Darwin’s Children

“Disgraceful,” the doctor said, his voice flat from exhaustion. He looked up at George. “It could be communicable. You’ll want to sterilize this bathroom and bleach the sheets.”

George nodded.

“There’s someone who might be able to help,” Mitch said to Kaye, taking her aside.

“Christopher?” Kaye asked.

“Call him. Ask him what’s happening. You know his phone number.”

“His home,” Kaye said. “It’s an old number. I’m not sure where he works now.”

The doctor had dialed up a sentinel CDC report page on his Web phone. “There’s no warning posted,” he said. “But I’ve never seen pediatric warnings for virus children.”

“New children,” George corrected.

“Is it a reportable disease?” Kaye asked.

“It’s not even listed,” the doctor said, but there was something in his face that disturbed Kaye. The NuTest. It’s got a GPS and a broadband hookup to the Department of Health. And from there, to NIH or the CDC. I’m sure of it.

But there was nothing they could do. She shrugged it off.

“Call,” Mitch told Kaye.

“I don’t know who he’s working for now,” Kaye said.

“We have a secure satellite phone,” George said. “No one will back trace. Not that it matters, for us. Our son is already in a camp.”

“There is nothing secure,” Mitch said.

George seemed about to debate this slur on his masculine grasp of crypto-technology.

Kaye held up her hand. “I’ll call,” she said. It would be the first time she had spoken with Christopher Dicken in over nine years.

But all she got was the answering machine in his apartment. “This is Christopher. I’m on the road. My house is occupied by cops and wrestlers. Better yet, remember that I collect strange plagues and store them next to my valuables. Please leave your message..

0”

“Christopher, this is Kaye. Our daughter is sick. Coxsackie something. Call if you have any clues or advice.”

And she left the number.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Ohio (#ulink_9100db94-9973-5d30-9b03-156a85bb5aa7)

The infirmary stood adjacent to the southwest corner of the equipment barn: two blocks connected by a short corridor with barred windows. The bright security lights drew angular trapezoids of shadow over the concrete courtyard between the buildings, obscuring a lone boy. Tall and chunky, about ten years old, he leaned or slumped against the door to the research wing, arms folded.

“Who’s that?” Middleton called out.

“Toby Smith, ma’am,” the boy said, standing straight. He wobbled and stared at them with tired, blank eyes.

“You sick, Toby?”

“I’m fine, ma’am.”

“Where’s the doctor?” Middleton pulled the cart up ten feet from the boy. Dicken saw the boy’s pallid cheeks, almost free of freckles.

The boy turned and pointed into the research wing. “Doctor Kelson is in the gym. My sister’s dead,” he said.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Toby,” Dicken said, swinging out of the seat of the golf cart. “I’m very sorry to hear it. My sister died some time ago.”

Dicken approached him. The boy’s eyes were rheumy and crusted.

“What did your sister die of?” Toby asked, squinting at Dicken.

“A disease she caught from a mosquito bite. It was called West Nile Virus. May I see your fingers, Toby?”

“No.” The boy hid his hands behind his back. “I don’t want you to shoot me.”

“You ignore that crap, Toby,” Middleton said. “I won’t let them shoot anybody.”

“May I see, Toby?” Dicken persisted. He removed his goggles. Something in his tone, some sympathy, or perhaps the way he smelled—if Toby could still smell him—made the boy look up at Dicken with narrowed eyes and present his hands. Dicken gently reversed the boy’s hand and inspected the palm and the skin between the fingers. No lesions. Toby screwed up his face and wriggled his fingers.

“You’re a strong young man, Toby,” Dicken said.

“I’ve been in the infirmary, helping, and now I’m on break,” Toby said. “I should go back.”

“The kids are so gentle,” DeWitt said. “They bond so tight, like family, all of them. Tell that to the world out there.”

“They don’t want to listen,” Dicken said under his breath.

“They’re scared,” Augustine said.

“Of me?” Toby asked.

The cart’s small walkie-talkie squawked. Middleton pulled away to answer. Her lips drew together as she listened. Then she turned to Augustine. “Security saw the director’s car go out the south entrance ten minutes ago. He was alone. They think he’s skipped.”