D. MacHale - SYLO

Under his breath Quinn said, “She says the exact same thing every time I see her.”

“Hi, Mrs. Guimond,” he said politely. Then in his most charming voice he added, “Are my parents around? I figure you’re the one to ask since you pretty much run this place.”

The sweet old woman chuckled and gave Quinn a coy smile. He knew the exact right thing to say to get people to do what he wanted. I was beginning to think he really was a brilliant student of human nature.

“Hang on a sec, sweetie,” the woman said. “Let me see.”

She checked her computer monitor, looking over her half eyeglasses.

Quinn leaned in to me and whispered, “She pretends to read the screen so people will think she knows how to use the computer.”

“Nope,” the woman announced. “They’re not checked in. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen them all day. Are you sure they’re scheduled?”

Quinn frowned. “They said they were. You absolutely sure they didn’t check in?”

“Sure as sugar,” she said with a smile.

“Okay, maybe I’m wrong. No worries. I’ve got to get something from their office. Homework.”

Before she could respond, Quinn grabbed my arm and hurried me past the desk.

“Wait, I’ll write you a pass,” Mrs. Guimond said.

“That’s okay, we won’t be long,” Quinn said and kept us moving.

“Shouldn’t we get a pass?” I asked him.

“Not if we don’t want any record that we were here,” Quinn said softly.

“What about your parents?” I asked. “I thought you said they were working today.”

“That’s what they told me,” Quinn said. He sounded troubled.

“Maybe she made a mistake,” I offered.

“Nah. Mrs. G may be a little dizzy, but she doesn’t miss a trick. If she says they aren’t here, they aren’t. What I want to know is why they said they were coming to work and didn’t.”

I didn’t want to speculate on the answer. There were too many bad scenarios.

Quinn led us quickly to a stairwell and down two flights to the ground floor and the emergency room, where his parents worked. A few people were being treated for what looked like scrapes and bruises. I wondered if they had gotten them on Main Street when the SYLO soldiers turned the hoses on the crowd. We didn’t stop to ask and kept moving down a long corridor of offices until we reached the end, and the office that was shared by Dr. and Dr. Carr, Quinn’s parents. Quinn gave a quick glance back toward the ER. There was nobody in sight so he opened the door and we slipped inside.

“Lock it,” he said as he hurried to one of the desks and fired up the computer. “Let me know if anybody’s coming.”

I twisted the lock and positioned myself near the door where I could see the corridor through the window.

“Doesn’t the computer have security?” I asked.

“Sure,” Quinn said as he keyed in a code. “High security. The passcode is my birthday. Then they each have their own personal codes…their birthdays. My parents may be great doctors but they’re clueless when it comes to computers. Got it!”

“Got what?”

“I’m on the secure hospital file server. I use the term secure with full sarcasm.”

“What’s there?” I asked while keeping an eye on the corridor.

“Everything. Schedules, budgets, equipment requests, even the cafeteria’s recipes. You name it. If it has to do with this hospital, it’s in here.”

“And what exactly are you looking for?”

Quinn continued to click through screens while he talked.

“The charts on the patients with the Pemberwick virus,” he replied.

“Aren’t you breaking a few dozen laws by looking through people’s personal medical history?”

“Absolutely. Ethical, moral, and criminal. But as far as anybody knows, my dad is the one who logged on and he’s allowed.”

A doctor hurried past the far end of the corridor and I ducked back so he wouldn’t see me.

“Whatever you’re doing, do it fast,” I said.

“Here, I got it,” Quinn declared. “Man, I am good.”

I couldn’t resist and hurried to the computer. Quinn was scrolling down a long list of file folders and came upon one that read PEMBERWICK VIRUS.

“That was easy,” I said.

“I told you, security is not their strength.”

Quinn dragged the folder onto the desktop and double-clicked it. The next level of files opened up, showing three different folders. They were marked DECEASED, ADMITTED, and UNDER OBSERVATION.

“Start with deceased,” I said. “We already know about them.”

Quinn clicked on the file and two more file folders appeared. One was marked MARTIN R. WIGGINS, the other PETER NELSON.

“That’s them,” I said. “Both dead.”

“Yeah, let’s see what the medical report said.”

Quinn clicked on the Nelson folder. It opened to reveal…nothing.

“How can it be empty?” I asked.

Quinn quickly clicked on Marty’s folder. It, too, was empty.

“Weird,” Quinn declared. “This should have all of their information, from the doctor’s evaluation to a death certificate and the autopsy report.”

“Check out ADMITTED,” I suggested. “The Berringers should be listed.”

Quinn closed out one folder and double-clicked on the ADMITTED folder. A new window opened. Quinn and I stared at it, neither comprehending what we were seeing.

“I don’t get it,” he finally said.

“Where are the files?” I asked.

“There are no files,” Quinn shot back. “According to this, not a single person with the Pemberwick virus has been admitted.”

“But they were,” I argued. “What about all those people that SYLO grabbed? And the Berringers?”

“I know,” Quinn replied with frustration. “That’s what I don’t get. I’ll check UNDER OBSERVATION.”

He closed out the file and opened the final folder. The result was the same.

“How can that be?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Quinn said, sounding shaken.

“Maybe there’s some kind of medical setup at the SYLO camp,” I offered.

“Then why did my parents tell me that all the suspected cases were being brought here? And those paramedics told us they were bringing the Berringers here.”

We both stared at the blank screen, hoping that it would provide some other clue.

“There has to be a mistake,” I said. “Are you sure this is the only record of patients for the hospital?”

“Yes!” Quinn shouted impatiently. “And it’s not just for this hospital. This is the database for the entire island. Even if patients were taken to some other place, the information would be entered here.”

I said, “Do you think that SYLO is hiding the information? Like a cover-up?”

“Maybe,” Quinn said tentatively. “There’s one other possibility.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

Quinn turned from the screen and looked at me. His face was gleaming with nervous sweat and his heavy glasses had slipped down to the end of his nose.

“Maybe there is no Pemberwick virus,” he said softly.

“Dr. Carr?” came a voice from the corridor.

We both froze.

There was a knock on the door.

“Dr. Carr?” the man’s voice called again.

This time he tried the doorknob. Quinn shot me a questioning glance. I nodded quickly—I had locked the door. Did the guy have a key? Four seconds went by. Four seconds that felt longer than when they had reset my broken wrist.

Finally, the guy gave up, and we heard footsteps walking away.

Without a word Quinn logged off the computer and shut it down. After a quick check to make sure nothing was out of place, we headed out. Neither of us spoke as we cautiously opened the door, checked that nobody was in the corridor, and hurried back through the ER.