by Hart Johnson
“If you find out this wasn't an accident... if my son's daddy was killed by terrorists... promise me you'll kill the motherfuckers who did this.”
He nodded. That was a promise he'd be happy to keep. He turned to her again and she was gone. She'd just needed the same comfort he had: to share some of the life they'd lost and remember they were still here and would go on. And to exact a promise from him that he was happy to give. Pax would have understood.
1.5. Dorene Radcliff:
New Orleans, Louisiana
Daddy's Girl
There were times Dorene Radcliff wondered what the hell she was doing with a man like Corbin Tildon. He could be such an ass. Sure, his prospects were great. He was an Orleans Parish prosecutor only six years out of law school. He’d sworn when he hit ten years he'd tip his nose into politics and there would be no looking back.
Days like today made her fear for that eventuality. Because it was surely going to happen, but he could be so uncaring. Even about her. How could he ever care about his constituents?
“I assure you, Reeny, your father is perfectly safe.”
“And how the hell would you know?” Corbin gasped at her swearing and she decided she should do it more often. “Lucretia said he's taken ill.”
“He has the very best doctors. At the very least, get your flu shot before you go traipsing off to play Florence Nightingale.”
Dorene hated to admit it, but that wasn't a bad idea. She just wished he could dish his advice with some decency.
“I'll go to the clinic up at school today, let my professors know I have a family emergency, and leave first thing in the morning.” Not that her professors would care. Law professors, like lawyers themselves, were short on sympathy. She'd have to get course notes from a friend and send her work in electronically.
He let out his breath and it whistled through his nose. It was a sure sign he was frustrated when he sounded like a tea pot. “Have you forgotten the benefit tomorrow night?”
“No. I haven't forgotten, but I'm placing my father in a higher-priority position.”
She walked away from him, then. She couldn't look at him anymore.
The health clinic at Tulane was swamped, but Dorene had brought a stack of briefs she'd been intending to read for a mock trial she was preparing for. If her father didn't recover soon, it would be a moot point because she wouldn't be back for it, but she could hear his voice lecturing her in her head. “Law is a hard path for a young woman, Dorene. Those boys will have every advantage. You need to work harder and smarter if you want to keep your edge.”
He was right. She couldn't afford not to stay on top of her work. But she'd always been a daddy's girl and she had a nagging feeling about this flu. In twenty-three years she'd never seen her father driven to bed by any illness. And Lucretia, their housekeeper for as long as Dorene could remember, wasn't typically paranoid—doting, yes, but she knew Senator Radcliff was too busy for a fuss if he didn't need it. And she didn't ask anything of Dorene unless it was serious. What she'd said on the phone was, “you need to come home.”
The line for the flu shot was fast, considering she'd been some sixty people back when she walked in. It smarted a little, but there was a sense of freedom when she was done. She could pack and head home. Maybe she'd even go tonight. It would take all night, but something about it appealed to her—made her feel rebellious like she hadn't in several years. She'd be there first thing in the morning.
There were a dozen roses waiting when she got to her apartment. Corbin probably didn't think he'd done anything wrong, but he knew she thought so. Not for the first time, she felt burning anger at this latest act of contrition. Whenever he did it, it made her sure he was courting 'the senator's daughter' instead of Dorene Radcliff, the smart, pretty law student. Every decision Corbin made was about power and Dorene's power was in her bloodline. It didn't stem from any abilities or characteristics she had.
She left the roses on the landing in the hallway and went inside to pack. Let him think he'd missed her.
The road to Atlanta was crowded at first, but traffic died out as she got away from New Orleans. She drove and drank coffee, stopping when she needed to, but feeling energized by what she was doing. As she hit the outskirts of Atlanta, the sun turned the sky to a blaze. The traffic that had dwindled as she drove was reappearing, most of it heading away from the city. It made her feel like she was going the wrong way. The temperature had dropped as she headed north. A front in the gulf must have been holding off the winter that was trying to encroach on the rest of the US.
It was 9 AM when she pulled into their long, circular driveway; Lucretia rushed out to meet her, short and plump, arms spread wide like a mother hen.
“Thank the sweet lord you're here, Miss Dorene! You must have drove all night! The doctor is in with him now, but I think it's bad. You leave your bags. I'll have Tommy get them and move your car. You just get in to your daddy.”
Dorene did as commanded. Her mother had died of ovarian cancer when she was a teen and Lucretia had been the closest thing she'd had to a mother since. She'd been away at boarding school during the school year, since her father had been in Washington, DC, but Lucretia had made coming home feel like home and sent all the care packages she could have asked for.
“How is he?” she asked the doctor when she entered.
Her father opened his eyes and started to give his standard protest that she had better things to do than sit around at his bedside, but he didn't have the fight in him. It scared her.
“You shush, Daddy. Lucretia told me to come and I'm glad she did.” He did whatever Lucretia commanded, too, so he had to understand that. She took a breath and fought the tears stinging her eyes. He would want her strong.
“How's school?” he asked. Dorene heard the full lecture he normally would have given even though he didn't have the strength to say it.
