The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller (6 page)

“Did your children help?” she asked.

“They did, Brian especially. Good kid. Good times.” I looked at my watch. It was midnight. “I should get going.”

“You want a lift home?” Jimmy said.

“Nah, I’m good. I’m parked in a lot over in the next block.”

I stood up and nearly fell over my chair trying to slide it back under the table.

“Sit down, Bam,” Jimmy said. “I’m calling in for a pickup.”

“I don’t need a ride.”

“It’s not just for you. We’ve all had too much.”

Jimmy called one of his buddies at West Detectives, and ten minutes later I was passed out in the back seat of his car with Jimmy beside me, and Izzy in front. I woke up when Shep started barking. We were stopped in my driveway.

“What about my car?” I said.

“I’ll send someone out tomorrow to pick you up,” Jimmy said.

I said good night, got out of the car, and Shep and I walked back into the house where the cat was asleep on the kitchen counter. I fed them, threw my clothes in the washer, and went to bed.

I woke up the next morning feeling beat six ways to Sunday with the cat lying across my chest, not a good way to start a day. After drowning my headache in a long, hot shower, I went downstairs to make coffee. The cat must have known I didn’t want him anywhere near me. He kept rubbing against my leg and trying to trip me. I found his catnip toy still in the grocery bag I’d thrown in the trash and tossed it across the room to distract him. He ignored it, and it made me wonder if he’d gotten used to something stronger at Gyro’s.

Into my second cup of coffee, I dragged out the laptop and logged into the Citrix server to check out Billy’s info on Vincent Taney. Age thirty-four, left behind a pregnant wife named Madeline and a son named William age three, worked at a body shop during the day, had a second job as a security guard at night. He was clean as a whistle. The funeral was held at a Catholic church in Northeast Philly, and he was buried in a Catholic cemetery. Taney was a fine upstanding young man in the community, who worked two jobs to take care of his growing family. According to the newspaper obituary, he was a loving father and devoted husband. What they didn’t mention was that he was hooked on heroin and had died of an overdose. The autopsy showed track marks on both arms, between the toes, and between the legs. He was a guy with three good reasons to live and one bad one to die.

I took my coffee outside and sat on the front steps. Shep and the cat came out with me. Shep wandered down into the yard to check on a mole tunnel and do a little excavating. The cat stretched out in the sun beside me. He didn’t seem to mind me petting him.

I wondered how a dirt bag like Gyro was smart enough to bring a cat to a stakeout. It made a hell of a diversion, but then if he knew we were following him, he wouldn’t have come at all. He didn’t have the balls to taunt us, not like Carmine. It didn’t make any sense.

I was thinking about dragging a chair off the back porch and taking a nap in the sun when a car came up the drive. It had police written all over its unmarked black exterior. Philly detectives had given up on Crown Vics some time ago. This was one of the new SUVs. It pulled up in front of the garage and Izzy got out carrying a bag that looked suspiciously like fast food.

I waved to her as Shep went over to check her out. He didn’t even bark. Some watchdog, but I guess since he’d paid his dues with the K-9 unit, it was all good. I ran into Shep a few years back when he helped me out on a case. I adopted him after he took a bullet for his handler and they retired him. It turned out he was decent at checkers. We’d become real pals. He was my only family.

“Hi there,” I said, as Izzy came across the yard. “What brings you out here?”

“Hello, Bam,” she said. “I’m your chauffeur today. I brought breakfast. Hungry?”

“As a matter of fact I am.”

“I hope you like sausage and egg biscuits. That’s all they had left.”

“Sounds good. Come on in. I’ll put on more coffee.”

We went inside and I told her to grab a seat at the kitchen table. I knew she was checking the place out. Women do that.

“I’m redecorating,” I said.

“This is nice. Very homey.”

“I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“Is that your couch in the yard?”

“The sofa and I had a little disagreement. He moved out.”

The cat came over and wound itself around her legs.

“That one’s harmless,” I said, “but I can put him in the other room if he’s bothering you.”

