Bloodstream (38 page)

“No!” screamed Claire, and terror sent her churning through the snow. She reached her son just as Lincoln cuffed the boy’s hands behind his back. “Don’t fight them, Noah!” she pleaded. “Stop fighting!”

Noah twisted around to look at her, his face so contorted by fury she didn’t recognize him.
Who is this boy?
she thought in horror.
I don’t know him.

“Let—me—go!”
he shrieked. A bright drop of blood slid from his nostril and splattered onto the snow.

She stared down in shock at the splash of red, then looked at her son, heaving like an exhausted beast, his breath steaming the air. A fine line of blood glistened on his upper lip.

New voices called out to them from a distance. Claire turned, and saw men crossing toward them. As they came closer, she recognized the uniforms.

State police.

22

The noise was driving her crazy. Amelia Reid leaned on her desk and clutched her head, wishing she could block out all the sounds assaulting her from different parts of the house. From the room next door came the thump of J.D.’s god-awful music, pounding like a demon’s heartbeat against her wall. And from the living room downstairs came the shout of the TV, its volume turned up to the max. She could deal with the music, because it was just noise, an irritant that chewed away at the farthest margins of her concentration. The TV, though, insinuated itself right into her mind because it was the voices of people talking, their words distracting her from the book she was trying to read.

In frustration, she slammed it shut and went downstairs. She found Jack in his usual position for the evening, slumped in the plaid Barca Lounger, a beer in his hand. His Royal Highness, farting in his throne. What awful desperation had driven her mother to marry him? Amelia could not imagine ever choosing such an option, could not even bear to contemplate a future with such a man under her roof, belching at her table, discarding his filthy socks like droppings on the living room floor.

And at night, to lie in bed with him, to feel his hands on her flesh... An involuntary sound of disgust escaped her throat, drawing Jack’s attention from the evening news. He looked at her, and his blank expression changed to one of interest, maybe even speculation. She knew the reason for it, and almost felt the need to cross her arms over her chest.

“Can you turn it down?” she said. “I can’t study.”

“So shut your door.”

“I did shut my door. The TV’s too loud.”

“It’s my house, y’know. You’re lucky I let you live here. I work hard all day. I deserve to relax in my own home.”

“I can’t concentrate. I can’t do my homework.”

Jack let out a half-belch, half-laugh. “A girl like you doesn’t need to blow a circuit in her brain. You don’t even need a brain.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Find a rich man, toss that pretty hair of yours, you got a meal ticket for the rest of your life

She bit back an angry retort. Jack was baiting her. She could see that smirk on his lips, the thin mustache tilting up at one corner. He liked to get her angry, enjoyed seeing her upset. He couldn’t get her attention any other way, and Amelia knew he was titillated by any flash of emotion she displayed, even if it was rage.

With a shrug, she focused instead on the TV Icy withdrawal was the way to deal with Jack. Show no anger, no feelings at all, and it drove him crazy. It showed him exactly what he was: irrelevant. Inconsequential. Staring at the screen, she felt herself regain a measure of control over him. To hell with him. He couldn’t get to her, or at her, because she wouldn’t let him.

It took a few seconds for her brain to register the images on the screen. She saw a brown pickup being towed by a police truck, saw the blurred figure of a boy, face covered, as he was escorted into the Tranquility police station. When she finally understood what she was looking at, she forgot about Jack entirely.

“...the fourteen-year-old boy is currently being held for questioning. The body of forty-three-year-old Doreen Kelly was found this morning on a remote stretch of Slocum Road, east of Tranquility.

According to an anonymous eyewitness report, the suspect’s truck was seen weaving erratically on that same stretch of road around nine
P.M.
last night, and unspecified physical evidence has led police to take the youth into custody. The victim, wife of Tranquility Police Chief Lincoln Kelly, had a long and troubling history of alcoholism, according to several town residents.

A new face appeared onscreen, a woman Amelia recognized as a cashier from Cobb and Morong’s. “Doreen was sort of the local tragic figure around here. She’d never, ever harm a soul, and I just can’t believe someone would do this. Only a monster would leave her out there to die.”

Now the TV showed a stretcher bearing a shrouded body being loaded into an ambulance.

