Plague

CHAPTER 8

Samantha finished her lunch of curry chicken and basmati rice and threw away her paper plate and utensils. She went to the second floor near pediatrics to a small couch and table that were placed in a quiet area in the corridor and pulled out her iPad. She opened a document that listed the names of the four patients: Clifford Lane, Erin Simon, Allani Haku, Jacob Ichimora.

One of these might be the index patient: the point of origin. The one that spread it to the others. Unless of course the index patient had not been admitted yet. But they would be so ill that a hospital or clinic would be the only alternative and Amoy had sent out an announcement to all the hospitals and clinics on the island-which were only a handful-to notify them of any patients that were admitted with similar symptoms. There were no hits as yet, so Sam had to go forward on the assumption that one of these four was the index.

Once the index was found, she then had to scour his life and determine where he could have picked up the virus. Its origin would tell them as much about the disease as they would find out in a laboratory.

Logically, the patient with the worst symptoms had the latest stage of a disease, which meant they had carried it the longest. In this instance, that was Clifford Lane.

She opened Clifford’s file, which she had scanned as a PDF, and began reading all the information they had about him. But the hospital file was like a resume. Birthday and genetic history wasn’t the type of information she was looking for. The best place to search for the information she needed was on a patient’s Facebook and Twitter accounts. Clifford Lane could no longer speak or respond to voice commands. She would have to find out the passwords to his accounts another way.

At the back of the file was a list of emergency contacts. The first was his wife, Suzan Lane. There was an address and a phone number. She took out her iPhone and dialed. After three rings she heard Clifford’s voice and realized it was his cell number.

Sam walked out of the hospital into the parking lot and hailed a cab from a line of three that were waiting for passengers. While she was thinking about it, she scheduled a time tomorrow on her calendar to go rent a car.

“Where to?” the cabbie said in a thick, Hawaiian accent.

“1572 Kalakaua Avenue.”

They pulled away from the hospital and onto the streets. It was overcast today and she usually responded poorly to bad weather. She had been troubled by seasonal affective disorder since she was a child. On snowy or rainy days, she would sometimes get so depressed she couldn’t function. Her mother had tried to get her on antidepressants but since it only occurred during bad weather, Sam refused. She figured a better cure was to move somewhere with a temperate climate.

“Where you from?” the cabbie said.

“Montana originally.”

“Lotsa cows.”

“There are definitely lots of cows, yeah.”

“What you doing here?”

“Visiting some patients. I’m a doctor.”

“Oh yeah? You know my wife have diabetes and they said that she losing circulation to her foot. Will they have to cut off her foot?”

“Ten years ago I’d say yes. But in this day and age they shouldn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, that’s what I think. But doctors say they may have to.” He chuckled. “She loves cream and butter mochi. You had this yet?”

“No, what is it?”

“Very very good dessert. You have to have it. But don’t go to restaurant. On the streets you see, um, merchants, and they sell. Much much better.”

“I’ll have to try it.”

They rode in silence a few minutes and then the cabbie would ask another question about diabetes or about his cousin who’s getting migraines or about the thousand other medical concerns she was asked about every day. It often surprised her how much need there was for medical doctors and how few the medical schools were actually training.

She arrived at the address and asked the cabbie to wait for her. He turned off the meter and said it was for answering his questions and then pulled out a magazine and began to read. Sam stepped out of the cab and saw a two-story house with concrete steps leading up to the front porch. The steps and pavement leading to them were cracked and weeds were growing out of them.

Sam walked to the front porch and, as she knocked on the door, noticed the stains on a rocker that was placed outside. From inside she heard some motion, things being moved, and then she heard a toilet flush. A woman came to the door and opened it, peering over the chain that connected the door to the frame.

“Yes?”

Sam could instantly smell the marijuana smoke coming from the home.

“Mrs. Lane?”

“Yes, and who are you?”

“My name is Samantha Bower. I’m a doctor with the Centers for Disease Control. I’m one of your husband’s physicians.”

“Oh, hang on.”

She closed the door and slid open the chain before opening the door all the way. “Is there news?”

“No, I’m sorry. Clifford is about the same, last time I checked. I was just wondering if we could talk for a few minutes.”

“Sure, come inside.”

The home was messy. Books and dishes and clothes were left out, like they had been too busy to clean up, but the entertainment center with the large screen television and state-of-the-art stereo was spotless. On the walls were posters of rock climbers, snowboarders, explorers, and surfers. A golden retriever sat on the couch, eyeing Sam suspiciously.

Suzan sat on the couch next to the dog and began petting it, running her fingers through his fur as she put her sandaled feet up on the coffee table. Sam sat across from her on the love seat. She saw the burnt remains of a joint in an ashtray. Suzan saw that she had noticed and panic gripped her face for an instance before it faded away.

“You’re not gonna call the cops, right? Doctor patient privilege and all.”

