Walking down the short hall to the living room, she snapped on the light next to the couch. “Ta-a-a-affy,” she called, drawing out the dog’s name. She started for the stairs in case the dog had inadvertently shut herself into one of the upstairs bedrooms as she sometimes did. Then she saw Taffy lying on the floor near the window, her head bent at a strange and alarming angle.
“Taffy!” cried Marissa desperately, as she ran to the dog and sank to her knees. But before she could touch the animal she was grabbed from behind, her head jerked upright with such force that the room spun. Instinctively, she reached up and gripped the arm, noticing that it felt like wood under the cloth of the suit. Even with all her strength she could not so much as budge the man’s grip on her neck. There was a ripping sound as her dress tore. She tried to twist around to see her attacker, but she couldn’t.
The panic button for the alarm system was in her jacket pocket. She reached in and juggled it in her fingers, desperately trying to depress the plunger. Just as she succeeded, a blow to her head sent her sprawling to the floor. Listening to the ear-splitting noise, Marissa tried to struggle to her feet. Then she heard Tad’s voice shouting at the intruder. She turned groggily, to see him struggling with a tall, heavyset man.
Covering her ears against the incessant screech of the alarm, she rushed to the front door and threw it open, screaming for help from the Judsons. She ran across the lawn and through the shrubs that divided the properties. As she neared the Judsons’ house, she saw Mr. Judson opening his front door. She yelled for him to call the police but didn’t wait to explain. She turned on her heel and ran back to her house. The sound of the alarm echoed off the trees that lined the street. Bounding up the front steps two at a time, she returned to her living room, only to find it empty. Panicked, she rushed down the hall to the kitchen. The back door was ajar. Reaching over to the panel, she turned the alarm off.
“Tad,” she shouted, going back to the living room and looking into the first-floor guest room. There was no sign of him.
Mr. Judson came running through the open front door, brandishing a poker. Together they went through the kitchen and out the back door.
“My wife is calling the police,” said Mr. Judson.
“There was a friend with me,” gasped Marissa, her anxiety increasing. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Here comes someone,” said Mr. Judson, pointing.
Marissa saw a figure approaching through the evergreen trees. It was Tad. Relieved, she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, asking him what had happened.
“Unfortunately, I got knocked down,” he told her, touching the side of his head. “When I got up, the guy was outside. He had a car waiting.”
Marissa took Tad into the kitchen and cleaned the side of his head with a wet towel. It was only a superficial abrasion.
“His arm felt like a club,” said Tad.
“You’re lucky you’re not hurt worse. You never should have gone after him. What if he’d had a gun?”
“I wasn’t planning on being a hero,” said Tad. “And all he had with him was a briefcase.”
“A briefcase? What kind of burglar carries a briefcase?”
“He was well dressed,” said Tad. “I’d have to say that about him.”
“Did you get a good enough look at him to identify him?” asked Mr. Judson.
Tad shrugged. “I doubt it. It all happened so quickly.”
In the distance, they heard the sound of a police siren approaching. Mr. Judson looked at his watch. “Pretty good response time.”
“Taffy!” cried Marissa, suddenly remembering the dog. She ran back into the living room, with Tad and Mr. Judson close behind.
The dog had not moved, and Marissa bent down and gingerly lifted the animal. Taffy’s head dangled limply. Her neck had been broken.
Up until that moment Marissa had maintained cool control of her emotions. But now she began to weep hysterically. Mr. Judson finally coaxed her into releasing the dog. Tad put his arms around her, trying to comfort her as best he could.
The police car pulled up with lights flashing. Two uniformed policemen came inside. To their credit, Marissa found them sensitive and efficient. They found the point of entry, the broken living room window, and explained to Marissa the reason why the alarm hadn’t sounded initially: The intruder had knocked out the glass and had climbed through without lifting the sash.
