Taji's Syndrome (6 page)

Seattle was swathed in cold; snow had fallen the day before and now there was a frigid mist that hung over the harbor and lakes and hid most of the city. The chapel, which was only two blocks from the University of Washington campus, seemed suspended in clouds; the massive buildings of the university, most of them perched on the hill, were all but invisible.

“I wish the doctors could tell us more,” said Grant, who at sixteen was clearly the best-looking of the Ross boys. He had spent most of the fall in California, at a ranch near Santa Rosa in a program for drug abuse. His uncle, Susan’s brother, had served as his guardian. Only Kevin’s death had brought him back to Seattle.

“I wish they could, too, son,” said Harper as he led them toward their Trooper III. “Hurry up; it’s too cold to stay outside long.”

“But what was it?” Grant asked, still bewildered and beginning to be angry. “Why don’t they know yet?”

“Sometimes they . . . don’t have enough to go on,” said Harper in a distant way as he fumbled for his keys in his coat pocket. His heavy gloves made his fingers awkward.

“Isn’t what they do like solving crimes?” Mason asked. “I mean, they’re similar, aren’t they?” It was a deliberate ploy; Harper Ross was a professor of criminology. As he got into the back seat, Mason added another thought to his inquiry. “Couldn’t you help them out, Dad? You’ve got the experience to help them.”

“They think it had something to do with toxic wastes,” Susan said, so tired that she might as well have been up for three days without sleep.

“And you, Dad?” Mason prompted.

“It’s possible,” said Harper as he waited for the engine to warm up before putting the four-wheel-drive Trooper III in gear. “It fits with what we do know about it.”

“It could be . . . anything,” said Susan. “He died. That’s the one thing we’re all sure of.” She put her hand to her eyes so that she would not have to explain her tears.

“But if it’s something we can learn about,” Mason began, and saw that Grant was staring at him in unconcealed anger.

“It won’t change anything,” Grant said.

“It might mean that someone else won’t die,” Mason responded, meeting his brother’s hostile stare. “That wouldn’t bring Kevin back, but it could make a difference.”

“Mason, for God’s sake,” said his mother.

“He’s right,” Harper agreed unexpectedly.

“Not you, too.” Susan smeared her tears over her face, her mascara leaving wide, dark tracks.

“I don’t think I could sit by and watch this happen to another family,” said Harper as he concentrated on holding the car on the road. “It would be too much, if there was something I could do to prevent it.”

“There’s nothing anyone could have done,” said Susan. “If there were, they would have. They ran out of ideas, you heard them say so.”

“Susan,” Harper warned sympathetically. “Think. Letting others die won’t change Kevin’s death, it will only make it worse; it would put other families through the same thing we’re going through. Do you want that, Susan? Wouldn’t you do something about it if you could?”

“Are you trying to convince yourself?” Susan asked softly. “Or do you want to make a gesture?”

“It’s not a gesture, it’s . . . the only contribution I can think of to give.” Harper dared not take his eyes off the road to look at her, but the impulse was there in the angle of his head and the way he held the steering wheel.

“Yeah,” said Mason, leaning forward in his seat. “I’d help, if I could. I don’t know what I could do, but if there was anything . . . I owe it to Kevin, in a way:” He fingered his dark tie. “If there are more cases of this stuff . . .”

“Shut up,” Grant told him sharply. “Just shut up.”

They drove in silence, each one alone in pain.

“I told Phil we wouldn’t be there New Year’s,” Harper said to Susan as they neared the freeway entrance.

“He didn’t think we would be, did he?” she asked, sufficiently shocked to respond with less lethargy than she had shown so far that day.

“No, but I wanted him to know. He means well, and it saves making a phone call later.” He signaled to change lanes, maneuvering around a stalled van.

“All right.” She put her hand to her eyes once more.

On the freeway the traffic moved at less than twenty miles an hour, progress toward the Bellevue exit slowed by the mist and the cold. The Rosses were quiet as the Trooper III moved along; only when they had reached the Medina exit did Susan speak again, her voice still thick with tears. “If you decide to do anything, to get involved —if there’s anything to get involved with—then you do it on your own conscience. I’ve had all I can take. You do it on your own time, Harper.”

He nodded slowly as he moved into the right-hand lane. “All right. If you want it that way, I’ll do as you ask.”

“Dad’s being noble again,” Grant said. “Always looking for something to help out.”

“Stop it!” Mason yelled.

“Not another word, young man!” Susan, commanded, turning in her seat to glare at Grant. “You get that chip off your shoulder and the smirk off your face and then maybe you can question what your father does where I can hear you, but not before.” She was crying, but no longer in the helpless. depressed way she had since Kevin died. “I don’t want to hear anything more out of either of you, is that understood?”

