The Plague Doctor Read online

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 2002 by Joan Garcia.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  Chapter One

  Six days after Labor Day I bid a grateful farewell to the sultry and oppressive heat of the dog days of summer. In less than a week, the winds blew away the grey cocoon of humid, low-lying air that had trapped the summer’s heat to expose the brilliant blue of the early autumn sky. These high stratospheric winds scoured fluffy white clouds into thin wispy ribbons. Mares’ tails, that’s what my father used to call those high striated clouds. He claimed it was sailor’s jargon. I’m sure it was. Sailing was just one of the many things he had loved to do

  The summer had been wet as well as hot. The grass was tall and green, and every hillside was brightly decorated with dancing yellow heads of Goldenrod and Black-eyed Susans. Dainty white splotches of Queen Anne’s Lace lined the roadsides and country lanes. Dragonflies and honeybees skimmed over the newly mown fields with a pleasant hum, and songbirds were outdoing each other with farewell concerts before heading south for the winter. It was my favorite time of year in Kentucky.

  Everything would have been perfect except for the fact that my beautiful daughter, Cassandra, was in love again. The first sign of this emotional turn of events came one evening when she asked if she could raid my closet. She needed something silky and feminine from my past. Another dead giveaway was the fact that she kept bumping into furniture and breaking her grandmother’s antique porcelain teacups. And most troubling of all, she had developed a very inconvenient memory loss concerning the care and feeding of her nasty-tempered but adoring Lhasa Apso, Agatha Christie—Aggie for short.

  The object of her affections was a nice enough young man. He was not very handsome, but he was not hard to look at in a homely blonde sort of way. He was pleasant and polite, interesting and intelligent, and he enjoyed spending time with the whole family. I tolerated him as politely as I had all of his predecessors.

  My imaginary alter ego, Leonard Paisley, the detective hero of my mystery novels, had been instructed by my agent to “get busy or else.” The real writer, me, Paisley Sterling, was having trouble getting started on a new book. Lazy Indian summer days on the farm were just too beautiful. I often found myself gazing through the French doors of the library in my mother’s sprawling country home instead of conjuring up daring deeds for the intrepid Leonard.

  More often than not, after a delightful lunch prepared by my culinary genius of a parent, I would whistle for Aggie and sneak out for a run in the back forty. The dog never tired of hunting things smaller and furrier than herself, and I never tired of just being me and being here.

  Meadowdale Farm had been in my family for years. When I rented out my townhouse in New York and came back here to live a year ago, I became a true clodhopper, a mud bud, a lover of all things earthy and fertile. I had also happily forsaken my city persona and burned my panty hose. It was clean livin’ in high cotton for me, Paisley Sterling DeLeon, country girl, from now on. Cassie was welcome to anything in my closet. I was through with Gucci and Pucci. My idea of formal dress was a linen jacket over my jeans. If more formality was required, then my presence was not. I kept my unruly auburn hair under bandanas or within the restraint of a ribbon if the occasion called for it. My figure had slimmed to the dimensions of my college days, and my hazel eyes dressed up my freckled face with happiness. I was free of the constraints and demands of city life. I had followed my bliss.

  It was ironic, really, if you considered that when I was writing nature-oriented stories, the Bartholomew the Blue-eyed Cricket children’s series, I had lived in the middle of Manhattan. Now, happily ensconced in my rural paradise, I was writing hard-boiled detective novels set in the tough, dirty streets I had abandoned. Unfortunately, I was about to find out that every paradise has its snake.

  The afternoon it all began, Aggie and I took a long, satisfying walk over to the man-made lake at the back end of the farm and picked up a ton of beggar lice along the way. I dreaded the thought of having to comb them out of the dog’s thick, soft fur. She was a vicious little mutt and had the bite of a cobra.

  We walked for almost two hours before we headed back home. Aggie’s tongue was hanging out, and I was really looking forward to a cold gin and tonic on the patio before dinner.

