Killing Dragons: Order of the Dolphin, #1

By Kristie Clark

In a world where sea dragons terrorize dolphins, you enter the reef at your own risk.

 

Marine biologist Eva Paz is on the verge of revolutionizing linguistics by cracking the dolphin communication code. Then police call her away to investigate a dead fisherman. It's her mother's boyfriend, but Eva is running out of time to complete her dolphin whistle library by the deadline, putting her grant at risk. Without funding, her dolphins will soon be turned loose in the deadly Caribbean.

 

A cartel leader makes Eva an offer she can't refuse. He'll fund her dolphin research if she'll help him capture the sea dragon. His aid comes with a catch, and he doesn't count the cost.

 

Then geneticist Thomas Sternberg arrives on sabbatical to lead a dive school. He wants to help Eva, but they share a tragic past. While on his watch as a Navy Seal, Eva's brother was killed, and her dolphin was wounded.

 

Eva doesn't trust Thomas, but can she set that aside to work with him to stop the sea dragon and save her dolphins?

 

For fans of Jaws and Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park, Killing Dragons is book one in Kristie Clark's Order of the Dolphin series.

 

Buy Killing Dragons to join Eva and her dolphins on their adventures today!

 

Book Club Questions included. May be read as a standalone but Killing Dragons is best enjoyed with the next books in the Order of the Dolphin series: Dragon Gold and Dragon Clan.

 

A Chanticleer Reviews FIVE Star Best Book!

 

"Brilliantly executed, Killing Dragons undoubtedly whets the literary appetite of those who like their sci-fi thrillers with a bit of sexy in the mix." – Chanticleer Reviews

 

"A smart, science fiction thriller that will have readers looking twice at dolphins – and scanning the waters for something far more menacing.

Highly recommended."  – Sharon Anderson, Chanticleer Reviews

 

A Reedsy FIVE Star Must Read Book!

 

Eco-thriller with dolphins, red tide, a commercial fish farm, a mysterious sea monster, and more intrigue!

 

"Reading about the diving experience will make you want to try it for yourself, especially where there aren't any sea monsters involved! If you are a fan of the Jurassic Park books by Michael Crichton and enjoy eco-fiction and/or thrillers, you will get a kick out of this novel about dolphins, fish farms, and a dangerous sea dragon." --Rachel Barnard, Reesdy Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delphi Imprint, LLC
• Release date: Jun 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954442023

Book preview

ONE

Thursday, February 11, 7:02 A.M. CST

Coxen Hole

Roatán, Honduras

---

Every moment counts, and I’m running out of time.

Eva woke up late, the hazy sunlight streaming through her window. It had stormed the night before, and she hadn’t slept well. She’d have to hurry to get to work with her dolphins. The deadline for her grant approached, and she still needed more data.

Rising, she put on shorts and a T-shirt over a bikini, strapped on her Tevas, and grabbed her backpack, which held her waterproof laptop. Then she headed for the kitchen, where a water bottle and sack lunch—PBJ, her favorite—waited on the counter.

Her mother sat at the table enjoying a relaxed breakfast of beans, cheese, and eggs. Sitting beside her, Soledad engrossed herself in her life science textbook. The girl wanted to be a pediatrician one day. Luis Junior sat with them, stacking Legos and chattering away, with an empty plate pushed to the side. The boy stayed with them when his widowed father, who was Eva’s mother’s estable, left on fishing trips.

Luis Junior looked up at Eva’s mother with a smile. "Mina, papi is going to teach me to fish soon." Both children called Romina by the nickname Mina.

Eva looked at her watch. Is Luis not back yet for Junior?

Eva’s mother shook her head. "No, but I’m trying not to worry. Hopefully, he got a good catch to take to market. But you concern me, hija. You need a nutritious breakfast. It’ll help you focus on your work."

Eva’s cat, Angel, weaved between her legs, begging for attention. "I don’t have time, mamá."

You wouldn’t make your dolphins work before feeding them breakfast, would you? Her mother sighed and shook her head. "Well, don’t be late for dinner. You need some proper food. Luis promised us a big fish. Oh, and you need to call Miguel back. He keeps leaving messages. He says he hasn’t seen you in a week. You work too much, hija."

