The Deadliest Strain

Chapter Thirty-Eight

"Fourteen individual cases, Mr. President. Fourteen different infection sites. Each is considered a separate incident," Faas said into the phone. He sat on the edge of the bed. With his free hand, he rubbed his chest.

The big guy obviously does not sleep, Faas thought. He looked at the clock next to his bed — 1:03 a.m. Not that he'd been sleeping himself when some perky voice had told him that the president was on the line.

'Total fatality number is one hundred twelve, sir," Faas said, answering the next question. He stood up and padded barefoot to the bathroom.

He knew he was on a speakerphone. Penn had kept his staff together to prep for the morning press conference. Nobody had bothered to tell Faas who else was in the room with the president. He'd recognized some of the voices, though. Tomorrow would be a big media day at the White House, and the president obviously wanted to make sure they were ready. They were planning on skipping the daily press secretary's briefing. Instead, the president would be going in front of the cameras himself at about eight in the morning.

"Yes, sir. The hundred twelve includes the boat with the cancer kids."

He took out a bottle of antacid out of the cabinet. He opened it. Empty. He tossed the bottle in the trash.

"On the research vessel Harmony, there has been only one fatality so far," Faas said, then listened. "Yes, sir. Considering the circumstances and how many people were in contact with the victim, it's quite unusual."

There was another bottle of antacid on the shelf below. He shook it first. There was nothing in this one, either. He tossed that bottle into the trash, too.

"The NIH people think the salt water might have been a factor," Faas said.

He pulled out the drawer that Betty used to keep all her personal stuff. With the exception of some cotton balls and lots of hairpins, she'd emptied it. She'd taken his kids, his paycheck, and left him a house that he didn't want or need. Shit, the least she could have done was to leave her prescription-strength meds. A couple of years ago, Betty had a problem with acid reflux. She kicked the shit out of the thing with her diet and had no need for the medication the doctors had given her.

Faas, on the other hand, really liked those blue-and-white pills. They worked magic at handling his ulcer. He was too busy to have his stomach checked out and get his own prescriptions. So Betty had continued to be the drug pusher for him. He thought maybe he should have her arrested for that.

"Yes, sir. It seems that we may have learned something from the Harmony incident." He sat down on the edge of the tub. The pain was really getting to him.

"No, sir. As far as we know, none of those kids are going to be on Oprah tomorrow. Everyone on the Harmony was taken to the VA hospital in Maryland where we have them quarantined. They'll be kept there for at least forty-eight hours for observation. But there's no telling if Oprah won't be storming the place. Who's going to say no to her?"

He heard some laughs from the conference room. He slid the drawer out a little more to check the back of it. The whole thing came off the drawer slide and went crashing to the floor.

"Yes, sir. Everything is fine. I was stumbling in the dark and kicked something with my foot," he lied. "Yes, sir. I will turn on the lights. Thank you for the recommendation."

Here he was, bent over with pain, and Penn was thinking he was being a wiseass. Faas wished he had enough breath left in him to be one.

"I'll call you with any news, sir. Absolutely. I'll talk to you before the eight o'clock press conference." He ended the call.

Faas sat down on the toilet seat. Shit, this hurt.

Looking across at the gaping hole left by the missing drawer, he thought he spotted something. Edging forward, he reached inside. Two blue pills, still in their wrapper.

"I knew you wouldn't leave me totally high and dry, honey," he said out loud as he tore off the paper backing to get at the pills.