  My mother, Anna Howard Sterling, was much more proper, stylish, and, well, much more everything than me. Tonight she was making one of her spectacular dinners for Ethan’s birthday. Cassie was creating, or maybe constructing was a better word, her boyfriend’s cake. For my part, I had promised to behave myself, comb my hair, and wear a dress—ergo, the gin and tonic.

  Aggie and I ran the last mile home. We collapsed in a grateful heap on the chaise lounge on the patio in the middle of the big lawn in back of the house.

  “There you are, my pretty! I was afraid I would have to drink alone.”

  Horatio Raleigh, my mother’s old and dear friend, came out to greet me with a tray of canapés and two tall, frosty glasses decorated with a slices of lime. Horatio himself was tall and lean, and walked with a military bearing. A neatly trimmed white halo of hair circled the sides of his head, and a Van Dyke beard adorned the bottom half of his handsome, roguish face.

  He smiled ruefully as he handed me my libation. “I’ve abandoned the kitchen. Your lovely mother will not even acknowledge my presence when she is in the throes of working her culinary magic. And I was afraid to disturb your daughter. She might make me taste something.”

  He leaned closer and patted my arm. “Just between you and me, my dear, we’d better find some other outlet for young Cassandra’s talents—judging from the looks of her young man’s birthday cake.”

  I took a long, cool sip of gin. “Umm, that bad?”

  “Do the words, ‘leaning tower of Pisa’ ring a bell?”

  “Perhaps animal husbandry…” I mused.

  Horatio nodded at the puppy curled up against my legs on the chaise “Yes, by all means. Let her breed that vicious little mutt.”

  As if she had been cued by a stage manager, Aggie raised a perfectly adorable fuzzy head and curled her little black puppy lips in a snarl.

  Horatio shuddered dramatically and added in a theatrical whisper, “Imagine the savings in our national defense budget. We could kiss the Cruise missile goodbye.”

  A large and very fat rabbit crept out of the blackberry bushes along the fencerow and munched cautiously on some clover. He must have given a silent bunny signal to his buddies, because a short while later, six more joined him in the picnic. Horatio and I sat very still and watched their antics. When a big groundhog, whom we had named Zacharias, lumbered up from his den under the herb garden, the rabbits respectfully made way for him as he waddled over to the pear tree to dine on the fallen fruit.

  I sighed contentedly and thanked God for the one millionth time that my father and grandfather had had the foresight and the vision to buy this place. I was also grateful that the next generation of Sterlings, including me, had held on to it for dear life.

  The big old farmhouse had originated as a “four pen” log cabin with no electricity and no plumbing. By the time I was born, that original humble dwelling had become a sprawling country cottage with six bedrooms and seven baths.

  We no longer farmed the land. The pretty, white-faced Hereford cattle that we kept in my grandfather’s day were long gone. But the fields were still sown with seed every spring and mowed every fall. And according to my father’s wishes, we were careful to leave scattered thickets and bits of woods here and there for the abundant wild life.

  Horatio leaned back in his rocker and smiled at me.

  “There’s a bit of gossip in town about this yo
ung man of Cassandra’s.”

  “Oh, yeah? Just what has the Rowan Springs Country Club rumor mill come up with this time?”

  “Well actually, it’s more like the ‘spit and whittle’ crowd.”

  “The old coots who spend the day sitting on the wooden benches outside of the hardware store? What in the world does a dapper gentleman like yourself have in common with the likes of them? Were you telling them where they could buy Giorgio Armani overalls?”

  “Very amusing, my dear.” Horatio paused as he took a drink. “I buried one of them last week.”

  “Oops, sorry,” I sputtered.

  Horatio’s family had owned and operated the one and only local funeral home since Rowan Springs was a wide spot on the road. He was semi-retired now, and only went into the “shop” when someone of importance or wealth passed on and the family needed a bereavement counselor.

  “Yes, he continued, “poor old soul. Lived alone with seven hound dogs and a mattress stuffed with hundred dollar bills. He had a lovely funeral. Nothing but the best.”

  “I bet!”

