Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Dad’s got a job here, with a man who runs an auction house.” He said it in a rush. “Livestock auctions.”

  “And where are you staying?” Alexa persisted, not wanting to upset her son any more than he already was.

  He was not able to answer for a few seconds. “We were staying at a motel until two nights ago.” His breathing grew less rapid. “Dad got into a fight and the manager wanted us to leave.”

  It took all her self-discipline for Alexa not to come back with a sharp summary of her opinion of Frank Porter. That would accomplish nothing; Harold was upset as it was. To have his mother attacking his father in the hospital, no matter what their past relationship had been, would serve no purpose. “Harold, listen to me. I have to know where you are, where to find you.” She was already thinking about the telephone calls she had had from Jeff Taji, offering his assistance with Harold if she should ever need it.

  “We were . . . there’s a kind of apartment in back of Dad’s boss’ garage. We went there last night. I guess he’ll let me stay there a couple of days, until I know how things are with Dad. If not . . .”

  “I’m going to catch a plane to Penticton”—or wherever the nearest airport was, she added to herself—“as soon as I can drive into Denver. I’ll be there before tomorrow afternoon. You tell Frank’s boss that your mother is coming, that I live in Colorado and that I’ll take full responsibility for you. I don’t want to have to work things out with a juvenile court, especially not in Canada.”

  “Dad’s awful sick, Mom. The nurse told me that they think it might be that TS.” He faltered. “Mom, is it TS?”

  “There’s a lot of it around,” she answered evasively.

  “I heard that there was a thing on the news about kids who carry TS.” This time he paused nervously. “Dad got it into his head that I gave it to him, because I’ve been around kids who had it and I’m okay.” Once again he was silent. “Mom, he’s wrong, isn’t he? It’s because he’s feeling sick that he says that, right?”

  “We’ll find out as soon as I get you home,” she said. “I haven’t any idea why some people get TS and some don’t, and neither does anyone else,” she added belligerently, though she knew it was not so.

  “There’s a treatment for it now, anyway.” Harold was begging for reassurance, wanting his mother to exonerate him of his father’s illness.

  “Now you listen to me, Harold. Your father could pick up TS or any number of diseases, the way he lives. Why, it’s amazing he hasn’t come down with something long before now. He’s been a lot luckier than he deserves. And if he tries to make you take the blame for what’s wrong with him, you just ignore him, you got that? Frank is a jealous, spiteful man who’d do almost anything to get his way.” All her resolutions about what she said about her former husband were forgotten. “I won’t let him do anything more to you, Harold, that’s a promise. He took you from me, but I’m taking you back. You hold on, son. I’ll be there just as soon as I can arrange for a plane. You tell me where I’ll find you and I’ll be there.”

  Harold caught his breath. “Probably the hospital. You can find out its name.”

  “If it’s on the old Peach Festival site, it shouldn’t be too hard to find.” She wanted to find the words to reassure Harold. “I love you, honey. I’ve missed you so much, and I can’t wait to see you again. I . . . I bet you’ve changed.”

  He cracked a single laugh. “I’m a little taller—”

  “A little?”

  “Well, I’m about five-ten now. I got a bit of a beard, too. You probably won’t like the clothes I wear or my haircut.” He was doing what he could to apologize for what his father had done.

  “It won’t matter diddly to me, Harold. Getting to see you again is what matters.” She was finding it hard to keep her voice even. “Now, I got two other calls to make, to arrange for things from this end, and then I’ll be on my way to Denver. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon at the latest. I’ll see you then.”

  “Okay, Mom. Thanks.” That hint of embarrassment again colored his speech. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Any time,” she said, and hung up while she could control her voice. She stood in the kitchen wiping her face, then she yelled for Elvira. “I want coffee, I want a suitcase packed for a couple days in Canada. I want a strong brandy right now.”

  Elvira appeared in the kitchen door.

  “El hijo?”

  “Si. Now get on it. Pronto, todo pronto.”

  “Coffee, brandy, packing,” she said in very good English.

  “Por gran favor,” said Alexa, and picked up the phone to dial a familiar number in Golden. She waited with impatience while she explained her business to a receptionist and a secretary, and then she reached Fenton Weeks, who had been her attorney since the whole miserable business with Frank began.

  “Alexa, this is an unexpected pleasure,” said Fenton Weeks when he came on the line at last.

  “You, too,” said Alexa, minimizing the formalities. “I just had a call from Harold—”

  “Not again,” said Fenton softly. “He’s in Penticton—”

  “Where’s that?” Fenton asked.

  “Canada, either Alberta or British Columbia. He told me that Frank’s in the hospital, pretty sick. I’m going to fly out as soon as I can get a plane, and I want to be sure there’s no red tape waiting for me. You got that?” She had been speaking so quickly that she was suddenly out of breath. “Tony? You got that?”

  “I don’t know if I can do it . . .” he attempted to qualify his position.

  “You do it, Tony Weeks, or you’ll regret it, I promise you that. I want full court records sent up to Penticton so there’s no question of who has the right to the boy. If I know Frank, he’ll spin a story that’ll tie things up for days if we don’t nip it in the bud.” She looked up; Elvira was handing her a cup of coffee. She mouthed “thanks” and listened to Fenton sputter.

