made a good faith effort to cut back at work. He left by seven o'clock every night. His staff, and the staff at the other hospitals, were competent. Until they had another attack they were more or less in a holding pattern anyway. They would follow the treatment protocol. The victims would either survive, or they would not. Dave being there almost never made much of a difference, once the correct diagnosis was made and the treatment was decided upon.

 

If they needed him, if something went wrong or something unexpected happened, they could always call him on the phone.

 

Ken's investigation seemed to go a little more smoothly now that he wasn't quite as worried that Dave was going to fall over into a little pregnant heap on the floor. Dave hadn't realized just how much time Ken was taking away from the investigation to babysit him. Guilt clawed at him about that. Would they have already caught the killer, if he and Ken hadn't been involved?

 

Maybe, maybe not. They'd had a hard time keeping their hands off of one another. Maybe they'd have gone on, just being distracted by each other, and nothing would have gotten done at all. Maybe the residents of Baldwin House would never have been attacked, because the killer would have been caught. The residents wouldn't have caught meningitis, but they'd still be stuck in Baldwin House. The investigation into that facility was still ongoing and probably would be for a long time.

 

The elderly patients continued to die off at an alarming rate, prompting questions from local and national media. Dave's colleagues at the CDC demanded notes and lots of them. Dave could understand that, because if nothing else came out of this there would at least be some data about the effects of meningococcal disease on the elderly. The hospital, both the outgoing administration and their new corporate overlords from Cleveland, thought yet another press conference would be helpful.

 

Dave didn't think they had time for another press conference, but people were scared. They had a right to know what was going on and the best way to get that information out was through the media. Even if that media was more a circus than a professional group of colleagues some of the time.

 

He and Ken got up in the same room, in front of a large group of local and national reporters. Dave couldn't help but feel self-conscious. Not only had he failed to solve the issue of the meningitis outbreaks, but they'd eat him alive once they realized his clothes didn't fit. He wasn't a young, dapper doctor anymore. He wasn't exactly showing yet, but he'd noticed that his clothes had gotten tighter.

 

There wasn't anything he could do about it now. He didn't have time to go paternity shopping.

 

The hospital's still-outgoing communication director gave a short introduction and then it was all Dave and Ken. It bothered Dave that he was getting used to this now. He'd learned public speaking, sure, but he hadn't expected to do this with it. It was just one of those things he had to do in junior high. If Mr. Bellamy could see me now.

 

He cleared his throat. "Good afternoon. I understand that there's been a bit of consternation about the high death rate among meningitis patients from the attack at Baldwin House. To be honest, we've been concerned about that too. The fact of the matter is, there isn't a lot of literature about how meningitis affects elderly populations. They aren't typically part of the patient profile for meningitis patients in the United States. We are doing everything we can for these patients, but we do feel compelled to point out that these seniors were already in a deeply vulnerable state before the killer attacked."

 

A reporter from a national cable news channel raised his hand and curled his lip. "Are you blaming the seniors for their own deaths?"

 

Ken scowled at the reporter. "Are you kidding me?" He turned to Dave. "Is he joking? He did just hear what you said, right?" A little titter went around the assembled reporters and a few cameras panned over to the reporter in question. "No. No one is blaming the senior citizens themselves. They had every expectation of safety in Baldwin House. I'm not even blaming Baldwin House for this attack. Healthy people generally don't wind up in a skilled nursing facility, people. This killer—and they are a murderer—sneaked into a building filled with elderly people they knew already had an illness or an injury, or some kind of condition, and then they chose to release a deadly bacteria in such a way that the seniors didn't have a choice to not ingest it. What part of that sounds like the seniors are being blamed to you, huh?"

 

Dave put a hand on Ken's arm, but in truth he didn't mind Ken's rant. Ken was right, after all. "Deputy Sykora is right. No one is accusing these victims of anything. That's what they are—victims. Someone chose to do this to them."

