“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“I saw something.”
“You saw something. Is that what you said?”
“Your hearing seems to be just fine. That’s a good sign.”
Jerry righted himself and closed quickly on Lyle. He was within inches. So close that Lyle thought about pickup basketball games he had been in when some numbnuts decided he wanted to start a fight. Lyle stood his ground.
“Where are you going?”
Lyle smelled breath that reminded him of hunger and thirst. Low blood sugar, he told himself, a person not entirely stable even under the best circumstances.
“Heading to hide in the hangar and have another drink, is that it, Dr. Martin?”
“I have enough for two if you’re looking for a good time.”
Jerry shoved his handgun right into Lyle’s rib cage. He brought his lips right to Lyle’s cheek. Then he pressed the gun harder. Lyle went up on his toes to get away from the barrel. He felt the pain in his ankle from having fallen getting out of the plane.
“Not much of a drinker, I take it,” Lyle wheezed.
“What’s the story with the guy on the ground?”
“There are ways of asking that question without the artillery.”
“I’m not sure how else to get your attention, Dr. Martin. Near as I can tell, you’re doing some kind of happy-go-lucky, freelance operation here. That’s the nicest thing I can say about it.”
“Jerry—”
Jerry interrupted him with a nudge of the gun that caused Lyle to take in his breath.
“Differential diagnosis, right? That’s what you call it when you check down the list of possible illnesses. I did a little EMT training.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah, good for me. So I’m doing a little one of my own.”
“What’s your point, Jerry?”
“The symptoms involve mood swings, a manipulative streak, intense narcissism, and a strange knack for being in suspicious circumstances.”
Lyle looked confused. “Don?”
“Who? No, you,” Jerry said. “You seem like you’re a doctor, then not so sure of yourself, you talk about mystery symptoms. You manage to dupe Eleanor into letting you off the plane—”
“Technically, Eleanor wanted me to stay. It was you who—”
Another gun shove. “You want my diagnosis?”
“Sure, Jerry.”
“You’re a drunk.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not done. You’re a drunk who says he’s a doctor and happens to be in the right place at the right time for some mystery disease.”
“Right place? C’mon—”
“What brings you to Steamboat?”
“A conference.”
“In early November, in a tiny ski town?”
Lyle pictured the embossed invitation, remembered the gentle but persistent courtship. Expenses paid, small audience, decent honorarium, a chance to get his sea legs back. He looked at Jerry. He felt sympathy for the guy, connected to him in some way. Just as Lyle had lost faith in the world, so Jerry seemed to have no faith in Lyle, to have reverted to his own primitive state. Wasn’t this what was happening everywhere? A new hyperskepticism, everything politicized, facts tossed out as partisan and any faith in humanity with it.
“Or,” the first officer continued, “if you like a less conspiratorial version, then you’re just a narcissistic drunk who is putting us all in danger by romping around out here. Jesus…” He looked off in the distance. “You really don’t care, do you?”
Lyle looked Jerry straight in the eye, something approaching contrition, and gently pushed the gun down from his rib cage. Jerry allowed it to happen, indicating he’d had his say. But it was clear to Lyle this conversation wasn’t over. He needed to get the hell away from this guy.
“The man over there is named Don.”
“How do you know that?”
“It says so on his name tag. He’s alive but he’s sick.”
“Yeah?” A generally skeptical tone.
“I don’t have any idea with what,” Lyle said, suddenly realizing his strategy. He’d pepper humility with medical talk. He just had to get away from this guy.
“His pupils are moving so rapidly that they look fixed. Fixed usually means brain-dead. But it’s not that, I don’t think. He’s got mildly inflamed organs and heavy mucus around his pharynx, both of which indicate an immune system response. Tight muscles might mean any number of things. I can’t really tell out here if he’s febrile.”
“Fever.”
“Right.” Lyle allowed himself a quiet exhale; Jerry was calming down.
“Give me the bottles,” Jerry said.
“What?”
“If you think you’re off the hook with me, you’re wrong. First step, hand me the booze in your pockets.”
Lyle felt anger’s electricity. For just a moment, it was a rush to have such an unscrambled emotion. Then a major downer. Pissed off about losing his cheap swill. That was a very bad sign. Pissed off at the one guy with a gun. Maybe a worse sign. Tied for last. Lyle reached into his pocket and pulled out two bottles. Tried to look unfazed. Time to play the long game.
“My mom was a boozer.”
Lyle didn’t say anything as Jerry chucked the bottles into the distance where they shattered.
“So, where were we?”
“You were shoving a gun into my ribs and calling me a fraud.”
“Now we understand each other better. Let’s go back into the plane and you can brief us.”
“Okeydokey.” Lyle glanced in the direction of the hangar and the sliver of light. Then turned back to Jerry. “When we get in there, before we go up into the cockpit—”
“Flight deck.”
What an asshole. Let him think he’s manned up, Lyle. Long game. “Right, sorry, Jerry. Before we climb up there, we should disinfect. And maybe we should consider staying down in the hol—”
“Disinfect.”
“Right. I touched that guy, and I got a mucus spray when I tested his gag reflex.”
“Wait a second.”
“I’m not saying I’ve got it. I’m not saying you’ve got it. Certainly, you’re at least one step removed. But whatever we’re dealing with is clearly highly virulent. I can’t think of an analogue, not in my experience and not even in the literature.”
“You’ve read all the literature.” Jerry, with this poorly delivered snide remark, was showing his adolescent side and just exposing the breadth of his vulnerability. Then: “So we might have it?”
“I don’t think you do. I’m less sure of me.”
“You’re bluffing.”
Lyle tried to look vulnerable. “God, I hope so.”
Jerry took a big step backward. “Okay, so…”
“One way we might increase the odds…” Lyle tried to look like he was thinking.
“Yeah.”
“You keep your distance from me and from the guy on the ground. Get back to the cockpit, sorry, flight deck, give them an update. And I’ll chase the ghost.”
He had Jerry’s attention.
“I saw something move in there—over there.”
“I looked and I didn’t—”
“Maybe it was just light, I agree. I can’t be positive. But the way the shadows changed, it wasn’t… it was herky-jerky, like a person or an animal, not like snowfall or something. Speaking of which, it’s fucking cold.”
“Stay on topic.”
“Look, Jerry, I may have this thing. You may, too, I won’t lie. But I well might, and less likely you. So better me going in the hangar and you can tell them what I saw with Don. You know as much as I do—what I told you already.” Lyle thought about going on and remembered to keep it short and let Jerry reach his own conclusions.