Taji's Syndrome (20 page)

“Doubtless,” said Jeff enigmatically. “Then I hope you’re willing to give me a little extra time after the meeting. I want to know the current status of everyone working on the quarantine staff in regard to this disease. Who’s been through the most, who’s in the middle of . . . loss. Who’s getting frightened, who’s getting angry about the disease.” He thought of what it had already been dubbed back in Atlanta: Taji’s Syndrome, TS for short. He hoped the nickname would not catch on here.

“Almost everyone on the staff knows or knows of someone who has it. The number of cases has gone up sharply in the last week,” said Sam. “Either that, or we’re seeing more of it and identifying it.”

“Both are likely,” said Jeff. “All right. We’ll deal with this as we must. But I’m going to need your assistance. I think that it would be useful if you’d take the time to get twice-daily updates from the labs. Who besides Shevis could help us?”

“I’ll get the names for you,” said Sam, “but Hal Shevis is the boss here. We’ve got one other problem: the press. The disease has made the papers and the evening news and we’re getting pressure. I don’t want to see a love of sensationalism taking over the investigation.”

“No; no one does,” said Jeff, recalling how the reporters had flocked to cover the terrorist attack that had killed his wife. “We’ll have to give them something that can buy us some time, that much is plain.” He looked at Harper again. “How are you with the press?”

“I don’t know,” said Harper. “Are they anything like grad students?”

Jeff did his best to smile. He appreciated all that Harper was doing. “I don’t know what grad students in criminology are like. It wouldn’t hurt to treat it like a class.” He looked back at Sam. “Would Shevis handle this for us, do you think?”

“Oh, I guess so. Ask him.” Sam had slumped back in his chair and was staring at the window in an abstracted way. “I like these days when the mountains are out. Sometimes you can’t see them. They disappear in fog or clouds or rain or snow. I had a patient once, very old and a little out of touch, who was afraid that the day would come when the fog would lift and the mountains would still be gone.”

Jeff and Harper exchanged one quick, questioning glance. “It’s almost time for the meeting,” said Harper, getting up. “I want to be sure the coffee and tea are available.”

“Good idea,” said Sam. “Make mine a double.”

While Harper was out of the room, Jeff took out his two notebooks and opened them on the table; all the while he kept covert watch over Sam Jarvis, trying to determine how much more strain the man could bear before he would not be able to take any more.

—Sylvia Kostermeyer and Weyman Muggridge—

Sylvia folded her arms and glared at Weyman. “What kind of remark is that?”

“Just a simple question,” Weyman responded with a maddening lack of concern. “I’m curious about private hospitals, religious hospitals. They don’t all have to report to PHES the same way that community and state institutions do. I wanted to know who’s covering them and what you’ve found out. What’s upsetting about that?” He had a slow, winning smile that served only to infuriate her more.

“I don’t know,” she admitted sullenly, furious that she had overlooked something so obvious. “Do you want me to call and find out?”

“Or I will,” he volunteered, and fell silent as she glared at him. “I didn’t mean that badly, Doctor Kostermeyer.”

“Of course not,” she snapped and reached for the phone. Half a dozen folders slipped off her desk and onto the floor, their contents scattering. “Oh,
shit!”
she burst out, slamming the receiver back into the cradle and putting her hand to her head. She started to pick up the folders and was gently stopped by Weyman.

“You sit. I’ll take care of it. And I’ll make the call. I won’t make you look bad, I promise. I’ll make me look bad.” He was already at his self-appointed chores, and from where he hunkered down to get the printouts that had slipped under her desk, he asked, “How much sleep have you been getting, Doctor Kostermeyer?”

“Not enough,” she admitted, one hand over her eyes. “There’s so much to do. Two docs in this office have symptoms of the disease, and—”

“TS,” said Weyman.

“It sure is,” Sylvia agreed.

He looked up at her, his lopsided smile broadening. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. TS is what we’re calling the disease in Atlanta. Jeff Taji was the one who started the investigation. He’s in Seattle or Portland right now. Anyway, since it’s his disease, we’re calling it Taji’s Syndrome. TS.”

“Medical humor?” Sylvia asked as Weyman stacked the files on her desk.

“I don’t know that everything’s in the right order, but it’s all there.” He reached for the phone. “What extension do I want?”

