Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami Page 3

  ‘Well you should make time,’ said Mrs. Fairfax imperiously. ‘It’s been happening all along the South Beach. And now it’s turned up on mine.’

  Dr. Petrie tried to smile. ‘I hate to appear ignorant,’ he said. ‘But what has turned up on yours?’

  Mrs. Fairfax lifted her sharp, haughty profile in obvious distaste. In a quiet, cold voice, she said, ‘Faeces.’

  Dr. Petrie leaned forward, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Mrs. Fairfax turned his way with a look of frozen disdain. ‘You’re a doctor. You know what that means. I went down to my beach yesterday morning for a swim and I found it was soiled with faeces.’

  Dr. Petrie rubbed his chin. ‘Was it – much?’

  ‘The whole shoreline,’ said Mrs. Fairfax. ‘And the beaches next to mine, on both sides. I can’t tell you – the smell is abominable.’

  ‘Have you complained to the health people?’

  ‘Of course I have. I spent most of yesterday on the telephone. I got through to some very junior official who told me that they were doing everything they could, and that they were going to try and clear the beaches with detergent. But it’s really not good enough. It’s there now, it smells revolting, and I want you to do something about it.’

  Dr. Petrie stood up and went to the window. He felt sticky and tired, and the glittering pool outside looked very inviting.

  ‘Mrs. Fairfax,’ he said, ‘I don’t think there’s very much I can do, apart from call City Hall, like you did. It’s probably treated sewage brought in by the sea. I know it doesn’t look or smell too good, but it’s pretty harmless.’

  Mrs. Fairfax snorted. ‘You’re absolutely right it doesn’t look too good. I have a beach party planned for tomorrow evening. What am I going to say to my guests – my doctor says it’s harmless? I pay very high taxes to live on the ocean, Dr. Petrie, and I don’t expect to have to swim in excrement.’

  Dr. Petrie turned around and smiled. ‘All right, Mrs. Fairfax. I promise that I’ll call the health department this morning for you. I’m sure that it’s one of those rare accidents, and if they say they’re going to clear the beach with detergent, they probably will. They’re pretty hot on things like that in Miami.’

  Mrs. Fairfax shook her head. ‘First it was oil and now it’s sewage,’ she said tetchily. ‘I don’t know whether I’m renting a beach or a city dump.’

  Dr. Petrie helped her out of her armchair and gave her back her sticks. ‘I promise I’ll call this morning,’ he repeated. ‘If you hold on one moment. I’ll get Esther to help you out.’

  After Mrs. Fairfaix, he saw three more patients. Mrs. Vicincki, with her sprained ankle; old Mr. Dunlop, with his kidney complaint; and the younger of the two elderly Miss Grays, who was suffering from sunburn. As usual, he tried to be calm, comforting, and reassuringly efficient.

  Just before one o’clock, he pressed the intercom for Esther.

  ‘Yes, doctor?’

  ‘Esther,’ he said. ‘What are you doing for lunch?’

  ‘Nothing special. I was thinking of a diet cola and a cream cheese on rye.’

  Dr. Petrie coughed. ‘That sounds revolting. How about coming down to Mason’s Bar with me and sinking a steak-and-lobster grill?’

  ‘But doctor, my figure—’

  ‘Your figure, Esther, is one of the natural wonders of the world. Now, do you want to come, or don’t you?’

  There was a bleep. Esther said, ‘Hold on a moment, doctor. It’s the outside phone.’

  He waited for a few moments. Then Esther came back to him and said, ‘It’s Dr. Selmer, from the hospital.’

  ‘Okay. First tell me whether you’re coming to lunch, then put him on.’

  ‘Dr. Selmer says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Lunch is urgent. Are you coming?’

  Esther sighed. ‘All right. If you insist on twisting my arm like that.’

  Dr. Petrie picked up the outside phone and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the edge of his desk. He picked at a stray thread on his cotton slacks.

  ‘Anton?’

  ‘Oh, hi, Leonard,’ said Dr. Selmer. ‘I was just calling you about that kid you brought in this morning.’

  ‘Did you find out what it was?’

  ‘Well, we’re not too sure yet. The blood and sputum tests haven’t been completed, although there’s obviously some kind of bacillus infection there. I had his parents in for a check-up this morning, and they seem okay, but I’ve asked their permission for a post-mortem.’