“In a community already rocked by the tragedy of last night’s high school violence, this latest death is just one more blow to a town ironically named Tranquility..

Amelia said, “What are they talking about? What happened?”

Jack’s colorless eyes showed an ugly flicker of amusement. “Heard about it in town today,” he said. “That doctor’s kid is dead meat.”

Noah? Surely he’s not talking about Noah.

“Ran over the police chief’s wife last night, over on Slocum Road. That’s what some witness says.”

“Who’s saying that?”

Jack’s expression of amusement had spread to the rest of his face, tugging his lips into an ugly smile. “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Just who did see it?” He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh! I almost forgot. That’s the boy you’re all sweet on, isn’t it? The one you think is something special. Well, I guess you’re right.” He looked back at the TV and laughed. “He’s gonna be
real
special in prison.”

“Fuck you,” said Amelia, and she ran out of the room and up the stairs.

“Hey! Hey, you come back here and apologize!” yelled Jack. “You show me a little goddamn
respect!”

Ignoring the demands he was hurling after her, she headed straight into her mother’s bedroom and shut the door.
If he’ll
just
leave me alone for five minutes. If he’ll let me make this one call...

She picked up the telephone and called Noah Elliot’s house.

To her dismay, it rang four times and then an answering machine picked up with a recording of his mother’s voice.

“This is Dr. Elliot. I’m unable to answer the phone, so please leave a message. If this is an emergency, you can page me through the Knox Hospital operator, and I’ll return your call as soon as I can”

At the beep, Amelia blurted out: “Dr. Effiot, this is Amelia Reid. Noah didn’t run over that woman! He couldn’t have, because he was with—”

The bedroom door flew open. “What the hell are you doing in my room, you little bitch?” Jack roared.

Amelia slammed the phone down and turned to face him.

“You apologize,” said Jack.

“For what?”

“For cussing at me, goddamn it.”

“You mean for saying fuck
you?”

His slap made her head whip sideways. She raised a hand to her stinging cheek, then she focused her gaze back on his. She stared at him for a moment, and something deep inside her, some core of molten steel, at last seemed to solidify. When he reached up to slap her again, she didn’t even flinch. She just looked at him, her eyes telling him that one more blow on his part would make him very, very sorry.

Slowly he lowered his hand, the blow never struck. He didn’t try to stop her as she walked out and went to her own room. He was still standing there, motionless, as she swung the door shut behind her.

Claire and Max Tutwiler stood in front of Lincoln’s desk, refusing to leave. They had walked into the police station together, and now Max had his briefcase open, and as Lincoln watched in bewilderment, Max unrolled a topographical map and spread it across the desk.

“What’s this supposed to show me?” Lincoln asked.

“It’s the explanation for my son’s illness. For what’s happening in this town,” said Claire urgently. “Noah needs to be hospitalized. You
have
to release him.”

Reluctantly Lincoln looked up at her. Only twelve hours ago, they had been lovers. Now it was apparent he could barely bring himself to meet her gaze.

“He didn’t look ill to me, Claire. In fact, he almost outran us this morning.”

“The sickness is in his brain. It’s a parasite called
Taenia so//urn,
and during the initial infection, it can cause personality changes. If Noah’s infected, he needs to be treated.
Taenia solium
cysts cause brain swelling and symptoms of meningitis. That’s what I’ve been seeing in him these past few days. The irritability, the rage. If I don’t get him to a hospital, if he’s developed a cyst and it ruptures.. ." She stopped, struggling to hold back tears. “Please,” she whispered. “I don’t want to lose my son.”

“What it means,” said Max, “is that he’s not responsible for his actions. Neither are the other children.”

“But how did the kids get this parasite?” asked Lincoln.

“From Warren Emerson,” said Claire. “A pathologist at Eastern Maine Medical Center is almost certain his brain lesion was caused by
Taenia solium,
the pork tapeworm. Emerson’s probably been infected for years. Which means he’s also been a carrier of the disease.”

“And this is how the kids got it from Emerson,” said Max. He smoothed out the topographical map, which he’d spread across Lincoln's desk. “Claire came up with this theory. This shows the lower Meegawki Stream. The elevations, the flood pattern, even the subterranean sections of its flow.”

