Breakout (Alex Knight Book 1)

by C. G. Cooper

  After he’d exhausted page after page of clickbait headlines, he switched to the medical journals. The scientific consensus was solid: no connection between vaccines and autism. Case closed.

  Now, he thought, it was time to start compiling the data. And now it was time to test his own theory.

  Then an unrelated article grabbed his attention. It had come up in his search with the tag, “vaccines.” This was no fearmongering diatribe written in the language of hysteria, citing no or outdated and discredited studies; this was no anti-vax polemic written by a half-literate B-movie comedian with a pet cause to keep him or her in the spotlight. This was a scholarly, well-written, dry-as-a-bone article. Its author was one Dr. Norman Scarfe.

  Dr. Scarfe was reporting an increase in child paralysis in a particular metro area. He then branched out with a survey of the surrounding region. That was the extent of the study. But why the tag of vaccines? He scanned the article and found a footnote referring to the fact that the children all had precisely two things in common with one another: 1) their paralysis came on after the measles/mumps/rubella booster shot, and 2) all the victims were girls.

  He sat back and rubbed his chin. Knight was a good enough scientist to know that correlation does not necessarily equal causation. But this was an odd correlation, of that there could be no doubt.

  The article had made mention of a grassroots organization bent on increasing awareness of the problem. Concerned parents had all contributed their names to a petition urging the government to look into the case. Among the most vocal of the group were known anti-vaxxers, the article had stated. Not in those terms, of course.

  One more search and he found the petition online. It lay in a corner of the internet untraveled by anyone not specifically looking to wind up there. “Pebble dot com.” PEBBLE, the website said, stood for ParEnts for Better Bio LEgislation. The web design was an old one. He had a peek at the forums. The last post was more than ten months old. He clicked on a JPG that was a scan of the petition filed with the government. Phone numbers and addresses were blacked out, but the names were clearly legible. He grabbed a pen and began scribbling down the names. He opened a series of fresh tabs, each with a link to every social media channel he could think of, and then he started searching for these parents.

  Knight looked for the first parent on his list: Sue Johnson. Hundreds of names were suggested, each with a small picture of some smiling woman, Sue Johnsons all. Knight refined the search. He filtered for children, for children with physical disabilities, for a connection to PEBBLE. Eventually, and with enough searching, he found her social media page, which was being run posthumously. Sue Johnson was dead.

  The next name on the list was that of a young father and high school science teacher, Peter Hancock. Again the long list of names from social media, again a painstaking filtering process, again Knight found him on a page with a black border. Another posthumous page. Another dead parent.

  Beth Oaks, a factory worker whose daughter had lost the ability to walk at the tender age of five, had been killed in a traffic accident.

  Samantha Francis, a stay-at-home mom and mother of twin girls who had both developed advanced paralysis, had been killed by falling masonry during a storm.

  Lee Hunt, a childless single man who had followed the study purely out of academic interest, had been electrocuted by faulty wiring following his poor attempt at home improvement.

  The list was not a long one, and soon Knight had tracked down every person who had signed the PEBBLE petition.

  Jason Carver, dead.

  Emily Chilton, dead.

  Samantha Bond, dead.

  Nicola Taylor, dead.

  Dr. Norman Scarfe, the scientist who had authored the original page, was alive and well, retired, and living a quiet life in a quiet town. The top hit in the search engine for Dr. Norman Scarfe was a scandalous piece of junk press about his affair with Nicola Taylor, a vocal supporter of the anti-vax movement, a woman who ultimately turned up dead. Knight was surprised and delighted to find that the doctor was also credited with a long list of published works in the field of cell biology.

  He searched for Scarfe’s last employer. Scarfe had been funded by the National Institutes of Health. The scientist had had a busy career that had come to an abrupt and dishonorable end.

  Knight fell back into his chair. He would arrange to meet this Dr. Scarfe. It should be easy enough; the National Institutes of Health would have his address. A fellow scientist wishing to talk about academic work would surely be welcome.

  He swiveled around and looked out at the dull office. This was his job now: reading nonsense on the internet and visiting retired doctors in their suburban homes. He should be developing his stem cell therapy in a lab. He should be drinking his second Long Island Iced Tea. He should be screwing Sarah in his apartment.

  Not screwing. He couldn’t do that to her.

  At that moment, the office lit up as the staff car pulled into the small parking lot in front of the building.

  He grabbed his jacket and dashed for the door.

  11

  Professor Stone relaxed in his living room armchair, tie pulled loose, and shoes kicked off. A huge glass in his hand contained a small measure of a 2008 Shiraz. He sipped and swirled the deep red vintage around in his glass. The wine was drinking well. Not a truly great bottle, but good enough for a quiet Friday evening.

  He checked his watch before unclipping it. She was late as usual. He dropped his watch on the small wooden table next to him then took another sip of the Shiraz.

  He tipped his head back, eyes closed, and settled into the deep, soft cushions. He opened his eyes with the sound of the doorbell.