“Yes, Morn,” said Mason, neither sullen nor chastened.

“Shit.”

“And none of that,” Harper warned as they neared the Bellevue turn-off. “It’s bad enough that we lost Kevin; I won’t stand by and watch the family self-destruct.” Since Harper was generally a soft-spoken man whose quiet, professorial manner gave away his occupation before he mentioned it, any outburst was regarded as important and significant, a thing to be respected. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, Dad,” said Mason in the same accepting tone he had used with his mother.

This time Grant remained silent, though his face was flushed and his eyes sizzled.

They had almost reached Lake Washington when traffic came to a complete stop.

“What do you suppose it is?” Susan asked.

“Probably an accident, the weather the way it is.” Harper sighed and studied the dials. “I wish I knew these methane engines better than I do. In the old Buick I would have known in a second, the way it sounded, if I ought to turn it off or not. But this thing . . .”

“You were the one who wanted to get it,” Susan reminded him.

“I’m glad we did,” he insisted, keeping his voice level and steady. “It was the only sensible thing to do; you agreed. Waiting in line for gas is—”

“Senseless,” she finished for him. “I know, and wasteful and profligate. Methane engines are the wave of the future. As long as matter decays we have no lack of methane. Et cetera, et cetera,” she recited, sounding like one of the more righteous of the advertisements for the new methane engines.

“It’s true. I’m simply not used to it yet,” Harper said in his most reasonable tone. “In weather like this . . .”

“It’s okay, Dad. There’s that special light on the thermometer, remember?” He pointed to the various dials, relieved to have something to talk about that was not connected with Kevin’s death.

“Which one?” Harper asked, appearing more confused than he was.

“There. If it turns yellow, then you have to . . . you have to engage the supplemental coolant. I think that’s how it goes. And if it turns red, then pull off the road and idle for two minutes, engage the supplemental coolant and then turn the engine off.” He said the last with pride, amazed at himself for remembering what the mechanic had told them when they bought the car the year before.

“No yellow, no red.” Harper leaned back in the driver’s seat and adjusted the angle of the lower back. “So long as we’re going to sit for a while, we might as well—”

He was interrupted by whooping sirens as two ambulances and a highway-rescue firetruck sped by on the shoulder of the road.

“Fuck a duck!” marveled Grant, watching the emergency vehicles fade into the mists.

“Oh, stop it,” Susan said, more irritated than angry now.

“Must be pretty bad to bring all that sh . . . stuff out,” said Grant. “Wonder where the cops are?”

“They’re probably the ones who radioed for the ambulances and the firetruck,” said Harper, lapsing into the same manner he adopted when lecturing in class. “It’s the most sensible explanation, in any case.”

“Someone with a CB might have done it,” suggested Mason.

“Yes, that’s true, but then the cops would have come along with the others.” He had both a CB and police monitor in his car, and for a moment toyed with the idea of turning them on and listening in. Then he realized that more disasters could be more than anyone of them was prepared to handle that day. He studied the instrument panel and let himself get lost in the information they offered.

“How long do you think we’ll have to sit here?” Susan asked when almost five minutes had gone by.

“I don’t know.”

“You could turn on the radios and find out what’s happened,” she said sharply.

“I don’t want to heat up the engine or put too much strain on the battery. We could be here quite a while and if we are, we’ll have to use the supplemental interior heater; that thing eats up battery power like a hog eating hops.” Harper hoped that his excuses were sufficient for Susan; he had no intention of turning on the radios.

She sighed. “All right. Why not? We might as well be stranded here as anywhere.”

In
the back, Grant started to fiddle with the zipper on his jacket, his face blank, his eyes drifting into the hypnotic stare that had been part of him for the last four years. He began to hum, first very softly and aimlessly, then slowly getting louder, until he was forcefully grunting out the same four notes in endless repetition.

“I wish you’d stop,” said Mason, not expecting to get a response.

“Leave him alone, Mason,” said Harper. “It’s been a hard day for all of us.” He paused. “I wish I could call Linda. I don’t want her to think that we’re not coming.”

“Use the CB,” said Susan, unconcerned.

“She probably knows about the accident. Restaurant people usually do,” said Mason, doing his best to be neutral.

“If this lasts too much longer, I will call,” said Harper, staring out into the mist. “It’s terrible.”

“They say it isn’t going to clear up for a couple more days. Then we’ll have rain,” said Mason, repeating what they had all heard on the news that morning.

“I guess the McPhees are stuck in this, too,” Harper said, in order to say something.

