If someone wanted a mountain goblin, that was their business. He would do as they wished. But the customer was told from the beginning that the way that particular goblin would look was up to Goro and the intricacies of the wearer’s body, not the subject’s personal whim.
The young woman had been specific in her wishes for the subject and general style of her tattoo but had left the artistic license of application and background to him. As long as the primary image on her lithe back was that of a foo dog that resembled one in a photograph she had brought with her, the supporting art and shading was left to him.
Goro stopped the bamboo tebori in midstroke at the chime of the young woman’s cell phone. It was the mournful sound of Buddhist temple bells. He peered down at her over the top of his thick glasses, waiting to see if she wanted to answer. She came up on one elbow, head thrown back so tresses of long hair fell across her neck and shoulders in an exquisite black cascade that complemented the vibrant pink and green hues of cherry blossom. The cotton cloth fell away as she rolled across the tatami mats toward the impatient phone.
In the five years since she’d been coming to see him, the young woman had remained completely silent during the horribly painful tattooing process. But the sound of temple bells on her ringtone caused her to groan, deeply and with a sorrow that Goro could feel in his bones.
CHAPTER 57
Todd Elton lay on his cot and stared up at his iPad watching tiny airplanes zip around a world map. The red planes carried infected passengers. Blue planes transported medical teams researching a cure. The game was called Plague Inc. One of the CDC docs had told him about it. The macabre goal was to kill off everyone in the world with an illness you invented before a cure could be developed. It was brilliant really, with options for using garnered points to mutate the plague and make it more resistant to cold or easier to spread.
He’d learned to beat the game by making his virus, which he called “Teeples Brodiosis,” extremely contagious but with few symptoms at first. After he had much of the world infected, he used his garnered points to evolve the symptoms and make them more fatal. In the beginning stages, the stuff had to be contagious or it didn’t spread fast enough. But, if there were too many symptoms people freaked, working on a cure too quickly and even shutting down their borders before he could infect every country.
As it turned out, it took a certain amount of finesse to kill off the entire human race.
Brandy poked her head in the half-open door.
“You should be getting some rest while you can,” she said. “Mrs. Christenson is going to pop by midnight.”
Elton rubbed his face. “Glad I paid attention during my OB GYN rotation in med school…” He looked at the iPad again, then back up at Brandy. “You wonder why we’re not getting sick?”
“A lot of prayer and hand sanitizer?”
“Think about it,” Elton said. “If Bedford and R.J. got back into town on Sunday and made everyone else sick by Tuesday, that means someone else inside the hospital or clinic should be showing symptoms by now. You and I were up close and personal with every one of these patients before we knew it was bad enough we should use more than regular precautions. No other spouses besides my sister-in-law…”
Brandy frowned. “You sound like you want someone else to get sick.”
“It just doesn’t make sense, that’s all.” Elton rubbed his face. He really should have been sleeping instead of playing that stupid game.
“Well,” Brandy said, turning to leave. “If you’re not going to get some rest before Mrs. Christenson has her baby, you should probably go up and see your brother-in-law’s friend. The ventilator isn’t doing much for him. I understand he’s failing fast.”
Elton got up and staggered down the hall to the hospital wing. He pulled on the bulky orange biohazard suit and hood before the FEMA guard — who was similarly dressed but for his submachine gun — allowed him through the door.
One of the CDC docs, a big-boned guy with a kind eye and quiet demeanor, turned and shook his head inside his clear hood when Elton walked into R. J. Howard’s room.
“Hey, Doc,” R.J. whispered, already struggling for breath behind a clear oxygen mask. His face was so swollen with boils that if his name hadn’t been taped at the foot of his bed, Elton never would have recognized him. The ventilator hissed and droned beside the bed, forcing oxygen into his lungs. It wasn’t enough. “Glad… you… stopped by,” he said into the mask.
“Shhh,” Elton said, panic rising in his chest. The man was dying before his eyes, and there was little he could do about it. “We already have Rick Bedford on ECMO treatment. We’ll get you on a machine right away.”
Howard’s head moved back and forth on the pillow. He pulled the mask away with trembling fingers so he could be heard. “No,” he groaned, croaking out each word. “Ms. Teeples… is over… there… right?”
“She is,” Elton said, looking at the poor young woman across the room. She wasn’t much better than Howard.
“You should… put her on… the machine,” he said. “She deserves it… for being… married… to that guy…”
Considering the man’s vitals, he was unlikely to survive even with a heart-lung bypass.
“I don’t see a number listed for your wife in Cedar City.” Elton said.
“Don’t… know it,” he whispered.
“Maybe we can send someone else from your unit by to talk to her.”
“Nobody else… in my unit… from there,” Howard groaned. “Anyway… she… left me… before I came… home,” he whispered.
Elton stood closer so he could be certain he heard correctly. “Did you say you were the only member of the 405th from Cedar City?”
Exhausted, Howard could do nothing but nod. “And you stopped off here before you ever made it back there when you came home from Afghanistan?”
“Right,” Howard said, eyes fluttering closed.
“Get some rest,” Elton said, all but jumping to his feet.
Ten minutes later Elton had peeled off the clammy suit and, after passing through two negative pressure barriers, was allowed into the trailer that served as the CDC inner sanctum.
The lead CDC physician was a short Indian man with thick glasses and wavy black hair. His name was Krishnamurti but rather than making everyone pronounce it each time they addressed him, he went by Doctor K.
“Tell me what you are trying to say,” Krishnamurti said from behind his Ikea wooden desk.
Elton ran a hand over a map of the United States projected on the office wall.
“Look at this,” he said. “The 405th returned home from Afghanistan last Sunday.” Elton consulted a list Doctor K had just given him. “Specialist Dean Fortuna is from Afton, Wyoming, where his wife is among the ill. First Sergeant Richard Bedford is from here in Kanab. His wife is also infected. Sergeant R. J. Howard is from Cedar City.”
“That is correct,” Krishnamurti said. “So what is your point?”
“Sergeant Howard never made it to Cedar City.” Elton stabbed his finger at the map for effect. “He’s been here in Kanab since he out-processed. If he’s the vector from Afghanistan, how come people in Cedar City are getting sick?”
“Another soldier perhaps,” Doctor K said, flicking his hand as if to ward off a mosquito.