Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Not necessarily,” Max said. “What about comparative levels? Have you tested for that?” He had already decided that would be his next area of testing. “You might have to do slices of all major organs to get a comprehensive picture. Also bone marrow.”

  “You’d think the computers would pick up on it,” said Sam, his scowl growing deeper.

  “Not if they weren’t programmed to look for it,” Max reminded him.

  “Right,” said Sam, scribbling a note to himself before he began another doodle beneath it. “I’ll see what I can come up with, and I’ll put Ross on it as well.”

  “Good,” said Max. “Will you be free tomorrow evening? I think we ought to wait until then to compare notes.”

  “Yes,” said Sam. “I’ll want to go over your material with my criminologist friend as well as set up comparisons with what we have on file here. Then we might be able to get somewhere.”

  “What about Atlanta?” said Max with less certainty than before. “Have you been in contact with them?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to cry wolf. They’re not very forgiving of that.” Sam had written Atlanta in the middle of his doodle and surrounded it with several versions of a question mark.

  “Amen,” said Max. “But I’m getting worried about this stuff. It’s here in Oregon, it looks as if it’s in Idaho and Washington as well. Where else has it cropped up?”

  “Atlanta’s a warehouse,” Sam said bluntly. “If we can’t get anyone there interested in this disease, whatever it is, it’s worse than useless to talk to them. You know how they are, how much bureaucracy they have.”

  “The Environmental Division is less hampered,” Max said, though his words were more of a question than a statement. “We might have a chance there.”

  “I hope so,” said Sam, as dubiously as Max. “It might be necessary, but I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “No, nor I,” said Max. The two men were silent for several seconds, and then Max went on. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Sam looked at his daybook. “I probably won’t be back in the office until almost seven. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “Let’s make it seven-thirty then, just in case you get held up.”

  “All right. And I’ll make sure Harper Ross is here as well, in case he turns up something we haven’t spotted. That is one thing he’s shown me—that his perspective is different, and in a case like this, it’s damned useful.”

  “A professor of criminology,” said Klausen, not believing what he was being told.

  “You’ll see what I mean when’ you talk with him,” said Sam, and prepared to hang up. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Good.”

  Harper’s response was more enthusiastic. “That’s terrific. Now we’re starting to get somewhere. What’s this about Atlanta? What can we do to hurry that up? It sounds to me as if we should have been talking to them before now.”

  “You’re wrong there, Harper,” said Sam. “Atlanta is constantly getting material from all over the country, especially in the Environmental Disease branch, and unless you have something major to show them, it just goes into the files and stays there. The fact that we might have proof that this outbreak is not limited to one area gives us a reason to have more attention than we might have otherwise, which is why we’ve got to be damned sure of what we tell them.” He had no more paper left on his notepad for doodles and so began to make random lines on the cardboard backing.

  “You mean to tell me that they’re so inefficient?” Harper demanded indignantly.

  “I mean that they are overworked, understaffed, and that the whole area of Environmental Disease is so clumsily defined and understood right now that half the time they’re in no position to give data a real evaluation.” He saw that he had broken the point off his pencil and reached for another one.

  “This is outrageous,” said Harper, his tone more subdued but as intense as before. “What if there are dozens of cases of this stuff all over the country, but there hasn’t been enough checking? You mean in Atlanta they would not do a cross-check, just in case there were other reports?”

  “If they had time and someone was willing to do it, they might,” Sam answered carefully. “But no, it isn’t part of the routine.”

  “It bloody well ought to be,” Harper said. “What’s this about Idaho?”

  “I wasn’t sure you noticed,” said Sam. “There might be some cases in Idaho. Klausen’s going to find out more before we talk. We need a conference. Three locations will demand attention.” He let out his breath slowly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, I was thinking about the spread of the disease. We still haven’t isolated what causes it, and how long it takes to develop. What if it takes a couple of years, and there are people who lived here two years back and have moved, who might still get the disease? Since we don’t know how long an exposure is needed, what about travelers or students who have been here for a time but have moved on? How much of a risk are they? How do we locate them? How do we warn them?”

  “I’ve considered that,” Harper said softly. “I worry about what it tells me.”

  Sam tore the cardboard sheet in half and dropped it on the floor. “Yeah.”

  “Keep in touch,” said Harper quietly.

  “I will. We’ll talk this evening, probably.” He scratched his head reflectively. “Don’t talk to anyone about this unless it’s absolutely necessary, and don’t reveal any more than you must, will you, Harper? If we had a panic now, I don’t know what we’d do.”

  “I know,” said Harper. “But what about the poor bastards who might have the stuff, been exposed and not know it? What about them?”

  “Wait for a couple more days. It won’t make that much difference.” He got up and paced as far as his telephone cord would let him. In a remote part of his mind he longed for his cordless telephone at home which gave him the luxury of rambling and pacing; such phones could disrupt some of the more sensitive medical instruments in this building and so he was bound by the telephone cord which tethered him to the desk.

  “Except to someone who’s been exposed,” Harper reminded him grimly. “All right. I’ll call you from the lab tonight after we run the tests for you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be waiting for that.” He said good afternoon and hung up, futility and foreboding competing for supremacy in his thoughts.