  “I’ll do what I can, Alexa, but I can’t make any promises. We have several questions of legal jurisdictions here and the law of the United States is not the law of Canada. It’s a tall order and—”

  “Then you’ll want to get on it right away.”

  “I have other cases,” he protested.

  “When I first came to you, you didn’t. You hadn’t had a client in a month and you were willing to do almost anything. I took half my savings to give you a decent retainer and I’ve paid you that much every year since, plus your billings. Or had that slipped your mind?” She drank some of the strong, hot coffee, letting the roof of her mouth scald from it.

  “I’ll get on it in an hour. An hour, Alexa. I’ve got clients waiting in the outer office.” He paused. “But it’ll get done and I’ll stay on it.”

  “I’m counting on it,” she said. “I’ll give you a call from Canada when I know what the story is on Frank.”

  “Good. I’ll be waiting.” He cleared his throat. “Alexa, good luck. I mean that.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and hung up. “Elvira, make sure you get a second bag. If I know Frank, Harold won’t have any luggage of his own.”

  “Ya lo creo,” she agreed in her worldweary manner.

  “And get me a thousand dollars from the office.” She knew that she would need some cash and was afraid that if she left it behind that it would increase her difficulties.

  “You do not need so much,” said Elvira as she brought a snifter to Alexa.

  “Get it.” She was checking through the business cards she carried and at last found Jeff Taji’s. “I got one more call to make. Then I want the car ready.”

  “I will tell Emilio.” Elvira left Alexa alone for her call.

  “This is Alexa Porter in Golden, Colorado,” she said to the woman who answered Jeff Taji’s phone. “I have to talk to Doctor Taji at once.”

  “Please hol
d on while I locate him,” said the woman. Immediately the phone began to play a mushy version of Uptown Nights.

  Alexa had taken three sips of brandy and finished the coffee when Jeff came on the line. “This is Doctor Taji, Missus Porter. What can I do for you?”

  “My son just called from Canada. He’s in trouble. I’m about to leave to do what I can to help him out. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Yes, I most certainly do,” said Jeff. “Where in Canada?”

  “Penticton,” she said. “I’m heading for the airport.”

  “What about the boy? Is he all right?” Jeff said, doing his best to instill calm in Alexa.

  “No, he’s not all right. Frank’s sick and in the hospital and my boy’s on his own.” She heard how shrill her voice was and apologized at once. “Sorry, Doctor. I’m pretty wired right now. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

  “You didn’t yell.” Jeff gave them both a couple of seconds to change gears and said, “I can arrange to have someone to help you in Penticton, if you require it.”

  “I don’t think I will. I have my lawyer on it. But if it looks like there’s going to be red tape to cut, I’ll call you. I can do that, can’t I?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Jeff. “I’m going to be traveling myself during the next few days, but my office can always find me in thirty minutes or less.” On impulse, he offered, “Would you like to be able to reach the Divisional Coordinator? I can give you her name and number. You remember Susannah Ling, don’t you? Do you have her card?”

  “I . . . don’t remember,” said Alexa, her thoughts elsewhere.

  “Well, write it down and I’ll warn her that she may be hearing from you. She’s my superior and she can cut red tape faster than I can. In fact, she’s the one I go to when I need red tape cut.” He listened to the sound of Alexa’s voice, trying to determine how prepared the woman was.

  “The lady who was with you is the boss,” she repeated, not quite believing it. “Give me the number, Doctor Taji.” She read it back as Jeff recited it. “Okay.”

  “You call her if you need her,” Jeff told her firmly. He added, after a brief hesitation, “If you can get to Salt Lake City, we can arrange a charter plane to get you to Penticton.”

  Alexa was startled. “A charter plane?”

  “Yes. We have two of the NCDC planes there right now. I can authorize the use of one. Would that help you?” He did not want to push her, but he was concerned for her and the boy.

  “Sure.” She had the last of her brandy and decided that she would have to have a bite to eat before she got on the road. “I know it isn’t right to say yes to the offer. I do know that, Doctor Taji, but I’m—”

  “Why isn’t it right, Missus Porter?” Jeff interrupted. “The NCDC is funded by the government”—he had almost said controlled instead of funded—“and you’re a taxpayer. Let me make the necessary arrangements for you.”

  “All right,” she said, squashing all the years of training that had told her to be reliant on no one but herself. “Who should I see in Salt Lake City?”

  “Good for you,” Jeff approved. “You speak to a Cory McPherson in the FAA office in the main terminal. He’ll be waiting for you. One of the jets will be ready. You’ll have a pilot and a doctor from the regional office of the NCDC, so that the trip can be official. If that’s all right?”

  “Sure. Sure it’s all right. I’ll call before we take off.” She was surprised at how helpful Jeff was, though it also made her apprehensive.

  “Look for a physician named Dien Paniagua, I’ll arrange for her to be in Salt Lake City by morning.” He hoped he would be able to convince Dien to accompany Mrs. Porter to Canada, for the only other physician he could think of who was available was also an arrogant fellow given to issuing orders to show his importance.

