“So long as all the survivors are put into your tender care,” Drucker finished for Tolliver.
“Those who survive develop certain valuable talents,” said Tolliver. “You’re aware of the skills they’ve shown. What they can do is of enormous benefit to the security of this country, and for most of those survivors, a protected life is welcomed.”
“You mean,” said Drucker, using his phrases to batter at the imperturbable Tolliver, “that you want to isolate them so that you can control how they develop and use their psychokinesis. You want to be in charge of that. When you hide behind the smokescreen of national security, what you are doing is turning these people into weapons.”
“Doctor Drucker, in their position, what would you do?” He had not lost his gloss; if anything, it was brighter now, like the shine on a razor’s edge.
“I’d want to make up my own mind, not have you ghouls do it for me.” He pushed the intercom button. “Claire. Have Ms. Ling join us here.” It was his habit to speak of Susannah Ling as if she was his inferior and not his boss.
“Right, Doctor Drucker,” said Claire Lui.
“It won’t change anything, having Ms. Ling present,” said Tolliver, his manner now faintly condescending.
“Then you won’t mind if she listens in,” Drucker said. “I think it’s time that we had this out in the open.”
Tolliver was about to speak when a flash of lightning caused the lights in the room to dim for an instant; less than two seconds later thunder drummed.
“Your plane might be delayed,” Drucker pointed out to Tolliver, taking petty pleasure in seeing Tolliver thrown off his stride.
“A storm like this won’t last long,” Tolliver stated. “What I had intended to say was that you haven’t had much time to give my proposal any serious thought. You’re being impetuous”—inwardly he decided that few words could apply less to Patrick Drucker—“in your decisions, Doctor Drucker. I would be very disappointed if you had to change your mind after the machinery had been set in motion. Why don’t you take a day or two to review what I’ve said before you—”
“Why don’t you jump off the roof?” Drucker suggested. “I won’t have you manipulating this Division. That’s all there is to it.” For the last five years he had regarded the Environmental Division as his personal fiefdom and he resented any attempt to alter that. “You will not be allowed to abuse our work in any way. Is that clear?”
“You’re overreacting, Doctor Drucker;’ said Tolliver.
“Is that clear?” Drucker demanded so loudly that the discreet knock on the door went unnoticed.
“What’s the trouble here?” Susannah Ling asked as she entered the room. “Who is the . . . Commander, Patrick?”
Commander Tolliver had stood out of habit when Susannah came in. He watched her narrowly, for he had read enough about her to know that her attractive facade and soft Southern accent were deceptive. “Ms. Ling,” he said as he extended his hand. “I’m Commander Maurice Tolliver.”
She shook hands with him and sat down, then regarded Drucker with veiled impatience. “Well, Patrick? What was so urgent?”
“He knows about the O-subtype-h experiments,” Drucker blurted.
Susannah remained unflustered, but privately she was shocked. “How did you manage that, Commander?”
“We conduct our investigations, too, Ms. Ling.” Tolliver said, dealing with her more carefully than he had with Drucker.
“I’ll just bet you do. What’s the rest of it?” She leaned back in her chair and listened for the next half hour as Drucker and Tolliver took turns explaining their positions while the thunder punctuated their dispute.
“Did you seriously expect the National Center for Disease Control to go along with your scheme, Commander?” Susannah asked when all the arguments had been presented.
“Hardly a scheme, Ms. Ling.”
“Would conspiracy suit you better?” she countered. “For the record, Commander, I am going to lodge a formal complaint with the President and with Congress on the conduct of the military during this health emergency. Not only did you knowingly conceal information that might have bearing on the outbreak of this disease, you have systematically kidnapped the survivors for your own purposes. That is going to stop, Commander Tolliver. You will be forthcoming with any and all information requests we make of you and if there is the least suggestion that you are not cooperating to the fullest extent, or that you are interfering with any TS patient, I will personally see to it that you are brought up on formal charges.” She rose and smiled as Tolliver did likewise.
