While she waited for the phone to ring again, she slipped on her robe and glanced at the time. It was 4:00 A.M.; that meant it was 2:00 A.M. in Phoenix. There was little doubt in her mind that someone had discovered another suspected case of Ebola.
The phone jangled again. “Dr. Blumenthal,” said Marissa.
The voice on the other end of the wire was anything but calm. The caller introduced himself as Dr. Guy Weaver, the Arizona State Epidemiologist. “I’m terribly sorry to be phoning at such an hour,” he said, “but I’ve been called in on a severe problem at the Medica Hospital in Phoenix. I trust you are familiar with the Medica Hospital.”
“Can’t say I am.”
“It’s part of a chain of for-profit hospitals which have contracted with the Medica Medical Group to provide prepaid, comprehensive care in this part of Arizona. We’re terrified that the hospital’s been hit with Ebola.”
“I trust that you’ve isolated the patient,” said Marissa. “We’ve found that—”
“Dr. Blumenthal,” interrupted Dr. Weaver. “It’s not one case. It’s eighty-four cases.”
“Eighty-four!” she exclaimed in disbelief.
“We have forty-two doctors, thirteen RN’s, eleven LPN’s, four lab techs, six of the administrative staff, six food service personnel and two maintenance men.”
“All at once?” asked Marissa.
“All this evening,” said the epidemiologist.
At that time of night, there was no convenient service to Phoenix, though Delta promised the most direct flight available. As soon as she dressed, Marissa called the duty officer at the CDC to say that she was leaving for Phoenix immediately and to please brief Dr. Dubchek as soon as he came into the Center.
After writing a note to the Judsons asking them to please collect Taffy and pick up her mail, Marissa drove to the airport. The fact that the new outbreak had started with eighty-four cases overwhelmed her. She hoped Dubchek and his team would arrive by the afternoon.
The flight was uneventful, despite two stops, and was certainly not crowded. When it landed, Marissa was met by a short, round man, who nervously introduced himself as Justin Gardiner, the assistant director of the Medica Hospital.
“Here, let me take your bag,” he said. But his hand was shaking so, the bag fell to the floor. Bending down to retrieve it, he apologized, saying that he was a bit upset.
“I can understand,” said Marissa. “Have there been any further admissions?”
“Several, and the hospital is in a panic,” said Mr. Gardiner, as they started down the concourse. “Patients started checking out—staff were leaving, too—until the State Health Commissioner declared a quarantine. The only reason I could meet you was that I was off yesterday.”
Marissa’s mouth felt dry with fear as she wondered what she was getting herself into. Pediatrics began to look a lot more attractive than this.
The hospital was another elaborate modern structure. It occurred to Marissa that Ebola favored such contemporary edifices. The clean, almost sterile lines of the building hardly seemed the proper setting for such a deadly outbreak.
Despite the early hour, the street in front of the hospital was crowded with TV trucks and reporters. In front of them stood a line of uniformed police, some of whom were actually wearing surgical masks. In the early light, the whole scene had a surreal look.
Mr. Gardiner pulled up behind one of the TV trucks. “You’ll have to go inside and find the director,” he said. “My orders are to stay outside to try to control the panic. Good luck!”
As she walked toward the entrance, Marissa got out her identification card. She showed it to one of the policemen, but he had to call over to his sergeant to ask if it was okay to let her pass. A group of the reporters, hearing that she was from the CDC, crowded around and asked for a statement.
“I have no direct knowledge of the situation,” protested Marissa, as she felt herself buffeted by the surging journalists. She was grateful for the policeman, who shoved the press aside, then pulled one of the barricades open and allowed her through.
Unfortunately things on the inside of the hospital were even more chaotic. The lobby was jammed with people, and as Marissa entered, she was again mobbed. Apparently she was the first person to pass either in or out of the building for several hours.
A number of the people pressing in on her were patients, dressed in pajamas and robes. They were all simultaneously asking questions and demanding answers.
“Please!” shouted someone to Marissa’s right. “Please! Let me through.” A heavyset man with bushy eyebrows pushed his way to Marissa’s side. “Dr. Blumenthal?”
“Yes,” said Marissa with relief.
The heavyset man took her by the arm, ignoring the fact that she was carrying both a suitcase and briefcase. Pushing his way back through the crowd, he led her across the lobby to a door that he locked behind them. They were in a long, narrow hallway.
“I’m terribly sorry about all this turmoil,” said the man. “I’m Lloyd Davis, director of the hospital, and we seem to have a bit of a panic on our hands.”
Marissa followed Davis to his office. They entered through a side door, and Marissa noticed the main door was barricaded from the inside with a ladder-back chair, making her believe that the “bit of panic” had been an understatement.
“The staff is waiting to talk with you,” said Mr. Davis, taking Marissa’s belongings and depositing them next to his desk. He breathed heavily, as if the effort of bending over had exhausted him.
“What about the patients with suspected Ebola?” asked Marissa.
“For the moment they’ll have to wait,” said the director, motioning Marissa to return to the hallway.
“But our first priority has to be the proper isolation of the patients.”
“They are well isolated,” Mr. Davis assured her. “Dr. Weaver has taken care of that.” He pressed his hand against the small of Marissa’s back, propelling her toward the door. “Of course we’ll follow any additional suggestions you have, but right now I would like you to talk with the staff before I’m faced with mutiny.”
“I hope it’s not that bad,” said Marissa. It was one thing if the inpatients were upset, quite another if the professional staff was hysterical as well.
Mr. Davis closed his office door and led the way along another corridor. “A lot of people are terrified at being forced to stay in the hospital.”
“How many more presumed cases have been diagnosed since you called the CDC?”
“Sixteen. No more staff; all the new cases are Medica Plan subscribers.”
That suggested that the virus was already into its second generation, having been spread by the initially infected physicians. At least that was what had happened in the two previous outbreaks. Marissa herself quaked at the idea of being locked up in the same building with such a contagion, making her question how much consolation she would be able to extend to the staff. With so many people infected, she wondered if they would be able to contain the problem as they had in L.A. and St. Louis. The horror of the thought of Ebola passing into the general community was almost beyond comprehension.
“Do you know if any of the initial cases had been mugged recently?” asked Marissa, as much to distract herself as in hope of a positive answer. Davis just glanced at her and raised his eyebrows as if she were crazy. That seemed as much of a response he felt the question merited. So much for that observation, thought Marissa, remembering Ralph’s response.
They stopped in front of a locked door. Davis took out his keys, unlocked the door and led Marissa onto the hospital auditorium’s stage. It was not a big room: There was seating for approximately one hundred and fifty people. Marissa noticed all the seats were occupied, with still more people standing in the back. There was the buzz of a dozen simultaneous conversations. They trailed off into silence as Marissa nervously walked toward the podium, all eyes upon her. A tall, exceptionally thin man stood up from a chair behind the podium and shook her hand. Mr. Davis introduced him as Dr. Guy Weaver, the man she’d spoken to on the phone.
“Dr. Blumenthal,” said Dr. Weaver, his deep voice a sharp contrast to his scrawny frame, “you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”
Marissa felt that uncomfortable sense of being an imposter. And it got worse. After tapping the microphone to make certain it was “live,” Dr. Weaver proceeded to introduce Marissa.