  “Chicano?” asked Alexa. “I know some Spanish.”

  “And Vietnamese,” said Jeff. “I’m sure you’ll do very well together.”

  Alexa shook her head. “I’ll call you from Salt Lake. I got to get going, Doctor. Don’t think I’m not grateful, but—”

  “I understand. Good luck, Missus Porter. Please keep me informed.”

  As Alexa collected her luggage, Jeff placed a call to Dien Paniagua in Idaho.

  —Irene Channing, Jeff Taji and

  General Barton Warren—

  “—and therefore we are requesting that all of you take the Standard Public School Blood Screen when your children return to classes in September. This is to enable us to offer early treatment for those who have been exposed to TS but have not yet shown outward symptoms. While we have yet to discover a vaccine for this killer—though I am absolutely confident we will—we have treatment. Those with type-O blood—and you type-Os constitute almost half the population—can be easily and completely cured. For the rest of you, we now have treatment available which can arrest the progress of the disease while a cure is being developed. And it will be developed; doctors and scientists are working on it now.” On the TV screen, President Franklin Hunter looked over the enormous crowd in the Tulsa Civic Auditorium. “Every one of you has lost friends and relations to this dreaded killer. I share your grief, and I know you join with me in mourning those dedicated public servants who have been stricken by this fatal disease. Vice-President Arthur Ling was a terrible loss to the nation and to this administration.”

  “He’s quite an act to follow,” said Irene to Dale as she watched the President. “But I suppose the General insisted.”

  “Of course,” said Dale, looking quickly at Jeff Taji. There had been more to it than that, but neither man wanted to go into it with the time for the interview so close.

  “During this administration,” President Hunter went on, “we have seen losses to this disease unprecedented in this century except by the ravages of war. Make no doubt about it, we are facing the most implacable of enemies, and only our single-minded purpose will bring us the victory we all long for. I pledge to you, to every one of you living now, and to the memories of those struck down before their time, that in my second term, we will see this scourge wiped off the earth. We were able to stop AIDS; we will stop TS.”

  As the Tulsa audience applauded, Irene began to pace. They had been provided a good-sized dressing room that was actually a three-room apartment, and she went from the sitting room to the make-up room and back, her face tense with concentration. “Damn it, I wish we could have found one other survivor, one other person who could back me up.”

  Dale went and put his arm around her. “Irene, don’t work yourself up. Save it for facing the General.” He kissed her cheek.

  “I am living proof that we can conquer TS,” President Hunter intoned. “Those who have type-O blood and have received the treatment have all recovered. The health of this nation must always be the first priority of this or any administration. I promise you that I will not be satisfied until we have abolished TS just as we have abolished slavery and weapons proliferation.” The applause was accompanied by whoops and cheers this time.

  “What do you think?” Dale asked Jeff, watching Hunter.

  “About the President? He’s a competent man. And just now he’s very grateful. He’s lost two children, his Vice President, his Secretary of Commerce, three Ambassadors, twenty-two Senators, two Supreme Court Justices, one hundred thirty-six Congressmen, three nieces, four nephews, a sister, and two brothers-in-law to TS. The chances are excellent he’ll be reelected because he has never dodged the issue. I met him a couple of times while he was in Atlanta and I know that he takes TS very seriously. Will I vote for him over Booth Stanhope? Yes.”

  Dale had guided Irene back to the sofa. “Have you found out anything more about the research in the Seventies and Eighties we can use?”

  “Not as much as I’d like,” said Jeff. “You’ve seen most of the material. I have
a few other references.” He took the folded sheets from his jacket pocket and handed them to Irene. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” She opened them and began to read. “I wish I knew what I was looking for.”

  “So do we all. I circled those that happened about the same time you and the other women became pregnant, but there’s no saying how significant that is. It’s entirely possible that the agents that caused the mutation were developed before that, possibly as far back as the Sixties.” He sat down where he could not see the TV screen. “I think you’d better limit yourself to those, though. Otherwise it’ll look too much like you’re taking a scattered approach.”

  “Which I am,” said Irene. “How much documentation do you have on the PK?”

  “Very little, but there are enough eyewitness accounts to establish that it is the standard result in survivors of TS.” Jeff looked over at Dale. “How many other survivors besides Irene have you heard of?”

  “I’ve seen two, heard of another dozen in the Dallas area. From what one of the nurses said, there are a few more, but not a great many. They all agree about the psychokinesis.” He held Irene’s free hand between both of his own. “Other than Irene, I’ve only seen one other instance of it.”

  “And you have information on the substitution of drugs when you left the hospital?” Jeff asked, wishing he could rid himself of the doubts that consumed him now that a confrontation was looming.

  “I have it here, with the lab reports,” she said, touching the large handbag. “Along with the reports from the hospital.”

  Dale brought his valise out from under the sofa. “I’ve got most of the corroborative evidence in here. I hope you don’t have to use it.”

  “I hope so, too,” said Jeff.

  There was a muted roar from the TV and a band, reduced to a tinny toy whisper, launched into “The All-Out March” from High Street.

  “When I was a kid,” Irene said, part of her attention on the TV, “it was ‘Happy Days Are Here Again.’”