“How old?” asked Marissa.
“A week, ten days. Somewhere in that range.”
“Did the chart mention a cause?”
“To tell the truth, I didn’t look,” said Dr. Vandermay. “Knowing the man died of Ebola Hemorrhagic Fever took precedence. I didn’t give the broken nose a lot of thought.”
“I understand,” said Marissa. “What about the chart? I assume it’s here in pathology. Can I see it?”
“By all means,” said Vandermay. He stood up. “Why don’t you come down to the autopsy area. I have some Polaroids of the broken nose, if you’d like to see them.”
“Please,” said Marissa.
Stewart excused himself, saying he had a meeting to attend, and Marissa followed Vandermay as he explained that the body had been disinfected and then double-bagged in special receptacles to avoid contamination. The family had requested that the body be shipped home to India, but that permission had been refused. Marissa could understand why.
The chart wasn’t as complete as Marissa would have liked, but there was reference to the broken nose. It had been set by one of Dr. Mehta’s colleagues, an ENT surgeon. Marissa also learned that Dr. Mehta was an ENT surgeon himself, a terrifying fact given the way the epidemic had spread in the previous outbreaks. As far as the cause of the broken nose was concerned, there was nothing.
Vandermay suggested that they phone the man who set it. While he put through the call, Marissa went through the rest of the chart. Dr. Mehta had no history of recent travel, exposure to animals or connection to any of the other Ebola outbreaks.
“The poor man was robbed,” said Dr. Vandermay, hanging up the phone. “Punched out and robbed in his own driveway. Can you believe it? What a world we live in!”
If you only knew, thought Marissa, now absolutely certain that the Ebola outbreaks were deliberately caused. A wave of fear swept over her, but she forced herself to continue questioning the pathologist. “Did you happen to notice a nummular lesion on Dr. Mehta’s thigh?”
“I don’t recall,” said Dr. Vandermay. “But here are all the Polaroids.” He spread a group of photos out as if he were laying out a poker hand.
Marissa looked at the first one. They brutally portrayed the naked corpse laid out on the stainless-steel autopsy table. Despite the profusion of hemorrhagic lesions, Marissa was able to pick out the same circular lesion she had seen on Dr. Richter’s thigh. It corresponded in size to the head of a vaccination gun.
“Would it be possible for me to take one of these photos?” asked Marissa.
Dr. Vandermay glanced at them. “Go ahead. We’ve got plenty.”
Marissa slipped the photo into her pocket. It wasn’t as good as the vaccination gun, but it was something. She thanked Dr. Vandermay and got up to leave.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your suspicions?” Vandermay asked. There was a slight smile on his face, as if he knew that something was up.
An intercom system crackled to life, informing Dr. Vandermay that he had a phone call on line six. He picked up, and Marissa overheard him say, “That’s a coincidence, Dr. Dubchek, I’m talking with Dr. Blumenthal right this moment…”
That was all Marissa needed to hear. She got up and ran for the elevators. Vandermay called after her, but she didn’t stop. She passed the secretaries at a half-jog and raced through the double doors, clutching the pens in the pocket of the white coat to keep them from falling out.
Facing the elevators and fire stairs, she decided to risk the elevator. If Dubchek had been on the third floor, he probably would think it faster to use the stairs. She pushed the Down button. A lab tech was waiting with his tray of vacu-containers. He watched Marissa frantically push the already illuminated elevator button several more times. “Emergency?” he asked as their eyes met.
An elevator stopped and Marissa squeezed on. The doors seemed to take forever to close, and she expected at any moment to see Dubchek running to stop them. But finally they started down, and Marissa began to relax only to find herself stopping on three. She moved deeper into the car, for once appreciating her small stature. It would have been difficult to see her from outside the elevator.
As the elevator began to move again, she asked a gray-haired technician where the cafeteria was. He told her to turn right when she got off the elevator and follow the main corridor.
Marissa got off and did as she had been told. A short distance down the hall, she smelled the aroma of food. For the rest of the way she followed her nose.
She had decided it was too dangerous to risk the front entrance to the clinic. Dubchek could have told the police to stop her. Instead, she ran into the cafeteria, which was crowded with people having lunch. She headed directly for the kitchen. The staff threw her a few questioning looks, but no one challenged her. As she’d imagined, there was a loading dock, and she exited directly onto it, skirting a dairy truck that was making a delivery.
Dropping down to the level of the driveway, Marissa walked briskly out onto Madison Avenue. After going north for half a block, she turned east on a quiet tree-lined street. There were few pedestrians, which gave Marissa confidence that she was not being trailed. When she got to Park Avenue, she hailed a cab.
To be sure that no one was following her, Marissa got off at Bloomingdales, walked through the store to Third Avenue and hailed a second cab. By the time she pulled up at the Essex House, she was confident that she was safe, at least for the time being.
Outside her room, with its Do Not Disturb sign still in place, Marissa hesitated. Even though no one knew she was registered under an assumed name, the memory of Chicago haunted her. She opened the door carefully, scanning the premises before going in. Then she propped the door open with a chair and warily searched the room. She checked under the beds, in the closet and in the bathroom. Everything was as she’d left it. Satisfied, Marissa closed and locked her door, using all the bolts and chains available.
15
MARISSA ATE SOME OF the generous portion of fruit she’d ordered from room service for her breakfast that morning, peeling an apple with the sharp paring knife that had come with it. Now that her suspicions appeared to be true, she wasn’t sure what to do next. The only thing she could think of was to go to Ralph’s lawyer and tell him what she believed: that a small group of right-wing physicians were introducing Ebola into privately owned clinics to erode public trust in HMOs. She could hand over the meager evidence she had and let him worry about the rest of the proof. Maybe he could even suggest a safe place for her to hide while things were being sorted out.
Putting down the apple, she reached for the phone. She felt much better having come to a decision. She dialed Ralph’s office number and was pleasantly surprised to be immediately put through to him.
“I gave my secretary specific instructions,” explained Ralph. “In case you don’t know it, I’m concerned about you.”
“You’re sweet,” said Marissa, suddenly touched by Ralph’s sympathy. It undermined the tight control she’d been holding over her emotions. For a second she felt like the child who didn’t cry after a fall until she saw her mother.
“Are you coming home today?”
“That depends,” said Marissa, biting her lip and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I can talk to that lawyer today?” Her voice wavered.
“No,” said Ralph. “I called his office this morning. They said he had to go out of town but that he’s expected back tomorrow.”
“Too bad,” said Marissa, her voice beginning to shake.
“Marissa, are you all right?” asked Ralph.
“I’ve been better,” admitted Marissa. “I’ve had some awful experiences.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t talk now,” said Marissa, knowing if she tried to explain, she’d burst into tears.
“Listen to me,” said Ralph. “I want you to come here immediately. I didn’t want you going to New York in the
