“The poor man was robbed,” said Dr. Vandermay, hanging up the phone. “Punched out and robbed in his own driveway. Can you believe it? What a world we live in!”
If you only knew, thought Marissa, now absolutely certain that the Ebola outbreaks were deliberately caused. A wave of fear swept over her, but she forced herself to continue questioning the pathologist. “Did you happen to notice a nummular lesion on Dr. Mehta’s thigh?”
“I don’t recall,” said Dr. Vandermay. “But here are all the Polaroids.” He spread a group of photos out as if he were laying out a poker hand.
Marissa looked at the first one. They brutally portrayed the naked corpse laid out on the stainless-steel autopsy table. Despite the profusion of hemorrhagic lesions, Manssa was able to pick out the same circular lesion she had seen on Dr. Richter’s thigh. It corresponded in size to the head of a vaccination gun.
“Would it be possible for me to take one of these photos?” asked Marissa.
Dr. Vandermay glanced at them. “Go ahead. We’ve got plenty.”
Marissa slipped the photo into her pocket. It wasn’t as good as the vaccination gun, but it was something. She thanked Dr. Vandermay and got up to leave.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your suspicions?” Vandermay asked. There was a slight smile on his face, as if he knew that something was up.
An intercom system crackled to life, informing Dr. Vandermay that he had a phone call on line six. He picked up, and Marissa overheard him say, “That’s a coincidence, Dr. Dubchek, I’m talking with Dr. Blumenthal right this moment . .
That was all Marissa needed to hear. She got up and ran for the elevators. Vandermay called after her, but she didn’t stop. She passed the secretaries at a half-jog and raced through the double doors, clutching the pens in the pocket of the white coat to keep them from falling out.
Facing the elevators and fire stairs, she decided to risk the elevator. If Dubchek had been on the third floor, he probably would think it faster to use the stairs. She pushed the Down button. A lab tech was waiting with his tray of vacu-containers. He watched Marissa frantically push the already illuminated elevator button several more times. “Emergency?” he asked as their eyes met.
An elevator stopped and Marissa squeezed on. The doors seemed to take forever to close, and she expected at any moment to see Dubchek running to stop them. But finally they started down, and Marissa began to relax only to find herself stopping on three. She moved deeper into the car, for once appreciating her small stature. It would have been difficult to see her from outside the elevator.
As the elevator began to move again, she asked a gray-haired technician where the cafeteria was. He told her to turn right when she got off the elevator and follow the main corridor.
Marissa got off and did as she had been told. A short distance down the hall, she smelled the aroma of food. For the rest of the way she followed her nose.
She had decided it was too dangerous to risk the front entrance to the clinic. Dubchek could have told the police to stop her. Instead, she ran into the cafeteria, which was crowded with people having lunch. She headed directly for the kitchen. The staff threw her a few questioning looks, but no one challenged her. As she’d imagined, there was a loading dock, and she exited directly onto it, skirting a dairy truck that was making a delivery.
Dropping down to the level of the driveway, Marissa walked briskly out onto Madison Avenue. After going north for half a block, she turned east on a quiet tree-lined street. There were few pedestrians, which gave Marissa confidence that she was not being trailed. When she got to Park Avenue, she hailed a cab.
To be sure that no one was following her, Marissa got off at Bloomingdales, walked through the store to Third Avenue and hailed a second cab. By the time she pulled up at the Essex House, she was confident that she was safe, at least for the time being.