“Decker,” she whispered in feigned embarrassment, “you look like you’re undressing me with your eyes.”
“Oh,” he responded with a smile and a gleam, “I’m way past that.”
Decker was feeling much better.
Derwood, Maryland
The Hawthorne family arrived at Dulles Airport outside Washington early in the morning and were surprised to find a limousine waiting there to pick them up—courtesy of Hank Asher. For the next three days Decker, Elizabeth, Hope, and Louisa spent time getting to know each other again. They bought jumbo steamed blue crabs at Vinnie’s Seafood and went to a small park they knew at one of the C&O canal locks. They stayed around the house and just talked. They cooked steaks on the grill. They went shopping. They drove around town so Decker could get reacquainted. They did whatever they wanted to do.
At about noon on the third day the phone rang and Decker answered it. It was Professor Goodman.
“Decker, we need to talk,” Goodman said with what seemed to Decker to be a bit of self-important urgency.
“Sure, Professor. I want to follow up on that story we talked about, anyway. How about in a month or so?” After three years as a hostage, even the “biggest story since Columbus discovered America” could wait a few more weeks.
“Not soon enough.” Goodman’s voice gave no indication he was even aware that Decker had been gone.
“Well, I’m really not in any shape for a long trip,” Decker responded. “I’ve just gotten back from three years in a small room in Lebanon and I thought I’d take it easy for a while.”
“Yes, I know all about that,” Goodman said. “I do read the newspaper, you know. But you don’t have to go anywhere. Martha and I are in Washington. In fact, we’re here in Derwood, at the German restaurant two blocks from your house.”
“What are you doing here?” Decker asked in surprise.
“I came out for a scientific conference. Martha had never seen Washington and insisted on coming along. Christopher is staying with a friend from school. So can we come over or not?”
Decker quickly talked it over with Elizabeth and they agreed to have the Goodmans come over, although Decker insisted that the professor promise it would take no more than an hour. Harry and Martha Goodman arrived in just minutes. Elizabeth had never met Martha Goodman and both women felt a little uncomfortable—Mrs. Goodman for imposing and Elizabeth about being imposed upon. Professor Goodman made it clear that the subject of the conversation was for Decker’s ears only, so Elizabeth suggested that Mrs. Goodman go for a walk with her and the girls.
As soon as they left, Goodman began.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you but it isn’t really for my welfare that I’m here. There are a thousand other reporters out there who would love to get an exclusive on what I’m about to tell you.”
“Of course,” Decker said. “It’s just that I really need to spend some time with my family.”
“I understand that. But what I’m about to tell you will change the world forever. Forgive me, I just thought you might be interested,” Goodman added with mild sarcasm.
Decker’s once overpowering curiosity had lain dormant for nearly three years. Deep inside he felt it stir again.
“I don’t want to impose any more than necessary,” Goodman said, “so I’ll leave a copy of my notes for you to study later. Right now, I’ll just give you a summary.”
Decker retrieved a fresh yellow legal pad and Goodman began.
“First of all, you remember that the last time we talked, we discussed the methodology I used for creating the viral cancer antibodies, and I told you that it would probably also work on AIDS and other viral strains? Well, that work has continued with some outstanding results. But as important as that work is, all I could really ever hope to accomplish with that methodology was to use the C-cells as an agent for producing antibodies. That seemed to me to be little more than running a pill factory. Well, I didn’t want to just make pills. Even if they could cure cancer or AIDS, it still seemed to be such a waste of potential. What I really wanted to do was to figure out some way of altering the cells of living people to enhance their own immune system.
“For a long time it just ate at me. How could I ever hope to alter the genetic structure of every cell in the human body? You can make changes on a few cells in a laboratory. With C-cells it’s even possible, as we both know, to create a totally immune individual like Christopher. But how do you give that immunity to someone else like you or me? That had me stumped.”
Decker listened quietly, nodding when appropriate. Goodman was going to tell his story the way he wanted to tell it, and the best thing to do was just listen.
“Then I had an idea. Decker, do you know how the AIDS virus works?” Decker thought he had a pretty good idea, but before he could answer the question, Goodman continued. “All around the outside of the AIDS virus are tiny spikes that are made of glycoproteins. These spikes are imbedded in a fatty envelope that forms the outer shell of the virus. Inside this envelope are RNA strands, each with a quantity of reverse-transcriptase enzyme. The spikes bind the AIDS cells to healthy cells of the immune system, called T-cells, by establishing an attractive link with certain receptor molecules that occur naturally on the healthy T-cells. The infection occurs when the virus is absorbed into the interior of the healthy cell. Once inside the T-cell, each individual strand of RNA material in the virus is converted into a complementary strand of DNA by the reverse-transcriptase enzyme. Enzymes that occur naturally in the cell duplicate the DNA strand, which then enters into the nucleus of the cell. That strand then becomes a permanent part of the heredity of that cell!” Goodman paused for Decker’s reaction.
“Okay, so then what?” Decker had understood most of Goodman’s explanation but failed to comprehend the significance.
“Don’t you see? The AIDS virus is able to alter the genetic structure of living cells and it does it inside the body!”
