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  "Stoker got a little spoiled," Rivera said. "The first time we ever worked together—last winter—our work included car chases, fights, kidnapping—"

  Stoker interrupted. "In total disclosure, my wife was kidnapped. But, we also kidnapped the South Dakota Attorney General and flew him across state lines."

  "So, you're a felon now?" the Mossad doctor asked with a tinge of humor in his voice.

  "No comment," Stoker said.

  "Sometimes getting the job done requires some high crimes," the Mossad doctor said. "Most of my work now is in medicine. But, I sure miss those days. The days when I too roved about the globe as a government-sponsored felon."

  With the antivenin infusing into Stoker, Rivera called an ambulance company to arrange Stoker's transportation to Hospital de Los Santos in Chihuahua. When the paramedics arrived, Rivera explained the snake bite. After he exaggerated Stoker's dehydration and fabricated a story about Stoker showing possible signs of an allergic reaction, they loaded their new patient into the ambulance. Rivera climbed inside the ambulance and recommended an oxygen mask, claiming that Stoker had experienced some shortness of breath. As a prop, the oxygen mask indeed helped Stoker appear more acute.

  After a short ride, the ambulance pulled up to the emergency room doors of a four-story hospital. The two-man crew removed Stoker from the ambulance and wheeled him into the emergency room, where a triage nurse met them. She began to examine Stoker and ask him questions.

  Then the acting really started. "How do you say shortness of breath in Spanish?" he asked Rivera.

  "Dificultad para respirar," Rivera responded. When the triage nurse and orderlies heard Rivera's response, they frowned in unison and fast-tracked Stoker into a treatment room. A moment later one of the emergency room attending physicians arrived. Rivera introduced Stoker with an alias. "This is my friend, Rand Paul." Stoker worked very hard to avoid laughing or smiling at the name Rivera chose. He did not expect his friend to use the name of an American politician. But he was not surprised Rivera would interject flippant humor into a serious moment.

  Rivera switched to Spanish and gave the doctor a complete report. Stoker understood occasional words and phrases. However, in another of his life paradoxes, Stoker had been working so hard on learning Farsi, he had not studied Spanish during his time in Mexico.

  The doctor ordered a nurse to continue infusing saline through Stoker's I.V. He requested labs and ordered a second round of antivenin. This time, he specified and even slower drop-by-drop infusion, through a slow IV over three hours. Then he turned and addressed Stoker in English. "You've done an excellent job treating the rattlesnake bite. The wound and damage from the venom are minor concerns at this point. I'm more concerned about managing a potential allergic reaction. I'm also considering your infection risk. Let's admit you to the medical ward, at least overnight. We'll administer some I.V. antibiotics and consider more doses of antivenin. How is your pain level, Mr. Paul?"

  Again, Stoker tried not to laugh at his false name. "Horrific, doctor. But, let's avoid any opiate-based pain management. I can manage with ibuprofen and acetaminophen."

  "Very well," replied the ER doctor. "I suspect the worst of the pain is over. If your symptoms act up, please inform a nurse."

  "You don't need to worry about Mr. Paul's willingness to complain," Rivera replied in Spanish. "He never has trouble making sure he gets the attention he wants."

  The ER doctor smiled. "Let's get him admitted and see if he can get some rest." He made a quick exit, and the nurse remained to carry out his orders. A few minutes later a phlebotomist appeared and drew three vials of blood from Stoker. By now all the excitement and adrenaline had worn off.

  "Hey Rivera," Stoker said. "This is the most comfortable bed I've been in for days. I hope you don't mind if I get some shuteye?"

  "Of course not," Rivera said. "I'm going to go find out how to make payment arrangements."

  Within seconds Troy Stoker, M.D., was snoozing. His time in the military and a psychiatry residency taught him to get sleep whenever and wherever the opportunity arose.

  When an orderly came to wheel him up to the medicine ward, Stoker awoke. After an elevator ride and a few turns through the hallway, he entered the floor. Stoker noticed he was one of about three dozen patients sharing the same large room. He felt a little intrigue being a patient on a hospital ward, instead of on a floor with individual rooms. Stoker also noticed how soon a meal arrived. The scent of the food reawakened his voracious hunger. Fighting off serpent venom and cleaning up on terrorists turns a no-nonsense soldier into a ravenous warrior, Stoker thought.