 

Another reporter raised her hand. This one was local. "Do you truly not hold Baldwin House responsible? They've failed multiple inspections due to lack of cleanliness."

 

Dave shook his head. "I'm not aware of any evidence showing that they were at fault for this outbreak. I've seen some of the reports about Baldwin House, but I think it's not going to help anyone to get into a debate about their prior situation right here. I think there are some pending court cases, so I definitely don't want to get involved with anything that might taint the jury pool or anything like that.

 

"I do want to point out that the staff from Baldwin House that are involved with direct care have been supremely helpful during this crisis. They've been helping to identify patients, their idiosyncrasies, their pre-existing conditions—everything. Given that some of these patients aren't able to communicate effectively on their own, that's immensely helpful to us. Whatever people think about the administration of Baldwin House, and I don't want to pretend to try to steer people one way or another on that, the nursing staff have been more helpful than I could have imagined."

 

The next reporter was from a national print news outlet; a respectable one at that. "Why is this investigation taking so long? It seems like there can't be that many people in a place like Syracuse that have access to meningococcal bacteria."

 

"About a hundred," Ken told him, meeting his eye. "I'm narrowing that field down. Part of the problem is that only one of these sites has anything like real security, so there's no way to compare the list of people from that site to people who were found at the other site. It's a challenge. That doesn't mean we're going to let the case go cold. Hell no. It's my only case right now, and I'm working it all the time. It just means it's going to take time to weed out false leads." He huffed out a little laugh. "Believe me, I want to get the guy too. I want to make sure we get the right person, not just a convenient warm body."

 

Another reporter raised her hand. "The Onondaga County Department of Public Health has asked that people use only disposable tableware when dining in public or in institutional settings. Would that have prevented what happened at Baldwin House?"

 

Dave looked up at the ceiling for a moment, thinking about his answer. "It's possible," he said, after a moment. "It would depend on how those utensils were stored, and how they were set out on the tables, et cetera. I think that would result in a lot more trash than we're used to. That's something we can probably live with in the short term. Is it a change we're willing to make in the long term? That might be something to discuss at greater length.

 

"Look, here's the thing. People can spare themselves from a lot of infectious diseases by living in a bubble, right? If we just avoid human contact at all costs, we'll stay physically healthy for a very long time. Of course, if a germ does get in, we'll be toast and forget about mental health. I'd say we need to be sensible about the changes we make and the risks we're willing to assume.

 

"I'm not suggesting we ignore the County DPH's recommendation. It's a great solution to this particular form of attack. Bear in mind, of course that the killer hasn't attacked the same way twice. Stay vigilant. Don't assume that because you're eating with a plastic fork that it's okay to go lick the inside of strange test tubes you find lying in crowded public places, okay?"

 

People chuckled. That was good. They might be scared, but they hadn't lost their sense of humor.

 

A tanned arm in an oatmeal-colored Henley appeared among the crowd, and Dave had to restrain a groan. How had Don Arena gotten in, anyway? Who had given him a press pass? "Mr. Arena," he called, in as calm a voice as he could.

 

"I got an anonymous tip that you, Dr. Stanek, have cut back on the hours you're working on the outbreak. You were working more hours when you had fewer patients, but now you've cut back. Can you explain this?"

 

Ken's face darkened. Dave wouldn't have wanted to be Don Arena in that moment.

 

Dave leaned forward. No one could see the way his palms sweated. He was fine. Just fine. "I was finding the hours I was working were having a negative effect on my health. Doctors are trained to work long shifts, up to forty-eight hours at a stretch, but not over and over. By the time the Baldwin House case hit, it had become very clear that this was going to be a marathon, not a sprint. It was pointed out to me, by more than one person, that I wasn't going to be much help to my patients if I collapsed into a heap on the ground.

 

"I'm still available by phone. I can still come back to Silver Oak if need be. I live all of five minutes away and that's without sirens speeding me along. But yeah. Our physical health and well-being does have an effect on our immune system and, when you spend your time working on infectious diseases, that's a concern." Dave was going to have to catch up to Arena and find out exactly who that "anonymous source" had been.