“You can’t hope to accomplish any of that,” Tolliver said with false gallantry.
“On the contrary, I will do all of it,” said Susannah. “I have already been assured of the fullest support from President Hunter as part of his Public Benefit contract.” She saw disbelief and shock in the two men’s faces. “That’s right, gentlemen. President Hunter has TS.”
—Susan Ross and Elizabeth Harkness—
Lights had been set up in the living room and the furniture rearranged to show the view out the tall windows. Six men in jeans and sweatshirts fiddled with the television equipment while a thin, fussy woman put the finishing make-up touches on Elizabeth Harkness and her subject, Susan Ross.
“Are you nervous?” Elizabeth asked as the last of her powder was brushed off her face.
“Yes,” said Susan as she stared at her hands; she had bitten her nails off to the quick or she would probably be chewing them now. “How do you do it?”
“It’s like anything else in this world; you do it long enough and you get used to it.” She stood up and straightened her navy-blue suit, one of those Italian creations that managed to be both tailored and ineffably feminine at the same time. “Are we ready, everyone?”
“Give us two minutes,” the head technician called back. “We need voice levels on you two. If you’ll sit down the way you’re going to for the interview?”
As Susan stumbled toward the couch, Elizabeth said, “Do you have any pictures of your family? A photo album or a portrait in a frame? Anything like that?”
“There are a few pictures in the bedroom, I think,” Susan said uncertainly. She had returned to Seattle only a week ago and still felt like a stranger in her own house. “Should I go get them?”
“Yes, please,” said Elizabeth, and sat down in the armchair next to the flagstone fireplace. As her button mike was secured, she touched her hair, trusting that it looked shiny enough under the lights.
Susan was back carrying two framed pictures, one a candid shot taken at a picnic several years ago, the other a formal portrait that was not quite two years old. She offered these to Elizabeth. “Will either of these do? They’re the only ones I could find.”
“They’re fine,” said Elizabeth. “Betsy, can we set these on the coffee table? Somewhere the glass doesn’t catch the light so we can see them.” She indicated the end of the sofa. “Sit down and try to relax, Susan. I know it’s hard, but it’ll all be over in about fifteen minutes. Then we’ll have your house cleaned up for you and you can get on with your life.”
“Can I?” Susan asked of no one in particular as she sat down and tried to find a position that was comfortable.
The preparation continued, and just as the chaos stopped, Elizabeth leaned over and patted Susan’s arm. “Don’t worry. You are doing the right thing. You’re being very brave.”
Susan tried to smile. “Thanks.”
“Thirty seconds,” the head technician said. “Elizabeth, move a skosh to the left.”
“Okay, Freddie,” she said as she complied.
“Tape is rolling,” he announced.
Elizabeth directed her smile to one of the two cameras set up in the living room. “Good evening; this is Elizabeth Harkness in Bellevue, Washington. Tonight I’m i
n the home of Susan Ross, whose son Kevin was one of the first victims of Taji’s Syndrome.” She turned toward Susan. “Missus Ross, thank you for letting me intrude at this time.”
“It’s good you’re here,” said Susan in a low voice.
“Missus Ross,” Elizabeth went on for the benefit of the audience, “has lost two sons and a husband to TS, but her loss is greater than that. Will you tell something about it, Missus Ross?”
Susan stared at the wall on the other side of the room, trying not to be mesmerized by the lights and the cameras. “Kevin was the first, back when no one knew what Taji’s Syndrome was, when it didn’t even have a name. Kevin got sick. We thought it was mono.”
“You took him for treatment?” Elizabeth prompted.
“Yes. To Sam Jarvis. He’s dead now, too.” She saw that she had been twisting her skirt between her hands and made herself stop. “It was puzzling, the way Kevin died. Sam wanted to check it out, you know how doctors can be. He and Harper decided—”
“Harper Ross was Missus Ross’ husband, a professor of criminology at the University of Washington,” Elizabeth explained for the benefit of the audience.
