Warning Signs

by C. J. Lyons

  The door to the family room opened and Gina bounded out just as Trey’s radio sounded. “Gotta go,” he said, planting a kiss on her forehead. Gina didn’t make eye contact but followed Trey out without a word.

  Lydia watched the doors swish shut behind them and hoped Trey was right about Gina.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Friday, 12:27 P.M.

  AFTER GRABBING A BASKET OF CHICKEN nuggets and some hot-mustard sauce from the cafeteria, Nora made her way to the office of the head of the ER, Dr. Mark Cohen. Mark was off today, and the office provided peace and quiet as well as enough room to spread the nursing schedule out across his desk.

  She’d barely started when Lydia and Deon arrived. “Mark said Deon could watch some videos while I go through our patient charts,” Lydia said.

  Deon shrugged out of his backpack and sidled up to Nora. “Hey, you got chicken nuggets, too! Aren’t they good?”

  Nora didn’t know whether to hide the unwholesome and wholly addictive processed, battered, and fried meat or offer him one.

  “Don’t,” Lydia said. “He already conned me out of a serving of chicken nuggets, a piece of pie with ice cream, and two helpings of onion rings.” She sighed. “Emma’s gonna kill me.”

  Nora smiled. At least she wasn’t solely responsible for the downfall of America’s nutritional status. She gave Deon another chicken nugget. “Comfort food. Besides, he’s too skinny.”

  “No, I’m not,” he retorted, standing up on his tiptoes and making a muscle with his bicep. “Gram says I’m just right.”

  “Then you are,” Lydia said. She crouched down, examining the tapes on the bottom shelf of the TV/VCR stand. “What will it be? Fantasia, Beauty and the Beast, or Cinderella ?”

  “No thanks. I’d rather read.” He pulled out two books, each carefully encased in zip-top bags, and curled up in the chair beside Nora. Opening a book of Sudoku puzzles, he leaned forward on his elbows. “Gram says TV gives your brain cavities.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Nora said.

  Lydia joined them at the desk, taking Mark’s battered leather chair across from them. “Nope. Deon’s gram is a very smart woman.”

  He tilted his head up, squinting at the clock behind her. “Is it time to check again?”

  “Not yet. I just called a few minutes ago.” Lydia turned to Nora. “Emma’s pacemaker insertion got bumped for an acute coronary syndrome, so she’s still in the anesthesia holding area.”

  “Looks like you’re going to miss the whole day of school,” Nora said, watching as Deon quickly filled in the blanks on his puzzle. It took her hours to do one of those. And sometimes she cheated, got help by looking at the answers.

  “That’s okay. School’s boring.” He let loose an operatic sigh.

  “I thought you liked school.” Lydia powered up Mark’s computer.

  “I do, but the best part is telling everything to Gram after. Then she tells me all the stuff the teachers got right and what they got wrong and we make a list to look up at the library. I love the library,” Deon exclaimed. “You can learn everything—even stuff about other countries and outer space and the ocean and stuff and you never even need to leave Pittsburgh!”

  “I like libraries too,” Lydia said with a wistful tone.

  “Gram used to work there.”

  “She did?” Nora asked.

  “She was a librarian.” He said the word with a reverent hush. “Till they ’tired her. I told her I want to be a librarian when I grow up, but she says I should be some kind of professor.”

  “Emma was a librarian?”

  Uh-oh; Nora could see from the expression on Lydia’s face that she was up to something. Bad enough they were breaking the rules having Deon here at all.

  But then Lydia turned her attention to Nora. “Thought you were on duty.”

  “Rachel switched with me. She’s working my shift in exchange for my finishing the schedule for her and the nursing, EMS, and physician QA.”

  “Sounds like you got the bad end of that deal.”

  “It’s not so bad except this schedule.” She gestured to the color-coded spreadsheet lying across the desk. “It’s a mess.”

  “You have nurse G working two places at once,” Deon piped up.

  “What?” Nora slid her finger down the list of nurses. “You’re right. Darn it.”

  “If you move her to here”—Deon pointed to an open shift—“and nurse L to here and switch these two, it will work.”