  Stone carefully placed the large glass next to his watch on the small table and picked up his cell phone. He opened his security app and spoke. His voice came through the small metal speaker next to the door. “One moment,” he said, and tapped on his touch screen, accessing the door controls. He dropped the phone back onto the small table and picked up his glass.

  He heard the front door open and footsteps padding through the main hall.

  “I’m in the drawing room!”

  The drawing room door opened and Sarah Hansen walked in, perfume first.

  Stone sat up and with an outstretched hand offered Hansen a seat on the sofa to his right. “Come in. Sit.”

  Hansen perched on the edge of the wide seat, hands on her lap.

  “Glass of Shiraz?” he offered.

  “No, thank you.”

  He stared at the complete vision of her. She was delectable tonight.

  “You have a report for me?”

  Hansen nodded. “He just sits there all day doing nothing.”

  Stone took another sip of wine.

  She tilted her head at him. “I thought he was supposed to be some sort of highly-driven genius. How come he’s not done a single thing all week? He looks bone idle to me.”

  “You’d be surprised how much a man like Alex Knight can accomplish by merely sitting and staring into space. Every one of the greatest innovations in the world has its origins in the act of some genius staring into space.”

  “But he’s not staring into space,” Hansen said. “He’s staring at me.”

  “Good,” Stone said with a grin. “So, you have his interest.”

  “I think so. He’s asked me out.”

  “That’s great. Keep him interested. Is this the type of thing you’ve worn to work?” He looked her up and down.

  She held her hands out to her sides and showed off the outfit. A simple business suit that was tight in all the right places to show off her every curve.

  “Continue doing what you’re doing. I have it on good authority that you are just his type.”

  “Do you want me to get closer to him?”

  “I appreciate the initiative, but no.” Stone felt a sudden pang of jealousy. He picked up his glass and took a sip. “I don’t want you getting too close yet. Keep him on the hook. Just observ
e.” He put down his glass. “Now come here.”

  She smiled coyly at him, stood up, and moved over to where he was sitting, kicking her heels off onto the thick carpet. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done, of course. And whomever.” She picked up the glass and took a sip. A small drop remained on her lip, and she bent down and kissed him.

  He could no longer control himself. He pulled her down to his lap. One hand slipped around her waist, the other over her thigh.

  He closed his eyes and breathed her in. There was the smell of her hair, her perfume, and beneath it all, the faint, intoxicating scent of her honey skin.

  12

  Knight hadn’t spent an entire weekend at home in years. This weekend, he’d barely left his apartment. There were a few hours tuning his BMW S1000R in his building’s underground parking lot and a few minutes of listening to music. The rest of the time he spent pouring over the published work of Dr. Norman Scarfe.

  Scarfe had spent years as a laboratory scientist at several of the most respected universities, undertaking work in drug research and development. But he had switched specialties after his paper on what he later called Sudden Onset Hereditary Paralysis, or SOHP. None of the subsequent work on SOHP was published. Knight accessed it through membership to a personal blog that Scarfe kept.

  The work was accurate and precise. It could not be faulted or questioned in terms of implementation or design. It was an excellent piece of science. But the link to heredity was not clear. And Scarfe admitted as much, which eventually led to his careful implication of vaccines being a possible culprit. Nothing in the papers discussed the work of PEBBLE or the mysterious deaths which seemed to plague the group.

  On Monday morning, Knight called the National Institutes of Health’s human resource department. After giving his credentials, he was given the contact details of Dr. Norman Scarfe.

  He called Scarfe’s number.

  “Yeah?” came the gentle voice, as if expecting the caller to share a juicy piece of gossip.

  “Dr. Scarfe?”

  “Speaking.”

  “You don’t know me, sir. My name is Alex Knight, and I wanted to—”

  “What was your name?”

  “Alex Knight, sir.”

  There was a mischievous chuckle. “I thought that’s what you said. You aren’t the Alex Knight that subscribed to my blog, by any chance, are you?”

  “That’s me, sir.”

  “Well,” the man said jovially. “It’s a pleasure to hear from my one and only fan!”

  “Your work is excellent,” said Knight, his tone pushing the limits of flattery. “And your conclusions, most of them, are sound. And I wanted to know if you’d be willing to sit down and talk a bit about SOHP.”

  There was a momentary pause. Then, “Who do you work for?”

  “I’m currently employed with NIH.”

  “Ah huh, yeah, well, no thanks.”

  The call disconnected.

  Knight weighed his options. A second call would only be ignored at best, and interpreted as harassment at worst. He sat down and composed an email.

  Dear Dr. Scarfe,

  I don’t blame you for hanging up on me. I realize that your work may have landed you in some hot water. I assure you, I’m not part of the kettle.

  Attached is a scan of my credentials and a summary of my achievements in the field of cellular biology. Let’s talk.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Alex Knight

  After ten minutes, his phone rang. It was Scarfe’s number.

  “Hello, Dr. Scarfe,” he answered with a disarming tone.

  “I never intended to create a fuss.” Scarfe’s tone sounded as if he was about to say goodbye at any moment.