Suddenly Decker realized what Goodman was getting at. “You mean you could remove the harmful genetic material from the nucleus of the AIDS virus …”
“… and replace it with the specific immunity-providing DNA strands from the C-cells,” Goodman said, finishing Decker’s sentence. “Except, of course, viral cells do not have a nucleus; they have simply a core.” Goodman—ever the professor—could not allow such an error, no matter how insignificant to the main topic, to pass uncorrected. “That way it’s not necessary to alter each individual cell of the body. We can accomplish nearly the same result by just altering the T-cells!”
“And that result is …” Decker urged.
“Total immunity! Maybe even reversing the aging process! Life expectancies of two, three, four hundred years, maybe more!” Goodman’s voice had grown as excited as he dared risk without sacrificing the appearance of appropriate scientific aloofness.
“So when can you begin to move beyond theory on this?”
“I already have,” Goodman answered. “I began working on it two and a half years ago. For the first six months I focused my efforts on a cold virus. I felt that the dangers involved in using an AIDS virus were too great, and I must concede that the problems I encountered with my previous AIDS research soured me on having any more to do with it.”
“Does the cold virus work like the AIDS virus?” Decker asked.
“Similarly, although the AIDS virus is actually a retro- or reverse-virus because of the existence of the reverse-transcriptase enzyme that converts the RNA strand into a DNA strand. There are a number of other differences as well, but for the early studies the differences didn’t really matter. All I needed was a carrier— some means of bringing the desired genetic information to the individual T-cells of the immune system. I got as far as the creation of an extremely resilient second-generation test strain. Of course at that time I was still experimenting to isolate the specific DNA strands in the C-cells that were needed for transplant into the carrier virus.
“As my research continued, it
became more and more clear to me that the AIDS virus was really the best medium to use as the carrier, and I somewhat reluctantly redirected my studies in that direction. That’s when my work really began to progress. Think of it, Decker. Fifteen years ago it looked like AIDS could be on its way to being as bad as the Black Plague. And now, by some time in the next decade, it may—combined with the C-cells—be the source of virtual immortality!”
By the time Decker and Goodman finished their conversation, Elizabeth, Mrs. Goodman, Hope, and Louisa had returned from their walk and retreated to the patio for iced tea. They had talked long enough to find that they liked each other’s company. After the Goodmans left, Elizabeth told Decker how much she had enjoyed talking with Martha and that Martha had suggested she come along with Decker next time he went to Los Angeles.
“Well,” said Decker, pleased that his wife was pleased, “I’m glad you two hit it off. She really is a nice person. And as far as you coming along, I’d like that too. So what did you two talk about?”
“Well, mostly we talked about you and how wonderful it is to have you back. But, let’s see … We talked about Professor Goodman. Did you know he’s been notified that in December he’s going to receive the Nobel Prize for medicine for his cancer research?”
“You’re kidding!” Decker said. “He didn’t even mention it.”
“That’s why they were here in Washington. He was invited to address the annual convention of the American Cancer Society.”
“I can see I’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” Decker said. “So what else did you talk about?”
“Well, she told me all about her grandnephew, Christopher. She’s very proud of him. He’s apparently a very precocious child. Oh, and this is kind of interesting: Martha said that two weeks ago she and Professor Goodman were talking about you. He had this important story—I guess what he came over to tell you about today—and apparently he was reluctant to give it to another reporter even though at the time you were still being held hostage. But—and this is the strange part—as they were talking about it, Christopher, came over and just sort of matter-of-factly said that Professor Goodman should wait because you’d be free soon. She said she asked him about it later and he said he wasn’t sure how he knew; he just had a feeling.”
10
Disaster
A LIGHT RAIN BEGAN TO FALL and Decker found himself running, awkwardly making his way through the tall grass and trying to avoid the thistles and wild blackberry bushes. Home and safety from the impending storm were just over the next hill. In his determination he was totally unaware of the strange feeling of being in a small body not yet eight years old.
The storm clouds had gathered quickly and for a while it seemed they might disappear the same way. But as the rain began to fall, the promise of a cloudburst of Noahic proportions seemed to declare itself with the first sudden clap of distant thunder.
As he ran, Decker’s nerves twinged with the fear of the somehow inevitable turn of events he knew was about to befall him. It seemed … it seemed he had done this all before. There was something in his path—something to fear. But what?
Suddenly the earth disappeared from beneath his feet. Decker’s hands flew up above his head as he grabbed at the moist thick air, trying desperately, instinctively, to slow his descent. He felt the earth again as his stomach and chest slammed into a wall of dirt and slipped along a rough incline that threatened to swallow him. The blow had knocked the wind out of him, but before he could catch his breath, a sudden sharp pain surged through him as dozens of odd-shaped protrusions scraped against his body, tearing his shirt and pulling it up over his head as he slid down the incline. His hands, still grasping, caught a tangled mass of small fibers that quickly slipped away but were replaced by one more solid and firm. In shock he hung there, motionless.
