“Can I see him, Mom, can he come here or can I go to the ICU? Is he still in the ICU?”
The hurt, as Natalie tried to get the words out of her bruised throat, cut through Laura’s resolve. What had Nicole said: tell Natalie the truth.
“Natalie, sweetie, I am so sorry, but Trey—he didn’t make it.” Laura stroked Natalie’s uncombed, soggy blonde hair. “He died, sweetie. I’m so, so sorry.”
Natalie’s body began to shake, her chest heaved so deeply that Laura thought that she risked a convulsion. A croaky sob woke Tim.
“What’s wrong?” he called, jolting to his feet, blanket dragging, and rushing to Laura’s side.
Laura sat on the bed, taking Natalie in her arms, no longer caring if she ignored isolation protocol. In Laura’s head, she heard the clunk as the dial pack of birth control pills hit the floor. How could she have been so insensitive?
“No, not dead.” Natalie moaned through the sobs. “We are going to spend our lives together. Me and Trey. Please, Mom. Will you go check? Maybe there’s been a mistake. Maybe he’s just in a coma. Please make him wake up. I want to see him. Now.” Still tethered to the bed by an intravenous line, Natalie struggled to pull herself up.
The bedside cardiac monitor started to beep and a nurse hurried into the room to check her patient’s vital signs.
Natalie pulled with one arm to get up. “I have to go to him,” she rasped.
“Sedation,” the nurse said, and Laura stepped back so the nurse could inject the IV tubing.
Tim held Laura close as they watched Natalie drift off into sleep. Seventeen years old and her daughter feels, deeply feels, that her life is over. I know, Laura thought. When I was nineteen, if anything had happened to Steve—
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30
The next tray would be the last and Charles had to wait a few seconds for Lonnie to finish the chocolate drizzle before he could start to inject the next pastry. Only one more tray of profiteroles. Charles began to breathe more easily. His assignment had gone without a hitch. Lonnie had either dismissed his kitchen helpers or they were busy somewhere else. No one had paid him the least attention. He wasn’t in the slightest worried about the process, this was so much like his everyday job, handling lethal organisms. Using a syringe designed with the latest in isolation technology, he methodically injected one plated profiterole after another. No problem.
He was curious as to whether the victims had started eating dessert, and as the door to the dining room swung open, he peered out. More white faces than he’d expected. What was wrong with those people? Was it political, because Atlanta had a black mayor?
Charles had thought that he’d feel a modicum of guilt for infecting so many unsuspecting people, with a flesh-eating death, but strangely, he didn’t. He felt a surge of power and pride.
The swinging door had stayed open, and Charles continued to peer out, refocusing his attention on Lonnie, who warned, “When you’re done, you take your shit and get out.”
“Yes,” Charles said, waiting for Lonnie to paint the last profiterole on that tray with warm chocolate sauce. “I’m taking all evidence and burning it.” Until now he hadn’t given much thought to how he would destroy the staph, but he hadn’t been worried. Since there were no spores involved, he could simply boil the vials and syringes to kill the organisms. There would be staph organisms left on the plates, no doubt, but without the proper culture media, they’d die out fast. Strain AZ3510 was designed to strike fast in human flesh, but die quickly in ambient environments.
“That leaves me to stick around here and destroy any leftover profiteroles,” Lonnie said.
Charles noted that a waiter had returned through the open door with an empty tray. He wondered when Banks would show up to disclose the next step, Charles’s final destination. Time was getting short.
Charles knew that Banks was out there among the diners, posing as a busboy, watching the victims eat their dessert. But when he looked more closely, he saw that the diners were silent. Through the open door Charles craned his neck for a view of the podium.
A rotund, balding man of medium stature stood, his arm extended to the sky. “And joining me to lead the prayer is Coretta Scott King, widow of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, who, himself, would rejoice in an evening like this.”
Charles watched as the statuesque black woman, a familiar figure in the South, and if Charles was honest with himself, all over the world, walked to the stage. Dr. Martin Luther King, now that was a name that his father despised.