“They were going to the Ellinghams for a drink,” Susan corrected him. “But who knows? it might go on long enough for them to sit here the way we’re doing.”

“They’ll have it on the news. The cops will keep the traffic diverted,” said Harper with more faith than certainty.

The air in the car was getting cooler, but no one wanted to mention it yet. Only Grant, locked away in his relentless mind, accommodated it to the extent that he stopped unzipping his jacket and instead ran his thumbnail down the interlocking bits of metal.

One of the ambulances hurried back the way it had come, all lights on and the siren on screech. A few of the other cars honked their horns at it, whether in derision or support was a matter of conjecture.

“When we get home, I’m going to call Jarvis and tell him I’d like to help if they’ll let me, if there’s anything I can do.” Harper’s voice was distant, the words coming slowly. “I don’t want to worry you or upset you, Susan, but I have to do it.”

“You do what you have to do,” said Susan in a constricted tone of voice. “I don’t want to know about it.”

Harper sighed, and let himself be distracted by the sudden return of the second ambulance, this time with a police escort. “I can’t believe that Christmas was day before yesterday.”

“Some Christmases aren’t real Christmasy,” said Mason, hoping he would not cry. He had wept for a week before Kevin died, so wasted and pale, with machines and tubes turning him into something as alien as a being from another planet. He had wept the night it had finally ended. Now he did not want to cry anymore.

“Next year we’ll do something better,” said Harper, pain and determination in his words. “Let’s go to Hawaii, or to Florida, somewhere it’s warm and Christmas looks like a midsummer fair.”

“That’s next year,” said Susan, but with less criticism than before.

“We’ll do something that won’t remind us. That will be a start. Lots of people have holidays that have bad things associated with them,” Harper said with deliberate simplicity. “That doesn’t mean that the holidays were bad, or have to stay bad, but that something bad happened on one.” He hesitated. “Remember that Phil’s brother was killed in that plane crash the day before Thanksgiving five years ago. Phil still has Thanksgiving and . . .”

When no one said anything more, Susan regarded Grant with curiosity and worry. “Can you leave the zipper alone?” she asked, though she got no response and expected none.

—Sylvia Kostermeyer—

ONCE IN
a while San Diego was visited by a major storm, a grey, vicious beating from wind and water that drove everyone indoors and made the streets unsafe, that drove the camp-dwelling Latin American detainees into the crowded Immigration Service Holding Station where frustration and despair often led to violence.

“How many of them are sick?” asked Sylvia, making sure that her California Board of Public Health and Environmental Services badge was clearly visible on her lapel.

“Old sick or new sick?” asked Clifford Gross, who had been working for the Immigration Service for thirty years, his medical oath long since abrogated in favor of bureaucratic survival.

“I mean sick, period. Public health sick,” Sylvia declared, her patience already running thin.

“Well, you can figure that eighty percent of them are undernourished in some way, that seventy percent have some kind of parasites on them, that another seventy percent have some other chronic health problem, such as low-level allergies. Not long ago we ended up with a genuine, full-blown case of rabies. Tell me what you’re looking for and we’ll see if we’ve got any.”

“I’ve been looking over your reports,” Sylvia said, deliberately taking an indirect approach. “I’ve noticed that you have had an increase in toxic waste syndrome, at least that is what the printouts indicate. Obviously a machine can’t tell us anything more than the information we give it, but if there is a contamination site we know nothing about, we must take action at once to protect—”

“I haven’t noticed that there’s been any real increase in toxic waste reactions,” said Gross. “Not that I’ve done much asking. Maybe there’s more sickness around, Doctor.”

“Why not?” Sylvia asked, doing her best to keep from challenging the man. “Why haven’t you checked for toxic—”

“Because there isn’t much of it around. Tetanus, TB, typhoid, you name it. Parasite infestations. Sure, those we find every day. It’s because the country’s so damned poor and most of the people are not educated, and those who are aren’t doing much to help those who aren’t. It doesn’t matter whether we’re talking about Mexico or Central America or South America, the problems are still pretty much the same.” He opened his hands to show how futile it was. “Most of them have been slightly sick for so long that they think they’re okay. They don’t know what it means to be healthy, to have a body that really works properly. It’s nothing we can change, not in a detention center like this one. Besides, what good would it do? Most of them are illegals, not refugees, and they’re simply going home to more of the same.”

Sylvia tapped the file of printouts she had on the edge of Gross’ desk. “Make a few allowances, Doctor Gross. If you find anything that you suspect might be related to toxic wastes, I would appreciate it if you would flag it and send it directly to me. At once. Mark it urgent.”

