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“The one Creed’s monitoring us on.”
“You think he snuck in here and put cameras in your room?”
“I know he did.”
“When?”
“Before I got here.”
Brightside frowns. “How would he know which room you’d get?”
“How the fuck do I know? He just does this shit. He can do anything. Trust me, he’s watching us right now. You hear that, Creed? I’m onto you!” Sam shouts.
Brightside says, “That’s crazy.”
But Gene Caruso doesn’t think so. He’s looking around the room.
I’m not concerned. These are pinhole cameras, state of the art. They perfectly match the background. You’d have to know exactly what you’re looking for and where to look.
Caruso picks up the chair from the corner and drags it to the far wall that faces the foot of Sam’s bed.
“Sir—” the nurse says.
Caruso dismisses her with a wave of his hand. He climbs on the chair and stares straight into the camera.
“Nothing here,” he says.
Then he pulls off his shoe and smashes the camera.
“Sir!” the nurse shouts.
My screen goes dead. Good thing I’ve got another one. The nurse presses the call button.
“What’s that all about?” Brightside says.
“Son of a bitch was right. Pinhole camera. Smallest one I ever saw. Smaller than Sam’s dick, even.”
“Funny,” Sam says. “There’s got to be at least three more. Check every wall.”
The nurse’s station answers the page. Sam’s nurse says, “The detectives need to leave. Please call security.”
To the detectives, the nurse says, “I suggest you both leave. Immediately.”
“We’re conducting an investigation,” Brightside says.
Caruso is busy checking the second wall.
“Nothing here,” he says.
Brightside says, “Sam. Do you know where your wife is? Yes or no?”
I can’t see Sam’s face. But I hear him say, “No.”
“So you don’t know if she’s been kidnapped at all.”
“I believe him. About this.”
“You say this happened on Tuesday? That’s four days ago. Why wasn’t it reported?”
“Rachel lives in seclusion with a lady named Nadine Crouch. She’s a psychiatrist. When they kidnapped Rachel, they tried to kill Nadine. She’s been in the hospital ever since. She was the only one who could’ve reported the kidnapping. And she was in a coma until yesterday. When she woke up, she called Creed.”
“Why would she call him instead of you?”
“Because he’s the one who employs her.”
Nothing on the third wall,” Caruso says, which leaves the wall where my remaining camera is located. Caruso slides the chair over, and stands on it. He’s about ten feet from my camera. He steps off the chair and slides it three feet closer. Then stands on it and carefully inspects the wall.
“What’s the answer to the question?” Brightside says.
Caruso moves his chair to the edge of the bed. He has to stand almost three feet from the wall, because of the bed table. From that angle there’s no way he can see my camera.
“I found it!” he yells.
He removes his shoe.
Two men from hospital security burst through the door. “Sir!” one of them says. “Step down!”
Gene Caruso puts his left hand against the wall to steady himself. His shoe is in his right hand. All I can see on my monitor is the bottom of his shoe as he’s about to smack the camera.
“What’s the answer?” Brightside says.
“Sir, stand down!” the guard says to Caruso.
Caruso ignores him. He winds up, ready to smash the camera.
Sam says, “Break the camera and I’ll tell you.”
Caruso’s shoe smashes into the wall, bursting the camera.
But not the sound system. That’s working fine. I hear Sam laughing. He calls me a prick.
Brightside and Caruso are talking to the nurse and guards. They’re showing credentials. After a couple of minutes of discussion, the guards decide they don’t have the power to throw the detectives out, because they’re investigating a kidnapping, and Sam corroborates that fact.
Sam says, “If I tell you, you’ve got to promise not to talk to Creed.”
“Why would we do that?” Brightside says.
“He’ll get it out of you. But you can’t tell him. You’ve got to tell your superiors. Promise me.”
“Promise you what?” Brightside says.
“Promise you’ll call your superiors from this room, before you leave.”
“Fine.”
“Say it.”
“I promise.”
“Caruso,” Sam says, “guard the door. Creed will probably burst in here any second. I’ll tell you guys, and no one else.”
I don’t know if the nurse is still there or not. But Sam speaks.
“Spanish Flu, 1918,” he says.
“What about it?” Brightside says.
“Don’t you see? She’s got the gene!”
“What gene?”