“Didn’t we plan—” Lonnie repeated, retrieving Charles’s attention, “to put any uneaten ones in the disposal with all the other garbage.”
“Yes,” Charles said. And they had, but he wasn’t sure that the sanitation system was adequate to prevent any of the toxic staph from infiltrating the water system. Too many unknowns and Charles was not a sanitation expert. He thought that the bacteria would die off in a hostile environment, but he wasn’t sure. He had a moment of panic. His parents, he’d need to tell them to use bottled water for the next few days. But then, they always used bottled water.
“I’m trying to locate Will out there. He should be back in here by now,” Charles said.
“Not before you finish this last tray,” Lonnie said, pausing as another waiter came through the open door with a tray containing two profiteroles. Lonnie deftly intercepted the tray just as the waiter reached for one of the pastries.
“Give me that,” Lonnie said. “Don’t eat that shit.” Lonnie had on rubber gloves, and Charles made a mental note to put them in his satchel when they finished the last tray.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30
At Emma’s request she had been seated, not among the dignitaries, but with her grandchildren. Her eldest, Karen, sat at her right, and her youngest whom she considered her namesake, Emeril, a chubby four-year-old, sat on her left. The other kids ranged around the rectangular head table of sixteen.
Emma had been strict with her own children, but she never tried to discipline the grandkids, even if she found fault, as she occasionally she did, with their parents’ child-rearing practices. Case in point; Emeril, reaching in front of her to grab a dessert.
“Emeril,” she said, “didn’t you hear the preacher? Everyone has to say a prayer first.”
The child’s arm remained extended, hand almost reaching the plate with the pastry. Emma looked to the nearby table where the boy’s mother sat, eyes focused on the podium where Coretta King now stood. An only child, Emeril had been known to throw quite a fit when he was crossed; Emma wanted to avoid anything like that at this exact moment.
“I want one now,” Emeril insisted.
Coretta King joined her pastor in prayer. Emma sighed. Now was not the time to correct a spoiled child.
Stacy had woofed down her shrimp cocktail—she’d eaten not a bite since a breakfast bar early that morning. But by the time the lobster and filet mignon were served, she was deep in conversation. Her plate sat untouched as she listened to John Conyers, Michigan’s longtime U.S. Congressional Representative from Detroit and his heroic and celebrated assistant, Rosa Parks. Stacy found herself spellbound by Conyers’s account of the Detroit riots of 1967, in which he’d prominently played a conciliator role. Stacy had lost two brothers to those riots. Those five nights when Detroit burned amidst looting and sniping would always stay with her. She could never forget. And what happened afterward. She could never forget that, either.
When the profiteroles were served on the fine china plates, Stacy promptly salivated. She felt the childish impulse to just pop a quick spoonful into her mouth. But, of course, she refrained. She’d sit politely though another moment of solemn prayer. They had prayed before each course. Stacy was Catholic, but the Goodes were Baptists. The Catholics prayed once, and that was it. Now she folded her hands on the cloth napkin and waited for Emma Goode’s pastor and Dr. King’s widow to finish what unquestionably was a record
-setting lengthy prayer.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Charles stared out across the tables. Even in subdued lighting, he could make out the shade of everybody’s skin. Skin coloring had been important to his parents and thus to him. He’d learned that lesson after school in the fifth grade, the first and only time he’d invited home a kid with darkish-colored skin. He’d known not to associate with Negroes, of course, but this kid’s skin was just a bit darker than the other kids’. A really great tan, Charles thought. But his mother had been quick to usher the kid out of the house and out of the neighborhood. She’d sat down with Charles and explained about skin color.
Absorbed by the mix of races, appalled by how this had come about, Charles jerked to attention as Lonnie interrupted, “Get the fuck over here and finish the last tray. What the fuck you lookin’ at out there?”
One last glance from table to table as the preacher and Coretta King led the diners in prayer. So many different tones of skin color. Many quite dark and lots lily-white, too. Then his eyes fell on two white people. A man and a woman. Sitting among whites-only at a round table.
