radiator. That was good, wasn’t it? The body was fighting the virus or something? Or was it the other way around – the higher the fever got, the more you had to worry?
Where was Maeve, to tell me in her sweet but no-nonsense way exactly how much of an idiot I was?
Chrissy’s hacking, crushed-glass cough sounded as loud as thunder to my ears, but when she tried to talk, her voice was just a weak whisper.
“I want my mommy,” she cried.
So do I, honey, I thought, as I did the only thing I could think of, cradle her in my arms. I want your mommy, too.
Chapter 8
“Daddy?”
The speaker was my five-year-old, Shawna, watching me from the kitchen doorway. She’d been following me around all morning, a faithful lieutenant delivering frontline dispatches to a doomed general. ‘Daddy, we’re out of orange juice.’ ‘Daddy, Eddie doesn’t like peanut butter.’
I raised my hand in a wait gesture as I squinted at the microscopic Sanskrit on a bottle of children’s cough syrup. Which patient was this for? I tried to remember. Ah, yes, Chrissy. One teaspoon for somebody two to five years and under forty-seven pounds, I managed to decipher. I didn’t have any clear idea of how much she weighed, but she was four and normal size, so I decided to go with it.
“Daddy?” Shawna inquired again, as the microwave timer behind me started beeping like a nuclear reactor approaching meltdown. Between tending to the sick kids and getting the well ones ready for school, our household had now apparently entered DEFCON 3.
“Yes, baby?” I yelled above the din, now looking around for the medicine bottle’s plastic measuring cup, which had gone AWOL.
“Eddie’s wearing two different-colored socks,” she said solemnly.
I almost dropped the cough syrup and collapsed in laughter. But she looked so concerned that I managed to keep a straight face.
“What two colors?” I said.
“Black and blue.”
Finally, a no-brainer. “That’s okay,” I said. “Cool, in fact. He’s a trendsetter.”
I gave up on trying to find the measuring cup – it could be anywhere on the planet by now – and started looking for an alternative. My roving gaze landed on my oldest son, Brian, eating Cap’n Crunch at the kitchen table just three feet away.
“Hey!” he said as I snatched his spoon out of his hand.
“All’s fair in love and especially war,” I said, drying the spoon off on my bathrobe.
“War? Jeez, Dad, I’m just trying to eat breakfast.”
“Slurping works pretty good with cereal,” I said. “Try it.”
I was tilting out the dose of cough syrup when I noticed that a pregnant silence had taken over the kitchen.
Uh-oh.
“Well, good morning, Mike,” Mary Catherine said behind me. “What do you think you’re doing with that spoon?”
I tried giving her my warmest smile while I groped for an answer.
“Uhh – a teaspoon’s a teaspoon, right?” I said.
“Not with medicine, it’s not.” Mary Catherine set a shopping bag on the counter and took out a fresh new package of Vicks children’s cough syrup. “This is what civilized humans use,” she said, producing the bottle’s plastic measuring cup and holding it up.
“Daddy?” It was Shawna again.
“Yes, Shawna?” I said, for the thousandth time that morning.
“You’re totally busted!” She ran away down the hall, giggling.
Busted or not, I didn’t think I’d ever been so glad to see anybody in my life as I was to see Mary Catherine just then.
“You take over the brain work,” I said, and picked up a vomit pail. “I’ll go back to swamping.”
“Right,” she said, pouring the dose of cough syrup carefully into the cup. Then, impishly, she offered it to me. “Care for a shot of this to brace you up?”
“You bet. Neat, with a beer back.”
“Sorry, too early for beer. But I’ll make some coffee.”
“You’re a miracle, Mary,” I said.
As I squeezed past her in the tight kitchen aisle, it suddenly struck me that she was a very warm and lovely miracle. Maybe she read my mind, because I thought I saw her start to blush before she turned hastily away.
She’d brought a bunch of other supplies, too, including a packet of Flents ear-loop surgical masks. We armored ourselves with them and spent the rest of the hour treating the sick. And by we, I really mean her. While I stayed on relatively undemanding bucket-emptying and sheet-changing patrol, she took care of dispensing medicine and getting the survivors ready for school.
Within twenty minutes, the moans of the dying had stopped, and the living were in the front hall, lined up, scrubbed, combed, and even wearing correct socks. My private Florence Nightingale had done the impossible. The insanity was almost under control.
Almost. On the way out the door, Brian, my oldest boy, suddenly bent double, clutching his belly.
“Ohhhh, I don’t feel so hot,” he groaned.
Mary Catherine didn’t hesitate a second. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead to feel his temperature, then lightly swatted her fingers against the side of his ear.
“The ‘didn’t-study’ flu is what you’ve got, as if I didn’t know about your math test,” she said. “Get moving, you malingerer. I’ve well enough to do around this house than to deal with your messin’.”
As they left, I did something I’d written off for this morning. I smiled with genuine good humor.
Cancel the National Guard, I thought. All this situation required was one petite young Irish lass.
Chapter 9
The Teacher walked into Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library, at eleven A.M. – still ahead of schedule. He’d stopped by his headquarters, a rented apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, and changed his appearance from head to toe. The Rolex was gone, replaced by a Casio sports watch. So was the Givenchy suit. Now he was wearing wraparound shades, a Jets cap, a traffic-cone-orange Mets spring training jersey, and baggy yellow basketball shorts.
No one could possibly have recognized him as the elegant businessman who’d pushed that worthless bitch in front of the train – which was precisely the point. To make the mission succeed, speed and surprise were key. He needed to strike like a cobra, get in and back out again before anyone even knew he’d been there. Melt into the crowds and use them as human shields. Exploit the multilevel, mazelike streetscape of Manhattan. Totally change his appearance – then strike again.
He found an empty folding chair in the park, removed his Palm Treo from his fanny pack, and brought up the other vital document it contained. To accompany his mission statement, the Plan was a fourteen-page blueprint for what he needed to accomplish. He scrolled to its last and most important page, a long bullet-pointed list. Almost in a trance, he read it over slowly, mentally rehearsing each and every possibility as he went along, visualizing how he would perform every act with calm, serious perfection.
He’d first learned about the power of visualization when he was a pitcher on the baseball team at Princeton. He wasn’t especially gifted – just a basic power righty, with a fastball in the low nineties. But his coach had taught
