We all fall down, p.23
We All Fall Down, page 23
“Rafael Pasqua,” Alana says.
Silvio’s eyes light with recognition. “Prego! The other good doctor. You read the diary, yes?”
“Not in full yet,” Alana says. “But a friend of mine did. He described some of the highlights. For example, the crypt under the monastery.”
Silvio tilts his head in curiosity. “Yes? What about it?”
“The monks built it to enshrine the rats.”
“They did.”
“But also to keep them alive for future generations,” she says. “In case God wanted them to be released again.”
“Well, of course no one could ever reach the crypt once it was built,” Silvio explains. “We did not speak of rats anymore. They were only . . . symbolic. But I always believed there to be a kind of divine presence below us.”
“Is that why you warned Emilio about tampering with the hallowed ground?” Alana asks.
Silvio nods.
“And what about the rat keeper? Was that a role that had been passed down through the years?”
“No. Not since the Middle Ages,” Silvio scoffs. “Most of the brothers did not even know of the rats. Or what the . . . scivolo . . . was built for—”
“The scivolo?” Nico interjects. “Like a slide?”
“Yes, like when you throw the dirty clothes down the hole?” Silvio fumbles for the English translation. “Except this one is for garbage.”
“A chute?” Alana offers.
“Sì,” Silvio says. “Made of stone. Don Marco had the brothers install it. The only connection to the crypt. But not so long that the rats could ever reach it from below. We would throw food that is rotting down the scivolo. It was a tradition.”
Alana jerks her head back in surprise. “So, it’s true! The brothers have continued to feed those rats for over six hundred years!”
Silvio grimaces. “What rats?”
“The ones who brought the Black Death back to Genoa.”
“No! They would have died off long ago.”
“They didn’t,” Alana says. “Our team trapped one of them.”
“Non è possibile.” Silvio shakes his head adamantly.
“The plague, Brother Silvio. Don’t you see? It returned as soon as they tore down your monastery. As soon as those rats were freed.”
He goes quiet for a long moment. “Could it be? The plague returned from San Giovanni? From our very monastery?”
“Yes,” Alana says. “And we think someone deliberately released those rats.”
“Why would anyone do this?”
“We can’t answer that, not yet. But who else at the monastery would have known about the rats?”
Silvio only shakes his head.
“Then who else read Pasqua’s diary?” Alana asks.
“I . . . I cannot say,” he says, avoiding her gaze. “Maybe ask Don Arturo. He knows such things better than I do.”
Chapter
Forty-Nine
He feels so exposed sitting at the far terminal in the Internet café. His fingers tremble on the keyboard. To calm his breathing, he has to remind himself that the seats beside him are unoccupied and that no one seems to be paying any attention to him. He is accustomed to going unnoticed. Brother Silvio used to describe it as God’s gift to him. “You must view it as more of a blessing than a curse, my boy. Some people thrive in the shadows.”
Just like my rats, he thinks. The more time he spends with the creatures, the more he can relate to them. They shun attention, too. And they understand their place in this world.
He glances over either shoulder before he taps in the password to his email server. There is only one new message in his in-box. Anxious as he is to read it, he pauses to take another discreet scan of the room. Satisfied no one is watching, he taps the mouse and the message appears.
“You must always abide His word,” the email instructs. “When He tells you to go forth, He means for you to carry His sacred creatures eastward. To Asia. I am convinced of it. You must release them in the Far East, the squalor of civilization, where they do not heed His word.” The sender then quotes a familiar verse from the Book of Psalms: “Let death steal over them. Let them go down to Sheol alive, for evil is in their dwelling place and in their heart.”
He swallows hard, trying to steel his courage. He has never before left Italy, let alone the Continent. “New ships depart for the Far East every day,” the message goes on to say. “If I were the chosen one, I would go to the harbor and find a working ship. Perhaps a freighter? They are always in need of new crew. Is your passport in order?” The email ends, as they all do, with the same phrase, “You will be forever blessed.”
He replies with three words—“passport in order”—and then deletes the messages. As soon as the screen confirms that he has been logged out of the email server, he rises to his feet and heads for the door. He keeps his eyes straight ahead but makes no attempt to cover his face. After all, no one remembers seeing the invisible.
As he steps into the warm Neapolitan air, his resolve is stronger than ever. He does not doubt that Dr. Lonzo is a good man and an able psychiatrist. But in this case, he must be wrong. If only he could tell him: Do you not see, Dr. Lonzo? It is not only God who is instructing me.
Chapter
Fifty
The two men in white biohazard suits wheel the sealed black body bag out of the ICU room. The gurney almost grazes Alana’s gown as they pass her. The twenty-nine-year-old on it died only minutes earlier, following another failed resuscitation that ended in as much blood spatter as any Alana had witnessed. The woman had apparently been out celebrating her second anniversary with her husband only the day before. Now she represented Genoa’s thirty-ninth plague-related victim in the one week since Vittoria’s death. Fortieth, if you were to include her fetus, Alana thinks miserably.
She feels an elbow brush up against hers and glances over to see Byron at her side. “I want to show you something,” he says, grinning.
“What’s there possibly to smile about, Byron?”