Eva merely waved and took off; she didn’t have time right now to discuss her commitment issues or her grant deadline with her mother.

She rode her Vespa on the busy two lane to RIMS—the Roatán Institute for Marine Sciences. The air, thick with post-storm humidity, had her sweating by the time she arrived. Rascal the cattle dog greeted her, and both she and the dog jumped into the boat taxi with Gilberto, the head dolphin trainer, who shuttled them to Bailey’s Key, a tiny island just offshore from the main island of Roatán. Lined with palm trees and surrounded by a series of walkways and docks, the dolphin enclosures were located there. There were two enclosures, which were actually several acres of ocean partitioned off, one for Eva’s research dolphins and the other for the educational encounter dolphins.

Eva stepped off onto the dock with Rascal at her heels. Axel and Jose—her intern and her assistant, respectively—were already there, with all the research gear set up. Jose, an organization whiz, always connected everything properly, but Eva ran her hands over the maze of wires, checking the connections to be sure, and Axel was a sound genius, but that didn’t stop Eva from running her own sound test.

Now ready to start a data run, she opened the Delphi Imago program—software she had developed herself, to process, store, and play back dolphin communication—on her laptop, a rugged waterproof Panasonic Toughbook. Then she handed her laptop to Jose, tossed her shorts and T-shirt onto a beach boulder to stay warm, and grabbed the red ball she would put in the dolphin view-box.

Today I’m going to make a breakthrough, she told herself.

TWO

Wednesday, February 10, 6:04 P.M. CST

Coxen Hole

Roatán, Honduras

---

The previous night, Luis pushed off from the rickety dock in his boat, La Lancha, and looked up at the twilight sky. A storm brewed, and the smell of ozone hung in the air.

His son stood on the dock, holding a toy fishing rod in his hands. "Papi. Come back for me."

"No, hijo. The Blue Hole is dangerous. You must wait until you are older. Go to Romina’s house. Stay there tonight."

Later, out on the deep waters over the Blue Hole, El Niño winds pummeled his boat.

It is bad obeah, a bad omen. But I have mouths to feed.

Since barracuda have excellent eyesight, Luis baited his hook with a long, silvery mackerel. Then, with practiced patience, he held the hand fishing reel still with its line strung out in the water. An old method, he’d learned it from his father long ago.

As the dark night approached, a strange phenomenon unfolded on the sea. The water phosphoresced under the sliver of the crescent moon, intensifying in brightness as the swells magnified with the building storm. He heard an eerie song like that of a humpback whale. The sea swirled, the red tide gathering itself like a psychedelic pinwheel… and then, in its center, an unblinking eye appeared.

Luis couldn’t help but stare at this oracle-like eye. He gazed deeply into the red tide’s retina, an oceanic mirror reflecting his soul, and saw within its depths a memory. Rows of fish lined up at the street side market, during the recent shutdown that had rocked his island’s economy, and he himself passing them out to those who could not afford to buy them.

Romina, his girlfriend, laughed as she accepted a snapper. Thank you. It’s Soledad’s favorite.

He now had but one regret.

I didn’t teach my son to fish.

The sky opened, and torrents of rain shattered the reflection. But in an instant a whirlpool resurrected the eye of the red tide, and another memory appeared, another woman. His wife, lost in childbirth to their son. She beckoned to him through the aperture.

His hand reel jerked once, then twice, with substantial force. Then the line went slack. He looked down into the toxic soup, searching. Could it be la sirena? His islander grandmother had told him stories of them. Although manatees had often been mistaken to be mermaids, she’d assured him las sirenas were real.

Yet no siren greeted him.

A miscreation emerged from the revolving, glowing waters.

The Lusca.

This sea dragon opened its massive jaws to reveal a maw filled with enormous conical teeth, like spikes. A second row of smaller, sharper teeth on its palate looked like razors. It lunged its head, as long as a barrel, at Luis.

It will swallow me twice.

With the monster’s head in the boat, the small craft began to take on water. But sinking was the least of Luis’s concerns. The Lusca clamped its great jaws onto Luis’s legs, severing them from his body.