“Call your superiors. Tell them what I just said.”
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to tell them.”
“Hurry! Before Creed gets here! He’ll kill us all! Call your superiors! Tell them Rachel Case’s blood contains the gene that can cure the Spanish Flu!”
“Of 1918?” Brightside says. “Sam. Do you know what year this is?”
“Call them, you moron! Call them now! You promised.”
I hear Brightside sigh. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll call them.”
23.
My phone rings.
Brightside says, “Sir, Rachel Case is—”
“I heard,” I say. “I’m on my way.”
I walk a hundred yards to the Sensory Resources hospital room where Sam has been staying since the snake bite. When I walk through the door, Sam says, “Fuck you all.”
“What’s all this about the Spanish Flu?” I say.
Sam looks defeated. “Fuck you,” he says, though he says it with very little emotion. I can see he’s starting to shut down, mentally.
“Come on, Sam. Rachel’s in trouble. Talk to me.”
“You bastard! They cut off my leg!”
“You’re making such a fuss about it. A word to the wise, Sam. No one likes a whiner.”
“Oh, like you wouldn’t complain?” Sam says. He grabs the sheet, throws it off of him. He wants me to see that his leg ends at the knee.
“Sam, your leg is fine.”
“What?”
“That’s not your leg.”
Sam looks down at the heavily-bandaged stump.
“Not my leg? Are you insane?”
He stares at Brightside. His head is moving very slightly, from side to side. He’s thinking of something. Or replaying something in his mind. Finally he says, “You gave me a clue.”
Brightside stands there quietly.
“Your father,” Sam says.
“What about him?”
“First time we met. You said they named the hospital after him.”
“So?”
Sam laughs a derisive laugh. “You dumb fuck. You don’t even know.”
“Know what?” Brightside says.
“The script Creed gave you. You didn’t even get it. That’s why I didn’t pick up on it.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“The script called for you to say your father’s name was Robin Brightside.”
“So?”
“So you’re Robin’s son. And he’s Caruso. Robinson Caruso.” Sam shakes his head. “And I got snake bit on Friday, no less. I’m a moron.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say. “You were bitten by a water moccasin, after all.”
“Twice.”
“No, just once. On the ass.”
Sam gestures to his stump.
I nod to Caruso. He holds the hand mirror away from the bed, so Sam can see how his leg is hanging down under it.
“They never cut your leg off,” I say.
I rip the bandages off the end of his knee, where he thought his leg ended.
“There’s a hole in your bed. I had them numb the bottom half of your leg. It’s propped on a foot stool beneath your bed. Your leg is fine. You just can’t feel it. Now help me find Rachel.”
Sam is so relieved he doesn’t know what to do. But what he says is, “How do I know that’s my leg? Maybe it’s my leg, but it’s not attached. You could’ve done anything to me.”
“We could’ve avoided all this if you’d cooperated with me in the first place.”
“You went to this much trouble?” Sam said.
“Rachel means the world to me.”
“Who was the girl?”
“What girl?”
“The one who looked like Rachel. The one who came in my room.”
“You must have dreamt that part.”
“Get Dr. Drake. He’ll tell me the truth.”
“There is no Drake. He had to leave. He’s performing On the Waterfront tonight at the little theater.”
Caruso yells, “Stella! Stella!”
Sam says, “Where am I?”
“I can’t disclose that.”
“Give me a hint.”
“When we put you under, it will require a plane flight to get you back to Louisville.”
“How long a flight?”
“Don’t even think I would tell you that.”
“No problem. I’ll just look up every town in America that has a little theater and narrow it down by the shows they’re putting on.”
“Sounds like a great project.”
Sam looks at me. “You lied about the little theater.”
“It was a figure of speech. I just meant he was an actor.”
“Is he here or not?”
“Not.”
Sam says, “Fine. I give up. Go save Rachel, if you can. You’ll probably die trying, and I’m fine with that.”
“On the other hand, if I fail, you’ll never see her again.”
“She doesn’t want to see me anyway.”
“True. But if I bring her back, you’ll still have hope.”
Sam shrugs. Then says, “If you can prove that’s my leg under the bed, and if it’s attached to my knee, and if it works, and if you promise to let me go…I’ll tell you what I know.”
24.