“It will wait. I'm top of my class and a well-rounded person cares about more than just her standings.”
The corner of his mouth edged up as he tried to smile at her. “My girl. So proud.”
He fell asleep not long after that and she dragged the doctor out to get the prognosis.
“He'll probably recover from the flu,” he said. “But the drugs we had to use have had a side effect—it's rare, but your father wasn't honest with me about how much he drinks. And there was some medical information missing from his records. His liver couldn't take it and I'm afraid the trickle effect is in the kidney. He's got weeks, maybe, but not months. And certainly not years.”
“Kidney? He's got another, right? Or we can try for a transplant?” Dorene said.
“He only has the one. That was the medical information I alluded to. If he'd told me, I wouldn't have used the drug—this side effect is rare, but common enough that, had I known, I would have gone with a milder drug.”
“Where'd the other kidney go?” That seemed like something she should have known.
“A brother?” The doctor didn't sound sure, like he didn't know whether to believe it.
Dorene was confused, though her father did have a few brothers. “How was that not in his medical records?”
“They did it abroad. He said the brother had a criminal record and couldn't come to the States. It was done quietly. Your father said his career couldn't have taken it if this was known—a shame, really. A man who donates a kidney is a hero, no matter who the recipient is.”
That brother. The one she'd never met. He'd left the US well before political pundits tracked people's life histories and her father had seven other siblings, all law-abiding US citizens, to talk about, so nobody had ever looked into the brother in Quebec. He'd originally dodged the draft for Vietnam, but while he was hiding, he'd also vandalized some military holdings—there'd even been an explosion, though he was a pacifist, so it was an empty facility he'd damaged. Dorene wondered where he was now.
'Weeks' was enough time to set his affairs in order and say good-bye, but it certainly wasn'
t time to fill the hole he'd leave in her heart and in her life. And she didn't savor what might happen to Georgia politics without him. Cooperative gentleman politicians were an endangered species.
A few days of caring for her dad and making note of his wishes resigned Dorene to what was going to happen. She even managed to forgive Corbin, probably because in a matter of weeks she'd no longer be a senator's daughter and their relationship would finally have some clarity. She'd be free from wondering what it was he saw in her.
She went downtown to the capitol where her father had an office to see if she could get a handle on the priorities, make sure his senior people knew what was happening, and bring him a few important questions about how he wanted things handled. His staff was pleased to see her and, though the news was bad, they were glad to know so they could start planning. Many office functions were at a standstill. Her father wasn't the only person who'd called in sick with the flu.
It occurred to her that Corbin could actually be helpful here in a way that would help his career, too, so Dorene decided to call and let him know he'd been forgiven. Then she'd invite him up to schmooze and help in a real political office.
He sounded like hell.
“Corbin? I know you're furious, but I'm glad I came. Daddy's dying.”
He gave a groan that sounded like, “I think I am, too.”
“Are you sick?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“I thought you got your flu shot before I did.”
“I did. Got it anyway.”
“Oh, you poor thing. I'd come nurse you. I swear it. But with Daddy...”
“I know. It's okay.”
“I hope you feel better,” she said.
“Me, too.”
She could have let the guilt eat at her, but there was too much to do. She wanted her dad to have the peace of mind when he went that he'd left no giant emergencies. Unfortunately, a flu epidemic causes more than a few emergencies. At her father's request, and because they'd heard the governor was ill, Dorene filled out the paperwork requesting that Georgia be declared a state of emergency for him to sign. Then she tracked down the two people her father trusted to take over until the people of Georgia had a chance to voice their opinion.
One of them had the flu. It was very surreal to realize how many important people were really sick. She wondered if it was the case everywhere.
Public relations threatened to be the biggest nightmare in this crisis. Beau Duchamp, a televangelist, wanted a united front to prove to the people of Georgia that God would help them. Whatever that meant. And a list of cronies a mile long kept offering to help, undoubtedly with a lot of provisions for good press and substantial pieces of the resources of Georgia when the crisis was over.
Dorene watched as the people in her father's office worked out deals and it left a sour taste in her mouth, but that was politics. The one time she said anything, she was shooed out and talked to like a third-grader. And since she didn't have an official appointment, there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.
1.6. Sidney Knight:
Portland, Oregon
Roommate Trouble
Sid was glad to be home. The familiar environment and the horsing around of her friends calmed her. But the flu and her brother's mysterious warning nagged at her over the next couple days. She couldn't concentrate on the third article she was meant to be writing, so she decided she would look into the dead birds a bit further.
She'd already read everything she could find online about it, even using her University of Oregon alumni access to get articles that required subscriptions. Death rates in the US seemed high to her—higher than what China and Russia had reported, though she knew their media couldn't always be relied on for accuracy. What she really needed was a coastal community where she had some inroads so she could investigate a more personal angle of how this was affecting people's lives. It wasn't the only story, but it was a story she wasn't seeing. And a small town would have people who would talk to a young, unemployed reporter. That was harder to come by in Portland: recruiting a source, when you had no known name to earn their trust.