“It’s not going to make a difference,” warned Gross.

“It certainly won’t if you aren’t willing to make the effort.” She made no apology for the pointedness of the remark.

“But a couple of aliens with suspect symptoms, come on, Doctor . . . uh . . .”

“Kostermeyer,” she supplied.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re asking a lot. Think about what the trouble is here, what we’re up against.” He waved in the direction of the door. “I’ve got over fifty more patients to see and that means I won’t get out of here until seven-thirty at the earliest, assuming that nothing is seriously wrong with any of them and that no more fights break out.” He folded his arms. “They said in Ninety-one that this new border policy would make things better, but you couldn’t prove it by me.”

“I realize you have difficulties here,” said Sylvia with a patience she did not feel. “And I know that I’m asking a lot, but since December tenth, we have had seven deaths in the greater San Diego area from a condition that appears to be related to toxic contamination. There is debilitation, enervation, anemia, lethargy, a . . . an alteration of blood chemistry, followed by pulmonary distress and vascular collapse. We now have two more cases we’re checking for the . . . blood condition.” She was not anxious to go into the baffling and complex breakdown of connective tissue that was characteristic of the course of the syndrome.

“What if it’s just another disease, a new version of, oh, say something like leukemia.” Gross made an indulgent grimace. “Surely you’ve considered that, Doctor Kosterm—”

“It has some leukemia similarities,” she allowed. “And it has others, like pernicious anemia and amoebic dysentery, for obvious examples. And death doesn’t come from any specific agency of the condition, but from subsidiary breakdowns.” She held out the printout file once more. “You might think that there are too few cases to worry about, but the thing that makes this so . . . upsetting is that so far we have yet to diagnose a patient with this condition and have them live. That’s why we’re looking for new cases, possibly early cases, and why we want to find out what toxic wastes are involved.”

“But suppose it’s not that?” Gross suggested. “Who says that it has to be toxic wastes, anyway?”

“What else fits the ticket so well?” she asked. “The only thing we haven’t found so far—thank God—are incidents in infants and young children. Four of the victims so far have been teenagers.”

“Have you thought about drugs? Especially the designer drugs?” He asked this with a faint, deprecatory smile, since the pervasive drug problem seemed to him far more obvious than toxic wastes.

“No trace of them in the blood.”

“How can you know, if the blood chemistry changes?”

Gross pursued. “If you haven’t any gauge other than that?”

Sylvia stared at Gross before she answered. “It’s what we have to go on, and right now . . . Look, one of the patients did test positive for drugs, but that doesn’t mean that drugs are the only explanation. We would have found traces in the others. They aren’t that hard to identify.”

“Unless one of the designer drugs is at fault. Have you considered that?” Gross rocked back on his heels.

“It’s being checked out, but so far there’s no indication that they’re a factor.” She sighed. “Will you help me out? I don’t want to have more deaths if I can help it.”

“Everyone dies,” said Gross, more cynically than philosophically.

“Agreed, but—”

“Sure, why not? If I see anything suspicious, or if there are indications of toxic contamination of some kind I’ll let you know. How’s that?” He looked at the door. “And I have to get back to work.”

“Of course. Thank you for giving me so much of your time,” Sylvia said with automatic courtesy.

“Pleasure,” said Gross, shaking her hand.

As she drove back through the rain, cursing the flooded streets and trying to keep from skidding in turns, Sylvia fought down her irrational desire to go back to the Immigration Station and remonstrate with Gross—his inadequacy as a physician, his conduct as a person, his total lack of manners—though she knew it would be useless. Instead she went over the cases of the puzzling condition she was investigating. Dead so far: Marilee Grey, aged sixteen; Jeanine Hatley, aged fourteen; Benton Smith, aged thirty-one; Paul Clancy, aged fourteen; Samuel Lincoln, aged fifteen; Elaine Bradley, aged twenty-seven; and Dwight Tracy, aged sixty-two. Ill so far: Isabeau Cuante, aged (about) forty-six or -seven; Lorraine Gomez, aged sixteen.

It was so disheartening that Sylvia almost missed her turn to the Public Health and Environmental Services building on Escondido, in the new complex built after the ’93 quake.

“How’d it go?” asked her superior, Doctor Michael Wren, as Sylvia pulled off her coat and shook it.

“Don’t ask.” She ran her hand through her hair and shook out the drops from it.

“Problems?” Mike sat down, pulling up one of the two chairs so that he could face her over the corner of her desk.

“That man ought to be taken out and . . . and . . .”—she gave an unexpected smile—“and subjected to a lecture on manners from my Great-Aunt Lucy!”

