Michael Palmer - Fatal

In their early forties, Ellen guessed, the Serwangas were kind and generous toward her, and clearly in love with each other — the perfect couple to have and raise children. Only they had none and weren't ever again going to get the chance. Deepening their tragedy was irrefutable evidence that Nattie was responsible, albeit inadvertently, for the deaths of two eight-year-old children who attended the day-care center at the hospital where she worked. Nice stuff.

"Tell me again, Nattie," Ellen asked, "when did you know you were sick?"

Nattie pulled a tissue from a half-empty box and dabbed at some embryonic tears. She was a beautiful woman — large and expansive, with huge, expressive eyes, and ebony skin.

"It was nearly two weeks after we got back from Africa," she said. "We came back on a Tuesday, and I first felt the sore throat two Mondays after that. Ten days later I was in the operating room. They delivered the baby, but he was stillborn. Then they tried to save my womb, but there was just too much bleeding."

Eli, who was still wearing his suit and tie from work, rose and moved behind her to comfort her. It was his relatives they had been visiting in Sierra Leone, and he expressed some guilt at having talked her into staying for an extra week while he straightened out some family business — the week in which the doctors believed she became infected. Ellen sipped at her tea and reflected on the impact of her own newly acquired guilt.

"If my questions upset you too much," she said, "you must tell me."

"We're doing okay," Eli replied. "But it would be good if you could tell us where all this is leading."

Ellen set the passenger manifest on the table. During the flight from D.C. to Chicago, she had managed to curtail the attempts at conversation by the recently divorced, totally self-absorbed appliance salesman seated next to her long enough to scan all the flights, searching for matches — passengers who had been on more than one flight with a soon-to-be-victim of Lassa fever. There were at least six.

"I have reason to be suspicious that Nattie may have gotten infected with the Lassa virus either just before or just after leaving Sierra Leone, or else on the plane ride home."

"But how?" Nattie asked.

"I don't know."

"Do you mean," Eli said, "that you think somebody deliberately infected her?"

"That's the possibility I'm looking into. Please, both of you, I beg you not to say anything to anyone about my suspicions until I can finish my search. It's a matter of life and death. Can you give me your word on that?"

"Yes," they said in unison. "Of course," Nattie added.

"Thank you. I'm looking into the possibility that someone on the flight home transmitted the virus to you. Nattie, this is a list of the people who were on your flight from Freetown to Ghana, and then from Ghana to the States. Do any of these names ring any bells? As you can see, there were forty-six on the first leg, including the two of you, and thirty-seven of those among the hundred and sixty on the flight to Baltimore. Do any of these names stand out as someone you remember?"

Nattie shook her head.

"It's been three years," she said. "Plus I think I lost some of my memory when I was sick. I'm afraid I can't help you. I'm sorry."

"Your memory is just fine," Eli countered. "These names mean nothing to me, either. Tell me, do you think this infection was random, or do you think my wife was singled out?"

Ellen considered the question for a while.

"You know, I never thought of that."

She searched for the words to speak about the ten cases of Lassa fever that Nattie was believed to have caused through her job as a dietary worker — including two that died. Nattie saved her the trouble.

"If someone did want to spread the infection, someone with a job like mine would be perfect, provided they somehow knew what I did for a — "

"What is it?" Ellen asked, noting the odd expression on the woman's face.

"Eli, remember that man on the flight from Sierra Leone? The big man who talked to me outside the rest room. He was on the other plane, too."

"The white man?"

"Exactly. He sold something. Insurance, I think. You mentioned how scary-looking he was."

"I do remember him, yes."

"He was a smiler and a talker, that one — asked me all sorts of questions about myself. Made it a game, like he was such an experienced insurance salesman that he could guess things about me."

Ellen felt a little burst of adrenaline.

"Anyone else?" she asked just in case.

"No one that I can think of."

She remembered the memory exercise Rudy had done with her.

"Okay," she asked, "can you bring me a paper and pen?"

"Certainly."

Eli brought in several sheets of typing paper.

"Okay," Ellen said, "I'm going to go and sit in the living room. I'd like you to put your heads together and write down every descriptive word you can remember about this man — what he looked like, what he acted like, even the things you've already told me. Just relax your minds and free-associate. I know it's been a long while, but just do your best. Take as much time as you need, and if you disagree on something, write down both opinions."

"We'll try our best," Nattie said.

Fifteen minutes later, the Serwangas were out of recollections. They called Ellen back to the dining room and apologetically handed her their description.

Big

Tall

Strong

Slick

Smooth

Smiling

Glad-hander

Thick hair

Flat face… like a cartoon character hit with a frying pan

Deep voice

Maybe a Texas-type accent

Scar on face

Ellen felt her heart stop.

"The scar," she asked, her voice trembling. "Can you tell me about the scar?"

"That's Nattie's," Eli said. "I don't remember any scar."

"Well, there was one. I'm sure of it. Right here."

She pointed to the space between her nose and upper lip.

"That's him," Ellen said.

"Who?"

"A very bad man. I think we're onto something."

"Well, I just thought of another word we should have put on the list — clumsy."

"What do you mean?"

"I was standing waiting for the rest room. He came up the aisle, tripped, and slammed into me. The man nearly knocked me out of the plane."

Matt and Nikki had breakfast at Pancakes on Parade on the banks of the Susquehanna. If it was possible for a family restaurant to be romantic, this one, with a broad porch set on tall stilts out over the river, surely was. But then again, on this particular morning, the two of them would have found any McDonald's or Burger King atmospheric. For over an hour, not a word was spoken about Bill Grimes or spongiform encephalopathy or Belinda Coal and Coke. Instead, they touched fingertips and thumb wrestled, laughed to tears at the silly or embarrassing stories of each other's lives, and commiserated with the sad ones. Grace, their husky, gum-chewing waitress, called Matt "Slugger" and Nikki "Dearie." After the third time she found they weren't ready to order because they hadn't looked at the menu, she brought them heart-shaped lollypops and a bill for two dollars for mooning at each other in pub-lie.

"It's been a long, long time since I mooned," Matt said. " 'Cept maybe for the time a couple of years ago when my shorts ripped while I was playing basketball."

"Boston men are too sophisticated to moon," Nikki said. "Instead, they discuss lunar landings and the Hubble telescope."

There was a pay phone in an alcove by the rest rooms. Before their order arrived, Matt called his uncle at the hospital.

"Hey, Unk, it's Matt."

"Hey," Hal said, "how goes it? Any word about that patient of yours?"

"It goes not too well, actually. And yes, Nikki Solari is safe. She's with me in Pennsylvania. Hal, something really weird and really dangerous is going on. It has to do with those odd cases."