“Couple of things,” he says, as he guides her toward another room in the ICU. “First of all, there have only been eight plague-related deaths today.”
“And that makes you smile?”
“There were eleven yesterday.”
Alana sees his point. In epidemiological terms, any decrease in the number of daily deaths or new victims in the acute phase of an outbreak represents a potential indicator of containment. But she’s not ready to concede. “The day’s not over.”
“Will be in fifteen minutes.” He nods to the digital clock above them that reads almost midnight.
“And you’re not even counting new cases in Naples,” she points out. “At least six more, with two deaths already.”
“We can only manage this outbreak city by city,” he says, undeterred. “If our model works here, then we can replicate it elsewhere.”
Alana isn’t buying it. “What are you not telling me, Byron?”
He steers her to another one of the rooms and motions to the patient who lies on the stretcher on the other side of the glass. With all the lines running into him, it takes Alana a moment to notice that he isn’t connected to a ventilator. Only a simple oxygen mask covers his face.
“This is Pietro Molaro,” Byron announces. “Pietro is the fifth patient to contract antibiotic-resistant plague. The other four are dead. Yesterday, it seemed certain Pietro was about to join them.”
Alana watches the patient reposition himself on the bed without help. “You mean he’s improving?”
Byron’s smile brightens.
“How?”
“Thanks to Claudio Dora.”
“Claudio? What does he have to do with this? He only left hospital today.”
“Yes, but the lab managed to extract the antibodies from the blood of a few survivors, including Claudio. Specifically, the immune globulins active against Yersinia. From that, they were able to genetically engineer enough antiserum to treat Pietro.”
“And it worked?” She waves the question away. “Well, obviously it did. But I thought it was going to take weeks or months to produce antiserum.”
“Originally, so did we. But the lab used an experimental technique. They cloned the DNA for the specific antibodies, then expressed them in a non-secreting myeloma cell line and purified the immune globulin from the supernatant.”
To most ears, the explanation would have sounded like gobbledygook, but Alana listens with growing excitement. She understands it means that scientists were able to splice the genetic information from Claudio’s antibodies into the genes of cancer cells and then use those rapidly multiplying malignant cells to produce enough of the protective antibodies to treat another patient.
“How much antiserum did they produce?” she asks.
Byron’s smile dims. “Enough for just one patient. But they’re ramping up to make more. With any luck, they’ll be able to produce hundreds of doses in the next couple of weeks.”
“Hundreds? That’s good. Very good. But it’s not a silver bullet. Not yet, at least. We’re going to need many more doses, and sooner than a couple weeks. By then the dam might’ve already burst.”
“True.”
“Meanwhile the plague continues to spiral out of control in Naples. And we still don’t have a goddamn clue as to how it actually got there.”
“Agreed.”
She throws up her hands. “We haven’t even really tied those mutant rats—and the medieval monastery that hid them for all these years—back to this outbreak.”
Byron points to the patient, who sits himself up in the bed with ease. “Granted, Pietro over there represents a small victory. But it’s a significant one. Maybe our first since this all started. He’s worth celebrating, Alana.”
An hour later, they end up at an all-night restaurant, an ancient diner in the old town with low ceilings and red-checkered tablecloths. The only other guests are two students who each sit at separate tables with laptops open and earbuds in.
The penne marinara is so delicious that Alana can’t help but wolf it down. Byron watches her in amusement. “Are you ending a hunger strike tonight?”
“Practically,” she says unapologetically as she swallows the last bite. “I might be the first person ever to spend a week in Italy and actually lose weight.”
Byron lifts his beer bottle to his lips without really sipping it. “You look . . . um . . . amazing tonight . . . all things considered.”
“All things considered?” She grabs her chest, feigning insult.
“Dana used to tell me I was never much good at that.”
“What? Compliments?”
“Small talk. What I’m trying to say is that after a week of nonstop outbreak-chasing and practically no sleep, you look really—”
He stops when she breaks into a laugh.
“Dammit! I’m useless at this.”
“Beyond useless,” she says. “Do you still think about her much?”
“Dana? Less than I used to, but I still do. After she left, I hung on to the belief that we were going to somehow work it out. We always made so much sense together. To me, anyway.”
“How so?”
“Similar interests, same career, matching life goals—at least, I thought so.” His gaze falls to the tablecloth. “I guess we were just one of those couples who looked a lot better on paper than in real life.”
“It’s easy to get fooled, huh?”
He nods. “Is that what happened with Nico?”
“Nico and I never made much sense on paper.”
“Really?” His expression is skeptical. “A couple of idealistic infectious diseases doctors who both worked for the WHO . . .”
“One of whom has an alcohol problem and two young children?” she counters. “He has a huge heart, though. And we both shared real passion for the work. That first mission—the cholera outbreak in Angola—was all-consuming. We were young. Naïve, too. You know what it’s like in the field.”
He studies the label on his bottle. “Yup. I do.”
“I guess we confused those emotions for something more.”
“Or maybe you were just in love?”
“Yeah, maybe. No, you’re right. We were. But if there’s one thing this past week has reinforced for me, it’s that Nico and I never would have had a future together.”