“Dial eighty-one and then . . . uh . . . seven-three-three. That’s Doris’ line. She’ll know what to do.” Sylvia rubbed her face, unaware that she had smeared her mascara, which along with lipstick was her only make-up.

Weyman did as she told him, and after little more than a minute, he said, “Hello, this is Doctor Muggridge? Am I speaking to”—he looked at Sylvia for help and read her lips—“Doris Lytton? . . . Yes, Doctor Kostermeyer told me how I could reach you . . . Look, Ms. Lytton, I seem to have made an oversight. I should have asked for this before I left Atlanta, and I’m sorry to cause you extra work, but Doctor Kostermeyer’s right; I really do need to get the stats on this disease we’re investigating from the various private hospitals in the greater Southern California area. I know that it’s a lot of work but she’s absolutely right, and I must have been woolgathering before I took the plane. All the private hospitals, yes . . . and the religious, yes . . . As soon as possible . . . I know it’s a lot to ask . . . I’m certain that you’re shorthanded, but . . . It could make a difference, Ms. Lytton. Call Doctor Kostermeyer and ask her. She’s the one who . . . She does deserve credit, I agree.”

“You’re the most shameless—” Sylvia whispered, only to be stopped by his warning finger held to his lips.

“All right. If she approves, yes . . . Thank you . . . Yes, it was foolish I’ll wait for her to contact me, then . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . I won’t forget, no . . . Thank you, Ms. Lytton. Good-bye.” He hung up. “She’s going to call you to find out if you’ll authorize the inquiries.”

“What do I have to do with it? You’re NCDC, you’ve got more authority than I do.”

“Not with Ms. Doris Lytton, I don’t. And don’t let her know I’m here. This is all news to you.” He drew up one of the old, straightbacked chairs. “She’s insisting you get the credit for remembering to check private institutions. Fine with me.”

“But you thought of it,” she protested.

“You tell Ms. Lytton that and she won’t believe you, and she might not help you. And you would have thought of it.” He snatched the phone as it rang and handed it to Sylvia, listening with amusement as she gave her unnecessary permission for the inquiries. “See?” he said when she hung up. “That wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“So they tell me,” he said. “Come on. I want to get over to the medical complex before the traffic piles up too much.”

“All right.” She rose as she looked around for her jacket and was surprised to see he was holding it for her. “Thank you,” she said doubtfully as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

“Where I come from, we still do this sort of thing.” He held the door for her as they left her office and insisted on opening her car door for her, although she said it was silly since she was driving.

“Well,” she said as they drove down Chula Vista Parkway toward La Mesa, “it’s . . . a treat,” she said, not sure that she intended to be so candid.

“You know,” he said, as if he had not heard her, “I remember the hoopla when they opened this road, when was it? five years back? Supposed to be the most beautiful stretch of road in Southern California.”

“That’s what they say,” she told him. “It’s a lot more fun than I-5, and it beats the city streets.” Slowly she began to relax. “We’re meeting with Doctor Gross from Immigration and my immediate superior, Mike Wren. They’ve got some men from Miramar and Pendleton coming; the military’s getting worried. We’re hoping to get some cooperation and time.”

“Is that why you wanted me to bring all the material we have with me?” He was expecting worse, but did not want to alarm her.

“In part, yes, but actually, I wanted to see it for myself. I’m worried about this. And I’m afraid that it’s partially a problem with the government or the military, and that scares the living shit out of me.” She tried to laugh and botched it. “Back in the Sixties, my parents were real activists. They went on the marches and rioted in Chicago and demonstrated against Viet Nam. They weren’t famous, but they weren’t unknowns, either. And it’s followed them ever since. They’re paying for all the time and care they put into this country, and . . . I get frightened. I don’t want to fight with the military or the government, especially if they’re to blame for this.”

“Hey girl, that’s the wrong attitude,” Weyman chided gently. “You’re a doctor with a big, scary M.D. after your name. That’s worth a couple of pips on the shoulderboards any old day. You and Wren and Gross can stand up to them on the strength of the M.D., and you can win. This is your bailiwick, and there’s no reason you should be intimidated. If anything, the military ought to be intimidated, especially if they had anything to do with this, anything at all. If they even suspected that they were endangering the lives of American citizens. Ever since the Supreme Court upheld the suit of those six families in Utah for wrongful deaths because of the bomb test fallout, the military’s been treading on eggs. All you have to do is remind them of it.”

