would have loved to convince Hot Cop—Deputy Sykora—to stay a little later, maybe grab a drink or a bite to eat. For that matter, Dave would have loved to be able to go home, take a long, hot shower and try to sleep off the frustrations of the day. Either way, a nice glass of bourbon should have been involved.

 

None of those things were going to happen. Rick was working a late shift, sure. Rick wasn't a morning person, and he liked to work later hours. That didn't change the fact that Rick was a surgeon, not an infectious disease specialist. If some freak was out there deliberately infecting people with bacterial meningitis, Dave couldn't justify going home. He wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway.

 

He headed back to Silver Oak and did some more rounds, and then he saw some patients in the ER. Thankfully, the Sheriff's Department hadn't seen fit to announce the source of this outbreak. Dave hadn't thought Sykora, for all his good looks, was all that interested in epidemiology. He guessed if any group of people understood about not causing a panic, however, it would be cops.

 

Then again, if Hot Cop was all that worried about not causing a panic he probably wouldn't have shown up in the ER lugging a shotgun around with him.

 

Dave shook his head. He didn't have time to worry about whatever might have been going through Hot Cop Sykora's head. He had plenty of things to worry about right here at Silver Oak.

 

The night went on without too much drama. These things were relative in his profession. He got a pretty good cross-section of humanity, if that cross-section were taken from a pyramid. Some of his patients came in to the ER on advice from their family doctors, but those folks usually came in during the day. Others came in through the Pediatric ER, and those came from all walks of life. Not many folks were interested in waiting until Dr. Jones opened his doors at nine when their kid was running a fever of a hundred and five, nor should they.

 

The vast majority of his patients had no primary care doctor at all. Some were sent in through Urgent Care facilities, and had at least some kind of insurance. Many had no insurance at all. The ER was their only source of medical care. They were poor, sometimes addicted, sometimes homeless. They might never get follow-up care. The specialist in him knew they were the ultimate breeding ground for his kind of work.

 

The man in him who'd wanted to try and balance out his family's misdeeds just wanted to help, to whatever extent he could.

 

He saw ten patients he could diagnose with influenza, four of whom had to be admitted because they had no place else to go. One of those, a woman in her nineties with a series of faded numbers tattooed onto her forearm, had an apartment but no one to look after her. Her children had moved away long ago, chasing jobs, and no one had stepped in to fill the gap.

 

Dave would probably have wanted to admit her anyway, given her age, but the situation still ate him up with guilt.

 

They got two cases he thought he could diagnose as Hepatitis C, although he'd have to wait for lab work to confirm his suspicions. He tried to counsel those patients without judgement. They had enough judgement for themselves. He didn't need to add to it. Sometimes he wanted to scream.

 

"Sure, there are ways to get this particular illness that involve lifestyle. That doesn't make you a bad person, and that doesn't mean it's your fault you caught this," he told the second patient. "It's not for me to sit there and pore over your life and say, 'Oh, this was worthy behavior, this was unworthy.' That's absurd, okay? You get treatment, just like everyone else. This is a manageable illness, and with any luck it's an illness we can even beat. Those are the only things that matter. Save your energy for fighting, not for blame." He winked at her and went to check the lab results.

 

He worked on other patients too. They had fifteen overdose patients come through the doors, all opiates. He put stitches into four trauma victims, and he admitted three cases of kidney stones.

 

Dave's primary job, however, was keeping an eye on his meningitis patients. A spot on the ICU ward opened up at four in the morning, when a patient died. It wasn't good to feel relief when someone passed on, but Dave knew that patient hadn't been expected to survive anyway. Barrett's prospects for survival were still iffy, edging closer to doubtful, but the ICU ward would help.

 

By six in the morning, Dave's energy reserves had evaporated. He needed to head home. He did one more check to make sure his admitted patients were stable and then he headed back to his apartment.

 

Sometimes he felt bad about spending as much as he had on this condo. He couldn't have spent so little if he'd stayed back in Manhattan, of course, and a place of this size would have cost several millions even if he'd decamped to Jersey or Staten Island. He still felt bad about it. Today wasn't one of those times.