 

There weren't many more questions. A couple of the national outlets had questions about meningitis in general, but that was it. Dave could go back to his real job now, something for which he'd be eternally grateful.

 

He headed back to his office. He wasn't surprised when Ken chased after Arena. If Ken was going to have all of those weird, protective, alpha urges, he might as well put them to good use.

 

He checked on his patients on-site and then he made calls to check on those patients at other hospitals. By the time he was done with that, he saw Tony Whalen's familiar form lurking at the door.

 

"What's going on, Tony?" He beckoned his student into the room. "Don't just hang out there like a lonely ghost. How can I help you?"

 

Tony shuffled into Dave's office. His blue eyes blazed, but he still had the deferential set to his shoulders that Dave had come to expect from Tony. "Hey. I saw your conversation with that blogger guy."

 

It had been an ambush, not a conversation, but Dave wasn't in the mood to quibble right now. "Okay," he said. "What about it?"

 

"Well, don't you think it's kind of, I don't know…" He trailed off and wiped his mouth. "I thought disease was your everything, man."

 

"It is." Dave blinked. "There's nothing I want more than to solve this case. I just can't be awake twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I can't do it. I can't be much help to my patients in that state."

 

"Okay, but aren't people dying and stuff? Kids? Old people? Prisoners?"

 

Dave tilted his head. "Lots of people are dying. Most of them are elderly people right now, but that's because they were already ill to begin with."

 

"Are you willing to let them die because they were already on their way out?" Tony's face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and that was odd given that there was still snow on the ground.

 

"I'm not 'willing' to let them die at all, Tony." Dave watched his student carefully. "The killer was willing to let them die when they deliberately infected them with meningitis. Once I've diagnosed them, and set a treatment protocol, the course is kind of set." He folded his fingers together. "You know, it's not a sin for a doctor to take care of himself. It's actually encouraged. I know it sounds a little dirty."

 

"I just think it's selfish, you know? When it's just the usual run of the mill stuff, maybe. But this is a crisis!" Tony leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

 

"It is a crisis. My ability to affect this crisis is limited."

 

"But maybe the killer is trying to send a message. Maybe he didn't want people to die. Maybe he's trying to send a message about… about meningitis."

 

Dave stared at Tony for a long moment. "What, you mean like 'Wow, meningitis kind of sucks, try not to catch it'?"

 

"Like 'Meningitis is a thing, it's a killer, it needs more research funding. And oh, here's this guy who knows what he's doing, maybe give him the funding.'"

 

Dave ran his tongue against the back of his teeth. "I'm pretty sure that would be an uphill battle, and that's not one that would be helped by a stack of bodies." He forced a little grin. "We can't even get the CDC or the FBI to put boots on the ground up here, man. They're not going to give funding to someone like me or you just because a disease has an outsize outbreak."

 

Tony gaped. "They have to. People are dying."

 

"Priorities, Tony. Any time you're dealing with the Feds, you're dealing with the priorities of the current administration. I think our killer's more than aware of that." He kept his eyes on Tony. "After all, look at who he went after. A smaller college no one in Washington's ever heard of. People in prison. People in public housing. People in the worst nursing home in all of Syracuse. The killer saw them as a throwaway population and so does the administration."

 

Tony paled. "I see. I—that's why you gave me that reading list."

 

"That's why I gave you that reading list. Someone should understand that stuff, if the administration won't."

 

Tony got up and backed toward the entrance. "I need to go."

 

"See you." Dave watched him go.

 

He had his suspicions about Tony. He couldn't prove any of them, but that was a job for someone else.

 

***

Ken followed Arena out into the hallway. He wasn't ashamed to admit he had murder on his mind. He wouldn't do it, of course. He wasn't that guy, and he wasn't about to go to jail for a dirtbag like Don Freaking Arena. He could think about it anyway, in the privacy of his own mind.

