by Rachel Lee
"In short," Alex Morgan said, "put everyone out of work and fuel a panic, when we don't even know how this disease spreads. Hell, the last I heard, the CDC docs aren't even sure it is a disease."
"What else could it be?" McGinley asked. "Something sure as hell killed those people. And my business is already shut down from the quarantine. My people are already out of work. So is everyone else at the docks. We're taking it on the chin and I've got to be honest, a lot of the guys aren't happy about it. Why should they be the only ones to make sacrifices?"
And that was the problem with a wild card like Maxwell in the room, Abel thought. It only takes one man to break the ice and others will follow. Maxwell's seat was up in eighteen months. Abel made a mental note to make sure that someone else filled it next term. In the meantime, there was a nascent rebellion to curb.
"I know it's unfair to your people, Joe. And I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I'm sure Steve would put in a word to the construction firms, take your people on as temp hires until this is over."
"Sure," Steve Chase agreed after a brief pause. "I doubt they'll earn as much as they do on the docks, but it's a paycheck."
McGinley nodded. "That would go a long way to pouring oil on troubled waters."
But Chase's response hadn't been as immediate or as enthusiastic as Abel had come to expect. He considered the possibility that Chase might be making preliminary maneuvers toward a more independent role in island politics but quickly rejected the idea. Jellyfish don't turn into sharks. Something else was bothering the man. Still, it was an issue he would have to address soon.
"And this should only be temporary," Abel added.
"Isn't that a little optimistic?" Maxwell asked.
"No," Abel said. "We've seen viral outbreaks on this island before. Think about it. There's the flu. Or something comes ashore on a freighter, or some bird carries an insect in from Cuba or Colombia or whatever. It goes through the island and infects pretty much everyone it's going to in a couple of weeks. So figure ten more days and we should be out of the woods and back to normal."
"Except for the dead people," Maxwell said.
Yes, Abel thought. Except for the dead people. Like the soldiers who'd died thirty-five years ago, out at the fort, before the Army shut it down and left. That time it had been USAMRIID doctors who'd come down, and they hadn't found a damn thing. Or if they had, they'd never shared it with the civilians on the island. The disease, whatever it had been, and the names of the dead, had simply vanished into the background noise of a turbulent time. And Abel certainly wasn't going to bring it up now.
"I wish there were something else we could do," Abel said, suddenly weary. "I didn't know the Shippeys, but my wife knew Alice Wheatley from church. I met her a few times. She was a decent woman."
"Carter and his wife were damn good people," McGinley said. "I've known them for years."
"So," Abel said, turning to Maxwell, "it's hardly as if we're sitting here in an ivory tower, unaffected by it all. These were our friends, too. And if whatever killed them is contagious, everyone in this room has probably been exposed already. As has everyone else on this island. So a quarantine, shutting down businesses and the like…all that's going to do is frighten people even more. I'd have to veto it. I'm sorry, but there it is. I wish there were something we could do. I wish we could stop this, and no more of our friends and neighbors had to die. But I just don't know what we could do that wouldn't be more likely to make things worse rather than better. We'll just have to let Mother Nature and the CDC do their work."
"I'll spare everyone the embarrassment of a vote," Maxwell said. His posture spelled defeat. "I'll withdraw the motion."
"In that case," Steve said, "is there anything else?"
Abel studied him again, wondering at Steve's eagerness to end this meeting. There was definitely something going on there.
And Abel was damn well going to find out what it was.
* * *
Late that afternoon, having found no sign of contagion, the CDC gave permission for the Shippeys' bodies to be released. Dec signed the official order, and Jolly Wells, the island's only undertaker, came to pick up the remains.
Jolly unzipped Carter's body bag and shook his head dolefully. "Ain't no bug dat did dat," he murmured.
"Maybe not," Dec answered, saying nothing more.
Jolly was a huge man, built like a defensive end: tall, broad and muscular. He wore the island's formal attire of white guyabera shirt, white slacks and white deck shoes. His skin looked as silky as the Caribbean night, and his brown eyes held a world of warmth and intelligence. Too many people who didn't know better made the mistake of underestimating him. It was a mistake they didn't repeat.
