Nine
Matt was in the doctors’ lounge, discussing with Jeff Strickland how the medical students were performing on their ER rotation, when the door opened and Dr. Sheldon Silver stepped in.
Strickland grinned and raised his hand. “Hey, Dr. Silver, what’re you doing here? We haven’t lost anyone in the last hour or two.”
He was referring to Silver’s job as professor of pathology and his attendant job as the interim medical examiner of the county.
Silver smiled. “I’m not here to do an autopsy, Jeff,” he said, “though from the looks of those bags under your eyes, I might be seeing you down in the morgue sooner rather than later if you don’t get some rest.”
Strickland got tiredly to his feet. “Comes with the job, Doc,” he said. “In surgery, if you snooze, you lose.”
“Actually, I’m here to see Matt,” Silver said.
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” Strickland said. He turned to Matt. “I’ll get those written evaluations of the students to you by the first of the week, Matt.”
Matt nodded. “No hurry, Jeff. Whenever you get to it.”
After Strickland left, Matt inclined his head at the coffeepot in the corner of the room. “Cup of Joe, Shelly?”
Silver’s expression turned wry and he wagged his head. “No thanks, Matt. I’d rather drink formaldehyde.”
Silver, known as Shelly to most everyone, was as usual wearing white jeans and a Hawaiian shirt, blue with white flowers this time. His only concession to hospital protocol was a wrinkled white clinic jacket with some stains on it that no one had the nerve to question the origin of. Shelly was a rotund five feet seven inches tall. Although he appeared to be fat, he was actually heavyset, with most of his bulk being muscle rather than adipose tissue.
He had a springy, quick walk and moved with no wasted motion. His hair was dark, shot through with gray, and his blue eyes seemed to twinkle when he laughed.
Shelly had been the de facto leader of the so-called Vampire Task Force responsible for the discovery of Roger Niemann and his lair. He was Sam’s boss and also her closest friend, along with his wife, Barbara.
“Well, if you don’t want coffee and you’re not here to do an autopsy, what can I do for you, Shelly?” Matt asked.
“Sam tells me you have some new information about the origin of the creature we knew as Roger Niemann.”
“Yeah. Damon Clark found a journal Roger had been keeping for over two hundred years, if you can believe the dates in it.”
Shelly took a seat across from Matt and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Two hundred years, huh? That’s a long time to be going around sucking the blood out of people.”
“Yeah, it is,” Matt answered. “But you know, Shelly? From the way Niemann wrote in his journal, he hated the fact that his disease, as he called it, forced him to attack and sometimes kill people.”
Shelly leaned back, his eyebrows knitted. “Nothing forces us to kill others, Matt.”
Matt gave a sad smile. “I don’t know about you, Shelly, but I eat steak and chicken and fish.... I guess the cows and chickens and fish don’t think we have to do that.”
“Animals are a far cry from human beings,” Shelly said, though his tone was not as sure as before.
“That’s just it, Shelly. Evidently, Niemann now considers himself a different race, almost a different species since his conversion two hundred years ago. He wrote in his journal that the Vampyres consider us Normals an inferior species, one made to be food for them.”
Shelly stared at Matt. “That may be their opinion, but that doesn’t make it the correct one.”
Matt sighed, looking suddenly tired. “I know, I know. I’m not saying I buy into Niemann’s arguments. It’s just that since I’ve been reading his journal, I’ve been trying to get into Niemann’s mind. I can almost see his point of view, and, in fact, I feel rather sorry for the hand that fate dealt him.”
As Shelly opened his mouth to protest, Matt held up his hand. “I agree with what you’re gonna say. What he became didn’t excuse what he did, but we’ve got to remember, he didn’t ask to become one of the undead any more than TJ did.”
“Speaking of that,” Shelly said to change the subject, “Sam also informed me that TJ continues to show some . . . rather disturbing symptoms.”
Matt’s eyes dropped. “Shooter seems to think so, though we were with them Saturday and we didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.” He paused; then, with a crooked grin, he added, “Other than the fact the monkeys didn’t seem to like her too much.”
Shelly pursed his lips. “Still, if Shooter is worried, perhaps we ought to check it out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think it’s incumbent upon us to run further tests to see if we’ve really cured TJ of the infection that Niemann caused, especially since you’ve evidently found in that journal of Niemann’s some new information concerning the etiology of the infection.”