  Truth be told, he had eaten nothing during the previous ten hours of survival training, enemy tracking, combat, and fending off venom. Stoker only recognized half of the food on his tray; but he ate it all. He never thought he would be so grateful to eat hospital food—in a foreign country.

  After his meal, he embraced his exhaustion and fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  Chihuahua, Mexico

  "Señor Paul?"

  Stoker awoke. He didn't recognize the voice. But he had adjusted to his temporary name, Rand Paul. When Stoker opened his eyes, a woman stood before him.

  "My name is Valentina,” she said in passable but heavily accented English, “and I need to draw more blood. May I please see your arm?"

  Stoker held out his unbitten arm, and the phlebotomist started to clean the skin with alcohol. Stoker noticed a mask covering this woman's mouth and nose. It was not the typical disposable mask. This mask was a heavier-duty particulate respiratory mask, which seemed excessive for the task of drawing blood. Then he looked at her gown, and it appeared to be a gown a doctor or nurse would wear in surgery. She was also double-gloved with thick surgical gloves. It seemed like an extraordinary level of precaution for routine blood draws.

  "And after your snakebite, a meager blood draw should not bother you at all."

  Valentina's extra protective clothing and gear piqued Stoker's curiosity, and he paid little attention to the needle puncturing his skin and extracting his blood into tubes.

  "Valentina, can I ask you a question?" Stoker inquired. "I'm not from your country, so I think you may be able to enlighten me."

  "Of course, Mr. Paul. What is it you would like to know?"

  "In my country, someone performing surgery would wear the protective gear you’re wearing," Stoker said. "You have two pairs of gloves on, and your gown seems more protective than I would expect for a phlebotomist on a medical floor. Are you taking extra precautions?"

  "You are very aware, Señor Paul. This is not our regular personal protective equipment for phlebotomy work."

  "So why the added safeguards against infection?"

  She hesitated. Then she looked around to see if any of the other hospital employees or patients were close enough to overhear. Outside the sun was setting, and orange rays of light bathed much of the medical ward through the westward-facing ribbon window. The nurses on the floor worked out of earshot. The bed to Stoker’s left was empty. The man in the bed to his right was asleep. "There are two things I can tell you. First, we are not quite sure what is happening, yet. This protective equipment is just an extra precaution. And second, the hospital administrators have ordered us to say nothing about the matter."

  "Is there some strange hospital-acquired infection cropping up here?"

  "I'm surprised a lawyer from your fancy Las Vegas would ask such a question, Mr. Paul. Have you worked in the medical field?"

  "Yes. Quite a bit. But, is there an outbreak in this hospital?"

  Valentina was silent, and she directed all her attention to filling a second vacuum tube with blood from a vein in Stoker's muscular forearm. As the test tube filled with blood, she answered his question. "I'm sorry, Mister Paul. I can say little more on the matter. But, I can tell you, I believe you are safe. Patients have not picked up and infection while in the hospital. They arrive with it. And, if you keep your eyes open, you just mig
ht figure a few things out."

  "Thank you, Valentina. My eyes will be open, and my mouth shut."

  She finished the blood draw. "Thank you, Mr. Paul. I hope your recovery is rapid." Stoker sensed the flavor of the Spanish language when she rolled the r in rapid.

  "When will my lab results be available?" Stoker asked.

  "It depends. Our lab slows down at night. I imagine your results will be available in about five hours." With a soft pat on Stoker's arm, Valentina left his bedside and moved down the ward in search of her next patient. As Stoker looked down the line of patients, he observed most of them were asleep. To his surprise, some patients were on ventilators. Why aren't ventilator patients in the ICU? he wondered. There were at least six ventilated patients he could see.

  As Stoker continued to survey the scene, a nurse entered the ward and rushed down the corridor in his direction. She was about to hurry past him when he interrupted her.