  Dr. Petrie snapped the thread from his slacks. ‘Have you any ideas what you’re looking for?’ he asked.

  Dr. Selmer sounded uncertain. ‘It could be tularemia. Did you notice any pet rabbits around the kid’s place?’

  ‘I don’t think so. You really think it’s that?’

  ‘Dr. Bushart thinks so. He had a couple of cases out in California.’

  ‘Sure, but that’s California,’ Dr. Petrie said. ‘California has every weird bug and bacillus going. This is healthy, swamp-infested Florida.’

  ‘We’re checking up anyway,’ said Dr. Selmer. ‘Meanwhile, I shouldn’t worry too much. If it was tularemia, the chances that you’ve picked it up are pretty remote. Just to be safe, though, I should give yourself a couple of shots of streptomycin.’

  ‘Are you playing golf this weekend?’ asked Dr. Petrie. ‘I’m still short of a partner.’

  ‘Why don’t you teach that assistant of yours – what’s her name – Esther. I’d sure like to see her swing!’

  ‘Anton,’ said Dr. Petrie, ‘you have a very impure mind.’

  There was a laugh from the other end of the phone. ‘It’s only because I never get to do anything impure with my body.’

  Esther came into the room, signaling elaborately that she was ready for lunch.

  Dr. Petrie said, ‘Okay, Anton – I have to leave now. But let me know what you find out about the kid, will you? As soon as you know.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Dr. Selmer. ‘And don’t forget the shots. All I want right now is a golf partner down with rabbit disease.’

  Dr. Petrie laughed. ‘Who do you think I am? Bugs Bunny?’

  *

  It was a cool, cloudless evening. A fresh wind was blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean, and ruffling the dark blue surface of Biscayne Bay. As they drove across the North Bay Causeway over Treasure Island, a large red motor-launch furrowed the water, and seagulls twisted and spun in its wake.

  Dr. Petrie was wearing a sky-blue sports shirt and white slacks belted with rope. He was feeling relaxed and calm, and he drove the Lincoln with one hand resting lightly on the wheel.

  Beside him, Adelaide Murry was trying to put on lipstick in the sun-vizor mirror. She was a tall, elegant girl, dressed in a low broderie-anglaise dress the color of buttermilk, which showed off her deep-tanned shoulders and her soft cleavage. Her brunette hair, streaked with subtle tints, was brushed back from her face in fashionable curls. She had unusual, asymmetrical features – a slight squint in her hazel eyes and pouting lips that made you think she was cross.

  At the moment, she was cross.

  ‘Do you have to drive over every pothole and bump?’ she said, as her lipstick jolted up over her lip.

  Dr. Petrie grinned. ‘It’s a hobby of mine,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s called “Getting Your Girlfriend to Push Her Lipstick Up Her Nose”.’

  Adelaide patted her mouth with a pink tissue. ‘You’re such a laugh, aren’t you. What time are we supposed to pick up Priscilla?’

  Dr. Petrie checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes. But I like to go a little early. Margaret has a habit of making her wait outside the house.’

  ‘I don’t know why you stand for it,’ said Adelaide tartly, crossing her long brown legs.

  Dr. Petrie shrugged.

  ‘If I was you,’ said Adelaide, ‘I’d march right in there and beat the living shit out of Margaret. And that flea-bitten dog of hers.’

  Dr. Petrie glanced across at Adelaide and smiled a resig
ned smile. ‘If you’d paid out as much money as I have – just to get free from a wife you didn’t want any more – then you’d be quite satisfied with paying your alimony, seeing your kid, and keeping your mouth shut,’ he said gently.

  Adelaide looked sulky. ‘I still think you ought to break the door down and smash her into a pulp,’ she said, with emphatic, youthful venom.

  Dr. Petrie swung the Lincoln left into Collins Avenue. ‘That’s what I like about you,’ he said. ‘You’re so shy and ladylike.’

  He switched on the car radio. There was a burst of music, and then someone started talking about this year’s unusual tides and weather conditions, and the strange flotsam and jetsam that was being washed up on the shores of the East Coast. A coastguard and a medical officer were discussing the appearance of unsavory bits and pieces around Barnes Sound and Old Rhodes Key.