You have done well, my good and faithful servant, said a voice that echoed off the gray clouds above.

His hand flew to his chest to clutch the cross he bore, and he had one last thought.

Who will teach my son to fish?

Then his world went black.

THREE

Thursday, February 11, 8:34 A.M. CST

Roatán Institute for Marine Sciences

Bailey’s Key, Honduras

---

Eva looked around for Taffy, her lead research dolphin. Not the strongest swimmer, Eva feared the open ocean, but she was comfortable in the dolphins’ enclosure, especially with Taffy at her side. As she waded into the turquoise water, a gray shadow swam past her. Taffy. A petite Atlantic bottlenose dolphin, the star of Eva’s communication research. The dolphin whistled as if happy to start work.

Eva’s arms vibrated as the dolphin focused a train of clicks at the red ball she held. Taffy, wait. Let me get it in your view-box.

As Eva reached forward to drop the ball into the Plexiglas container, a man on the dock yelled down at her. It was Señor Pineda, the administrator for RIMS and the adjacent resort. He wore a polo shirt embroidered with the resort’s logo—a shining sun—but Pineda was anything but sunny.

Eva, stop this nonsense with the toys, trying to prove dolphins see with sound. Make sure you get the university the data they want. Either you keep the grant, or I must get rid of your dolphins. You are running out of time.

Eva nodded. I’m working on it. With tourism down, times had been tough at RIMS without income from the dolphin encounters. The tens of thousands of pounds of fish ordered in monthly for the dolphins cost money. She understood.

Eva needed that grant too. It was what paid for the upkeep and expenses for her dolphin enclosures—not to mention her own salary. Eva was the sole breadwinner in her family; her mother and Soledad depended on her. And she depended on that research grant.

Her grant research involved cataloguing dolphin whistles—essentially, dolphin words for objects. Eva would present Taffy with various sea creatures that dolphins encounter in their world and would then record Taffy’s whistles, building up a library of sorts. A vocabulary. But knowing dolphin nouns was only one piece of the puzzle. Eva wanted to understand the deeper intricacies of the ancient cetacean language, and she sensed that dolphin communication was far more complex than mere labels.

That idea was what had led to Eva’s unfunded research. In order to understand their language, she had to understand how they saw the world. It was known that dolphins perceived things using echolocation—basically, seeing with sound. But Eva suspected that dolphins could do more than just see with echolocation; she believed that perhaps they could also mimic the sounds they received back with their sonar and communicate these images to each other using clicks. In an attempt to prove this, she’d been experimenting with random objects not found in the dolphin’s ecosystem, such as the red ball or the yellow rubber ducky.

Eva now placed the ball in the dolphin’s Plexiglas view-box. Taffy squeaked, shaking her head up and down, and Eva adjusted the EEG suction cups on the dolphin’s head. She was careful to avoid Taffy’s scar, left over from an injury suffered during her US Navy days.

Echolocate, Eva said, pairing the verbal command with the hand signal. This meant that Taffy should focus her click trains on the ball.

Axel recorded the sounds with the hydrophone, which was hooked up to her laptop. They would examine those sounds in more detail later, using the Cymascope, an experimental new technology that showed the shape of sounds. Axel had even ordered her a 3D printer with his own money, and when it arrived, her plan was to reproduce some of these shapes as physical objects. Once she had sufficient understanding of dolphin language, Eva had a greater hope: to actually be able to hold a conversation with Taffy. That was why she’d developed Delphi Imago. The software could translate these shapes back into echolocation signals, which she could then play for the dolphins.

Eva’s phone rang. She’d left it on her computer stand by Axel.

Axel, could you get that for me?

"Ja," Axel replied.

Axel had been a disc jockey from Germany before Eva hired him, and money he’d stashed away from those gigs had allowed him to cover his own food and lodging during the recent shutdown, making it possible for him to continue his internship while others had to leave the island.

She’d originally chosen him from a stack of intern applicants because he’d won an international Name That Tune contest. Her hunch had paid off—Axel had proven capable of recognizing a three-note dolphin whistle on the second play, which sped up the whistle cataloguing process.