  “Now, now, my pet, mustn’t be judgmental. His friends enjoyed it immensely. Catered, you know. He left a will, and I followed his every instruction to the letter. As I was saying, the old coots who attended were all discussing young Dr. Ethan McHenry. They say he is some sort spy for the government. Some claim he was sent here to see if that new African virus has infected the local livestock. Another old gentleman swears he saw the good doctor beam up to a flying saucer the other night out in the middle of Judge Hershey’s pasture.”

  “Wow! Maybe I should visit the spit and whittle for some inspiration for my book. Those old guys have some imagination.”

  “Perhaps you could just imbibe of the same locally made spirits. You would have similar results, I imagine.”

  “Speaking of spirits, would you be a dear and fix me another drink while I dash in for a quick shower?” I made a face. “Promised Cassie I would dress for dinner.”

  He winked back. “Be happy to, my dear. And if that’s Dr. McHenry’s strange little car pulling up in the drive, tell him to join me. I’ll fix one for him as well.”

  Ethan McHenry was a good bit taller than Cassie, which made him very tall indeed. He was thin, almost gaunt, and bespectacled. His features were regular, with a nice straight nose and a firm square chin, but by no means could he be called attractive.

  He would make a funny looking old man. One could imagine him bent over a cane with a long white beard growing almost to the ground. I had seen a drawing like that in a childhood storybook once. I thought of it each time we met.

  The best thing about Dr. McHenry was that he considered himself to be the luckiest man in the world because Cassie had agreed to date him. He treated her like a queen. Moms like that. Cassie obviously liked it, too.

  As I approached, I could see that Ethan was struggling to get something out of the back of his tiny little car. The vehicle was some sort of old Volkswagen convertible. He called it a Karmann Ghia. I wondered what on earth possessed a man so big and awkward to buy such a small car—and in orange, too, for heaven’s sake.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. DeLeon. Please pardon my back. Ummmff, ouch. Excuse me, my elbow’s caught.”

  He pulled himself free and whirled around holding a large gallon bucket full of fat, ripe, blackberries. He smiled down at me.

  “Found these this morning when I was poking around, ah, out in the woods. Gorgeous, right? Thought Mrs. Sterling could make something terrific with them.”

  I was mesmerized by his smile. Now I knew what Cass saw in him. His whole face joined in his happiness. His blue eyes sparkled. His firm lips turned up to expose straight white teeth. He made you happy that he was happy. I found myself grinning back at him like an idiot.

  “Thank you, Ethan. How thoughtful. I know she’ll love them. That must be where you got all those scratches—in a blackberry patch.”

  The smile vanished. I felt as though I had turned off a warm and comforting light. He sat the bucket down and quickly rolled down the sleeves of his blue chambray shirt. Either his arms were too long or his sleeves too short, because they failed to hide some really deep, angry-looking marks on his wrists and forearms.

  “Oh, forget about it,” he said. “I’m fine,” His face had stained a shade redder than his sunburned nose.

  His obvious discomfort aroused my curiosity. I started to make a further comment, but he seemed so uneasy I decided to let it go.

  “Well, I’m going to wash up. I’m running late. Cassie’s in the kitchen. I’ll take the berries. She’s working on something she probably won’t want you to see yet. Or ever,” I added under my breath. I called back over my shoulder as I headed for the house. “Horatio has a drink ready for you on the patio.”

  Ethan peered over his glasses and went loping off in that direction.

  Chapter Two

  We had dinner on the back porch. According to my mother, it was simple fare: creamed chicken and wild mushrooms in phyllo cups with warm goat cheese tarts and grilled vegetables. I didn’t quite keep my promise to dress for dinner but I did spruce up a clean pair of jeans with a silk shirt in a lovely warm apricot.

  I needn’t have worried about my outfit—Mother had dressed up enough for both of us. She wore an Oscar de la Renta gypsy skirt and peasant blouse that would have made me look like a bag lady. She looked like a million dollars.

