the subsurface bleeding had reached an advanced state.
Beck checked her vital signs. “What’s keeping her alive?”
“I have no idea,” Gillette said, “but it won’t be much longer.”
The bedsheet, Beck noted, was different from McKendrick’s in that it covered her body all the way to the chin. It also had dozens of pale-colored moisture spots, the result of constant vesicle bursts. He had no doubt the nursing staff changed the bedding at the required intervals—they simply couldn’t keep up with the rate at which her body was deteriorating.
“Why is it bloody right there?” Beck asked, pointing to a spot alongside the woman’s midsection. It looked about where her hand would be lying. He also noticed similar spotting on the opposite side.
Without waiting for an answer, he leaned down and carefully lifted the bedsheet. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next.
First, there were piles of sloughed skin everywhere, blistered and crusted and sticky. They were literally sliding off her body like meat from the bones of a slow-cooked roast, then accumulating in small heaps.
The blood, Beck discovered, was running from a stomach wound that had been stitched shut and was covered by several layers of gauze.
“What happened?”
“A large kitchen knife,” Gillette said.
Beck turned back to him, incredulous. “She was stabbed ?”
Gillette swallowed visibly. “She did it to herself, Michael.”
Beck’s eyes widened slightly. Porter was frozen.
“She had—” His voice became wobbly. “—she was seven months pregnant.”
These words hung in the air for eternity. No one breathed or even moved. The electronic beeps ticked off the seconds as time temporarily lost all meaning.
Gillette cleared his throat. “Her husband said he awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of her screaming. She was trying to cut the baby out in order to save it from the infection.”
A tear ran down Porter’s face and stained her respirator.
Gillette took a deep breath. “She killed the child when she stabbed it.”
Porter, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, studied Beck carefully. They had been in similar situations, and his reaction never ceased to fascinate her—not only was he not crying; he barely appeared affected at all. If anything, he seemed angry . Although she couldn’t see it under his respirator, she knew his jaw had tightened, his lips pressed together. And his eyes took on a blank, distant stare that was a little frightening. He had never once raised his voice to her, never even became mildly irritated—yet there was some type of rage dwelling inside him. She was sure of this. In spite of the kindness and generosity, in spite of his gentle manner and boundless patience, there was a dark side to the man. Hatred, she always thought. He hates human illness more than anyone I’ve ever seen. And she thought she caught a glimpse of it at times like this. What she had not been able to determine, however, was how it got there in the first place.
Gillette’s cell phone twittered. He reached up and pressed the button on his Bluetooth earpiece, which neither Beck nor Porter had noticed because it was covered by the bonnet. The conversation didn’t last long.
“Fourteen more deaths,” he said, “including one in Avenel.”
“Where’s that?” Beck asked.
“About thirty-five miles from here.”
For the first time since Cara Porter had known him, Beck swore out loud.
“This thing could grow, Ben.” He kept his voice low even though there was no one else around. “This could be the one. It has all the traits.”
“I know.”
“It could take millions. And developing a vaccine could take years.”
Gillette nodded gravely.
“I know.”
FOUR
Dennis Jensen leaned against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room of his small Cape Cod. He had the cordless phone pressed to his ear and his blue Arrow shirt pulled out of his cotton trousers. His tie and jacket for work
Beck checked her vital signs. “What’s keeping her alive?”
“I have no idea,” Gillette said, “but it won’t be much longer.”
The bedsheet, Beck noted, was different from McKendrick’s in that it covered her body all the way to the chin. It also had dozens of pale-colored moisture spots, the result of constant vesicle bursts. He had no doubt the nursing staff changed the bedding at the required intervals—they simply couldn’t keep up with the rate at which her body was deteriorating.
“Why is it bloody right there?” Beck asked, pointing to a spot alongside the woman’s midsection. It looked about where her hand would be lying. He also noticed similar spotting on the opposite side.
Without waiting for an answer, he leaned down and carefully lifted the bedsheet. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next.
First, there were piles of sloughed skin everywhere, blistered and crusted and sticky. They were literally sliding off her body like meat from the bones of a slow-cooked roast, then accumulating in small heaps.
The blood, Beck discovered, was running from a stomach wound that had been stitched shut and was covered by several layers of gauze.
“What happened?”
“A large kitchen knife,” Gillette said.
Beck turned back to him, incredulous. “She was stabbed ?”
Gillette swallowed visibly. “She did it to herself, Michael.”
Beck’s eyes widened slightly. Porter was frozen.
“She had—” His voice became wobbly. “—she was seven months pregnant.”
These words hung in the air for eternity. No one breathed or even moved. The electronic beeps ticked off the seconds as time temporarily lost all meaning.
Gillette cleared his throat. “Her husband said he awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of her screaming. She was trying to cut the baby out in order to save it from the infection.”
A tear ran down Porter’s face and stained her respirator.
Gillette took a deep breath. “She killed the child when she stabbed it.”
Porter, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, studied Beck carefully. They had been in similar situations, and his reaction never ceased to fascinate her—not only was he not crying; he barely appeared affected at all. If anything, he seemed angry . Although she couldn’t see it under his respirator, she knew his jaw had tightened, his lips pressed together. And his eyes took on a blank, distant stare that was a little frightening. He had never once raised his voice to her, never even became mildly irritated—yet there was some type of rage dwelling inside him. She was sure of this. In spite of the kindness and generosity, in spite of his gentle manner and boundless patience, there was a dark side to the man. Hatred, she always thought. He hates human illness more than anyone I’ve ever seen. And she thought she caught a glimpse of it at times like this. What she had not been able to determine, however, was how it got there in the first place.
Gillette’s cell phone twittered. He reached up and pressed the button on his Bluetooth earpiece, which neither Beck nor Porter had noticed because it was covered by the bonnet. The conversation didn’t last long.
“Fourteen more deaths,” he said, “including one in Avenel.”
“Where’s that?” Beck asked.
“About thirty-five miles from here.”
For the first time since Cara Porter had known him, Beck swore out loud.
“This thing could grow, Ben.” He kept his voice low even though there was no one else around. “This could be the one. It has all the traits.”
“I know.”
“It could take millions. And developing a vaccine could take years.”
Gillette nodded gravely.
“I know.”
FOUR
Dennis Jensen leaned against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room of his small Cape Cod. He had the cordless phone pressed to his ear and his blue Arrow shirt pulled out of his cotton trousers. His tie and jacket for work
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