"Closed coffin. Ain't enough of dat man left to embalm. Mmm, mmm." Jolly shook his head, zipped up the body bag and motioned his two assistants to wheel the gurney out to the hearse. Then he looked straight at Dec, his dark brown eyes so intense they seemed to burn. "Somebody be stirrin' up somethin' bad. Real bad."
Dec leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. "You got any ideas, Jolly?"
"Ain't no disease."
One corner of Dec's mouth lifted upward. He liked Jolly, always had. "You said that."
"I'm repeatin' it for a reason."
Dec nodded. "You always have a reason. Care to share it?"
Jolly appeared to consider the question, but Dec sensed he was weighing a variety of responses. Considering how Dec would respond to each.
"Just lay it out for me, Jolly. I'm ready to consider anything.
"Are you?"
Sometimes Jolly sounded as if he'd been raised speaking the Queen's English—probably because he'd done a term or two at Oxford before deciding he missed the balmy island breezes too much.
Dec felt a quiver at the base of his skull, a warning, a hint that maybe he should back off. But he didn't. He was past the point of backing off anything. With what he'd seen in the past twenty-four hours, the unthinkable was growing increasingly more thinkable.
"Just tell me what you know," he said to Jolly.
Jolly shook his head, as if something displeased him. "I ain't sayin' I know sumfin', Dec. But I got a bad feelin'. A bad, bad feelin' dat sumfin' ain't dead what oughta be."
"How do you mean?" The quiver was turning into a full-bore chill.
"Ask Loleen."
"I'm asking you, Jolly." Dec hesitated. "I was out at the fort today. There was something strange…." He couldn't quite bring himself to say what had happened.
But Jolly's gaze seemed to say that he already knew. "Da fort. Now why you wanna be doin' dat for, Dec? Dat place be bad juju, mon. Bad juju."
It was the first time Dec had ever heard that word on Jolly's lips. He opened his mouth to press for more, but the two assistants returned to get Marilyn's body. Jolly helped them lift the bag onto the gurney.
"Closed coffin, fer sure," Jolly said. He paused as he was about to follow the gurney out. "Talk ta Mam' Loleen, Dec. When you be ready ta listen."
* * *
Martina Town had become an eerie study in contrasts. On the one hand, people weren't quite at the point of locking themselves in their homes, although there were fewer people on the boardwalk than usual. People were out, but it was as if each family, each couple, each lone individual, was moving in a plastic bubble.
Down on the basketball court, the customary three-on-three games were absent. Instead, a father and daughter shot baskets at one end, while a lone teenager practiced layups at the other. On a bench at courtside sat a woman, obviously the wife and mother, ostensibly reading a book. Yet whenever the teenager edged too near midcourt, the woman cast him a warning glance: You stay on your end and we'll stay on ours.
The beach volleyball pits were empty, the bottoms of the nets fluttering in the evening breeze, silent pennants of caution. Two women sat on a picnic table beneath one of the thatched shelters, hugging their knees, silently eating fried chicken from a paper box, their faces set with grim determi
nation, their eyes fixed on the water yet darting around whenever someone passed. At the waterline, an older sister stood guard while a toddler built a sand castle. On the steps of the community center, a lone flutist played "Amazing Grace," an empty coffee can at his feet. The haunting melody mated to the surreal scene only added to Dec's sense of unease.
Throughout his medical career, he had always known what he was fighting. Now he didn't know, and he hated that feeling. If he could be sure that whatever it was had done its work and would harm no one else, he would find it a hell of a lot easier to be in the dark. Which was not to say he would ever stop wondering.
But this, this waiting for the ax to fall again and not being able to do anything at all about it…that was foreign to his nature. Although he recognized some of the people in the park as patients, none of them had said a word to him. They didn't have to. The unspoken questions were plain in their eyes. What is it, Doctor? Will I get sick? How do I protect my kids? Is there a cure? And he had no answers.
