The elevator door rumbled open. Instead of moving forward, Jack glanced overhead. A few seconds passed and the doors closed. He looked at Kazminski and pointed to an empty couch a few feet away.
“Sherry’s six months pregnant,” Kazminski began. “My son-in-law, David, works for the State Department. He’s on his way back from the Far East right now—a little frantic to say the least.” Kazminski waited while a woman in environmental services picked up an empty coffee cup from a nearby end table. “He told me the news of the epidemic has already reached every major city in Asia.”
“Apart from this illness, has she always been healthy?” Jack asked.
“She’s never had anything more serious than a cold. She’s a social worker assigned to young teenagers in trouble with the law. She’s never missed a day of work because of illness.”
“How familiar are you with the symptoms that led up to her hospitalization?”
“I’m a reporter, Dr, Wyatt. I’m a walking sponge when it comes to accumulating facts. I’ll answer anything I can.”
For the next twenty minutes, Jack gathered every drop of information Kazminski could recall regarding his daughter’s illness. Her symptoms were identical to all the other women with GNS. Kazminski’s claim that he was a fountain of information wasn’t an exaggeration.
With his eyebrows gathered in, Jack said, “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could say to reassure you but I’m afraid, at least from right now, there just isn’t a lot of information. We’re just starting into this thing. The best minds in the country are all working together trying to find a cure.”
Staring down at his hands, he said, “Two years ago, my wife noticed a little mole on her arm. We saw our family doctor who arranged for a dermatologist to remove it. He told us it was a melanoma but he was certain she was cured. Eight months later she was gone.” He raised his eyes. And then with a blank gaze, he added in just above a whisper, “I’m not sure I can go through losing another…” He pulled a business card from the inside pocket of his sports coat and wrote his cell phone number on the back. “My daughter’s one of those rare people who everybody loves. She’s never done a self-serving thing in her life.” He rolled his lips back and forth a couple of times. “Until a few days ago, I never questioned the absence of justice. I just thought it was the way things were.”
Lost for words, Jack said, “I’ll have a look at her tomorrow.”
“I’d appreciate that, and thanks for listening.” Kazminski handed him the card and shook his hand. “I’d wish you a merry Christmas, Doc, but I don’t think too many people are feeling that way.”
Jack waited a few seconds for Kazminski to walk away. He then looked down at his watch. It was close to midnight. He rode the elevator up to the ninth floor and went to his room. Needing a few minutes to gather his thoughts, he walked out on the balcony and looked south along the Intracoastal Waterway.
Beneath the splash of the hotel’s floodlights, he followed a sleek catamaran slip under a towered drawbridge. He thought about Tess Ryan and Sherry Kazminski. Then he thought about all the women who were lying in intensive care units across the country. None of them was really just a case of GNS: Each was a victim, a victim whose desperate family members were consumed with terror about what the future held for their loved one.