Furious

  I glared at him. He would not allow me to examine his head and insisting would only infuriate him.

  Should I worry about Brad or fear him?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Brad attacked Emma in her grave. His hands tightened around her throat, crushing her trachea, and she choked and squirmed, struggling to breathe. Her face turned blue and her eyes rolled white. I reached for her, but I could not move my arms. I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

  I jolted awake to the beeping of my watch alarm. My muscles ached and my head pounded. I leaned forward on the deck lounger, my eyes darting around. Stars filled the sky and empty ocean surrounded us. We had not moved or seen another ship for days. Brad’s condition, the lack of wind, the shark—all left me with an impending sense of doom.

  I could not fall back to sleep after those horrible dreams, so I opened my Mac Air to do some research, which always calmed me. It had worked when my mother stumbled around the house drunk and when med school had seemed impossible. It would work now. The infected wound on Brad’s head must have come from the bat in the temple cave. What else could have done it?

  I opened a browser and queried bats indigenous to Indonesia. Over eleven million hits popped up, and I scrolled through the results. Indonesia was home to hundreds of species of bats, a fact I did not remember reading in their tourism ads. I searched for the Pura Goa Lawah temple, opened Wikipedia, and read. Nectar bats infested the cave at the temple site, so next, I typed in “nectar bat Bali” and found several ecology websites.

  The cave nectar bat seemed like the likely culprit. They were brown or black, with heads shaped like dogs, furry bodies, and pointed ears. They were not carnivores and fed on the nectar of plants. One picture showed a cave nectar bat sticking its long pink tongue into a flower.

  Did it even have teeth? Optimism filled me.

  I searched further and found an animal website which claimed all bats had canines. My hope deflated. That cave nectar bat had fangs and could have bitten Brad. Carnivorous bats seldom bit humans and usually feasted on bugs or other tiny prey. Small fangs did not always cause pain, which meant Brad could have felt the bat strike him, but not its bite.

  But if nectar bats were herbivores, why had it bitten him? I read more.

  Sometimes bats attacked humans, because they carried rabies—a neurological disease, which drove the bats into madness. Less than one percent of all bats carried the rabies virus, according to a website about animals, but another website claimed six percent of bats had it. How could those numbers be accurate? There had been thousands of bats in that cave on Bali, and if one percent had rabies and started biting the others, the percentage of carriers would surge.

  I researched the symptoms of rabies and most sites urged prevention through rabies vaccinations. According to the Center for Disease Control, over fifty-nine thousand people died each year from rabies, mostly in Africa and Asia. The disease had almost been eradicated in the United States, with only one or two people succumbing to it annually. Rabies vaccines proved effective, and even if a bat bit an unvaccinated patient, a doctor could administer post-exposure prophylaxis. The incubation period for the virus was anywhere from five days to ten years, with an average of about three weeks.

  Unfortunately, once a patient displayed symptoms, it was too late to get treatment. It seldom happened in the United States, unless patients awakened in room with a bat but did not know it had bitten them. Because of that possibility, the medical protocol required administering treatment if a patient had been asleep in proximity to a bat.

  We should have gone to a doctor.

  I read further and gasped. The mortality rate for patients exhibiting symptoms was almost one hundred percent. There had only been seven recorded cases of patients surviving after symptoms became visible. I slammed my laptop shut.

  Brad does not have rabies.

  But if he did and these were the first symptoms, he would die. I could not handle his death. Not now. Not after Emma. He did not have rabies, and that was that.

  I climbed on deck and stared at the water. I checked the instruments. I inspected at the sails. I paced the length of the yacht. I rubbed my neck and ran my fingers through my hair.

  “Damn it.”

  I was a doctor. Burying my head in the sand may be easier than facing the possibility Brad had contracted rabies, but it was not a rational response. Understandable, but not rational. I needed to consider the worst-case scenario and allow myself time to plan. Brad probably had the flu, but if it was something more serious—if it was rabies—I would have to use my mind to solve the problem. Reason had always been my refuge, and I would think my way through this.

  I opened my laptop and scrolled through the symptoms again. After the incubation period, infected patients displayed flu-like symptoms for two to ten days. Patients presented headaches, weakness, nausea, anxiety, and hyperactivity. Rabies attacked the neurological system and caused confusion and cerebral dysfunction. Brad had displayed all of those symptoms, but the flu could also explain it.

  Except his bloody head.

  In the acute phase, the trademark behavior of patients infected with rabies included excessive salivation—drooling like a dog—difficulty swallowing, and hydrophobia. Patients had exhibited extreme fear of water for as long as there had been records of rabies infections.

  People contracted the disease from wild animals. Dog bites caused a rabies epidemic in Bali in 2008, but the disease was under control now. Most people in the United States contracted the virus from bats, but any animal could carry it. After furious rabies burned itself through the brain, patients experienced paralysis, coma, and death. It was a savage virus and a horrible way to die.

  I clicked on a video of an African man strapped to a hospital bed, with an oxygen mask covering his mouth. He jerked in bed, growling and barking while a doctor documented his symptoms—two weeks post dog bite. The patient’s eye flared like a wild beast.

