The Flu 1/2 (4 page)

She didn’t recognize the Hispanic gentleman who smiled at her. Early to mid-thirties, he stood tall, the jeans and crisp tee shirt accenting the perfect body that matched an even better face. He was topped off with one of the best haircuts Dylan had ever seen on a man in Lodi. Obviously, he wasn’t from around there.

She returned his smile as she thanked God that she had showered and dressed presentably. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Mrs. Hughes?”

After thinking, ‘cool, he’s looking for me’, Dylan nodded. “Yes.”

“Hi.” He extended his hand. “I’m Patrick McCaffrey.”

Dylan’s face must have shown her shock. Patrick?
Patrick?
Not that she was prejudiced, and not that she would have immediately labeled him a Raul, but the name Patrick McCaffrey was the last name she would have given him.

“You don’t recognize the name?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head.

“I’m the new first grade teacher over at Lodi Elementary.”

With a long ‘oh’, Dylan opened the door wider. “Come in.”

“Thanks.” Patrick stepped inside. “Mrs. Hughes...”

“Dylan. Call me Dylan.”

Patrick snickered. “As in... Bob?”

“You got it. My parents had a sick sense of humor. My maiden name is Roberts. Imagine growing up like that.” She took a deep breath. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Well...” he paused, “did you get my letter last week?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“Then you know I’m new to these parts and...I really wanted to take this next month to get to know my students. You know, on a different level. So their first real year of school isn’t so difficult. I had a ‘meet me’ donut gathering this morning at the library. You and Anthony didn’t show.”

“Right,” Dylan replied. “There was no reason to.”

“Anthony isn’t in first grade?”

“Yes, he is. Well, he’s going into first grade.”

“He went to Lodi for kindergarten, right?”

“Partly,” Dylan answered. “I pulled him.” She shook her head. “It was very uncomfortable.”

Patrick looked confused. “Did you transfer him?”

“No.” Dylan pointed toward the back of the house. “Do you want coffee?”

“Love some, thanks,” Patrick replied.

“This way.” Dylan waved at him to follow her toward the kitchen.

“So, you had a bad experience with Lodi School?”

Chuckling, Dylan paused in her stride in the kitchen. “Hardly.” She indicated to the counter. “You can have a seat.” She walked to the coffee pot. “See, I pulled Tigger—that’s what we call him—because I felt uncomfortable. I think he felt uncomfortable and I know others did, as well. Parents and such.” She poured the coffee and brought the mug to Patrick. She set it before him and talked as she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out the cream. “People can be cruel. You know. So, Tigger will be bused to Medina for special education.”

“Oh.” Patrick appeared almost embarrassed as his hands played with the cup. “I was unaware Anthony had a learning disability.”

“He doesn’t,” Dylan said. “He’s smart. Very smart. It’s physical.”

“He needs special care?”

“Not really. I think it’s better to show you...” Dylan waved her hand and brought Patrick to the window. “Look.”

Patrick peered out.

“How old does that child look to you?”

“Two or three.”

“He’ll be seven in December.” Dylan exhaled. “That’s Anthony. He has a growth disability.”

“Let me get this straight. He has no learning disability where special education is needed; physically he doesn’t need special treatment. Why, if I may be so bold, do you want to label that child, Mrs. Hughes? Why do you want him to think there’s something wrong with him?”

“I don’t. But to be quite blunt with you, Mr. McCaffrey, I don’t need to make him think there’s something wrong with him. Other people, children, they do that quite well on their own.” Dylan folded her arms defensively.

“That’s because people aren’t used to seeing ‘different’. It starts with our young. How can we teach them not to stare, and that different isn’t bad, if they are never exposed to it? They may stare, Mrs. Hughes, at first. Don’t you when you see something different? But I can guarantee after a few days, a week....they won’t stare anymore. Anthony...or Tigger, as you call him...” Patrick pointed out the window, “will be just another first grader. Isn’t that what you want for him?” He gave a gentle smile and took a long drink of his coffee. “Will you think about it?” He set the mug down. “And thank you for the coffee.”

Dylan nodded slightly as Patrick walked from the kitchen. She followed.

At the front door, Patrick stopped. “Perhaps I’ll see you and Tigger tonight at Central Park. I hear Fridays are concert nights. Will you be there?”

Dylan only nodded again.

“Hope to see you then.” With another flash of a smile, Patrick walked out.

Dylan was mesmerized. He spoke so well, so strongly, and brought up a valid point. Where every other teacher had encouraged special education for Anthony, Patrick was the first who didn’t. It was a breath of fresh air having someone like him in Lodi. Open-minded, smart and, not to mention, really good-looking.

* * *

Winston Research

Reston, Virginia

“Nothing.” Paul Lafayette, head researcher of virology, dropped a clipboard of notes down on the research director’s desk. “Ten days now.” Paul’s index finger glided over his narrow mustache with concern.

Director Henry Davis shook his head. “It’s not the first time, Paul. Last loss of communication with the Alaska station was fifteen days. You know it.” He pushed the clipboard forward.

“See, I understand and recall that. However, we’re talking August here. The weather—”

“Has it been clear?” Henry asked.

“No. Unseasonable storms have hit and—”

“There you have it.” Henry cut him off. “That damn satellite dish shuts down every time ice and snow get heavy. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” Paul lifted his clipboard again. He walked to the door and stopped. “Can I ask when I am allowed to be concerned about this? Because I have a bad feeling. It’s the wrong time of year for us to lose contact. In five years we have never lost contact at this time of year. And we’ve had unseasonable weather before. It melts faster.”

Henry’s thick fingers tapped on the desk. “Only because you’re not off the mark often....how about three days. Will that work?”

