Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller (31 page)

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.

“Even several deaths,” Drew continued. “Anyway, I’ve interviewed several of the victims and or their families in Athens, Boston and near Philadelphia–”

As the reporter spoke Nick’s mind froze. Athens, Boston, Philadelphia...all cities where Nick owned restaurants.
Wait...what was this guy saying again...the flu?

“–and the only thing I’ve found so far that they have in common is that many...most of the victims say that they ate at an underground supper club last Saturday.”

Nick said nothing, could say nothing. The words sank in and meant nothing, meant everything. Drew gave his words a moment to register.

“Anyway, those cities are far apart so I dug into the supper clubs they mentioned and looked at the invitations from the chefs that were hosting them. I found that they were all hosted by chefs that work for your restaurants.”

“Wait...what are you saying?” Nick, who had never before been speechless, now found himself without words.

“We’re working on a story for this evening and we will report this information. Do you have any comment, sir? If you tell me where you are I can send a camera crew to meet you.”

“Shit.” Nick said this to himself. To the reporter he said, “I have no comment,” and hung up the phone. He stared out over the pool for a moment as a cloud seeped in front of the sun, causing a dark shadow to cascade across his pool. His life, he feared. A gust of wind blew from the south and tussled his neatly combed hair out of place. Staring at his phone, Nick bit his lip and squeezed the phone tighter and tighter, as if he was testing his grip on a machine at a carnival. He looked back at the phone and dialed Blake.

“The party you have reached has not set up their voice mail system yet–” Nick rolled his eyes as he recognized the same message he had heard from Blake’s phone for the past year. “Blake, Nick. Call me. Right now!” Nick pressed the disconnect button as hard as he could, walked to his computer and logged into his investment account.

***

Angelica sat down on the sofa beside Blake as he turned up the volume on CNN.

“Oh my,” Angelica said. “Dear Lord, look at THAT! Why is he even out there in that?” Angelica wrung her hands as she watched the screen. The CNN reporter was standing on the balcony of a room at his resort in Nassau as the eye of Hurricane Isabel approached. The eye was expected to go directly over Nassau in less than an hour at approximately 9:00 p.m. It had already passed the southern and eastern islands.

“Power is out on all islands with backup generators expected to be the only source of power for at least a few days on the more remote islands,” the reporter shouted through the roar of driving rain. The camera panned out to show palm trees bending like plastic forks underneath a broiler as horizontal rain pounded the island, seemingly much to the reporter’s delight. “Just look at that surge,” he said. “That’s a hurricane right there.”

No shit,
Blake thought.
All these guys are actors now, seeing who can stand in the strongest winds, the hardest rains. Who can be right in front of the tornado when it passes. Idiots!

“Do you think they’ll be okay?” Blake knew that Angelica was worried about Rose and John. She had desperately tried to call them all day on Monday, but Rose had warned her that her cell phone wouldn’t work. Angelica put the girls to bed a little early so they wouldn’t ask questions about the storm.

“I wouldn’t worry, hon,” Blake said. “The islands are prepared for these storms. The TV stations dramatize it but I reckon it ain’t nothing but wind and rain as long as you stay indoors.”

“Maybe we should put it on the Weather Channel,” Angelica said.

“I don’t think they’ll have anything more than this,” Blake said. “Just better acting maybe.” He meant what he said, but he had his own reason for wanting it on CNN. It took all of Blake’s resolve to remain calm, to act peaceful with Angelica, after speaking with Nick late in the afternoon. Blake knew nothing about the sicknesses and told Nick so.

“Do you know anything that could have contributed to a food safety problem?” Nick had asked firmly.

“No.” Blake replied. Nick told him about the CNN reporter and the report that would air later in the day.

“Well I’ll tell you this, my friend,” Nick said, “my chefs may be the common factor in those dinners but the only thing they had in common was you.”

“What are you talking about?” Blake asked.

“You!” Nick said. “Every menu was based on local ingredients, every menu was different except for one thing. The ham that you provided. That’s it. Athens was the only dinner to have the fresh pork you provided but all dinners had the ham. Other than that they have nothing in common. So if I’m the common denominator, you’re the common supplier.”

“So,” Blake began, “what are you saying? Don’t mince words Nick.” Blake knew his relationship with Nick was over. He and Terry had already slaughtered all the pigs other than a lethargic sow they couldn’t get to before light gave out on them. Blake would kill her himself later even though he knew he wouldn’t get paid for it. He just didn’t want any more evidence left on the mountainside. The two encounters with the sheriff, not to mention having the sheriff preach to him, had scared him to the core. It wasn’t worth it. He couldn’t risk the sheriff seeing him haul any of it, not with the Facebook pictures he reported seeing.

“I’m saying,” Nick began, “that if they do come and ask me any questions, it will be you that I point them to. Your phone number, your address.” Blake hung up on Nick. Hung up and then slammed the phone repeatedly against the palm of his hand.