  Can this be real?

  My eyes darted to the companionway.

  I opened another black and white video showing Persian villagers taken to the Pasteur Institute after being bitten by a wolf. One man had legions on his face. According to the narrator, a patient developed hydrophobia on his third symptomatic day. An agitated man tossed and turned in bed. In another clip, he spit water after trying to drink, coughing and gasping. By day five they had tied him to a bed, where he lay soaked in sweat and frothing at the mouth. His eyes rolled in his head. He became paralyzed, sank into a coma, and died.

  I glanced at the companionway again. Had I heard something?

  I closed the video and opened another, from Bhopal, India. A group of people stood in the street watching a man on his hands and knees, eating food off a plate like an animal. A woman tried to give him a sip from a jug and the man lunged at her, snapping his teeth like a rabid dog.

  Tears filled my eyes. “Oh my God.”

  If Brad had rabies, there was nothing I could do. He could be dead in as few as eight days. I seethed with anger. Brad’s ego had prevented me from examining his head on Bali. If I had seen blood on his scalp, I would have known the bat had bitten him and he could have visited a doctor before departing. Now, it was too late. All we had was a medical kit. And me.

  What will I do if he dies?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Brad had been asleep for hours, and I paced around the deck to calm myself. I had suggested calling for help, but he had refused, and I had seen no point in arguing. If he had rabies, there was no medical cure at this stage, but at least I could get him palliative care to make his last days less painful. We needed to find a port.

  I sat in the cockpit with my laptop and checked the wind and weather forecasts. I fou
nd nothing specific for our location, but they forecast no storms for the northern Indian Ocean. I Googled “no wind in the Indian ocean” and a dozen articles about the doldrums popped up.

  “Shit.”

  The doldrums described a windless vacuum, occurring within five degrees of the equator, especially north of it, where we now floated. The doldrums lay between the East and West trade winds, on both sides of the equator, where the sun’s radiation heated the air and forced it straight up. Windless conditions could persist for weeks and flash storms were possible.

  We have to get out of here.

  I climbed into the cabin, laid a chart of the Indian Ocean over the navigation table, and compared it to the computer screen showing our GPS location. It was fifteen hundred miles from Banda Aceh, at the tip of Indonesia, to the Maldives. We had been averaging eight knots, before the storm pushed us close to the equator. Crossing the Indian Ocean should have taken us seven or eight days, and we were almost halfway there, so if we had a consistent wind, we could make it in about four days. Unfortunately, the wind had died three days ago, and the current carried us in the wrong direction.

  I estimated we had eight hundred fifty miles left to go. If some wind returned and we could increase our speed to three knots, it would still take eleven days to reach the Maldives. If the bat had infected Brad, he did not have long. I could burn our limited fuel, but we did not have enough to make it. Turning on the engine could get us closer, but it could also attract the shark.

  A shiver passed through me, and I decided not to worry about irrational fears in the face of a genuine crisis.

  I checked the fuel gauge, which showed 260 gallons of diesel fuel remaining from the 264 we loaded in Bali. I opened the Beneteau manual and confirmed we would burn three gallons of fuel per hour, at 2,000 RPMs, which should give us a speed of 8.5 knots. At that rate we could motor for 86 hours. I read the reference chart. One knot equaled 1.15 mph, making 8 knots 9.2 mph. I scribbled some quick calculations on the edge of the chart. We could cover 791 miles before the fuel ran dry, but I would need to save some fuel—at least three gallons—to navigate through a channel and dock. We could motor at 8 knots for 85 hours and get within 7.5 hours of the Maldives.

  I could also motor due north and try to catch the trade winds, but that would take me in the wrong direction, and I may not find them, which could waste fuel for nothing. Motoring against the current would slow us, and if the wind increased, I could use the sails too, but those were unknown variables.

  Brad may not have rabies, but I had to assume the worst and get him to a hospital. If I used the motor, and he did not have rabies, I would only have wasted our fuel.

  I read the motoring instructions, climbed the stairs, and started the engine. The vibration rumbled through the bare soles of my feet as I throttled the engine. The sails flapped wildly, and I furled them. I confirmed the autopilot had us on a western heading—straight for the Maldives—and went below to see how Brad was doing.

  He sat upright in bed with his head cocked, listening to the motor.

  “What is that?” He asked. “What’s that noise?”

  I hesitated for a moment. Did he not recognize the sound of our engine?

  “I’m using the motor to escape the doldrums.”

  “What? We don’t have enough fuel. You’re wasting our diesel.” He shook his head back and forth in a feverish tantrum. “Don’t do it.”

  “Brad, listen to me. You’re sick and I need to get you to port. I’m heading for the Maldives. We can admit you to a hospital there.”

  “Hospital? I don’t need a doctor. I have the flu.”

  Should tell him I suspected rabies. He would probably know it was incurable at this stage. It seemed cruel to worry him, but as a doctor, I believed a patient always had the right to hear the truth. It was not my decision to protect a patient from facts about his health, even when the patient was my husband. I sat on the bed next to him.

