Free Tainted by Ross Pennie Page A

free of pork. Fast-food restaurants could make sure their beef patties were free of horse meat. But why a kit for detecting cat meat, Hamish had no idea until he read the manufacturer’s package insert. It said the test had been developed to “preserve the integrity of the food supply across the global village,” code for keeping cat meat out of take-out curried lamb and mu shu pork.
    Hamish knew that the mitochondria inside the cells of every mammal shared a common ancestry with bacteria, back to the time when all life on Earth was a soup of microscopic ocean creatures. He figured that a food-science test for animal mitochondria could probably be adapted for detecting free-living bacteria. After all, mitochondria and bacteria were close cousins. And if his test turned out to be accurate and easy to perform — and not too expensive — he might even revolutionize infectious-disease practice.
    He’d optimistically purchased several of the food-testing kits for his technician to evaluate. The test had turned out to be more finicky than expected, and these latest results were disappointing. Hamish decided he would try repeating the experiments himself tomorrow, Saturday. He wasn’t on call, so he’d have the whole day free. In the meantime, he had Ned Krooner and a dozen in-patients to see before lunch and then an afternoon clinic’s worth of outpatients. He hungup his lab coat, washed his hands, and headed for the elevator.
    A few minutes later he stepped to Ned Krooner’s bedside. The tips of Ned’s fingers poked from beneath a bulky white bandage that extended all the way to his shoulder. Ned’s face had changed since yesterday. His eyes glowed above his grizzled cheeks with a brightness they had lacked before the surgery. “Good morning,” Hamish said. “How’s the pain?”
    “Better,” Ned said. He pointed to a bag of intravenous morphine hanging on the pole above his head. “That stuff is working good.”
    Hamish reached for the chart at the foot of the bed. Ned might be enjoying the effects of the narcotic, but it was the timely surgery and the correct choice of antibiotics that had made all the difference. Ned’s temperature had come down; his urine output was normal; the morning’s blood results were good, too. The infection seemed under control and hadn’t damaged his kidneys. “Glad to hear it,” Hamish said. He was relieved to see that Ned still had all his fingers. Dr. Blayne had noted in the chart that the fasciitis hadn’t damaged any muscles or tendons but that Ned had lost a great deal of skin from his forearm. In a couple of weeks a skin graft procedure would be needed to fix the gaping wound.
    “Hi, Doc,” said a deep voice. Lanny Krooner entered the room carrying a large plastic bag and a brighter face than yesterday. “Doing not too bad, eh?” He slid a pizza box from the bag and placed it on Ned’s table. The smell of cheese and tomato sauce filled the room. A change from yesterday’s sweat and manure.
    Lanny unzipped his leather jacket and extended his hand to Hamish. “Like you said, Doc, he didn’t lose his arm.” His grip was a bit too firm. He released it too slowly.
    “Yes, yes, things do look good,” Hamish said, his mouth suddenly dry. “But we’re not done yet.”
    Lanny stiffened. His amber eyes glowed. “What?”
    “I mean . . . I mean, Ned’s got a large wound that’s going to take some time to heal.”
    “But he’s still gonna keep his arm, eh?”
    “I expect so.”
    “He better.” Lanny handed Ned a piece of pizza, then lifted a small package from the plastic bag. “Ned wanted me to give you this.”
    A red and white packet slid into Hamish’s hand. He turned it over and saw a half-dozen sausages lined up on a polystyrene tray beneath a plastic wrapper. The label said Escarpment Pride Viennese Pork Sausages.
    “His biggest seller,” Ned said in a chirpy voice. “Four Corners can’t keep ’em in stock. And they charge big bucks for them in