Taji's Syndrome (29 page)

“And you?” Susannah asked acutely.

“He tolerates me, but he never lets me forget I’m a foreigner. He has a very low opinion of the World Health Organization, and he would love to get transferred across town, to the
real
Disease Control Center. He is very keenly aware that we’re poor relations, and it galls him, I think.” He passed a huge truck pulling two tankers with enormous warnings of radioactivity plastered all over them. “I wish we could get those things off the highways, or restrict the times they can be on the road.”

“Um,” she agreed.

“Some day there’s going to be a twenty-car pile-up with one of those things smack in the middle of it, and we’ll have a contamination problem that no one is ready to handle.” He took a deep breath. “Preaching to the converted; I won’t waste my time.”

She turned her head and looked at him. “Yeah, you’re preaching to the converted, but it’s nice to know you care.” Her face softened. “How much longer?”

“Not too long. And we can have dinner before we head back to Denver. There’s a meeting in the morning at nine, and another one at eleven-thirty. One of the local TV stations wants to do an interview at two—I haven’t said yes or no yet—and there’s another meeting at four. I’m sorry they got stacked up but . . .”

“Don’t apologize. It works out that way sometimes.” She opened her purse and rummaged in it, finally drew out a lipstick wand and reddened her mouth. “I look hagged,” she said, addressing her reflection in the pocket mirror.

“You look fine.”

“My hair needs a trim, my nails are a mess and even jersey pantsuits don’t really survive airplane trips.” She checked her purse once more and put her cosmetics away. “Tell me more about this woman we’re going to see?”

“Her name is Alexandra Porter. She goes by Alexa. She’s got a small ranch a few miles outside of town. She raises ponies and shows them in harness: apparently she’s got an enviable reputation. Her son was kidnapped by his father several years ago, after the parents divorced. From time to time the boy calls her when he gets the chance. What is interesting is that all the areas the boy has called from have had outbreaks of TS.”

“What’s the connection?” Susannah asked.

“Damned if I know,” Jeff admitted, “but you know and I know that we have to run every bit of this to earth. Ms. Porter sent a number of letters to the Colorado Bureau of Health and Environment, and it took a while before anyone paid any attention to her. One of the statisticians there—you’ll meet him tomorrow: a bright kid named Wakefield —did an analysis and checked Ms. Porter’s claim with phone company records. Lo and behold, there was a strong correspondence. There is also no hospital admission on this kid. Harold Porter would appear to be in good health, from what we can tell. And, incidentally, the last time he called his mother, he was in Edmonton.”

“The Canadians!” Susannah clapped her hands together.

“Well, it is one explanation, no matter how unpalatable,” He signaled to change lanes in order to pass a slow-moving recreation vehicle that looked like a motel room on wheels. “I ought to have cleared it with you first, but under the circumstances, I thought that—”

“You’re right. We don’t have time for all that going-through-channels nonsense. And I trust you, Jamshid Taji.” When Jeff said nothing, she asked, “Do I embarrass you?”

“No: I . . . embarrass myself.” He changed lanes again. “I’m in the middle of an emergency and I have fantasies about my superior. It’s a strange problem for me.” When he went on, his voice was more reflective. “Ever since the Silicon Measles thing, there have been people in our division who have been waiting for me to make a big, big mistake. They want to have me make an ass of myself, so that I don’t have the—”

“The enviable reputation you have,” she supplied for him. “We all know you’re the best we have at environmental disease, no matter what anyone says.”

He shook his head. “This TS is a lot more important; it isn’t a matter of assembly workers, it’s much bigger than that.”

“And what are you thinking now that you’re afraid will be wrong?” She touched his arm. “You can tell me. I’m talking to you as Susannah, not Division Coordinator Ling; okay?”

“You can’t turn off part of yourself, Susannah. It’s one of the things I like about you. You
are
my Division Coordinator as well as my friend.” He considered his position for another mile, then shrugged. “What the hell. When TS first showed up, everyone was convinced it was environmental. It fit the pattern. The outbreaks were regional, the victims fit a nonstandard curve, and it didn’t appear to spread. The SPSBS eliminated drugs and sexually transmitted diseases right at the start and the HEW bi-annual surveys seemed to rule out viruses. So we were all convinced that we had a strictly environmental disease going, and we acted accordingly.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Susannah asked without accusation.

“Nothing. Only I’m pretty sure we were wrong.”

