Kilburn shook his head. “Then we’re in deep, deep shit.” He’d avoided the thought as much as possible, but he knew she was right to consider the possibility. “In the past twenty years, the world has learned to live with MRSA, Ebola, VRE, and HIV, to name a just few pathogens. Somehow we’ll cope. We always do.” He shrugged. “With six billion of us on the planet …”

“There are a few of us to spare, huh?” She chuckled grimly. “That’s not exactly the party line the CDC likes us to toe.”

“I guess not,” he said, deflated.

In silence, Lopez drove onto the cobbled streets of Pioneer Square and followed them until they gave way to a seedier-looking neighborhood. As they slowed to pull up in front of a decrepit brownstone on Jackson Street, Kilburn noticed the smell of garbage that wafted into the car.

“Jake Fasken’s abode,” Lina said as she opened her car door.

Stepping out of the car, Kilburn spotted two police cruisers and an ambulance parked across the street. Confused, he glanced at Lopez.

“We can’t afford to let Angie go anywhere else,” she explained, waving to the uniformed cops and paramedics who sat in their vehicles. She held her phone up to Kilburn. “They’ve promised to keep out of the way unless we call for help.”

The idea of bringing police backup to a patient interview struck Kilburn as surreal, but he understood the rationale behind it. If Angela Fischer was the Typhoid Mary for MRGAS, then they couldn’t afford any further flight risk. “Do you even know if she’s here?” he asked.

“Let’s find out.” Lopez turned and marched for the door.

The rancid smell was stronger inside the building. Flyers and junk mail littered the floor while a neglected garbage can overflowed in the corner. Lopez headed straight through the foyer for the stairwell. Kilburn followed her up the stained carpeted stairs and down the second-floor hallway. A skinny gray cat missing part of its right ear wandered indifferently past them. Somewhere, a door slammed. The sound of tinny hip-hop music echoed in the hallway. The noise grew with each step.

They stopped outside the door from where the music originated. Lopez knocked. No response. She pounded on the flimsy door so hard that it shook.

A male voice shouted gruffly from the other side. “What?”

“Jake Fasken?” Lopez yelled.

The music cut off in midnote. “Who wants to know?”

“Dr. Lopez, a medical health officer.”

Nothing.

“Your parole officer gave me your address,” she said to the door. “He told me to tell you that you’d be real wise to cooperate with us.”

The door jiggled before it opened a crack. A bloodshot eye stared back at them. “Who’s the guy with you?”

“Dr. Kilburn. He works with me. Now let us in, Jake,” she demanded.