Jolly had been absolutely no help whatever. His hints had only succeeded in making Dec feel even more ignorant. Did Loleen really have the answers?
"Hell," he said under his breath, watching the gentle evening waves roll in.
He was a man of science. Jolly's talk about juju should have gotten his dander up. But after the last twenty-four hours, he couldn't bring himself to react that way. Jolly was hardly a superstitious man. He ran a successful business. He went to Mass and sang in the parish choir. He played a mean game of tennis and had helped Dec hook up to the island's Internet service. Jolly wasn't the sort to talk about juju.
But Dec had been out at Alice's house last night and at the fort today. He'd felt the evil, felt the juju crawl into his mind.
So where did that leave him?
16
Wendy Morgan was, frankly, sick to death of the crackly voice of Loleen Cathan and her incessant, singsong pidgin prattle. Gary had been listening to the old woman, hour upon hour, for the past three days. He said he was looking for more clues to nail down some historical hypothesis. But the rapturous look in his eyes whenever Loleen spoke of Annie Black was…eerie. She'd seen that look in Tim's eyes, more and more, in the past couple of weeks. And last night, he had gone wild.
The thought of Gary evidencing a similar animalistic wildness filled Wendy with a mixture of excitement and comic disbelief. There was certainly no way her husband could be capable of such a thing. But if he were, if he turned that massive intellect to such a course…the mere thought sent shivers down her spine.
She didn't expect that thought to turn her on. He hadn't turned her on in years. And yet, Tim's frightening display last night and Gary's response when he saw her…something was changing within her. Gary's eyes had been a mirror held up to her soul. And not a harsh mirror, but a forgiving mirror. Echoes of a connection long since buried in the ebb and flow of life and offered anew, even in the face of betrayal. It had been perhaps the most humbling experience of her life, and she had awakened this morning to a bleak emotional emptiness that demanded attention.
And, of course, just about the time she would have liked to sit down with Gary for their first truly honest conversation in months, or even years, he had withdrawn to his study and that tape recorder. She fought down urges of jealousy and spite. Given what she had done, she had no right to be jealous. As for spite, well, that was for children and heads of state. As Tim would have put it, it was high time to fish or cut bait. To rebuild her marriage or end it.
Although his door was open, she knocked regardless. His response was an impatient grunt.
"Gary? We need to talk."
"I'm busy," he said.
"You're right. You are. And you can go on being busy for the rest of the day, and tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. And when you finally do come out, I won't be here."
He pushed the pause button on the tape recorder and turned to face her. "What does that mean?"
"It means we can't go on living separate lives. You with your secrets. Me with mine. Not if we're going to go on living together. If anything we ever had was real, we have to start to work things out. Right now. Or I start packing. Right now."
It was harsher than she'd meant to sound. But she felt as if she were standing at a fork in a road, with a pack of wild dogs chasing her. She could go one way or the other, but she couldn't stand still. She watched his eyes as he realized she was serious. He pushed the Stop button.
"So what do you want to talk about?" he asked.
"Us, Gary. You and me.
He rose from his chair, tossing his glasses on his desk. "Maybe," he said slowly, a frightening fire flickering in his eyes, "talking isn't what we really need."
Impossibly, an instant later she was crushed against the wall, and his mouth and hips were grinding against her as if he wanted to come out the other side.
The thrill that shot through her pierced her very core. In another instant thought was gone and all that was left were two hungry animals. Just the way she wanted.
Or so she hoped.
* * *
"Hey, Dec." Footsteps crunched across the sand.
The sound of Markie's voice caused Dec to turn from the water and the steadily sinking sun. It was about to begin the dazzle of its nightly display, but as yet the light was still yellow. "Hey," he said in reply, smiling. "Where's your cohort?"
"At home." Dressed in a white sarong and a brightly flowered blouse, she was the image of island beauty. "We needed a break from each other."
"He's still alerting?"
She nodded. "Acting uneasy. Pacing from the back door to the front window and back. I think we were feeding each other's anxiety."
