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She cast a coquettish look over her shoulder and bustled out.
“What the hell?” I said as soon as the door closed.
“That was awfully fast for the health department to show up here,” Kyle growled.
“No, I was talking about Allen turning into some sort of seductive sex god just now.”
Allen’s mouth twitched. “Let’s get the samples before she gets back.” He unslung his messenger bag and pulled out a syringe and blood vials. “Kyle can help me. Angel, run interference.”
“You got it.” I leaned against the door, hard. “If that doc wasn’t from the health department, I’m betting Allen’s paycheck they’re from Saberton. But how the hell did they know about Connor?”
“Same way they knew where and when to go alligator hunting,” Kyle said.
“A damn bug.” I scowled. “Even with all the sweeps.”
With Connor gurgling and snapping, Kyle and Allen went to work gathering the needed samples—including earwax, in case Saberton was onto something. As they were finishing up, someone shoved the door.
“Out of time,” I said in an urgent whisper, holding the door as whoever it was shoved again. Trusting the guys to scramble, I counted to five then pulled the door open. “Sorry! Dumb place for me to lean.” I made a show of step-stumbling back as a stocky, brown-haired man in maroon scrubs entered and gave me a tight smile. Brad Renley MD, according to the name embroidered above the pocket. At least his attention remained on me, which meant the guys weren’t in an obviously compromising position.
Allen zipped his messenger bag. “Brad, this is the colleague I told you about. Angel Crawford.”
“Ms. Crawford,” Dr. Renley said, face relaxing. “A pleasure. I heard you were with Deputy Connor when he went down.”
“It was pretty awful. Do you know what’s wrong?” Of course he didn’t, but it was the expected question.
“We suspect meningoencephalitis, but don’t know the cause yet. I’m starting him on broad spectrum antibiotics. They won’t hurt anything if the etiology is viral, but if it’s bacterial, better to initiate treatment ASAP. We’ll have more answers after a CT scan and lumbar puncture.”
I nodded, anxiety rising. What would a CT scan and lumbar puncture show? From what I’d gathered while working with Dr. Nikas, the zombie parasite couldn’t be detected with ordinary medical tests. It required specialized equipment, along with a knowledge of precisely what to look for. But what about the mutated parasite? For all I knew it might jump up and down and wave at the microscope, yelling, “Hey, look! I’m really fucking weird and like nothing you ever studied in med school!”
Patricia hurried in, IV bag in one hand, and a handwritten note in the other. “Dr. Renley, the EMR system is still down, but Mr. Connor’s primary care physician called back.” She passed him the note. “That’s the medical history. No known allergies.”
“Thanks. Go ahead and hang the Paxi.” He glanced at Allen. “Pain in the ass. The entire electronic medical records system crashed hard about fifteen minutes ago. Couldn’t even get into our backup.”
“That happen often?” Allen asked.
“First time since this system was installed.” He shook his head. “You don’t realize how dependent you are until you don’t have it.”
While Dr. Renley examined the monitor readings, Patricia cautiously approached the bed. Connor let out a howl and lunged, teeth snapping, but the restraints held, and Kyle stood ready to intervene. Would she dare get so close if she knew she was dealing with a zombie and not simply an unusual case of meningitis?
She hung the IV bag of Paxibiotic alongside the larger bag of normal saline already on the pole, then ran the tubing through the pump. “Mr. Prejean?” Her tone was cool and professional, probably because Dr. Renley frowned upon staff openly flirting with visitors. “The LDHH doctor is Linda Garrison. She was on her way out just now. But she said you can give her a call later.”
“Ah. Okay. I have her number.” Allen glanced my way, forehead creased in puzzlement that echoed my own. Did that mean the people who took the samples really had been from the health department and not Saberton?
“I’ll be right back,” I muttered and ducked into the corridor. Whatever the deal was with Dr. Garrison, we needed to know for sure.
I dug my phone from my pocket as I headed out the ambulance entrance. A black Humvee sat in the physician’s parking area barely twenty feet away. A bald man opened the passenger door for a heavyset woman with a long braid of auburn hair. I didn’t recognize her, but the man was unmistakable. Baldy from the Saberton boat.
I raised my phone and took a photo. Zhu-zhik!
The woman climbed into the vehicle, apparently oblivious to the stupid little sound. But Baldy’s gaze snapped my way, eyes narrowing in recognition.
Busted. He’d very likely seen my face out in the swamp, plus Saberton security no doubt had my picture plastered up on their most hated list. Not that I cared, since he was just as busted.
I scratched my nose with my extended middle finger. He closed the passenger door and sauntered around to the driver’s side, locked eyes with me and grabbed his crotch before climbing into the driver’s seat and slamming the door.
If there hadn’t been security cameras, I’d have mooned him, so instead I settled for a good ol’ Italian chin flick followed by a full-fisted “up yours.”
Baldy must have realized he couldn’t compete in the obscene gesture game with this white trash chi