  “Honey, I don’t want to frighten you, but there’s a chance you contracted rabies from that bat.”

  “Rabies? Impossible.”

  “I could be wrong, and I don’t want you to stress out. It’s only a possibility, but the wound on your head isn’t healing, which indicates a rabid bite.”

  “I scratched it. I’m bleeding, because I scratched it in my sleep. I have the flu.”

  “You may be right.”

  Hope swelled my chest. Maybe he had the flu and had scratched off a scab. Even if the bat had bitten him, maybe it did not carry the virus.

  “If I’m showing symptoms of rabies, I’m dead,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Don’t think about it. Try to stay hydrated and get some rest. If this is the flu, you’ll recover in a few days. Let me plan for the worst.”

  “Who’s on watch?” he said, panic flashing in his eyes.

  “What do you mean? I’m here with you. There’s no one else.”

  “Who’s on watch?” Brad yelled.

  “Brad, try to focus. There’s nobody else onboard.”

  “We need to watch for tankers. I’m going on deck,” he said, and slipped his leg off the bed.

  I put my hand on his knee to stop him. “I’ll go. I’ll take the watch. Get some rest.”

  “I have insomnia. I tried to sleep, but I can’t. My throat hurts.”

  More symptoms of rabies.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  It had been almost two weeks since Brad first displayed flu-like symptoms and he had experienced two days of acute symptoms. If my diagnosis was correct, he could be dead within a week. I could not believe it. Sure, I wanted to divorce him, but I did not want him to die. This trip had been hard, and what should have been a transformative experience had turned into a nightmare.

  Poor, poor Brad.

  I went below to check on him and paused outside the stateroom door to listen for his snoring. It sounded like he was talking to someone. I cracked open the door and leaned into the berth. He slept, facing away from me.

  “I’m sorry, Emma,” he said.

  I froze when I heard him utter our daughter’s name. He was dreaming. I had experienced my share of those nightmares myself, and I wanted to wake him, but I hesitated because he needed to sleep.

  “I know, you’re dead,” he said.

  Icy fingers stroked my spine. I stood in the doorway with one foot in the passageway. I did not wish to wake him, but I hated to see him suffer, and I could not listen to his dream about Emma.

  “I did not murder you,” he said. “No, I didn’t mean to kill you.”

  What did he say? Did he think he killed Emma? My mouth parched, and the room spun.

  “An accident . . . yes,” he said. “What? Don’t say that. You’re mean.”

  I could not take it anymore. I had to wake him. I walked around the bed and stopped cold—Brad’s eyes were wide open.

  “Look Emma, Dagny’s here too,” Brad said, looking directly at me. “Say hello to Emma, Dags.”

  I covered my mouth with my hands and stepped backward. He was delirious, hallucinating.

  “Wake up Brad, you’re dreaming.”

  “I can’t sleep. I’m talking to Emma.”

  “Emma’s not here.”

  “She’s standing right beside you.”

  My chest tightened and tears filled my eyes.

  “You’re scaring me. Stop it.”

  “I have a little secret,” Brad said, grinning like a madman. “Want to hear it?

  “No, Brad. I don’t want to hear anything. Go to sleep.”

  “She’s a little bitch.”

&
nbsp; “Who’s a bitch?”

  “Emma. She’s a lying bitch.”

  “Stop it, Brad. Stop it. Don’t talk to about our dead daughter like that. How dare you!”

  “I told her not to tell, but that little bitch wants to blame me.” Spit flew from his mouth. “I’m not sorry. I’m not.”

  I opened my mouth, and a sob escaped my lips. I could not catch my breath. What was he saying? Had he done something to Emma? My pulse thumped in my ears.

  “You’re hallucinating,” I said. “Emma’s not here. You didn’t do anything.”

  “Poor little Dags. Always the good one. Always so sad. You don’t know what it means to be sad.”

  Brad sat upright, his eyes red and full of hate. The beast had returned.

  I willed my body to move and exited the berth, shutting the door behind me. My hands shook and tears flowed. He could never hurt Emma. He was hallucinating. It was the fever talking. That’s all.

  Just the flu.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  We were in trouble. Big trouble.

  Brad’s condition worsened, and if he had contracted rabies from that bat, it was a death sentence. I studied the empty horizon. Under diesel, we made eight knots, but it would take three or four days to reach port, maybe more.

  Last night, I had slept on deck for hours, unable to cope with Brad’s delirium. He scared me. The sleep had helped, but mental and physical exhaustion consumed me. His hallucination had terrified me, and I could not bring myself to consider whether he had killed Emma, a possibility too horrible to contemplate. I could not entertain it. Not here.

  I needed advice; confirmation I was doing everything possible. I slipped down the companionway into the salon and listened. Faint snoring drifted out of the stateroom. I plopped into the captain’s chair and powered up my laptop.

  Who should I call? I could contact Boston Pediatric Surgical Center, but if Brad did not have rabies, I would sound like an alarmist and the staff already seemed concerned about my mental well-being. But I could not ignore the obvious diagnosis because it was too nightmarish to accept. Who could help me?