Taji's Syndrome (31 page)

“We received the formal requests for assistance,” said Tolliver. “We have also agreed to provide fifteen quarantine beds in the Naval Hospital and the Naval Air Hospital, as well as twenty quarantine beds at the Marine Hospital.” He looked at Weyman as if expecting gratitude.

“Good to hear it,” said Weyman when he realized what was required. “I have another request, if you can help me.”

“Of course,” said Tolliver smoothly.

“My colleague, Doctor Klausen, in Portland, has been trying to learn about the present location of a James Joseph Jackson of Twin Falls, Idaho. He’s a high school athletic coach and he contracted TS in January. He was moved to a VA hospital and we can’t get any more information on him. I’d appreciate it if you could unsnarl the red tape.” He looked from Tolliver to Colonel Packard. “I don’t know what service he was in.”

“We’ll take care of it. In a situation like this, it’s probably a simple question of misfiling.” Captain Lorrimer nodded and the officers sat down. “We have a request that I understand has encountered some resistance from your Atlanta organization, Doctor Muggridge.”

“Oh?” Weyman said innocently, trying to figure out what the military might want in return for their help with Coach Jackson.

“Yes,” Commander Tolliver said, taking over from Lorrimer. “We can’t understand why the National Center for Disease Control would refuse to answer the Executive Security Agency’s requests for information about TS and its victims, especially in matters of public health risk where the few survivors are concerned.”

“Probably because we don’t know what kind of risk the survivors are,” Weyman suggested with every appearance of bonhomie.

Packard and Tolliver exchanged looks; Lorrimer said, “It could be a matter of national security.”

“Yeah, it could,” said Weyman, not quite concealing the sharpness of his response. “But so far there is no reason we know of to think that it is. We have possibly five survivors to assess with a disease we do not yet understand. It is impossible to determine the extent and nature of the hazard they present, if any. We are not yet in a position to appreciate the long-term effects of TS. And until that’s the case, we’ d be remiss in turning over what are confidential files under the Right to Privacy Act. I guess the NCDC doesn’t want to be sued.”

“Possibly not,” said Packard. “But there are others who might bring suit if the request isn’t honored.” He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Not that we’d want anything like that to happen.”

“I bet,” Weyman said, catching Sylvia’s hand in his under the table. “We have a responsibility to protect the public and to guard the health of the nation. Just as those in the ESA are obligated to protect the personal safety of the President and his cabinet. Occasionally the immediate goals of our work would seem to clash, but that’s rarely the case, when you examine the question more objectively.”

“We are satisfied that there is a high degree of risk,” Commander Tolliver insisted.

“No argument,” Weyman said at his blandest. “But what kind and to whom. That’s the part we can’t answer yet.”

Colonel Packard stared at Weyman, the weight of his gaze intended to intimidate. “You realize that President Hunter is considering establishing martial law in this part of the country because of TS.”

“And I know he has decided against it,” said Weyman, his affability gone. “It looks to me, gentlemen, as if you are after something and you will not say what. That troubles me. Because as a civilian I outrank you, in case you had forgotten. I am not inclined to be bullied into providing you with information you have obviously been unable to obtain through usual channels.” He gathered up his materials and squeezed Sylvia’s hand again. “Until I have a better understanding of what my superiors have decided, I think: it would be best if we postpone this meeting. Another can be arranged in two days.” As he put the last of the printouts into his attaché case, he added, “I hope you will not withdraw the offer of quarantine beds. All the rest of what we’ve said this morning was jockeying, but that could mean the difference between life and death for someone with TS, and that is what matters, isn’t it?” He stood up, letting go of Sylvia’s hand. “You know, gentlemen, it’s a mistake to ignore Doctor Kostermeyer because she is merely an epidemiologist for the state. She probably knows more about TS than anyone from Atlanta does.” With that, he opened the door for her and followed her out of the room.

“I wanted to kill them,” she muttered as they waited for the elevator.

“Me first,” said Weyman, and as the doors of the elevator closed and they rode down, he said, “We’ve got to hurry, Whatever they’re fishing for, we’ve got to find before they do or we’ll lose what little edge we have.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “You mean they scared you? You didn’t show it, if they did.”

