“In about twenty minutes,” Jack said. “As soon as Vinnie gets things turned around.”

“I’m going around to check on some other cases,” Calvin said to Clint. “You want to stay here with Dr. Stapleton or do you want to come with me?”

“I think I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind,” Clint said.

“By the way, Jack,” Calvin said before leaving. “There’s a bevy of media people upstairs crawling all over the outer office like bloodhounds. I don’t want you giving any unauthorized press conferences. Any information coming from the ME’s office comes from Mrs. Donnatello and her PR assistant.”

“I wouldn’t dream of talking to the press,” Jack assured him.

Calvin wandered to the next table. Clint stayed at his heels.

“It didn’t sound as if that guy wanted to talk with you,” Vinnie said to Jack when Calvin and Clint were far enough away. “Not that I can blame him.”

“That little mouse has been spleeny since I first met him,” Jack said. “I don’t know what his problem is. He’s kinda a weird duck, if you ask me.”

“Now there’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Vinnie said.

NEW YORK CITY

“Mr. Lagenthorpe, can you hear me?” Dr. Doyle called to his patient. Donald Lagenthorpe was a thirty-eight-year-old African-American oil engineer who had a chronic problem with asthma. That morning, just after three A.M., he’d awakened with progressive difficulty breathing. His prescribed home remedies had not interrupted the attack, and he’d come into the emergency room of the Manhattan General at four. Dr. Doyle had been called at quarter to five after the usual emergency medications had had no effect.

Donald’s eyes blinked open. He hadn’t been sleeping, just trying to rest. The ordeal had been exhausting and frightening. The feeling of not being able to catch his breath was torture, and this episode had been the worst he’d ever experienced.

“How are you doing?” Dr. Doyle inquired. “I know what you have been through. You must be very tired.” Dr. Doyle was one of those rare physicians who were able to empathize with all his patients with a depth of understanding suggesting he suffered from all the same conditions.

Donald nodded his head, indicating that he was okay. He was breathing through a face mask that made conversation difficult.

“I want you to stay in the hospital for a few days,” Dr. Doyle said. “This was a difficult attack to break.”

Donald nodded again. No one had to tell him that.

“I want to keep you on the IV steroids for a little while longer,” Dr. Doyle explained.

Donald lifted the face mask off his face. “Couldn’t I get the steroids at home?” he suggested. As thankful as he was about the hospital’s having been there in his hour of need, he much preferred the idea of going home now that his breathing had returned to normal. At home he knew he could at least get some work done. As was always the case, this asthma attack had come at a particularly inconvenient time. He was supposed to go back to Texas the following week for more fieldwork.

“I know you don’t want to be in the hospital,” Dr. Doyle said. “I’d feel the same way. But I think it is best under the circumstances. We’ll get you out just as soon as possible. Not only do I want to continue giving you IV steroids, but I want you breathing humidified, clean, nonirritating air. I also want to follow your peak expiratory flow rate carefully. As I explained to you earlier, it is still not completely back to normal.”

“How many days do you estimate I’ll have to be in here?” Donald asked.

“I’m sure it will only be a couple,” Dr. Doyle said.

“I’ve got to go back to Texas,” Donald explained.

“Oh?” Dr. Doyle said. “When were you there last?”

“Just last week,” Donald said.

“Hmm,” Dr. Doyle said while he thought. “Were you exposed to anything abnormal while you were there?”

“Just Tex-Mex cuisine,” Donald said, managing a smile.

“You haven’t gotten any new pets or anything like that, have you?” Dr. Doyle asked. One of the difficulties of managing someone with chronic asthma was determining the factors responsible for triggering attacks. Frequently it was allergenic.

“My girlfriend got a new cat,” Donald said. “It has made me itch a bit the last few times I’ve been over there.”

“When was the last time?” Dr. Doyle asked.

“Last night,” Donald admitted. “But I was home just a little after eleven, and I felt fine. I didn’t have any trouble falling asleep.”

“We’ll have to look into it,” Dr. Doyle said. “Meanwhile I want you in the hospital. What do you say?”

“You’re the doctor,” Donald said reluctantly.

“Thank you,” Dr. Doyle said.

“For chrissake!” Jack murmured under his breath as he was about to start the autopsy on Susanne Hard. Clint Abelard was hovering behind him like a gnat, constantly switching his weight from one leg to the other.

“Clint, why don’t you step around the table and stand on the other side,” Jack suggested. “You’ll be able to see much better.”

Clint took the suggestion and stood with his arms behind his back opposite from Jack.

“Now don’t move,” Jack mumbled to himself. Jack didn’t like Clint hanging around, but he had no choice.

“It’s sad when you see a young woman like this,” Clint said suddenly.

Jack looked up. He hadn’t expected such a comment from Clint. It seemed too human. He had struck Jack as an unfeeling, moody bureaucrat.

“How old is she?” Clint asked.

“Twenty-eight,” Vinnie said from the head of the table.

“From the looks of her spine she didn’t have an easy life,” Clint said.

“She had several major back surgeries,” Jack said.

“It’s a double tragedy since she’d just given birth,” Clint said. “Now the child is motherless.”

“It was her second child,” Vinnie said.

“I suppose I shouldn’t forget her husband,” Clint said. “It must be upsetting to lose your spouse.”

A knifelike stab of emotion went down Jack’s spine. He had to fight to keep from reaching across the table and yanking Clint off his feet. Abruptly he left the table and exited to the washroom. He heard Vinnie call after him, but he ignored him. Instead Jack leaned on the edge of the sink and tried to calm himself. He knew that getting angry with Clint was an unreasonable reaction; it was nothing but pure, unadulterated transference. But understanding the origin did not lessen the irritation. It always irked Jack when he heard such clichés from people who truly had no idea.

“Is there a problem?” Vinnie asked. He’d stuck his head through the door.

“I’ll be there in a second,” Jack said.

Vinnie let the door close.

As long as he was there, Jack washed and regloved his hands. When he was finished he returned to the table.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he said.

“I’ve looked the body over,” Clint said. “I don’t see anything that looks like an insect bite, do you?”

Jack had to restrain himself from subjecting Clint to a lecture like the one Clint had given to him. Instead, he merely proceeded with his external exam. Only after he’d finished did he speak.

“No gangrene, no purpura, and no insect bites as far as I can see,” Jack said. “But by just looking at her I can see some of her cervical lymph nodes are swollen.”

Jack pointed out the finding to Clint, who then nodded in agreement.

“That’s certainly consistent with plague,” Clint said.

Jack didn’t answer. Instead he took a scalpel from Vinnie and quickly made the typical Y-shaped autopsy incision. The bold cruelty of the move jolted Clint. He took a step back.