Mike grinned, his large, white teeth appearing to be even larger against the blackness of his skin. “Sounds like a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

“Well, I sure as hell wouldn’t,” said Sylvia, settling down a bit. “I told him what we were looking for. That was after Rosenblum had his secretary ask me to leave a copy of the printouts so that he could look at them when he had time.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a great afternoon,” said Mike. “I don’t blame you for being testy.”

“Thanks. Oh, I think Steinmetz might get a fire lit under him if you’d give him a call and warn him that Environmental Services might have a mess on their hands. You know how good he is at covering his ass.” She looked at the primrose message memos stacked in the center of her desk. “Three from hospitals?”

“It looks like we’ve got another two cases at least. All in the same general area with the exception of one man who works at a restaurant across from Coronado, a place called
The Galley.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’ve put in a call to L.A. and another to Sacramento. One more case and we have to alert Environmental Diseases in Atlanta.” This time he spoke with real concern. “God, I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Me, too,” Sylvia admitted. “Timmons will have a fit.”

“Humanity has always been his long suit,” Mike said sarcastically.

Sylvia put the stack aside. “I’ll take care of them in a bit. By the way, take care driving home. It’s a mess out there and once the rush hour starts, it’s going to snarl all the way to Mexico.”

“Great.” She glanced at her wall map, at the day-glo green labels indicating addresses of those with the new syndrome. “Most of them are within a two-mile radius still; that’s something.”

“And with the exception of the guy at the restaurant, they all work in the same general area, or go to school there.” Mike stood up and went to the map. “Now, we have found toxic sites here”—he indicated an area ten miles north of the city—“and here”—this time his finger was east of San Diego near Spring Valley—“but nothing where these guys live.”

“So that’s no help, unless they all go out there for picnics.” She stared at the map as if it was deliberately withholding information. “We’re overlooking something. There’s got to be a commonality somewhere.”

“Well, Jeanine Hatley took ballet from Isabeau Cuante,” said Mike.

“And the rest? Did they take ballet?” As soon as she spoke, she was sorry. “That was a bitchy thing to say. I beg your pardon.”

“What would Great-Aunt Lucy think?” said Mike, rolling his eyes heavenward in simulated horror. “I don’t blame you for snapping. It’s shitty to be stymied this way.”

“Agreed.” She pursed her lips. “Do we have histories on the families of the victims? Have they been tested for signs of the syndrome?”

“A little hard to do when we’re not sure what we’re looking for,” Mike reminded her gently.

“Well, have they been checked, period, just in case? Look for hangnails and dandruff if nothing else turns up.” She folded her arms. “Complete histories, and neighborhood reviews, to find out if anyone else has had something like this that we might not have seen yet, and then . . . oh, hell.” To her chagrin she had to stop because her mouth was quivering and her eyes were moist.

“Hey, Sylvia,” Mike said, putting his hand on her arm. “We’ll find out what it is and we’ll stop it, right?”

“Sure,” she said miserably. “Next week at the latest.”

“That’s my pal,” Mike said, patting her arm. “Remember that and it’ll be easier to get the job done.” He touched the map, covering the area where the cases were. “At least it’s contained, whatever it is.”

“So far,” she reminded him. “I guess since we’ve had teenaged victims we’d better contact the schools as well. I hate causing panic like that.”

“I’m not too crazy about it myself. But you’re right. It’s probably necessary.”

“If Timmons decides that we’re being alarmist,” Sylvia wondered aloud, “do you think he’ll interfere?”

“Only if the sun rises,” said Mike in a resigned tone. “I’m going to get back to my office, and I’ll stop by before I head for home.”

“Okay,” she said, already reaching for the phone memos, her mind on the next stage of her investigation.

“If you need a hand . . .”

“Thanks,” she said, waving vaguely as she punched in the number on the first memo.

—Elihu Dover—

“I wish I knew what to tell you.” Dover shoved his hands more deeply into the pockets of his tweed jacket. “Your sister is in failing health, and I don’t know yet what the cause is.”

Sven Barenssen swallowed hard. “Will she have to go to the hospital? We don’t have insurance, you know.”

Dover frowned ponderously. “I’m aware that hospitalization would be a hardship. There are funds for cases like yours, particularly where there is some question as to the cause.” He added the last as delicately as he could, trying to diminish the worry Kirsten Barenssen’s brother was feeling. “And her church has some money available for . . . special cases. With all she’s done for them, I’m certain that if you speak to Will Colney, he would be more than willing to—”

“No. Kirsten wouldn’t accept that.” He stared up at the ceiling. “She’s not one to take charity. Not even now.”