Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’ve been talking with Doctor Howell,” said Picknor stiffly. “We’re reviewing all the cases that involve your disease.”

  “Do you know why I’m not dead yet?” Irene asked, doing her best to make the question a joke.

  “No; you’re our second greatest mystery,” said Donna. “The first mystery is what’s causing the disease in the first place.”

  “I don’t know,” said Irene. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lying here with the monitor patterns on the dark TV screen.” She paused to catch her breath. “When Sean Gradeston died, that was bad enough. Sean was my son Steven’s best friend. They’d been almost inseparable for years. That, coming after Neil’s death, really knocked Steven to pieces. And there were the kids in his school who got it. He told me he wished he’d get it so he wouldn’t have to watch them all die.” Tears ran from the corners of her eyes but she did not sob. “When I got sick, he tried to blame himself. He said I wouldn’t have got it if he didn’t have so many sick friends.”

  Donna listened in silence. “Steven’s okay, isn’t he?” she asked when Irene did not continue.

  “He’s fine. I guess he’s resistant to it, the way I am.”

  “That’s a possibility,” said Donna, not at all convinced of it. “I understand you sent him and his brother away?”

  “The housekeeper’s with them, and I arranged for a home tutor. They’re at our summer farm.” She tried to push herself up on her elbows, but was too weak.

  “Don’t exert yourself,” warned Picknor as the tracings on the monitors jumped in ragged lines of light.

  “Sorry,” she said, lying back and panting.

  Donna saw that the monitors were returning to normal and she gave Irene the thumbs-up sign. “I’ve been told you’re willing to have more tests done.”

  “Anything if it will help end this disease,” said Irene.

  “We’re very grateful,” said Donna. “Until now, we haven’t had a chance to study someone who’s getting over Taji’s Syndrome.”

  “Is that what it is?” Irene asked, as if the name reduced its mystery.

  “That’s what we’re calling it,” Donna said with a half-smile. “Would you mind if we studied your sons as well? I know it’s a risk, and I know you have every reason to refuse, but I hope you’ll consent.”

  “What would studying them entail?” asked Irene, her sudden apprehension reflected in the movements on the monitors’ displays.

  “We’re not sure yet. Blood work and probably a complete series of scans. If your family is resistant to Taji’s Syndrome, we want to know why. It could save many lives, Missus Channing.” She did not want to make her picture too optimistic, but at the same time she was determined to make as strong as case as possible. As she watched Irene’s face, she knew that it would take a more convincing argument to win her over.

  “I don’t want my kids turned into freaks,” said Irene, her voice betraying her fatigue. “I won’t have it. It was bad enough when I had Steven. I don’t want it to be worse for him. Do you understand?”

  “Of course,” said Donna at once, her sympathy genuine.

  “Irene,” Picknor interjected, “don’t reject the idea out of hand because you’re afraid of what people might think of your kids. The way things are going, no one will have time to think much about your kids—they’ll be too worried about their own. And if it turns out that your kids could spare others getting TS, how do you think they’ll be regarded if you don’t let them help? How do you think they’ll feel themselves if they learn they might have made a difference and you said no?”

  “Aren’t you being a little heavyhanded?” Donna asked in an undervoice. “Look at the monitors.”

  There were urgent, jagged points of light moving over the screen graphs. “Don’t put that on me, and don’t you dare put it on my children!” Irene told them, the breath coming quickly in her throat. “I won’t have it!”

  “She’s right,” Donna said, her gloved hand on Picknor’s sleeve. “Doctor Picknor, leave it alone.”

  “We need their help. We’re looking at thousands dying and all you can think about is two kids!” He slapped his clipboard down hard on the side of the bed, then turned away from her. “Jesus Christ, woman! don’t you get it? This TS is deadly, deadly, deadly! As far as we know you’re its only survivor to date. You have a responsibility, goddammit. If you’re a human being, you owe it to the rest of us to give us a chance.” He rounded on her. “How can you refuse!”

  Donna tugged on his shoulder. “Doctor Picknor, you are out of line,” she warned him. “Stop it. Right now.”

  One of the monitors began an urgent, high beeping and two bright lights went on.

  Irene’s breathing was too quick and very shallow. Her eyes had taken on a glazed look and her skin had gone two shades paler. “I . . . I . . . no . . .”

  The door burst open and three residents in quarantine gear burst in dragging a rescue cart with them. The one in the lead shoved Donna aside and reached to lift the quarantine tent that covered the bed. “Out of the way.”

  “She needs something to ease her breathing and calm her,” Donna said in a steadying, measured way.

  “It’s not . . .” Irene panted. She was sweating profusely now and her eyes had lost focus entirely.

  On the far side of the room, a bedpan rose slowly into the air and wobbled toward Wendell Picknor. The residents with the rescue cart did not notice it until it clanged into the side of Picknor’s head.

  “Christ on a crutch,” he swore as he rocked from the blow.

  The bedpan dropped abruptly, clattering as it landed.

  Donna stood stupefied, unable to believe what she had seen but equally unable to deny it.

