Carol suddenly slumped lower in her chair. In a blink, her complexion switched from white to ashen. She lifted her good hand and indicated her swollen elbow. “I guess I should thank that prick for the sampler he gave me.” Her eyes swam around the room. “Think he might’ve been doing me a favor by …” Her words trailed off.

Cohen shot a hand out to grab her, but it was too late. She toppled forward in a dead faint and hit her head on the ground, landing in front of the woman across from her who jumped onto her seat and screamed in disgust at the disheveled addict at her feet.

“Nurse! Doctor!” Cohen shouted, as he leapt to his feet. “Somebody!” he yelled, crouching to his knees beside Carol.

A pool of blood had formed around Carol’s head. She wheezed loudly. And she trembled so violently, Cohen wondered if she was seizing.

Staff came running from two directions. They swarmed around her. Someone in the crowd yelled: “Gloves and masks, she could be HIV-positive.”

Through the bodies, legs, and arms of the ER staff, Cohen saw that Carol had managed to roll herself over. Blood dripped out of the gash on her forehead, but her eyes were open. They searched the room until they locked onto his. She held out her shaky hand to him. “Detective,” she gasped in more of a tremble than a voice. “Please don’t leave me … .”

13 - Seattle, Washington

13

Seattle, Washington

When the Q&A at their public-health forum showed no sign of tailing off, Drs. Lopez and Warmack exchanged a glance and wordlessly decided to cut the session short with little explanation to the West Nile Virus—obsessed audience.

Having carpooled together from their offices, which were a block apart on Sixth Avenue, they hurried out to Lopez’s black convertible, an Audi A4. An impulsive gift to herself upon landing her job with the EIS, the car payments regularly swallowed a huge chunk of her monthly paycheck, but she would have sooner parted with her condo than her convertible. As it was still twilight, Lopez considered lowering the top but realized she was too preoccupied by the news of the resistant group-A strep to enjoy the warm spring night.

Warmack and Lopez piled into the car. Out of reflex, she brushed back her unruly black hair—a constant frustration to her despite the compliments it provoked—from her eyes. She glanced over to her veteran colleague who hadn’t said a word since leaving the building. Though deep in thought, Warmack’s placid face showed neither the concern nor the excitement that consumed Lopez since viewing the inexplicable culture and sensitivity result on her Smartphone.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Lopez said, “David, if that lab report on the group-A strep came from another private lab I wouldn’t believe it.”

“I know.” He pantomimed ripping a page up. “Into the shredder.”