We’re in Sam’s hospital room. I’m standing bedside, Lou’s sitting on the hard-back chair, taking notes. Sam’s sitting on a hospital bed that has no hole in it. His leg is propped up, and he’s beginning to get some feeling below the knee, which causes his upper thigh to twitch.
Addressing me like a high school professor lectures his students, Sam says, “What’s the greatest threat to the world?”
I answer, “Nuclear weapons?”
“No.”
“Terrorism?”
“No.”
“Religious fanatics?”
“No.”
“Politicians? Saturated fat? Oprah Winfrey?”
“Pandemic Flu,” Sam says.
“Do tell,” I say.
“In 1918, in the space of three months, more than 40 million people died from the Spanish Flu. But it was a misnomer.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Because it started in Kansas.”
“People die every year from the flu.”
“Not this type. It never happened before, never happened since. It was, quite simply, the worst plague in the history of the world.”
“Never heard of it,” I said.
“Then you’re a moron,” Sam says.
I shrug. “At least I’ve got eyebrows.”
Sam sighs. “Some of your stunts are so juvenile, I’m surprised you didn’t put a tack in my chair.”
“What made the flu of 1918 so bad?” I say.
Sam frowns. “Do you even know how the flu gets started each year?”
“In cold weather, people start coughing on each other and spread their colds. As more people get sick, the cold virus mutates into the flu, right?”
“You’ve got to be shitting me. Are you that stupid?”
“Pretend I am,” I say, “and answer the question. Or I’ll hit you with a spitball.”
Sam shakes his head in disgust. He’s convinced I’m completely beneath him intellectually. Since everyone else in the world shares that position, I could care less. I just want to find Rachel. He says, “The short answer why it was so bad: this is the only virus in history that killed the youngest and strongest people. It was also the most contagious. From start to finish, it lasted twenty-seven months. During that time one out of every three people in the world caught it, and 100 million of them died. As for how it started,” Sam says, “I’ll have to give you a simplified explanation. I’ll be sure to use small words so you can keep up.”
“You’re very considerate. I’ve always said that about you.”
Ignoring me, Sam continues: “Most animals that get the flu, get it from birds.”
“Birds.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’ve heard of bird flu,” I say.
“Humans rarely catch flu directly from birds,” Sam says. “The birds infect pigs, and pigs infect people.”
“I’ve heard of swine flu, also.”
“You and every third grader. Look, do you want this explanation or not?”
“Me want!”
He says, “Every year, wild ducks migrate south for the winter.”
“So?”
“One out of every three have the flu. Their droppings land in fields, streams, and lakes. They pass the flu on to pigs, and the farmers catch it. This happens all over the world around the same time each year. It also happens in Asia, where millions of chickens pass the flu on to pigs, who pass it on to humans. When people are infected with the flu virus, it spreads as they come into contact with other people.”
“If this happens every year, why was 1918 worse?”
“Pigs have both avian and human flu receptors, so they can catch the flu from birds and people. Scientists believe that in the spring of 1918, a pig caught a human strain of flu from a person, then caught an avian strain from a wild duck. Every known flu virus is made up of eight gene segments. But the 1918 strain was a mix of eight from the human, eight from the bird, and eight from the pig, creating a lethal hybrid the world had never seen. As it spread, it continued to mutate, becoming more and more lethal. It was wartime, and infected soldiers from Kansas were deployed to bases and battlefields all over the world. As the Kansas flu strain mixed with the flu strains from other countries, the virus continued to mutate exponentially. By the time it hit Spain it was so deadly they called it the Spanish Flu. And it’s been called that, ever since.”
I hold up my hand. “You mean to tell me that because a single pig in Kansas ate some duck shit one morning, 100 million people died?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m saying. In general.”
“And what’s all this got to do with Rachel?”
“Every year the World Health Organization hosts a meeting among the top scientists in the world, and public health officials, to determine if the Spanish Flu could return that year.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“I’m not surprised. But you’re not alone. Even newspapers and text books in the years that followed the pandemic barely mention the Flu of 1918.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Nor do I know why kids aren’t taught about it in history. Maybe they don’t want to cause a panic. But what I do know is the world is smaller now than it was in 1918. And every year it’s more likely the Spanish Flu will return. And when it does, it’s going to wipe out a third of the Earth’s population.”
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