Clint walked down the corridor toward the exit. He looked into the break room at a few colleagues sitting down to lunch and watching the news at noon. Clint paused for a moment to watch the CNN update.

“CNN has learned of five mysterious deaths in the past twenty-eight hours from what doctors are calling flu-like symptoms.” A talking head was reading the teleprompter but speaking directly to Clint, he felt. “Two deaths were reported just outside of Boston, two at the same hospital in Athens, Georgia and one this morning, a thirty-six year old pharmaceutical executive near Trenton, New Jersey. NPR stations in each of those cities first reported on the deaths and CNN correspondent Drew Hunter pieced the story together and contacted each hospital. In all, there have been seventy-nine people admitted to hospitals in Athens, Trenton and in two hospitals in the Boston area, all from what doctors are calling mysterious, flu-like symptoms. Officials from the CDC have not acknowledged a connection between these illnesses. We’ll continue to report on this story as details become available.”

The words “flu-like symptoms” looped in his head as Clint walked toward the door. He paused at the front desk for a moment before continuing out the door and turned to the receptionist. “Carol, can you get me the number for CNN’s newsroom?”

***

Lounging by the pool of his stately Buckhead home, Nick enjoyed what he thought might be the last warm day of the Indian summer. His view to the southern skies showed no sign of the storm he had heard was brewing in the Caribbean. It would make no difference to him if it came his way. Hurricanes were a threat to the coast, not to cities as far inland as Atlanta.

He picked up his phone to check his voice mail. Two minutes prior a blocked number had called, which Nick, of course, didn’t answer. But, the anonymous caller had decided to leave a message. “Nick, this is Drew Hunter from CNN in Atlanta. I’d like to speak with you about a story I’m doing that’s rather urgent. Please call me back at–”

Nick looked around for a pen and paper, but found none. He walked into the kitchen to retrieve them and replayed the message to write down the number. Nick grinned as he dialed the number, thinking that the reporter had no doubt seen him on Fox News or had otherwise heard of the success of 50-Forks and now wanted a piece of Nick for his own “urgent” story.

“Drew Hunter,” the voice answered.

“Drew, this is Nick Vegas returning your call.”

“Mr. Vegas, thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

Mr. Vegas. Nick liked the respect. He had worked hard for it his entire professional life. On days like today, when he took time off to enjoy the fruits of his labor, when he relaxed around the pool surrounded by his own palm trees, his own fountains, and had every freedom he could want, on days like this one he felt like he had arrived. He had earned the accolades, the success, and the respect. He could soak it all up now and savor it.

“You’re welcome. Just call me Nick.”

“Nick, I don’t know if you’ve been following the stories of a number of people becoming suddenly and violently afflicted with the flu–” Drew paused, waiting for a reaction. Nick said nothing, waiting for Drew to continue, but a butterfly took flight in the hollow cavern between his heart and his gut. He hoped that the reporter had called the wrong person.

“Even several deaths,” Drew continued. “Anyway, I’ve interviewed several of the victims and or their families in Athens, Boston and near Philadelphia–”

As the reporter spoke Nick’s mind froze. Athens, Boston, Philadelphia...all cities where Nick owned restaurants. Wait...what was this guy saying again...the flu?

“–and the only thing I’ve found so far that they have in common is that many...most of the victims say that they ate at an underground supper club last Saturday.”

Nick said nothing, could say nothing. The words sank in and meant nothing, meant everything. Drew gave his words a moment to register.

“Anyway, those cities are far apart so I dug into the supper clubs they mentioned and looked at the invitations from the chefs that were hosting them. I found that they were all hosted by chefs that work for your restaurants.”

“Wait...what are you saying?” Nick, who had never before been speechless, now found himself without words.

“We’re working on a story for this evening and we will report this information. Do you have any comment, sir? If you tell me where you are I can send a camera crew to meet you.”

“Shit.” Nick said this to himself. To the reporter he said, “I have no comment,” and hung up the phone. He stared out over the pool for a moment as a cloud seeped in front of the sun, causing a dark shadow to cascade across his pool. His life, he feared. A gust of wind blew from the south and tussled his neatly combed hair out of place. Staring at his phone, Nick bit his lip and squeezed the phone tighter and tighter, as if he was testing his grip on a machine at a carnival. He looked back at the phone and dialed Blake.

“The party you have reached has not set up their voice mail system yet–” Nick rolled his eyes as he recognized the same message he had heard from Blake’s phone for the past year. “Blake, Nick. Call me. Right now!” Nick pressed the disconnect button as hard as he could, walked to his computer and logged into his investment account.

***

Angelica sat down on the sofa beside Blake as he turned up the volume on CNN.

“Oh my,” Angelica said. “Dear Lord, look at THAT! Why is he even out there in that?” Angelica wrung her hands as she watched the screen. The CNN reporter was standing on the balcony of a room at his resort in Nassau as the eye of Hurricane Isabel approached. The eye was expected to go directly over Nassau in less than an hour at approximately 9:00 p.m. It had already passed the southern and eastern islands.

“Power is out on all islands with backup generators expected to be the only source of power for at least a few days on the more remote islands,” the reporter shouted through the roar of driving rain. The camera panned out to show palm trees bending like plastic forks underneath a broiler as horizontal rain pounded the island, seemingly much to the reporter’s delight. “Just look at that surge,” he said. “That’s a hurricane right there.”

No shit, Blake thought. All these guys are actors now, seeing who can stand in the strongest winds, the hardest rains. Who can be right in front of the tornado when it passes. Idiots!

“Do you think they’ll be okay?” Blake knew that Angelica was worried about Rose and John. She had desperately tried to call them all day on Monday, but Rose had warned her that her cell phone wouldn’t work. Angelica put the girls to bed a little early so they wouldn’t ask questions about the storm.

“I wouldn’t worry, hon,” Blake said. “The islands are prepared for these storms. The TV stations dramatize it but I reckon it ain’t nothing but wind and rain as long as you stay indoors.”

“Maybe we should put it on the Weather Channel,” Angelica said.

“I don’t think they’ll have anything more than this,” Blake said. “Just better acting maybe.” He meant what he said, but he had his own reason for wanting it on CNN. It took all of Blake’s resolve to remain calm, to act peaceful with Angelica, after speaking with Nick late in the afternoon. Blake knew nothing about the sicknesses and told Nick so.

“Do you know anything that could have contributed to a food safety problem?” Nick had asked firmly.

“No.” Blake replied. Nick told him about the CNN reporter and the report that would air later in the day.

“Well I’ll tell you this, my friend,” Nick said, “my chefs may be the common factor in those dinners but the only thing they had in common was you.”

“What are you talking about?” Blake asked.