Outbreak (3 page)

She turned left at the next street and then left again. The property on which the house sat went all the way through the block, and in order for Marissa to get to the garage, she had to approach from the rear. There was a circular drive in front of the house, but it didn't connect with the rear driveway and the garage. Apparently in the past the two driveways had been connected, but someone had built a tennis court, and that had ended the connection. Now, the tennis court was so overgrown with weeds it was barely discernible.

Knowing that she was going out that evening, Marissa did not put

her car in the garage, but just swung around and backed it up. As she ran up the back steps, she heard the cocker spaniel, given to her by one of her pediatric colleagues, barking welcome.

Marissa had never planned on having a dog, but six months previously a long-term romantic relationship that she had assumed was leading to marriage had suddenly ended. The man, Roger Shulman, a neurosurgical resident at Mass. General, had shocked Marissa with the news that he had accepted a fellowship at UCLA and that he wanted to go by himself. Up until that time, they had agreed that Marissa would go wherever Roger went to finish his training, and indeed Marissa had applied for pediatric positions in San Francisco and Houston. Roger had never even mentioned UCLA.

As the baby in the family, with three older brothers and a cold and dominating neurosurgeon for a father, Marissa had never had much self-confidence. She took the breakup with Roger very badly and had been barely able to drag herself out of bed each morning to get to the hospital. In the midst of her resultant depression, her friend Nancy had presented her with the dog. At first Marissa had been irritated, but Taffy-the puppy had worn the cloyingly sweet name on a large bow tied around its neck-soon won Marissa's heart, and, as Nancy had judged, it helped Marissa to focus on something besides her hurt. Now Marissa was crazy about the dog, enjoying having "life" in her home, an object to receive and return her love. Coming to the CDC, Marissa's only worry had been what to do with Taffy when she was sent out in the field. The issue weighed heavily on her until the Judsons, her neighbors on the right, fell in love with the dog and offered-no, demanded-to take Taffy any time Marissa had to go out of town. It was like a godsend.

Opening the door, Marissa had to fend off Taffy's excited jumps until she could turn off the alarm. When the owners had first explained the system to Marissa, she'd listened with only half an ear. But now she was glad she had it. Even though the suburbs were much safer than the city, she felt much more isolated at night than she had in Boston. She even appreciated the "panic button" that she carried in her coat pocket and which she could use to set off the alarm from the driveway if she saw unexpected lights or movement inside the house.

While Marissa looked over her mail, she let Taffy expend some of her pent-up energy racing in large circles around the blue spruce in the front yard. Without fail, the Judsons let the dog out around noon; still from then until Marissa got home in the evening was a long time for an eight-month-old puppy to be cooped up in the kitchen.

Unfortunately, Marissa had to cut Taffy's exuberant exercise short. It was already after seven, and she was expected at dinner at eight. Ralph Hempston, a successful ophthalmologist, had taken her out several times, and though she still had not gotten over Roger, she enjoyed Ralph's sophisticated company and the fact that he seemed content to take her to dinner, the theater, a concert without pressuring her to go to bed. In fact, tonight was the first time he'd invited her to his house, and he'd made it clear it was to be a large party, not just the two of them.

He seemed content to let the relationship grow at its own pace, and Marissa was grateful, even if she suspected the reason might be the twenty-two-year difference in their ages; she was thirty-one and he was fifty-three.

Oddly enough the only other man Marissa was dating in Atlanta was four years younger than she. Tad Schockley, a microbiologist Ph.D. who worked in the same department she ultimately had been assigned to, had been smitten by her the moment he'd spied her in the cafeteria during her first week at the Center. He was the exact opposite of Ralph Henipston: socially painfully shy, even when he'd only asked her to a movie. They'd gone out a half dozen times, and thankfully he, like Ralph, had not been pushy in a physical sense.

Showering quickly, Marissa then dried herself off and put on makeup almost automatically. Racing against time, she went through her closet, rapidly dismissing various combinations. She was no fashion plate but liked to look her best. She settled on a silk skirt and a sweater she'd gotten for Christmas. The sweater came down to midthigh, and she thought that it made her look taller. Slipping on a pair

of black pumps, she eyed herself in the full-length mirror.

Except for her height, Marissa was reasonably happy with her looks. Her features were small but delicate, and her father had actually used the term "exquisite" years ago when she'd asked him if he thought she was pretty. Her eyes were dark brown and thickly lashed, and her thick, wavy hair was the color of expensive sherry. She wore it as she had since she was sixteen: shoulder length, and pulled back from her forehead with a tortoiseshell barrette.