  "Excuse me," Stoker asked. The nurse stopped, turned toward him, and smiled. But, her smile could not hide the stress she emanated.

  "Yes, Señor Paul. How may I help you?"

  "Do you often have patients on ventilators on your general medical floor? When I've visited hospitals in other countries, ventilated patients are treated in an intensive care unit."

  "It's curious how you, a lawyer from Las Vegas, seem to know so much about how hospitals operate, Señor Paul. Have you worked in the medical field?"

  Stoker was surprised a second person would question his knowledge of hospitals based on his supposed profession as a lawyer. "As a matter of fact, I have done a fair amount of hospital-related work." Stoker paused for a moment to gauge her reaction. "Are vents the norm on the hospital floor, or do you prefer to treat those patients in the ICU?"

  Her response felt abrupt. "Sometimes our ICUs fill up, and we have to bring a ventilated patient onto the regular medical floor."

  Stoker decided to use one of his psychiatric skills. Instead of taking his turn in the conversation and responding, he remained silent. By allowing a vacuum in the discussion, he created some social discomfort and provoked the nurse to fill the void by speaking again. She may even divulge a few forbidden facts. Stoker, ever the master of non-verbal communication, slowly nodded his head.

  "And well," the nurse pressed forward, hesitating and lowering her voice. "I'm concerned about our current situation. Our patient load has never been like this." Stoker remained silent but leaned forward and directed all his attention toward her. His non-verbal gesture ensured the nurse that her American patient was giving her his full attention. "Right now, we have too many patients on ventilators. But, that's all I can say. That's about all I know."

  "I respect your situation," Stoker said. "When you lack concrete information, it's best to limit what you say. So, let me ask you a question that is general knowledge. How many beds are there in the hospital's intensive care units?"

  "Our medical ICU has fourteen beds, and our surgical and trauma ICU has twelve. They are all full, so we get the overflow."

  From a few beds down, a distressed and weary voice called out. "Enfermera, por favor," A patient was calling for the nurse's attention.

  "He needs you," Stoker said. "Don't worry. You and your colleagues will find the answers you need to do your miraculous work."

  The mention of miracles made the nurse smile. "I can only pray." The nurse walked toward the patient.

  Stoker looked down the length of the hospital ward and further inventoried his fellow patients. He could see far enough to count twenty-one other patients, before the menagerie of equipment, nurses, and patients blended to block his view of the rest of the floor. But, there were more patients and ventilators beyond Stoker's line of sight. His curiosity grew deeper. He thought about standing up and going for a walk down the hall to get a better count of patients—especially those on ventilators. But, if there's a dangerous infection in this hospital, he thought, I should keep my distance.

  Stoker relaxed his neck and allowed his head a gradual descent to the pillow. Then he closed his eyes for a moment. The serenity permitted him to clear his mind and relax. Before even a minute passed, Stoker realized he was bored. "This is the first time I've been bored in years," he said out loud to himself. He considered how to pass the time as he recovered. The first thought that came to mind was to email his wife, Allie. He sat up and looked around the hospital ward. Good luck finding a computer, Mr. Paul, Stoker thought. Watching TV was out of the question since he couldn’t understand much Spanish. He looked around for something to read. He longed to read a medical journal—in English, Farsi, or Spanish. But, none were to be had. It occurred to Stoker that boredom was more taxing on him than the rattlesnake bite. At least the snakebite invigorated my mind, tapped into my intellect and survival instinct, he thought. Not a bad adrenaline rush.

  Stoker looked around, seeking to glean clues about this mystery from the people around him. Most of the patients were asleep. Many of those who were awake appeared bewildered, as if they were in some type of inattentive fog. In contrast, the nurses and other hospital personnel were working at a rigorous pace. Stoker’s psychiatric intuition detected clue after clue indicating the dreadful levels of anxiety the staff members were suffering. The patients’ needs were overwhelming them—even more than usual.

  Stoker made a conscious decision to be a low-maintenance patient. Closing his eyes, he laid back. He willed his mind to relax. Then he chose to fall asleep. It was a short nap, with scant glints of distorted dream moments. Rivera's voice woke him. Jessica, Z’s girlfriend, accompanied him. "We got Z off to Burning Man."

