Darwin's Children Part 10

One evening last winter, Shamus had not shown up for table sc.r.a.ps or his usual siesta on Kaye's lap. The tom had wandered off into the far corner of the backyard, well away from Stella's sense of smell. He had pushed his way under a swelling lobe of kudzu, hidden from crows, and curled up.

Two days later, acting on a hunch, Mitch had found him there, head down, eyes closed, feet tucked under as if asleep. They had buried him a few yards away wrapped in a sc.r.a.p of knitted afghan he had favored as a bed.

Mitch had said that cats did that, wandered off when they knew the end was near so their bodies would not attract predators or bring disease to the family, the pride.

"Poor Shamus," Stella said, peering out the rear window. "He has no family now."

26.

They drove. Stella remembered many such trips. She lay in the backseat, nose burning, arms folded tightly, fingers and toes itching, her head in Kaye's lap and when Kaye drove, in Mitch's.

Mitch stroked her hair and looked down on her. Sometimes she slept. For a time, the clouds and then the sun through the car windows filled her up. Thoughts ran around in her head like mice. Even with her parents, she hated to admit, she was alone. She hated those thoughts. She thought instead of Will and Kevin and Mabel or Maybelle and how they had suffered because their parents were stupid or mean or both.

The car stopped at a service station. Late afternoon sun reflected from a s.h.i.+ny steel sign and hurt Stella's eyes as she pushed through the hollow metal door into the restroom. The restroom was small and empty and forbidding, the walls covered with chipped, dirty tile. She threw up in the toilet and wiped her face and mouth.

Now the backs of her ears stung as if little bees were poking her. In the mirror, she saw that her cheeks would not make colors. They were as pale as Kaye's. Stella wondered if she was changing, becoming more like her mother. Maybe being a virus child was something you got over, like a birthmark that faded away.

Kaye felt her daughter's forehead as Mitch drove.

The sun had set and the storm had pa.s.sed.

Stella lay in Kaye's lap, face almost buried. She was breathing heavily. "Roll over, sweetie," Kaye said. Stella rolled over. "Your face is hot."

"I threw up back there," Stella said.

"How far to the next house?" Kaye asked Mitch.

"The map says twenty miles. We'll be in Pittsburgh soon."

"I think she's sick," Kaye said.

"It isn't s.h.i.+ver, is it, Kaye?" Stella asked.

"You don't get s.h.i.+ver, honey."

"Everything hurts. Is it mumps?"

"You've had shots for everything." But Kaye knew that couldn't possibly be true. n.o.body knew what susceptibilities the new children might have. Stella had never been sick, not with colds or flu; she had never even had a bacterial infection. Kaye had thought the new children might have improved immune systems. Mitch had not supported this theory, however, and they had given Stella all the proper immunizations, one by one, after the FDA and the CDC had grudgingly approved the old vaccines for the new children.

"An aspirin might help," Stella said.

"An aspirin would make you ill," Kaye said. "You know that."

"Tylenol," Stella added, swallowing.

Kaye poured her some water from a bottle and lifted her head for a drink. "That's bad, too," Kaye murmured. "You are very special, honey."

She pulled back Stella's eyelids, one at a time. The irises were bland, the little gold flecks clouded. Stella's pupils were like pinp.r.i.c.ks. Her daughter's eyes were as expressionless as her cheeks. "So fast," Kaye said. She set Stella down into a pillow in the corner of the backseat and leaned forward to whisper into Mitch's ear. "It could be what the dead girl had."

"s.h.i.+t," Mitch said.

"It isn't respiratory, not yet, but she's hot. Maybe a hundred and four, a hundred and five. I can't find the thermometer in the first aid kit."

"I put it there," Mitch said.

"I can't find it. We'll get one in Pittsburgh."

"A doctor," Mitch said.

"At the safe house," Kaye said. "We need a specialist." She was working to stay calm. She had never seen her daughter with a fever, her cheeks and eyes so bland.

The car sped up.

"Keep to the speed limit," Kaye said.

"No guarantees," Mitch said.

27.

OHIO.

Christopher d.i.c.ken got off the C-141 transport at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. At Augustine's suggestion, he had hitched a late-afternoon ride from Baltimore with a flight of National Guard troops being moved into Dayton.

He was met on the concrete ap.r.o.n by a neatly dressed middle-aged man in a gray suit, the civilian liaison, who accompanied him through a small, austere pa.s.senger terminal to a black Chevrolet staff car.

d.i.c.ken looked at two unmarked brown Fords behind the Chevrolet. "Why the escort?" he asked.

"Secret Service," the liaison said.

"Not for me, I hope," d.i.c.ken said.

"No, sir."

As they approached the Chevrolet, a much younger driver in a black suit snapped to military attention, introduced himself as Officer Reed of Ohio Special Needs School Security, and opened the car's right rear door.