Then, in a methodical fashion, the police took all the relevant information about the incident. Unfortunately, neither Marissa nor Tad could give much of a description of the man, save for his stiff arm. When asked if anything was missing, Marissa had to say that she had not yet checked. When she told them about Taffy, she began to cry again.
The police asked her if she’d like to go to the hospital, but she declined. Then, after saying they’d be in touch, the police left. Mr. Judson also departed, telling Marissa to call if she needed anything and not to concern herself about Taffy’s remains. He also said he’d see about getting her window repaired tomorrow.
Suddenly Marissa and Tad found themselves alone, sitting at the kitchen table with the groceries still in their bags.
“I’m sorry about all this,” said Marissa, rubbing her sore head.
“Don’t be silly,” protested Tad. “Why don’t we just go out for dinner?”
“I really am not up to a restaurant. But I don’t want to stay here either. Would you mind if I fixed the meal at your place?”
“Absolutely not. Let’s go!”
“Just give me a moment to change,” said Marissa.
10
May 20
IT WAS MONDAY MORNING, and Marissa was filled with a sense of dread. It had not been a good weekend. Friday had been the worst day of her life, starting with the episode with Dubchek, then being attacked and losing Taffy. Right after the assault, she’d minimized the emotional impact, only to pay for it later. She’d made dinner for Tad and had stayed at his house, but it had been a turbulent evening filled with tears and rage at the intruder who’d killed her dog.
Saturday had found her equally upset, despite first Tad’s and then the Judsons’ attempts to cheer her up. Saturday night she’d seen Ralph as planned, and he’d suggested she ask for some time off. He even offered to take her to the Caribbean for a few days. He felt that a short vacation might let things at the CDC cool down. When Marissa insisted that she go back to work, he suggested she concentrate on something other than Ebola, but Marissa shook her head to that, too. “Well at least don’t make more waves,” Ralph counseled. In his opinion, Dubchek was basically a good man who was still recovering from the loss of the wife he’d adored. Marissa should give him another chance. On this point at least, Marissa agreed.
Dreading another confrontation with Dubchek, but resolved to try her best to make amends, Marissa went to her office only to find another memorandum already waiting for her on her desk. She assumed it was from Dubchek, but when she picked up the envelope, she noticed it was from Dr. Carbonara, the administrator of the EIS program and hence Marissa’s real boss. With her heart pounding, she opened the envelope and read the note which said that she should come to see him immediately. That didn’t sound good.
Dr. Carbonara’s office was on the second floor, and Marissa used the stairs to get there, wondering if she were about to be fired. The office was large and comfortable, with one wall dominated by a huge map of the world with little red pins indicating where EIS officers were currently assigned. Dr. Carbonara was a fatherly, soft-spoken man with a shock of unruly gray hair. He motioned for Marissa to sit while he finished a phone call. When he hung up, he smiled warmly. The smile made Marissa relax a little. He didn’t act as though he were about to terminate her employment. Then he surprised her by commiserating with her about the assault and the death of her dog. Except for Tad, Ralph and the Judsons, she didn’t think anyone knew.
“I’m prepared to offer you some vacation time,” continued Dr. Carbonara. “After such a harrowing
experience a change of scene might do you some good.”
“I appreciate your consideration,” said Marissa. “But to tell you the truth, I’d rather keep working. It will keep my mind occupied, and I’m convinced the outbreaks are not over.”
Dr. Carbonara took up a pipe and went through the ritual of lighting it. When it was burning to his satisfaction he said, “Unfortunately, there are some difficulties relating to the Ebola situation. As of today we are transferring you from the Department of Virology to the Department of Bacteriology. You can keep your same office. Actually it’s closer to your new assignment than it was to your old one. I’m certain you will find this new position equally as challenging as your last.” He puffed vigorously on his pipe, sending up clouds of swirling gray smoke.
Marissa was devastated. In her mind the transfer was tantamount to being fired.