The talking head on CNN continued reporting on the damage from the storm. “We have a report from the prime minister of the Bahamas who says that Hurricane Isabel has resulted in no deaths and, so far, no reported injuries as it has marched through the chain. He said the Bahamas is well prepared for storms and he doesn’t expect any deaths but does anticipate widespread power outages.”

“See?” Blake said as he reached over to touch Angelica’s knee. She placed her hand on top of his.

The footage of the hurricane on the screen was replaced with a graphic that read “Foodborne Illness.” Blake didn’t want Angelica to know that this was the story he wanted to see, that he was afraid to see. That he had been controlling his fear and only appearing calm as he had learned to do when it was late in the game and his team was trailing on the road. But Blake’s fear finally got the best of him. The words on the screen, combined with Nick’s spoken words, panicked him. He pulled his hand away from Angelica’s and leaned forward, his chin resting on his fists.

“This
just
in. CNN is able to confirm that Anthrax has been identified as the cause of death and illnesses in Athens, Georgia, Trenton, New Jersey, Boston and six other cities,” the talking head said as she read the teleprompter. Blake’s mouth hung open, air suspended somewhere between his lungs and the air in the room as he sat perfectly still, the word still resonating inside him. “A-N-T-H-R-A-X.” The graphic behind the talking head changed to the capitalized word ANTHRAX, the motion graphic causing the letters to slowly expand and move away from one another to heighten the sense of drama. As if the word ‘anthrax’ itself, not to mention five dead bodies so far, necessitated more drama.

What the hell is anthrax?
Blake asked himself
. I thought that was a weapon or something.

“We turn now to CNN correspondent Drew Hunter for more on the story.” As the talking head spoke, the camera panned to show a thirty-something reporter seated on the other side of the glass table, opposite the first talking head. As he began to speak, Blake zoomed into the studio with him from the privacy of his sofa in Clayton, just as Nick did from a dimly lit office in his Buckhead mansion.

“Details are only now beginning to surface, Candace,” Drew said, before staring straight into the camera for a close up. “Five deaths and eighty-four hospitalizations have been attributed to anthrax thus far. The source of the anthrax is still under investigation, but the suspected cause is tainted meat.”

Blake felt his heart stop and then explode as the graphic behind Drew changed to “Tainted Meat.” He was sucked into a tunnel that connected him to the graphic, one that threw off his equilibrium like he was stranded alone, trying to make his way across a bridge in the vortex tunnel of a haunted house.

“What exactly is anthrax, Drew?” Candace asked.

“Candace, anthrax is one of the oldest diseases known to man,” Drew began. “In fact, many Bible scholars believe that anthrax was the fifth and sixth of the ten plagues of Egypt.”

“Do they know what causes it?”

“Yes, Candace, the organism that causes anthrax, Bacillus anthracis, can poison the soil for decades, even hundreds of years. In fact, it’s so common to find anthrax in soil that deadly outbreaks among grazing animals occur frequently, although not so much in the U.S. Normally, humans contract anthrax only by coming into contact with livestock or infected animal hides and carcasses.”

As the reporter spoke, footage scrolled on the screen of dead cows, pigs, and sheep lying on the ground. Stiff carcasses with their legs spread out dissolved into pictures of humans with gruesome, widow-black blisters that covered their entire arms or faces. Drew continued to narrate as the CNN horror reel played.

“There are three forms of anthrax, Candace. Cutaneous, gastrointestinal, and the most deadly and rare form, pulmonary or inhalation anthrax. Gastrointestinal anthrax generally comes from eating meat infected with anthrax. Conversely, when a person inhales the spores of anthrax they settle deep into the lungs, forming inhalation anthrax. Once there, the bacteria multiply rapidly and produce
very
deadly toxins. It’s the inhalation form that’s most associated with bioterrorism, as was the case in the 2001 attacks on the United States.”

The background footage stopped and the camera panned back to show a third talking head join the other two.

“Dr. Chandak, do we know which form of anthrax caused the deaths?” A graphic appeared under the new talking head that read “Dr. Sachi Chandak, Neurosurgeon and CNN Medical Correspondent.”

“Candace, we’re told that it was inhalation anthrax that was the cause of death for the victims near Boston and Athens, Georgia, and for the fifth victim in New Jersey,” Dr. Chandak said. “Now I’d like to stress that there is no evidence of bioterrorism and that anthrax isn’t a contagious disease. You have to come directly in contact with it.”

The graphic to the right of the talking head changed to read “Woolsorter’s Disease.”

“As Drew said,” Dr. Chandak continued, “inhalation anthrax is the most rare human form of anthrax and is almost never seen in a foodborne illness since, normally, one doesn’t inhale their food. It’s also known in other parts of the world as Woolsorter’s or Ragpicker’s disease because, throughout history, the inhalation form was most associated with those who sorted wool. The most famous case of woolsorter’s disease was in Bradford, England, where the disease killed many of the town’s workers for decades throughout the 1800s. Today, the disease even shows itself sometimes at music festivals, when drums made from animal hides infected with anthrax are beaten, thereby aerosolizing B.
anthracis
spores that may be inhaled.”