  Cassandra wore a simple pale aqua shift that came to the top of her pretty knees and showed off her long, tanned legs to perfection. My daughter, her rich pile of dark hair piled carelessly on top of her head and tied with a green velvet ribbon, was full of smiles and laughter. I found it hard to take my eyes off her face, and so did Ethan. Cassie was so beautiful it was a pleasure just to look at her.

  We watched the late September sun go down while we ate what was left of Ethan’s birthday cake. Cassandra had been humiliated when the top fell onto the floor as she was bringing it out to the porch. Aggie had immediately jumped into the middle of the sugary, gooey mess and started gobbling. Mother was horrified, and I, of course, started laughing. Ethan saved the day by scooping up Aggie and most of the mess in his big hands. He threw the cake in the garbage on the way to dumping the dog in the nearest bathtub. I mopped up the residue and made Cassie quit sniffling. Then we all sat back down and started over again with the bottom half of what turned out to be a very tasty cake.

  Mother patted Cassie on the shoulder. “Never mind dear, you’ve got down the basics. Next time we’ll work on aesthetics. I have a lovely dessert cookbook that tells all. Have another piece, Ethan?”

  What a sweet guy! He ate three pieces. Cassie’s smile got bigger with each piece. Ah, young love.

  We took our coffee and Cointreau out to the patio and watched the fireflies send their little signals of yearning to each other. The moon rose slowly over the trees to illuminate the night garden I had planted that spring. I had taken special care in choosing only flowers with white blossoms. The big silver reflecting ball I had always wanted sat in the middle of the yard on a pedestal and made the whole thing magical. It looked like a fairy garden.

  The scene evoked memories of the summer when Cassie was twelve and into crystals. We had taken them all around the yard and hidden them in tree trunks. They were for the fairies and gnomes, she had said. I wonder what had happened to them. I guess the bark grew up around and over, encompassing each little piece of quartz. I supposed they would make a future Sterling pause and reflect someday when he cut down the tree. It had better be a Sterling, after all the hard work we had put into this place.

  I was surprised that the young people showed no signs of leaving. Mother was apparently thinking the same thing.

  “You children have no plans for tonight?”

  “No, Mrs. Sterling. I hope you don’t mind if we stick around?”

  “Why, of course not, Ethan, dear. We love your company. But how can you put up with us old fuddy duddys?”

  “
Come on, Gran, quit fishing for a compliment. You know you’re about as far from a fuddy or a duddy as they come.”

  “As a matter of fact I’ve been looking forward to some conversation with you, young man.”

  “Yes, Mr. Raleigh?”

  “Please, call me Horatio. It seems there are a few rumors floating around town as to the reason for your visit to our little neck of the woods. What does Rowan Springs have that would interest a man of your experience and talents?”

  “Ethan, have you been holding back on me?” teased Cass.

  It was too dark to see him blush, but I’m sure he did. It was something he did often. It made him look almost handsome—like a young Gary Cooper.

  “Your young man here is quite well-known in certain scientific circles, Cassandra. Before he went to work for the Centers for Disease Control, he was in Kinshasa trying to find the original vector for the Ebola virus.”

  “What’s a ‘vector’, Ethan?”

  Horatio went on as if Cass had asked him instead of her boyfriend.

  “Let me finish showing off here, my dear. I learned all of this from the Internet this afternoon when my curiosity about this young man could be contained no longer. A vector is the creature, insect or animal, which carries a viral or bacterial agent—an illness if you will—to man. An example would be the mosquito whose bite causes malaria. The vector that causes Marburg Disease, or the Ebola virus, has yet to be identified. Am I correct young man?”

  “Right you are, sir. You’re a fast learner.”

  Horatio smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “I also found out that young Dr. Ethan McHenry went into a cave in Africa where the original case of Marburg was contracted. I would say that is comparable to Daniel going into the lion’s den.”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly like that. I was wearing protective gear.”

  “Nonsense, my boy. Daring to enter a dark and dangerous cavern in search of an unknown entity which causes a deadly untreatable virus—why, I call that damned heroic!”