Mark Augustine sat in the backseat.

"Good afternoon, Christopher," he said. "I hope your flight was pleasant."

"Not very," d.i.c.ken said. He hunched awkwardly into the staff car and sat on the black leather. The car drove off the base, trailed by the two Fords. d.i.c.ken stared at huge billows of clouds piling up over the green hills and suburbs beside the wide gray turnpike. He was glad to be on the ground again. Changes in air pressure bothered his leg.

"How's the leg?" Augustine asked.

"Okay," d.i.c.ken said.

"Mine's giving me h.e.l.l," Augustine said. "I flew in from Dulles. Flight got b.u.mpy over Pennsylvania."

"You broke your leg?"

"In a bathtub."

d.i.c.ken conspicuously rotated his torso to face his former boss and looked him over coldly. "Sorry to hear that."

Augustine met his gaze with tired eyes. "Thank you for coming."

"I didn't come at your request," d.i.c.ken said.

"I know. But the person who made the request talked to me."

"It was an order from HHS."

"Exactly," Augustine said, and tapped the armrest on the door. "We're having a problem at some of our schools."

"They are not my my schools," d.i.c.ken said. schools," d.i.c.ken said.

"Have we made clear how much of a pariah I am?" Augustine asked.

"Not nearly clear enough," d.i.c.ken said.

"I know your sympathies, Christopher."

"I don't think you do."

"How's Mrs. Rhine?"

The G.o.dd.a.m.ned high point of Mark Augustine's career, d.i.c.ken thought, his face flus.h.i.+ng. "Tell me why I'm here," he said. d.i.c.ken thought, his face flus.h.i.+ng. "Tell me why I'm here," he said.

"A lot of new children are becoming ill, and some of them are dying," Augustine said. "It appears to be a virus. We're not sure what kind."

d.i.c.ken took a slow breath. "The CDC isn't allowed to investigate Emergency Action schools. Turf war, right?"

Augustine tipped his head. "Only in a few states. Ohio reserved control of its schools. Congressional politics," he said. "Not my wish."

"I don't know what I can do. You should be s.h.i.+pping in every doctor and public health worker you can get."

"Ohio school medical staff by half last year, because the new children were healthier than most kids. No joke." Augustine leaned forward in the seat. "We're going to what may be the school most affected."

"Which one?" d.i.c.ken asked, ma.s.saging his leg.

"Joseph Goldberger."

d.i.c.ken smiled ruefully. "You've named them after public health heroes? That's sweet, Mark."

Augustine did not deviate from his course. His eyes looked dead, and not just from being tired. "Last night, all but one of the doctors deserted the school. We don't yet have accurate records on the sick and the dead. Some of the nurses and teachers have walked, too. But most have stayed, and they're trying to take up the slack."

"Warriors," d.i.c.ken said.

"Amen. The director, against my express orders but at the behest of the governor, has inst.i.tuted a lockdown. n.o.body leaves the barracks, and no visitors are allowed in. Most of the schools are in a similar situation. That's why I asked you to join me, Christopher."

d.i.c.ken watched the highway, the pa.s.sing cars. It was a lovely afternoon and everything appeared normal. "How are they handling it?"

"Not well."

"Medical supplies?"

"Low. Some interruption in the state supply chain. As I said, this is a state school, with a state-appointed director. I've ordered in federal emergency supplies from EMAC warehouses, but they may not get here until later tomorrow."

"I thought you put together an iron web," d.i.c.ken said. "I thought you covered your a.s.s when they handed you all this, your little fiefdom."

Augustine did not react, and that in itself impressed d.i.c.ken. "I wasn't clever enough," Augustine said. "Please listen and keep your head clear. Only select observers are being allowed into the schools until the situation is better understood. I'd like you to conduct a thorough investigation and take samples, run tests. You have credibility."

d.i.c.ken felt there was little sense in accusing or tormenting Augustine any more. His shoulders drooped as he relaxed his back muscles. "And you don't?" he asked.

Augustine looked down at his hands, inspected his perfectly manicured fingernails. "I am perceived as a disappointed warden who wants out of his job, which I am, and a man who would trump up a health crisis to protect his own hide, which I would not. You, on the other hand, are a celebrity. The press would wash your little pink toes to get your side of this story."

d.i.c.ken made a soft nose-blow of dismissal.

Augustine had lost weight since d.i.c.ken last saw him. "If I don't get the facts and plug them into some tight little bureaucratic columns in the next few days, we may have something that goes far beyond sick children."

"G.o.ddammit, Mark, we know how s.h.i.+ver works," d.i.c.ken said. "Whatever this is, it is not not s.h.i.+ver." s.h.i.+ver."

"I'm sure you're right," Augustine said. "But we need more than facts. We need a hero."

28.

PENNSYLVANIA.