“Technically you’re not my patient, but, no, I don’t care.”

“It’s medicinal. I got a medicinal license from California and the chief of police here don’t care if you smoke if you got a medicinal license from another state.”

“It’s really none of my business, Mrs. Lane. I’m just here to see if there’s anything I can do to help your husband.”

She looked down, biting her lower lip as she gripped the dog’s fur tighter and then let go. “He’s a good man. He ain’t never hurt anybody in his life.”

“I have to ask you some sensitive questions, Mrs. Lane.”

“Suzan.”

“Suzan, I have to ask some questions that are going to make you uncomfortable. Is that all right?”

“More uncomfortable than my soul mate dyin’ in the hospital?” she said, a little annoyed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

She took a deep breath and leaned her head back on the couch. “I know you didn’t, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m just beside myself, you know?”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now but I want you to know, Suzan, that I-we-are doing everything possible to make your husband well again.”

“I believe you. So, what’re these questions?”

She pulled up a note-taking program in her iPad. “Has Clifford ever had a blood transfusion?”

“No.”

“Has he ever done any illegal drugs?” They both smiled and Sam blushed. “I’m sorry. I meant has he ever done any intravenous drugs?”

“No. Well maybe when he was a kid, like sixteen or seventeen. He had some crazy years.”

“Did he ever tell you whether he shared needles or anything like that?”

“No.”

“How many sexual partners has he had in his life?”

“In his life? I have no idea. I think he said nine or ten, but you know how men lie about that.”

“How many sexual partners have you had?”

“Twelve.”

“When was the last time you and Clifford had sexual intercourse?”

“Um, some four weeks ago. Somewhere around there.”

“Have either of you ever had an extramarital affair?”

There was pain on her face and she glanced away. “Yes. I had an affair about three years ago. With a younger man; nineteen. You’re still young and don’t think this way, but when you get to be my age, the attention of younger men is very flatterin’. It lasted about a month.”

“How old are you if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“How many sexual partners do you think the man you had an affair with had?”

“No idea. I don’t even remember his last name.”

“Have you or Clifford ever had any sexually transmitted diseases?”

“Yes.”

She waited a moment but got no response. “What type?” she finally said.

“I had chlamydia twice. He had herpes.”

“Right before he got sick, did Clifford begin spending time with anyone new in his life?”

“Why? You think he was having an affair?”

“No, not that. Just curious about new friends or social clubs. Anywhere he might be exposed to new people he wasn’t exposed to before.”

“No, I don’t think there was anythin’ like that.”

“His chart just said he’s self-employed. What does he do for a living?”

“Tour guide.”

Sam looked up from her iPad. “Where?”

“South America.”

“When was the last time he was there?”

“About a month ago. Peru, I think. An Amazon tour.”

“How many people were with him?”

“I don’t know. We never talked much about his job unless something weird happened.”

“When he came back, did he mention anything? Specifically anything about not feeling well?”

“No. He did say some other guy had gotten sick and he had to leave the tour early.”

“Sick with what?”

“Malaria.”

Sam took a few quick notes. “This is an unusual request, but is there any way I can look at his electronic data? I’m interested in his Facebook, Twitter, and email. If he had a blog or a Tumblr I’d like to see that too.”

“Oh, Clifford hated computers. He didn’t have an email address. He said they were corrupting and taking us away from nature.”

“Suzan, is there anything else you can tell me that you think could help?”

“He lived a hard life and I know people judge him for it. I can see it on your face. And don’t deny it-you nearly pissed your pants when I said he might’ve had a drug problem. But he’s a good man. He takes care of anyone that needs it. Someone broke their leg on one of his tours and he walked over a hundred miles to get help for him. That’s the kind of man he is.”

“I appreciate you telling me that.” She stood up. “I better get going. We’ll call you with any news.”

“When can I see him? They told me on the phone that I wasn’t allowed to see him anymore.”

“That’s just a precaution,” she said. “If it is a virus, we need to expose as few people as possible to it and only those that are necessary.”

Suzan rose and began walking toward the front door. The dog followed her, rubbing against Sam’s leg. She bent down to pet it and rubbed his ear a moment.

“Please tell him,” Suzan said, “that I rescheduled his next two tours. He was worried about that. Tell him they’re rescheduled and he has two months to get better before his next one.”

Sam realized that no one had told Suzan her husband was unresponsive. Or they had, and she wasn’t processing the information. Sam had seen cases of denial so extreme that people had come to the hospital to pick their loved ones up to go home days after they had been informed they had passed away. The mind had many barriers to protect it from harm, and most of them occurred without the conscious part of ourselves even being aware of them.

As she left the house and walked to her car she took out her phone and noticed a message. It was from the hospital. She listened to it and heard Amoy’s voice come on the line. It was a simple message; only one sentence:

“Clifford Lane is dead.”