“What is this supposed to tell me?”

“Look here.” Max placed his finger on the map. “It’s the approximate location of Warren Emerson’s farm, about a mile upstream from the lake. Elevation two hundred feet. The Meegawki Stream runs right past his property, close to the leach field for his septic system. It’s probably a very old septic system.” Max looked up at Lincoln. “Do you understand the significance of his farm’s location?”

“Contamination of the stream?”

“Exactly. This past spring, you had record rainfall, and the stream would have flooded right up to Emerson’s leach field. It could have washed parasitic eggs into the stream and carried it away. To the lake.”

“How would these eggs get into the leach field?”

“From Warren Emerson himself,” said Claire. “He was probably infected years ago, when he ate undercooked pork containing the

tapeworm larvae. The larvae grow and live in human intestines, sometimes for decades. They produce eggs.”

“If Emerson’s harbored a tapeworm in his digestive tract,” said Max, “then he’s been passing parasitic eggs into his septic system. A leak in the tank, a heavy flood, could wash them into the feeder stream. And eventually, into the lake. They’d be at their highest concentration right here, where the Meegawki Stream empties in.” Max pointed to the Boulders. “Precisely the spot where your local teenagers like to swim. Am I right?”

Lincoln suddenly looked up, his attention drawn to a commotion elsewhere in the building. They all turned as the door flew open and a panicked-looking Floyd Spear stuck his head in.

“The boy’s having seizures! We’re calling the ambulance now.”

Claire shot one terrified glance at Lincoln and ran out of the office. One of the state policemen tried to stop her, but Lincoln snapped, “She’s a doctor! Let her through!” Claire pushed into the hallway leading to the three-cell jail.

The door to the first cell was open. Inside, two policemen were crouched down. All she could see of her son was his legs, jerking in electric spasms. Then she noticed the blood on the floor, near his head, and saw that half his face was smeared with it.

“What did you do to him?” she cried.

“Nothing! We found him like this. He must’ve hit his head on the floor—”

“Get back. Get out of my way!”

The cops moved aside and Claire dropped to her knees beside Noah. The panic almost paralyzed her. She had to force herself to think, to shove aside the terrifying fact that this was her son, her only child, and that he might be dying before her eyes.
A grand mal seizure. Breathing’s erratic.
She heard the gurgle of fluid in his throat, and his chest was seized by violent spasms as he struggled to suck air into his starved lungs.

Get him off his back. Don’t let him aspirate!

She grabbed his shoulder. Another pair of hands came to her aid. Glancing sideways, she saw Lincoln kneeling beside her. Together they

log-rolled Noah onto his side. He was still convulsing, still battering his head against the floor.

“I need padding to protect his head!” she yelled.

Max, who’d also pushed into the cell, yanked a blanket from the cot and tossed it to her. Gently she raised Noah’s head and slid the blanket underneath. Many times before, when he was a child, she would find him asleep on the couch and would slide a pillow under his hair. This was not the head of a sleeping boy; with each new spasm, his neck turned rigid, the muscles taut and corded. And the blood—where was the blood coming from?

Again, she heard the gurgle and saw his chest heave as a fresh stream of red trickled out his nostril. So he hadn’t cut himself; it was the nosebleed again. Was it blood she heard gurgling in his throat? She turned his face downward, hoping to clear any blood from his mouth, but only a trickle spilled out, mixed with saliva. The seizures were fading now, his limbs no longer jerking with such violence, but the sound of choking intensified.

Heimlich maneuver. Before he suffocates.

She left him lying on his side, placed one hand on his upper abdomen, and braced her other hand against his back. She gave a forceful thrust against his belly, aiming it toward the rib cage.

Air wheezed out of his throat. It wasn’t a complete obstruction, she thought with relief. His lungs were still getting air.

She repeated the maneuver. Again, she positioned the heel of her hand against his belly and gave a firm thrust. She heard air rush out of his lungs, heard the wheeze clear as the reason for the obstruction was suddenly expelled from his throat and spilled partway out one nostril. When she saw what it was, she jerked back with a gasp of horror.