"Red Herring" by Lewie

Henryville, Indiana

Population 1545

November

Jenny Pierson had her butt in the sand and her face on her bent knees.

She wanted to cry. She wanted her mommy.

Jenny was five years old and the sandbox was brand new. Daddy had built the frame and poured in a million tons of sand just yesterday and Jenny had been waiting for a week just to plop down in grainy sand and dig to someplace the grownups called China.

That's why she hadn't told anyone that she really didn't feel very well. In fact, she hadn't even wanted to crawl out of bed this morning, but she had been promised. Promised that she could play in the sand today for the very first time and Mommy didn't care how dirty she got because these were special play clothes. And only if the weather wasn't too cold, 'cause this was winter sorta and it had been cold already this year, but it wasn't cold today, not even cold enough to wear more than a sweater.

But this wasn't any fun. No fun at all.

She was shivering, her arms wrapped around her tiny body, her head hurt, it hurt so bad and she was hot and cold, hot and cold...

And then she didn't just want to cry any more, because she was crying, crying and rocking, with her arms around her knees and her body shaking so hard she thought she would fly apart and go to China that way instead of digging her way there. And then finally Mommy was there and picking her up and saying, "Jenny, what's wrong? Jenny? Oh my God, you're so hot!" and that was all she remembered or maybe it was all a dream.

'I'm late, I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date!"

She hated it when something got stuck on repeat in her head, especially when it's a particularly inane something. And oh boy, did this one fit that description.

Then on top of that, amid visions of watch fob bearing white rabbits running rampant through her mind, the water was screwed up again, so she had to suffer through a fast cold shower. It would have been fast anyway, but, damn, did it have to be cold! Breakfast was pretty a misnomer when applied to a piece of soggy toast, hastily slathered with grape jelly and lukewarm coffee.

But face it, Natalie, she reprimanded herself, you are 'Late, late, late, for a very important date!' Henryville, Indiana, seven afflicted, including a five year old girl who was the first to be diagnosed. It was never good when a child was involved; no matter what the disease or condition, it was the youngest who went first. She shook off the thought. If she let her mind wander to all the personalities, all the lives, she'd never be able to be effective in her job. And if she wasn't effective in her job, people died. It had nothing to do with a God complex. It was just her job. And she was good at it. They were all good at it.

One million deaths a year. That was the cost of malaria.

But not this way and not under these conditions. Malaria liked tropic or subtropic weather. The chance of cases of it showing up in one small, nearly isolated town in Indiana in the middle of winter with not one, single reported case of anyone even poking their nose into a foreign country was almost zero. Not to mention that malaria had been eradicated in the United States since the 1950's.

Add to that the fact that the spores were malformed, at least according to the reports they had received through their NIH contacts.

Besides, whoever heard of a mosquito in Indiana in the winter? Add to that the fact that these little nasties seemed to be resistant to the usual treatments and drug regimens. Not to mention that mosquito borne malaria, from all official reports, had not occurred this far north since 1972.

There was already one reported death: the five year old girl named Jenny Goldsmith.

As far as the local experts, and surprisingly there actually had been a local expert, knew little Jenny was patient zero. But the child hadn't been out of the country, hadn't been exposed to anyone who had been and at least according to her mother, hadn't been around any stagnant pools of water.

Natalie really, really hated it when a child was involved.

No time to dwell on that fact, though, which was probably a good thing. Holding up a (God, how much did that plane cost anyway?) plane because she'd overslept was not in her bio and this wasn't going to be the first time. One last look around the apartment and she grabbed her bag, coat and locked the door behind her.

She was almost at the door leading to the street before the manager caught her.

"Miss Durant!" His slight Irish brogue always made her smile for some reason. There was just such a pleasant lilt to it. "There's a package for you. It was just delivered. I was just on my way up to give it to you."

Absently, she took the small parcel, thanked him and kept walking, then had second thoughts as curiosity woke from its temporary stasis. Putting her bag down, she took a look at the envelope.

"From an admirer."

That was it. A plain, card stock square of paper taped to an ordinary business size envelope with those words typed on it.

Oh now, that was exciting, romantic, exotica little glimmer of George Clooney... no, too rough hewn... Harrison Ford? maybe... nope, Brad Pitt, definitely Brad Pitt. With a guilty glance at the big clock in the lobby... she still had time... she opened the envelope and a small silver charm spilled out into her hand.

Memory flooded in and Natalie sat down for just a moment in the nearest lobby chair, staring at the glittering charm in her hand. Who would have known? Her fingers twitched and almost ached with a longing she thought she'd put away long ago. She didn't even notice that she was smiling as she ran her fingers over the surface of the charm, tracing the outline of the grand piano and for just a second letting her mind drift back to much simpler times.

Even with three entire medical libraries on CD, there just never were enough texts that had been converted over. Which was why Miles figured he was going to have a hernia before he hit 25. At least this time he'd managed to cram everything into one bag which just might save him from Frank's 'you carrying the Library of Congress with you?' cracks. Maybe.

He smiled at that. Frank's friendly teasing gave him the nudge he needed when he was most feeling insecure about being in the company of the others. Miles had been labeled a Wunderkind before he'd gone through puberty and while other students thought that it gave him an edge over all the rest of them, it was a heavy burden to carry. People never seemed to remember that once labeled something like that, you had to spend the rest of your life living up to it. And medical school before you were shaving more than once a week... well, he never wanted to go there again!

It wasn't that he doubted his skills. Not doubt, really. Worry, all the time worry, that he didn't know enough, couldn't help enough. That was what kept him up at night when he finally crawled into bed. And the faces. He didn't understand how anyone remained detached after looking into the faces of the sick and dying and the people who loved them.