Hello, this is Dr. Paz’s favorite and only intern. How may I assist you? Axel asked in his late-night FM DJ voice.

Rascal ran down the dock and sat by Axel, whining.

Rascal, shush, Eva said.

Rascal the cattle dog was mostly white with black patches, and he was the ugliest dog she’d ever seen, even when compared to the jungle mongrels she’d grown up with. What the dog did have going for it was an incredible jumping ability; in his younger days he’d actually earned a ranking in the national DockDog Big Air competition. He actually belonged to an intern from the island of Hawai’i, but she’d left to visit home early in the pandemic and now couldn’t travel to return for him. Her loss proved to be everyone else’s gain, including the dolphins—because Rascal was as loyal and playful as he was ugly. He’d adopted Eva as his surrogate owner and Finn as his best friend.

As Axel listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone, Eva stroked Taffy’s sides, and Finn, the large dark hybrid who shared the enclosure, approached, wanting his share of attention. Finn was a wholphin—his mother was a bottlenose dolphin and his father a false killer whale. The scientific community speculated that male hybrids couldn’t breed, so he and Taffy were thought to be safe companions. And sure enough, they had been together for over thirteen years now, extending back to their days working together for the Navy.

Go away, Finn, we’re working here, Eva said, giving the wholphin the hand signal to go.

He responded by giving her a playful splash.

Up on the dock Axel frowned. Understood, said Axel. I’ll get her out of the water and ready to go.

Eva’s stomach dropped. There was only one entity on the island that could summon her immediate presence. The police.

It seemed as though the police called on Eva to investigate every death that took place in or near the water, because she was the only doctorate-level marine biologist on all of Roatán. That was somewhat surprising, as it was such a beautiful place for marine research, encircled as it was by one of the world’s most extensive coral reefs. But it was also small, basically a strip of land thirty-seven miles long and only two miles wide. And those reefs attracted tourists, some of whom took rather more risks than they should, which occasionally led to deaths. Recently it seemed those deaths were on the rise as tourists returned to the island and took unnecessary risks.

Every time, the police chief would ask Eva the same question: ¿Por causas naturales? Natural causes could mean anything from drowning to shark attack, though there were very few of the latter in the island’s history, and none in Eva’s time there. Eva wished the police would just leave her alone—after all, they didn’t compensate her for her expertise, and helping them left her with less time for her research.

Plus, the smell of blood always recalled an old memory best left buried.

Axel called down to her. There’s been an accident, Eva. A dead fisherman. The police would like for you to investigate. Gilberto is coming to pick you up.

Eva got out of the water and tugged on her shorts and T-shirt, warm from lying on a hot rock.

Go ahead with the recordings, she said to Axel and Jose. Taffy’s eager to work. Catalog as many whistles as you can, then run the echolocation data on the Cymascope and put the results into Delphi Imago. I want to see the shapes of those sounds when I return.

Got it, boss, said Axel.

Jose said nothing, as usual. Eva suspected he had some degree of autism—she’d noted some of the telltale signs—but Jose did great work. He was extremely meticulous when it came to organizing her equipment and spider webs of wires, and he was superb at spectrogram pattern recognition, meaning that he could spot the graphed patterns of the whistles. He also really enjoyed the dolphins, and Taffy was particularly fond of him. If he didn’t talk much, that was fine with Eva.

On the boat ride to the fishing village, Gilberto filled Eva in on the few details he knew. They found the boat washed up by the stilts of a house. The bait fish buckets were full. Birds were pecking at his eyes.

Eva knew that these deaths could be grisly. She also knew they could be crimes. Those were on the rise too. Yet she’d always feared finding foul play, because if she were to call it such, she risked inciting the wrath of the drug cartels. She’d suffered that wrath once already, as a young teenager, when she lost her brother and father in a cartel interdiction. She couldn’t bear the thought of her family suffering again.

Besides, it was common knowledge that the cartels greased the hands of the police chief, so even if she suspected crime, the police might not bother to investigate. It just wasn’t worth the risk.