“I suppose I could tell you all sorts of fibs,” said Dr. Carbonara, “but the truth of the matter is that the head of the CDC, Dr. Morrison, personally asked that you be moved out of virology and away from the Ebola problem.”
“I don’t buy that,” snapped Marissa. “It was Dr. Dubchek!”
“No, it wasn’t Dr. Dubchek,” said Dr. Carbonara with emphasis. Then he added: “ . . . although he was not against the decision.”
Marissa laughed sarcastically.
“Marissa, I am aware that there has been an unfortunate clash of personalities between you and Dr. Dubchek, but—”
“Sexual harassment is more accurate,” interjected Marissa. “The man has made it difficult for me ever since I stepped on his ego by resisting his advances.”
“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” said Dr. Carbonara calmly. “Perhaps it would be in everyone’s best interests if I told you the whole story. You see, Dr. Morrison received a call from Congressman Calvin Markham, who is a senior member of the House Appropriations Subcommittee for the Department of Health and Human Services. As you know, that subcommittee handles the CDC’s annual appropriations. It was the congressman who insisted that you be put off the Ebola team, not Dr. Dubchek.”
Marissa was again speechless. The idea of a United States Congressman calling the head of the CDC to have her removed from the Ebola investigation seemed unbelievable. “Congressman Markham used my name specifically?” asked Marissa, when she found her voice.
“Yes,” said Dr. Carbonara. “Believe me, I questioned it, too.”
“But why?” asked Marissa.
“There was no explanation,” said Dr. Carbonara. “And it was more of an order than a request. For political reasons, we have no choice. I think you can understand.”
Marissa shook her head. “That’s just it, I don’t understand. But it does make me change my mind about that vacation offer. I think I need the time after all.”
“Splendid,” said Dr. Carbonara. “I’ll arrange it—effective immediately. After a rest you can make a fresh start. I want to reassure you that we have no quarrel with your work. In fact we have been impressed by your performance. Those Ebola outbreaks had us all terrified. You’ll be a significant addition to the staff working on enteric bacteria, and I’m sure you will enjoy the woman who heads the division, Dr. Harriet Samford.”
Marissa headed home, her mind in turmoil. She’d counted on work to distract her from Taffy’s brutal death; and while she’d thought there’d been a chance she’d be fired, she’d never considered she’d be given a vacation. Vaguely she wondered if she should ask Ralph if he was serious about that Caribbean trip. Yet such an idea was not without disadvantages. While she liked him as a friend, she wasn’t sure if she were ready for anything more.
Her empty house was quiet without Taffy’s exuberant greeting. Marissa had an overwhelming urge to go back to bed and pull the covers over her head, but she knew that would mean yielding to the depression she was determined to fight off. She hadn’t really accepted Dr. Carbonara’s story as an excuse for shuffling her off the Ebola case. A casual recommendation from a congressman usually didn’t produce such fast results. She was sure if she checked she would discover Markham was a friend of Dubchek’s. Eyeing her bed with its tempting ruffled pillows, she resolved not to give in to her usual pattern of withdrawal. The last reactive depression, after Roger left, was too fresh in her mind. Instead of just giving in and accepting the situation, which was what she’d done then, she told herself that she had to do something. The question was what.
Sorting her dirty clothes, intending to do a therapeutic load of wash, she spotted her packed suitcase. It was like an omen.
Impulsively, she picked up the phone and called Delta to make a reservation for the next flight to Washington, D.C.
“There’s an information booth just inside the door,” said the knowledgeable cab driver as he pointed up the stairs of the Cannon Congressional Office Building.
Once inside, Marissa went through a metal detector while a uniformed guard checked the contents of her purse. When she asked for Congressman Markham’s office she was told that it was on the fifth floor. Following the rather complicated directions—it seemed that the main elevators only went to the fourth floor—Marissa was struck by the general dinginess of the interior of the building. The walls of the elevator were actually covered with grafitti.