  ‘I’m not prepared right now to identify this washed-up material,’ said the medical officer, ‘but we have had complaints that it contains raw sewage, in the shape of sanitary napkins, faecal matter and diapers. We have no idea where the material is coming from, but we believe it to be a completely isolated incident.’

  Adelaide promptly switched the car radio off. ‘We’re just about to have dinner,’ she protested. ‘The last thing I want to hear about is sewage.’

  Dr. Petrie glanced in his mirror and pulled out to overtake a slow-moving truck. ‘One of my patients complained this morning. She said she went down for a swim, and found her whole beach smothered in shit.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Adelaide, wrinkling up her nose.

  Dr. Petrie grinned. ‘It’s pretty revolting, isn’t it? Maybe we’re learning that what the Bible said was right. Throw your sewage on to the waters, and it shall come back to you.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s funny,’ said Adelaide. ‘This is supposed to be the great American resort. I make my living out of people coming down here and playing tennis and swimming and having a good time. Who’s going to come down here to paddle in diapers and sanitary napkins?’

  Dr. Petrie shrugged. ‘Well, it hasn’t killed anyone yet.’

  ‘How do you know? They might have swum out there and sunk without trace.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Dr. Petrie, ‘more people die from bad food in restaurants than ever die of pollution in the sea. You get uneducated kitchen staff who don’t wash their hands, and before you know where you are, you’ve got yourself a king-size dose of hepatitis.’

  ‘Leonard, darling,’ said Adelaide, acidly, ‘I wish you wouldn’t play doctors all the time. For once, I wish I was cooking my own supper.’

  Margaret Petrie lived in what their divorce attorneys called the marital residence out on North Miami Beach. Dr. Petrie said nothing at all as he piloted the Lincoln down the familiar streets, and up to the white ranch-style house with its stunted palms and its small, neatly-trimmed lawn. It was here, in this quiet suburb, that he had first set up in medical practise eight years ago. It was here that he had worked and struggled to woo the wealthier and more socially elevated sick.

  It was here, too, that Margaret and he had gradually discovered that they no longer had anything in common but a marriage license. Uneasy affection had degenerated into impatience, bickering and intolerance. It had been a messy, well-publicized, and very expensive divorce.

  As Dr. Petrie pulled the Lincoln into the kerb, he remembered what Margaret had shrieked at him, at the top of her voice, as he drove away for the last time. ‘If you want to spend the rest of your life sticking your fingers up rich old ladies, then go away and don’t come back!’

  That remark, he thought to himself, summed up everything that was wrong with their marriage. Margaret, from a well-heeled family of local Republicans, had never wanted for money or material possessions. His own deep and restless anxiety for wealth was something she couldn’t understand at all. To her, the way that he pandered to rich old widows was a prostitution of his medical talents, and she had endlessly nagged him to give up Miami Beach and go north. ‘Be famous,’ she used to say, ‘be respected.’

  It only occurred to him much later that she really did hunger for fame. She had fantasies of being interviewed by McCall’s and Redbook – the wonderful wife of the well-known doctor. What she really wanted him to do was discover penicillin or transplant hearts, and on the day that he had realized that, he had known for sure that their marriage could never work.

  Priscilla, as usual, was waiting at the end of the drive, sitting on her suitcase. She was a small, serious girl of six. She had long, honey-colored hair, and an oval, unpretty face.

  Dr. Petrie got out of the car, glancing towards the house. He was sure that he saw a curtain twitch.

  ‘Hallo, Prickles,’ he said quietly.

  She stood up, grave-faced, and he leaned over and kissed her. She smelled of her mother’s perfume.

  ‘I made a monster in school,’ she said, blinking.

  He picked up her case and stowed it away in the Lincoln’s trunk. ‘A monster? What kind of a monster?’ Priscilla bit her lip. ‘A cookie monster. Like in Sesame Street. It was blue and it had two ping-pong balls for its eyes and a furry face.’

  ‘Did you bring it with you?’

  Priscilla shook her head. ‘Mommy didn’t like it. Mommy doesn’t like Sesame Street.’

  Dr. Petrie opened the car door and pushed his seat forward so that Priscilla could climb into the back. Adelaide said, ‘Hi, Prickles. How are you, darling?’ and Priscilla replied, ‘Okay, thanks.’

  Dr. Petrie shut his door, started up the engine, and turned the Lincoln around.