“Yes. He thought Kevin’s dying was a crime and wanted to treat it like one, so he and Sam started doing research together. Sam did the medical part and Harper worked on compiling information about Kevin’s case, and the new cases that started to appear.” She stopped and blinked. “I . . . I went with our second son Grant to California. He was . . . he was in a drug rehab center there and he needed to have someone with him.” She squirmed as she admitted this, her guilt showing in the way she shifted against the cushions.
“It must have been very difficult to leave your husband and son at a time like that,” Elizabeth commiserated.
“It was awful,” said Susan, tears welling in her eyes. “It was the worst thing in the world.”
Elizabeth handed a small linen handkerchief to Susan. “If this is too hard, Missus Ross—” she began, though without the least intention of discontinuing the interview.
“No, no. I need a second or two, that’s all.” She wiped her eyes and gave herself a little shake. “This matters too much to let anything stop it.”
“What happened while you were gone?” Elizabeth asked, getting the interview back on track again.
“First we were told that what had killed Kevin was an environmental toxin of some sort, and then they said it was two toxins.” She shook her head.
“That was the first assumption about TS, wasn’t it? That it was environmental in origin?” Elizabeth asked for the benefit of the audience.
“Yes. I suppose it made sense.” She made a visible effort to collect herself. “Anyway, while I was with Grant, I had a conversation with Doctor Taji of the National Center for Disease Control in Atlanta.”
“This is the same Taji as in Taji’s Syndrome?” asked Elizabeth, wanting to be sure the viewers understood.
“Yes, the same one. He came to visit me while I was with my son Grant in California.” She stared, unblinking, at the far wall.
“Wasn’t that a bit unusual?” Elizabeth asked with a quick, inviting glance at the camera.
“I suppose so. From what Harper told me—Harper had been dealing with Doctor Taji and a number of researchers while he and Sam Jarvis worked on their investigation—Doctor Taji was spending time going around the country getting more information on TS. Harper was convinced that Doctor Taji was doing the right thing, asking all these questions and taking all that time to travel. I don’t understand why it had to be done face to face when there are telephones and computers and all the rest of it. Harper said that being there made a difference, and I suppose it does if you’re a doctor.”
“What did Doctor Taji have to say to you?” Elizabeth put the question to Susan in a deliberately unweighted way, so that Susan’s revelation would not be expected by the viewers.
“He said that the National Center for Disease Control was planning to run a full series of tests on those families where the first TS deaths had occurred. He already had my husband’s permission for a full series of tests on our son Grant.”
“And Grant died . . . ?” Elizabeth pursued.
“Three weeks ago. Of TS. He and about nine of the other kids in the rehab center died around the same time. Once TS started in the center, it just kept spreading and spreading. They closed the place about a month ago, but by then it was really too late for most of them.” She wiped her eyes, folding the handkerchief with meticulous care. “Grant lasted longer than they thought he would.”
“So your husband and two of your sons have died from TS,” said Elizabeth, recapping.
“Yes,” Susan answered on a single breath.
“Your other son? What about him?” This was what Elizabeth had been leading up to and she hoped that Susan had good sense in how she broke the news.
“Mason. My other son is Mason Ross. He’s thirteen, he’ll be fourteen on October twenty-second. He’s . . . in Atlanta now, or somewhere near there.” Her voice had grown soft again. “He went there before I could see him again.”
“Is this part of a Public Benefit contract, Missus Ross?” Elizabeth asked, still shaping their conversation.
“Harper signed a Public Benefit contract for him, but . . . but that’s not why he’s there. He’s there because he’s a carrier. Harper told me before he died that the investigation had found six and possibly seven children, all about Mason’s age, who apparently were the first exposed to TS. All of them are carriers. Six teenagers.” She started to cry, making a muffled apology to the sodden handkerchief.