  Nora squinched up her nose as she tried to follow him. “He’s right. It works.”

  “Kid’s a genius. In fact, I’ll bet he’ll do the whole thing for you, wouldn’t you, Deon?”

  Deon had already rolled his chair closer to scrutinize the spreadsheet. “Sure. It’s fun. Like a puzzle.”

  “Deon, you’re hired. What do I have to lose?”

  Lydia laughed. “You’re not afraid of Rachel finding out you let a kid make the schedule?”

  “Heck no. He does a good enough job, she’ll probably put him on retainer.” Nora leaned back, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

  “You okay?”

  “You asked that before. I’m fine.”

  “Seth?”

  Nora didn’t answer for a long moment. Her neck muscles clenched, grinding her molars together.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, opening her eyes. “Let’s get to work. We know what Lucas ruled out and what they don’t have.”

  “But do you trust that Lucas isn’t covering something up?” Lydia replied.

  Nora frowned. She refused to believe that the fault lay with Lucas. “Now you sound just like Gina. You guys don’t know Lucas like I do. Once when he and Seth were kids, they went on a field trip to a dairy farm. Before they left, Lucas sneaked away and opened all the gates. Then he stood there, waiting for the cows to stampede to freedom, but instead they just chewed their cud and stared at him. Seth said he cried on the way home, sad for the cows who didn’t even realize there was a world outside their fence. Lucas has been a vegetarian ever since.”

  “Not exactly serial-killer material,” Lydia said dryly.

  “Serial killer? Stop joking, Lydia. There has to be another explanation.”

  Lydia didn’t look like she was joking. In fact, she looked like she was giving the problem serious consideration. “You know what I tell the EM residents.”

  “Oh right, the infamous Fiore rules of emergency medicine.”

  “Rule number three: everyone’s an assassin, out to get your patient.”

  “You’re too young to be so cynical. Here, you take the nursing notes, I’ll go through the orders.” She divided the papers and passed a stack to Lydia. “Besides, what about your rule number two?”

  “Think twice, look twice, act once.” Lydia shuffled her stack of papers and settled back in her chair. “That’s why we’re here.”

  AMANDA DROVE OVER THE 30TH STREET Bridge and onto Washington’s Landing, a small island in the middle of the Allegheny River. The boathouse was a modern, two-story cement-block-and-brick building with large garage doors on the first level leading to where the boats were stored.

  It felt strange, coming here in the middle of the day, wearing scrubs, looking for clues to a mysterious illness. She climbed out of the car, unleashing a new wave of aches. Mysterious illness … sounded like something from a TV show. But there had to be an explanation for her patients and their symptoms.

  Her tennis shoes crunched over the gravel of the parking lot. It was warm but cloudy, and there were puddles. Sometime while she’d been trapped in the ER, it must have rained. And from the looks of the clouds, it might rain again—which meant there wouldn’t be many people trying to get in an hour of rowing over lunchtime. And anyone looking for a workout would be across the river at the newer and larger Millvale boathouse, where they had indoor practice tanks.

  Indeed, the only folks she found inside were the two clerks at the desk when she signed in and an older man who was working out in the wei
ght room. Jared was probably still at the hospital with Tracey. She had the place pretty much to herself. After reassuring the clerks, both college-aged kids probably working in exchange for free membership privileges, that she didn’t need help taking a boat out, she went downstairs to the boat storage area.

  The high-ceilinged garage with its concrete floor that slanted down toward the river was eerily quiet. With the three sets of garage doors shut, shadows cast by the overhead bare lightbulbs gathered at odd angles below the racks of upside-down boats.

  The air smelled musty, damp, shut in. Amanda walked past a rack of privately owned sculls and turned the corner only to stumble back as a huge beast lunged at her from the darkness. She rocked against the storage rack, releasing a deep boom-boom echoing through the cavernous space, a deep-sea monster sounding its war cry.

  Her hand pressed against her chest, heart pounding beneath it, she laughed. The strangely shaped shadow was cast by one of the club’s two dragon boats—large boats that held crews of twenty and had signature monster figures decorating their bows and bass drums to keep the crew’s rhythm.

