Read Online Alan E. Nourse - The Fourth Horseman by Alan Edward Nourse - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Edward Nourse
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ho when somebody's in trouble, you take it for granted they'll help you, but this guy I got on the phone was definitely not gung ho about anything. Said all their vehicles were in service at the moment, and anyway they didn't have any night crew, and I should just call the ambulance and get these people moved to a hospital when they got down. He didn't even want to take my name, as if he might have to do something if he wrote it down."
Frank nodded sourly. "I suppose I can see it," he said. "So you called an ambulance?"
"Finally got one from Wenatchee, packed the five sick ones in as soon as they got down. Terry and Peter Toomey rode along with them, and the rest of us followed in cars."
"To Wenatchee General?"
"No. To Harborview in Seattle. We figured we should be close to Sea-Tac airport, since we figured we'd be shipping those sick ones home just as soon as possible. Well, things don't always work out the way you figure. Bob was dead by the time we reached the hospital—he must have died about the time they hit Interstate 5 north of Seattle. Janie lasted about three hours after arrival and a third one died twelve hours later. The fourth one, the Edstom kid, went into intensive care and started to rally. He may well still be there, for all I know, his dad came up from Boulder to relieve me so I could get the other kids home. In fact, I didn't learn much at all, the docs at Harborview were very close-mouthed about everything, said they'd caught a 'typical pneumonia' or something like that."
"Atypical pneumonia," Frank murmured.
"Well, whatever it was. They sure didn't want any publicity. I started rounding people up to get them home, and then we couldn't find Terry Gilman, he didn't show at the airport when he was supposed to. Far as I can tell, he just got on a flight for Denver on his own and took off, Continental had his used ticket—but he never got home to Colorado Springs."
"This was the one who had his arm around Comstock all the way down the trail?"
"Right. I suppose he'll show, sooner or later. He's kind of a crazy kid anyway." The man looked up at Frank. "So that's all I know, and I don't understand it. Do you?"
"I'm not sure," Frank said. "It looks like you people got hit with a very vicious infection. You may have gotten it from the patrol girl—I happen to know she was very sick when she came over to your camp that night." Frank looked at the little plumber. "The trouble is, I'm not sure it's all over yet, as far as your crowd is concerned. The boy you call Peter Toomey is sick in bed at home here in Canon City. If you should happen to turn up with a chest cold or a fever, you should get to the best hospital there is here and do it fast. What / need is more detail about the others—the names, addresses and phone numbers of every one of them that was up there with you—and it might help if you'd call them all before I reach them and tell them to talk to me. So far all I've gotten is slammed doors. Then if I find out anything, I'll try to let you know."
Frank pulled a pad and pen from his pocket and started writing as Jerry Courtenay began reciting names.
Six hours later, with the long summer twilight finally fading to darkness over the mountains, Frank Barrington returned to his little motel room and unloaded his pockets of a dozen scribbled, crumpled note sheets. Though he hadn't eaten since breakfast, the thought of food turned his stomach. What he did need was a drink, so he pulled a bottle of bourbon out of his suitcase, poured a glassful, cut it with a little cold water and threw himself onto the lumpy bed. As his hand quit shaking and his stomach settled down a little, he sat staring into the gathering darkness of the room, reviewing the results of his factfinding mission, since he'd left Jerry Courtenay.
He had made just five contacts from Jerry's list so far, and already he was appalled. Four dead for sure, from that one party of twenty-one people. That included the missing Terry Gilman,
Frank nodded sourly. "I suppose I can see it," he said. "So you called an ambulance?"
"Finally got one from Wenatchee, packed the five sick ones in as soon as they got down. Terry and Peter Toomey rode along with them, and the rest of us followed in cars."
"To Wenatchee General?"
"No. To Harborview in Seattle. We figured we should be close to Sea-Tac airport, since we figured we'd be shipping those sick ones home just as soon as possible. Well, things don't always work out the way you figure. Bob was dead by the time we reached the hospital—he must have died about the time they hit Interstate 5 north of Seattle. Janie lasted about three hours after arrival and a third one died twelve hours later. The fourth one, the Edstom kid, went into intensive care and started to rally. He may well still be there, for all I know, his dad came up from Boulder to relieve me so I could get the other kids home. In fact, I didn't learn much at all, the docs at Harborview were very close-mouthed about everything, said they'd caught a 'typical pneumonia' or something like that."
"Atypical pneumonia," Frank murmured.
"Well, whatever it was. They sure didn't want any publicity. I started rounding people up to get them home, and then we couldn't find Terry Gilman, he didn't show at the airport when he was supposed to. Far as I can tell, he just got on a flight for Denver on his own and took off, Continental had his used ticket—but he never got home to Colorado Springs."
"This was the one who had his arm around Comstock all the way down the trail?"
"Right. I suppose he'll show, sooner or later. He's kind of a crazy kid anyway." The man looked up at Frank. "So that's all I know, and I don't understand it. Do you?"
"I'm not sure," Frank said. "It looks like you people got hit with a very vicious infection. You may have gotten it from the patrol girl—I happen to know she was very sick when she came over to your camp that night." Frank looked at the little plumber. "The trouble is, I'm not sure it's all over yet, as far as your crowd is concerned. The boy you call Peter Toomey is sick in bed at home here in Canon City. If you should happen to turn up with a chest cold or a fever, you should get to the best hospital there is here and do it fast. What / need is more detail about the others—the names, addresses and phone numbers of every one of them that was up there with you—and it might help if you'd call them all before I reach them and tell them to talk to me. So far all I've gotten is slammed doors. Then if I find out anything, I'll try to let you know."
Frank pulled a pad and pen from his pocket and started writing as Jerry Courtenay began reciting names.
Six hours later, with the long summer twilight finally fading to darkness over the mountains, Frank Barrington returned to his little motel room and unloaded his pockets of a dozen scribbled, crumpled note sheets. Though he hadn't eaten since breakfast, the thought of food turned his stomach. What he did need was a drink, so he pulled a bottle of bourbon out of his suitcase, poured a glassful, cut it with a little cold water and threw himself onto the lumpy bed. As his hand quit shaking and his stomach settled down a little, he sat staring into the gathering darkness of the room, reviewing the results of his factfinding mission, since he'd left Jerry Courtenay.
He had made just five contacts from Jerry's list so far, and already he was appalled. Four dead for sure, from that one party of twenty-one people. That included the missing Terry Gilman,
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