  —Sylvia Kostermeyer and Gerald Plaiting—

  Though it was only the first week of February, the day was sunny and warm; thanks to a short-lived rainstorm the day before the air was clear; and from his hospital bed Plaiting could see the distant Santa Lucia mountains wearing a light topping of snow. He could hear the steady beep of the cardiac monitor over his bed and the hiss of the purifier that cleaned the air he breathed in his isolation tent. A book lay open and facedown where he had abandoned it an hour ago.

  “Your visitor is here,” said a nurse as she came in the doorway, her protective quarantine garments making a sack of her.

  “Thank you,” said Plaiting with feeling. He did not like to admit he was so bored and frightened that he had lost his desire to concentrate on anything but his (rare) human company.

  Sylvia Kostermeyer, fourteen pounds thinner than she had been at Christmas, came into the room, her quarantine gear obscuring everything about her but her exhausted features and the new touch of grey in her dark hair. “Doctor Plaiting?” She held out her mittened hand toward the plastic surface of his isolation tent.

  “You’re Doctor Kostermeyer,” he said, lifting his hand a few inches and waving once with his fingers. “Sorry we have to meet this way.”

  “Believe me, so am I,” she said, pulling up one of the formed plastic chairs—there were two of them in the room and both would be destroyed when the patient left—toward the bed. “I’ve go
t a recorder; do you mind if I tape our conversation?”

  “Please,” he said quietly. “And I hope it does some good.”

  “Thank you—so do I,” she said as she produced the little machine already protected by a double-layer quarantine box.

  “You’re from San Diego, they told me.” He said this to make conversation, in the hope that some sense of medical camaraderie could be established between them; he hated feeling like a victim.

  “Yes, that’s right. I work in the San Diego County division of Public Health and Environmental Services.” She did her best to smile with muscles that had lost the knack of it.

  “And you’re checking up on what you think I’ve got,” he said.

  “We’re seeing increasing amounts of it, but nothing as far north as your case.” She had flipped on the machine and was doing her best to maintain eye contact with him as she spoke.

  “Well, if that’s the case, I hate to the bearer of bad tidings, but I’m not the only one around here. The first case of this I treated showed up last fall— boy by the name of Eric Harmmon. You can get the records from my office; I’ve already authorized their release to you.” He was already starting to feel tired and he cursed himself.

  “How many cases have you treated?” she asked.

  “Up till I got sick, I saw probably two dozen cases. From what I’ve heard, there are more now. About seventy percent of them are teenagers, but—again—from what I’ve heard, that’s starting to change, getting closer to a basic cross section.” He had to stop and take several slow, deep breaths. He was dimly aware that his cardiac monitor had speeded up and become slightly irregular in its beeps.

  Sylvia nodded once, as if reluctant to admit that much. “I’ve taken the liberty of contacting PHES and the hospitals in the Greater L.A. area, looking for more cases. I admit I’m troubled that the condition wasn’t noticed or reported sooner.”

  “Four counties, and ‘seventy-nine villages in search of a city’,” he reminded her, quoting one of the more accurate summaries of the problems of Greater Los Angeles. “In the last five years, communication’s got much worse. Talk to the cops if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you,” she said, recalling many other times she had run into the bottleneck of Los Angeles. “But from what I can tell, fewer than ten cases were reported to PHES. That concerns me.”

  “You mean it scares the shit out of you,” Plaiting corrected her with a trace of humor. “Too-fucking-right.”

  “Precisely.” She frowned at her tape recorder as if she was not sure it was working. “When did you develop symptoms?”

  “That I noticed? Not quite a month ago. I probably had them before then, but I feel tired enough that I don’t pay much attention to it. I did some blood work when I noticed that my stamina was shot.” He leaned back. “I think if I hadn’t seen this stuff before I would have assumed I had some kind of anemia. That’s what I thought the first case was.”

  “And now what do you think?” Sylvia asked.

  “Probably something very like what you’re thinking,” he told her, the words crisp and deliberate. “I’m assuming that there’s a new kind of poison out there that’s good at killing people. It sure as hell looks that way.”

  “Yes it does,” she said. “And that makes it very difficult. We’re starting to look for synergistic patterns now, in case what we have is two or more substances interacting.” She tried to pinch the bridge of her nose but her protective clothing made this impossible.

  “What do you think? Is it two substances?” He discovered that her answer would not particularly interest him; now that he had the disease—whatever it was—he was far more interested in its treatment than its causes.

  “I think we haven’t got enough evidence yet, but from what little we do have, my best guess would be that we’re dealing with two substances, things that probably are well within the acceptable toxicity levels by themselves, but together . . .” She could not find a way to finish.

  “How many cases in San Diego?” he asked when most of a minute had gone by in silence.

  “That we know of? over three hundred now, and climbing. I’ve sent two reports to Atlanta, but so far we haven’t got a response from them,” she said, not quite resigned.

  “Un-huh, Figures. It took them nine months to get into gear with that Great Lakes Dysentery three years ago. There were over four million people affected before Atlanta went to work. What’s eight or nine hundred in Southern California compared to that?”