“Sam and I discussed that, but so far, TJ is reluctant to be put through any more tests.”
“Well, if you can change her mind, I’ve prevailed upon the dean of the medical school to make a laboratory available to you and Sam. One of the microbiology professors is on a sabbatical, and his lab is vacant. You and Sam can use it for as long as you need to make sure TJ is all right.”
He reached in the pocket of his clinic jacket and pulled out a key. He pitched it to Matt. “Here’s your key. I’ve already given Sam hers.”
Matt glanced at the key. “Thanks, Shelly.” He looked back up. “Will you be available for consultation on the blood test results and any therapy we contemplate?”
“Of course,” Shelly answered. “In fact, Sam told me there was something about plasmids in Niemann’s journal, so I called a friend of mine at McGill University. He’s the leading researcher on plasmids in the world. He’s going to send us everything he has on human infections with plasmids.”
“Then I guess it’s up to us to convince TJ to go through with the tests.”
Shelly stood up. “I’ll leave that to you and Sam. I’ve never had much luck trying to change a woman’s mind.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Matt said, laughing.
Matt worried all afternoon about how he and Sam and Shooter might broach the subject of conducting more tests on TJ. Finally, he figured it might best be done over dinner and drinks. Throughout his life, he’d found that women were most susceptible to suggestions after a superb meal at a fine restaurant.
He phoned Sam, who agreed with his assessment, and then he called Shooter, who also said he was free that night. Now the only thing left for Matt to do was to pick the right restaurant. After some consideration, he settled on a seafood place, not wanting to have to deal with the sight of TJ eating a rare steak and then having to tell her she might still be infected with the Vampyre bug, be it a plasmid or whatever.
That night, the foursome met at Papadeaux’s, a Cajun-style seafood restaurant off I-10, not too far from downtown. The restaurant was a huge, multistoried wooden building decorated in a seafaring mode, with all manner of stuffed and mounted sailfish, swordfish, tarpon, and sharks, as well as fishing nets and Japanese glass net-floats and starfish.
Sam glanced around at the decor. “I may grow gills just looking at all this,” she said.
Matt assumed a hurt expression. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” he said. “This is supposed to be one of the best seafood places in town.”
“Yeah,” Shooter chimed in. “Just look at all these fish on the walls. Anyone who could manage to catch these beauties must know a lot about how to cook ’em.”
TJ shook her head. “Dear Shooter,” she said, “the owners didn’t catch those fish, and the cook certainly didn’t. They bought them from some interior-decorating shop, which, in turn, probably bought them from some garage sales in Florida.”
“They just told the decorator they wanted something in macho-male fishing kitsch,” Sam jibed.
Matt looked at each of the women in turn and then at Shooter. “See, pal, a man goes to extraordinary lengths to please the woman of his dreams, and what does she do? She makes fun of his choice of restaurants.”
Shooter nodded in agreement. “Next time we’ll just take ’em to Kip’s Big Boy and let ’em eat hamburgers.”
Both TJ and Sam laughed. “OK, guys,” Sam said, “before you get your feelings hurt beyond all redemption, TJ and I both love the place. In fact, we’ve both said before we wanted to eat here, but couldn’t afford it.”
“Wait a minute,” Matt said, looking from one to the other. “What do you mean can’t afford it? Aren’t you two girls paying tonight?”
“In your dreams, big guy,” TJ said, giggling at the thought.
As the waiter approached with a stack of leather menus in hand, Shooter said in a whispered aside to Matt, “Uh-oh, leather menus. You know what that means, don’t you?”
Matt nodded, a glum expression on his face. “Yeah. Megabucks before we leave here.”
Shooter shrugged. “At least we’ve got women with us in case we don’t have enough money and have to wash dishes.”
TJ punched him in the arm. “Was that a sexist remark, Mr. Kowolski?”
“No, not at all, Shooter said. “It’s just a well-known fact that washing dishes is bred in women’s genes, whereas men are born to hunt and fish and gather food.”
“You forgot the inbred male gene for chasing skirts,” TJ said, a dangerous look on her face.
The waiter stood there, watching the byplay with a half smile on his face. “Can I get you folks something to drink, or an appetizer perhaps?” he asked.
“Gin and Seven for the other lady and me, and roach exterminator for the gentlemen,” TJ said acidly.
