Robin Cook: Outbreak

Dubchek nodded, and moved off as the doorbell rang again. This time Marissa was even more flabbergasted. Standing before her was Tad Schockley!

“Marissa!” said Tad, genuinely surprised.

Marissa recovered and allowed Tad to enter. While she took his coat, she asked, “How do you know Dr. Hempston?”

“Just from meetings. I was surprised when I got an invitation in the mail.” Tad smiled. “But who am I to turn down a free meal, on my salary?”

“Did you know that Dubchek was coming?” asked Marissa. Her tone was almost accusing.

Tad shook his head. “But what difference does it make?” He looked into the dining room and then up the main staircase. “Beautiful house. Wow!”

Marissa grinned in spite of herself. Tad, with his short sandy hair and fresh complexion, looked too young to be a Ph.D. He was dressed in a corduroy jacket, a woven tie and gray flannels so worn, they might as well have been jeans.

“Hey,” he said. “How do you know Dr. Hempston?”

“He’s just a friend,” said Marissa evasively, gesturing for Tad to head into the living room for a drink.

Once all the guests had arrived, Marissa felt free to move away from the front door. At the bar, she got herself a glass of white wine and tried to mingle. Just before the group was summoned into the dining room, she found herself in a conversation with Dr. Sandberg and Dr. and Mrs. Jackson.

“Welcome to Atlanta, young lady,” said Dr. Sandberg.

“Thank you,” said Marissa, trying not to gawk at Mrs. Jackson’s ring.

“How is it you happened to come to the CDC?” asked Dr. Jackson. His voice was deep and resonant. He not only looked like Charlton Heston; he actually sounded as if he could play Ben Hur.

Looking into the man’s deep blue eyes, she wondered how to answer his seemingly sincere question. She certainly wasn’t going to mention anything about her former lover’s flight to L.A. and her need for a change. That wasn’t the kind of commitment people expected at the CDC. “I’ve always had an interest in public health.” That was a little white lie. “I’ve always been fascinated by stories of medical detective work.” She smiled. At least that was the truth. “I guess I got tired of looking up runny noses and into draining ears.”

“Trained in pediatrics,” said Dr. Sandberg. It was a statement, not a question.

“Children’s Hospital in Boston,” said Marissa. She always felt a little ill at ease talking with psychiatrists. She couldn’t help but wonder if they could analyze her motives better than she could herself. She knew that part of the reason she had gone into medicine was to enable her to compete with her brothers in their relationships with their father.

“How do you feel about clinical medicine?” asked Dr. Jackson. “Were you ever interested in practicing?”

“Well, certainly,” replied Marissa.

“How?” continued Dr. Jackson, unknowingly making Marissa feel progressively uneasy. “Did you see yourself solo, in a group, or in a clinic?”

“Dinner is served,” called Ralph over the din of conversation.

Marissa felt relieved as Dr. Jackson and Dr. Sandberg turned to find their wives. For a moment she had felt as if she were being interrogated.

In the dining room Marissa discovered that Ralph had seated himself at one end of the table and had placed her at the other. To her immediate right was Dr. Jackson, who thankfully forgot about his questions concerning clinical medicine. To her left was the silver-haired Dr. Hayward.

As the meal progressed, it became even clearer that Marissa was dining with the cream of Atlanta’s medical community. These were not just doctors; they were the most successful private practitioners in the city. The only exceptions to this were Cyrill Dubchek, Tad and herself.

After several glasses of good wine, Marissa was more talkative than normal. She felt a twinge of embarrassment when she realized that the entire table was listening to her description of her childhood in Virginia. She told herself to shut up and smile, and she was pleased when the conversation switched to the sorry state of American medicine and how prepaid health-care groups were eroding the foundations of private practice. Remembering the furs and jewels, Marissa didn’t feel that those present were suffering too much.

“How about the CDC?” asked Dr. Hayward, looking across at Cyrill. “Have you been experiencing budgetary constraints?”

Cyrill laughed cynically, his smile forming deep creases in his cheeks. “Every year we have to do battle with the Office of Management and Budget as well as the House Appropriations Committee. We’ve lost five hundred positions due to budgetary cuts.”

Dr. Jackson cleared his throat: “What if there were a serious outbreak of influenza like the pandemic of 1917-1918. Assuming your department would be involved, do you have the manpower for such an eventuality?”

Cyrill shrugged. “It depends on a lot of variables. If the strain doesn’t mutate its surface antigens and we can grow it readily in tissue culture, we could develop a vaccine quite quickly. How quickly, I’m not sure. Tad?”

“A month or so,” said Tad, “if we were lucky. More time to produce enough to make a significant difference.”

“Reminds me of the swine flu fiasco a few years ago,” interjected Dr. Hayward.

“That wasn’t the CDC’s fault,” said Cyrill defensively. “There was no doubt about the strain that appeared at Fort Dix. Why it didn’t spread is anybody’s guess.”

Marissa felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she found herself looking at one of the black-dressed waitresses.

“Dr. Blumenthal?” whispered the girl.

“Yes.”

“There is a phone call for you.”

Marissa glanced down the table at Ralph, but he was busy talking with Mrs. Jackson. She excused herself and followed the girl to the kitchen. Then it dawned on her, and she felt a stirring of fear, like the first time she had been called at night as an intern: It had to be the CDC. After all, she was on call and she’d dutifully left Ralph’s number. No one else knew she was there.

“Dr. Blumenthal?” asked the CDC operator, when Marissa picked up the phone.

The call was switched to the duty officer. “Congratulations,” he said jovially. “There has been an epidemic aid request. We had a call from the California State Epidemiologist, who would like CDC help on a problem in L.A. It’s an outbreak of unknown but apparently serious illness in a hospital called the Richter Clinic. We’ve gone ahead and made a reservation for you on Delta’s flight to the coast that leaves at 1:10 A.M. We’ve arranged hotel accommodations at a place called the Tropic Motel. Sounds divine. Anyway, good luck!”

Replacing the receiver, Marissa left her hand on the phone for a moment while she caught her breath. She didn’t feel prepared at all. Those poor, unsuspecting people in California had called the CDC expecting to get an epidemiologic expert, and instead, they were going to get her, Marissa Blumenthal. All five feet of her. She made her way back to the dining room to excuse herself and say good-bye.

BY THE TIME MARISSA had gotten her suitcase from the baggage carousel, waited for the rent-a-car van, gotten the rent-a-car (the first one wouldn’t start), and had somehow managed to find the Tropic Motel, the sky had begun to lighten.

As she signed in, she couldn’t help thinking of Roger. But she wouldn’t call. She’d promised herself that much several times on the flight.

The motel was depressing, but it didn’t matter. Marissa didn’t think she’d be spending much time there. She washed her hands and face, combed her hair and replaced her barrette. With no other plausible reason for delay, she returned to the rent-a-car and set out for the Richter Clinic. The palms of her hands were damp against the steering wheel.