“Yes.” Paul nodded. “I’ll make preparations in case we have to shoot up there. I wish it were sooner but...I appreciate it.”

Henry watched Paul leave the office. He understood Paul’s concern, but in Henry’s mind, one day or three just didn’t matter. Considering where the station was located, length of time didn’t make a difference. But that argument was moot. In Henry’s mind, all really was fine.

* * *

Allakaket, Alaska

“At least we didn’t end up having to eat each other,” Trevor joked with Bill as they walked into the small village’s community circle.

“I’d starve if I had to dine off of you,” Bill responded facetiously.

“The pilot was meaty,” Trevor noted. “Get a good four days off of him.”

Bill laughed. “In all seriousness,” he stopped walking, “we were lucky. We could have crashed completely. We could have been stranded out there longer than ten hours and...that radio may have died altogether.”

“True.” Trevor let out a breath and looked around at the people who were responsible for finding him, Bill, and the pilot, when the helicopter they flew lost all power and made a rough emergency landing not far from the town. “Wouldn’t that have been par for the course on this story? Stranded in Fairbanks. I don’t think anyone is ever stranded in Fairbanks. Finally we lift off and we crash...sort of. Well....” He sighed. “At least tomorrow we’ll be in Barrow. The end of this project is in sight.”

“Barrow ain’t the end for you. It’s only the beginning.”

“Yeah, but....” Trevor waved his hand, “it’s the beginning to an end. I’ll still be home in time for my birthday.”

“If something don’t happen to you.” Bill started to walk again.

“Look around.” Trevor motioned out his hand. “What can happen to me way up here?”

“Um...helicopter crash, perhaps? Hear they’re common.”

Trevor snickered. “Let’s just find a place to set up camp.”

Bill followed Trevor to the additional stop they hadn’t planned on making, but it all was the same. Trevor was there to write, learn, and photograph the Eskimo culture. Bill was just along for the ride. In all the years Bill had been in the field, never had he run into anyone who encountered as many delays as Trevor. And if the previous two weeks of mishaps were any indication of how the rest of the shoot would go, Bill knew that not only would he be in for one hell of an adventure, but he stood a chance of not seeing Anchorage until the following spring.

* * *

Interstate 70 West

Ohio

A piece of lettuce, heavily doused in orange-colored special sauce, plopped messily onto Jeff Bloom’s lap. “Aw, damn it anyhow.”

“I told you not to get a Big Mac.” Darrell gave an arrogant nod as he drove. “Those things just aren’t car friendly.”

“I wanted a Big Mac. Sometimes you just get in the mood for one.”

“Not on a highway.”

“Anytime. Usually at inappropriate times,” Jeff said. “Like now, but it’s good and fresh.”

“Look where we are,” Darrell said, pointing at the windshield.

As he inhaled a huge bite of his sandwich, Jeff looked up at the ‘Leaving Ohio’ sign. “Thank God. Then again, Ohio’s not that bad.”

“Ohio
is
that bad,” Darrell quipped. “Not as bad as the place we’re heading. Kansas.”

“Have you ever been to Kansas?”

“Read about it.”

“Doesn’t count.” Jeff crumpled his sandwich wrapper. “What do you make of this guy?” he asked. “I mean, really, do you think we should be expending all this energy and government money looking for him?”

“Absolutely,” Darrell answered. “He embezzled. Big time, too. What was the figure?”

“A hundred and fourteen million.”

Darrell whistled. “And you have to ask. Not only did he steal it, not only did he launder it so well, but...but he took it from the United States government. Right under our noses.”

Jeff snickered.

“What’s so funny?” Darrell asked.

“Well, I mean, come on. Did you take a look at the funds he stole from? I didn’t know we had most of those. Hell, I bet the people who qualify for those funds didn’t even know.”

“Jeff,” Darrell tossed a serious glance his way, “he steals from the government. He steals from me and you. Now he has the mob helping him.”

“We don’t know that. Hasn’t been proven.” Jeff picked up the takeout bag and started eating the fries from the bottom.

“The man changed identities, background, and locations seventeen times in three years. He’s getting help. Big help.”

Jeff shrugged. “Valid point. But this tip sounds good. Do you really think he’s pulling off impersonating a Baptist minister?”

“Jeff, the Latino man pulled off being a black author for three months in Iowa.”

“But that was Iowa.” Jeff tilted his head. “I would think people in Kansas would be a little smarter.”

“Oh, aren’t you just the territory racist,” Darrell snapped.

“Me?” Jeff laughed. “You. How many remarks did you make about Ohio?”

“But it’s Ohio.”

Jeff bobbed his head. “True. And Iowa is pretty close to…” He snapped his fingers in thought. “Hey, Iowa isn’t too far, is it?”

“Why?”

Jeff hurriedly pulled out the atlas. “Thought so. We sort of have to zip by it. We could check out that ‘past black author’ thing while passing by...Davenport.”

“Davenport?” Darrell questioned. “What’s in Davenport, Iowa?”

“River boat casino gambling.”

Darrell smiled. “See where we can take that detour.”

“Got it.” Jeff dove into the atlas.

“See? We always make the best out of our road trips, don’t we?”

Jeff smiled. “We certainly do.”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Thomas Roberts was as country as country could get. Even moving to Lodi when he was in his mid-twenties didn’t take the farm boy accent from him. His glasses were a style from decades earlier. He kept his salt and pepper hair combed neatly, despite the fact that it was too short to really style. And always, without fail, he wore a dress shirt and tie to work, even if they didn’t match. Thomas was pretty tall, and prided himself on the fact that his posture was good. At sixty-two years old he stood as tall as he had when he was twenty.