 

Sunlight poured in through the huge picture windows, reflected in by the snow on the ground. None of the neighbors made a sound, even though they must be going through their morning routines right now. He could indulge in a long, hot shower in his oversized shower stall and then crawl into his giant, indulgent bed, pull the downy blanket over himself, and close his eyes. If something happened, he could get back to Silver Oak within five minutes. If not, he could get a few hours' sleep and head back.

 

He expected the alarm on his phone to wake him up with gentle harp sounds slowly increasing in volume. He wasn't necessarily averse to having his phone wake him up. That came with the job, although he preferred to get a few hours' sleep before that happened.

 

The loud, atonal buzz of the door buzzer? That wasn't something he was prepared to handle before coffee.

 

He jumped out of bed, hitting the floor in his briefs and nothing else. He didn't have the time to be body shy about it. No one else was around to see him. It only took a few moments to run across the polished wood floors and hit the buzzer. "Hello?"

 

"Dr. Stanek? This is Don Arena from Out and Loud. Can I come up?"

 

Dave kept his hand off the buzzer before he cursed. Only Arena would show up at his condo.

 

He hit the buzzer. Arena wasn't the type to ever go away. "Yeah. Give me, uh, ten minutes."

 

At least the house was clean. Dave could content himself with that as he raced to get dressed and clean his teeth. He wasn't dressing up for Arena, not at all. Arena might be hot—gorgeous, even—but he was also an obnoxious twit. Dave just couldn't stand the thought of looking anything less than respectable, especially if Arena had any intention of bringing a camera up.

 

He settled on a pair of nice gray trousers and a bold fuchsia dress shirt. A gray scarf in place of a tie would help emphasize that this was a casual conversation, instead of a formal workplace interview. He didn't expect Arena to understand the difference, but maybe his readers would.

 

Arena looked around the apartment when Dave let him in. It really was too bad that he was such an irritating twit. Not that he and Dave would be all that compatible anyway. Arena was very open about his omega status, and no one would ever believe that a petit guy like Dave was anything else. "Hey." Arena smiled at Dave, easy and inviting. "Nice place."

 

"Thanks. I'm pretty sure you've been here before." Dave forced himself to smile. "I'm guessing that the best place for this is the dining table or the breakfast bar. There's less glare, and a flat surface."

 

"Makes sense." Arena shrugged and headed over to the breakfast bar.

 

Dave busied himself making coffee. "I hope you don't mind. I was at Silver Oak until six in the morning, so I was catching a few Zs before you dropped by." He let his critique of Arena's manners remain implied.

 

Arena nodded. "Yeah, the day shift guy in the ER mentioned that. That's why I thought I'd try you here. I saw the press conference with you and Wade last night."

 

"Good." Dave held up a mug in silent invitation. Arena nodded. Dave tried not to resent it. "Meningitis is nothing to mess around with."

 

"I thought you were confident everyone would make a full recovery." Arena pulled out a steno pad and pen.

 

So much for letting Dave know when they were on the record. Ah well. If Arena had any intention of adhering to basic journalistic rules, he'd be working for an actual publication. "Well, that's the thing with meningitis. A full recovery depends on a lot of different factors. If we get everything right—starting with getting antibiotics into the patient right away—ten to fifteen percent of patients will still die. I'm talking bacterial meningitis and meningococcal disease, of course, because that's what we're dealing with.

 

"The challenge here is that early symptoms can mimic other illnesses; illnesses that pretty much everyone gets at this time of year and no one sees their doctor for. And meningitis is a pretty rare disease. Not a lot of people say, 'Huh, I'm feeling lousy and my neck is stiff, better run to the doctor.' They say, 'I'm feeling lousy, my neck is stiff, maybe if I hadn't had that third martini I wouldn't have tried to sleep in the same position as the cat.' Right?"

 

Arena chuckled at that. "That was one time, man. One!"

 

Dave held up his hands. "No judging here." He passed Arena a mug of coffee and grabbed some milk from the fridge. "One of the patients was moved to the ICU this morning. I'm not at liberty to discuss which one. I'm not sure where we stand with regards to notifying the family, and I don't know why it took so long to go to Student Health. Like I said, it's a rare illness that college students are supposed to be vaccinated against, and with symptoms everyone gets between now and March. I don't want everyone to sit around and rush to judgement on this person, you know? We'd probably all make the same decision."