Gilberto pulled up to a dock near the house on stilts, its flamingo-pink planks and turquoise shutters harmonizing with the cobalt-blue Caribbean waters. Police vehicles crowded the street above, and several thin men in black military fatigues milled about with rifles. Locals from the fishing village, many dabbing their eyes, stood behind a yellow tape barricade.

Climbing out of the boat, Eva became self-conscious. Her wet bikini had bled damp spots onto her T-shirt and shorts, and she felt the eyes of the policemen swivel toward her. Navigating the boulders along the shoreline, grateful for her sturdy water shoes, she kept her arms crossed over her chest. Gilberto limped along behind her; she didn’t wait for him. She planned to settle this and get back to work.

As she walked under the house and her vision adjusted to the shadows, she saw a boat washed up against the stilts. A tarp covered a large lump in the center of the boat, and a young policeman stood beside it, waving off the seagulls.

Eva’s heart sank. She recognized the boat, and she knew the name hand-painted on its stern. La Lancha.

At least his body rests in the shade.

The police chief, a portly man, nodded to Eva. "Buenas días, Doctora Paz. Let’s get on with it. It appears the death occurred out at sea, then the tide swept his boat ashore. I want you to determine if this fisherman died por causas naturales, before we release his body to his family."

Spanish was Eva’s first language, but nevertheless the police chief, like many others on the island, addressed her mostly in English—as if her time in school in the States had left an indelible mark on her.

She gave a curt nod. "Buenas días, Víctor. In the cool shade, she shivered. She cursed herself for not keeping a dry swimsuit in her backpack. Did you call the coroner on the mainland? It looks like a case for her." Eva didn’t want to see another dead body of someone she cared about. There was still a slim possibility that it wouldn’t be her mother’s boyfriend under the tarp. But she didn’t hold out much hope.

I think when we show you the body, said the chief, you will see why that won’t be necessary.

At Víctor’s command, the young policeman pulled the tarp back, revealing the pale, wax-like head of the fisherman.

Luis.

Though she had known it would be him, she had to grab the side of the boat to steady herself.

How will I tell mamá?

As the policeman pulled the tarp back all the way, he revealed a stout chest wearing a blue polo shirt, and then… nothing further.

Luis’s legs were gone.

How could the narcos do that? And why?

Eva wiped her clammy palms on her shorts and willed herself to look closer. The stumps of Luis’s legs looked as though they had been cut by a giant pair of shearing scissors—as if the man were a paper doll. What could do such a thing? Eva’s mind raced to categorize the mutilation into a mechanism she could understand.

Doctora Paz? Víctor said.

Eva took a deep breath, trying to ignore the smell of blood mixed with baitfish. It had to be something big to do this. Our reef sharks aren’t large enough. And they aren’t aggressive.

Víctor held a notebook in hand, pen poised. Maybe another type of shark then. Wasn’t there that old American movie about something like this? Or that documentary the local submarine guy did about those rare sharks? The primitive-looking ones with the extra slits in their heads.

A Great White? said Eva. No, we don’t have that shark species here. And the sixgill sharks stay in deep water.

He needs a serious primer on the reef surrounding his island.

Víctor’s eyes bored into hers. But we do have that mutant monster dolphin of yours.

Eva froze. Was the chief seriously trying to pin this death on her Finn?

Gilberto placed a hand on Eva’s shoulder. Eva, just describe in your expert opinion what might have attacked Luis.

Eva took a deep breath. As a lone seagull landed on the side of the boat beside her and squawked, she noticed the young policeman bending down and plucking an object out of the wooden craft. A tooth. He slipped it into his pocket.

May I see that? Eva said, her hand outstretched.

The man flinched, looking guilty. He pulled the tooth from his pocket and dropped it into her palm.

As Víctor waved his finger at his underling and instructed him scoldingly about proper collection of evidence, Eva studied the tooth in her hands. It was large. Sharp. And entirely unfamiliar.

Víctor turned back to her. Well? What should I write in my report?

A large unidentified sea creature attacked this man.

Beside her, Gilberto nodded in agreement.

Víctor let out a sinister laugh as he jotted this down with a flourish. "Sí, la Lusca. That’ll do. We are done here. Thank you for your time."

He dismissed her with a wave of his pudgy hand.