“But that has nothing to do with this,” Sylvia said, turning into the right lane, getting ready to exit. Overhead large warning signs announced there were stoplights in half a mile.

“You don’t know that for sure, and neither do they.” He tugged on his seatbelt. “I wish these things were adjustable for height.”

“Amen,” said Sylvia, then signaled to leave the parkway.

“Is it my imagination, or are there a lot of new buildings in this town?” Weyman asked.

“We had a mild quake six years ago. There’s been rebuilding and upgrading since then.” She turned east on El Cajon Boulevard. “Do you think we’re looking at an epidemic, a real epidemic, Weyman?” It was difficult to breathe as she waited for his answer.

“Yes, and so do you, or you wouldn’t be asking me.” He shifted in his seat so that he could look at her face. “What has me worried more than anything is that we can’t get a handle on how the stuff is transmitted, or how long it takes to develop. We still haven’t seen anyone with the disease under the age of twelve, and that’s one of the most puzzling aspects of the syndrome.”

“TS,” she said with faint amusement.

“You bet,” he responded. “Who else is going to be with us?”

“There’s a Doctor Azada down from Sacramento. That’s why we’re using the State Regional Administration Building for the meeting. Azada wants it that way, that’s the way it is.” She signaled for a left-hand turn, and drew into the parking lot beside a block of angled metal and glass. It looked like an exotic and overgrown crystal set out on the hillside with a newly planted park around it.

There were three Marine, one Air Force and two Naval officers waiting for Sylvia and Weyman in the fifty-person auditorium on the fourth floor. They all made nervous, overly polite introductions and agreed that it was unfortunate that the others were running late.

“I realize that this is a difficult time for all of us,” said Commander Tolliver, meeting Sylvia’s eyes with a diplomatic smile.

“You mean,” she said crisply, “that there are people sick and dying and we have yet to establish a cause.”

“That is part of it, certainly,” said the Commander with an awkward chuckle.

“And it isn’t funny,” Sylvia reminded him.

Whatever rejoinder he might have made was lost when Michael Wren came into the room. He looked worn out and there was a shine on his black skin that Weyman noticed with alarm, “I got held up,” he said as he closed the door.

“Gross and Azada aren’t here yet,” said Sylvia before any of the men in uniform could speak.

“Gross isn’t going to be here,” said Mike. “He was admitted last night. Looks like he’s got the stuff.”

“They’re calling it TS in Atlanta,” Sylvia said to Mike, waiting for some sign of amusement.

“They got it right for once,” said Mike as he stumbled down toward the speakers’ platform. “TS. Yeah, that’s it.”

“Doctor Wren?” Commander Tolliver said, coming forward with his hand extended. “We’re very anxious to do everything we can to assist your investigation in any way we can. If you can make use of our facilities, we would be very pleased to arrange it.”

“What about finding out if one of your biological toys is causing it?” Mike said, his voice uneven.

“Certainly. It’s our understanding that the Joint Chiefs have issued a directive to all personnel that a complete search of all records is to be made at once.”

“Great. And then you slap a top secret on it and none of us ever finds out . . .” He did not go on. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been up all night, and I’ve been losing patients at a terrible rate. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“We’re all under stress just now,” said Tolliver, trying not to look as self-contained and smug as the other officers did.

The rear door opened and Victor Azada came into the auditorium, his hands laden with two attaché cases and a number of rolled-up papers. Dark hair, olive skin, he was either Mexican or Japanese, but not clearly one or the other. “It’s been a difficult morning; I hope you’ll forgive me for delaying the start of the meeting.” He was as smooth as the most adept politician, making a point of underplaying his authority without relinquishing it to anyone. “I was sorry to hear that Fred Timmons passed away,” he said to Sylvia and Mike Wren. “He was a good man.”

“He got this disease, this TS, and it killed him,” Mike said, his head coming up sharply.

“TS?” said Azada.

“What they’re calling this shit in Atlanta. Can’t think of a better word for it, myself,” said Mike, doing his best to stand straight and look Azada in the eye.