 

Arena nodded. "Okay. That's fair. We're in a community that faces a lot of judgement, so we should probably be extra cautious about judging other people."

 

"Right?" Dave wrapped his hands around his mug. "I'm happy to answer other questions for you though. Specifics about the case have to go through the hospital communications office, but I'm sure plenty of people have questions about meningitis and meningococcal disease."

 

Arena did have questions about meningitis. He'd come prepared. He might be a pest, but he was a pest who knew what he was doing. Out and Loud had a huge readership, beyond simply the Central New York LGBTQ community, and Arena was the only one running that blog.

 

And that was the only reason Dave gave him the time of day. The local media wasn't homophobic, but they didn't cater to the specific needs of the gay community. Arena got information out to people who needed it, when they needed it. If homophobic attacks spiked in a particular area, Arena could get the word out. If someone had been damaging condoms at a particular store, Arena made sure people knew about it before it became a crisis.

 

And Arena provided something more nebulous, but equally vital. He spot-lit LGBTQ people in the community who were having a positive impact. When Dave had been a kid, his positive gay role models had basically been entertainers. A kid like him today could see business leaders, lawyers, cops—or doctors, like him.

 

If only he weren't such an irritating little twit.

 

Dave made sure to answer all of Arena's questions politely and fully. There were some aspects of this disease that were of particular concern to their community, and Dave knew they both wanted that information out there. People living with HIV, for example, should take extra precautions to avoid contact with people showing flu-like symptoms or crowding. This was easier said than done, and Dave got that, but since they were at increased risk the warning was necessary.

 

Dave was just finishing up Arena's last question when someone knocked on the door to his apartment. He frowned. "I'm not expecting any visitors," he said. "I'm supposed to be at work right now."

 

"Could it be a neighbor?" Arena scratched his head and pulled out his digital camera. "I'd like to get some pictures, if I could."

 

"Sure, just let me get the door first." Dave checked the peephole before opening the door.

 

Ken Sykora, Hot Cop, stood outside. His pretty lips were folded into a tight line, and he wore a jacket over his vest this time. Dave threw the door open. "Deputy?"

 

"Just call me Ken, dude. We're going to be working a lot together."

 

The flash from Arena's camera went off, making both Dave and Ken turn around. "Dude." Ken scowled. "Really?" He turned back to Dave, still scowling. "Seriously? This guy?"

 

"Mr. Arena dropped by to ask me some questions about meningitis for Out and Loud." Dave straightened up. If he didn't know better, he'd think Ken was jealous. "We were just finishing up."

 

Arena smirked. "Now what would the Sheriff's Department's most eligible gay deputy want at the apartment of the prettiest omega at Silver Oak, I wonder?"

 

"Out. Now." Ken jerked his thumb toward the door. "Official police business."

 

Dave covered his mouth with one hand and hoped no one heard him laugh.

 

"Official police business? Is that what they're calling it these days?" Arena collected his things and headed toward the door. "I'm pretty sure my readers would be fascinated to know about a relationship between the two of you."

 

"Arena, this isn't the time." Dave closed his eyes. This right here was why Arena couldn't get a job with an actual newspaper or magazine. "Have a good day."

 

Ken glowered at Arena as the slender blogger left, and Dave turned to his newest guest. "How did you even get in here?"

 

"Flashed my badge at an old guy." Ken waved a hand. At least he'd left the shotgun behind this time. "Look, we've got a problem."

 

Dave sighed. "Of course we do."

 

"We've got more possible meningitis cases. And another empty vial was found on site."

 

Dave's mouth went dry. "That's about as far from good as we can get. Where?"

 

"Justice Center."

 

***

Ken tried not to look around himself at this palace of a condo. Once, this building had been a factory. They'd made bricks there, or something. His great-grandfather had been killed in an accident in this building. Now it was luxury condos. It was kind of a metaphor for the city itself, he guessed.