As Eva turned to go, she gave Gilberto a sidelong glance. The police chief had not asked for the tooth back. Gilberto gave her a conspiratorial look, clearly encouraging her to stay silent. She had a habit of speaking too much when anxious, but everyone knew that talking too much to the policía could only bring trouble.

As they returned to their boat, Eva’s thoughts of the strange tooth faded beneath a much more pressing concern. How would she tell her mother that Luis, her boyfriend, was dead?

Gilberto must have read her mind. Eva, he said, you won’t have to tell Romina. With that crowd gathered, someone already has. He put his hand on the boat’s ignition, then stopped. Let’s wait a minute before we go. Not seem like we are in a hurry. Just in case he remembers the tooth. I’d rather give it up here than have him come over to Bailey’s Key, causing trouble.

"I would like to examine it further, she said. I don’t know of a sea creature with a tooth like that."

Gilberto nodded. Nor do I. Which means the legend of the Lusca will revive once again. The fishermen will avoid the Blue Hole for a few days, and when they return, they will speak in whispers as they pass by the abyss, afraid to awaken the monster that lurks there.

Eva didn’t believe in that old legend. Some people claimed the Lusca was a giant octopus; others said it was some kind of freakish hybrid, half shark and half octopus. Still others insisted it was a sea dragon with an evil spirit.

"Tonterias, Gilberto, she said. I’m not interested in any legends or myths. That blob of a police chief is implicating Finn, who’s just a sweet hybrid. You don’t mess with my dolphins—I don’t care who greases your hands."

"Hija, you need not worry. Víctor is happy with your explanation. We have the tooth, and you are the scientist. But you might have to trust someone else to help you figure it out. Don’t try to do it alone."

As Gilberto cranked the boat’s engine and headed out toward the deep cobalt water, Eva moved to the center of the boat, white-knuckling the bench. She was worried about her mother, but there was someone else who would be hurt even more by Luis’s death: his son.

The boy was her responsibility now. One more mouth to feed.

Eva had to keep her grant.

FOUR

Eighteen Years Earlier

Mosquito Coast

Mainland Honduras

---

When the cartel leader grabbed Eva by the waist, she resisted with all she had. She dropped her water bucket and clawed at his face. But he was stocky and strong as a bull.

She had been fetching water for her mother, who was planning to stretch one scrawny chicken into a soup that would feed not only their family of nine, but also the members of the cartel who had overtaken their two-room hut the night before. The cartel had arrived by helicopter, landing in the village’s makeshift soccer field, bringing with them their illegal contraband—and now, under cover of dark, it was her father’s job to help them load that contraband onto a submarine tied to a rickety dock on the shore.

But the fact that her father was helping them, and her mother was feeding them, would do nothing to help Eva now.

The cartel leader laughed as he pushed her to the ground under the tree. She slapped him and kicked at him, but he easily pinned her down with his legs and put a dirty hand over her mouth to quiet her screams. When he used his free hand to grope at her chest, his laugh chilled her to the core.

And then, suddenly, his head thudded to the side, and someone pulled him off of her. She looked up to find another man standing over her, holding a snub-nosed rifle. A soldier. From the north. She had the absurd thought that his rifle was too short when compared to those of the drug lords.

These guys don’t stand a chance.

But now, she did.

She rolled to her side, scrambled to her knees, and ran toward her house. All around her, a barrage of gunfire leapt from the darkness. She threw herself to the dirt, her hands on her ears, but she couldn’t muffle the sound that rose above the chaos: the sound of her mother wailing. It wasn’t until the shots ceased, an eternity later, that she learned the reason for that wail.

In front of her house, a body lay dead in the dirt yard.

Her brother. Héctor.

She ran to him, fell to her knees, cradled his head in her hands.

And then she wept.

There was nothing more she could do.

FIVE

Thursday, February 11, 10:14 A.M. CDT

Children’s Hospital

Kansas City, Kansas

---

Dr. Thomas Sternberg stopped with his oncology team outside his patient’s isolation room. He enjoyed walking rounds, as it allowed him to get out of his windowless basement lab, which always made him feel like a velociraptor trapped in a cage. Since his days on the Navy SEAL teams, it was best if he avoided dim spaces.

