Marissa asked Miss Cavanagh to start working on an outline of Dr. Richter’s schedule for the last two weeks. She told the woman that she’d be back, but if needed, she could be paged through the hospital operator.
“Can I ask you a question?” said Miss Cavanagh timidly.
“Of course,” said Marissa, with a hand on the door.
“Is there a chance I might get ill?”
Marissa had been suppressing the thought because she didn’t want to frighten the woman, but she could not lie. After all, the secretary would have to be considered a primary contact.
“It’s possible,” said Marissa. “We will be asking you to restrict some of your activities during the next week or so, and I’d advise you to check your temperature twice a day. Personally, however, I think you will be fine since you haven’t experienced any symptoms so far.”
Back at the hospital, Marissa fought off her own fears and her developing fatigue. She had too much to do. She had to go over the clinic charts in detail. She hoped to find a reason why some of Dr. Richter’s patients had gotten the disease and others hadn’t. Also
Marissa wanted to call Dr. Richter’s wife. Between the wife and the secretary, she hoped she could construct a reasonably complete diary of the man’s activities during the two weeks before he became di.
Returning to the fifth floor, Marissa ran into Dr. Navarre. He looked as tired as Marissa felt. “Dr. Richter’s condition is deteriorating,” he said. “He’s bleeding from everywhere: injection sites, gums, CI tract. He’s on the brink of kidney failure, and his blood pressure is way down. The interferon we gave him had no effect whatsoever, and none of us knows what else to try.”
“What about Helen Townsend?” asked Marissa.
“She’s worse, too,” said Dr. Navarre. “She’s also starting to bleed.” He sat down heavily.
Marissa hesitated for a minute and then reached for the phone. She placed another collect call to Atlanta, hoping Dubchek was already on his way. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. He came on the line.
“Things are pretty bad here,” reported Marissa. “Two patients are experiencing significant hemorrhagic symptoms. Clinically, it is looking more and more like viral hemorrhagic fever, and no one knows what to do for these people.”
“There’s little that can be done,” said Dubchek. “They can try heparinization. Otherwise, supportive therapy-that’s about it. When we make a specific diagnosis we may be able to use hyperimmune serum, if it is available. On that track, we’ve already got your samples, and Tad has begun processing them.”
“When will you be coming?” asked Marissa.
“Shortly,” said Dubchek. “We’ve got the Vickers Mobile Isolation Lab all packed.
Manssa woke up with a start. Thankfully, no one had come into the little room behind the nurses’ station. She looked at her watch. It was ten-fifteen at night. She’d only been asleep for five or ten minutes.
Getting to her feet, she felt dizzy. Her head ached and she had the beginnings of a sore throat. She prayed that her symptoms were a product of exhaustion and not the beginnings of viral hemorrhagic fever.
It had been a busy evening. Four more cases had presented themselves in the ER, all complaining of severe headache, high fever and vomiting. One already had hemorrhagic signs. The patients were all family members of the previous victims, underlining the need for strict quarantine. The virus was already into the third generation. Marissa had prepared viral samples and had them shipped to Atlanta by an overnight carrier.
Recognizing that she was at the limit of her strength, Marissa decided to go back to her motel. She was just leaving when the floor nurse said Dr. Richter’s wife was able to see her. Realizing it would be cruel to put her off, Marissa met her in the visitors’ lounge. Anna Richter, a well-dressed, attractive woman in her late thirties, did her best to fill in her husband’s schedule over the past two weeks, but she was desperately upset, not just alarmed about her husband but fearful for their two young children as well. Marissa was reluctant to press her for too much detail. Mrs. Richter promised to provide a more complete chronology the next day. Marissa walked her to the doctor’s BMW. Then she found her own car and drove to the Tropic Motel where she fell directly into bed.