 

"The Justice Center. Seems like a logical place for a meningitis outbreak." Dave scratched his head.

 

"Except it's not an outbreak." Ken tapped his foot on the floor, so polished you could see yourself in it. "It's an attack."

 

Dave shook his head, like Ken had shaken him out of a nap or something. "Yeah. Sorry. It's still, technically, an outbreak. It's not a natural outbreak, don't get me wrong. It's just the term we use to describe when a disease appears in the population. It doesn't matter, in terms of treatment, whether it was planted or occurred naturally." He rubbed at his face. "Am I correct in assuming that those patients are all on their way to Silver Oak, or are there already?"

 

"On their way. It's not that easy, with prisoners." Ken crossed his arms over his chest.

 

"Hope the guards are vaccinated." Dave grimaced, and then he turned around to head back to the kitchen.

 

"Where the hell are you going?" Ken followed him.

 

"I was at the hospital until six o'clock this morning, and then Don Arena woke me up at nine. I'm not going anywhere without some go juice." He grabbed a travel mug from inside a cabinet. "Do you want some?"

 

Ken blinked. "What?"

 

"Coffee. Caffeine. Chemical substance guaranteed to help one wake up." He pulled another travel mug out of the cabinet and shook it.

 

"Oh. Sure. Thanks." Ken frowned. "How come you were at the hospital so late?"

 

Dave filled the cups. He didn't look at Ken. "I didn't feel comfortable leaving my patients, especially Barrett. So I stuck around. Did you know the county's in the middle of an influenza outbreak?"

 

Ken made a face. "Aw, gross."

 

"Happens every year. We try to get as many people as we can to get their flu shot, and most people will just feel lousy for a few days and then get over it. Old people get hit hardest." He passed a travel mug to Ken. "You don't strike me as the sort to want a bunch of cream and sugar in his coffee. Come on, let's go."

 

Ken followed Dave out to the parking lot. He opened the passenger door of his patrol car though. "Get used to it, Doc," he said with a wink, when Dave paused. "Until we get to the bottom of this, we're going to be spending a lot of time together." Ken could think of worse faces to see. Dave might be on the short side, but that pixie face of his was too beautiful for words.

 

"If someone's releasing bacterial meningitis into the general population, I kind of think we should be bringing in the CDC." Dave rubbed at the back of his neck.

 

"Your boss, Wade, already called. That was before he sent me to grab you." Ken slid into the driver's side.

 

"He couldn't have just called?" Dave rested his head against the back of his seat. "Not that it's not lovely to see you, of course. It's just a little disconcerting, considering I'd already had the joy of getting Arena to wake me up."

 

"Fun times. Why do you bother with that guy, anyway?"

 

Dave just shrugged. It wasn't like there was a lot of time to chat. They headed straight to the hospital, which was all of five minutes from Dave's glamorous condo.

 

Once Dave got out of the car, all traces of fatigue disappeared. He stood straight and proud; Dr. Stanek instead of Dave. "What do we actually know? How many patients are we dealing with?"

 

"Seven." Ken bumped into Dave when he stopped dead in his tracks. "Hey, man, what the hell?"

 

"Seven's an awfully large number. How did there get to be seven people with meningitis before anyone thought to do something about that?" He turned to face Ken.

 

Ken wasn't having it. Maybe a rich doctor like Dave, who'd probably never met a convict in his life, could afford to be soft on these people, but he knew no one got brought down to the Justice Center without cause. "Inmates like to cry wolf when it comes to health. It's a thing they do. They think they can escape easier from the infirmary. It never works, but they keep trying." He snorted. "They never learn. Probably why we see so much repeat business."

 

Dave's mouth thinned out into a grim line, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed toward the emergency department. "How was the vial introduced?"

 

"Shouldn't that be something that we worry about on my end?" Ken watched Dave stride toward the doors.

 

"Sure. It should be. Do you have the knowledge it takes to extrapolate how many people would have been exposed to the bacteria, how many people you can expect to turn up sick, and how to fix the unit so it doesn't happen again?" Dave's back was ramrod straight. He was pissed about something. Ken had no idea what.