  “You’re bitter,” she said, not surprised but curious.

  “My dad’s family is from Cleveland,” he said. He could hear the cardiac monitor beep still faster.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Sylvia said, her eyes on the display he could not see. “Take a couple of minutes and calm down. I can wait. Do you want your nurse?”

  “No; they’d probably want to sedate me—that’s about all they can do for me—and I wouldn’t be able to say anything useful then. If it gets worse, I’ll ring.” This last was more for her benefit than his.

  “Okay.” She watched the monitor as she went on. “Tell me what patterns, if any, you’ve noticed, especially in terms of locale: is there a connection between place and outbreak of the disease?”

  “I think so,” said Plaiting. “But that could be because so many of my patients come from the same general area. You can check that out with other hospitals, though. If there is a relation, you’ll probably be able to pinpoint it for a while. If the stuff starts spreading, you’ll have a lot harder job on your hands.”

  “I know,” she said, with such tremendous fatigue that he was convinced that she did. “The first patient again. Tell me about him.”

  “Eric Harmmon. Bright kid. I thought he had mono, or that mono-sub-one stuff that’s been cropping up in the last six years. I ran the usual tests, saw that he was anemic and tried to find out what viruses he had or had had recently. I hate those things!” he burst out in sudden vehemence. “Time bombs, all of them.”

  “A lot of them,” she agreed.

  “Anyway, about Eric. Two sisters, younger, neither of them showing any symptoms. I’ve kept an eye on them, and about the only one who worried me is their father, who’s one of those workaholics and spends most of his time in harness.” He reached up and rubbed the faint stubble on his chin. “I’d be careful talking to the family; they’re very touchy. You’d think that Eric did something socially gauche by dying the way he did. The kid who’ll tell you the most is Gail. She’s thirteen and a real jock; gymnastics, swimming, diving, the whole works. She’s held up through her brother’s death better than anyone else in the family, if you want my opinion. The youngest girl is more fragile. She doesn’t talk about Eric, she just . . . goes away. The mother’s been taking the brunt of all this, and defending her husband’s lack of involvement as the demands of his work. Cesily works twice as hard as Brandon, but neither of them know it or are willing to admit it.” He fell silent, doing his best to gather up what little energy he had left.

  “I ought to talk with them. And the others.” Sylvia turned away. “I’m getting tired of this—talking to families after they’ve lost someone, or more than one someone.”

  “Have you seen much of that?”

  “Not at first,” Sylvia said, thumbing off the tape recorder. “In the last month or so, there seems to be a change going on. One family in Chula Vista has lost the mother and two kids to it. We’re intensifying our investigation in that area, doing soil analysis and water testing and all the rest of it. It’s a real pity—the second kid, their daughter, was a very promising dancer. I think her name was Melanie. Her dance teacher also died of the disease, whatever it is.”

  “Another geographic clue?” Plaiting suggested, intrigued in spite of himself.

  “Possibly. I was hoping we’d find one site, one l
ocation with a crucial drainage pattern, or seepage into a local reservoir, or a position in relation to prevailing winds, but so far, nothing. Some of the illegals coming in seem to get it, but we don’t know why or how.” She reached out and turned the tape recorder back on. “I’ll want to go over your records—are they on disk, or can you arrange to transfer them to the PHES computer in San Diego?”

  “I’ll call my receptionist and have her put the records on a disk for you. We’ve got compatibles for PHES systems.” He was starting to feel lightheaded, something that usually happened only after he tried to walk any distance. “Will you call me, to let me know what you find out?”

  “It might not be very revealing,” she warned as gently as she could.

  “Look, Doctor Kostermeyer, I’m assuming this shit’s going to kill me. I know the progress of the disease, and even if you came up with the cause tomorrow and a treatment the day after, I’ve sustained a lot of damage, and I don’t think my blood’s ever going to be the same again, even if you find a way to arrest the disease. But I’d like to know what’s killing me, if that’s possible. I want to know what’s doing it and how.” He felt his face go hot, but was reasonably certain that he had not managed to change color. The beep of the cardiac monitor was shrilling and he could read the alarm in his visitor’s eyes.

  “Doctor Plaiting . . .” Sylvia said, getting to her feet and reaching for the buzzer.

  “Dammit, Doctor: listen to me!” He had straightened up in bed, putting his pain and the intrusive reminder from the monitor out of his mind. “I haven’t lost my mind. I have nothing to do but lie here, dying. I can be useful, for Chrissake! I can help out! I want to fight back. If it has to be from the grave, so be it. But if there’s anything—anything—I can do that might change the course of the epidemic we’ve got on our hands, I”—he saw the shift in her eyes—“Oh, yes,” he said, more calmly and more certainly than before, as if the admission itself gave him strength and purpose. “I know we’re beginning an epidemic, just as much as you do. I know that what you’ve seen, what I’ve seen, what other baffled docs have seen is that proverbial tip of the iceberg. Whatever is coming from this disease, it’s much bigger, much worse than anything we’re imagining now. Tunis Flu was bad enough, and AIDS was tragic, but this is going to be worse. That’s why I want to work as much as I can, as long as I can. Don’t you see?” To his intense shame, his voice broke.