Dead Harvest

  The bedroom wasn't any nicer than the living room, and a quarter the size – just enough room for the musty, unmade bed and a small dresser. A door on one wall opened to a small bath. I peeled my soiled shirt off and headed to the bathroom, splashing some water on my face and drinking from cupped hands, before returning to the bedroom in search of fresh clothes. In the middle drawer of the dresser I found a rumpled flannel shirt, and in the bottom drawer, a pair of baggy, paint-stained jeans. I dressed quickly, cinching the jeans tight with a belt left atop the dresser. I tucked the lone ceramic cat-shard into my shirt pocket, and then it was back down the stairs, toward Manhattan, and toward our fates.

I had to admit, she looked fantastic. The nausea that had plagued her in the early weeks of the trial had abated, and the color had returned to her cheeks. No longer just the pricks of red over a backdrop of gray that screamed "lunger" to anyone who saw them – they were now a warm golden hue that highlighted the dusting of freckles across her nose and reminded me why I'd fallen in love with her to begin with. And her appetite had improved as well; I watched with amazement as she plowed her way through a plate of ham and eggs, delivered to her bedside by one of the team of nurses that tended to the thirty-odd patients in the study. I had to hand it to Dumas – whatever they were giving her was working.

  "Strep-toe-my-sin," she said when I had asked, enunciating each syllable as though she'd memorized them individually. "Not terribly catchy, is it? I mean, you think they'd call it Tubercu-Cure or some such, wouldn't you? But anyway, they seem to think it's working – they say another month of treatment, and I'll be cured, can you believe it? Cured!"

  "That's fantastic, love," I said, but my thoughts were elsewhere, a fact that wasn't lost on Elizabeth.

  "They did warn me, though, that there are side effects," she said.

  "Yeah?" I said, barely hearing her.

  "They say I may grow a trunk and hooves."

  "Huh."

  "Seriously, Sam, where are you today?"

  "Nowhere – forget it."

  "It's this new job of yours, isn't it?"

  "What? No, of course not."

  I was lying, of course. This past month, Dumas had run me ragged, calling at all hours of the night to tell me he had a package to deliver, a client to entertain, a customs agent who needed a little paying off. Between the insane hours and the knowledge of what I was doing, I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and there was no doubt the job was taking its toll on my marriage, as well – I'd been nothing but short-tempered and distant for weeks.

  "Sure," Elizabeth said. "Fine. When's the last time you had something to eat? I could talk to the nurse, have her grab a plate for you as well."

  "I'm not hungry."