 

"Well, no. That's why I'm here with you." Ken stopped himself and gave a little laugh. "Okay. I think I see your point. It was found in one of the rooms they use for inmate education. Three different teachers would have used that room during that day, with forty students per class. No way to know when the vial was let loose in there."

 

"And of course the vial was glass, so there's no way to know how it got in there. It wouldn't have shown up on a metal detector." Dave led Ken back to his office to sign in. "And you probably make people turn their pockets inside-out too."

 

"We don't, actually. We check, but we don't make visitors turn their pockets out for the duration of the visit." Ken tilted his head to the side. "That's more of a state or federal prison thing. Why do you even know about that?"

 

Dave gave a bitter little laugh. "What, you think doctors don't go visit prisons? For one thing, they're great hotbeds for outbreaks. I can't think of a jail that's not overcrowded, and any time you get crowding you get sick people. Plus, a lot of people who turn to crime come from poverty."

 

Ken shook his head and sprawled out into one of Dave's chairs. "Cry me a river, why don't you? Plenty of people grow up poor and don't turn to crime."

 

Dave nodded, and pursed his lips. "And plenty of people grow up in the lap of luxury and turn to crime anyway. No one's disputing that. There's still a strong correlation between poverty and crime and, considering that poverty tends to lead to higher rates of disease, that's two great risk factors that do not mix well."

 

"No one's too poor to buy soap." Ken's mother had said that her whole life, and she'd been right.

 

"Plenty of people are too poor to buy soap. Plenty of people are also too poor to take time off to go to the doctor, or to afford co-pays for vaccines. It's not a black and white situation. Dirt is one cause of disease. It's not the only one." Dave took off his winter coat and pulled on his white jacket. That weird gray scarf he'd been wearing had to disappear too, which was a shame. "Any idea when we can expect the latest batch of patients to arrive?"

 

"Soon." Ken tried not to roll his eyes at the little speech about illness and poverty and all that. What the hell did a doctor know about poverty anyway? "Why?"

 

"Because we're going to have to screen a lot more people at that prison. I know one of my students, Tony, does some work with one of the adult ed programs over there. He might be able to help out with that. He's not a doctor yet, but he's worked as an EMT. He can help out, at least in the lab." He yawned.

 

Ken turned away. He might resent Dave's privilege, but he could respect just how much time and energy he had already put into this job. He wished he could bring Dave home and tuck him into bed; keep him safe from everything until the next morning. That was probably just the alpha in him talking though. He'd learned to fight those instincts down. No one wanted to be saved anymore.

 

"Maybe you should give him a call, if you think he's trustworthy." Ken kept his eyes on the window.

 

Dave was already picking up the phone. "Tony? Hey, this is Dr. Stanek. Listen, how busy are you right now? We've got a bit of a situation down here at Silver Oak. Yeah, the outbreak is getting bigger. We're going to need some lab help. Think you're up for it? Sure, there's a paycheck in it for you."

 

Ken huffed out a laugh. Of course the guy wanted to get paid. None of these guys were in it for free.

 

"Okay, I'll see you soon." Dave hung up. "He'll be here as soon as he can get here. In the meantime, let's go check on the earlier patients."

 

Ken had to jog to keep up. Dave warned ER staff what to expect, and then headed off toward the elevators. They checked on a bunch of sick people on regular medical floors first, most of whom were about where Dave expected them to be. Ken hadn't realized people could be hospitalized for flu, but here they were. Dave took extra care with one little old lady in particular, taking extra time to make sure she was comfortable and felt she wasn't alone.

 

Then they had to go down to the ICU, which Ken hated. It always smelled like death on the ICU. It didn't smell like the dead, which was different. No, it smelled like imminent death, something tense and inevitable underneath the antiseptic. He supposed he had to go though, if that was where Dave was going.

 

The Barrett kid wasn't doing well. Ken didn't need a medical degree to figure that one out. The guy's hand had huge purple splotches on it, and he'd been put onto a ventilator. "That's not good, right?" Ken gestured toward Barrett's hand. "The, ah, the thing with the hand?"

