Furious

  I exhaled and smiled.

  I pushed the throttle forward and motored west. Without wind, the ocean had flattened, and the bow pushed through long shallow swells. I had lost the autopilot when lightning destroyed the electronics, and I had to tie a line to each side of the wheel to maintain our course. Not a perfect solution, but forward motion, any movement, exhilarated me. We may not be on the right course, but at least we were no longer adrift.

  Eric’s medical opinion had been hard to hear, but I trusted it. I trusted him. He reaffirmed my suspicion of rabies and my decision to head to the closest port to admit Brad into a hospital.

  The bite wound lay near Brad’s brain, so if the bat had transmitted the rabies virus to him, his neurological degeneration would be accelerated. It had been three days since his acute symptoms began, which meant I would learn his fate soon. What would happen if he died and left me alone on this boat? Too many things could go wrong—too many ways to die.

  One crisis at a time.

  I went below, tiptoed across the deck, and opened the stateroom door. I peeked around the corner. The bed was empty. I stepped into the room. I knocked on the head door.

  “Brad, are you in there?”

  No answer.

  “Honey?”

  Nothing. I tried the handle, and it turned. I cracked the door open and leaned in. Empty. A chill tickled my spine, and my heart raced. I ran into the salon.

  Nothing.

  “Brad?” I yelled, panic rising in my throat.

  I hurried aft and opened the door to the starboard berth.

  Vacant.

  Had he fallen overboard in his delirium? I sprinted to the port berth, my heart pounding in my ears. I flung open the door and screamed.

  Brad stood there staring at me.

  “My God, Brad. You scared me. What are you doing out of bed? Why didn’t you answer me?”

  “Grrrp, aaah,” he mumbled, drool spilling over his lip.

  “Jesus, Honey. What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

  “Head hurts,” he said, squeezing his forehead with both hands.

  “Of course, it does. Let’s get you to bed,” I said, and took his arm.

  Drool dripped off his chin, and I remembered what Eric had said about rabies being transmitted through saliva. I stepped to the side and guided him into the stateroom. I helped him into bed, dug three Tylenol out of the bag, and handed them to him. I had to avoid touching his mouth.

  “Here, Brad. These will help with the pain and keep your fever low. Swallow them, and I’ll get you some something to drink.”

  I went to the galley and returned with a glass of Evian. Brad held the Tylenol in his open palm, appearing confused.

  “You have to take the pills, honey. Trust me.”

  I raised his hand to his mouth and tilted it until he dropped the pills on his tongue.

  “Good. Now take a sip and swallow them,” I said.

  I lifted the glass to his lips. “Drink this.”

  “Nnnngh.”

  The water flowed into his mouth, and he tried to swallow but gagged. His head bobbed forward like a chicken. Water dribbled over his lips and out of the corners of his mouth. It dripped off his chin. I pulled the glass away and stepped back to avoid his slobber.

  I set the glass on the floor and dug in the medical bag for latex gloves. I had been in denial for too long. He had rabies, and I needed to follow the medical protocol and protect myself. I donned gloves, lifted the glass and tried again.

  “You need to hydrate and take these pills. I know you’re delirious, but you have to do this if you want to feel better.”

  I sounded more optimistic than I felt. I pressed the glass against his lips. Brad slammed his mouth shut and shook his head, like a baby avoiding food.

  “Come on, Brad. Drink this.”

  “Nooo.”

  “Come on.”

  I tilted the glass and poured it into his mouth. He seemed unable to swallow, choking and spitting it out. His eyes widened—angry, wild. He slapped the glass out of my hand, and it shattered against the bulkhead.

  I fell backward, my hand stinging from the blow. He had been so fast.

  Brad pounded the bed with his hands. He wiped the back of his arm across his mouth.

  “No,” he yelled, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  The muscles in his thighs and calves contracted in spasms, and he grabbed them, grimacing.

  I stepped back, afraid, unsure. Pain shot through my foot and up my leg.

  I lifted my foot off the ground and bent my knee to examine it. A large shard of glass protruded from the sole of my foot.

  “Dammit,” I yelled.

  Brad gawked at me.

  I stripped off my gloves and threw them into the corner. I yanked the shard out of my foot, and blood dripped onto the deck. I hopped into the head, pulled a wad of tissues out of their holder and applied pressure to the wound. I turned to Brad.

  He stared at the pool of blood on the floor.

  “Don’t move. Let me clean it up. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”

  He raised his gaze, meeting my stare, and I saw intelligence behind his eyes. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, lucid again.

  I exhaled, and my stress poured out. “It’s okay, honey.”

  I hopped to the medical bag and cleaned my wound with alcohol. It looked deep, and I needed stitches, but I was too worried about getting the glass off the floor to deal with it now. I applied a sterile dressing and wrapped my foot in a bandage.

  I tested it on the deck, stepping on my forefoot. The wound burned, but I could walk. I swept the glass up, under Brad’s watchful gaze.

