Submerged (5 page)

“And they found nothing wrong with him?”

“Not a thing.”

Hibbard raised a hand and rubbed his
forehead.

“Tell us what’s going on, Doc,” Perry
said.

“I wish I could. Here’s what I know. He
presented with shortness of breath, hypotension, an irregular
heartbeat, and is unresponsive to all stimuli. His lungs have fluid
in them, and his blood . . . his blood looks . . . funny.”

Perry raised an eyebrow. “Funny?”

“Odd. I don’t know how to explain it. We did
a blood draw, and the color of your father’s blood is darker than
it should be. I’m waiting on the results of those tests. I’ve never
seen anything like it.”

“Is he going to . . .” Anna began but
couldn’t finish.

“Die? I don’t know. We’re doing everything we
can, but it doesn’t look good. Don’t give up, but you should
prepare yourself for the worst.”

Anna began to cry, and Perry pulled her
close. His heart felt like it was in an oven. “Can we see him?”
Perry asked.

“Not right now. Maybe after they get him
settled in MICU. He remains unconscious.”

“What other tests are you going to
perform?”

“Every one I need to until I get some
answers.” The doctor paused. “I don’t suppose anything like this
has happened before in your extended family.” Perry said no. “I was
puzzled by something else. We went through his wallet looking for
medical alerts and the like. I couldn’t help noticing that his
driver’s license is current.”

“So?”

“So, a man with cataracts as advanced as his
would be un-able to see well enough to walk, let alone drive a
car.”

“My father doesn’t have cataracts,” Perry
said. “I saw him yesterday and his eyes were clear.”

“His eyes were fine before lunch,” Anna
offered. “They turned white after he passed out.”

Perry remembered his mother’s panicked phone
call.
“Oh,
Perry, his
eyes—his eyes.”

Monte Grant turned the undersized steering
wheel of his Troy-Bilt lawn tractor to the right and chastised
himself again. He should have gone with the larger model, bigger
engine, more available gardening attachments, and twenty-one
horsepower. But no. He had tried to save a few bucks. The riding
mower was a good one, but more horsepower was better even if one
didn’t need it.

Before him lay an acre of lawn needing a
trim, and he was doing his best to get it done before the Arizona
sun melted him to the seat. It had been a busy morning, even for a
retired civil engineer. He had trimmed the roses, hand-watered the
trees, swept the concrete driveway, and grabbed a bite of lunch.
Mail came, and he riffled through it. Nothing demanding his
immediate attention. He tossed it on the counter and told his
sister that he was going to “plow the lower forty.” Of course,
there was no lower forty, just two acres of desert land beat back
with hours of labor, gallons of water, and a hearty grass.

“Don’t forget to milk the cows,” Luisa
Grant-Winston called after him.

There were no cows either, just the humor of
a widow and widower who now shared a home in Kingman, Arizona. They
had started their lives in the same home, went their own ways
through most of their adult years, and came back together to share
expenses and company when death forced each to be alone. Heart
disease had taken Luisa’s husband two years ago; a stroke had taken
Monte’s wife last year.

Now Monte was wheeling his mighty lawn
tractor over a large patch of green, thankful that the days of
pushing a lawn mower were over. If he finished in time, he might be
able to sneak a few hours in under the hood of the 1954 Ford
Victoria Skyliner that had once belonged to his father. Of course,
a nap would be required first.

He turned the wheel again to straighten the
mower’s direction so the blades would overlap the previously cut
swath by a few inches. Nothing worse than stragglers.

He wiped his brow of perspiration that
threatened to trickle down his sixty-five-year-old face. At least
his sweat glands were still working as they should. He wished he
could say that about the rest of his body. Although he enjoyed good
health, he wasn’t aging as well as he would like. Oh, to be a young
fifty again.

Monte blinked and tried to clear his eyes.
Things were getting a little blurry. Too much sun, perhaps, or
maybe it was time to get new glasses. It wasn’t that long ago that
a once-a-year trip to the optometrist was fine, but now he found he
needed new glasses every six to nine months. He hated growing
older.

Reaching the end of his run, he cranked the
wheel again. His lungs didn’t feel right, and why was his vision
blurring? His back hurt. Now his chest hurt. Something wasn’t
right. Monte focused on his breathing, forcing each breath. That
wasn’t right. Breathing was supposed to be normal. He gripped the
wheel. The green of the grass and the blue of the sky were turning
milky white, like a cold winter’s fog on the coast. But it wasn’t
winter, and he wasn’t on the coast.

Maybe he should see a doctor.

He turned from his path and drove the mower
toward the house.
Need to slow . . . slow
down,
he thought and reached forward for the large plastic
button that would release the cruise control. He missed. He
couldn’t see it.

Monte began to think.
Odd
to have to think about thinking.
Why wasn’t his mind working
as it should?

The tractor moved forward.

I should do
something.
Of course he should do something, but what?
This shouldn’t be hard—brake pedal!

Monte commanded his right foot to press the
brake that would disengage the cruise control and bring the mower
to a stop.

His foot refused to move.

His eyes refused to see.

His lungs refused to work.

The lawn tractor found the stucco side of the
house.

“No? You’re not serious. What do you mean,
no?” Carl Subick stood before the desk of Captain Julius Whitaker.
No one called him Julius.

“Just that, Carl. I am not sending more men
up there, and that’s final.”

Carl stared at the twenty-year veteran of the
Sheriff’s Department. Captain Whitaker had a reputation for plain
speech, hard work, and a low tolerance for foolishness. “Did you
hear what I said? We were attacked, held at gunpoint, assaulted,
relieved of our sidearms, and I was handcuffed to the patrol
car.”

“I’ll make sure you receive new weapons at no
cost to you.”

“That’s not the point, Captain,” Janet Novak
said. “Four men held automatic weapons on duly sworn officers of
the law.”

“You were on a military base. You know how
much secret stuff goes on around here. Nevada is conspiracy
central.”

“We were on public land, Cap,” Carl retorted,
louder than he intended. He lowered his voice. “I know those hills,
I know that area. That’s why you sent me and not someone else.”

“I have no doubts about your intelligence or
your skill, but in this case you’re wrong.”

“I may be a deputy sheriff, but I am still a
citizen, and I want to swear out a complaint against the men who
did this.”

“You can swear in any way you like, but the
issue is closed. We don’t have names, and the only description we
have is that they wore black BDUs. So what?”

“I can identify them,” Carl insisted.

“Me, too,” Janet said.

Whitaker shook his head. “You have to let
this go. Trust me—it’s the best thing for your career.”

“This isn’t like you, Captain,” Carl fired
back. “Who got to you?”

Whitaker was on his feet, his face red and
his eyes narrow. Carl took a step back. Whitaker sliced at the air
with a finger. “You watch yourself, Deputy, you watch yourself real
close, because you are one hair’s breadth away from getting on my
bad side. Unless you want to spend the rest of your career frisking
criminals in the county jail, I suggest you take a moment to
rethink the next thing you say.”

The furnace of Carl’s anger blazed to a new
level. His jaw clenched so hard he was certain his teeth would give
way in splinters of enamel.

“Let’s go.” Janet touched Carl’s arm. “We’re
done here.”

Carl didn’t move.

“Come on, Carl. Let’s not make things worse,”
she pleaded.

Captain Whitaker dropped into his chair. He
ran a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Carl. Some
things are beyond my control. Please, trust me on this. Let it
go.”

“We could go straight to the Sheriff.” Carl’s
words stretched as taut as an elastic band.

“It would do you no good. I’ve already spoken
to him, or more accurately, he has already spoken to me.”

“This came down from the top?”

Whitaker nodded. “Yeah. The old man is none
too pleased.”

“With me? I mean, with us?”

“He’s fine with you two, but something’s got
him chewing through his lower lip. He wouldn’t tell me, so I can’t
tell you. And if I did, I’d have to use language that would make
birds drop dead from the air.”

“So someone got to him,” Carl said.

