The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller (7 page)

“Do you want to go to Pico’s since we’re near?” Izzy asked. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“No, let’s go take that tour.”

I directed Izzy back to Independence Mall and we parked in the garage underneath. She wanted to see the Liberty Bell, so we walked up to Liberty Bell Center and stood in line for almost an hour so she could get her two minutes of face time with America’s one-ton hunk of copper, protected by 3/8” bulletproof glass. It’s funny what makes people happy. We got ice cream from a stand on the mall afterward. That’s what did it for me.

“I saw the bell when it was still in Independence Hall,” I said. “That was back when you could touch it. Then they moved it to the mall for the Bicentennial in 1976 so more people could see it. They put it behind these velvet ropes and just asked everyone not to touch it. That’s all it took. People were different back then. Nicer. More respectful. About fifteen years after that, some knucklehead from Nebraska went after it with a hammer. That’s when they moved it behind eleven million dollars worth of glass, steel, and granite.”

“And you don’t like that?” she said.

“I don’t like the idea of putting liberty in a cage. That’s where the criminals belong.”

We took an official guided tour of Independence Hall, a forty-minute carriage ride around the historic district, listened to a local choir sing on the steps of Carpenters’ Hall, and walked up to Christ Church cemetery. I really know how to show a girl a good time.

“Thanks for the lift and the breakfast,” I said. “The Six is just a block over. I should be able to borrow a company car and take it from here. Do you want me to walk you back to the garage first?”

“Don’t you want to show me your office?”

“It’s nothing to write home about.”

“But I’ve never been inside an FBI building.”

“It’s worse than my house.”

“Now, I
am
interested.” She took my arm. “Which way?”

It’s hard to say no to a lady latched onto your arm and packing heat. We walked the block to 600 Arch St., I got her a temporary ID at the front desk, and we took the elevator to the eighth floor where I hang my shingle. I call my office the Inner Sanctum, not after the old radio show, but because it’s one of the many inner offices without a window. Only bigwigs like Fink got a window seat.

“It’s certainly filled with memories,” Izzy said, looking around at the mess.

I kept my desk, my chair, and my one and only guest seat cleared off. The rest was fair game for long-term storage.

“I’m a hoarder,” I said, picking up the phone. I rang through to procurement. “Ted. It’s me Bam. I need a car. What have you got that you can loan me for a couple days?”

“Nothing,” he said, and explained why.

I thanked him and hung up.

“No luck?” Izzy said.

“The vice president is flying in later today to speak at a campaign rally. All the loaners were given out to agents working the motorcade route.”

“They didn’t ask you?”

“They probably did, but it’s a voluntary assignment to give the locals an assist.”

“And you don’t volunteer?”

“I didn’t vote for the guy.”

I started rummaging through my top desk drawer. I knew it was in there somewhere.

“What are you looking for?” Izzy asked.

“The bus schedule. One stops at the foot of the Ben Franklin Bridge that will drop me pretty close to home. I can hoof it from there.”

“I’ll take you home, Bam.”

“You’ve done enough, thanks.”

She folded her arms across her chest and sized me up like she was trying to decide whether to punch me in the gut or kick me in the nuts. I was beginning to like this girl.

“Does it always take deadly force to get you to accept a favor?” she said.

“Jimmy’s going to want that car back.”

“He told me I could have it as long as I want.”

“I’ve got two stops to make on the way home. You good with that?”

“How can I say no to such a mysterious invitation?”

We left the office. My cell rang just before we went underground into the Mall parking garage. It was Charles Evers, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Philadelphia field office. I listened to what he had to say, answered, “Yes, sir,” and hung up.

“That was my boss. It seems Carmine’s mouthpiece contacted the D.A. this morning about filing harassment charges against me, so I’ve been removed from the case and placed on administrative leave.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to see Billy.”

I was glad we got out of Philadelphia when we did. The police were already setting up barricades along Vine Street and on the Camden side of the bridge. It was going to be a hell of a mess for everyone. When we got to the hospital, we were able to see Billy, if you can call it that. He was lying flat on his back in bed.

“Junior,” I said. “You awake?”

They moved the mike closer so it hung over his bed.

“Bam?” Billy whispered.

“Yeah, it’s me. How’s it going?”

“Can you get me some water?” he asked.

The nurse standing by his bed put some ice chips to his lips.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, kid. Did you find out any more for me on that guy in Northeast Philly?”

“I’ve been a little busy, Grandpa.”

His feeble attempt at a smile was tearing me up. Izzy put her arm around me.

“That’s okay,” I said. “They’ve taken me off the case anyway.”

“What? Why?”

“Politics,” I answered, not wanting to upset him with the real reason. “Don’t sweat it. We’ll tackle this one together when you get out of this joint.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m feeling a little tired. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.”

“You do that, Junior. I’ve got a few things to take care of. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. I’ll bring breakfast. Okay?”

The poor kid was already asleep. We left and hunted down Dr. Williamson who was trying to eat lunch in peace in one of the exam rooms.

“Sorry, Doc,” I said. “Is this a bad time?”

“There are no good times right now, Agent Matthews. I haven’t seen my family in two days.”

“I’ll bring you some real food tomorrow. How’s that?”

He smiled. “Thanks. It’s the coffee that’s the real killer here.”

“I’ll add a Box O’ Joe and a dozen doughnuts. I’ll even throw in bagels and cream cheese if you can just give me some good news.”

