Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

position, I’m afraid the Government of India would deny you entry.”

“Did I hear you right? India won’t give my husband a visa to enter the country?”

“I’m afraid not. Your husband is a likely carrier of rabies, an infectious disease. To be blunt, you are also a suspect carrier at this point.”

“Your government will deny medical care to Americans at sea? How can that be? What about your Hippocratic oath? Don’t you—”

“Dagny, it’s out of Dr. Singh’s hands,” Eric said. “This isn’t his decision.”

“I’m afraid Dr. Franklin is correct,” Dr. Singh said. “Rabies is an infectious disease and India has an extensive history of outbreaks. We suffer twenty thousand deaths from rabies every year, and our Ministry has to consider the health and welfare of our own people first.”

I knew I was being unfair. Eric was right—this was not Dr. Singh’s call. Brad groaned inside the stateroom.

“What can I do, Dr. Singh?”

“Even if India were to accept your husband, there’s nothing to do except hydrate him intravenously, use analgesics to reduce his pain, and sedate him to prevent him from hurting himself or others.”

“I want to do that. Help me stop his suffering. Where can I take him?”

“I suggest you contact a private medical evacuation company to take both you and your husband to a country willing to grant you entry,” Dr. Singh said.

“Which country will let us in?” I asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know. The Maldives will probably respond the same way as India. Most countries in Africa and Asia battle rabies. People do not vaccinate their dogs, which has prevented us from eradicating the disease.”

“Dagny, let me interrupt,” Eric said. “Do you know who to call for an evacuation?”

“The boat has a service on contract. I don’t know how it works, but I’ll call them.”

“Good luck, Dr. Steele,” Dr. Singh said.

“Thank you. I’ll need it.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Brad looked bad. He lay in bed with his hair soaked in sweat and stared at me with unfocused eyes.

“You’re very sick, Brad. I have to issue a mayday and evacuate you to a hospital.”

“What? Why?”

His voice sounded tight and high-pitched, probably from a swollen throat. Brad would die—I was almost certain—but telling him would not help. He was already difficult to handle, and I did not need him to panic.

“You contracted something from that bat, and you need to get tested in a hospital. I don’t have prescription analgesics or anything to sedate you.”

“Watch for tankers,” he said.

“Brad, pay attention. I’m calling for help. We need to get to shore now.”

“No.”

The rabies had become acute and his cognitive ability muddled. I could not save him, but I could get him to a hospital where they could ease his pain. I would call the medic service under contract with the yacht and hope they could trace our satellite phone and pinpoint our location. Maybe they could send a ship or a float plane.

“You rest, and I’ll get help,” I said.

“No . . . the tankers.”

I closed the door to the berth and walked to navigation center. I found the telephone number for Medevac Worldwide Rescue on the first page of the yacht’s reference book.

I dialed, and an operator directed me to their emergency liaison. I explained my husband may have rabies and India would probably deny us entry. I told him we motored for the Maldives, but our fuel would not last. Worse, we had lost all the navigation equipment.

 “I have your information here,” the man said. “I’ll contact your satellite company and see if they can give us your location. If we ping your phone with three or more satellites, we can use trilateration to pinpoint your location.”

“Trilateration?”

“It’s a more exact method than triangulation.”

“How accurate is it?” I asked.

“Theoretically, we can calculate your position within fifteen meters.”

I breathed a little easier. “What’s next? What’s the process?”

“Once we know where you are, we must figure out which country will accept you then determine how to evacuate you to a receiving facility.”

“My husband’s in pain. How can we expedite this process?”

“Stay on the line and we’ll trace your call. This will take some time.”

“Please hurry.”

A glass shattered behind me, and I whirled around.

Brad stared at me from the galley. His ice-blue eyes swam in bloodshot sclera, and heavy eyelids hung above dilated pupils.

“You startled me.” I said. “Are you in pain?”

Brad stared and leaned against the galley where he had knocked a glass to the floor. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and drool dribbled off his chin.

“No,” he said, his voice thick, as if he had a mouth full of honey.

“The lightning destroyed our electronics. They have to trace our call.”

“No.”

He trembled and swayed.

I knew he did not understand our situation, but anger boiled inside me. “You need a hospital. I’m getting help.”

Brad growled and moved across the deck with his fists balled. I held my hands in front of my face to defend myself, and he snatched the phone away from me.

“Brad, stop it. They’re triangulating our position.”

Brad stared at the phone in his hand, then he raised his gaze and met my eyes. He bared his teeth and ripped the cord out of the wall.

I gawked at the torn cord dangling in his hand and my tears flowed. I steadied myself on the chart table.

“How could you? You’re going to die and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

I pushed past him then stopped at the starboard berth and looked back. He stood there with the phone in his hand.

“Now, we’re all alone,” I said. “You may have killed me too.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I awoke in the starboard berth on day four of Brad’s acute symptoms. How long had I been out? I had not slept more than a few hours since he fell ill, and when he destroyed our last link to the outside world, it had been too much for me. My worry about him, my fear of the ocean, the lack of wind, the shark—it had been more than I could handle.

I peered through the porthole.