"I can understand that." He waved toward the approaching sunset. "I was just about to go indulge myself at Cap'n Pete's. Care to join me?"
"Seafood and sunset? How could I turn that down?"
He chuckled and offered her his arm, thinking that any man could be proud to be seen with this woman. Not only was she beautiful, but she was brainy, too. And nice. Most especially nice.
She smiled up at him, eyes dancing, and tucked her arm through his. "I'm an ostrich tonight."
"Exceptionally pretty feathers."
She laughed. "I meant I'm pretending the world is just hunky-dory."
He looked around the park again, at the isolated clusters of humanity. "Just like everyone else. So long as nobody gets too close."
"Well, you don't see two ostriches sharing the same hole," she said.
"Except us," he said.
She winked. "Just don't rock the boat."
Cap'n Pete's, out at the end of a stone pier, had been a Michelin Pick of the Caribbean for nine of the past eleven years, and its reputation was well-deserved. On a typical Sunday night, Dec and Markie would have waited an hour or more for a table, if they could get one at all. Tonight, though, it was half-empty, and they were quickly escorted to a table overlooking the water. The light was beginning to redden a little, but it still dwarfed the candle on the table between them.
Their waiter arrived with menus and eyes tight with worry. "Good evening, Doctors."
Dec and Markie nodded, and Dec looked around the room. "Slow night."
"Yes, sir." He poured bottled water into crystal glasses as he talked. "Lunch was slow, too. People are nervous."
Markie sipped her water. "I can understand why."
"Well, that's the bad news," the waiter said. "The good news is tonight's special seven-course meal. The entrées are—fried grouper ratatouille with wild rice, seared chicken breast and grilled zucchini in a spicy Caribbean roux, and peppered roast tenderloin medallions and sautéd mushrooms with whipped burgundy, chive and parsley butter."
"Wow," Markie said. "Pete's pulling out all the stops tonight."
The waiter smiled. "Actually, he called it rewarding faithful patrons. But yes, ma'am, you're right."
They both chose the special. Neither was in the mood to fret over choices, and Dec
nodded to the sommelier's wine recommendations: sauvignon blanc with the fish, chardonnay with the chicken, merlot with the beef.
The waiter brought fresh poppy seed rolls and creamed butter. The sun had met the edge of the sea now, and wisps of clouds high above were turning a metallic orange.
"So," Markie said, surprising Dec with her bluntness, "have you ever been married?"
"Wanna hear me do my rendition of bawdy sea chanties?"
She looked away from the sunset and right into his blue eyes. "That bad?"
He shrugged. "It wasn't pretty. I was working trauma in a big city emergency room. My hours were, well, let's just say my ex started to think we didn't have a marriage at all. She wanted me to quit. I was addicted to the adrenaline. She finally decided a dermatologist's hours were more to her liking. Unfortunately, the dermatologist in question was my best friend."
"Ouch!" She winced for him.
"That pretty much summed it up at the time. I went through the usual period of self-pity, feeling I was gutted, thinking that somehow I was less than a man…." He shook his head. "I got sick of drinking the house whine, kicked my own butt and buried myself in work."
"Did that help?"
He gave a quiet laugh. "For a while. Then the job started to be a problem for me, too."
"How so?"
Her expression was sympathetic, gently inquiring. So he found himself answering, speaking words he'd never spoken to anyone.
"One night they brought in an eight-year-old girl. Multiple gunshot wounds. Drive-by, the cops said. Two entries anterior thorax, one at posterior C-One. Nine-millimeter, hollow-point rounds. One of the chest wounds had taken a lung. The other blew half her sternum through the descending aorta. Then, probably because she'd seen the shooter, and just to make sure, he'd walked up while she was facedown on the sidewalk and put the barrel to the base of her skull. The bullet shattered her spine. It was so damn hopeless. She'd been coding all the way to the hospital. We intubated. I opened her chest, stuck a finger in the lung and looked for the artery with the other hand. There wasn't anything to find. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered."