Panacea (11 page)

“No,” Pickens said. “Just science—hard work and good research.”

They left him to finish his breakfast and let Forman lead them to the empty doctors' lounge.

“Two miracles,” Forman said. “Two overnight miracles.” He jabbed a finger at Pickens. “And don't sling that ‘science' bullshit at me. That will work on Ashcroft and Kim because they don't know they were treated with the same compound. They each think they received something specially tailored to their condition. But we three know different. It's not science—it's
anti
-science, because the same compound cannot possibly treat staph and acute radiation poisoning. And no placebo effect in the universe could reverse their conditions overnight. So we've left science and entered the realm of the supernatural now.”

Pickens snorted. “Really, Doctor—”

“Really nothing. I'm a devout agnostic but I'm pretty damn sure I've just witnessed a miracle.
Two
of them.”

A miracle … two of them …

Nelson's first instinct was to call his uncle, the abbot of their order, and tell him of the morning's events. But he could almost hear his reply:
You expected something less?

With a stab of guilt he realized now that somewhere deep in his unworthy heart he had harbored doubts about his uncle's tales of the panacea. He'd thought he believed, and he'd pursued the panacea with unquestioning zeal. But if he'd truly believed all along, why this profound sense of shock at seeing objective proof?

Clearly he had failed a test of faith. He could not go back, for faith was no longer required in the face of such incontrovertible evidence. He could only go forward. And he would, with greater fervor and resolution than ever.

“Have you got any more of that stuff?” Forman said. “Because I've got patients who need it.”

Nelson shook his head. “Sorry. That was it.”

“Well, you can make more, can't you?”

Nelson looked away. “It's complicated.”

“‘Complicated,' my ass! Either you can or you can't!”

“We are tracking the source. We hope to be able to secure more in the near future.”

“Hope?
Hope?
How can—?”

“You'll just have to trust us,” Pickens said.

Forman laughed. “That's a good one!” He pointed to Pickens again, then Nelson. “You've found something that defies logic as well as analysis.”

“Analysis?” Nelson said. “What do you mean?”

“I took a droplet left in Kim's dosing cup and put it through the center's spectrograph.”

Nelson wanted to shout
NO!
No one must know the components.

“You had no right!” Pickens said, reddening. “I'm going to have to impound—”

“Relax,” Forman said. “There's nothing to impound.”

Pickens said, “I'll decide what—”

“We found nothing.” He began pacing the lounge, flapping his arms like a chicken. “The analysis was a complete bust. Oh, we got water, of course, and believe it or not, we found clay, sand, and humus—in other words: dirt. Really, gentlemen … dirt? Under what conditions did you mix that stuff? But the machine kept crashing. I don't know how you did it, but you've got a compound that we can't break down into its components—at least not with the equipment available.”

Nelson dropped into a chair to hide his relief. Maybe he would never learn the mystery ingredient, but at least Forman didn't know.

“You'll be under review,” Pickens told the doctor. “Count on that. In the meantime, remember the consequences for letting any of this out.”

Dr. Forman had wandered behind Nelson.

“First off, I'm loyal to my word. Second, I would only be jeopardizing my reputation as a rational human being by repeating this madness. I—”

He stopped and Nelson realized he was bending closer, staring at the back of his neck.

“What?”

“Have you had that looked at?”

“Had what looked at?”

“That mole on the back of your neck. Looks a bit sketchy to me.”

On its own accord, Nelson's hand darted to his nape. “Sketchy? What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it's on the big side with an irregular border, and it's got three shades of dark brown, one almost black. Have it looked at.”

“Never mind that,” Pickens said. “Remember what I said.” He turned to Nelson. “My car. Now.”

They made the trip to the parking lot in silence. Nelson hadn't been able to read Pickens through all this. After what the deputy director had just seen, he couldn't go on denying the existence of the panacea. Or could he?

As they walked he found his hand drifting to his nape. A “sketchy” mole back there? He'd had no idea.

Pickens broke the silence as soon as they'd slammed the doors of his Navigator.

“I suppose you feel you're owed an apology.”

Damn right, he was, but this was hardly the time for
I told you so
.

“Not at all, sir. I'd have been deeply dubious myself were positions reversed.”

“Yeah, well, I've got to admit I did think you were a few fries short of a Happy Meal.” A quick, mechanical grin. Was Nelson supposed to laugh at that? “But after what I saw today, I'm a believer.”

“It's incredible, isn't it.”

He shook his head. “No argument there, Fife. Whatever it is,
we
have to control it. But what
is
that stuff?”

“That's what I'm working to find out.”

“Yesterday I had our own lab run an analysis on the residue in the tubes. I'd like to think we have better equipment than Walter Reed—in fact, I like to think our equipment is second to none. But whatever that stuff is, it crashed our system as well.”

“How is that possible?”

“The lab boys say its molecular structure does not compute. It's totally different from anything they've ever seen. Like it's from outer space.”

If you only knew, Nelson thought.

Pickens shook his head. “We've run into a wall on that approach, and that's a goddamn shame. Because if we can't nail down its molecular structure, we can't synthesize it.”

Nelson balled his fists. Excellent. How could he wipe it out if the Company could synthesize it?

“That leaves going to the source and bringing in one of these … these…”

“Panaceans.”

“Right. We need one of these guys alive to find out how they make it.”

“We know the process up to a point, sir.”

Pickens looked at him. “‘We'? What ‘we' are we talking about here? The only ‘we' is you and me and the Company.”

Had to tread carefully here.

“Sorry. I was referring to my uncle Jim and me. He—”

“Jim Fife again. We keep coming back to him.”

