Boldt met his wife in the museum’s parking lot from where the hill spilled down and away from them toward the intrusion of high-rises and the gray-green wash of the Sound. Late afternoon, the first day of September, it was busy with in-line skaters and baby strollers. Boldt smelled fall in the air. It brought a pang of anxiety. He didn’t need any more change right now. Liz’s invitation to meet away from downtown implied trouble. She knew it was more difficult for him, especially midday.
‘‘Everything okay?’’ he asked.
She made every effort to return the weight savaged by the chemotherapy, but all these months later, she still looked the same—a piece of dried fruit, the juice of life sucked out. He loved her, appreciated her, and yet did not accept her as fully healthy in part because of her appearance, in part a resistance to the idea of sharing management of the family with her. Her sickness had put Boldt in charge of the kids, the schedule, even the meals and menus. And though he welcomed the relief from his duties, he also felt a bit like a dictator, unwilling to recognize the democracy.
‘‘Where are you?’’ she asked accusingly.
‘‘I’m here.’’
‘‘You were off somewhere else.’’
‘‘I’m right here, Liz.’’
‘‘You’re slipping back into it, you know? The twelve-hour days. The leaving before they’re up and coming home after they’re asleep.’’
She had brought him to Volunteer Park to lecture him on old habits dying hard?
‘‘I’m working on stuff,’’ he confessed. ‘‘Trying to work things out.’’
‘‘Living with my being healthy,’’ she stated. ‘‘It’s hard for you.’’
‘‘I’m working stuff out,’’ he repeated.
She took his hand. Hers was icy. There was never any warmth in any of her extremities, as if she’d just gone for a swim in a cold lake.
‘‘Dr. Woods’ office called,’’ she said.
Boldt swooned. The world seemed to slow to a stop, all sound replaced by a whining in his ears, his vision shrinking. He managed only a guttural, ‘‘What?’’
‘‘The tests. My annual. There’s evidently a newer, more sensitive test they can run. They want me to book an appointment. You’re a part of that decision.’’
‘‘I appreciate that,’’ he said.
She stared out at the water.
‘‘It’s not that I don’t respect your faith. It’s that I don’t understand it.’’
She explained, ‘‘They say they want me in for an early flu shot. They say they’re worried about me getting the flu. But I know Katherine. It’s about the tests.’’
‘‘Which is it? Flu shots or the tests?’’ Something teased his thoughts: the container victims had been exposed to a flu. Could he use that now?
‘‘They mentioned both. The excuse to get me in there is the flu shots.’’
‘‘It’s your decision, Liz: You want to skip the tests,’’ he said, ‘‘I’m with you.’’ But he wasn’t with her; he felt distracted.
She offered, ‘‘You have to be fully behind this. I need—’’
‘‘My faith?’’
She smiled. ‘‘I don’t expect miracles.’’
CHAPTER 53
oldt caught Dixon in the middle of an autopsy. An eighty-fiveyear-old widow had fallen off a ladder while changing a light bulb and had broken her neck. The law required Dixon to cut her up and take his samples, and though typically an assistant would have handled such a case, the late summer vacation schedule put the burden on the boss. He went about it with all the enthusiasm of a parking lot cashier.
The room smelled foul despite the ventilation system. Boldt hated the taste it left in his mouth.
‘‘Flu shots?’’ Dixon asked.
Boldt said, ‘‘What if the illegals aren’t the only ones sick? These Hilltop women were raped—that’s close contact. What if the skin irritation on Jane Doe was from industrial detergent, as in a
Clearly impressed, Dixon said, ‘‘Not so far-fetched.’’
‘‘Close physical contact,’’ Boldt repeated. ‘‘You said yourself it was highly contagious. What if it spread? What if a couple guys are real sick? What if the evening news happened to report that a flu shot and an antibiotic had just come available? That both were specific to what authorities were calling the ‘container flu’?’’
‘‘The antibiotic wouldn’t be specific to the flu,’’ Dixon advised.
‘‘So they issue a retraction? The point being that we could use it as bait. We’ve seen guards on the videos. People have been around these women. Close contact. Someone has buried them. Handled them.’’
The doctor’s gloved hands made sucking noises inside the cadaver. He said, ‘‘This is no Ebola, or something —it’s a very bad flu. It’s treatable.’’
‘‘But if the news plays it up, if there’s a treatment available at a clinic, if our people are at that clinic, and if it requires them to fill out a form that includes an exposure date—’’
‘‘That’s completely unnecessary!’’
‘‘But they don’t know that! The average guy doesn’t know that! I wouldn’t know that. Jill Doe was in the ground weeks ahead of Jane Doe. Jane Doe was dead before the container. The point being that if we can trick someone into naming a date
‘‘No one would ever run such a story. It’s medically unsound. They fact check, you know? Your only hope is with the tabloids, believe me.’’
‘‘My hope is that this office will issue a press release,’’ Boldt stated bluntly.
Dixon’s hands stopped, submerged in the corpse. ‘‘Well then, you just lost all hope.’’ He said firmly, ‘‘I understand what you’re going for, Lou. In a warped kind of way, it even makes sense. It’s a pretty good idea. But I cannot put this department in the position you’re asking me to. If we lose integrity and trust, if the public believes we’re willing to manipulate the truth for the good of SPD . . . It just doesn’t work. We’re a team of medical professionals. Believe me, we have image problems enough without this kind of thing: ‘second-rate doctors’; ‘surgeons whose only patients are dead.’ Can’t do it, Lou.’’
‘‘But it might work,’’ Boldt suggested, looking for encouragement.
‘‘I’d give it a qualified yes—a
Boldt said, ‘‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’’
CHAPTER 54
etween the chauffeur-driven Town Cars and her own 325i, Stevie realized she