“A piece of advice, Deputy: Cut that phrase
from your vocabulary. There are people who would take offense to
it, people who can rip that star off your chest. Now get out of my
office. Take the rest of the day off.”

“We haven’t finished our report.”

“There will be no report.”

“No report? But—” Carl began to argue.

“No report!”

Carl slammed his hand on the desk; the sound
of it filled the office. He swiveled and exited the captain’s
office with Janet right behind.

“I guess that’s that,” Janet said.

“This isn’t even close to being over.” Carl
marched away.

Janet chased after him. “Wait a second.” She
caught up. “What do you mean it’s not over? You’re not going to
finish off your career and mine.”

“Then go home, Deputy Novak. Go home.”

Chapter4

The MICU cubicles
were full
with those needing special attention—more than
they could receive in a traditional hospital room. Normally a
caring man moved by the plight of others, Perry had trouble feeling
sorry for the other ill men and women. There was just one patient
on his mind.

Henry Sachs lay on the hospital bed, covered
by a single white sheet that draped his slender form and reminded
Perry far too much of a shroud. He was surprised how frail his
father seemed. Always an active man, Henry was far more fit than
the majority of men his age, but the years had taken their toll. No
one remained young forever, not even the irrepressible Henry
Sachs.

It was hard for a son to see his father this
way, Perry decided.
Children always see their
fathers as indestructible, but sooner or later the truth of life
and death demands notice,
he thought
.
Perry was no child, but he had always assumed that
his father would continue on as he always did. And with that
assumption Perry had blinded himself to avoid the thoughts that
cross the mind of every adult child.

A sniff and whimper snapped Perry’s attention
from his father to his mother who sat in a wide, yellow hospital
chair. Since long visits in the MICU were discouraged, there was
only one chair. Access was limited to immediate family and that to
a mere ten minutes. They had been there for over an hour. The
nurses checked in from time to time but made no effort to evict
them. Perhaps they knew it was a useless act. Or perhaps they
granted extra time when they knew the patient was dying.

A short, white-smocked Asian with thick black
hair entered, carrying a metal clipboard. He glanced at Perry who
stood next to his father’s bed and then to Anna in the chair. She
started to rise, but he held up a hand.

“I’m Dr. Yukio Nishizaki. My specialty is
epidemiology. I’ve been asked to consult on this case. Have other
doctors been by?” The man had a no-nonsense way about him. He had
no accent.

“No,” Perry answered. “Not since he was moved
to MICU.”

Nishizaki nodded. “They will. The nurses tell
me that you’re Mr. Sachs’s son and wife, correct?”

Perry said it was and made introductions.
“What can you tell us? What have you learned?”

“Not much. We’re still waiting on some test
results. There will be more tests, I’m certain of that.”

“You mean you don’t know anything,” Anna
said.

Nishizaki frowned. “We have found a
particulate matter in your husband’s blood. As yet we don’t know
what it is. I’ve never seen anything like it. At first I thought I
was seeing something inorganic, but then I would see indications of
biological activity.”

“You mean like a virus?” Perry asked.

“Yes, something like that. In many ways a
virus teeters on the threshold of organic and inorganic. A virus is
genetic material, DNA or RNA, wrapped in a protein sheath. They’re
not free living organisms—that is, they can’t reproduce on their
own. They can only exchange genetic matter inside a living cell.
But . . . these aren’t acting like viruses, at least as far as we
can tell at this stage.”

“How so?” Perry’s brain was soaking up every
word.

“First, when Dr. Hibbard admitted Mr. Sachs
through the ER, he called for a wide spectrum of antibiotics.
Viruses don’t respond to antibiotics, yet your father stabilized.
Right now we’re assuming the antibiotics
are
helping, but we don’t know how. And we don’t even
know if that’s true, only that he stabilized soon after receiving
the first course.”

“Can’t you just look under a microscope and
see what kind of virus he has?” Anna dabbed at her eyes again.

“No, ma’am, I wish we could. Viruses can be
up to one hundred times smaller than bacteria. Most are too small
to see. The substance in your husband’s blood is very small, maybe
thirty nanometers or less.”