“Well, he was the one who identified the panaceans. He managed to grow some of their plants in his backyard and he would cook them up just like they did, but the results were worthless. They
must
add something, but they've all denied it. Even under … duress.”

“Interrogation methods have improved quite a bit from your uncle's time—as you well know.”

Nelson nodded. The Company had a new infusion that could make the most reluctant interrogatee positively loquacious.

“Not much use when they drop dead rather than talk.”

“You need to Taser one as soon as you find him—knock him out before he can stop his heart or whatever they do.”

“I'll need manpower and resources, sir.”

“Don't worry. You've got them. I'm stopping at Langley. As soon as I get there I'll clear you for a black account.”

After all these years—a green light and a black fund.
That
was something he could report to his abbot. But instead of giving a mental cheer, he was thinking about the back of his neck.

A “sketchy” mole? Really?

 

2

“There's a Helen Cochran on line three-two,” said the front desk receptionist. “Says she must speak to you. Very insistent.”

Laura frowned. Helen Cochran? Who—oh, God. She jabbed the
32
button.

“Hello, Mrs. Cochran. I'm so sorry about Tommy.”

“Oh … yes.”
A muffled sob.
“Thank you. It's been … hard.”

“I can't even imagine.”

“And your daughter. Is she … okay?”

“As good as can be expected, thanks. She had a stem-cell transplant and so far so good. She's still got a ways to go.”

“Why does God try parents like He does?”

Parents? Laura thought. It's not exactly a picnic for the kids.

Mrs. Cochran heaved a sigh.
“I won't keep you. I—”

“No-no. I was going to call you.”

“You were?”

“Yes. I…” This was so hard to say to someone she knew. “I did the autopsy on Tommy.”

“Oh, I was hoping you would. I asked for you because you'd met Tommy a few times. You knew of his condition. Is that why you were going to call me? What did you find?”

“Only injuries from the accident. It was what I didn't find…”

“You didn't find any arthritis, did you.”
A statement, not a question.

“No. Not a trace.”

“That's why I'm calling you. I saw the article in the paper this morning with the picture of the unidentified dead man. I recognized him.”

They'd published the photo? She must have missed it. Laura grabbed a pen, wondering how this middle-class woman from Mastic would know a member of a pot-growing gang. But this job had long since got her used to the weird connections between the most disparate individuals.

“You know his name?”

“I do. He's Chet Brody. He was helping with Tommy's physical therapy.”

A name … she finally had a name.

But wait. A guy with a respectable day job didn't jibe with Lawson's drug gang theory.

“He's a physical therapist?”

“Just an assistant. And maybe more. He's the one who cured Tommy's arthritis.”

What?

“How-how-how did he do that?” Listen to me—stuttering like Porky Pig.

Mrs. Cochran told the story of Chet showing up at her door two days ago with a vial of strange fluid that she threw away but Tommy drank. The next morning, Tommy awoke arthritis free.

“It was a miracle,”
she said.
“That's the only way I can explain it.”

Dr. Sklar had called it impossible. But “miracle” and “impossible” were codependent, weren't they. Couldn't have one without the other.

As Mrs. Cochran had been telling her story it slowly began to dawn on Laura that here was her fantasized connection between the arthritic child with perfect joints and the world's healthiest ex–drug addict.

“What did Chet say was in the vial?”

“All he said was that it was herbal.”

Herbal … maybe he hadn't been growing
Cannabis
. But if something else … what? What on Earth?

“You wouldn't happen to have the vial it came in, would you?”

“It's in the county dump, I'm afraid. I put the garbage out that night. After seeing Tommy the next morning I went to look for it but the truck had already come by.”

Laura gave her desktop a quick double pound. Damn. She would love to know the chemical composition of that “miracle” potion.

Laura extended her condolences again and thanked the woman for taking the time to call despite the tragedy of her son.

“How could I not call? Chet allowed Tommy a few pain-free hours of happiness before he died. I couldn't let him go to an unmarked grave.”

Some people … Laura thought as she hung up … some people are too good for this world.

She'd decided not to ask her in to identify Brody's body. Better to track down some family member or a coworker for that.

As for the name, she went straight to Dr. Henniger with the news.

“We've had a hit on that photo in the paper,” she said as she entered the CME's office.

Henniger gave her a sour look. “Well, at least we're getting a hit on something. No cause of death yet?”

She knew damn well there wasn't. “Not yet.”

Henniger slapped her desktop. “We look like amateurs here, Laura.” She drummed her fingers, then, “All right, what about the photo?”

“A caller said his name is Chet Brody and he works for a Moriches physical therapy place.”

Henniger was nodding. She held up a slip of paper. “That matches with a call from a Miriam Brody in Williamsburg. But she says his name is
Chaim
Brody and he's her son.”

“Chet … Chaim … close enough.”

“The wrinkle is she's Orthodox and it's Friday and she wants to get him in the ground before sundown. You ready to release him?”

Laura nodded. “We've got all the tissue we need. If it's okay with the PD, we can let him go as soon as she gives us an official ID. I'm ready to release Tommy Cochran too.”

“The MVA boy. Good.”

“I found a strange connection between Brody and the Cochran child.”

She gave her chief a quick rundown of her conversation with Tommy's mother.

“Odd,” said Henniger. “Very odd.”

“I feel I should write it up for the record—for future reference and so the connection doesn't get lost—but I don't know where to file it.”

“Attach it as an addendum to both reports. By the way, what about the burn victim?”

“Beyond the fact that he and Brody are connected by arson, tattoos, and indeterminate cause of death, all we have is the name on the rental agreement. We'll have to wait on Hanrahan's dental records to confirm the ID.”