With the MD...at the Altar?. Jessica Andersen

moved in his expression. “You and I are on night shift together.”

      He turned and disappeared into the kitchen wing before she could ask whether that had been his idea or someone else’s. She didn’t call him back, though, because she was pretty sure she didn’t want to know either way.

      WHEN LUKE REACHED the utilitarian kitchen, he was relieved to find the large space deserted, save for a bank of portable auto-samplers doing their thing on the first set of patient blood samples. That gave him a moment alone to lean on the wide farmer’s sink and look out the window, seeing nothing but Rox’s face in his mind’s eye.

      He saw the terror on it when she’d run from the Violent. He saw the defiant expression she’d worn just now as she stood up to him. Even more, he saw the woman he’d known back then, and how her face had been so much more open, her laugh so much easier than it was now.

      Back then, she’d said she wanted to slow down, to do something smaller and more intimate than the relief work they’d both loved. I want to belong somewhere, she’d said, as though belonging to him hadn’t been enough.

      Well, she was a part of Raven’s Cliff now, and the way she’d interacted with the police chief and the volunteers—even the blowhard mayor—suggested that she belonged.

      So why did he get the feeling she still wasn’t happy?

      “She’s living in the middle of an outbreak site, you idiot,” he said aloud.

      These people were her responsibility, which made it personal for her in a way he’d never ever wanted to experience. But because it was personal for her, and dangerous for her, and hell, his damn job, he’d do his best to figure out what was making her people sick, and how to stop it. And then…

      And then nothing. He’d leave, which was exactly what she wanted. She’d made it clear just now that she didn’t need an explanation or an excuse from him, didn’t need an apology. She wanted her town healed and him gone.

      “I can do that.” Ignoring a faint sense of disquiet, he strode to one of the auto-samplers and hit a few buttons harder than necessary, making the machine beep in protest.

      “That’s not going to get it to work any faster,” Bug said from the outer kitchen doorway, which led to a small courtyard. “Science takes the time it takes.”

      “I know.” Luke turned away from the machine to glare at the stocky, bearded geneticist. “And don’t quote me to myself.”

      “Sorry. Just thought you might need a dose of rational detachment and good old scientific perspective.” Bug crossed the flagstone kitchen to check how many minutes were remaining on the analytical program. Way too casually, he said, “You going to put me on bedpan duty for the rest of the year if I ask about her?”

      Luke muttered a curse under his breath. He’d known his teammates would ask about him and Rox. He’d just been hoping it would be later rather than sooner.

      The four members of the outbreak response team spent too much time in close quarters not to know each other well. May, their most intuitive member by far, had picked up on the vibes right away, and had asked him about it the night before. “Rox and I have a history,” he’d answered, and hoped she’d tell the others what he’d said, and they would leave it at that.

      Apparently not.

      “Maybe not bedpans,” Luke said, “but dishwashing at the very least.”

      Bug pretended to think about it. “I can live with that. So what’s the deal? You two are giving off enough sparks to power a couple of sequencers and a cryofridge.”

      Luke would’ve winced, but he couldn’t deny the observation. Things between him and Rox had never been subtle. Something that strong just couldn’t be hidden. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be controlled, either. Couldn’t be trusted to last.

      “She and I used to have a thing.”

      “No kidding.”

      “I ended it.”

      “And from the looks of it, not very well.”

      This time it was Luke’s turn to say, “No kidding.” He didn’t bother trying to explain. Rox didn’t want to hear it, and it wasn’t anyone else’s business but theirs. So he said simply, “We’re here to do the job, end of story.”

      Bug seemed to consider that for a moment before nodding. But as he turned away and busied himself removing small tubes from the centrifuge and placing them in a rack, he said, “If you want to talk about it sometime, you know, I wouldn’t mind. I used to be married.”

      Luke couldn’t tell if Bug thought that made him an expert on relationships or exes. “Used to be?”

      “She wanted to stay home and do the family thing, and she didn’t want to do it alone, so she found a guy who didn’t disappear for weeks at a time on zero notice.” The geneticist’s shrug conveyed a sense of inevitability. “I don’t blame her, and I don’t blame the job. I love the job. The two just weren’t compatible.”

      “Sorry to hear it.” Sorry but not surprised. It was something of a theme in their line of work—the couples who made it were typically the ones who worked together, not the ones who struggled to keep things going long-distance. Then again, the couples who worked together also had a nasty habit of flaming out in public. It was a completely no-win situation as far as he could tell.

      Just then, the auto-sampler beeped to announce that it had finished its first run. Relieved, Luke reached out and clapped Bug on the shoulder. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

      He’d rather solve an unsolvable outbreak than try to figure out interpersonal relationships any day.

      The two men peered at the computer screen, where the results of the preliminary blood and urine tests were displayed.

      “What the hell?” Bug recoiled in surprise, then leaned back in for a second look. “Their hormone levels are off the charts!”

      And it wasn’t just one or two of the levels that were elevated, Luke saw. The plasma levels of cortisol, aldosterone, testosterone, DHEA, estrogen and several others had spiked in every one of the sick people. More important, the levels were nearly double in Violents compared to the nonviolent patients.

      “Not just any hormones,” Luke said grimly. “Steroid hormones.”

      “The Violents are on a ’roid rage?” Bug said, surprised. But then he nodded. “It fits the symptoms, sort of.”

      “Doesn’t account for the fever, the red-eye or the jaundice,” Luke said, punching a few keys to bring up another data screen. “The white blood cell counts are within normal limits, so it’s not an infection. Or at least not one the patients’ bodies are recognizing yet and mounting an immune response against. Maybe something is attacking their thermoregulatory functions.” Along with several other systems, he realized, as the skewed lab results continued to almost—but not quite—explain the symptoms.

      “We’re still missing something,” Bug said, frowning at the results.

      “Yeah. The trigger.” Luke ordered the computer to print up the results. “Let’s sit down with May and Thom and put our heads together. We need to go through all the environmental toxins and poisons, natural and unnatural substances that could have these effects. Hell, maybe we’re even looking at a mixture of agents, a pesticide or something. DDT messes with estrogen levels in pregnant women. Maybe our answer is something along those lines.”

      Bug paused at the doorway. “You want me to invite Roxanne to sit in?”

      “Don’t even try matchmaking,” Luke said without rancor. “And no, leave her out of this. She’s in town interviewing family members. With any luck, she’ll come up with a common thread. If we can figure out the ‘what’ and she finds the ‘how,’ we should be able to nail this illness before anyone else dies.”

      And