Lee didn’t stop grinning during the entire ten-minute drive to the tribal health clinic. He parked in a handicap spot in front of the entrance and turned off the engine. As Peter reached for the door handle, Lee offered his cell phone. “Would you mind taking a picture of me behind the wheel? I could never afford a car this expensive. At my age, figure it’s my first and last time to drive a luxury automobile like this.”
Peter snapped a half dozen photos before they both exited, and Lee returned the keys.
Inside, Lee greeted the receptionist. “Hi Lucy. This is Peter Savage. He’ll be helping us investigate the cases of orchitis.”
They walked past the counter into a back office. Against a wall were two utilitarian metal office desks, pushed end to end to create a long work surface. At each desk was a rolling office chair. The austere furniture was functional though dented and scratched. On each desk sat a keyboard, monitor, and mouse. The walls were painted mint-green and decorated with faded posters of different cities from around the world.
Lee eased himself into a chair and opened a spreadsheet. Peter looked over his shoulder as he resized the array of rows and columns to fit the display.
“These are the fifteen reported cases,” Lee explained. The first column contained a unique number, rather than a name, to identify each patient. He pointed to the second column. “Their ages are entered here. The youngest is fourteen and the oldest is thirty-four. They live all over the reservation.”
Peter pointed to the column giving their addresses. “We need to get these residences plotted on a map. Do you have someone who can do that?”
“Lucy is pretty good with computers.” He leaned back and called out. “Lucy!”
“Yes, Mr. Moses?” she said as she entered the office. Her hair was raven black and straight, pulled back behind her ears and just reaching her shoulders. Like many of the people living on the reservation, she was Native American. Peter estimated her age to be about thirty, less than half the years he figured Lee had racked up. She wore a white medical coat over jeans and white turtleneck sweater.
“Peter would like to have these addresses put onto a map.”
“Sure,” she said. “That’s easy. I’ll pull up a digital map of this area and plot each residence.”
“Would you also put a marker where each of the patients works or goes to school?” Peter asked. “If we’re lucky, there’s a pattern—something they all have in common. And that could be the source of the illness.”
Lucy went to work on the other desk computer while Peter and Lee continued to review the data tabulated in the spreadsheet. “The two youngest patients are still in school,” Peter observed. “And four of the adults are unemployed? I don’t see a work address for them.”
“Yes,” the tribal elder replied. “Unemployment is high on the reservation. When the casino opened several years ago, that created many good jobs. But there still are not enough jobs for everyone.”
Pointing to empty cells, Peter said, “There are some big gaps here.”
“I know. I have three staff from the clinic out conducting interviews to get as much information as possible about what each patient ate. We are trying to go back two weeks, but I don’t know how complete or reliable the information will be. It’s easy to remember what you ate and drank for the past two or three days, but longer than that and memories become incomplete and unreliable.”
“Has the cause of the inflammation been determined yet?”
Lee shook his head. “Nothing definitive. Blood samples were collected from every patient, but so far, the doctors can’t say if it’s a virus or bacterial infection. They’re simply treating the symptoms, which also include mild aches and a low-grade fever, and trying to make the patients as comfortable as possible.”
“At least it doesn’t sound life-threatening. That’s good.”
Lee nodded. “I agree. The symptoms most closely resemble the mumps, or the flu.”
“Are they quarantined?”
“Yes, but it’s voluntary. They have all agreed to stay home until they recover.”
“And family members sharing the households?”
“Yes, they have agreed to stay inside and not go out. Relatives and neighbors are providing meals. This is working, for now. But if the outbreak spreads…”
“I understand.” Peter drew in a deep breath and exhaled. He quickly ran the math through his head. The number of infected and exposed people would grow exponentially if they were dealing with a contagion. “Well, the information in this spreadsheet is a start. Let me spend some time studying this. It will help if I can have a copy.”
“I’m just about done with the map,” Lucy said. “Five more addresses.”
“Promise me,” Lee said, casting a stern look to Peter, “that you will not share the addresses with anyone. Even though the names have been removed from the spreadsheet, I shouldn’t provide you with their home addresses. I’m bending the rules a lot because I trust you, and we need your help.”
“You have my word.” Peter gave a business card to Lee. “If you don’t mind, just email the file and map to me. I’ll start looking for correlations today, as soon as I receive the data summary.”
“It will be in your inbox by the time you get back to Bend.” Lee extended his hand to Peter. “Thank you again for your help.”
s
Peter was deep in thought as he steered the Wraith south on Highway 26. Leaving Warm Springs behind, he crossed the Deschutes River, not paying attention to the black pickup stopped on a gravel turnout next to the river. It was a popular spot for anglers to leave their vehicles while they fished the river for several hundred yards in each direction. As the Wraith passed by, Peter glimpsed the man sitting behind the wheel, shaved head, sunglasses on. That brief glimpse reminded Peter of another face he’d seen, the man at the coffee shop a week and a half ago. Or was it simply a figment of his imagination?
It was a nice day for a drive—a beautiful spring day, rather cool but sunny and dry, not even a wisp of wind. He replayed the conversation in his mind. Dozens of questions demanding answers. Is this how an epidemic starts? He wondered.
As soon as he was back in his office, he planned to do some research on orchitis, focusing on known causes. Lee Moses had referred to the ailment as an inflammation, an infection, similar to the mumps and the flu. He knew that both those diseases were viral infections. Could that be what had stricken so many in Warm Springs? Or maybe the illness was caused by exposure to certain chemicals. Perhaps a reaction like an autoimmune disorder? After gaining a rudimentary knowledge, he would visit St. Charles Hospital tomorrow and try to speak with a physician to learn more. If he could identify likely causes, that would help with the data review and search for a pattern.
After clearing Redmond, the highway became two lanes in each direction. He was driving in the right lane staying at the posted speed limit. A few cars passed on the left.
Glancing at the rear-view mirror, Peter noticed a black pickup approaching quickly. But rather than moving to the left to go around the Wraith, it closed on his bumper. Come on, buddy, the lane is open. Just go around like everyone else who thinks the speed limit is not fast enough.
Peter maintained his speed, and after a minute the pickup darted into the left lane and accelerated. It pulled up abreast of the Rolls Royce and then slowed again, matching Peter’s speed. There was no traffic within a mile in either direction.
Peter glanced to the side and saw the passenger window was down. The driver was bald and wearing dark glasses. For several seconds, the truck kept perfect pace with the Wraith. Peter turned his head again, waving the driver on. Then he saw the man raise a gun—a sawed-off shotgun. He held it one-handed, by the pistol grip, and swung the muzzle toward the open window. For an instant, Peter’s mind registered the smile on the driver’s face.
Instinct took over as Peter slammed on the brakes. The car rapidly decelerated and the pickup rocketed by as the driver fired. The shot missed the Wraith by inches, and Peter swerved to the gravel shoulder, sliding to a complete stop. The cloud of dust behind the car slowly dissipated. His heart was pounding, and he gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles popped. The pickup sped away too fast to make out the license plate.
Peter leaned back in the seat. Sweat dappled his forehead. He rolled the windows down, deeply breathing in the fresh air. Other cars zipped by as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He doubted there were any witnesses given that no other cars were close at the time.
He picked up his phone and dialed. “Nine one one. What is the nature of your emergency?” the feminine voice said.
“Someone just tried to kill me.”