  ‘Did you have to wait out there long?’ he asked Priscilla.

  ‘Not long,’ the child answered promptly. He knew that she never liked to let her mother down.

  ‘What happened to the cookie monster?’ he asked. ‘Did Mommy throw it away?’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ said Prickles, with a serious expression. ‘Cookie fell into the garbage pail by mistake, and must’ve gotten thrown away.’

  ‘A mistake, huh?’ said Dr. Petrie, and blew his horn impatiently at an old man on a bicycle who was wavering around in front of him.

  *

  They had chicken and pineapple from the Polynesian restaurant, and then they sat around and watched television. It was late now, and the sky outside was dusky blue. Prickles had changed into her long pink nightdress, and she sat on the floor in front of the TV, brushing her doll’s hair and tying it up with elastic bands.

  Right in the middle of the last episode of the serial, the telephone bleeped. Dr. Petrie had his arm around Adelaide and his left leg hooked comfortably over the side of the settee, and he cursed under his breath.

  ‘I should’ve been an ordinary public official,’ he said, getting up. He set down his glass of chilled daiquiris, and padded in his socks across to the telephone table. ‘At least ordinary public officials don’t get old ladies calling them up in the middle of the evening, complaining about their surgical corsets. Hallo?’

  It wasn’t an old lady complaining about her surgical corset – it was Anton Selmer. He sounded oddly anxious and strained, as if he wasn’t feeling well. As a rule, he liked to swap a few jokes when he called up, but tonight he was grave and quiet, and his voice was throaty with worry.

  ‘Anton?’ said Dr. Petrie. ‘What’s the matter? You sound upset.’

  ‘I am upset. I just came back from the bacteriological lab.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s serious,’ said Dr. Selmer. ‘What that kid died of – it’s really, genuinely serious.’

  Dr. Petrie frowned. ‘Did you finish the post-mortem?’

  ‘We’re still waiting for the last tests. But we’ve discovered enough to kick us straight in the teeth.’

  ‘You mean it’s not tularemia?’

  ‘I wish it was. We found minor swellings in the joints and the groin area, and at first I thought they could have been symptoms of lymphogranuloma venereum, or some other kind of pyogenic infection. The kid
had a lung condition, and we were working on the assumption that the swellings might have been associated with a general rundown of health brought on by influenza.’

  Adelaide looked questioningly across the room. Prickles, busy with her doll’s coiffure, didn’t even notice. On the TV screen, the hero was mouthing something in garish color, a million light-years away from disease and infection and nine-year-old boys who died overnight.

  ‘Well,’ said Dr. Petrie, ‘what do you think it is?’

  Dr. Selmer said evasively, ‘We carried out a pretty thorough examination. We took slides from the spleen, the liver, the lymph nodes and bone marrow. We also took sputum samples and blood samples, and we did bacteriological tests on all of them.’

  ‘What did you find?’ asked Petrie quietly.

  ‘A bacillus,’ answered Dr. Selmer. ‘A bacillus that was present in tremendous numbers, and of terrific virulence. A real red-hot terror.’

  ‘Have you identified it?’

  ‘We have some tentative theories.’

  ‘What kind of tentative theories?’

  Dr. Selmer’s voice was hardly audible. ‘Leonard,’ he said, ‘this bacillus appears to be a form of Pasteurella pestis.’

  ‘What? What did you say?’

  He could hardly believe what Anton Selmer had told him. He felt a strange crawling sensation all over his skin, and for the first time in his medical career he felt literally unclean. He had dealt with terminal cancer patients, tuberculosis patients, Spanish influenza and even typhoid. But this—

  Adelaide, seeing his drawn face, said, ‘Leonard – what is it?’

  He hardly heard her. She came over and he held her hand.

  In a dry voice, he said to Anton Selmer, ‘Plague? Are you suggesting that it’s plague?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Leonard, but that’s what it looks like. Only it’s worse than plague. The bacterial samples we have here are not identical with any known profile of Pasteurella pestis. They certainly don’t correspond with the 1920 records – which is the last time we had an outbreak of plague in Florida. The bacilli seem to have mutated or developed into something more virulent and faster-growing.’

  Dr. Petrie looked at Prickles, squatting innocently in front of the television in her pink nightdress. Supposing he had picked it up himself, when he was carrying David Kelly? Supposing—