“You mean the cumulative or synergetic theories?” she prompted. “They make sense, and they explain a lot of what we’re seeing.”

“But not enough, and they’re too complicated. The more complicated a disease, the fewer people can catch it, that’s the general rule. But that’s not the way this stuff is working out, is it?”

“I don’t follow you,” she prompted.

“Look,” he said as he turned up the heater, “suppose that this thing isn’t really environmental at all—suppose it’s straight medical?”

“Then it belongs across town,” she said, referring to the main complex of the National Center for Disease Control in Atlanta.

“Not quite. I have a hunch—”

“Silicon Measles was a hunch, as I recall,” she interjected.

“This is a stronger hunch.” He slowed down and moved back into the right-hand lane. “I think we’re dealing with something— coming from eroded cannisters, or other broken-down storage. I think there’s one of those manufactured bugs out there, something that the feds ordered thrown out years ago. And now the storage containers are starting to leak. Think about it. There are military bases in and around most places where TS has shown up. With the exception of those in Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and Canada, and if Ms. Porter is right, we have an answer to that.”

“You’re reaching pretty far, Jeff,” she warned him.

“Yes. I know that.” He indicated the highway sign. “We exit in three miles.”

“Fine,” she said. “Go on about this theory of yours.”

“Even after biological research was officially stopped, it went on in the form of gene research and DNA experiments. Now that all those projects are under annual review, things are better. That’s now. We have to look back to when experimentation wasn’t so carefully monitored.”

“You mean before the Great Lakes Dysentery?” Susannah suggested, to agree on a time.

“More or less.” He signaled to leave the freeway. “I’ve been toying with the idea that something being developed wasn’t working out as planned; something to do with ACTH, to alter the brain in some way, and so it was discontinued and put into storage. And now it’s coming back to haunt us.”

“You know, Jeff, even if that’s true, there’s almost no way to prove it at this late date.” She was sitting straighter in her seat, her face showing the tension of anticipation.

“I realize that,” he said. “And I accept the fact that I might be completely wrong. But we’re getting nowhere the way we’re going now.”

“And you think that talking to Ms. Porter will give you a lead?” Susannah said. “Well, it’s worth a shot, I suppose. And we had to be in Colorado anyway.”

“True enough,” he said as he turned toward a tall white gate set back about a quarter mile from the road. “That’s Ms. Porter’s place,” he explained. “I assume the herd is hers.”

“They don’t look much like ponies, not the way I remember them,” said Susannah, looking at the dark bay and black animals grazing in the pasture.

“I gather that’s part of the idea,” said Jeff as they drove through the gate.

Alexandra Porter had been a pretty, girlish young woman fifteen years ago; now her body was square and muscular, her shoulders broader than was fashionable and she was not slim, though the fifteen extra pounds she carried did not show as flab. She was dressed for hard ranch work, and from her muddy boots to her knit cap, she was all utility. “Hello there,” she called out as Jeff stepped out of his government car. “You’re the doctors?”

“Yes,” said Jeff as he went around to open the door for Susannah. “I’m Jeff Taji and this is the Coordinator of the Environmental Division of the National Center for Disease Control, Susannah Ling.”

“Any relation to—” began Alexa as she offered her hand.

“—the Vice President, no. Arthur Ling isn’t one of us.” She smiled. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us.”

“No trouble,” said Alexa, then she yelled, “Hey! Emilio, take care of Penny-Girl! She’s got a cut over her offside rear pastern!” She managed a half-grin. “Sorry about that. We’ve had trouble with this mare before and I’m not anxious to spend another five hundred bucks on vet bills.”

“I can’t say I blame you,” Susannah told her. “How many horses do you have here?”

“Forty-six right now. I’m small but exclusive as breeders go. We’ve got three proven studs, fifteen mares, eight geldings and the rest are under two.” She indicated her house. “Come on in. Elvira’s supposed to have coffee ready.” As she led the way, she went on, “I know most people would think I’m crazy, and maybe I am. This trouble with Frank over Harold, it gets to me from time to time, and then I’m not real sensible about it, you know how it is?”

“Yes,” said Jeff for both of them.

The kitchen was large and cozy at once, with two walls of distressed brick and an oak-beamed ceiling. At the far end of the room near the restaurant-style stove, a massive white-haired woman was pondering the contents of a large kettle of soup.