 

"No." Dave's throat worked as he tried to contain his emotions. "No, it isn't. He's unlikely to keep the hand, although we're doing what we can. His case is progressing much faster than I'd like. I can't help but wonder if there's an underlying cause, or if there's something—" He shook his head. "Anyway. We've got one more antibiotic we can add to the mix, but it's got some unpleasant side effects. After that, I guess it's up to fate." He pressed a few buttons on his tablet, and then led the way down to the ER.

 

The first transports from the Justice Center had barely pulled in by the time Ken and Dave got downstairs, and Dave got right to work. If he was intimidated by the presence of two corrections officers at the side of each prisoner, he didn't say anything. He ignored the guards and spoke directly with each inmate. He ignored the shackles too, treating each inmate like he would any other patient at Silver Oak.

 

Ken rolled his eyes at first, because Dave obviously just didn't get it. If you tried to coddle these guys they were just going to walk all over you. As he watched though, he saw that Dave's approach wasn't hurting him at all. Dave spoke to an inmate accused of triple homicide (no bail for Johnston, and no surprise) about his symptoms. Johnston was suspicious at first, but after a few moments he relaxed and gave more than yes and no answers. He even submitted to the painful lumbar puncture without a fight.

 

It happened again and again, with each of the seven inmates. Ken hated to see these violent men so close to Dave, but he had to admit the doctor was good with them. He got their lumbar punctures done and got bloodwork done on all of them within an hour, and then he retreated to his office to process the details of his examinations. "The lab knows what's at stake. They'll rush us those results," he told Ken.

 

Taking a seat, Ken said. "You were pretty good with those guys out there."

 

Dave smirked. "Well, you know, they're just guys. Human, you know? Some of them have done some stuff, but they're still human." He turned back to his computer.

 

"What was with the bloodwork? Was that just part of the usual meningitis workup?" Ken scratched his head.

 

"No. Normally I've got a pretty complete medical history for my patients. There are certain conditions that rule out certain treatments, or make them more vulnerable to certain side effects or whatever. I need to know that before we can start treatment, and none of these men had gotten medical care in a while." He sighed. "Might as well check on whatever else is going on with them, while they're here."

 

"You realize that first guy killed three people." Ken frowned. "Is it really worth all that extra effort?"

 

"He hasn't been convicted yet." Dave lifted an eyebrow. "And even if he had been, it's still my job to keep him healthy. I have no idea what's behind what put him in jail. It's not up to me to decide whether or not he's worthy or whatever. I do my job, and maybe he gets out someday and helps someone else to make better choices. Or maybe he does that while he's inside, I don't know. I mean doesn't the Constitution forbid cruel and unusual punishment? Pretty sure withholding medical care counts." Dave grinned.

 

Ken didn't have a response for that. Instead, they sat back to wait for the test results.

 

Those results came back within an hour. "Just as we thought," Dave told him. "We've got seven cases of meningococcal disease. We've also got three cases of hepatitis C and one positive result for HIV." He bowed his head for a moment. "This does complicate things a bit, you know. But we can work with it." He stood up. "Better go give the news, and get those guys admitted."

 

Ken followed Dave as he broke the news to each of the men, explaining what treatment was available and what their prognosis was. He took extra time with the patients with Hep-C and HIV, because their cases were more complicated and would require more testing and medication. Ken hated to admit it, but he was in awe of the compassion shown by this man.

 

Once those patients had been admitted, with guards to make sure they didn't try to escape, of course, Ken and Dave sat back down in Dave's office. "So what now?" Ken rubbed at his temples. "How do we track down someone who's deliberately releasing a deadly disease into the population?"

 

Dave sighed and bowed his head. "What do the sites have in common?"

 

"They're crowded, smelly places full of miscreants." Ken looked up.

 

"Seriously?" Dave managed a little grin. "Okay. They're both places where you'd expect to find meningitis. And the killer knows that. He's not releasing it in, say, Wegmans."

 

Ken tapped his fingers on the desk. "That's a good point. We're dealing with someone who knows what they're doing." He looked into Dave's hazel eyes. "That's not a good thing, is it?"

 

Dave looked away and didn't answer.