  Patting the dragon on its head, she turned into the narrow space behind it to the storage closets. One held water gear: PFDs, oars, paddles, and so on, The other was marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. If any chemicals or other toxins were stored in the building, they would be behind that door.

  Amanda tried it, expecting it to be locked. But rowers were trusting souls, no doubt expecting people to obey the sign as well as they obeyed the rules of water safety or the calls of their coxswain. She found the light switch and entered the small cinder-block-walled room.

  She turned around in a circle. The place smelled fresh and clean, like a Laundromat. Metal shelves held industrial-size bottles of laundry detergent—biodegradable, in keeping with the club’s philosophy, and which explained the scent—as well as a can of mineral spirits, a gallon can of Gel-Gloss, some rubbing compound, and a bottle of waterline algae cleaner. The familiar products reminded her of home—her father used them all at their family’s marina.

  On the other set of shelves were stacked paper towels, toilet paper, soap for the bathroom dispensers, and spray bottles of biodegradable multipurpose cleaner. A mop, bucket, plunger, assorted chamois and rags, and some basic tools took up the rest of the space.

  Not exactly the toxic cesspool she’d imagined, and no evidence of anything with mercury in it. She glanced at the ingredients of the Gel-Gloss: carnauba wax. No idea what that was, but her father swore by it. The rubbing compound was basically liquid sandpaper, that she knew. And the waterline cleaner—she opened the bottle cap, yep, the same minty smell as the one her dad used—was a mix of hydrogen chloride and phosphoric and oxalic acids, which could burn but shouldn’t cause neurological or long-term symptoms.

  All were properly stored, there were no signs of spills or any puddles of chemicals mixed together into some kind of toxic witches’ brew, and nothing looked unusual or sinister.

  Maybe the boathouse was a wild-goose chase after all.

  She clicked the light off and left, closing the door behind her, her eyes blinking in the sudden murky darkness. Before she could move, a hand landed on her shoulder and a man’s voice said: “What are you doing in there?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Friday, 12:38 P.M.

  AMANDA FELT HER BREATH ESCAPE AS SHE opened her mouth and nothing came out. It was Jared. Suddenly she wondered whether she should have been looking for who had caused the symptoms rather than what.

  He came closer, his hand swinging toward her. She flinched, unable to move, pinned against the door; all she could do was bring her arms up and try to defend herself.

  There was a click and banks of overhead industrial lights snapped on, flooding the cavernous area with light. “Amanda,” Jared said. “You shouldn’t be down here, alone in the dark. You scared the death out of me.”

  She didn’t want to think about what he’d scared out of her. Her heart was speeding along like a freight train, and her mouth was so dry she couldn’t talk. Then things went from bad to worse.

  Lucas Stone came down the aisle behind Jared. “Amanda, I thought I told you to go home.”

  Busted. Big time. Both men stood across from her, staring at her like she’d escaped from the loony bin.

  “I thought I’d check to see if there was any mercury or other toxins—”

  Jared looked from her to Lucas. “I thought you said that was what you were looking for.”

  “It is. We got our signals crossed.” Lucas stared at Amanda, his expression a mixture of exasperation and anger. “Amanda, wait for me upstairs while Jared shows me his chemical inventory.”

  “I already checked,” she said. “There’s nothing in there that would cause the symptoms.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I know this because my family runs a marina and boat-yard down home in South Carolina. I’ve worked with all these chemicals before myself.” She opened the door to the storage room and gestured inside. “See, nothing but mineral spirits, some cleaners, rubbing compound. No heavy metals, nothing that would lead to neurological symptoms.”

  Lucas strode past her, examining the various containers himself. Jared grabbed a clipboard from the wall beside one of the shelves and handed it to Lucas. “Here are all the industrial safety guides and our inventory sheets. There’s nothing missing.” He blew out his breath, rocking back against the doorjamb. “Wish there were—if it would help you figure out what’s wrong with Tracey.”

  Lucas was frowning. “I can’t believe it’s a coincidence. All four have ties to here.”