She picked up the cat, and it began to purr. “I think he is a she.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. What is her name?”

“No idea. She was Gyro’s.”

“How did you end up with her?”

“Like a lot of other things around here, nobody else wanted her.”

Shep came over to snag some of the attention and Izzy petted her. “And your dog is…?”

“He’s a guy. I’m pretty sure of that.”

“No, I meant his name. What is his name?”

“Shep. Badge 4225, retired Philly police.”

“Hello, Shep,” she said. “No one wanted you either?” He barked once.

“Not many people are willing to adopt a dog that’s trained to chew your balls off if you make a false move.”

She laughed. I didn’t say it to be funny. I was warning her. I almost lost him once to Animal Control when he went after a Jehovah’s Witness.

When the coffee was done, we sat at the table and ate. I was starting to feel human again.

“About what happened at Pico’s,” I began.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said.

“I’m not. I just want you to know I appreciate your not punching me out for being a jerk.”

“It’s not a problem. Really. I was used to it with Birot.”

Nothing like being compared to a dead womanizer.

“So, what’s on tap for you today?” I asked.

“I got my workout in already and did a few miles in Fairmount Park. Detective Barnes asked for a volunteer to pick you up, and here I am. I may go sightseeing later. I’d like to see your Liberty Bell.”

“It’s just a bell.”

“I know. It’s what it stands for.”

“If you need a tour guide, I’d be happy to oblige. I know a nice cemetery at the north end of Independence Mall. Some of my favorite dead people are buried there.”

“I’d like that. Thank you.”

Chitchat isn’t my thing, but I managed to hold my own through breakfast until the phone rang.

“Matthews.”

“Agent Matthews, this is Dr. Williamson.”

“What’s up, Doc?”

“It’s about Mr. Driscoll.”

I guess my reaction was plastered all over my face, because Izzy asked what was wrong. I wanted to know the same thing.

“What about Billy?” I said.

“He’s running a temperature of 102
°
and he’s complaining of chills. We drew our first blood sample and it’s on the way to the CDC.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I told him I’d be right there.

“Did you take your temperature this morning?” he asked before I could hang up.

I lied. It’s what I do best. “Yeah, it’s normal.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” I said, but I wasn’t. I wanted to punch something. Anything. Somehow, in my twisted, angry brain that would make things right again for Billy. Instead, I said good-bye and hung up.

“Is everything all right?” Izzy asked.

“It’s Billy. He’s got symptoms.”

I put food and water out for Shep and the cat, and we left for the hospital. When we got there, there were twice as many doctors milling around as before. It was a regular circus. We found Williamson back by the monitors.

“How’s Billy?” I asked.

He looked over at Izzy.

“She’s with me,” I said, and introduced her. “How is he?”

He led us to an exam room where we could talk privately.

“I’m not an expert on this, by any means,” he began.

“No one is, Doc. Just spit it out.”

“After we spoke on the phone, Mr. Driscoll vomited. There was a small quantity of blood mixed in with the food and gastric fluid. We’ve started an IV to help with clotting, control the fever, and keep him hydrated. He was already on antibiotics. We’ll increase the dose as needed. He hasn’t complained of problems breathing yet, but we have oxygen on standby.”

“So, he’s got it?”

“We won’t know for certain until the blood test comes back, Agent Matthews.”

“Don’t bullshit me. He’s got it, doesn’t he?”

Williamson looked like a kid who’d been caught red-handed by his dad smoking in the laundry room.

 
“Ebola is spreading across Africa in the worst outbreak we’ve ever seen. The World Health Organization has been warning of a global pandemic since it first spread to the capital of Nigeria. It could be something else, anything’s possible, but everyone from the emergency room doctor who first called it when he saw Mr. Birot, to every other doctor who has seen the reports thinks it’s Ebola. But, please,” and he gave me that don’t-tell-mom look, “this is highly confidential. You can’t say anything until it’s confirmed. Panic would do more damage than the disease.”

“What are his chances?” I asked.

