“John, you need to try and calm down,” Seve said. “Let’s focus on Rose. Now I have to ask you a few questions and I need you to answer them to help me. I can’t treat her until I have a good idea of what I’m treating. All right?” Once again the lights flickered off and then on. John stopped pacing and looked at Seve. His eyes dropped to Rose, lying semi-conscious on the bed and breathing heavily.
“Okay,” John replied.
“Good,” Seve said. “First off, I don’t believe she has the flu, John. She has no sign of congestion; you don’t have any symptoms; there’s no productive cough: I hear rhonchi in her lungs; you haven’t been around people with the flu and it’s the wrong time of year. That doesn’t add up to the flu.”
John paced and listened to Seve as blowing sand pelted the side of the house, sounding like hard rice hitting the sidewalk.
“Now, I have a theory about what this could be John, but we have no way to do any tests. The closest hospital is 200 miles from here and the only way to get her there would be a medevac. The U.S. Coast Guard would have to do that but they’re not available just now due to the hurricane. They’ve been helping boaters in Haiti and elsewhere, so–we’re on our own.”
John stopped as he realized what Seve was saying. The gravity of the situation enveloped him. “Okay,” John repeated.
“Before you came here, did Rose or you visit a farm at all? Do you live on a farm?”
“No. We don’t live on a farm and haven’t been to one.”
“So there’s no way she could have been around livestock, is that right John?”
“Livestock? What the hell does that have to do with–”
“John, I said I need you to stay with me.”
John exhaled deeply. “No, she hasn’t been around any farm animals. Jesus!” John thought to himself what a stupid island doctor he was dealing with. Back home they would have whisked Rose into a sanitized room, treated her with one of a thousand drugs, and she’d be up and fine now. Here it was as if he had gone back in time to be asked insightful questions from the tribe’s medicine man. Questions like whether or not she had petted a donkey.
“Could she have been to a drumming event?”
“What kind of event?” John asked.
“Some place where they were playing drums. Or perhaps a craft fair where they were making rugs, shearing animals–anything at all like that?”
“NO! Nothing like that.” John said.
Seve paused and looked back at Rose. He had seen these symptoms before in Spain. Too many times in fact, one of the many reasons he opted to sign up for a two-year sabbatical and become the lone physician on this island. Still, something didn’t add up. What John was telling him didn’t support his theory, but Rose’s symptoms, without question, did. He hoped he was wrong, prayed he was wrong. He knew that if he were right then there was a high probability that Rose would be dead within twenty-four hours anyway.
“Does your wife happen to work for the postal service?”
John rolled his eyes and turned his head. “NO!”
“Any government agency at all?”
John bowed his head and shook it violently, placing his hands on each side of his head. The questions were too much for him and he was nearing the end of his rope.
So was Rose.
Chapter 26
Clint walked out of the conference room just after noon. He had hoped the meeting wouldn’t eat up so much of his Tuesday morning, certainly not over three hours. But for the second consecutive year, Congress had approved the President’s budgetary request for reduced FSIS funding, budget cuts that seemed ludicrous to Clint. Politicians wouldn’t admit it, he thought, but they seemed to love it when that happened. Armed with a mandate for more oversight and a bigger budget, they’d outline huge spending programs and label them with grand names like the Food Safety Modernization Act, as if food safety measures prior to that had been operating in the dark ages. Congress would sign off and funds would flow for a couple of years until everyone forgot about the salmonella, the e.coli. That’s where we are now, Clint thought. No foodborne illnesses of any magnitude for the past few years, no more Jack-in-the-Box scares, no more spinach coated in e.coli so might as well lay off inspectors. Then when there’s another scare hire some rookies, train them for a few years and lay them off just when they learn what they’re doing.
Clint walked down the corridor toward the exit. He looked into the break room at a few colleagues sitting down to lunch and watching the news at noon. Clint paused for a moment to watch the CNN update.
“CNN has learned of five mysterious deaths in the past twenty-eight hours from what doctors are calling flu-like symptoms.” A talking head was reading the teleprompter but speaking directly to Clint, he felt. “Two deaths were reported just outside of Boston, two at the same hospital in Athens, Georgia and one this morning, a thirty-six year old pharmaceutical executive near Trenton, New Jersey. NPR stations in each of those cities first reported on the deaths and CNN correspondent Drew Hunter pieced the story together and contacted each hospital. In all, there have been seventy-nine people admitted to hospitals in Athens, Trenton and in two hospitals in the Boston area, all from what doctors are calling mysterious, flu-like symptoms. Officials from the CDC have not acknowledged a connection between these illnesses. We’ll continue to report on this story as details become available.”
The words “flu-like symptoms” looped in his head as Clint walked toward the door. He paused at the front desk for a moment before continuing out the door and turned to the receptionist. “Carol, can you get me the number for CNN’s newsroom?”
***
Lounging by the pool of his stately Buckhead home, Nick enjoyed what he thought might be the last warm day of the Indian summer. His view to the southern skies showed no sign of the storm he had heard was brewing in the Caribbean. It would make no difference to him if it came his way. Hurricanes were a threat to the coast, not to cities as far inland as Atlanta.
He picked up his phone to check his voice mail. Two minutes prior a blocked number had called, which Nick, of course, didn’t answer. But, the anonymous caller had decided to leave a message. “Nick, this is Drew Hunter from CNN in Atlanta. I’d like to speak with you about a story I’m doing that’s rather urgent. Please call me back at–”
Nick looked around for a pen and paper, but found none. He walked into the kitchen to retrieve them and replayed the message to write down the number. Nick grinned as he dialed the number, thinking that the reporter had no doubt seen him on Fox News or had otherwise heard of the success of 50-Forks and now wanted a piece of Nick for his own “urgent” story.
“Drew Hunter,” the voice answered.
“Drew, this is Nick Vegas returning your call.”
“Mr. Vegas, thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
Mr. Vegas. Nick liked the respect. He had worked hard for it his entire professional life. On days like today, when he took time off to enjoy the fruits of his labor, when he relaxed around the pool surrounded by his own palm trees, his own fountains, and had every freedom he could want, on days like this one he felt like he had arrived. He had earned the accolades, the success, and the respect. He could soak it all up now and savor it.
“You’re welcome. Just call me Nick.”
“Nick, I don’t know if you’ve been following the stories of a number of people becoming suddenly and violently afflicted with the flu–” Drew paused, waiting for a reaction. Nick said nothing, waiting for Drew to continue, but a butterfly took flight in the hollow cavern between his heart and his gut. He hoped that the reporter had called the wrong person.