset.

  He wasn't immune to the beauties of nature, and it occurred to him that he might someday build his own house on this spot. After all, he would owe a lot to Annie Black.

  He almost laughed out loud with delight. All those people down there who still feared the woman's ghost. Even Carter Shippey, apparently. And Steve Chase. A woman dead nearly two hundred years, who'd been so terrifying in life that people still feared her in death.

  He envied her style.

  He patted a nearby stone and said, "You were a great girl, Annie. Times have changed, though. No slaves. Or not so they notice. But if you were here now, you'd turn that amazing intelligence to the problem. Yes, you would. You'd own the island instead of my dad, for one thing."

  He laughed again. "I'll find your treasure, old girl. Don't doubt it. I'll make sure people never forget you."

  The wind swept across him, chillier now, even though the sun hadn't quite disappeared. "Patience, girl," he said almost absently.

  Then he climbed back into his car and drove around the base of the mountain. Time to see the old man.

  * * *

  Markie arrived to find Declan in his garden, up to his elbows in potting soil. At least he didn't mind Kato's chaperoning her. In fact, he seemed glad to see the dog. They even roughhoused a bit before Declan greeted Markie.

  "I'm sorry I can't offer you the kind of dinner you fed me last night. I just got home, and the cupboard is bare. I've been too busy to catch up on shopping."

  "It's not a problem," she assured him. "I had dinner a few hours ago."

  "Maybe not a problem, but it's still embarrassing." He held out his hands. "I can grow things. I just can't cook them."

  Markie smiled. "Different strokes."

  His blue eyes sparkled. "In the meantime, Doctor, I offer you gourmet PB and J."

  "Gourmet, huh?"

  "Only the best," he agreed, leading the way into his kitchen. "Imported. From the States."

  "Wow!"

  Laughing, he scrubbed his hands clean, then pulled a jar from the refrigerator. "Actually," he said, "if you like blueberry preserves, this stuff is awesome. My sister made it and sent me a few jars."

  After the sandwiches were made, they sat at his kitchen table, a piece that looked almost as old as the island's history.

  "Where did you get this?" she asked him, running her palm over the scarred surface. "It's beautiful."

  "At an estate sale, when I first got here. The auctioneer said it had been used in the kitchen for more than a hundred years."

  "It's gorgeous. Did you refinish it?"

  "A little sanding and a lot of oil. It was pretty dried out when I bought it."

  "I'm glad you didn't sand it smooth."

  "That would have been a crime." He paused from his sandwich and looked at her, his eyes saying the small talk was over. "So what's up?"

  "I'm not sure. I just know that today I treated eighteen dogs who had chewed themselves raw."

  "Mange?"

  She shook her head. "No way. This was nervous chewing. I took samples for testing, but this isn't mange. These dogs were fine until the barkingfest last night. Afterward they started chewing themselves raw. God k
nows how many others have done the same thing but haven't been brought to my attention."

  He gave a low whistle and sat back, sandwich forgotten. "What could have scared them that much?"

  "I don't know." She picked at the crust from her bread. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it isn't anxiety. Maybe there's some link with whatever killed Cart."

  His head cocked, and his face darkened. He reached out for her hand, covering it and squeezing firmly. "That call I got last night? It was about Marilyn Shippey."

  Markie drew a breath so sharp it sounded like a drowning person's last gasp. "Oh, my God," she whispered. Her face turned as white as chalk. "I'd heard she got sick, but…not…"

  "Unfortunately, yes. I did the post last night. Same kind of deterioration Cart showed."

  "Oh, sweet Lord." She closed her eyes, clearly trying to absorb this new horror. Her hand turned over and she linked her fingers with his. "I knew Marilyn." Her eyes popped open. "Where's Shadow?"

  "Their dog?"

  She nodded.

  "CDC quarantined him. He was chewing his leg, too."

  "Oh, my God," she said again.

  Silence stretched between them for long minutes, a silence filled with foreboding. As if he sensed it, Kato sat up and put his head on Markie's lap. So naturally that she probably didn't even realize she was doing it, she began to rub his scruff.

  Declan finally spoke, needing to brush away the chilly cobwebs of disquiet that were trying to wrap around him. "You said you took samples?"

  "Skin and blood from every dog."

  "I'd like CDC to look at them."

  "Of course." She shook her head. Her color had improved a bit. "My initial microscopic exam didn't show anything unusual. I'm waiting for cultures to grow now."

  "None of the owners were sick?"

  "None seemed to be. But they all had the same weird story about how it started last night." She pushed aside her plate. "I'm sorry, I can't eat. It's just…the timing is wrong for an infectious disease. Why would they all go symptomatic at almost exactly the same time? And if it's some chemical irritant, how did it get to them all at the same time, with some inside and some out, and none of the owners affected?"