Despite the circuitous route, she had no trouble finding the office. The outer door was ajar, so she walked in unannounced, hoping an element of surprise might work in her favor. Unfortunately, the congressman was not in.
“He’s not due back from Houston for three days. Would you like to make an appointment?”
“I’m not sure,” said Marissa, feeling a little silly after having flown all the way from Atlanta without checking to see if the man would be in town, let alone available.
“Would you care to talk with Mr. Abrams, the congressman’s administrative assistant?”
“I suppose,” said Marissa. In truth she hadn’t been certain how to confront Markham. If she merely asked if he had tried to do Dubchek a favor by figuring out a way to remove her from the Ebola case, obviously he would deny it. While she was still deliberating, an earnest young man came up to her and introduced himself as Michael Abrams. “What can I do for you?” he asked, extending a hand. He looked about twenty-five, with dark, almost black, hair and a wide grin that Marissa suspected could not be as sincere as it first seemed.
“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” she asked him. They were standing directly in front of the secretary’s desk.
“By all means,” said Michael. He guided her into the congressman’s office, a large, high-ceilinged room with a huge mahogany desk flanked by an American flag on one side and a Texas state flag on the other. The walls were covered with framed photos of the congressman shaking hands with a variety of celebrities including all the recent presidents.
“My name is Dr. Blumenthal,” began Marissa as soon as she was seated. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Michael shook his head. “Should it?” he asked in a friendly fashion.
“Perhaps,” said Marissa, unsure of how to proceed.
“Are you from Houston?” asked Michael.
“I’m from Atlanta,” said Marissa. “From the CDC.” She watched to see if there was any unusual response. There wasn’t.
“The CDC,” repeated Michael. “Are you here in an official capacity?”
“No,” admitted Marissa. “I’m interested in the congressman’s association with the Center. Is it one of his particular concerns?”
“I’m not sure ‘particular’ is the right word,” said Michael warily. “He’s concerned about all areas of health care. In fact Congressman Markham has introduced more health-care legislation than any other congressman. He’s recently sponsored bills limiting the immigration of foreign medical school graduates, a bill for compulsory arbitration of malpractice cases, a bill establishing a federal ceiling on malpractice awards and a bill limiting federal subsidy of HMO—Health Maintenance Organization—development . . .” Michael paused
to catch his breath.
“Impressive,” said Marissa. “Obviously he takes a real interest in American medicine.”
“Indeed,” agreed Michael. “His daddy was a general practitioner, and a fine one at that.”
“But as far as you know,” continued Marissa, “he does not concern himself with any specific projects at the CDC.”
“Not that I know of,” said Michael.
“And I assume that not much happens around here without your knowing about it.”
Michael grinned.
“Well, thank you for your time,” said Marissa, getting to her feet. Intuitively, she knew she wasn’t going to learn anything more from Michael Abrams.
Returning to the street, Marissa felt newly despondent. Her sense of doing something positive about her situation had faded. She had no idea if she should hang around Washington for three days waiting for Markham’s return, or if she should just go back to Atlanta.
She wandered aimlessly toward the Capitol. She’d already checked into a hotel in Georgetown, so why not stay? She could visit some museums and art galleries. But as she gazed at the Capitol’s impressive white dome, she couldn’t help wondering why a man in Markham’s position should bother with her, even if he were a friend of Dubchek’s. Suddenly, she got the glimmer of an idea. Flagging a cab, she hopped in quickly and said, “Federal Elections Commission; do you know where that is?”
The driver was a handsome black who turned to her and said, “Lady, if there’s some place in this city that I don’t know, I’ll take you there for nothin’.”
Satisfied, Marissa settled back and let the man do the driving. Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of a drab semimodern office building in a seedy part of downtown Washington. A uniformed guard paid little heed to Marissa other than to indicate she had to sign the register before she went in. Uncertain which department she wanted, Marissa ended up going into a first-floor office. Four women were typing busily behind gray metal desks.