  —Maximillian Klausen and Jeff Taft—

  As Jeff ran from the taxi to the entrance of the hospital wing, he pulled his overcoat collar up to protect him from the slow, persistent rain that had been falling for the last two days. At the desk he showed his identification to the night guard. “Doctor Klausen’s expecting me.”

  “That’s quarantine floor,” said the night guard.

  “Yes, I know,” Jeff responded as he took the tag and clipper handed to him. “Will you let them know I’m on the way so they can have a quarantine suit ready for me?”

  “Sure, Doc,” said the night guard, lifting the phone as Jeff started toward the bank of elevators.

  Two nurses were at the station, one of them holding the throwaway sterile garments he had requested.

  “Thanks,” he said as he took them and headed for the alcove to put them on. “How is Missus Klausen?”

  “Not too good,” said one of the nurses. “Her fever’s been spiking at one-oh-five.”

  Jeff stopped in his dressing. “For how long?”

  “The last six hours. For a little while it dropped, but now it’s right back where it was. She’s not really conscious anymore.”

  “Just as well,” Jeff said to himself, then, to the nurses, “How long has Doctor Klausen been here?”

  “A little over three hours. We didn’t notify him until ten-thirty.”

  “Why did you wait so long?” That was two hours after her temperature went up.

  “We thought she was responding. The quarantine docs said she was showing improvement.” The nurse hesitated. “We should have called him, no matter what the docs said, but you know what can happen if you try to get around one of them.” She helped Jeff fasten the gloves around his wrists. “He’s waiting for you. We told him you were here.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Jeff, no longer aggravated at being wakened. “Will you release the door for me?”

  “Of course,” said the nurse, and in a moment the green light went on over the first of the two doors that protected the quarantine beds.

  Max was slumped i
n a chair in Cassie’s room. Even in the engulfing quarantine gear, his despair was apparent. He looked up as Jeff came through the door. “Morning,” he said.

  “That’s one way to put it,” said Jeff as he came to look at Cassie, lying beneath the quarantine tent. “What’s the outlook?”

  “Another hour or two if she’s like the rest,” Max said, not meeting Jeff’s eyes. “Not much longer.” He lifted his gloved hands. “I can’t even touch her. I can’t hold her hand. I can’t wipe her face, I can’t kiss her, I can’t do anything for her.”

  Jeff shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “She’s my wife.” He stared down at his shoes. “It was bad enough with Elihu and Eunice and all the kids, but Cassie . . .” His moan was that of a man whose grief was beyond tears.

  There was nothing Jeff could say. He stood at the foot of the bed, watching Cassie Klausen slip beyond their reach, her pulse fluttering and fading until, shortly before dawn, it vanished completely.

  While the hospital quarantine staff dealt with the body, Jeff took Max off to the doctor’s lounge with orders to the senior orderly to bring two stiff brandies to them.

  “We’re not supposed to do that,” said the orderly, for form’s sake.

  “You’re acting on my authority,” said Jeff. “If there’s any question, refer it to me and I’ll handle it. You won’t get in trouble.”

  Max, dazed by shock and exhaustion, permitted himself to be handled like a three-year-old. He sat on the couch where Jeff placed him, and when the brandy arrived, he took his glass in his hand obediently, moving as automatically as a machine.

  “To your wife,” said Jeff, touching the rim of his glass with Max’s.

  “Yeah,” said Max, and took half the brandy in a single swallow, drinking it down as if it were warm milk.

  “Is there anyone at home?” Jeff asked a little later.

  “Home?” repeated Max as if the word were in an unknown language.

  “Your home. Is anyone there?” Jeff had seen this dreadful neutrality before; he had felt it himself. “Or is there someone I should call?”

  “Megan’s at school,” said Max, frowning distantly.

  “Your daughter.”

  “Stepdaughter. I ought to phone her, I guess.” He sounded far away and puzzled.

  “Let me deal with it,” said Jeff. “Is there anyone else you want me to call?”

  “Sam?” suggested Max.

  “Right after I call your stepdaughter,” Jeff promised. “Who else?”

  “Cassie’s mother.” At that he broke, sobbing so deeply that his whole body shuddered with it. He had to put his glass aside for he could no longer hold it.

  Jeff rose and crossed the lounge. He put his hand on Max’s shoulder and left it there while Max mourned.

  When the worst was over, Max rubbed his reddened eyes and looked at Jeff. “I’m okay.”

  “No you’re not,” said Jeff steadily. “You’re rocked to the foundations, which is to be expected. If you weren’t, there’d be something wrong with you.”

  “Yeah,” said Max unsteadily. “What time is it?”

  “Nine-eighteen,” said Jeff, reading the clock on the wall.

  “I ought to be in my office. I’ve got a call coming in from Idaho. I should take it.”

  “I’ll handle it,” said Jeff. “I want you to lie down and get some sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep.” Max moved back as if the word itself were repugnant.

  “Try it and see.” He knew from his own experience that Max needed the lost, anodyne hours to help him through the ordeal that the next several days was bound to be. “I’ll tell them not to disturb you.”

  “Fat chance,” said Max even as he stretched out. “I’ll rest my eyes. They’re bloodshot.”