It was the part of journalism that was hardest for her—reaching out to people she barely knew and calling in favors they didn't owe—but she'd learned to fake it. She'd had a friend in college from Astoria, and if any Oregon port was likely to be affected by this, that was it. The mouth of the Columbia River let in all the inland shipping in the state—a significant portion of what went into Washington, too. And the port authority there would be a perfect source for what official instructions had been given to people about the avian flu.
Sid found Carina Costas on Facebook and gave her a watered down version of what she was looking for and why. Carina's family was mostly still in the Astoria area. Carina was the first college graduate in a line of hard-working immigrants, so had been the first to seek a job outside the thriving blue collar life Astoria offered. At least, it did when the economy was good.
She seemed happy to help. “I have a cousin on the docks and an uncle who manages a warehouse. I'd have to call my mom for my uncle's phone number, but I can hook you up with Gianni here on Facebook.”
Sid let her connect them, and in spite of her discomfort, agreed to have a Skype chat with Gianni. He was a flirt in a backward baseball cap and a wifebeater tank top. Sid had to roll her eyes at the pickup lines, but he did tell her about an incident that would be good for her story, should she get to a story.
“I got called in at 6 AM last week. Thursday, I think. I work the swing, see, but my supe called at five and said we had an issue. He was calling a bunch of us in. I get there and the freaking river is clogged. I mean not completely, but thick enough nobody could miss it. We had to dredge fucking seagulls to clear the mouth so they could get boats up the river without dragging along a ton of those dead birds. I've never seen anything so nasty!”
“And what did you do with them?” Sid tried to wipe the disgust off her own face, but it wouldn't go.
“Gasoline and a blow torch!” He laughed, acting it out with sound effects.
“Great. And did they close the port?”
“Twenty-four hours—and they've had us wearing masks all week. There are some kinds of stuff they won't let in, or actually, they confiscate, because now that it's been exposed, they don't want it sold, but I don't know what. My uncle might know.”
That had been one of her questions—if his father was the uncle Carina had talked about. Apparently not, but it was a shared uncle and he knew the man was in the Astoria phone book. She probably should have thought of that—white pages weren't very helpful with her generation, but for older people, they were still pretty reliable.
Sid decided to contact the uncle on her own the next day. Gianni had given her the experiential side for an article, but a manager would be more helpful for actual facts. What were the authorities being told? And what, in turn, were they telling their employees? Were they passing out the advice to get a flu shot like the law officials in Lincoln City? Was that just so people felt like they had something to do? To avoid panic?
Astoria was just over an hour from Portland, so it wasn't a bad drive, even if Jeff had told her to avoid the places with the birds. She bought some Airborne and took that prophylactically, hoping it would boost her immune system. She asked Sarah for a face mask, which Sarah, as a nurse, always had. Finally she made an appointment with Mr. Costas' secretary. She was sure he wouldn't be thrilled to see her, but she could convince him.
When she got there she found the county offices on the northern side of the little peninsula that was Astoria. The buildings seemed so tiny compared to the buildings that housed Multnomah County's employees. The enormity of a water bird disaster in a city surrounded by water on three sides hadn't really hit her until she parked her car and looked around. Gianni had badly under-reported the problem. Astoria was a ghost town. Mr. Costas was in his office wearing a strained face when she found him.
“Hello, Mr. Costas. Thank y
ou for meeting with me.”
“Who are you?”
“Sidney Knight. I went to college with Carina. I'm a freelance reporter and last week I was down in Lincoln City and noticed the bird issue—dead seagulls everywhere. I was concerned about the health and safety here in a port town. I thought maybe it would be a lot worse here.”
“It's pretty bad. I haven't had time to go anywhere else, but they tell us this is the worst.”
“Are there precautions you're taking?”
“Well, we just closed the port again this morning—the health inspector called and said we had to. People are furious, of course—they need those jobs and those goods to live. But it was too dangerous. We are telling people to stay home. To wear masks if they go out. To go visit relatives. We've tried a lot of things, but what can we do?”
“Did the authorities say anything about flu shots?” Sid asked.
“There's a clinic that does them free for old folks, the poor. But no. Nothing any different than normal. We are of sturdy stock here, or have always thought so. I assume most people just figure if they get sick, they get sick.”
“I think that's right,” she said. She didn't want to cause any panic by passing on her brother's message to a stranger when it had been nothing more than an impulse on his part. “Do you know how many people have died of the flu?”
“Records is just upstairs. They won't release cause, but you could maybe get a monthly total. I've heard of several cases—it swept through one of the rest homes in fact. Dozen people or more dead up there in a matter of days.”
“Do you know which one?” she asked.
He didn't know the name, but he wrote down the cross streets. She wasn't sure she felt brazen enough to go to a place where so many had died recently, but if the records merited it, it was probably a good idea.
Sid asked a few more questions, but it didn't seem like Mr. Costas knew any more than anybody else. The state or federal authorities—whoever should have been advising—clearly hadn't given them much to work with. Though that, in itself, was a story.