Linwood Barclay: The Twenty-Three

David hadn’t asked Fisher whether he’d had orange juice in addition to his coffee. Had the town’s grocery stores taken in a shipment of contaminated juice? Was it like that scandal years ago when someone tampered with some headache medicine? But even if that was the case, was it likely that everyone would start drinking it at the same time?

But David still asked, “What brand?”

“I don’t… remember. It was frozen.”

“Frozen?”

“Concentrate. I mixed it up this morning.”

Water. Water to mix up the orange juice. Water to make the coffee.

David spun around, looked for someone in authority. There were so many nurses and doctors attending to people it was difficult to tell who was running the show. Maybe no one was.

Agnes would have been.

David thought briefly of his aunt, Agnes Pickens, who used to be in charge of this hospital, right up until she took her own life a couple of weeks earlier by jumping off Promise Falls.

Agnes, sadly, had turned out to be a pretty bad person. But right now, David conceded, this place needed her.

Someone nudged David out of the way. A man in his late twenties, pale green operating scrubs top and bottom, stethoscope around his neck. And a surgical mask over his mouth to protect him from whatever everyone in here might have.

David suddenly felt very exposed. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that what everyone in this room had could be extremely contagious? God, maybe some airborne contagion had been dropped on the town that morning. Promise Falls was already on edge about a possible terrorist attack after the drive-in came crashing down earlier in the week. There’d been no real evidence so far to suggest terrorists had done it-Promise Falls, a terrorist target, really ?-but only a few days later, this?

The man knelt down before Kathy and said, “I’m Dr. Blake. What’s your name?”

Kathy, who appeared to be fading, did not answer. Her mother said, “Kathy. Her name is Kathy. I’m her mother. What’s happening? What does everyone have?”

The doctor, at least for now, ignored the question. He was looking into Kathy’s eyes, then putting his stethoscope to her chest.

“Hypotension,” Dr. Blake said.

“Hypertension? High blood pressure? That’s ridiculous in a child her age that-”

“ Hypo , not hyper. Low blood pressure.”

“Why?” David asked.

The doctor whirled his head around. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Could it be the water?” David asked. “Some sort of contaminant?”

The doctor hesitated a moment, thinking, his eyes taking in the room. “It’s the best explanation I’ve heard so far,” he said. “That might account for the rashes.”

“Rashes?”

“A lot of people are complaining of skin irritation.” He said to the mother, “Bring your girl this way.”

“How many?” David asked.

“How many what?” the doctor said. Turning his head away from the child and her mother, he said, “Sick or dead?”

David had meant sick, but whispered, “Dead.”

“More than I can count,” he said under his breath. “Dozens, more every minute.”

The woman scooped Kathy into her arms and followed the doctor to one of the curtained examining areas.

“Jesus,” David said, and dug into his pocket for his own phone. He wasn’t surprised to see that he had no bars.

He ran out of the emergency ward, where ambulances and private cars continued to arrive with a steady stream of patients. He dialed home.

“Yes?” his mother said.

“Don’t drink the water,” David told her.

“What are you talking about? I thought the bottled water was way better than the other-”

“No, from the tap! Don’t drink it! It may be poisonous!”

Arlene shouted, not to David, “Don’t drink that! It’s David! Don’t drink that!”

David said, “Tell me Dad hasn’t had any of it.”

“He just made a new pot of coffee to make a point, the old fool.”

“Don’t drink anything out of the tap. Don’t even brush your teeth with it. In fact, don’t even let it get on your skin. Tell Ethan! Start phoning everyone you know and tell them not to drink the water.”

“What is it? What’s in the water?”

“I don’t even know if I’m right,” he said, “but right now, it’s the one thing that makes sense.”

“Are you going-”

“Mom! Call people!”

He ended the call, stayed on his list of contacts, thumbed through them.

Marla Pickens. His cousin. Newly reunited with the baby she had not known she had.

Matthew.

David had a mental image of Marla making up formula for the child. He called the home number.

It rang several times. David was about to give up when someone picked up, then dropped the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

More fumbling, then, “Where are you?” Marla said, her voice shaking. “I called ten minutes ago!”

“You called me?”

A half-second pause. “David?”

“Yeah. Marla, listen, I might be wrong about this, but I think there may be something wrong with the-”

“I think he’s dead!” she screamed.

Dear God, Matthew.

“Marla, I’ll hang up. You call 911 and-”

“I called ages ago! No one’s showed up! I can’t wake him up!”

Why couldn’t David’s uncle Gill just drive Matthew to the hospital? “Get your dad to drive Matthew to the hospital! Don’t wait for the-”

“It’s not Matthew! It’s Dad!”

Just then, as if on cue, David could hear a baby crying in the background. He felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Judging by what he’d just seen in the hospital, if Gill looked dead to Marla, he probably was. David didn’t know what he could do for Gill if he were there, but he could at least give Marla, who’d already been through so much this month, some support. And along the way, stay on the phone and tell anyone else he could think of that they should not-

Sam.

Samantha Worthington and Carl. He had to warn them. It was barely nine o’clock on a Saturday morning and chances were they weren’t yet up. He hadn’t talked to Sam in a couple of days, but had been intending to phone her today, see if she wanted to get together that evening. David had been thinking maybe he could even find a way to get her son to have a sleepover at his house with Ethan. He’d planned to push his mother into the role of babysitter, which would allow him to have an even better sleepover with Sam at her place.

That, however, was no longer the priority.

David said to Marla, “Keep calling 911. I’m on my way. And whatever you do, don’t drink the water. It’ s-”

He thought he’d heard a click. “Marla?”

She’d gotten off the line.

Fine. He had to call Sam. David brought up her number, tapped it. She had no landline, but her cell was usually close at hand.

The phone rang.

And rang.

By the fourth ring, David was starting to panic. Suppose she and her son had risen early? Suppose they’d both had water from the tap?

Six rings.

Seven.

He ended the call, opting for a text instead.

He typed: CALL ME!

Waited for a response, for those three little dots to indicate Sam was composing a reply.

Nothing.

He added: DONT DRINK TAP WATER

As David ran for his car, he saw an unmarked police car wheel into the hospital lot, brakes screeching as it came to a halt.

Detective Barry Duckworth behind the wheel.

RANDALLFinley had been up early, taking their dog, Bipsie, for a walk, and now sat on the edge of his wife’s bed. He put a gentle hand to her forehead, which felt warm and clammy, and asked, “How did you sleep?”