“Can you really know for sure without—”
“What the hell, Byron? You asked me to dinner just to sell me on an ex?”
Byron laughs. “Mea culpa.”
Alana bites her lip. “Don’t start in on the Latin now, charmer! I will lose it.”
The server approaches with a bottle of house wine to top up her glass, but Alana waves him off. She rises from the table, pulling Byron up by the hand with her. “It’s crazy late. Pay the bill and take me home.”
As soon as they step outside into the cool night air, Alana spins and leans into him without another thought. Her lips find his and she kisses him. She feels his arms wrap tighter around her. Warmth runs from her chest to her thighs. She kisses him more urgently, sliding her tongue between his teeth, expressing a need she didn’t even realize she had.
As soon as the cab pulls up to the curb, Byron fumbles for the door without releasing her from his grip. They maneuver themselves into the backseat. As the taxi pull away, she climbs onto his lap and kisses him ferociously. His warm breath excites her. He squeezes her breast. She grinds her hips into his. His hardness presses between her legs, and it arouses her more. She strokes him through his pants.
Just as the cab pulls up to her hotel, her phone dings with multiple new text notifications. She’s tempted to ignore them, but she recognizes the unique chime for the one she has assigned to Sergio. Still straddling Byron, she digs the phone of out of her purse.
A grainy photo pops up on the screen. It’s a close-up of a clean-shaven, nondescript young man. His face is tilted but his features are clear, particularly the smallish eyes and square jaw. She scrolls down to see a second, wider-angle photo of the same man taken from above, undoubtedly by a surveillance camera. He’s standing beside two women. Even though the taller woman is only caught in profile, Alana recognizes her immediately for the transgendered Juliet.
Below the photos, Sergio has written: “The religious lunatic?”
Chapter
Fifty-One
Today is the third day of March. I write with a heavy heart and a conscience laden with guilt, for yesterday I committed more sins in a single day than a virtuous man might in a lifetime.
I was awoken at dawn by a pounding at my door. I opened it to find two soldiers at the threshold. Before I could say a word, the bearded of the two grabbed hold of my arm. The other, stouter one announced that, by order of the Archbishop, I was to accompany them. I had to plead with them for time enough to gather my cloak and hat.
The soldiers marched me on foot up the hill. Inside the palace, the stout soldier shepherded me roughly down a narrow dark hallway in the opposite direction from the Archbishop’s quarters. I assumed he was leading me to the dungeon or the stockade, and my breathing quickened with trepidation. However, the chamber he shoved me inside was no prison. The room bore no windows and was lit only by torchlight, but I recognized it for an infirmary of sorts, with four straw mattresses spread out across the stone floor. Each was occupied.
The stout soldier would not cross the entryway, but he motioned to the man on the farthest of the mattresses near to the wall. Him! he commanded.
The wet rattles emanating from the chests of the men inside confirmed they had been afflicted by plague. I did not recognize the first person I passed, nor the second, although I could tell from his vacant countenance and still chest that he had already died. However, I had met the third man before. He was one of the two priests who had previously escorted me to see the Archbishop. He looked up at me with a face drenched in sweat and eyes large with fear, but he said nothing as I continued past.
When I reached the far mattress, I did not immediately recognize the old man lying at my feet. His complexion was gray and he shook like a leaf in a storm, despite the furs bundled about him. It was not until he opened his eyes that I realized I was gazing down upon the Archbishop’s esteemed physician, Doctor Volaro.
I did not call for you, Volaro said in a voice that trembled as violently as the rest of him.
When did you fall ill? I asked as I knelt beside him.
Send for a real physician, he commanded in a weak voice. I want none of the primitive ways of you barbers.
I am doubtful any doctor, physician or surgeon, will be of service to you, I said truthfully.
And yet you can?
No, sir, I said in the kindest voice I could summon. Your condition is too advanced for intervention.
Your opinion is not worthy of my consideration, Volaro said as he struggled to roll over and show his back to me.
The soldier beckoned me over to the doorway. He led me down the corridor to the Archbishop’s chamber. We had to wait at the door for several moments before being granted access. I stepped into a room that was as warm as a fever. The fire inside raged like a funeral pyre. The Archbishop sat as before on his raised chair and fidgeted with the ring on his finger as I approached. As I neared, he shook the same finger at me. You have attended Doctor Volaro and my priests? he asked.
I have, Your Grace, I said, bowing before him. They appear to all suffer from the chest plague. One of them has already died.
Yes, he said. Despite our best precautions, the plague has still invaded this house of God.
It appears to be inescapable, Your Grace.
And yet you have escaped it, Doctor Pasqua.
I did not escape it, Your Grace. However, I was fortunate to survive it.
By consuming the blood of rats. Is that not so?
I cannot say, Your Grace.
You will share with me the remedy that has offered you such protection! he shouted.
It was not so much the Archbishop’s sudden show of temper, but the demand itself, that made my neck hairs bristle. I thought of Don Marco’s offer to provide sanctuary for Gabriella and her family. The idea of the Archbishop’s men harvesting rats at the monastery troubled me. What if they were to happen upon the Jews?