“He’s a healthy young man and he’s getting the proper treatment. Normally, I would say his chances are slightly better than slim.”

“But?”

“But the blood in his vomit worries me. That’s not one of the first signs of Ebola. It’s a middle-to-end-stage symptom. It doesn’t make any sense. The disease is progressing too rapidly.”

“Isn’t there anything you can give him?”

“There are no approved drugs for the treatment of Ebola. We can only mitigate the symptoms, keep him as comfortable as possible, and hope his body can fight it off.”

“What about that experimental drug that cured those two American doctors who got infected over in Africa?”

“Zmapp? Two things. The first is that no one knows if that drug actually helped or not. With proper treatment, some people recover on their own. Without rigorous trials, saying anything at all about its effects would be sheer speculation. But second, and more importantly, there were only a handful of doses of Zmapp in existence and every one of them was sent overseas and administered to existing cases. The company has said it will take at least a year to make more.”

“What else can you do?”

“They’ve tried transfusions from Ebola survivors with some success. Their blood carries the antibodies that fight the disease. That’s one possibility. We’ve asked the CDC to run a cross-check to see if any of them is a match for Mr. Driscoll’s blood type.”

I looked through the glass at the people standing around watching Billy like he was some kind of sideshow freak. One of them was an older guy in street clothes.

“What did you tell Billy’s father, that he has malaria?”

“Mr. Driscoll’s father already knew. That’s why he flew out here. He’s agreed not to speak to anyone about it, but perhaps a word from you would reinforce that.”

“Can I talk to Billy?”

“Maybe in an hour or so. He’s resting now.”

“Okay. I’ll stop back later. Call me when you have anything.”

“I will,” Williamson said.

“One more thing. What about the others: the ambulance squad, the docs from the emergency room, the people on that list?”

“I’m still waiting on a callback from Jefferson Hospital. One of the twelve who witnessed the incident came in this morning to be checked out. She’s fine. We sent her home with the same instructions we gave you. You
are
taking your temperature twice a day, aren’t you?”

“You bet.”

We left the doc and joined the gawkers’ convention outside the isolation room. I went up to the guy in street clothes. He looked like he hadn’t slept well.

“Mr. Driscoll?” I said.

When he turned to face me, I saw Billy in his eyes. “Yes?”

“I’m Special Agent Bam Matthews, Billy’s partner. This is Isabelle, a friend.”

We shook hands with him and exchanged the usual lead-ins people offer up to get a conversation going. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

“How’re you holding up?” I asked, after we’d covered the weather.

“I’m all right. They gave me a room down the hall with three squares and cable TV. We’re trying to get someone to come stay with William’s grandmother so my wife can fly out too. I hope she can get here before…”

“Military man?” I asked, cutting him off.

“Retired. I served my country for twenty-five years. In his own way, that’s all William ever wanted to do. He made us both proud.”

“Billy’s a good man. He’s tough. He’ll pull through this.”

The way Mr. Driscoll looked at Billy through the glass, I could tell he wasn’t buying it. He’d seen the face of death before and knew it was staring right at his son.

“Mr. Driscoll, I know the doctor asked you to keep mum about this. I also know what your first reaction was, because it was mine too, but warning people now to try and save lives will start a shit-storm that can only end badly for everyone.”

“I know,” he whispered.

It was easy to see where Billy got his moxie. I told him to hang in there, and Izzy and I left. She drove us into Philadelphia to the lot where I’d left my car. I found it there in pretty sorry shape. The tires were slashed, two of the side windows were broken, and “Love child” was spray-painted on the hood. The guy manning the lot didn’t speak English too well, but Izzy knew Spanish and translated for me. Apparently mine wasn’t the only car vandalized overnight. He handed me a card with the lot owner’s insurance information on it and told me to call them about getting reimbursed. I contacted a towing outfit near where I lived, gave them the address, told them to bring a flatbed and take the car to a local garage that a friend of mine owned. I then called my friend and left a message on his machine to expect what was left of my Gremlin.