“He’s a fighter,” Williamson said.

“Any word on the others?” I could tell by the way he picked through his club sandwich that he was weighing his options. He was a good man. “How many?” I said.

“Two of the first responders so far, but just mild symptoms, nothing like Mr. Driscoll. Their first blood samples were sent to the CDC about an hour ago.”

“What about the bystanders?”

“We admitted three of them after you left. We’ve set up separate operating rooms for each to isolate them.” He shook his head. “We simply don’t have the facilities or staff to quarantine and treat people in an epidemic.”

“Has the CDC said anything about the Belgian’s sample?”

“Trying to get through to anyone there right now is impossible. I left a message. That’s the best I can do.”

I tried Tom Stalter at the CDC on my cell. The call went right to voicemail. “Tom, it’s me, Bam. I’m looking for an update. Call me, day or night. Just call me.”

One of the other doctors stuck her head in the door. “Dr. Williamson, you need to see this, stat.”

We followed her to a nurse’s station where people were crowded around a TV set watching the news. The text stripe at the bottom of the screen said it all: Ebola Outbreak in Philadelphia. The reporter was talking to a woman standing outside her house, wearing a surgical mask. They flashed her name: Phyllis Jones.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

“She’s one of the ones on the list,” Williamson said.

“Yeah, I know. Look, Doc, you’re going have your hands full here with everybody and his brother coming in with symptoms. You’d better get ready. We’ll see you later.”

We left him as he was dialing the Emergency Response Team coordinator, hustled to the parking garage, and got out of town. The last place I wanted to get stuck when the world went nuts was Camden. When we were a few miles from home, Izzy asked me what the second stop was that I wanted to make.

“I like to get over to the rehab every Sunday,” I said.

“Old injury?” she asked.

“No. I read Louis L’Amour to a bunch of old geezers who like westerns. We should probably skip it though and pick up milk, eggs, and bread at the store. Isn’t that what everyone gets before a disaster?”

“You do that over here too?” she laughed.

“Yeah, only this time it might not be a bad idea.”

We picked up supplies at a local place and headed home. I’d turned on a news station when we first left the hospital, but they hadn’t picked up the story yet. So much for their ratings.

When Izzy pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the garage, I said, “You hungry? Want some bacon and eggs?”

“Yes, please. That sounds nice.”

I dragged out the portable TV that lived in the hall closet and set it up on the kitchen counter so we could watch the news while I wowed Izzy with my culinary skills. Shep and the cat were wowed too. I could tell. It was either that or the prospect of bacon.

They were running an interview with a so-called expert on Ebola. She wasn’t from the CDC, had never been to Africa, and never treated anyone with the disease, but she was an M.D. and knew it all, or so she said. I tossed an eggshell onto the floor for the cat to bat around.

“Where do they dig these people up?” I said.

“I don’t know, but this isn’t helping,” said Izzy. “It’s only making people more paranoid.”

“They might have a good reason to be in this case.”

She switched the channel. They were showing a news crew arguing with security guards outside Jefferson Hospital. They wanted in. They wanted to know what was going on, and there was a growing, angry crowd behind them.

“What the hell? If it was me and someone cried Ebola, I’d be running the other way,” I said.

“Look at them. They’re afraid. They just want to know. Someone should speak to the people officially or the panic will spread everywhere.”

She tried another channel. A press conference was just getting going. It was the mayor flanked by the police commissioner, fire commissioner, transportation chief, a few others I didn’t recognize who were probably bodyguards, and a couple of doctors.

“Turn that up,” I said. “I want to hear this.”

The mayor started it off.

Thank you all for coming on such short notice, and my apologies to the vice president for the disruption in his motorcade.

What a political suck-up.

As you know, there have been rumors of an outbreak of Ebola in the city. I am here to tell you that these rumors are, as of now, unsubstantiated. Furthermore, the needless panic being caused by the irresponsible reporting practices of certain national news outlets is reprehensible and dangerous. I am asking the police commissioner to investigate this matter for possible criminal or civil prosecution.

Sue the shit out of them. That fixes everything.

There is no cause for alarm, no cause for panic. It’s business as usual in the city. You have nothing to fear.

He droned on long enough for me to get the food on the table and put something down for Shep and the cat. Izzy and I ate through the series of reassuring officials until the mayor called on one of the docs to take the mike. This guy was head of the Division of Infectious Diseases at Jefferson. He laid out some of the facts for the reporters and tried to hide others. That was his first mistake. He admitted to having two people under observation, but emphasized that they had not been diagnosed with Ebola. Not yet. He said nothing of the others and nothing about the dead man, Birot. His second mistake was taking questions. Reporters have a way of asking the same question over and over until you either give them what they want or end the press conference abruptly, making it look like the reporter was on to something all along. They kept asking about Birot. They wanted his name. They wanted to know who he was. They wanted the truth. They skewered the poor guy.

“I’ve heard enough,” I said, turning off the set.

I fired up my laptop and checked the traffic. Red lines covered every road on the map going in and out of the city like a centipede sitting right on top of City Hall. The vice-presidential motorcade had made a real mess of things.

“I don’t think you’re going to get back into Philadelphia, at least not tonight.”

“Are there any hotels in this area?” Izzy said.

“Nothing close, unless you want one that comes with a six-pack and rents by the hour, but I have a spare bedroom that you’re welcome to use. I’m not talking funny business here. Just a room.”