Robin Cook - Contagion

“Actually, I think I should go home,” Terese said.

“You’re staying right here,” Colleen ordered. She turned to Chet. “She’s wound up like a piano wire. That’s why I insisted she come out: try to get her to relax. She’s consumed by her work.”

“Sounds like Jack here,” Chet said. “He has some definite antisocial tendencies.”

Chet and Colleen were talking as if Jack and Terese couldn’t hear, yet they were standing right next to them, staring off in different directions. Both were irritated but both felt foolish at the same time.

Chet and Colleen got a round of drinks and handed them out as they continued to talk about their respective friends.

“Jack’s social life revolves around living in a crack neighborhood and playing basketball with killers,” Chet said.

“At least he has a social life,” Colleen said. “Terese lives in a co-op with a bunch of octogenarians. Going to the garbage chute is the high point of a Sunday afternoon at home.”

Chet and Colleen laughed heartily, took long pulls on their respective beers, and then launched into a conversation about a play both of them had seen on Broadway.

Jack and Terese ventured a few fleeting looks at each other as they nursed their own drinks.

“Chet mentioned you were a doctor; are you a specialist?” Terese asked finally. Her tone had mellowed significantly.

Jack explained about forensic pathology. Overhearing this part of the conversation, Chet joined in.

“We’re in the presence of one of the future’s best and brightest. Jack here made the diagnosis of the day. Against everyone else’s impression, he diagnosed a case of plague.”

“Here in New York?” Colleen asked with alarm.

“At the Manhattan General,” Chet said.

“My God!” Terese exclaimed. “I was a patient there once. Plague is awfully rare, isn’t it?”

“Most definitely,” Jack said. “A few cases are reported each year in the U.S., but they usually occur in the wilds of the west and during the summer months.”

“Is it terribly contagious?” Colleen asked.

“It can be,” Jack said. “Especially in the pneumonic form which this patient had.”

“Are you worried about having gotten it?” Terese asked. Unconsciously she and Colleen had moved a step backward.

“No,” Jack said. “And even if we had, we wouldn’t be communicative until after we got pneumonia. So you don’t have to stand across the room from us.”

Feeling embarrassed, both women stepped closer. “Is there any chance this could turn into an epidemic here in the city?” Terese asked.

“If plague bacteria has infected the urban rodent population, particularly the rats, and if there are adequate rat fleas, it could develop into a problem in the ghetto areas of the city,” Jack said. “But chances are it would be self-limited. The last real outbreak of plague in the U.S. occurred in 1919 and there were only twelve cases. And that was before the antibiotic era. I don’t anticipate there is going to be a current epidemic, especially since the Manhattan General is taking the episode extremely seriously.”

“I trust you contacted the media about this case of plague,” Terese said.

“Not me,” Jack said. “That’s not my job.”

“Shouldn’t the public be alerted?” Terese asked.

“I don’t think so,” Jack said. “By sensationalizing it, the media could make things worse. The mere mention of the word ‘plague’ can evoke panic, and panic would be counterproductive.”

“Maybe,” Terese said. “But I bet people would feel differently if there was a chance they could avoid coming down with plague if they were forewarned.”

“Well, the question is academic,” Jack said. “There’s no way that the media could avoid hearing about this. It’ll be all over the news. Trust me.”

“Let’s change the subject,” Chet said. “What about you guys? What do you do?”

“We’re art directors in a relatively large ad agency,” Colleen said. “At least I’m an art director. Terese was an art director. Now she’s part of the front office. She’s creative director.”

“Impressive,” Chet said.

“And in a strange way we’re currently tangentially involved with medicine,” she added.

“What do you mean you are involved with medicine?” Jack asked.

“One of our big accounts is National Health,” Terese said. “I imagine you’ve heard of them.”

“Unfortunately,” Jack said. His tone was flat.

“You have a problem with our working with them?” Terese asked.

“Probably,” Jack said.

“Can I ask why?”

“I’m against advertising in medicine,” Jack said. “Especially the kind of advertising these new health-care conglomerates are engaged in.”

“Why?” Terese asked.

“First of all, the ads have no legitimate function except to increase profits by expanding enrollment. They’re nothing but exaggerations, half-truths, or the hyping of superficial amenities. They have nothing to do with the quality of health care. Secondly, the advertising costs a ton of money, and it’s being lumped into administrative costs. That’s the real crime: It’s taking money away from patient care.”

“Are you finished?” Terese asked.

“I could probably think up some more reasons if I gave it some thought,” Jack said.

“I happen to disagree with you,” Terese said with a fervor that matched Jack’s. “I think all advertising draws distinctions and fosters a competitive environment which ultimately benefits the consumer.”

“That’s pure rationalization,” Jack said.

“Time out, you guys,” Chet said, stepping between Jack and Terese for the second time. “You two are getting out of control again. Let’s switch the topic of conversation. Why don’t we talk about something neutral, like sex or religion.”

Colleen laughed and gave Chet a playful swat on the shoulder.

“I’m serious,” Chet said while laughing with Colleen. “Let’s discuss religion. It’s been getting short shrift lately in bars. Let’s have everybody tell what they grew up as. I’ll be first…”

For the next half hour they indeed did discuss religion, and Jack and Terese forgot their emotional outburst. They even found themselves laughing since Chet was a raconteur of some wit.

At eleven-fifteen Jack happened to glance at his watch and did a double take. He couldn’t believe it was so late.

“I’m sorry,” he said, interrupting the conversation. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a bicycle ride ahead of me.”

“A bike?” Terese questioned. “You ride a bike around this city?”

“He’s got a death wish,” Chet said.

“Where do you live?” Terese asked.

“Upper West Side,” Jack said.

“Ask him how ‘upper,’ ” Chet dared.

“Exactly where?” Terese asked.

“One-oh-six a Hundred and Sixth Street,” Jack said. “To be precise.”

“But that’s in Harlem,” Colleen said.

“I told you he has a death wish,” Chet said.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to ride across the park at this hour,” Terese said.

“I move pretty quickly,” Jack said.

“Well, I think it’s asking for trouble,” Terese said. She bent down and picked up her briefcase, which she’d set on the floor by her feet. “I don’t have a bike, but I do have a date with my bed.”

“Wait a second, you guys,” Chet said. “Colleen and I are in charge. Right, Colleen?” He put his arm loosely around Colleen’s shoulder.

“Right!” Colleen said to be agreeable.

“We’ve decided,” Chet said with feigned authority, “that you two can’t go home unless you agree to have dinner tomorrow night.”

Colleen shook her head as she ducked away from Chet’s arm. “I’m afraid we’re not available,” she said. “We’ve got an impossible deadline, so we’ll be putting in some serious overtime.”