“Why give them an advantage?” he asked, and as the door opened, he added, “Sylvia my darling, I’ve been terrified for the last two months.”

—Jeff Taji and Dale Reed—

“I’m sorry about Doctor Picknor,” said Jeff to Dale Reed as they left the enormous new University Medical Center.

“I feel I’m responsible,” said Dale, his head lowered and his eyes wetter than usual. “He got involved in this because of me and now look at him. Did you see the ACTH readings? Even if we could bring his blood under control. what would we do about that?”

“I can’t answer you,” Jeff said. “But I hope your Missus Channing will give us a clue.” He made his way between the parked cars to his rented Comet. “How far is the private hospital?”

“It’s on the west of town, out toward the airport. I called ahead. They’re expecting us.” He frowned as he got into the car. “What worries me is that I haven’t seen signs of it myself. I’ve been working with it, and so many of the medical staff have got it, I wake up at night, afraid that I’ve got it, too.”

Jeff started out of the parking lot. “I know the feeling,” he said directly.

“I’ve had patients with AIDS and it didn’t frighten me. I knew what was required to get it. But what scares me is that whatever gave Irene TS is still around, and we don’t know what it is. I have times when I’m afraid to breathe or eat or bathe because I might be getting something that will kill me.” He gave a shaky little laugh. “Left at the next light.”

“Thanks.” He remembered what Donna Howell had told him about Dale Reed: the man was in love with his patient and it was increasingly difficult for him. “How is she—Missus Channing—doing? Is there more improvement?”

“She’s stronger and she’s doing some sketching—she’s an artist, you know—and her muscle tone is improving. It’s the other. That’s what troubles me.”

“What about it?” This was what Jeff wanted to know the most about, the thing that caused him almost as much alarm as the rising fatalities from TS.

“She’s . . . getting stronger that way, too. It wears her out. If she moves something, she goes to bed for the rest of the day, and just naps. She says it exhausts her and makes her unable to concentrate or to think. They’ve . . . the docs there have been asking her to work on it.” He frowned. “It worries me, Taji.”

“I can understand why,” he said, becoming concerned himself. He had thought that this would be a fairly direct phase of the investigation, but now he realized that it would not. He put his mind on his driving and let Dale Reed talk as they made their way to the private hospital where Irene Channing now lived.

There were three separate security stations to pass before they were admitted to her room.

Dr. Galen Simeon was already with Irene, his lugubrious face looking more like a basset hound’s than usual. “It is distressing, Missus Channing,” he was saying as Dale and Jeff came through the door.

“Irene,” Dale said, going to her and kissing her, outwardly unconcerned about being observed.

She returned the kiss. “I’m so glad to see you, Dale,” she said. “How’s Steve? How’s Brice? Are they doing all right?”

“I saw them yesterday. They’re fine. I’m scheduling them for blood work and a full PAST scan next week. I’ll let you know what the results are.” He had her hands in his.

“No matter what?” she insisted.

“No matter what,” he promised.

“And Edith? I need to speak with her. They’re not going to allow her to visit, but I have to—”

Dale interrupted her. “I’ll call her. And I’ll explain to the staff here that Ms. Kentish is your attorney, so that you won’t have to go through this anymore.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder and drew her as close as he could, sitting on the edge of the bed. The draperies were drawn and so the room had a muted light in it, as if it were under water and these two were lost sculpture of another time lying on the floor of the sea.

“Doctor Reed.” Simeon was short of patience, but his urgency stemmed from something more than that. “I haven’t finished here. I have others to look after; Missus Channing is not my only responsibility.”

Jeff stepped into the breach. “I’m Jeff Taji from the National Center for Dis—”

“Oh, yes,” Simeon cut him short as he came forward, hand extended, a look in his eyes that probed Jeff even as he went through the proper form of good manners. “A pleasure. I’m curious to hear about your latest work on this difficult disease.”