  “Listen, Doctor, I don’t want to trouble you.” Knight was his personable and diplomatic best. “I have to compile a report that is going straight to the president, and I think you could be a big help. I want to talk to you about your work.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the man, who sounded tired now, “but I don’t want anything to do with the government. You can understand, right?”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I do have a personal interest in your work on a purely academic level.”

  “Everything I have to say is in the papers I’ve published.” The man was clearly impatient. “It’s all there. I’m retired, Dr. Knight. I don’t have anything to add. Now, I have plans for today, so I will ask you to excuse me.”

  “What if I told you I was recently busted for conducting illegal stem cell research?”

  Knight let out a tense breath. He’d just gotten that in before the man had a chance to hang up on him again.

  There was a pregnant pause on the other end. “What’s your point?”

  “Just that, from one cast-off to another, I think we might be able to make some progress together. And in the meantime, you could help me get this bullshit report off my desk so that I could do some real work for a change.”

  “I’m recording this conversation, you know.”

  “Oh, I had a feeling,” Knight said with a smile. “That’s why I said that.”

  The man’s heavy breath blew across the line. “So, how do you want to do this?”

  “Well, let’s start with a meeting.”

  “Come to my house,” he said.

  Knight turned onto Peach Tree Drive at a sedate twenty miles per hour. He sat up on the motorcycle and looked out for Scarfe’s house. Up ahead on the right he saw it, a large white house with a low picket fence. Several birch and willow trees were dotted about the wide front lawn, and there, near the house was Doctor Scarfe concentrating on a stand of roses at the side of the house.

  Scarfe lives in a Norman Rockwell painting.

  The man by the roses was older than his official photo. Scarfe looked withered and bent. He was the picture of a man who seemed to be weighed down by years of work.

  Knight watched as Scarfe pulled a rose closer to him and then pulled his glasses out of a pocket. Scarfe held the glasses as a magnifying glass and studied some point on the stem.

  “Dr. Scarfe?” Knight asked, dismounting from his motorcycle.

  Scarfe turned a small, limp rose this way and that, examining it. He let go of the little flower, allowed it to fold back into the bush. Then he took hold of a leaf. Again, Scarfe turned the leaf this way and that, studying it from all angles before releasing it.

  “Dr. Scarfe?” he called out again.

  Scarfe raised his hand to ask for quiet. He took hold of another leaf and studied it.

  Knight stepped up next to Scarfe and looked at what he was doing.

  Scarfe let go of the leaf he was holding and tucked his glasses away into his shirt’s top pocket. He stepped back to take another look at his roses. “All I wanted to do when I retired was to develop a hybrid rose and name it for my wife. I bought this property because it had the perfect conditions. I planted these in the perfect spot. I controlled for every known pest and blight. Do you think I can grow a rose?” Scarfe stepped forward again, took out his glasses and again started studying a leaf.

  “Poor growth with weak stems, leaves, and flowers,” said Knight. “No visible signs of infection or infestation. Good, dark earth. How’s the local drainage?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you lay mulch to keep the moisture in over the winter?”

  “It’s only been one winter. I moved into this house last autumn.”

  Knight smiled. “It’s the perfect spot. That’s your problem.”

  Scarfe dropped his leaf, the stem bobbing, and turned to Knight. “Come again?”

  “What was planted here before these roses?”

  Scarfe shrugged. “Don’t know. There was just bare soil here when we moved in.” Scarfe trailed off as the realization came over him. “Roses,” he said, putting his glasses away. “Do you think someone planted roses here before?”

  Knight nodded. “If it is indeed the perfect spot, then I think it’s likely. And if that’s the case, then t
he most likely culprit is replant disease.”

  “Huh. Replant disease. Now why in the hell didn’t I think of that?” Scarfe turned back to his rose bush.

  “Try taking out your roses,” said Knight, “replace the soil, and then replant in the fresh soil with a good amount of nitrogen fertilizer. That should do it.”

  Scarfe ran a hand across his thin, white hair. “I’ll be damned.” He turned to Knight.

  Knight extended a hand as if he’d forgotten to. “Oh, Dr. Alex Knight.”

  Scarfe took his hand. “I know.” His face became a piercing stare. “Come on inside.”

  Knight followed Scarfe through a door that led to a neat kitchen. Scarfe waved him toward a seat at a small glass-topped table. He offered coffee as he took two dainty china mugs off a rack hanging above the coffee machine.

  “That first paper was a statistical disaster,” Scarfe said, sipping his coffee. “More of an op-ed piece than a real study. But my boss told me to go for publication. He was insistent. I was worried what it would do for my reputation to publish something like that.” He took another careful sip of his coffee. “My concerns were justified.”

  “You think they came after you because your research was faulty?” Knight asked. “Seems a little unjustified, doesn’t it?”

  The old man’s eyes were sunken and dim. “They don’t like dinosaurs like me. They think we tend to cling to outmoded methods and theories. They think we’re rigid.”

  “Again, you think that’s a proportionate response.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?”