His patient, Nevaeh, was on the other side of the glass, like a lonely fish in a fish tank. She slept, holding an orca plushie. The nurse at her side wore full isolation gear: blue mask, yellow gown, and purple nitrile gloves.

As the med student began her presentation, Thomas idly fingered his ancient fishhook necklace, which had once belonged to his grandfather in Hawai‘i, and his grandmother, who he affectionately called tutu--the Hawaiian name for grandparent, had passed it down to him. He had trouble concentrating on the med student’s dry recitation of facts; his mind insisted on plumbing the deeper mystery of the patient’s illness.

Nevaeh had initially presented with a rare melanoma—one with a particularly poor prognosis. The enlarged electron microscope photo of her biopsy looked like a demon inkblot. So, her parents reluctantly opted for Gene Therapy Adenovirus Cytokine, or GTAC, a cancer-fighting gene therapy Thomas had developed. That technique allowed Thomas to kill cancer cells from the inside, by putting cancer killers inside a common cold virus, then infecting the cancer cells with it.

Nevaeh’s response to the treatment was near miraculous. He even let her go out to dinner with her family to celebrate her birthday at a local seafood joint. But when she returned to the hospital, she had flu-like symptoms. That could have simply been an indication that the gene therapy was working to kill the cancer, but hospital protocol dictated that she remain in isolation while they worked her up for infectious diseases.

Thomas recalled the morning he first met Nevaeh. It was in the activity room, where his brother, Daniel, the head curator at the Sternberg Museum of Natural History, was giving a presentation. He showed the kids models of skulls, including those of an anaconda, a Komodo dragon and a Tylosaurus, which were all genetic cousins. Nevaeh immediately identified what all the skulls had in common: a second row of razor-like teeth on their palate.

If they swallowed you, they would bite you twice, she had said.

She has spirit. She’ll make it, Thomas had thought at the time.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

The med student finished speaking, and Thomas addressed his team. Which infections are on our differential?

One eager medical student spoke up. It could be bacterial, viral, maybe even a fungus—

But before she could go on, the nearby elevator doors opened, and Dr. Katrina Stephenson stepped out and strode toward them. Her blond hair hung in waves over one shoulder, and under her white coat, her tight sweater showed off her cleavage, something Thomas appreciated because in addition to being an infectious disease specialist, Kat was also Thomas’s girlfriend.

Thomas smiled beneath his mask. So, Dr. Stephenson, what’s the verdict? he asked as she approached.

Kat fastened the top button of her white coat. The PCR tests are all negative. So, I think you should consider other diagnoses. She has a fever, which suggests infection, but her inflammatory markers are normal, and her white blood cell count isn’t even elevated. Kat sighed. Sometimes, it’s what’s absent that gives us the most information. Dr. Sternberg, this isn’t an infection.

So, what is it then?

Thomas gritted his jaw in consternation. Nevaeh had survived her deadly melanoma, and he wouldn’t allow her to now succumb to some mystery disease.

Kat gave him a direct look. This could be a side effect of your gene therapy.

Thomas blew out a breath. It’s possible, but unlikely.

Kat shook her head. You’re playing with fire, Thomas. There’s consequences to meddling with the genetic code.

She had a point, but to challenge him like this in front of his team was crossing a line. It’s the path to a cure, he said firmly.

Kat turned to sign off on an order on the computer. Well, I’m discontinuing the big gun antibiotics. We’re pushing antibiotic stewardship. I see no reason to continue them.

Thomas held up his hand. Hold on a minute. At least help us figure this out. If it isn’t an infection, and—bear with me—if it isn’t a side effect of the gene therapy, then what else could it be?

Kat shrugged. "Whatever it could be, it isn’t my field." She turned and strode away.

Thomas took a box breath, a yoga-like breath that he’d learned as a coping mechanism back in his Navy days. Then he turned back to his team.

Is there anything else on the differential, besides infection or side effects from the GTAC?

The same eager student started to speak again, only to be interrupted a second time—this time by the code blue alarm. Thomas looked through the glass