  "His Bohemian bash in the Nevada desert?" Stoker replied.

  "It was not his choice for the venue," Jessica commented. "He's going to Burning Man to support a good friend getting married there."

  "How come you didn't go to Burning Man with him?" Stoker asked.

  "We've only been together for a few months," Jessica responded. "Going to a wedding together might freak Z out."

  "I think it would freak you out, too," Rivera responded. "The whole idea of Burning Man reminds me of a twenty-first century Woodstock."

  "And, by the way," Jessica said, "the intel on the Burning Man Festival says the intention of the participants is the pure temporary subversion of authority as well as the throwing off of cultural norms."

  "You have intel on Burning Man?" Stoker asked.

  "Some paranoid kooky bureaucrat at Homeland Security was worried the event was a precursor to a rebellion against the government," Jessica explained. "In true government form, someone hired consultants to provide an analysis and recommendations."

  "And what were the findings?" Stoker asked.

  "Infiltration by Islamic radicals is a minuscule probability," Rivera interjected. "Right-wing militias will also stay away. It's not their cup of tea—with the lack of guns and Bibles to cling to. Z's greatest security risk at Burning Man is acquiring a sexually transmitted disease."

  "He wouldn't dare!" Jessica interjected. "He knows I'd punch him in the gut." Jessica was a martial arts enthusiast. She often shot Z harmless knuckle jabs to his abs as part of their banter.

  Stoker changed the subject. "Hey, Rivera. Let me tell you what I'm noticing on this floor. There are a few things that stand out."

  Stoker turned his head and gazed down the hospital ward. "I'm wondering why there are so many patients on ventilators? And, why aren't they in the ICU instead?"

  "It must be a Mexico thing," Rivera said. "That's just the way they do things here, I suspect."

  "One of the nurses enlightened me," Stoker said. "Like most hospitals around the world, their practice is to treat ventilator patients in the ICUs. When the ICUs are full, they send a ventilator patient or two to the medical floor."

  Rivera turned and made a gesturing glance down the medical floor. "But, that’s not a patient or two. There are a bunch of people on ventilators down there." Rivera took a few slow steps further into the ward as he surveyed the sce
ne. Then his footsteps became more deliberate. Soon he disappeared into the sea of patients, beds, nurses, ventilators, and other equipment.

  A minute later, Stoker and Jessica saw Rivera returning. As he approached, he held up a can of Coke to make it appear as if he had accomplished his mission to find his friend a drink. "Here you go, Mr. Paul. I found a drink for my thirsty amigo." He also brought three surgical masks.

  Stoker took the Coke and went along with Rivera's acting. "Thank you. These medications make me extra thirsty."

  Rivera grabbed a chair and pulled it up right next to Stoker. When Rivera was confident Stoker and Jessica were the only people who could see his face, his expression changed from jovial to serious. "There are eleven patients on vents—"

  Stoker interrupted him. "And, the staff's double-gloving and wearing extreme personal protective equipment."

  Rivera handed Stoker and Jessica each a surgical mask and then put one on himself. Stoker followed Rivera's example; there was no need to explain why. Rivera continued talking, a little muffled by the mask. "It's as if there’s some infectious outbreak. I'm sorry if I landed you in a hospital housing a raging epidemic, Stoker."

  "It's too soon to tell what's going on here," Stoker replied. "But, I asked my phlebotomist and one of the nurses about the double gloving and personal protective equipment. Their words and body language told me something's not quite right. And, their bosses have ordered them silent. Who can tell us what's going on?"

  "Nobody's going to tell us," Rivera said. "Hospitals become tight-lipped about these situations."

  "The situations that can damage their reputations," Jessica interjected.

  "We’ve got an enigma and no other volunteers to solve it," Stoker said.

  "What's your intuition telling you, Troy?" Rivera asked.

  "The same thing yours is telling you. There's something wrong around here. Something very wrong." Stoker thought for a moment. A wry smile graced his face. "I've got an idea."