Moments passed. Then Decker began to carefully pull himself upward, hoping his hold would not fail under the strain. Raising himself a few inches, he worked his shirt back down over his head and shoulders. Now able to survey his condition, he found he was holding on to a tree root about an inch in diameter. Near tears, he slowly turned his head and looked down. In horror he realized his imagination had not exaggerated the danger. Below him the hole continued for about thirty feet and then narrowed and veered off.
He closed his eyes and thought of the previous summer when he had first heard of such holes. He and his cousin Bobby had been riding two of his uncle’s mules in the field north of the milk barn. Bobby brought him to a spot in the field where an old hay wagon had been left sitting long enough for the grass and the purple-flowered thistles to grow up around it. Bobby, who had been riding bareback, lifted his leg and slid off the side of the mule.
“C’mon,” he said as he tied the twine of the mule’s homemade reins through a rusted iron eye on the wagon. There was a sense of adventure in his voice and Decker was quick to follow.
“Be careful, now,” Bobby cautioned as he began to inch his way slowly toward the edge of a hole in the ground on the other side of the wagon. Decker followed Bobby’s lead and was soon standing on the edge of the hole looking down.
“Man, that’s deep,” Decker said. “What is it?”
“A sink hole,” Bobby answered.
“A what?”
“A sink hole. It goes on forever,” Bobby said authoritatively.
“Aw, that’s crazy,” Decker responded. “I can see the bottom.”
“That’s not the bottom, it’s just where it turns off in another direction.” Bobby gave a slight tug to Decker’s shirt and the pair moved to the other side of the hole.
“See down there,” Bobby said as he pointed to what had appeared to be the bottom of the shaft. Decker couldn’t tell how far it went, but he could see that the shaft continued off in the other direction. He squatted down to get a better look but there simply wasn’t enough light to see any farther.
“Where’d it come from?” Decker asked.
“Whadda ya mean, where’d it come from? Ya think we dug it or sumthin’?” Decker gave Bobby a dirty look and Bobby, deciding this was not the place to pick a fight, continued. “They just show up. One day it’s flat ground and then the next day there’s a sink hole. That’s why they call ’em sink holes, I guess.”
Decker tried again to get a better look and then an idea struck him. “Let’s get a rope and climb down and explore it!”
“Are you nuts?”
“C’mon! We can get a real long rope. Or even better, we can find some flashlights and get that roll of bailing twine in the barn. We can tie the twine to one of the mules and ease ourselves down. I’ve seen ’em do stuff like that on television a bunch of times.”
“Man, you are nuts! My dad told me about three guys who went down in a sink hole over in Moore County. They never came back up, and two months later they found their bodies in the Duck River!”
Decker looked at Bobby, trying to figure whether he was making this up. Bobby continued, “I told ya, these things don’t have no bottoms!”
Just then they saw Bobby’s dad stomping through the tall grass toward them. He was mad. “Bobby!” he called out, “What in the Sam Hill are you doin’ out here? You wanna fall in there and get yourself killed? You get away from that hole right now or I’m gonna beat the livin’ tar outta both of ya!” The boys ran as quickly as they could to the mules. All the commotion gave Decker the clear impression that Bobby hadn’t been kidding about the danger.
The rain fell harder now and the dirt that Decker’s face was resting against had turned to mud. His hands were locked around the root, his clothes were wet, his stomach was scraped and bleeding, and he was getting cold. He tried calling for help but gave up as his voice grew hoarse. He was only a few feet below the surface, but there was no way to pull himself any farther up. He tried to think of this as an adventure; he’d get out somehow and then he could tell the kids at school about it. Maybe he’d get a lot of sympathy and his mom would even let him skip school tomorrow. He thoug
ht about taking off his belt and somehow using it as a rope to pull himself out. Boy! That would make a great story, he thought. But there was nothing to tie it to. And anyway, he wasn’t about to let go with one hand to try to take off his belt.
For an hour or more he lay there on the muddy slope, holding on to the root. The rain had almost stopped, but the sky was growing dark with the night. That’s when he heard the voices of his mother and older brother, Nathan. They were calling him and they were getting closer. He called out—not for help, but to warn them.
“Stay back, Mom! There’s a sink hole.”
But of course she didn’t stay back. In a moment he saw her terrified face peering down over the ridge of the hole. She had crawled on her hands and knees to the side and was holding back tears as she looked down at him clinging to the root about three feet below the surface. She struggled to think clearly. She looked at his fingers wrapped around the root. They seemed so tiny. The blood had long since drained from them, and they were white and wrinkled from the rain. Lying flat on her stomach, she reached down, stretching, sliding a little farther, a little farther, knowing full well that the ground under her could give way at any second, sending both of them to a muddy grave. In a last attempt to gain the extra inch she needed, she held her breath, flattened herself against the ground, and dug the toes of her shoes into the soft dirt to keep from sliding in.
“Just hold on, honey. I’ll have you out of there in just a minute,” she said in her bravest, most reassuring, voice.
Decker watched in hope as her fingers grasped his right wrist. It was already far too numb to be able to feel her grip. When she was sure of her hold she began to pull him upward. She lifted him a few inches while Decker did his best to try to climb with his feet against the muddy slope. “Let go of the root now, honey,” she said, “I’ve got you.”
In His Image Page 13
