A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [140]
“What are you doing? Talk me through it, Griff,” Angie said. “Please, talk me through it.”
“I’m cleaning the puncture site on my arm with alcohol.… I’m fine, honey. I love you.… I’ve got a vein, a real good one.”
“I love you, Griff. Everything’s going to be all right. Tell me everything is going to be all right.”
“I’m in. Everything’s going to be all right. You told me on the houseboat not to just sit there drinking beer and fishing. You were right. This is where I’m supposed to be, doing something that matters.… Okay, I’m going to inject.”
“Griff…”
“Here it goes.”
Griff slid the needle into the bulging cord, snapped off the tourniquet, and depressed the plunger. Since he had chosen to go the IV route, using a large, concentrated quantity of virus, symptoms would not take long to develop. Griff took in a few deep breaths. Could it be that his chest already felt tight? Was that anxiety or was the virus already taking hold?
“Griff! Talk to me.”
“It’s in,” he said. “I’m doing fine.”
“How long will you wait?”
“Twenty minutes. Then I’ll inject Orion’s treatment.”
“Twenty minutes.… God, what am I going to do for twenty minutes.”
“We could tell ghost stories,” he suggested.
“Not funny.”
“Just sit with me, Angie. Just breathe into the phone. Just say something every now and then. Be with me. Be my lover. Be my friend. That’s all I need.”
Griff closed his eyes and listened to every sound that she made. The rustling of her hospital bedsheets. The beeping of some machine in the background. Her sighs. Her sobs.
His chest was getting tighter. There was wheezing now, too. He could hear it and feel it. Breathing deeply and deliberately through his nose, he picked up the syringe containing the antiviral serum. Orion had been pleased that J. R. Davis’s blood was AB negative. Griff wondered if that was related in any way to the interleukin excess and the heterochromia. Linked genes, perhaps.
“Talk, Griff. Talk to me!” Angie demanded.
“It’s in. I’ve got the treatment inside me. We just need to wait, now. Want me to call you back?”
“You big jerk. How long do we wait?”
“A couple hours I suppose. Close your eyes, Angie. I’ll wake you up.”
“I’ve got my phone plugged in so I can stay on the line. I won’t fall asleep.”
“It’s okay if you do.”
Griff sat at his desk, staring at the black plastic intercom and wishing it were she. His eyes felt heavy, but he suspected it would be impossible for him to sleep. The tightness was no better, but it did not seem much worse. For an hour they spoke only intermittently. They talked about Melvin, mostly, and what Angie had been through in Chinatown. And they talked about Africa.
Somewhere in the second hour, Angie fell asleep. They had been quiet for a stretch and then Griff heard the pattern of her breathing change. Instead of waking her, he just listened. An irritation had developed in his throat, and he cleared it with a small cough. He didn’t want to think about the scene when he first arrived in Statuary Hall at the Capitol, but there was no way he could stem the flood of images. He wondered if by now, he should have been feeling sicker.
He continued to listen to Angie as she slept.
It was nearing five in the morning—six, Angie time. Griff took his vitals on the hour. No change. He reached for the pen and notebook where he kept those records. Something about his hand caught his attention. Something that had not been there just a short while before.
Trying to will what he was seeing not to be so, he turned his hands over and held them up. His heart sank. Suddenly, the tight band around his chest intensified and his breathing became more labored.
Covering most of each palm, not unlike the bull’s-eye symbol for the popular department store, were intense, slightly irregular, concentric, scarlet circles.
“Everything okay, darling?” Angie asked dreamily. “I think I fell asleep.”
“Yeah, Ang,” Griff said, still staring in utter dismay at his palms. “Everything