“His visit occurred before we realized what we were dealing with,” Sheila said. “Besides, Dr. Halprin had already been a victim of the illness. We tried to make that very clear to your EIS officer.”
“Your report is very sketchy,” Dr. Eggans said to Sheila, slapping it down onto the edge of Dr. Marchand’s desk after he’d read it from cover to cover. “There’s too much supposition and very little substance. However... ”
Sheila had to restrain herself from getting up and angrily walking out. She couldn’t believe how these passive intellectual midgets had risen to their current positions within the CDC bureaucracy.
“However,” Dr. Eggans repeated, running a hand pensively through his full beard, “it’s still compelling enough that I’d like to go and investigate on site.”
Sheila turned to Nancy. She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Nancy flashed a thumbs up sign.
“Have you circulated this report to any other government agencies?” Dr. Marchand asked. He picked it up from his desk and idly thumbed through it.
“No!” Sheila said emphatically. “We all thought the CDC was the best place to start.”
“It hasn’t been sent to the State Department or the Surgeon General?”
“No one,” Nancy affirmed.
“Did you try to determine the amino acid sequence of the protein?” Dr. Delbanco asked.
“Not yet,” Nancy said. “But that will be easy to do.”
“Have you determined if the virus is able to be isolated from the patients after they have recovered?” Dr. Delbanco asked.
“What about the nature of the reaction between the protein and DNA?” the willowy Dr. Sanchez asked.
Nancy smiled and held up her hands. She was pleased with the sudden interest. “Slow down,” she said. “I can only handle one question at a time.”
The queries came fast and furious. Nancy did her best to answer them, and Eugene helped when he could. Sheila initially was as pleased as Nancy, but after ten minutes had passed and the questions were becoming more and more hypothetical, she began to sense that something was wrong.
Sheila took a deep breath. Maybe she was just too tired. Maybe these questions were reasonable from such research-oriented professionals. The problem was that she expected action, not intellectualization. At that point they were busily questioning Nancy how she even came up with the idea of using the protein as a DNA probe.
Sheila let her eyes wander around the room. The walls were decorated with the usual profusion of professional diplomas, licenses, and academic awards. There were pictures of Dr. Marchand with the President and other politicians. Suddenly Sheila’s eyes stopped at a door that was open about a foot. Beyond the door she saw the face of Dr. Clyde Horn. She recognized him instantly partially due to his shiny bald pate.
As Sheila’s eyes locked onto Dr. Horn’s his face twisted into a great smile. Sheila blinked, and when she opened her eyes, Dr. Horn was gone. Sheila closed her eyes again. Was she hallucinating from exhaustion and tension? She wasn’t sure, but the image of Dr. Horn’s face brought back the memory of him leaving her office with Dr. Halprin. As clearly as if it had been an hour previously, she could hear Dr. Halprin saying: “I’ve even got something I want you to take back to Atlanta for me. Something I think that will interest the CDC.”
Sheila’s eyes blinked open. With sudden clairvoyance and absolute certitude she knew what Dr. Halprin had been referring to: a black disc. Sheila glanced at the CDC people in the room and it dawned on her with equivalent certitude that they were all infected. Instead of being interested in the epidemic in order to contain it, they were grilling Nancy and Eugene to find out how they had learned what they had.
Sheila stood up. She grabbed Nancy’s arm and tugged. “Come on, Nancy. Time for us to get some rest.”
Nancy pulled her arm free. She was surprised at the interruption. “We’re finally making some progress here,” she forcibly whispered.
“Eugene, we need a few hours of sleep,” Sheila said. “You must understand even if Nancy doesn’t.”
“Is there something wrong, Dr. Miller?” Dr. Marchand asked.
“Not at all,” Sheila said. “I just realized that we’re exhausted, and that we shouldn’t be taking your time until we’ve had some rest. We’ll make a lot more sense after a little sleep. There’s a Sheraton nearby. It will be best for everyone.”
Sheila stepped up to Marchand’s desk and reached for the report that she and the Sellerses had brought. Dr. Marchand put his hand on it. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to peruse this while you’re resting.”
“That’s fine,” Sheila said agreeably. She backed away and tugged on Nancy’s arm again.
“Sheila, I think... ” Nancy began but her eyes met Sheila’s. She could see Sheila’s intensity and resolve. Nancy stood up. It dawned on her Sheila knew something she didn’t.
“Why don’t we say we’ll be back after lunch,” Sheila offered. “Say between one and two o’clock.”
“I think that will work for us,” Dr. Marchand said. He looked at his department heads, and they all nodded.
Eugene crossed his legs. He’d not seen the unspoken communication between his wife and Sheila. “Maybe I’ll stay here,” he said.
“You are coming with us,” Nancy said to Eugene, yanking him to his feet. Then she smiled at her hosts. They smiled back.
Sheila led the way out of Dr. Marchand’s office. They passed through the secretarial area and down the pale, institutional green corridor.
At the elevators Eugene started to complain, but Nancy told him to stay quiet.
“At least until we get into the rental car,” Sheila whispered.
They boarded the elevator and smiled at the occupants. They all smiled back and commented on how nice the weather was.
By the time they got to the car and climbed in, Eugene was mildly irritated.
“What’s wrong with you women?” he said as he put the key in the ignition. “It took us an hour to get them interested and then poof, we have to go rest. This is crazy.”
“They are all infected,” Sheila said. “Every last one of them.”
“Are you sure?” Eugene asked. He was aghast.
“Absolutely,” Sheila said. “Not a doubt in my mind.”
“I assume we’re not going to the Sheraton,” Nancy said.
“Hell no!” Sheila said. “Let’s get to the airport. We’re back to square one.”
The reporters had gathered at the gate of the institute. Although they had not been invited, Beau had anticipated their coming, he just didn’t know which day. When the young men at the gate had informed Beau they were there, Beau told the gatekeepers to hold them back for fifteen minutes to give Beau a chance to walk out to where the driveway entered the trees. Beau did not want any reporters in the ballroom, at least not yet.
When Beau confronted the group he was mildly surprised by the number. He’d expected ten or fifteen people. Instead there were around fifty. They were equally divided between newspaper, magazine, and TV. There were about ten TV cameras. Everyone had microphones.
“So here you see the new Institute for a New Beginning,” Beau said, gesturing toward the château with a sweep of his hand.
“We understand that you are doing a lot of renovation in the building,” a journalist said.
“I wouldn’t say a lot,” Beau said. “But yes, we are making a few changes to suit our needs.”
“Can we see the interior?” a journalist asked.
“Not today,” Beau said. “It would be too disruptive for the work that is being done.”