“Sure. I just need to change.”
It took Sam less than ten minutes to change. She didn’t feel she had to, but she took a quick shower and scrubbed herself twice with a bar of soap she had brought.
When she stepped out into the corridor, she saw Whitman turn to the man behind him and nod. He then offered her the elevator first and she got on, noticing that Amoy and the other man stayed behind.
“Have you been to the island before?” he said on the ride down.
“No, first time.”
“Well,” he said, turning to her, a smile on his face, “it’s a fun island…if you have the proper guide. I’d be happy to show you around when we’re done with today.”
Sam looked down and noticed the wedding ring on his finger. He immediately curled his hand so it was out of view.
“I would appreciate that, Doctor, but I’m on a strict timeline. I don’t leave the hospital much.”
“Understood,” he said, the smile disappearing from his face as he looked forward.
The elevator opened and they walked across the first floor down a long corridor with island art up on the walls. A group of young men and women in green scrubs were standing around, talking, and as they saw Whitman, they straightened up and exchanged a few more words before disbursing. One wasn’t quick enough and remained leaning against the wall. Whitman stared him down as they passed.
“Medical students,” he said to Sam when they were alone.
“I remember what that was like. I usually looked as terrified as they did when a boss walked by.”
“Not me. I figured most of the other students were kiss-asses so I took a different approach and had balls. I always told the attending and the chief what I thought if I ever got the chance.”
“Did it work?”
“Not really. That’s why I went back and got my MBA and got into management instead. Too much bureaucratic BS in medicine nowadays. Especially with managed care and the government stepping in.”
They turned down another corridor and into the hospital cafeteria. It was clean and open with enough seating for at least a hundred people. They were serving Indian food and the smell of broiling chicken and spices filled the air. It reminded Sam that she hadn’t eaten today and she made a note to get a plate of Indian food as soon as they were done speaking.
Whitman got two juices out of a cooler and cut in line, paid with a five, and left the change. They sat down at a table by the window. The sun was bright and warmed Sam’s cheeks and neck as she opened the juice bottle and took a sip.
“So any word on a culprit?” Whitman said.
“No. I would expect that our labs are growing a culture from the samples right now and that’s going to take some time.”
“But you have to have some guess as to what it is.”
“I do.”
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”
“Dr. Whitman, I’ve been in this situation before. I’ve been at this table with other chiefs and directors having this same conversation. I know what you want to ask me so just ask me.”
“And what exactly do you think I want to ask you?”
“You want to ask me not to get the media involved and to keep this as quiet as possible. No hospital wants to be the epicenter of an epidemic and I don’t blame you.”
“So?”
“What?”
“So what’s your answer?”
“I will try to keep this quiet as long as possible, but not because of the hospital’s bottom line. Because a viral epidemic causes panic and people can’t think when they’re panicked. It just makes things more difficult for us. But I will tell you that eventually word will get out and reporters will be all over this hospital. When it gets near that point, it’ll be much better if we control the message and hold a press conference. But that isn’t my department.”
“Whose department is it?”
“My boss’s, Deputy Director Wilson.”
He grimaced and took a long swig of the juice. “Then maybe he’s the one I should be talking to?”
“When we get the lab results, if it is anything to worry about, I promise you he’ll be on the next plane out here.”
Whitman leaned forward on his elbows. “You know why I became a doctor? I genuinely thought I could help people. Most people apply to med school for the prestige, but I thought that if I could really pick a good place to practice, somewhere without too many other physicians where I would really be needed, I thought I could make a difference.” He sighed. “But’s that’s just idealism. And idealism has no place in this.” He rose. “If word gets out prematurely, we will file a suit against you, the CDC, and the United States government. Make sure that it doesn’t.”
CHAPTER 8
Samantha finished her lunch of curry chicken and basmati rice and threw away her paper plate and utensils. She went to the second floor near pediatrics to a small couch and table that were placed in a quiet area in the corridor and pulled out her iPad. She opened a document that listed the names of the four patients: Clifford Lane, Erin Simon, Allani Haku, Jacob Ichimora.
One of these might be the index patient: the point of origin. The one that spread it to the others. Unless of course the index patient had not been admitted yet. But they would be so ill that a hospital or clinic would be the only alternative and Amoy had sent out an announcement to all the hospitals and clinics on the island-which were only a handful-to notify them of any patients that were admitted with similar symptoms. There were no hits as yet, so Sam had to go forward on the assumption that one of these four was the index.
Once the index was found, she then had to scour his life and determine where he could have picked up the virus. Its origin would tell them as much about the disease as they would find out in a laboratory.
Logically, the patient with the worst symptoms had the latest stage of a disease, which meant they had carried it the longest. In this instance, that was Clifford Lane.
She opened Clifford’s file, which she had scanned as a PDF, and began reading all the information they had about him. But the hospital file was like a resume. Birthday and genetic history wasn’t the type of information she was looking for. The best place to search for the information she needed was on a patient’s Facebook and Twitter accounts. Clifford Lane could no longer speak or respond to voice commands. She would have to find out the passwords to his accounts another way.
At the back of the file was a list of emergency contacts. The first was his wife, Suzan Lane. There was an address and a phone number. She took out her iPhone and dialed. After three rings she heard Clifford’s voice and realized it was his cell number.
Sam walked out of the hospital into the parking lot and hailed a cab from a line of three that were waiting for passengers. While she was thinking about it, she scheduled a time tomorrow on her calendar to go rent a car.
“Where to?” the cabbie said in a thick, Hawaiian accent.
“1572 Kalakaua Avenue.”
They pulled away from the hospital and onto the streets. It was overcast today and she usually responded poorly to bad weather. She had been troubled by seasonal affective disorder since she was a child. On snowy or rainy days, she would sometimes get so depressed she couldn’t function. Her mother had tried to get her on antidepressants but since it only occurred during bad weather, Sam refused. She figured a better cure was to move somewhere with a temperate climate.
“Where you from?” the cabbie said.
“Montana originally.”
“Lotsa cows.”
“There are definitely lots of cows, yeah.”
“What you doing here?”
“Visiting some patients. I’m a doctor.”
“Oh yeah? You know my wife have diabetes and they said that she losing circulation to her foot. Will they have to cut off her foot?”
“Ten years ago I’d say yes. But in this day and age they shouldn’t have to do that.”