The phone on Dr. Miles's desk rang and both doctors jumped. Miles's bear paw grabbed it immediately.
"This is Dr. Miles."
Claire watched, looking for any clues in Miles's eyes. They darted from the door to her face and down to his desk as he listened. They wouldn't stay still long enough for her to detect calm or panic or confusion. His shoulders hunched forward and the lines in his forehead deepened.
"What kind of confirmation?" he asked and this time his eyes stayed on Claire's. The man she had always counted on for strength suddenly looked afraid.
He listened for several more minutes then said, "Okay," and hung up the phone.
"They need to send a sample to the CDC for confirmation," he told Claire.
"Is it MRSA?" she asked.
Staph infections were not uncommon in health-care facilities. But MRSA (pronounced "merca") was the worst of the bunch. It was highly resistant to antibiotics. Recently a case had been found in a Virginia school. An entire district had to be closed while administrators and health-care workers scrubbed down facilities.
"It's worse," Miles told her.
"What do you mean? Worse than MRSA?"
"They believe it's a virus."
Claire stared at him, waiting for more of an explanation. If they were sending it to the CDC they must be thinking it was highly infectious.
"This isn't something we've seen before," Miles said.
"Hemorrhaging, purplish blotches, fever—" Claire stopped. "Plague? Smallpox?"
"I don't think we should speculate." He stood up, his way of putting an end to the discussion. "Besides, we don't have time for that. They told me to shut down this floor and the surgery center."
"A quarantine?"
He nodded. "Nobody leaves."
CHAPTER
54
Sunday, September 30, 2007 The Slammer
Maggie stood in the small but private shower, letting the hot water dismantle the chill that had seeped deep inside her, down to her bones. Then she put on a fresh hospital gown—there was a stack of them in the bathroom. She tried not to count them, tried not to think how long they expected to keep her here.
Hair still damp, she lay down on the bed and managed to dose off between the stiff bedsheets. She wasn't sure how long she slept. She had convinced herself to close her eyes. Just for a minute or two. Staring at the computer screen all day had given her a headache. That was all it was. Eyestrain. Sleep deprivation. Stress. Not a parasitic virus duplicating itself throughout her bloodstream.
She wouldn't let her self think about it. She couldn't, and yet, visions invaded her sleep. It was like an old jerky, film projector with colorful purple and pink amoebas that joggled from side to side, bumping each other and splitting into two. Another bump, another split. Dozens turning into hundreds.
Her eyelids fluttered open several times before she noticed him. He stood on the other side of the glass wall, watching her, watching over her. That's what it felt like. Warm brown eyes—serious, soulful eyes— keeping watch, and for a second or two in that half-asleep, dreamlike state she could almost convince herself that he could protect her.
He smiled when he saw that she was awake, but he didn't move, didn't shift, didn't wave her over. He just stood there, arms folded over his chest, his smile the only movement. His smile and his eyes.
She sat up on the edge of the bed, disappointed to hear that throbbing in the back of her head was still there, joined by a quickened heartbeat that the amoebas had caused. Rest had not relieved her.
They picked up the phone at the same time, already a synchronized deliberation between them.
"I didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"Are you kidding? You're my favorite patient."
For an Army colonel he certainly could be charming. The dimples only added to the effect.
"How are you feeling?" Face serious again, eyes still soft, genuine, caring. Meaning no more jokes.
"I have a headache." It wasn't something she would normally complain about, but she knew he needed to know, to make a checklist.
"Tell me where exactly."
She sat down. He followed her. She closed her eyes and listened to the throbbing."Back of the head," she said, eyes still closed."At the base of the skull. Right above the neck. The pain's a throb more than an ache."
She opened her eyes, met his. Only she couldn't assess what he was thinking. She automatically reminded herself that he was good at hiding alarm. He was a doctor and soldier, a combination sure to disguise and dissuade emotion. Only something about his eyes gave him away, told her that it wasn't all that easy, that it was a constant challenge.
"Your blood is still not showing any indication of the virus.You're not breaking with any of the symptoms. Usually the headache is behind the eyes, circling inside the head, like someone knocking against the inside of your forehead. Chances are what you're experiencing is stress and fatigue. You haven't eaten much, either. I'll have them send up whatever sounds good. Get something into your immune system. We need to keep you strong. And I'll have Dr. Drummond bring you some Advil gelcaps."
Dr. Drummond. She found herself realizing she had never been given a name for the woman in the blue space suit. Only now, after almost two days, she wondered why she had never asked.
Being a professional cynic, Maggie examined Platt, looking for cracks in his facade, indications that he might be keeping something from her.
"You don't believe me," he said, startling her. She didn't realize her skepticism was so obvious.
"I've read the virus can lie dormant within a host." Maggie said it quickly. Go ahead and hit him with your best shot. No apologies. It was her life they were batting around, after all.
He hesitated. Did she know too much? Was he sorry he had been so straightforward with her before?
"The virus lives somewhere in Africa and yes, we believe it must lie dormant in a perfect host though we're not sure what that perfect host is. There's speculation that it could be bats. Scientists have practically swept every foot of places like Kitum Cave at the base of Mount Elgon in Kenya and Uganda, looking for any signs of where Ebola lives when it's not jumping to primates and humans. But here's the thing…" He waited until he was certain he had her full attention or maybe he wanted to make certain that she believed him. "Ebola doesn't lie dormant in primates and humans. It devastates them and it does it quickly."
"But there's an incubation period. Anywhere from two to twenty-one days. Does that mean I could have been exposed and not know it for twenty-one days?"
"Victims usually break with symptoms within one to three days. The incubation period refers to the time it takes for the virus to run its course from symptoms to illness to organ failure to—"
"Crash and bleed," she finished for him.
"Yes," he said. Then continued, "Understand I'm not saying that it's impossible to be exposed, to show no symptoms and then break with the virus on day twenty-one. I'm telling you what is statistically probable. What is known evidence and what I've seen myself. This virus usually can't just sit in humans. It's instinct is to replicate itself and to do it quickly."
She nodded. Her eyes wandered before she could stop them. His face told her he knew he wasn't convincing her. His straight talk brought no comfort. She was beginning to think the throbbing might actually have moved to behind her eyes. Her focus blurred a bit. She didn't care that he was staring at her.
He sat forward, tugged at the crew neck of his sweatshirt as if he was suddenly too warm. He took a deep breath, blew it out, kept it from rattling through the phone's receiver.
"Even if you break with symptoms it doesn't mean it's fatal."