Lethal Misconduct (9 page)

Leticia’s location made things a bit complicated, mostly because the city sat on the border of Brazil, and was at the tip of the cocaine pipeline, hence the added security.

Luckily for Price, the trip down proved uneventful. He found the Colombians to be gracious hosts and it seemed as though they’d made major progress in their battle against the drug cartels. Or maybe it was a happy truce after the heavy bloodshed of the 1990s. Either way, they reached Leticia without incident, their local guide waiting in the hotel lobby as they entered.

They left the next morning in their guide’s mud spattered Toyota Landcruiser. More than once Price had wished he’d brought a mouth guard what with the near constant jostling as Antonio sped them toward their destination. Finally, after almost six hours of driving, they unloaded their gear and stepped into the rain forest. Price had never been to South America except on vacation, and the sheer grandeur of the place enticed his senses. It made him feel alive. Sounds he’d never heard called from all around. Smells both fresh and damp mingled in the humid air.

Where others might have been overwhelmed by the heat and the oppression under the tree canopy, Price marveled at the greenery, the flecks of bright color here and there, from lichen and animals alike.

Antonio led the way, guided by the worn GPS Price was sure had a whole roll of duct tape keeping it together. It didn’t seem to worry their guide, who picked his way effortlessly through the tangle.

Two hours of trudging got them to their first destination, one of three known camps used by the tribe they were looking for. They were all soaked as they made their way to the center of the small village. Crude huts made from roughly cut tree branches and covered in foliage made a ring around the fire pit in the middle.

No one was there.

“Where are they?” Price asked their guide.

“Maybe hunting, señor. We wait and see,” said Antonio.

Apparently the entire tribe usually went out on daily hunting parties, the men doing the finding, and the women and children doing the prepping on the way back to camp. Antonio said by the looks of the camp he might have picked the correct location.

“How do you know?” asked Sheila.

Antonio just shrugged and took a long drink from a bottle of orange soda.

They got their answer just as the sun was setting three hours later. The first warriors, if you could call them that, sauntered into camp, unperturbed by the presence of strangers, wearing an assortment of tattered rags, all barefoot, bare-chested and a full foot shorter than the Americans. The tribe scattered to their chores as Antonio struck up a conversation with the fattest man of the bunch who wore what looked like the large teeth of some predator in each ear.

He gestured with his hands and jabbered on in a dialect that Price couldn’t pinpoint. Spanish? Portuguese? The man kept pointing to the jungle, back the way they’d come.

Antonio came back to join his charges. “He says the medicine man that way.” He pointed the same way the chieftain had.

“Why isn’t he with the rest of the tribe?” asked Price.

“Gathering,” answered Antonio, already picking up his belongings and heading for the skinny dirt path.

They found the stick thin medicine man no more than thirty minutes later, the tinkling of small bones and hollow sticks knocking against a walking stick he used as he headed toward them. He had a sack slung over his shoulder, the leaves of his harvest peaking out over the lip.

He stopped when he noticed the strangers approaching. Squinting as if getting confirmation of something he’d just seen, the medicine man’s eyes went wide and his cragged finger pointed directly at Dr. Price. The tribe elder muttered something Price didn’t understand.

“What did he say?” Price asked their guide.

Antonio shook his head and asked the man to repeat himself. Their guide’s face twisted in confusion.

“What did he say?” Price asked again.

“He say you finally come.”

“Who? Us?”

“No, Doctor. He say you.”

The medicine man moved closer, shuffling with a slight limp as he made his way to Price, who could smell him well before the native stood in front of him. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, more of a mixture of unknown herbs and earth.

Stepping right up to Price, the man reached up and traced half circles under Price’s eyes, muttering something again. Price looked to Antonio for the translation.

“He say you
The Traveler
, señor.”

Chapter 15

Charlottesville, Virginia

11:14am, April 6
th

It was like someone had sucked all the air of the room. Not a man moved, latched onto Price’s story.

The good doctor knew his skill as an orator, something years of forced practice as a kid molded without much thought. It felt good to tell someone what he knew. For some reason he believed with all his heart that he could trust these men. The looks in their eyes told of goodness and heroism. Just as they were sucked in by his retelling, he too was relaxing after months on the run.

“Next thing I knew the old native grabbed me by the hand and led me further down the path, motioning for the others to stay put. I didn’t come out for two days.”

“Where did he take you?” asked Gaucho.

“He had a little hut deeper in the jungle. From our rudimentary communication I picked up that he never brought anyone else. It was weird and I don’t really know how to explain it, but he treated me like an equal, open with his basic instruction. Kinda like he was training a pupil to take over for him.”

“And he showed you his secret?” asked Jonas.

“He did. The cure was made out of some kind of root. He never showed me where he got it. I think that maybe it was a seasonal thing. Anyway, he’d make a sort of a poultice out of it, grinding it up and making it into paste then setting it out in the sun. All the villagers ate it as part of their diet because it took a constant active supply to suppress the cancer,” Price explained.

“How does it work?” asked Neil, obviously intrigued by the potential.

“Most people don’t know that there are over one hundred diseases that are lumped under the cancer umbrella. Traditionally, cancer research focused on killing off the abnormal cells. Chemotherapy and radiation are the most common. The medicine man’s supplement did something else completely. I didn’t know it until I took a sample back to my lab, but instead of killing off the cancerous cells, the medicine actually helped the cancer integrate into the host tissue. Instead of invading and taking it over, it played nice and latched on like a friend. Eventually the cell became part of whatever organ it had at first invaded.”

