Michael Palmer - Fatal

"Here, lift up your tongue," Matt said. "I want to check your temperature."

"Sleep. I need to sleep."

"I know. One more minute."

Matt slipped the digital thermometer beneath her tongue — 100.5. He brought up his stethoscope and listened to her chest and back — a few crackles suggesting some low-grade pneumonia, but nothing that needed immediate attention.

"Hop in," she said weakly. "You saved my life twice in two days. That means you don't have to sleep on the floor."

"I'll try not to kick too much." He shut off the lamp, but some light filtered through the gauzy curtains. He rolled onto his back next to her and pulled the sheet and thin blanket over both of them. "You know," he went on, "I've been trying to figure out how Kathy might have gotten exposed to the toxins from the mine. It seems possible that she might have been in the wrong place at the time of a particularly dense spill. Maybe the two other cases were there at exactly that time, too. Do you think that's possible?… Nikki?"

Her eyes were closed, her respirations raspy, but even. She had hung on as long and as hard as she could.

Matt turned onto his side, facing her. For a time, he studied her face in the dim glow, breathing in the scent of her.

"Good night, pal," he whispered finally. "I promise, next time we go to a nice quiet museum."

"Here comes another contraction." "Okay, hon, you know what to do."

"I'm okay… I'm okay, Donny… I got this one. No sweat… No sweat… I got it."

Her friends and family had told her how hard it was going to be. How painful. The nurse in charge of the birthing class had begun the class on labor and delivery by saying, "Whoever named labor had clearly been through it."

Sherrie Cleary, now in her ninth hour of serious labor, just focused her thoughts on all the doomsayers and naysayers and smiled. Sure, the contractions hurt. Sometimes they hurt like hell. But pain was just that, she told herself over and over again, nothing more, and she was still hanging in there. At twenty-six, this was her first baby, and she was most definitely not going to be her last. Her husband, Don, had gotten a nice raise at the body shop, and thanks to an uneventful pregnancy, she had been able to waitress until just three weeks ago. They were still living in the Anacostia projects, but the people from Fannie Mae were optimistic that before long they would qualify for a mortgage. Could anyone blame her for wanting more kids?

Margie Briscoe, the midwife, breezed into the birthing room, checked the baby monitor, and then came to the bedside.

"Looks great," she said. "How you doing, Sher?"

"I can handle the contractions, at least so far, but I am getting a little impatient."

"You wouldn't be normal if you weren't. Here, let me check you. Just relax and let your knees flop apart… Perfect… You're stretched out nicely, too. Because of all that preparation you did, I don't believe we're going to have to make that episiotomy cut."

"That's great."

"Not much longer, my friend. Not much longer at all."

"Wonderful."

"You still going with Donelle?"

"Donelle Elizabeth Cleary. She was going to be Donald Junior if she was a boy. Elizabeth was my grandmother's name."

"It's a beautiful name."

"She's going to be a beautiful baby. Oh, Donny, here comes another one… Goodness… Oh, my, this is a little worse than the others… No, wait… Oh, Lord, make that a lot worse… Oh!"

Margie set her hands on the volleyball-sized rock that was Sherrie's contracting uterus and watched as the monitor screen showed nothing more than the expected slowing of the fetal heart rate. One minute, two, three. Sherrie groaned and gasped continuously.

"I… don't… know… if… I… can… Wait, wait, it's getting a little better. It's going away. Oh, gosh…"

"The contraction will be right back," Margie exclaimed, "because it's happening! Little Donelle is on her way. Don, will you poke your head out the door, please, and tell Sue it's time. Sherrie, I'm just going to do a little more stretching of your skin to help your baby get on out here… Great. You've made it, Sher. You've made it all the way without any medication. Now, just continue your rapid breathing and get ready to push. Everyone set? Pediatrician on his way, Sue?… Terrific. Don, get those gloves on and get over here and take my place. I'll be right next to you. You're going to bring this daughter of yours into the world. Ready?"

"I… I think so."

"You'll do fine. Sherrie, get ready to push. Get set. Okay, here comes her head. Push, Sherrie, push!.. Here she is, Don. First her head, now I'm going to bring her little shoulder out. You got her?… Great! Now the other shoulder, and here she is. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Nine-fifteen P.M. Sue, suction, please."

The bleating cries of Donelle Elizabeth Cleary filled the birthing room. Don Cleary, who had the muscled physique and stoicism of a longshoreman, was openly weeping as the nurse took his daughter, wrapped her, and brought her up to rest on Sherrie, who was beaming like the midday sun, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I told you," she said to everyone and no one in particular. "I told you it was going to be incredible."

Three hours later, when the nurse Sue came into her room, Sherrie was dozing but still smiling. Her husband, sitting off to her right, was gazing in awe into the bassinet at the perfection that was their child.

"Sherrie, hon, wake up," Sue gushed. "You have a visitor, a very special visitor. Here, I'm going to wipe your face with a cool cloth. Good. Are you awake?"

"I'm awake. What's going on?"

"Mr. Cleary, how about you? Are you awake?"

"Sure. Who's here?"

"I'd tell you, but I think you're going to have to see for yourself." She went quickly to the door and called out into the hallway. "They're ready for you now."

The wife of the President of the United States, unaccompanied, strode calmly into the room and crossed directly to Sherrie's side. Sherrie's and Don's expressions made it clear no introduction was necessary.

"Mrs. Cleary," she said just the same, "I'm Lynette Marquand. Congratulations on your beautiful daughter. You, too, Mr. Cleary."

"Thank you," Sherrie managed. "Thank you. This is such a surprise."

"Well, it's a pleasure for me to be here on such a joyous occasion," Lynette said. "Mr. Cleary, Mrs. Cleary, I have some wonderful news for you."

The Sierra Leone Embassy in D.C. was on 19th street, not far from the PAVE offices. Once a stately town house, it had fallen into fairly impressive disrepair. The drapes and carpeting were tawdry, and the air-conditioning consisted of scattered window units, some of which did not appear to be working. Ellen had been in embassies before — Canada, Mexico, and France. There was absolutely nothing in any of those facilities that was as outdated as anything in this one.

She had arrived on time, but it was clear from the torpor of the young man behind the reception desk that she would be seen by His Excellency Andrew Strawbridge when it happened. The waiting area — six nondescript, straight-back wooden chairs and three end tables — was devoid of any reading material save several copies of an ancient propaganda pamphlet extolling the virtues of Sierra Leone, and a dog-eared copy of Time. It was just as well the ambassador wasn't ready to see her, Ellen thought. She needed time to compose herself and regain her focus. At the moment, there was someone displacing both Lassa fever and Omnivax from her mind, namely Rudy Peterson.

As she had done any number of times, Ellen had slept over in the guest room of Rudy's cabin. She was anxious about the Lassa fever revelations he had shared with her and also the meeting with Strawbridge. After a few hours of fitful sleep, she climbed out of bed, pulled on the terry-cloth robe Rudy had put out for her, brewed some coffee, and brought her notes up to his second-floor study. It was not yet four-thirty in the morning. She was searching for a pen in the top right-hand drawer of his desk when she spied the envelope. It was on the very bottom of a pile of papers and would have escaped her notice except that her name and address were on it, written in Rudy's precise hand. There was also a stamp pasted in the upper right corner, but not postage enough to get the envelope mailed. Ellen wondered, correctly as it turned out, if perhaps the letter had been written some time ago, when rates were less.