twisted in my nostrils and my sinuses clogged with blood.
We used the time wisely. After I was done apologizing profusely for landing us all in jail, we stayed up half the night in the windowless concrete room, trying to piece together the potential causes of HAC.
We kept bumping up against the same barriers we had encountered at the meeting. We decided it was unlikely that it was a virus. Whatever it was, for it to similarly affect various different species in diverse areas argued against that possibility. We all agreed it was more likely that this sudden and aberrant shift in behavior was probably a response to some change in the environment. Obviously the best thing to do now was to perform autopsies on affected animals and look for any anatomical or physiological peculiarities that might point us in the right direction.
Dr. Quinn pledged the help of the Columbia University biology department, if and when we could get a specimen.
“Who needs the government anyway, Oz?” she said from where she sat, campfire-style, by the jail cell door. “Even if they’d listened to you today, they would have formed a committee to hire a research team to come up with a study on the personality types of the best people needed to come up with an action plan.”
We were freed the next morning after our arraignment. The others got off with a misdemeanor charge of public disturbance and a five-hundred-dollar fine, and I was charged with criminal trespass and had to enter a plea and pay three thousand dollars in bail.
Though I now had a federal record and a court date, I wasn’t terribly worried about it as we pushed Dr. Groh’s wheelchair down the ramp beside the courthouse steps in the early morning sunlight. I had bigger fish to fry—we all did, whether anyone realized it or not. The government was about to be overwhelmed with a lot more important things than me.
“What now? We go hunting?” Chloe said after we had helped load Dr. Groh into the back of a wheelchair- accessible cab with Claire and Gail and said our good-byes.
“First, the next portion of your vacation package,” I said, pointing to a restaurant down the street. “Allow me to introduce you to an American gem: the twenty-four-hour diner.”
“I have another suggestion,” Chloe said, pointing at my nose. “Your nose looks crooked. Very crooked. You might want to think about seeing a doctor.”
So our breakfast wound up being eaten in the waiting room of the George Washington University Hospital’s ER. After wolfing down an Egg McMuffin while John Hancocking half a dozen documents, I stood on a chair and blitzed through the channels of the wall-mounted TV, trying to see if there was any word of our protest on the news. Two trips around the horn and I left it on ESPN, where they were recapping a game last night in which the Celtics had lost to the Knicks: a small glimmer of good news.
“This is ridiculous,” I said to Chloe. “There’s nothing. Not a single word about Botswana or the protest. We were arrested for nothing.”
Another hour of waiting and I was taken for some X-rays. When Chloe and I came back into the treatment room, we noticed a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit surrounded by armed guards in the bay across from us.
“Look. Another troublemaker,” Chloe whispered to me. Her smile was sweet and impish.
I smiled back. That she could keep up a sense of humor through all this bullshit was incredible.
“Yeah, well,” I said. “This must be the mad, bad, and dangerous-to-know section.”
After a while a handsome doctor came in with my X-ray, the glossy sheet of black film flopping in his small, smooth hand. He looked young enough to be a George Washington University undergrad. He glanced at Chloe a beat too long for my liking and smiled cheerily as he told me that my nose was indeed broken.
“I didn’t like your nose before anyway,” Chloe said as Dr. Feelgood snapped a pair of latex gloves onto his tiny porcelain hands to set my nose back into its proper form.
“I am kidding,” said Chloe, smiling behind her hand. In a moment I was lying with my shirt off on a crinkling sheet of gurney paper.
“I’m going to have to rebreak your nose before I set it,” the doctor said as he pinched down hard on my face. “It’s been a number of hours since you were injured.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. My face betrayed me.
“It’ll only take a second,” said the doctor. He was talking to me as though I were a child afraid of needles.
“Ready?” He snapped his glove. Bastard was whistling.
I was struggling to sit up, and then I felt a soft hand in mine.
“You can do this, Oz,” Chloe said, squeezing my hand. “I’m right here.”
A funny thing happened then. I actually did calm down. This was becoming a theme for us, helping each other out, anticipating each other’s needs. As I looked at Chloe and felt her cool hand in mine, I realized I was falling very hard and fast in love with this woman. I had a suspicion it was happening to her, too.
Then the doctor broke my nose and I screamed like a baby.
Chapter 44
WITH A BANDAGE X-taped across my face and bloody cotton balls peeking rakishly from my nostrils, I left the hospital with Chloe and caught a cab back to the hotel. We showered, packed, checked out, and went to Union Station to catch the next New York–bound Acela train.
New criminal record or not, I needed to return to the Big Apple to regroup and try like hell to broadcast my lion footage to the world. Get it on the Internet, see if I could get it on the network news.
As we were settling into our seats, I tried calling Natalie again. The phone went straight to voice mail, and I hung up. I’d left her a message almost forty-eight hours before. What the hell? Was she icing me out?
Half an hour later I was coming back from the snack car with a beer and a half bottle of wine. Chloe was shuffling a deck of cards on the tray table in front of her.
“Go fish,” I said.
“These aren’t playing cards,” Chloe said. “These are tarot cards.”
“Tarot cards?” I said, giving her a quizzical look. “What scientist carries tarot cards?”
Chloe shrugged.
“I think they are very beautiful,” she said. “They belonged to my mother. I found them in a box of her things after she died. It’s my—how do you say it?—good luck charm. It’s superstitious, I know.”
She slipped them back in their box and reached beneath her seat for her purse.
“Lemme see those,” I said, putting a hand on hers. “Do you know how to…do whatever it is you do with tarot cards?”
“We can do a reading,” she said, sliding the cards back out of the box. “You shuffle the cards and then lay out ten of them in what is called the Celtic cross. The best kind of reading is the question reading. First you write down a question, then deal out the cards to find the answer. The tenth card in the sequence will give you the answer.”
I uncapped a pen and scribbled out on an Amtrak cocktail napkin:
Will HAC destroy the world?
I handed her the napkin, but she waved it off.
“Don’t show it to me yet. Just turn it over and shuffle.”
So I folded it and put it down. I shuffled the cards and carefully slipped them off the top of the deck one by one, laying them down on the tray table in the places where she pointed.
The formation complete, Chloe began turning the cards over. The first one showed an old man in a cloak, holding a staff and a lantern.
“That’s the Hermit,” she said. “It represents, er—how do you say?—introspection, searching.”
Chloe’s voice had a slight note of seriousness in it. How did a scientist become a closet mystic? I was intrigued. It made me think of Isaac Newton doing alchemy experiments in his spare time, trying to turn lead into gold when he wasn’t busy laying down the foundation of classical physics.
She turned over the other cards. One card was called the Tower, another the Lovers, which I liked the sound of.