His hand opened, the syringe clacked onto the final tray of to-be-injected profiteroles, and he bolted through the door into the dining room.
The table compelling his interest was on the far side of the banquet room, so he had to run past several tables to get there. Most of the diners had their eyes reverently cast down so he didn’t attract that much attention, but as he passed one table, he found himself staring into the eyes of Stacy Jones. He almost didn’t recognize her in the scooped neck black dress, her hair up, pinned with a cluster of jewels. Fake, obviously.
“What the heck are you—” Stacy said.
Charles barely hesitated, then propelled himself toward the back table. Still, the diners focused on the podium.
Charles reached one of two all-white tables toward the back. Twelve people, exquisitely dressed, expensive jewelry. No fakes here. They looked out of place, their eyes wandering as Mrs. King recited what must be the last verse before her final amen.
The animated woman reached for her knife and cut into the dessert, smiled to her dinner partner, and with a fork scooped a generous helping of the cream from inside the profiterole.
“Mother, don’t!” Charles yelled, diving toward the table, jerking the tablecloth off, sending everything on the table crashing to the floor, including the tainted profiteroles.
The fork had reached his mother’s mouth, when his father stood. “Charles, my word, boy, what are you doing here? Why are you wearing—those clothes?”
“Put it down, Mother!” Charles shouted again, louder. “Don’t eat that profiterole!”
Rosabelle Scarlett looked dazed as her hand continued toward her mouth.
“Dad, stop her, they’re poisoned,” Charles warned.
Charles, now at his mother’s side, tried to slap aside the forkful of pastry, but tripped on a small, heavy handbag on the floor in front of him, and instead shoved the profiterole against her open mouth.
His father stood, grabbed Charles’s arm, and yanked him back. “What’s gotten into you, son?”
“Mother!” Charles’s cry of anguish could be heard above the resuming chatter.
In an agonizing instant, Charles realized what he had done. Eyes wild, he looked around at all the black faces. All their fault. I have to stay calm. Let them eat their dessert. But his mother—
Out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw a busboy approach, stepping quickly. Will Banks in the promised disguise, his auburn hair in a ponytail. His coal-black eyes blazing with menace.
“Charles, look what you’ve done to my dress, it’s ruined,” Mother said, wiping away the creamy white filling with her napkin. “Have you gone mad? And what in Hades are you doing here?”
Will now stood next to him. “They need you in the kitchen,” he told Charles, as if he’d been sent to fetch an errant kitchen worker.
“Charles, what is this all about?” his father asked, scrutinizing his checkered pants. “And you,” he said to Banks, “get some soda water for my wife’s dress.”
“To the kitchen,” busboy Banks reiterated, with a shove to Charles’s shoulder.
Charles had no choice: leave Mother, obey Will Banks, return to the kitchen. His father would expect him to complete his assignment from The Order.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Stacy shoved back her chair and chased after Charles. What was he doing here? A racist like him never would show his face at an event like this. And why was he tearing across the room and yelling? Dressed like a kitchen worker? No chef’s hat but in a white coat and baggy pants. Moonlighting? Hardly. A trust fund kid who lived in a Buckhead mansion?
She caught up with him quite fast, considering her four-inch heels. She heard a yell, “Put it down, Mother.” His parents? Stacy had always suspected they were old-school Klan. Attending an event honoring Emma Goode?
Only an instant. Less than an instant. Factoids converged. Charles’s so-called sickness. Her suspicion that something may have been tampered with in the P3 lab. Oh, no! A terrible long shot. But what if—I have to stop it now.
She’d been close enough to hear the shout, “Dad, stop her. They’re poisoned.”
The man who must be “Dad” held onto one of Charles’s arms. Stacy grabbed the other, pushing away a ponytailed busboy who seemed to be trying to intervene. What was Charles doing here? What were his parents doing here?
