Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami

called out to help a young kid downtown. His father came all the way up here because I was recommended. He wanted the best, he said. But it was too late. The kid died on the way to hospital. He was only nine.’
‘That’s awful.’
Dr. Petrie rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. ‘I know. It’s awful. And that’s all that I can say about it or do about it. I don’t often feel inadequate, Esther, but I do right now.’
She gently laid her hand on him. ‘If it helps any,’ she said, ‘you ought to think about the people you’ve saved.’
Just then, the phone bleeped. Esther picked it up, and said, ‘Dr. Petrie’s clinic – can I help you?’ She listened, and nodded, and then handed the phone over. ‘It’s for you,’ she said. ‘It’s Miss Murry.’
Dr. Petrie took the receiver. ‘You don’t have to look so disapproving,’ he told Esther. ‘You and me, we’re like the dynamic duo – Batman and Robin. Inseparable.’
Esther collected his empty orange-juice glass and tidied up his mail. ‘How can we be inseparable, if we’ve never been together?’ she asked provocatively teasing him, and teetered back to her desk.
Adelaide Murry sounded out of breath. Dr. Petrie said, ‘Hi. You sound breathless.’
‘I am,’ said the sweet little voice on the other end of the phone. ‘I’ve just played three sets with the new pro.’
‘Is he good?’
‘He’s not exactly Björn Borg, but he’s better than his late unlamented predecessor. A bit heavy with the forearm smashes. Proving his virility, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Dr. Petrie laughed. ‘I used to like his late unlamented predecessor. He was the only tennis club pro I could ever beat.’
‘Darling,’ said Adelaide, ‘the club dog could beat his late unlamented predecessor.’
‘Well,’ retorted Dr. Petrie, ‘what’s wrong with that? Listen – do you want me to pick you up at the club tonight?’
‘Are you coming this way?’
‘I have to pick up Priscilla.’
‘Tonight? I thought it was tomorrow! Oh, darling – what about our elegant intelligent dinner-for-two on the Starlight Roof?’
Dr. Petrie took a deep breath. He knew that Adelaide wasn’t crazy about Priscilla – maybe because Adelaide, at nineteen, was still just a little girl herself.
‘We can eat at home,’ said Dr. Petrie. ‘That Polynesian place delivers. And champagne, too. How about that?’
Adelaide was sulking. ‘It’s hardly romantic. I feel like doing something romantic. Eating at home is so ghoulish. You have to wash your own dishes.’
Dr. Petrie ran his hands through his hair. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy two candles, a single red rose, and a new Leonard Bernstein record. Is that romantic enough for you?’
Adelaide gave a deep mock sigh. ‘I should have dated my Uncle Charlie. At least he knows how to twist. All right, darling. I surrender, as usual. What time will you get here?’
‘Six-thirty. And listen – I love you.’
‘I love you too. I just hope this phone isn’t tapped. They’d report you to the medical council for suggestive conduct.’
Dr. Petrie shook his head in exasperation, and laid the phone down.
Esther was helping Mrs. Fairfax into the clinic. Mrs. Fairfax was the sole survivor of the Fairfax food family, who had made their millions out of early freeze-drying techniques. She was a slender old lady with a sharp, penetrating face and a violet rinse. She walked on two sticks, but she held herself upright, and Dr. Petrie knew from uncomfortable experience that she had a sharp tongue.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Fairfax,’ he said smoothly. ‘Are you feeling well?’
Mrs. Fairfax sat herself laboriously down in one of Dr. Petrie’s two white Italian armchairs. She propped her sticks against the glass-topped coffee table, and spread her elegant blue-flowered dress around her.
‘If I were well, Dr. Petrie,’ she said icily, ‘I should not be here.’
Dr. Petrie left his desk and went to sit beside her in another armchair. He always preferred the informal touch. It made patients feel easier; it even made them feel healthier.
‘Is your hip bothering you again?’ he asked sympathetically.
Mrs. Fairfax gave a histrionic sigh. ‘My dear doctor, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my hip. But there is a great deal wrong with my beach.’
Dr. Petrie frowned. He could see himself frowning in the large smokey mirror opposite his chair. He wondered if, despite his looks, he was beginning to get old.
‘Your beach?’ he enquired politely. He was used to the eccentricities of wealthy old widows.
‘It’s absolutely disgusting,’ she said coldly. She brushed back her violet hair with a tanned, elegant claw. Today, her fingers were encrusted with sapphires, but Dr. Petrie knew that she had as many rings for every color of dress she ever wore.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘What’s wrong with it? I don’t know how you can ask! Haven’t you read the newspapers?’
Dr. Petrie shook his head. ‘I haven’t had much time recently for the Miami Herald.’
‘Well you should make time,’ said Mrs. Fairfax imperiously. ‘It’s been happening all along the South Beach. And now it’s turned up on mine.’
Dr. Petrie tried to smile. ‘I hate to appear ignorant,’ he said. ‘But what has turned up on yours?’
Mrs. Fairfax lifted her sharp, haughty profile in obvious distaste. In a quiet, cold voice, she said, ‘Faeces.’
Dr. Petrie leaned forward, ‘I beg your pardon?’
Mrs. Fairfax turned his way with a look of frozen disdain. ‘You’re a doctor. You know what that means. I went down to my beach yesterday morning for a swim and I found it was soiled with faeces.’
Dr. Petrie rubbed his chin. ‘Was it – much?’
‘The whole shoreline,’ said Mrs. Fairfax. ‘And the beaches next to mine, on both sides. I can’t tell you – the smell is abominable.’
‘Have you complained to the health people?’
‘Of course I have. I spent most of yesterday on the telephone. I got through to some very junior official who told me that they were doing everything they could, and that they were going to try and clear the beaches with detergent. But it’s really not good enough. It’s there now, it smells revolting, and I want you to do something