“Will that be up or on the rocks on the roach exterminator?” the waiter asked.
“On the rocks, definitely,” Matt said. “I can’t stand room temperature poison.”
“Scotch and water for me, and something with an umbrella in it for Matt,” Shooter said.
“I’ll have a gin and Seven, too, with a wedge of lime,” Matt said, glaring at Shooter. He glanced at the menu. “And how about a round of those spicy crab cakes for an appetizer?”
“You got it, sir,” the waiter said, and walked off, shaking his head.
Shooter watched him. “Probably gay,” he said.
“Why do you say that?” TJ asked.
“ ’Cause he looked like he couldn’t believe the way you women were acting. If he were straight, he’d have a girlfriend or a wife and would know it’s par for the course.”
TJ punched Shooter again, and as he rubbed his arm and moaned, she muttered, “Butt lick.”
When the waiter brought the drinks, Matt held his up for a toast. “To good friends and good times,” he said.
They all clinked glasses and took a drink.
When the waiter brought the crab cakes, they ordered. Matt asked for the blackened redfish; Sam ordered swordfish, brushing aside Matt’s concern about the level of mercury in it; Shooter decided on shrimp Creole; TJ scanned the menu for a moment, then pitched it on the table. “I’ll just have a steak, rare, with French fries and a salad,” she said.
The rest of the group stared at her, and then glanced at each other, worried expressions on their faces. Shooter leaned over and put his hand on her shoulder. “TJ, baby, this is a seafood place. Why don’t you order something they specialize in?”
TJ shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “I just feel the need for some meat, Shooter. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”
When Shooter started to speak, Matt shook his head.
The group’s earlier jovial mood was broken when the food was served and TJ tore into the bloody meat, a look of intense concentration on her face.
After the meal was finished, the foursome ordered Key lime pie and coffee. While they were eating it, Sam decided it was time to broach the subject of further testing on TJ.
“TJ,” Sam began, “Matt and I have some news about what we can do to make sure you’re completely cured.”
TJ looked up from her pie, an anxious expression on her face. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Dr. Silver has procured a lab for us to use from the microbiology department, and he’s enlisted the help of a professor from McGill University.”
“The man’s supposed to be the world’s greatest authority on human infections with plasmids,” Matt added.
“You think he can help me?” TJ asked, glancing at Shooter, who put his hand on hers in silent support.
Both Matt and Sam nodded. “We haven’t heard from him yet, but Matt’s already downloaded everything he’s written on the subject off the Internet.”
“Anything useful?” TJ asked.
Matt smiled. “I think so. Several of his articles deal with different type of plasmids that carry genes that keep other plasmids from conjugating.”
“Conjugating?” Shooter asked. “Is that what it sounds like?”
TJ smiled for the first time in a while. She looked at him. “Conjugating is the term used for plasmid reproduction,” she explained.
“Yeah, and if we can stop that,” Sam said, “then sooner or later all the plasmids in TJ’s body will die a natural death and she’ll be totally cured.”
“So you two do think there are still some of these plasmid whatchamacallits floating around in TJ’s bloodstream?” Shooter asked.
Matt shrugged. “It could account for some of the symptoms that have you and TJ worried.”
TJ’s eyes dropped. “I was hoping all that was behind me,” she said in a low voice. “It just makes me feel so . . . dirty to think I might still be infected.”
“Nonsense,” Sam said quickly. “We’re not saying you are definitely still infected, TJ. But, if there are still some plasmids we didn’t get rid of the first time, this may be a perfect way to ensure they don’t cause you any further trouble.”
TJ glanced at Shooter. “Do you think I should go through with more tests and treatment, Shooter?”
Shooter shrugged, his face blushing red. “Jeez, I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m just a flatfoot cop; you guys are the medical experts—”
“What can it hurt, TJ?” Matt interrupted gently. “The worst that can happen is you’ll go through some unnecessary blood tests.”
Her eyes stared into his, troubled. “But what about injecting me with more plasmids? I’m not so sure I like that idea.”
Sam shook her head. “That’s gonna be our last resort, TJ, and only if this professor in Canada and Dr. Silver and Matt and I all agree it’s necessary.”
TJ bit her lip. “All right, I’ll do it,” she said, her eyes turning to Shooter. “I don’t want you to have any doubts about me, Shooter.”
He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I’ve never had any doubts about you, TJ.”