It was only a five-minute drive to Ralph's, but the neighborhood changed significantly for the better. The houses grew larger and were set back on well-manicured lawns. Ralph's house was situated on a large piece of property, with the driveway curving gracefully up from the street. The drive was lined with azaleas and rhododendrons that in the spring had to be seen to be believed, according to Ralph.

The house itself was a three-story Victorian affair with an octagonal

tower dominating the right front corner. A large porch, defined by complicated gingerbread trim, started at the tower, extended along the front of the house and swept around the left side. Above the double-doored front entrance and resting on the roof of the porch was a circular balcony roofed with a cone that complemented the one on top of the tower.

The scene looked festive enough. Every window in the house blazed with light. Marissa drove around to the left, following Ralph's instructions. She thought that she was a little late, but there were no other cars.

As she passed the house, she glanced up at the fire escape coming down from the third floor. She'd noticed it one night when Ralph had stopped to pick up his forgotten beeper. He'd explained that the previous owner had made servants' quarters up there, and the city building department had forced him to add the fire escape. The black iron stood out grotesquely against the white wood.

Marissa parked in front of the garage, whose complicated trim matched that of the house. She knocked on the back door, which was in a modern wing that could not be seen from the front. No one seemed to hear her. Looking through the window, she could see a lot of activity in the kitchen. Deciding against trying the door to see if it was unlocked, she walked around to the front of the house and rang the bell. Ralph opened the door immediately and greeted her with a big hug.

"Thanks for coming over early," he said, helping her off with her coat.

"Early? I thought I was late."

"No, not at all," said Ralph. "The guests aren't supposed to be here until eight-thirty." He hung her coat in the hail closet.

Marissa was surprised to see that Ralph was dressed in a tuxedo. Although she'd acknowledged how handsome he looked, she was disconcerted.

"I hope I'm dressed appropriately," she said. "You didn't mention that this was a formal affair."

"You look stunning, as always. I just like an excuse to wear my tux. Come, let me show you around."

Marissa followed, thinking again that Ralph looked the quintessential physician: strong, sympathetic features and hair graying in just the right places. The two walked into the parlor, Ralph leading the way. The decor was attractive but somewhat sterile. A maid in a black uniform was putting out hors d'oeuvres. "We'll begin in here. The drinks will be made at the bar in the living room," Ralph said.

He opened a pair of sliding-panel doors, and they stepped into the living room. A bar was to the left. A young man in a red vest was busily polishing the glassware. Beyond the living room, through an arch, was the formal dining room. Marissa could see that the table was laid for at least a dozen people.

She followed Ralph through the dining room and out into the new wing, which contained a family room and a large modern kitchen. The dinner party was being catered, and three or four people were busy with the preparations.

After being reassured that everything was under control, Ralph led Marissa back to the parlor and explained that he'd asked her to come over early in hopes that she'd act as hostess. A little surprised- after all, she'd only been out with Ralph five or six times-Marissa agreed.

The doorbell rang. The first guests had arrived.

Unfortunately, Marissa had never been good at keeping track of people's names, but she remembered a Dr. and Mrs. Hayward because of his astonishingly silver hair. Then there was a Dr. and Mrs. Jackson, she sporting a diamond the size of a golf ball. The only other names Marissa recalled afterward were Dr. and Dr. Sandberg, both psychiatrists.

Making an attempt at small talk, Marissa was awed by the furs and jewels. These people were not small-town practitioners.

When almost everyone was standing in the living room with a

drink in hand, the doorbell sounded again. Ralph was not in sight, so

Marissa opened the door. To her utter surprise she recognized Dr.

Cyrill Dubchek, her boss at the Special Pathogens Branch of the

Department of Virology.

"Hello, Dr. Blumenthal," said Dubchek comfortably, taking Manssa's presence in stride.

Marissa was visibly flustered. She'd not expected anyone from the CDC. Dubchek handed his coat to the maid, revealing a dark blue Italian-tailored suit. He was a striking man with coal black, intelligent eyes and an olive complexion. His features were sharp and aristocratic. Running a hand through his hair, which was brushed straight back from his forehead, he smiled. "We meet again."

Marissa weakly returned the smile and nodded toward the living room. "The bar is in there."

"Where's Ralph?" asked Dubchek, glancing into the crowded living room.

"Probably in the kitchen," said Marissa.

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 Manissa. 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 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.

Manissa 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.