“Hold the tape a bit,” Elizabeth said before she gave her attention to Susan. “Come on, now. You’re doing fine. We’re almost through the worst of it and you’re holding up real well. I want you to think about the good you’re doing. I know it’s hard, but keep your mind on what you’re trying to do. Okay? Susan?” She put her hand on Susan’s shoulder.
Susan nodded several times. “I just need a couple seconds,” she mumbled.
“Take all the time you need,” Elizabeth comforted as she looked at her watch and tried to figure out how much time they had to edit the interview before the first news telecast that evening. “Betsy, while we’re waiting, get me some shots of the family photos, okay? I want to have them for emphasis.”
“Coming right up,” said Betsy.
Elizabeth did her best to sit still and wait though she itched to order Susan to get a grip on herself. While she sat, she sharpened up a few alternate questions in her mind. “Do you think you can go on, Missus Ross?” she asked when she thought enough time had gone by.
“I’ll try,” Susan promised. She wadded the handkerchief and raised her head. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“It’s perfectly understandable.” Elizabeth gave a covert signal to Betsy. “You’ll do fine.”
“It’s just that these last few weeks have been so awful.” She sighed. “If Mason had been okay, I think I could have handled everything, but with him in that place, and a carrier, I don’t know what to do. He’s my son. He’s the reason that thousands of people have caught TS. I know it wasn’t deliberate or anything like that, but . . . it’s horrible knowing that he had this TS in him all the time, and that once it began, it couldn’t be stopped.”
Elizabeth had hoped for something stronger, and so she prodded. “So in a way, you’ve lost all your family to TS, and you have to face the fact that your one surviving son is dangerous to everyone.”
“What the hell happened?” Susan burst out, filled with rage and grief. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were doing fine. We were all doing fine. No one wanted to hurt anybody. It was . . .”—she fumbled for words to express the betrayal she felt—“so right. And then it all went wrong.”
“Have you talked to your son Mason since he was taken to
Atlanta?” Elizabeth said, pleased at the intensity of the outburst.
“A few times. It’s hard to know what to say to him. There’s so much I don’t dare talk about. Sometimes he tells me about the other kids, and how they’re managing. They were hoping to get away from TS there, at least for a while, but Mason tells me that the staff is all volunteers and that they all have tested positive for TS. So eventually they die.” She looked away from the camera. “I used to pray that it would go back to the way it was, but now I only hope that it might be possible for some of us to escape this terrible disease.”
“These other kids—what do you know about them?” This would be the capper, and it took all of Elizabeth’s discipline for her not to smile in anticipation.
“There are two boys, twins, from Oregon, named Barenssen. There are two girls from Southern California, one from San Diego and one from the L.A. area. The girl from San Diego is Laurie Grey and the girl from Van Nuys is Gail Harmmon. There’s a boy from Dallas: his name is Steven Channing and from what Mason said, his mother has actually survived TS.”
“One of the lucky few,” Elizabeth said dryly.
“But apparently he hasn’t been able to reach her for a while. Mason told me that it was very upsetting for the boy. He’s been staying in his room, at least that’s what Mason said.” She looked at Elizabeth directly, her face showing more puzzlement than any other emotion. “How did this happen? How could it happen?”
“We’re working on finding out, Missus Ross,” said Elizabeth, already doing the editing of their interview in her mind. “We have a crew working in Atlanta, trying to learn more about what’s going on with your boy Mason and the others.” She turned and addressed the cameras directly. “Those are the names: Adam and Axel Barenssen, Gail Harmmon, Steven Channing, Laurie Grey—and Mason Ross. These are the first, and in many ways, the ultimate victims of TS, for as long as they are alive, they will carry destruction within them. They will have to live in isolation, tended by those who will die from the disease they carry. What a terrible burden for these unsuspecting children.” She turned back to Susan. “Missus Ross, we’re very grateful to you for your courage in speaking out. We cannot thank you enough for the service you’ve performed.”
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