“Certainly. I’ll be grateful to hear your views as well. I’ll do what I can to fill you in on my own end of the work,” said Jeff, drawing Galen Simeon to the farthest point in the room. “I want to have a look at the tape you have on Missus Channing. I realize you haven’t yet determined what the cause of this is, but we have found a few more survivors of the disease and we’re extremely curious about the aftereffects of TS.” He hesitated. “We’re trying to keep these developments as quiet as possible. It’s bad enough to have so deadly a disease, but the possibility of becoming a freak if one survives it . . .”

“You’re certain that happens in all cases?” Simeon asked.

“No. That’s part of the trouble. We find survivors very slowly, and when we do, testing them is awkward, to say the least. We don’t want to give rise to more . . . problems than we’ve got.”

“Not surprising,” said Simeon. “I think it would be of great interest to more than you,” he added pointedly. “How fast is TS spreading; do you know?”

“Faster than is being admitted publicly, though after John Post’s regular reports, I doubt the public is fooled very much. They know about his son, and they trust him. Our figures indicate that we have over a hundred thousand cases in the U.S. with another fifteen thousand in Canada. By that, we mean cases that have been diagnosed. Who knows how many people out there could come down with it in the next year or so?”

“And the fatality curve remains about the same?” Simeon asked.

“About the same. We will need more time to find out how constant it is, of course.” Jeff sighed. “So far, we haven’t been able to isolate the trigger.”

“That’s not good,” Simeon said, his haggard Russian features growing more careworn. “You have another problem, in case you were not aware of it.”

“Which problem? I could name dozens.” Jeff thought that he was referring to the emotional involvement of Dale and Irene, and was not alert to the warning, so that what Simeon said next was shocking.

“There are ESA men nosing around here. They’re trying to get their hands on Irene Channing. Luckily she is a well-known and wealthy woman, and she can insist on privacy, and get some protection from us. At least she can so far. There may be other survivors who are not as fortunate.”

“How do you mean?” Jeff demanded, keeping his voice low so that he would not disturb the two on the bed.

“I mean,” he said with great precision, “that apparently the ESA has come to believe that the survivors are strategically important to the country. They are a tightlipped lot, but I gather that Missus Channing isn’t the only one to have developed psychokinetic abilities, and they are determined to . . . to have control over their skills, and to direct their use.” He waited, letting this sink in.

“No one in Atlanta has said . . .” Jeff’s phrase trailed off. “But they wouldn’t, would they? We might blow their cover, we might tell the world. Hell, we
would
tell the world.”

“A consideration,” said Simeon. “And they have also concealed the statistics of TS in the armed forces for similar reasons. They want to cull out the secret weapons, and those who do not survive—at least so far—are considered to be acceptable losses.”

Jeff did not want to believe what he was hearing. He tried to muster arguments to deny it, but none of them were wholly convincing. He took a deep breath. “I’m going to have to find out more about this.”

“You will in any case, I think.” He rubbed at his long jaw as if he wore a goatee. “I don’t want to be a harbinger of doom, but it strikes me, Doctor Taji, that every one of you working on this investigation had better be as careful as you possibly can, not only for your health, but your safety as well. The Executive Security Agency isn’t going to be thwarted by a few determined doctors if they really want the TS survivors. I’m telling you this because I know what we’ve had going on here. I haven’t said anything to Dale,” he went on as he saw the skeptical look in Jeff’s eyes. “Dale might do something foolish because of his involvement with Irene Channing, and that would not help anyone.”

Jeff nodded slowly. “All right; what’s happened?”

Simeon lowered his voice. “In the last two weeks there have been nine new lab techs here, all of them from outside of the Dallas-Fort Worth area. Everyone else in the lab defers to them and they are permitted to work with minimal supervision. Two days ago I caught one of them rifting the PAST scan files. When I reported it, I was told that I had made a mistake. Up until then I was afraid I was being paranoid; now I think I was being naive.”

“It could have been something else,” Jeff said without any conviction.

“Certainly. That’s what I’ve been told. But those lab techs aren’t here to find out what’s new in geriatric medicine or new ways to dry out rich drunks, so I have to assume that Missus Channing is the reason for all this. The military wants to find out how to make psychokines. You ought to see the lab techs. You’d know what I mean.” Simeon lowered his eyes. “I quit smoking eight years ago, but right now I would love a cigarette.”