 

"What the hell are you doing?" Arena stopped in the middle of the hallway and turned around, stepping up into Ken's space. "Freedom of the press is a guaranteed constitutional right and you, with your gun and your badge and your impossibly hard pectoral muscles, don't get to interfere with that. Ha!" He poked Ken in the chest, good and hard.

 

That was all the excuse Ken needed. He grabbed Arena by the shoulder and hustled him off into a conference room. "Assault on a police officer," he said, in a smug tone. "Nice. I can't remember how much time you're going to get for that one, but I'm sure you'll enjoy your time in the Justice Center anyway. You can write all about it for your adorable little blog."

 

He "encouraged" Arena to sit in a seat. He could have been gentler about it, but he opted not to be.

 

Arena gaped at him. "This is police brutality!"

 

"No. If you want to see police brutality, keep being a dick to Dr. Stanek." Ken loomed over his prey, arms crossed over his chest.

 

"So you are together!" He clapped his hands. "Oh, this is just perfect. Are you the one responsible for his decision to cut back on his hours?"

 

"He makes his own choices." Ken glowered at Arena. What was it with this guy and his obsession with other people's relationships, anyway? "Look, you do know he cut back to ten to eleven hours per day, right? It's not like he's down to part-time."

 

"Huh." Arena played with one of his curls. "That's funny. The guy who gave me the lead made it sound like he was working maybe three or four hours a day."

 

Ken took a deep breath and counted to ten. "And who might that be, hm?"

 

Arena fluttered his eyelashes at Ken. "Oh, come on, sweetie. A journalist never reveals his sources."

 

"You're not a journalist, 'sweetie.' You're a blogger. There's a world of difference there."

 

Arena sucked his teeth. "I am a citizen journalist. I provide information of value to LGBTQIA+ residents of this city. If that means knowing who prominent queer citizens are dating, then that's what I'll do. If that means asking tough questions of those same citizens about their work ethic when lives are on the line, then I'll do that too." He sighed. "To be honest, it did seem a little odd to me. Dr. Stanek hasn't ever struck me as a slacker before."

 

"That's because he's not. For a while there, he wasn't going home unless someone physically removed him." Ken glared at Arena again. "That's not going to do his patients any good, is it? I'm sure it does a lot of good for his reputation to look so devoted that he's willing to work himself to actual death, but that's a little on the silly side don't you think? Eleven hours in a day is enough."

 

"Yeah. I suppose." Arena closed his eyes and gave his head a little shake. "I just can't understand why that guy wouldn't have explained that. I've seen this guy around Dr. Stanek a hundred times. Why would he want to trash Dr. Stanek like that?"

 

"Hm." Ken narrowed his eyes. "Could it be, possibly, that this person might be trying to cast the investigating team in a negative light?"

 

Arena thrust his tongue between his lips as he thought about it. Ordinarily, it would be an adorable gesture. On Arena, it was just annoying. "That doesn't make sense though. The guy's around the hospital all the time. I'm pretty sure he's a medical student." He put his hand over his mouth. "I shouldn't have even said that much."

 

"Arena, the guy's almost certainly a killer." Ken snapped. "If he isn't, then he's covering for one. He's killed forty people already. Do you think we might want to catch him?"

 

"Tony Whalen." Arena gasped out the words, like he'd been dying to say them. "It was Tony Whalen. He came to find me, walked me to the press conference and everything."

 

"Tony Whalen." Ken nodded slowly. "I guess that makes sense. He does have a weirdly smug, superior attitude. He's got access to the disease and he's got access to the jail."

 

Arena covered his mouth with both hands. His eyes bulged. "Are you kidding me? Oh my God. I was this close to him. Do you think he infected me?"