“Take a seat at the table. I’ll be back in five minutes. In the meantime—Elvira! Coffee and pastry for my guests.
Pronto, por favor.”

“¿Quienes son?”
asked Elvira, giving them a slow, disinterested glance over her shoulder.

“They’re doctors, very important.
Muy importante,
God damn it. You treat ’em well.” With that order, Alexa tromped off down the hall. By the time she reappeared—good to her word, in less than five minutes—Elvira had condescended to pour two large white mugs of strong coffee and to bring out a plate of custard-filled tarts.

“We don’t want to cut into your time,” said Jeff as Alexa, showered and changed, sat down opposite her guests.

“Go right ahead. If it can help find my boy, it’s great. If it gives you a hand with this TS stuff, even better.” She smiled as Elvira put a full mug down at her elbow.
“Gracias, amiga mia.”

“De nada,”
Elvira said as she went back to her stove.

“Don’t think badly of Elvira. She’s a little like a cat—she’s afraid that if she’s too nice to you, you’ll take advantage of her. But she’s stuck it out here through some rough times and her nephews are the best workers I’ve ever had.” She took a large swig of coffee. “That doesn’t interest you, does it? You want to know about Harold.”

“A man in Denver— Doctor Wakefield—went over your letter with the records of calls from your son,” said Jeff, in order to make his position clear at once. “There is a very high correlation between the times and places of his calls and the outbreaks of TS during the last six months.”

“Ah,” said Alexa, as if putting down an unwelcome burden. “So I’m not entirely crazy.”

“I don’t think so,” said Jeff cautiously. “But there are some things we have to know. And if you’re willing to help us, we’ll do everything we can for you.”

“A horsetrade?” Alexa suggested with more despair than cynicism. “You’ve come to the right place.”

Susannah opened her portfolio and brought out a notebook and a small tape recorder. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation?”

Alexa blinked. “Tape? Sure. Why not.”

Jeff kept his papers in his attaché case, afraid that too much interest might frighten Alexa Porter. He had seen that happen before and he was anxious that it not occur now. “I understand that your boy has been missing since May of 1989.”

“May fourteenth,” said Alexa. “Frank went to the school and said he’d come to pick up his boy early, because he had some rodeo he had to ride in. The school knew he had Harold on weekends, and so they let him go. That was the last I ever saw of him.” She hesitated. “Ever since then, Harold calls when he can. Harold Porter is a good boy, or he was while he was with me. There are times I want to kill Frank for doing this.” The tears which had been standing in her eyes spilled at last. “Damn. Dammit. I’m sorry. Shit, what a stupid thing to do.”

“It’s all right,” Susannah said gently. “We understand. We don’t mind.”

“Well,
I
mind,” said Alexa brusquely. “Damn.” She paused to wipe her eyes. “I
hate
it when I do that. It doesn’t do anybody any good.”

“If it gives you some relief, it does you some good,” Susannah told her.

“But it doesn’t. It only gives me a headache and a stuffy nose,” she muttered. It took her a couple of minutes to stop crying and cursing, and during that time Susannah turned off the tape recorder. “Sorry,” she said finally. “I won’t do that again. Let me tell you about Harold, okay?”

“According to our information, he was born in Spokane, Washington, on September twenty-ninth, nineteen eighty-two. Is that correct?”

“Yeah. We’d been there three weeks.” She took a deep, uneven breath. “Frank was working for a rancher there, a guy running Quarter horses. He had a couple hundred head and most of ’em were green-broke. Frank and two other guys were hired on to put a little polish on them before spring sales. We were there until January of Eighty-three, and then we went to Montana.”

“You traveled a great deal while you were pregnant?” asked Jeff.

“We traveled all the time we were married. Hell, Frank’s
still
traveling.”

“Where were you in Eighty-two?” asked Susannah, taking up Jeff’s line of inquiry.

“You mean all the time before Harold was born?” She sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “Oh, we started the year in New Mexico, I recall. Then came through Arizona, went up to the Salinas area. We stayed there about four months. Then we went on to Reno, then over into Oregon, and from there to Spokane. Those last three months, it was hell to move. It was hot and I felt like an overbuilt house on a cliff. Frank was mad at me all the time, and I didn’t know what to do about it. He threatened to leave me once, and another time he disappeared for a week. I got damned scared then, because it was August and I didn’t have any more money and I was so pregnant I could hardly walk.”