  Four? Damn, he was still considering her one of the patients. “Dr. Nelson said the only thing my tests showed was low potassium.” That reminded her, she should try to eat lunch and maybe take another potassium pill. Her foot was doing that numb and tingly thing again.

  “Amanda, you’re sick, too?” Jared sounded genuinely worried. “Could it be Legionnaire’s or something like that? In the ventilation? Should we shut down?”

  “You could move operations across the river to the Millvale building,” Amanda said. “Give us time to check this one out, see if there is anything.”

  “Hold on, don’t go jumping to conclusions.” Lucas handed the clipboard back to Jared. “Let me look around first, see if there’s anything obvious.”

  Together they went back upstairs. Amanda’s left foot kept banging against the risers, forcing her to stare down to make sure she had them both firmly planted with each step. Damn, she needed to get her potassium up; this was getting ridiculous. And she didn’t want a repeat of yesterday when her leg had frozen with fasciculations—not in front of Lucas.

  “I’m just going to use the restroom for a moment,” she told the men, leaving them examining the exercise room.

  The women’s locker room was brightly lit with white-tile floors and nautical-blue shower and toilet stalls. She ran the water cold and cupped her hand to scoop enough to swallow two of her potassium supplements. That should do it—especially once she got something to eat.

  Her head felt heavy, her neck protesting having to hold it up, so she took the opportunity to gently stretch her neck and shoulders. As she tilted her face back, she noticed the glass-and-wood barometers hanging between each mirror.

  Pretty. Her father had inherited a few barometers like that from his dad—they were as accurate as the ones the National Weather Service used.

  She straightened quickly—too quickly for her bruised muscles, releasing a wave of pain. Ignoring the pain, she ran back out to the meeting space. “You need to see this. I think I found your mercury.”

  Amanda pushed open the door to the locker room and gestured for him to go inside. Lucas hesitated, and then both he and Jared moved past her.

  “You tested Shelly for mercury poisoning,” she said. “This is where she was exposed.”

  She raised her hands, indicating the dozen or more old-fashioned barometers and temperature gauges that hun
g along the walls. “Don’t these all use mercury?”

  Lucas stood, head craned as he examined the devices. “They do. We’d have to get them tested, see if there are any leaks, or enough to cause toxicity.”

  The door opened and a woman stepped inside, looking at them with a puzzled expression. Lucas smiled at her and escorted Amanda back outside. “Does the men’s room have any of those?” he asked Jared.

  “No. They have old oars and yacht flags. Shelly found the barometers at a flea market last spring; she was so excited, she cleaned, polished, and hung them all herself.”

  “That would explain her rash and borderline high mercury level.” He frowned. “It doesn’t explain the others, or why Becky showed symptoms first.”

  “They’re glass,” Amanda said. “Maybe one dropped and the mercury escaped. You know how hard that stuff is to clean—in fact, if someone tried to sweep it up, it might have only spread. There could be mercury hiding under a locker or in any of a hundred nooks and crannies.”

  “You’re right. And the hot and humid conditions would release the vapors into the air anytime someone took a shower. But why only four of you with symptoms—”

  “Three,” she said firmly.

  “How many female members do you have?” he asked Jared.

  “Over two hundred. And we also have nonmembers who use the facilities—school teams, rowing clubs.”

  Lucas frowned again, doing the math, shaking his head. “It doesn’t add up, but it’s a start.”

  “Does this mean you can fix Tracey? Get her better?” Jared asked.

  “I’ll start her on chelation therapy as soon as we get back to Angels,” Lucas assured him. He looked at the women’s room door again, his frown deepening. “Let’s hope it works.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Friday, 2:11 P.M.

  A SHORT WHILE LATER THEY STOOD OUT IN THE parking lot, watching as the Allegheny County hazmat team scoured the building.

  One man clad in a white Tyvek jumpsuit, rubber boots, and gloves and wearing a respirator emerged, consulting with his teammates. They huddled over a small box, reading it, and then one of the firefighters came jogging over to Lucas. “You’re right. We’ve got readings near the drains and showers of the women’s locker room. The EPA will need to resuscitate the building before they can resume occupancy.”