  “Try to sleep,” I said.

  I closed the door behind me and climbed on deck.

  Brad’s anger and strength scared me. He always had a violent side, but this was different. Primal anger. Feral. He was not acting like himself. He exhibited neurological impairment and something else. I had never seen it before, but I had no doubt.

  Brad had hydrophobia.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Brad had rabies. I was certain of it. I clamped down my panic and tried to analyze the situation. I used this skill often as a doctor when I had to look into the innocent eyes of a dying child and make sound decisions without crying. Empathizing with patients led to emotional responses, and those interfered with my ability to do what the situation required.

  I had to think clinically.

  I wanted the Wi-Fi more than ever. It was a miracle the satellite phone had survived when the lightning destroyed the main electronics board. Luckily, the phone sat in a separate panel and relied on its own communications pod on the mast. I needed to get Brad off the yacht, either by reaching port or by requesting a medical evacuation.

  I dialed Eric, and he answered with a groggy voice. It was late in Boston and he had been asleep. I apologized and got to the point.

  “Brad has hydrophobia.”

  “I’m sorry, Dagny.”

  “His behavior is erratic, and he’s in discomfort. I’m worried about him, but also about my safety.”

  “Of course.”

  “I need to ask a hospital in the Maldives or India to send a boat or a helicopter. I would find the information myself, but I lost the Wi-Fi connection when lightning struck our boat. I—”

  “Lightning? Jesus. Are you okay?”

  “I’m at least a three-day sail away from being okay. Can you find a number for a hospital and patch me through?”

  �
��I met an Indian doctor at an infectious disease conference a few months ago. Let me find his number. Stay on the line and I’ll conference you in.”

  I waited on hold, listening to echoes and pops. After an eternity, Eric’s voice came through the speaker.

  “Dagny, I have Dr. Arjun Singh on the line with us. He is a senior researcher with India’s Ministry of Health and Family Welfare, in New Delhi. I briefed him on your situation and your husband’s diagnosis.”

  “Thank you, Eric. Dr. Singh, I need to get my husband to a hospital. If my diagnosis is correct, and it’s rabies, he needs palliative care.”

  “Where are you, Dr. Steele?”

  “That’s the problem. We lost our navigation system in an electrical storm, but based on our last position, I estimate we are five hundred miles south of Sri Lanka, close to the equator. I’m using the motor to head for the Maldives.”

  “Dr. Steele, I fear you have two problems. First, if you cannot provide an exact position, there’s no way for a ship to intercept you. Eric told me you’re on a satellite phone, which could be tracked to determine your coordinates, but there’s a second and superior problem. Even if we knew your exact position, I’m afraid the Government of India would deny you entry.”

  “Did I hear you right? India won’t give my husband a visa to enter the country?”

  “I’m afraid not. Your husband is a likely carrier of rabies, an infectious disease. To be blunt, you are also a suspect carrier at this point.”

  “Your government will deny medical care to Americans at sea? How can that be? What about your Hippocratic oath? Don’t you—”

  “Dagny, it’s out of Dr. Singh’s hands,” Eric said. “This isn’t his decision.”

  “I’m afraid Dr. Franklin is correct,” Dr. Singh said. “Rabies is an infectious disease and India has an extensive history of outbreaks. We suffer twenty thousand deaths from rabies every year, and our Ministry has to consider the health and welfare of our own people first.”

  I knew I was being unfair. Eric was right—this was not Dr. Singh’s call. Brad groaned inside the stateroom.

  “What can I do, Dr. Singh?”

  “Even if India were to accept your husband, there’s nothing to do except hydrate him intravenously, use analgesics to reduce his pain, and sedate him to prevent him from hurting himself or others.”

  “I want to do that. Help me stop his suffering. Where can I take him?”

  “I suggest you contact a private medical evacuation company to take both you and your husband to a country willing to grant you entry,” Dr. Singh said.

  “Which country will let us in?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. The Maldives will probably respond the same way as India. Most countries in Africa and Asia battle rabies. People do not vaccinate their dogs, which has prevented us from eradicating the disease.”

  “Dagny, let me interrupt,” Eric said. “Do you know who to call for an evacuation?”

  “The boat has a service on contract. I don’t know how it works, but I’ll call them.”

  “Good luck, Dr. Steele,” Dr. Singh said.

  “Thank you. I’ll need it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Brad looked bad. He lay in bed with his hair soaked in sweat and stared at me with unfocused eyes.

  “You’re very sick, Brad. I have to issue a mayday and evacuate you to a hospital.”

  “What? Why?”

  His voice sounded tight and high-pitched, probably from a swollen throat. Brad would die—I was almost certain—but telling him would not help. He was already difficult to handle, and I did not need him to panic.

  “You contracted something from that bat, and you need to get tested in a hospital. I don’t have prescription analgesics or anything to sedate you.”

  “Watch for tankers,” he said.

  “Brad, pay attention. I’m calling for help. We need to get to shore now.”

