“Oh my! Drew, why do we suspect tainted meat?”

“Well Candace, it’s very rare in the United States to get anthrax in any form, so much so that when we think of foodborne pathogens we think of salmonella, e.coli, listeria, campylobacter, even staphyloccus, but almost never anthrax. However, in this case over fifty victims or their family members have been interviewed and here’s what we have discovered.”

Blake waited. Nick waited. Both leaned forward in their chairs, breathless, over one hundred miles apart, connected through the conduit of television by this bearer of horrific news that, if he released the words that dripped from his lips would rain destruction on each of their lives.

“Every single one of the victims, both dead and those still hospitalized, ate at an underground supper club last Saturday,” Drew said. “Now here’s the strange part. The supper clubs were held in ten different cities across the country and were hosted by ten different chefs, but—here’s the catch.”

Nick picked up his glass of Maker’s Mark and slugged it, knowing what was coming, knowing he was powerless to stop it. He tried to act calm, in control, even in the privacy of his study. His legs remain crossed, relaxed, as he tugged up his socks to be perfectly in place when the verdict was read.

“Every chef was employed by the same restaurant owner and the events were all part of the same club,” Drew said.

“And who was that, Drew?” With the focus off the hurricane in the Bahamas, Angelica rose from the sofa to check on the girls.

“Candace, the chefs all work for acclaimed restaurateur Nick Vegas, owner of all ten restaurants that employed the chefs and founder of the recently announced 50-Forks Club. The dinners last weekend were the first for the new club’s members.”

Angelica stopped. “Nick Vegas,” she said and she looked down at Blake, his head supported by his fists, his eyes locked with tunnel vision to the set. As he leaned forward his shirt collar pushed back allowing Angelica to see a pulsing black blister on the back of his neck. She tugged his collar slightly, the pressure still not distracting Blake from the television. Her eyes widened as she took in the hideous black lesion on Blake’s neck. The oblong blister looked to be about the size of Blake’s 9 MM pistol barrel and just as black. Angelica gently removed her hand from Blake’s shirt and walked to the kitchen to straighten up the dishes as she continued watching the news.

“And have you spoken with Mr. Vegas?”

“Yes, Candace, but he declined comment or to be interviewed for the story.”

Candace paused for a moment, either unsure what to say or waiting for a teleprompter. “But...but, isn’t meat inspected? How would tainted meat get into the food supply?”

“That’s the question that regulators and, perhaps even law enforcement officials, will want to have answered,” Drew said. “My understanding is that the Food Safety Inspection Service is already working with local health department officials and the chefs to determine the source of the anthrax. I need to emphasize once more that this is still very preliminary and that all we know for certain is that health officials have verified inhalation anthrax as the cause of death in five victims.”

“Doctor Chandak, have cases been confirmed for gastrointestinal or cutaneous anthrax?”

“No, not at this time. I suspect if they were going to find cutaneous anthrax then it would already have been reported, as it’s easy to identify.” As the doctor spoke, a graphic of a man with a grotesque, black boil on the side of his face appeared. Angelica looked at the blister and quickly turned her head to Blake, who didn’t move.

“Cutaneous anthrax occurs when one comes into direct contact with anthrax, either in the soil or, most likely, by touching a sick animal or products from an animal that died of anthrax. It begins with a rash but quickly forms an ulcer with a black center. It would be hard to miss the visible signs, so if there were any of those cases I suspect we’d know about them.”

Angelica stood at the kitchen bar only a few feet from her husband, but isolated from him. He was lost in the television, engulfed by news even though he rarely cared about, much less watched news. She looked back at the television set to see the final image of the segment, a magazine photograph of Nick Vegas with a bulldog in front of his stately Buckhead home that connected him, somehow, to Blake. The image of Nick disappeared and was replaced with the other top story, a satellite image of a fierce hurricane that covered all of the Bahama Islands and was intensifying as it headed north. Somewhere below that mass of clouds was a tiny island, and on that tiny island was her twin sister. Angelica glanced to the guest bedroom adjacent to the kitchen where Rose’s daughters slept. She felt as if she was being presented with a puzzle. More than that. A test of some sort. The pieces were Blake, Nick, Rose, the hurricane and this wretched plague. And, she realized, every piece affected her. Was she supposed to act? To do something? To wait? She fingered the black and white beads that hung from her neck, rolling them gently between her thumb and index finger as she pondered the questions.

She would have to think about it later, perhaps in her secret garden. For now, she looked back at Blake who had dropped his head to stare at the floor, evidently swallowed by his own puzzle of grief. A puzzle, Angelica feared, that Blake may have created. A game of greed he wanted to make and play, only now it had turned deadly. It had grown into a frightening storm that threatened everything Angelica hoped for and cared about. She tried to remember a dream, a nightmare that she had had, but the details had slipped away. All that remained was a gnawing feeling.

As Blake slumped low to the floor on the sofa, Angelica’s eyes fell to him from high above. She narrowed her eyes on him, but said nothing, thinking only of the tools at her disposal, at the gifts that had been given to her. Compassion, forgiveness, support, understanding, healing, tolerance, caring...these were the tools she had in ample supply. The gifts that God had given to her. Judgment was not one of her tools. That tool and responsibility belonged to God.

She looked once more at Blake’s neck, the boil clearly visible as his shoulders collapsed, his hands supporting his forehead as if it were a dead weight. Something about the blister was familiar to her. Something to do with the plagues the talking head had mentioned. Walking to her bedroom, she retrieved her well-worn Bible from her nightstand and sat on the bed. With the Bible resting in her lap Angelica stared into her dressing mirror. Her rounded abdomen protruded in her reflection, showing the life that grew within her. She thought about her unborn son, due only three months hence, and wondered where he fit into the puzzle. Her vision for the life she wanted for him was so clear. To be raised honestly by loving parents with God and nature as the guide, embracing and honoring his Cherokee heritage. Through the doorway she saw Blake walk to the kitchen and return with a bottle to the living room. She sat quietly, her fingers caressing her belly, gently rubbing it in a counterclockwise motion with her fingers as she looked down. The same motion she had seen moments before as a hurricane spun its path of destruction. She stopped suddenly and began circling the other way. “No, we’re not victims son, she said aloud. We’re not without power.”

Angelica opened her Bible and thumbed through the pages, her fingers somehow knowing where to go. She flipped the pages furiously until she reached the book of Kings. She began perusing the text like a speed-reader, searching for two specific words. In chapter twenty, verse seven of Kings, she found the words. “Boil. Figs.” She read the entire passage with great care.