Page 13 of The Shadow Friends

“He isn’t breathing!” Maggie said. “Get them in here!”

“They need protective gear!” He turned to the paramedics. “Respirators, goggles, gloves!”

“Why? What’s going on here?” one of the paramedics said.

“This patient is a doctor. He just flew in from Uganda, where he was treating Ebola patients. I can smell the vomit from here. I have to assume he’s been infected.”

Maggie stared down at Maslov’s sweat-slicked face, remembering that last night, Ingrid had mentioned his work in Uganda. Now she thought about how many breaths she’d blown into his lungs, how many times she’d pressed her mouth to his. How many viral particles had she breathed in?

As the paramedics pulled on masks and goggles, Maggie backed away from Maslov and started toward the door.

“Wait,” said Stamoran. He found an N95 mask in the paramedics’ kit and tossed it to her. “Put that on first.”

A little too late now, she thought as she pulled the straps over her head. “Can I leave?”

“Not yet. We’re going to find you a Tyvek suit. Did you perform mouth to mouth?”

“I had to. He wasn’t breathing.”

“Then you’ve been fully exposed.”

She watched as the paramedics, now garbed in protective gear, crouched over Maslov’s body. Quietly she asked Stamoran: “Do you really think this is Ebola?”

“It could be just food poisoning. But we can’t afford to take a chance.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You need to go into isolation.”

“For how long?”

“Until they determine it isn’t Ebola.”

“And if it is?”

He suddenly looked away, as if he didn’t want her to see the truth in his eyes. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Chapter 6

Jo

During her decade and a half as a cop, Purity police chief Jo Thibodeau had seen the worst her town could throw at her. She’d dealt with petty thefts and assaults and drunk drivers, the usual issues that plagued every community. She’d even dealt with the occasional homicide, which was rare in a small town where most people knew who the troublemakers were and avoided them. Most of her calls, though, involved minor matters. A fender bender or a moose blocking the road or a neighbor’s party going on too loud and too late. Bread-and-butter calls, like the one she’d just received from Dispatch:

The manager at the Cod Cove Resort says one of their waitresses, Karen O’Brien, didn’t show up for work this morning, and that’s not like her. She’s not answering her phone. They’re requesting a welfare check.

Jo could think of any number of benign reasons why a woman might not show up for work. Maybe Karen O’Brien had forgotten she was on the schedule today. Maybe she’d stayed up late last night, turned off her phone, and overslept. Maybe she’d forgotten to charge her phone, or lost her phone. Jo just needed to ring the doorbell, confirm the woman was alive and well, and then she could move on to the next call.

That’s how Jo expected this to turn out, anyway.

Karen O’Brien lived in one of the hotel’s employee cottages, located less than a mile from the resort itself. In a state that relied on tourism, where hotels and restaurants had to scramble every summer to find enough housekeepers and waiters and gardeners, the Cod Cove Resort offered an extra benefit to attract its seasonal staff: free housing. Their accommodations were by no means luxurious, judging by Cottage #14, where Karen O’Brien lived with her housemates, who were also resort employees. The front yard was choked with ragweed and wild burdock, the building’s shingles were cracked and splintering, and a thick layer of moss feathered the roof. An unlocked pedal bike leaned against the porch, a bike so old and battered that no self-respecting thief would bother to steal it.

Jo climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. Waited. Knocked again.

She heard movement inside, the creak of approaching footsteps. Then the door opened and a barefoot young man in shorts and a tee shirt appeared in the doorway, his mouth half open in a yawn. His shaggy blond hair was still tousled from bed, and he squinted against the sunlight, his eyes not quite awake.

“Good morning,” said Jo. “I’m Chief Thibodeau, Purity Police. I’m trying to locate Karen O’Brien. She lives in this cottage, right?”

“Yes. But she is in work now.” Judging by the young man’s accent, and by his sharply Slavic cheekbones, Jo thought he must be one of the Eastern European students the hotel hired every summer for the tourist season.