“Hold on. You just said that the villagers supplemented their diets with this stuff. Are you saying the drug you snuck around giving people is going to wear off?” asked Cal.

Price smiled, expecting the question. “No. I was able to engineer the medicine man’s stuff into something stronger. Call it an immunization just like the polio vaccine. But unlike a traditional vaccine where we use viral particles or dead viruses to trigger a reaction, this substance is more like a salve. It’s like it soothes the agitated cancer cells into playing nice and then fully integrating.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” said a visibly shocked Cal. The rest of the room mirrored his look.

“Nope. I can give the vaccine intravenously, with a simple shot, even orally, and that’s it. As long as a patient’s body hasn’t been completely ravaged by the cancer, my success rate is one hundred percent.”

+++

Washington, D.C.

12:30pm, April 6
th

The Senate Subcommittee on Labor, Health, Human Services, Education and Related Agencies was subordinate to the highly visible Senate Appropriations Committee. While not as powerful as its big brother, the Subcommittee had recently gained more clout with the passage of the Affordable Care Act. With the overhaul of the American healthcare system a continuing drain for Democrats and Republicans alike, the chairman of the newly spotlighted subcommittee was once again on the rise within the senate chambers. While not specifically overseeing the healthcare change, the group’s jurisdiction over entities like the National Institute of Health, the centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services and Centers for Disease Control and Prevention afforded obvious parallels and overlap. Simply put, the Affordable Care Act had a direct effect on the subcommittee’s oversight. 

Senator Mac Thompson, the subcommittee’s chairman, banged his gavel, sounding the end of the day’s session, another round of endless droning by a handful of lobbyists looking for more money. Sen. Thompson had only half listened to the testimony, his mind elsewhere.

“How’s your son doing, Mac?” asked Senator Alphonse Pontre, a swarthy Hawaiian with a gleaming smile.

“He’s doing much better. Thanks for asking, Al,” said Thompson.

“They taking good care of him at Georgetown?”

“They are. Good crew up there.”

“Good. Please let me know if I can do anything, okay?” Sen. Pontre patted his friend on the back, giving Thompson that knowing look, the same one he’d gotten from anyone who’d had any exposure to cancer. It was the “poor bastard” look.

Thompson knew it wasn’t intentional, they were only trying to be helpful, but it burned him up inside. He’d show them, every fucking one of them, dammit.

Ignoring the calls from the gallery, Thompson made a quick exit through the senate chambers and out to the car that was waiting curbside. He was anxious to get his son’s results.

“Hey, Dad! I didn’t know you were coming by today,” said Michael Thompson when his father strode into the room with an armful of magazines. He set his load on the table next to the bed and gave his son a hug. The senator wasn’t sure if it was just hope, but Michael looked better. More color.

“Are you kidding? I wanted to be here when the doctors give you your update. Besides, couldn’t have you lying around without the latest
Sport Illustrated
. There’s a great article in there about the National’s new pitcher.

Michael smiled. He looked stronger too. Something in his eyes. “Thanks, Dad. Have you eaten yet?”

“I ordered on the way in. They should have it here in a second. So, tell me what I missed.”

Father and son spent lunch trading stories. Michael filled the senator in on the latest news from baseball’s spring training reports, something they’d traveled to for years, all except this year. Thompson told his son about the lobbyist who’d obviously had too much to drink the night before, and had almost passed out mid-sentence after turning a swamp-colored green. Michael laughed at his father’s retelling, the sound alone filling his father with hope.

All too soon not one but five doctors entered the private room. Sen. Thompson turned their way, trying to read the expressions on the physicians’ faces.

“Good morning, Senator. Good morning, Michael,” said Michael’s oncologist, Dr. Mehta, a middle aged Indian woman who’d come highly recommended from friends.

Thompson nodded, unable to find the saliva to answer, his mouth suddenly parched.

“Hey, Doc. Are you here to tell me I’m being released today?” asked Michael, his boyish features smiling with the same look he’d had since birth.

Dr. Mehta looked uncomfortable, like she was about to deliver bad news. Sen. Thompson’s chest clenched.

“We’d like to run a few tests in order to—” Dr. Mehta started.

“What did you find, Doctor?” Sen. Thompson finally found his voice, wanting to know. The strength in his tone shook the normally resolute Dr. Mehta.

“I…it’s not necessarily bad news, Senator. I…”

“Then let’s have it, doctor.” Thompson’s heart raced. He was already planning for contingencies, dealing with Cromwell, finding other options…

He felt a hand on his arm. It was Michael’s. “Come on, Dad. Let her talk.” Michael smiled at his doctor, prompting her to continue. Sen. Thompson felt like exploding.

“It’s just that…well, I’ve been very open with you both from the beginning,” said Dr. Mehta. “I promise I’ll continue that for as long as you’re under my care.”

Why won’t this bitch just tell us? I knew I should’ve used that other guy at Mayo
, thought Sen. Thompson.

“I won’t bore you with the details yet, but it seems that your blood cell counts have somewhat normalized. The most recent readings also show that your persistent fever has dropped, as have several of your other nagging symptoms. Tell me, Michael, how are you feeling?”

“I feel better than I have in months. No puking’s a big bonus.”

Dr. Mehta looked to her colleagues, who all wore similar looks of puzzlement.

They all thought my son was going to die
.

“I’ll have the tech take some more samples and we’ll schedule you for a full work-up. We should know more by tomorrow,” said Mehta.

Senator Mac Thompson ignored the doctors as they said their goodbyes, instead turning to his son, tears already in his eyes. He put a delicate hand to his son’s cheek and brought him closer, holding him as the emotion of relief flowed uncontrolled.