  “No.”

  The rabies had become acute and his cognitive ability muddled. I could not save him, but I could get him to a hospital where they could ease his pain. I would call the medic service under contract with the yacht and hope they could trace our satellite phone and pinpoint our location. Maybe they could send a ship or a float plane.

  “You rest, and I’ll get help,” I said.

  “No . . . the tankers.”

  I closed the door to the berth and walked to navigation center. I found the telephone number for Medevac Worldwide Rescue on the first page of the yacht’s reference book.

  I dialed, and an operator directed me to their emergency liaison. I explained my husband may have rabies and India would probably deny us entry. I told him we motored for the Maldives, but our fuel would not last. Worse, we had lost all the navigation equipment.

  “I have your information here,” the man said. “I’ll contact your satellite company and see if they can give us your location. If we ping your phone with three or more satellites, we can use trilateration to pinpoint your location.”

  “Trilateration?”

  “It’s a more exact method than triangulation.”

  “How accurate is it?” I asked.

  “Theoretically, we can calculate your position within fifteen meters.”

  I breathed a little easier. “What’s next? What’s the process?”

  “Once we know where you are, we must figure out which country will accept you then determine how to evacuate you to a receiving facility.”

  “My husband’s in pain. How can we expedite this process?”

  “Stay on the line and we’ll trace your call. This will take some time.”

  “Please hurry.”

  A glass shattered behind me, and I whirled around.

  Brad stared at me from the galley. His ice-blue eyes swam in bloodshot sclera, and heavy eyelids hung above dilated pupils.

  “You startled me.” I said. “Are you in pain?”

  Brad stared and leaned against the galley where he had knocked a glass to the floor. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and drool dribbled off his chin.

  “No,” he said, his voice thick, as if he had a mouth full of honey.

  “The lightning destroyed our electronics. They have to trace our call.”

  “No.”

  He trembled and swayed.

  I knew he did not understand our situation, but anger boiled inside me. “You need a hospital. I’m getting help.”

  Brad growled and moved across the deck with his fists balled. I held my hands in front of my face to defend myself, and he snatched the phone away from me.

  “Brad, stop it. They’re triangulating our position.”

  Brad stared at the phone in his hand, then he raised his gaze and met my eyes. He bared his teeth and ripped the cord out of the wall.

  I gawked at the torn cord dangling in his hand and my tears flowed. I steadied myself on the chart table.

  “How could you? You’re going to die and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  I pushed past him then stopped at the starboard berth and looked back. He stood there with the phone in his hand.

  “Now, we’re all alone,” I said. “You may have killed me too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I awoke in the starboard berth on day four of Brad’s acute symptoms. How long had I been out? I had not slept more than a few hours since he fell ill, and when he destroyed our last link to the outside world, it had been too much for me. My worry about him, my fear of the ocean, the lack of wind, the shark—it had been more than I
could handle.

  I peered through the porthole. The sun had set, which meant I had been asleep for at least four hours.

  I slipped off the bed and winced when I put weight on my injured foot, now swollen and painful. I balanced on the ball of my foot and exited the berth into the dark salon. I climbed the stairs to the deck and gazed at miles of black sea. The engine hummed as we motored west through the windless night.

  Brad had been violent and scary, but I needed to check on him. I owed him that as a doctor. And as his wife. I tried not to think about his imminent death.

  I climbed below and entered to the dark stateroom. Brad lay atop the sheets and breathed through thick mucus. His leg twitched, like a sleeping dog, probably from muscle spasms. I watched him for a few minutes, then inspected my body. I had not bathed in two days, and I felt tired, dirty, and out of ideas. I needed to shower, drink a pot of coffee, and develop a plan to reach shore.

  I stepped into the head and inched the door shut. I stood in front of the mirror and stripped off my bikini. Underneath, my white skin contrasted with my bronze tan. I had not realized how dark I had become since we had taken to sea. Lines of salt crisscrossed my skin where sweat had dried.

  I examined my reflection in the mirror. I looked ten years older than I had on land. I pulled the dressing off my foot, and it bled. I would need to give myself stitches and take an antibiotic or risk infection. I reapplied the dressing to avoid staining the deck any more than I already had.

  I opened the shower stall, stepped inside, and closed the plexiglass door. I turned on the faucet and stepped under the large, rain-forest showerhead. Warm water beat against my breasts, like a thousand fingers massaging my stress away.

  I dipped my head under the flow and let it embrace me. I reached for the shampoo and lathered my hair while the water ran. I had no intention of taking a navy shower. I needed this.

  I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, slipped a washcloth off the rack behind me, and lathered it with a bar of soap. I scrubbed my face, upper body, and legs. The warm water felt like the fountain of youth. I spread my feet and rubbed the cloth between my thighs. The soft cloth felt good. I lathered again, turned away from the shower head, and cleaned my posterior. I let the soap wash down my legs. I could stay in there all day.