 

"Probably not. He had a plan for you, remember?" Ken stepped back. He needed to think. He couldn't arrest Whalen without much better probable cause than the fact that a gossip blogger had told him he'd done it. "It gives me someplace to look. Listen. I'm concerned for your safety right now. I mean, I also don't want you to get hit with a lawsuit, but I'm more worried about your safety. I'm strongly urging you not to post anything about this conversation to your blog."

 

"I have a responsibility to my audience." Arena stuck his chin out. "I get that you think you're above it, but there are people who trust Out and Loudmore than they trust any other news source out there. They need to know Dr. Stanek is looking out for them—isn't slacking off. They deserve to know that you're close to nabbing the killer!"

 

Ken bit down on the inside of his cheek. "Hearsay evidence, with nothing to back it up, isn't enough to get a warrant. It's not enough for 'close,' Arena. I need more before we're close, and he'll destroy evidence before we can get to him if he knows we're onto him."

 

Arena froze. "Oh."

 

"Yeah. Oh." Ken gave him a tight little smile. "So go ahead and post the answer to your question. Go ahead and even mention the whole eleven-hour day thing, although it'll probably read better as eighty-hour weeks. Do not mention any of the discussion we've just had. I'm not trying to restrict your freedom of the press here, even if I don't think that applies to you." He leaned forward. "What do you think Whalen will do to you once he knows you know what he is?"

 

"Oh." Arena paled.

 

"Exactly." Ken let Arena get up. "Now that we're on the same page."

 

He escorted Arena out to the main entrance and then headed back toward Dave's office. He had a lot of work to do.

 

As he turned the corner that led from the main lobby toward the emergency department, Ken became aware of a commotion a little way ahead. He looked up, hand on his service weapon, to see a man in a hoodie running up the corridor. The hood was up, obscuring the man's face, and he shoved people out of his way as he ran toward Ken.

 

Ken pulled out his gun. "Freeze! Get down on the ground!"

 

It was a foolish gesture. He was never going to fire on the man, not with that many people in the area. And the man, who was almost certainly Tony Whalen, knew it.

 

Whalen pulled something from his pocket. It wasn't a gun. Instead, it was a small aerosol bottle. As he got up close to Ken, he sprayed the bottle right into his face.

 

Ken closed his eyes and tried to block, but Whalen was too quick for him. He ran away, leaving Ken clutching at his eyes and nose. Whalen had scored a direct hit.

 

A nurse Ken didn't recognize approached. "Sir, you need to come into the ER."

 

"Don't let Dave see me."

 

The words tumbled out of Ken's mouth and he almost wished he could take them back. There wasn't any need though. She gave him a stern look. "Buddy, if that was what I think it was, he's the one that needs to see you."

 

She escorted him into the ER and hollered for a room, a gurney, and Dr. Stanek in that order.

 

Ken had spent a fair amount of time in emergency rooms. He'd brought his friends in and waited in the uncomfortable plastic chairs. He'd been a patient in them once or twice himself. He'd spent a lot of time in this particular ER over the past few weeks, just hanging out and waiting for Dave.

 

He'd never been on his back, on a gurney, waiting to see if he'd just gotten a face full of killer bacteria.

 

Dave was in the room within five minutes. "Ken? Ken, what the hell?"

 

"Guy in a hoodie. He got me in the face with a spray bottle." Ken looked around the room and met Dave's eyes with a significant pause.

 

Dave nodded his head, just a little bit. "Yeah. Okay. I can see that." He took a deep breath, and then he held out a hand. "We'll see if that spray has what we think we do."

 

The nurse handed him a swab. Dave used the swab to dab at some of the liquid still on Ken's face, and then used a paper towel soaked in rubbing alcohol to clean off what little was left. The rest had gone directly into Ken's nose.

 

"So I've been vaccinated." Ken cleared his throat. "I should be good to go."

 

"We'll see." Dave's mouth tightened. "We'll need to find out if the vaccine took, or if it's effective against what's basically a direct introduction."

 

Ken paused. "I thought the vaccine provided immunity against the whole disease." He looked down at Dave's belly.

