Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

You don’t even know if Vibrio is growing in the lake.”

“I know it is,” said Claire. “I’ve seen it.”

“You saw a bacteria? What, do you have microscopic vision?”

“Vibrio fischeri is bioluminescent. It glows. I’ve seen bioluminescence in Locust Lake.”

“Where are the cultures to back it up? Have you collected water samples?”

“I saw it just before the lake froze over. It’s probably too cold now to grow out viable cultures. Which means we won’t have confirmation until we do water sampling in the spring. These cultures take time to grow. It could be weeks or months after that before we get an answer.” She paused, reluctant to make her next suggestion. “Until we rule out the lake as the source of this bacteria,” she said, “I recommend we keep our children from swimming in it.”

The uproar was expected and immediate.

“Are you crazy? We can’t let an announcement like that get out!”

“What about the tourists? You’ll scare off the tourists!”

“How the hell are we s’posed to make a living?”

Glen Ryder was on his feet, banging at the table. “Order! I will have order!”

His face florid, he turned to confront Claire. “Dr. Effiot, this isn’t the time or place to suggest such drastic action. It needs to be discussed by the Board of Selectmen?’

“This is a public health issue,” said Claire. “It’s a decision for the health department. Not politicians.”

“There’s no need to involve the state!”

“It’s irresponsible not to.”

Lois Cuthbert shot to her feet. “I’ll tell you what’s irresponsible! It’s getting up there, without any evidence, with all these reporters in the room, and claiming there’s some deadly bacteria in our lake. You’re going to destroy this town.”

“If there’s a health risk, we have no other choice.”

Lois turned to Adam DelRay. “What’s your opinion, Dr. DelRay? Is there a health risk?”

DelRay gave a derisive laugh. “The only risk that I can see is that we’ll be made laughingstocks if we take this seriously. Bacteria that glow in the dark?

Do they sing and dance too?”

Claire flushed as laughter burst out all around her. “I know what I saw,” she insisted.

“Right, Dr. Elliot! Psychedelic bacteria.”

Lincoln’s voice suddenly rang through the laughter. “I saw it too.”

Everyone fell silent as he rose to his feet. Startled, Claire turned to look at him and he gave her a wry nod, a gesture that said: We might as well hang together.

“I was there that night, with Dr. Effiot,” he said. “We both saw the glow on the lake. I can’t tell you what it was. It only lasted for a few minutes, and then it vanished. But there was a glow”

“I’ve lived on that lake all my life,” said Lois Cuthbert. “I’ve never seen any glow.”

“Me neither!”

“-or me!”

“Hey, Chief, you and the doe sniffing the same thing?”

New laughter erupted, and this time it was directed at both of them. The outrage had turned to ridicule, but Lincoln didn’t back down; he bore the insults with calm equanimity.

“It may be an episodic occurrence,” said Claire. “Something that doesn’t happen every year. It could be related to weather conditions. Spring flooding or a particularly hot summer-we had both this year. The very same conditions that occurred fifty-two years ago.” She paused, and her challenging gaze swept the audience. “I know there are people in this room who remember what happened fifty-two years ago.”

The crowd went silent.

The reporter from the Portland Press Herald asked, loudly: “What happened fifty-two years ago?”

Abruptly Glen Ryder shot to his feet. “The board will take it under advisement.

Thank you, Dr. Elliot.”

“This should be addressed now,” said Claire. “The health department should be called in to test the water-”

“We will discuss it at our next board meeting,” Ryder repeated firmly. “That’s all, Dr. Elliot.”

Cheeks burning, she walked away from the speakers’ table.

The meeting continued, loud and rancorous, as suggestions were tossed out. There was no further mention of her theory; they had unanimously dismissed it as not worth further discussion. Someone suggested a nine P.M. curfew-all kids off the streets. The teens protested, “Civil rights!” “What about our civil rights?”

“You kids have no civil rights!” shot back Lois. “Not until you learn responsibility!”

It went downhill from there.

At ten P.M., with everyone hoarse from shouting, Glen Ryder finally adjourned the meeting.

Claire remained standing at the side of the room, watching as the crowd exited.

No one looked at her as they filed past. I’ve ceased to exist in this town, she thought wretchedly, except as an object of scorn. She wanted to thank Lincoln for supporting her, but she saw that he was under siege, surrounded by the Board of Selectmen, who were plying him with questions and complaints.

“Dr. Elliot!” called out Damaris Home. “What happened fifty-two years ago?”

Claire fled toward the exit, Damaris and the other reporters trailing after her as she kept repeating, “No comment. No comment.” She was relieved when no one pursued her out the door.

Outside, the chill wind seemed to slice right through her coat. Her car was parked some distance from the school. Thrusting her hands in her pockets, she began to walk as quickly as she dared along the icy road, squinting against the intermittent glare of headlights as other cars pulled away By the time she reached her vehicle, she already had the keys out, and was about to unlock the door when she realized something was not right.

She took a step back and stared in shock at the pools of flaccid rubber that had been her tires. All four of them had been slashed. In fury, in frustration, she slammed her hand down on the car. Once, twice.

Across the road, a man walking back to his own car turned and looked at her in surprise. It was Mitchell Groome.

“Something wrong, Dr. Elliot?” he called out.

“Look at my tires!”

He paused to let a car drive past, then crossed the road to join her. “Jesus,” he murmured. “Someone doesn’t like you.”

“They slashed all of them!”

“I’d help you change them. But I don’t suppose you’d have four spare tires in the trunk?’

She did not appreciate his weak attempt at humor. She turned her back on him and stared down at the ruined tires. Her exposed face stung from the wind, and the chill of the frozen ground seemed to seep through the soles of her boots. It was too late to call Joe Bartlett’s garage; he wouldn’t be able to get four new tires till morning, anyway. She was stranded, furious, and growing colder by the minute.

She turned to Groome. “Could you give me a ride home?”

It was a deal with the devil, and she knew it. A journalist must ask questions, and barely ten seconds into the drive, he asked the one she’d expected:

“So what did happen in this town fifty-two years ago?”

She averted her eyes. “I’m really not in the mood for this.”

“I’m sure you’re not, but it’s going to come out eventually. Damaris Home will track it down, one way or the other.”

“That woman has no sense of ethics.”

“But she does have an inside source.”

Claire looked at him. “Are you talking about the police department?”

“You already know about it?”

“Not the name of the officer. Which one is it?”

“Tell me what happened in 1946.”

She faced forward again. “It’s in the local newspaper archives. You can look it up for yourself.”

He drove for a moment in silence. “It’s happened to this town before, hasn’t it?” he said. “The killings.”