Like Connor. Connor preached detachment; he demanded it. He wasn't cruel in any sense, but he was convinced that emotional involvement of any kind cost the team their effectiveness. But then he'd seen Connor, caught in unguarded moments, betray almost vulnerability. Miles recognized it, because he felt that way almost all the time.

Okay, brain, shut up and let's get out the door.

He stepped on the envelope as he pushed his way out the door and would have missed it altogether if it hadn't scrunched out from under his foot. He almost kicked it aside as he turned to lock the door, but the flash of print on the front caught his eye, and instead, he set the bag down and picked up the scraped and wrinkled envelope.

"Miles"

Nothing else. No address, not even a last name. He looked around but the streets were virtually empty at this early hour, so he started to shove the envelope into his pocket and open it later, but curiosity got the better of him.

With a huff of impatience, he locked the door, glanced at his watch, then slid a finger under the seal of the envelope; it dropped from his hand. It took him a long moment to realize what he was looking at, to remember it, it had been so long since he'd seen it last. On his grandfather's vest, a glitter of gold chain, delicately woven and doubled on itself. His grandfather had been very proud of that watch fob and when the pocket watch that he used it with was broken, he stopped using it, putting it in a drawer where it vanished with the other detritus of his life. No one had seen it in years.

Breathing hard, Miles dropped to one knee and dug around in the ivy border until he found the torn white envelope. He pulled it open, turned it over, inside out. Nothing. Not a mark. Nothing but his name on the front.

No one could have had it. His grandfather had been dead for ten years. Even if he'd found it by accident, Miles' father wouldn't have bothered to send it to him, his father didn't bother much with Miles in any way, why that?

Eyes wide, he scanned the street, the small lane beside the house. Nothing. No one. Everyone was either in bed still or already at work.

Work. He had to get there before Connor sent a team of bloodhounds out after him. They were headed for somewhere in Indiana. A child had already died. He hated it when a child died; it seemed like such a cruel twist. He could try to figure out the watch chain later. Right now, he had a job to do and a plane to catch. Man, he hated planes.

Eva was ready bright and early. Too bright and way too early. She actually had to wait around after packing before it was late enough to call a cab, even after leaving everything in the apartment in order. Twice. Got a good night's sleep last night.

Unfortunately.

Another great night in Datelessville. What was it about her that seemed to make her destined to catch every rerun of Law and Order every night of the week?

Couldn't be the fact that she had to cancel more dates than she kept because there was nearly always a phone call at an inappropriate time saying, 'hop a plane, Eva, we're going to... insert name of latest germ ridden city or town... here', could it?

A guy could take that kind of excuse maybe once, possibly twice but the third time usually left the phone stuck on 'silent'. Somehow she doubted Stephen would particularly care that he was totally screwing up her social life. But it was starting to get kind of lonely at the top, or the middle or wherever the hell she was. Traipsing around after politicians had been better than this and it had been just East of Hell. No, okay, that wasn't true. This was good. When she looked in the mirror in the morning, there might not be dark circles under her eyes from late nights with up and coming young politicians or other notables and the latest social or party (in both senses of the word) circuit, but the clean, freshly scrubbed face staring back at her told her she was right where she was supposed to be.

Doing what she was meant to do.

Even if all she had to curl up with was press kits.

Connor could wrap himself up in his 'I can save the world singlehandedly' self assurance and the non-stop crush of trying to run the team, Frank had the warmth of his familyat least when he could steal a few moments with them when they weren't chasing down the disease d'jour, Nat could lock herself away in her lab which she was trying to do lately more often than not for some reason which Eva wanted to talk to her about but didn't know how to start, and Miles could curl up with one of those texts he was always lugging around, while tearing himself up from the inside out trying not to take on the pain of his patients, but Eva... well... life in the fast lane had been much more glamorous. She couldn't remember the last Congressman who had asked her to clean up a bedpan just because she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But she had talents too. And the team used them. She could pick up a phone and "Make it So!" like no one else could. She could get them into and out of places they had no business being in in the first place. She had contacts with backing, money, supplies, access.

But the team... they were a team. And she was a part of them. A vital, valued part.

And that was what the face in the mirror in the morning was telling her, and she could live with that just fine. Even if the phone didn't ring. Even if she ate alone. Even if she became intimate with each and every episode of Law and Order.

She glanced up at the clock. Almost time to call the cab. Thank God. If she dusted another piece of furniture she was going to turn into Martha Stewart.

The doorbell rang and for just a second she had the disconcerting feeling that she had already called the cab and that was the driver, but she shook off the confusion and pulled the door open to a sleepy eyed delivery man.

"Morning, Ma'am," he said, almost on the verge of a yawn that he barely stifled, "flowers for a Miss Eva Rossi?"

Flowers? Hmmm, maybe her social life wasn't as pitiful as she thought it was, but then she caught sight of the 'delivery'. One little rose in a plain vase of water, not even any fern to dress it up, no ribbon, no bow, just that single red rose. A second look brought a smile to her face, though. The rose, even in all its solitariness, was perfect. Crimson, just bloomed, still strong with life and beauty.

"Yes, thank you," she murmured, taking the small offering, barely noticing when the man nodded and slouched his way back to his delivery truck. She didn't even notice the name of the company who had delivered.

Setting it down on the entryway table, she unpinned the card and opened it. Read it, then turned it over and looked for something on the other side. Huh. Nothing. Just her name on a generic florist's card, typed. Nothing even on the envelope, not even the name of the florist.

Another glance at the wall clock told her it was now time to call for the cab and she took a last look at the rose, knowing it would be dead when she returned, wishing she could take it with her.