  “Yes,” said Jeff, turning out all but one of the lights in the lounge. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  For the next hour, Jeff was on the phone, first to the associates in Portland Max regarded as friends, then to Sam.

  “Too bad,” Sam said when he heard the news. “I didn’t think it would happen so fast.”

  “About average,” Jeff said, trying to maintain clinical detachment.

  “But she was Max’s wife—I was hoping that would give her some kind of edge.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you about Max. He was worn out before this happened; now, I doubt he’ll be in any shape to stay with the investigation.” He did not like admitting this, but as he expressed his misgivings, he sensed that Sam was relieved.

  “We’re all on the edge,” said Sam. “I had a full-scale anxiety attack day before yesterday. I was afraid I was going to have to check into the hospital myself, for tachycardia. It passed, thank goodness. But I know the signs.”

  Jeff rubbed the stubble on his cheek. “Anything more from Idaho?”

  “They’re slow to part with information, but I’ve got some figures. About what you’d expect. Also the report of another case in Montana and one in Alberta.” He paused. “I don’t think we can assume it will stop at one.”

  “How the devil did it get into Canada?” Jeff asked.

  “Diseases don’t recognize borders,” Sam reminded him. “What I want to know is why that strange pattern is showing up in that part of the country and nowhere else.”

  “Yeah,” said Jeff slowly. “Yeah. It doesn’t figure.”

  Sam made a harsh sound that might have been a chuckle. “Nothing about TS figures.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call it that,” Jeff objected, though he was already resigned to the name and initials.

  “Too bad; it fits and you’re stuck,” said Sam. “I’ll call Harper and let him know about Max’s wife. He said he’s onto something over at his lab.”

  “Then let me call him. What’s his extension at the University?” Jeff asked, thinking that perhaps there would be an opportunity for him to discuss his growing doubts with someone whose perspective would add to his insights.

  “4753 or 4788, the first is the lab, the second his office. He’ll be at one or the other.” He cleared his throat. “When’s the funeral, do you know?”

  “No; I’ll make sure you’re told.” He was about to hang up when something more occurred to him. “Have you been doing serum cultures from the victims?”

  “Some, yes, why.”

  “I’m curious about susceptibility. If we can establish who is more likely to get the disease, we’ll know where to put our greatest efforts.”

  “I’ll tell my staff,” said Sam. “Anything else?”

  “Not right now, thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up and dialed Harper Ross’ lab number, and was rewarded by a grad student who gave the phone to Harper at once.

  “Jeff!” Harper said. “Any progress on your front?”

  “No, and that’s what I want to talk to you about,” said Jeff. “It’s pure speculation at this stage, and three of my colleagues think I’m crackers, but . . .” He broke off. “I ought to tell you some bad news first, I suppose.”

  “The world’s full of bad news,” said Harper. “Go on. Then get back to what you called me about.” He sounded patient, but as he listened to Jeff, his eyes grew cold. “I don’t think thanks is the right word, but I appreciate your telling me. God, what a rotten thing to have happen.”

  “And it will happen more and more until we track this thing down,” said Jeff. He knew he could not take every death personally, but the urge was there and it took more will than he wanted to admit to resist it. “About this other thing.”

  “Go on,” said Harper.

  “I think it’s time we did some real detective work, some backtracking. You’ve lost a son to . . . TS, but the rest of your family appears to be okay for the time being. I want. to have them checked out, co
mplete workups, scans, the lot of it. I want to get as much material on this as we can. I want to find out who can get this stuff and why, and who can’t. I want as many comparisons as possible, as complete medical histories as possible. Is there any way we can do this?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” said Harper, his voice thoughtful.

  “I want this thing backtracked to the first cases we saw of it, and I want all similarities, no matter how obscure, noted and cross-checked. I want any fact, no matter how trivial or unrelated, to be supported and documented. Damn it, there is something we are overlooking, something basic that we haven’t seen. If we can get material on every family where there has been a death, we might begin to make some headway.”

  “You came to the right place.” Harper was more energetic now, his words were clipped and eager. “What we don’t know about medicine, we do know about criminology and learning to identify and trace clues and facts. I’ll put my grad students on it, if you’ll give us access to your records.”

  “Certainly,” said Jeff. “I’ll need about an hour to set it up, but by then it should be possible for you to tap into the system. Drucker will object, but I’ll make sure that won’t stop us.”

  “How?” asked Harper, fascinated by the machinations that went into this investigation.

  “I’ll go over his head. He won’t like it, but that doesn’t bother me at present.” He made a note to himself. “The person you’re to talk to in Atlanta is Susannah Ling. She’ll arrange everything.” As he said her name he was surprised to discover that he was missing her.

  “Ling? Any relation?” Harper asked.

  “No relation.” He wondered if the Vice-President had ever been asked if he were related to Susannah Ling of Atlanta and the National Center for Disease Control? Probably not, he conceded.

  “I’ll call in ninety minutes, just in case,” said Harper. “I’m glad you’re finally giving me something useful to do. I’ve felt as if my wheels were spinning for the last two weeks.”

  “Okay. I’ll want daily reports while you work on this,” he continued. “Collate everything, cross-reference and flag.”