By now everyone was gaping in their direction. Stacy knew that she had to act. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, distracted when she heard the busboy order Charles to the kitchen. A Scarlett taking orders from a busboy? No time to ponder that. She had to act now. Not a millisecond later.
Summoning all her courage, Stacy took a deep breath and yelled as loud as she could, “Everybody! Stop eating! Now!” She could hear the “now” come out as a hysterical screech. The diners would think she was mad, a natural reaction to this outlandish behavior, yet she had to do something immediately. Letting go of Charles’s arm, Stacy kicked off her shoes, and climbed onto an empty chair. She yelled again, this time trying to sound authoritative, like somebody in control, “Attention, everybody in this room!”
Now the diners gawked and silence evolved to a buzz, making her warning harder to hear. She heard a voice at the next table say, “Somebody call the cops!” She heard the busboy yell, “Get the fuck out of here!”
What Stacy did not see was a wave of profiteroles going into mouths. Good.
“I am Dr. Jones,” she continued, trying her best to lower her voice an octave without sacrificing volume. “This is an emergency. I’m from the Center for Disease Control. I repeat. Stop eating. Do not touch the food. Do not eat the dessert. It may be contaminated.”
“Get down from there, young lady,” the distinguished-looking white man, whom she now knew was Charles’s father, ordered.
She felt a yank on her dress, a rough arm go around her legs, the busboy’s. She was about to repeat, “Do not eat the dessert,” when her knees buckled and she tumbled off the chair onto the industrial-grade carpet.
Stacy pulled herself up, knowing that she had to repeat her message, reiterate her credentials, and stop everybody from eating. Based on Charles’s warning to his mother, he must have contaminated the profiteroles. The creamy filling would be an ideal delivery form. Based on the creamy residue on Mrs. Scarlett’s face, Stacy could predict the scourge that would be the sophisticated socialite’s final hours.
“Let’s go,” the busboy said, yanking Charles by the arm, and dragging him away.
By then security, both uniformed and in tuxes, started to surround the table of chaos. Stacy could hear them talking into their radios: “unstable situation,” “send backup,” “get your people out,” “unknown.”
How could she make them believe her?
The first, a burly white man stuffed in a tux, r
eached her just as she’d shouted out again. “Do not eat anything. I’m a doctor. The food may be poisoned. I’m from the CDC. Don’t touch—”
“Ma’am, what are you talking about?” He started to grab her wrists, but she yanked them behind her.
“Table eighteen,” she said, “next to my chair. My purse. My credentials. This is an emergency. You have to quarantine everybody in the dining room and kitchen. We have a deadly bacteria. A flesh-eating bacteria. You have to stop everybody from leaving. We can’t let the lethal bacteria out. We have to contain it in the hotel.”
Stacy watched the big man recoil. A uniformed officer ran to her table and burrowed under it to locate her small purse and extracted her ID card. He rushed back to the growing group surrounding her. “Yeah, she’s a doctor. Works for the CDC.”
“I have to talk to Dr. Madeleine Cox, it’s urgent. She’s the CDC director. She needs to know this so she can tell you what to do. There’s a number in my purse, her emergency line. She’s in Tampa. Call it now. Hurry. Meantime,” Stacy gestured to the officers, “do as I say and don’t let anybody leave the hotel. We have a biocontamination emergency. Go! If you hurry, you can save lives. Please. Go. Now!”
Among the throng of officers, no one seemed to take charge. “Now,” Stacy ordered. “Stop everybody from eating anything. Stop them from leaving the hotel. Everybody. From the head table to the serving staff.” She spoke as loudly as she could. “We have a flesh-eating staph in this room, and it’s resistant to all antibiotics. If you don’t act, people will die a horrible death.”
Finally, a tall, fit man appearing to be in his fifties stepped forward. “I’m taking charge, miss. God help me if this is not for real.”
Stacy heard a male voice boom from the loudspeaker, reiterating her orders. Good.
But was she right? Or was she screaming about nothing at all? Were the profiteroles safe and delicious after all? Could Charles be innocent of any wrongdoing?
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