“You got that right, Cat.” He shook his head and sighed heavily, showing more of his sixty-eight years than usual. “No matter what the threat, from tainted oysters to a meningitis scare, it always feels like we’re walking the same tightrope.” He shrugged slightly. “And sometimes, like in the case of the Toronto SARS outbreak, it’s impossible to protect the public without inciting mass hysteria.”

The remark deflated Lopez. She was relieved to see the turnoff to Harborcenter Hospital approaching. Slowing on Ninth Avenue, she turned into the staff parking lot and parked in one of the spots marked “Reserved for Physician on Emergency Callback.” When Warmack shot her a doubtful glance, Lopez shrugged. “What? We’re physicians. Can you imagine more of an emergency callback than this?”

They walked through the sprawling hospital complex, an architectural joining of the original century-old structure with larger modern additions. Their first stop was the massive second-floor ICU where the staff had drawn the unusual sputum samples from Tonya Jackson.

After showing their identification at the desk, a clerk led Lopez and Warmack to a physicians’ office in the back. With a small TV, a mini-fridge, sofas, and a coffee table cluttered with magazines and plates, it reminded Lopez of an oversized dorm room.

In a white coat and blue scrubs, Dr. Dean Peters lay back on a couch. Legs crossed, he rested his head and back against the armrest while staring blankly at the basketball game on the TV screen. The ICU’s senior resident glanced at the two newcomers without acknowledging them.

“Dr. Peters?” Lopez asked the young man who had the kind of Ken-doll good looks that never did anything for her.

His eyes never left the ball game. “Yup.”

“I’m Dr. Catalina Lopez with the CDC and this is Dr. David Warmack with the Department of Health.” She nodded in Warmack’s direction.

“Okaaay.” Peters stretched out the word.

She took a step forward, deliberately standing between Peters and the TV. “You looked after Tonya Jackson?”

“Jackson … Jackson …” He searched aloud for a mental match.

“A twenty-two-year-old woman with pneumonia. She was in the ICU as of three days ago.”

“Oh sure, yeah,” Peters grunted. “She came from the medical ward. Barely lasted here long enough to get registered in our computer.”

“She died?” Warmack asked.

“And in a hurry,” Peters said, sounding almost grateful.

Lopez folded her arms across her chest. “Can you give us just a little more to go on?”