 

"I've had every vaccine. Hopefully, the one you've had will confer immunity." Ken could recognize Dave's "professional" voice. "If not, we'll begin treatment right away."

 

Ken reclined on his gurney and waited. It was all he could do, at this point.

 

Waiting in a treatment bay in the ER was boring. He had counted every dot in the ceiling twice over within an hour, and come up with some creative interpretations of the different stains found therein. By the end of the hour, he'd developed a headache. The headache only got worse over the next half hour and he could swear that someone was messing with the intensity of the lights.

 

He wished he'd brought his sunglasses indoors.

 

Dave reappeared, with a needle that made Ken cry just to see. It took more than a few people to help Dave with the lumbar puncture, even though Ken had already developed the stiff neck he knew characterized meningitis.

 

He made sure Dave knew. Dave's eyes grew shadowed, but he nodded and turned to the nurse. "Obviously we're not going to confirm the diagnosis until the results come back, but let's get him started on a round of IV antibiotics. And let's prepare him a room." He paused. "A private room."

 

"Of course, Doctor." The nurse moved away.

 

Ken lost track of time after that. He only closed his eyes to block out the light, but when he opened them again he found himself in a small, private room in the hospital. The lights were turned down low, although they still hurt his eyes. He'd been hooked up to enough machines that he wondered if they'd turned him into a cyborg, and his clothes had been replaced by a flowered hospital johnny.

 

Dave loomed over him for a moment. "How're you doing, Ken?"

 

"I'm burning up." Ken didn't have the energy or strength to try to lie to Dave. He wanted to, but he couldn't find it within himself. Maybe tomorrow.

 

"That's normal." His hand cooled, at least enough to be comfortable as Dave took hold of it. "I spoke with your mother. She's worried about you, but she said you'd die of humiliation if anyone saw you like this."

 

"She's not wrong." Ken frowned and turned his head toward Dave's voice. "Can I have some water?"

 

"You can have some ice chips." Dave gave him a cup. "I'm so sorry that I didn't find a way to prove it before he got to you."

 

"Not your job." Right now, he couldn't remember what Dave's job was, but he could remember it wasn't police work. "My memory's all fuzzy."

 

Dave chuckled. "Yeah, I'll bet. Do you remember who you are?"

 

"'M ken. 'M a sheriff. You're Dave, you're my boyfriend; you're having my babies." He thought for a moment. "Are you a nurse?"

 

"Something like that." Cool lips touched his forehead. "It's okay to sleep as much as you want, babe."

 

Ken did.

 

The next day passed in pretty much the same day. He knew he had visitors, because he had vague memories of them throughout the day. The only problem was that they all kind of melded together in one endless cycle of visitation. Mama morphed into Danny, who morphed into Ken's commanding officer, who morphed into Dave. He knew, on some level, that he was passing out between visitors, but he couldn't do anything to stop it.

 

In his more lucid moments, he stopped to wonder how he'd gotten here. He'd been so worried that Dave would be the one to catch meningitis, but here he was laid up in a hospital room.

 

Someone who had visited put on one of those awful courtroom shows, Judge Jump or whatever. The judge in question looked a lot like a hobgoblin. He spent some time laughing at her for a while, and wondered how hard it would be to hide the fact he was taping it from everyone when he got home. Other people didn't know what they were missing.

 

His biggest concern, of course, wasn't himself. He was worried about Dave. If he was laid up in the hospital, then who was making sure Dave got the rest he needed? Who was making sure Dave was safe? Dave didn't have a family. No one else had a vested interest in making sure Ken's lover stayed safe and comfortable.

 

He couldn't do anything about it from where he was, but he could be a pest. He made a point of pestering Dave about it every time they spoke. Maybe it was coming out more like 'something something potato' but Dave seemed to understand what he wanted to say.

 

"I'm fine, Ken. I've got all the help and all the bodyguards I need. All I need is for you to get better."