Day 20
Monday
Mendota Yard, Livestock Division,
URL Foods International,
Fresno County, California
JD pulled a heifer out of the pens on the west side of the slaughterhouse. Lazy and cold in the March morning, the old cow was not frolicky enough to resist. Thus the skinny old cowboy led the aging animal easily across the feed yard around the killing house on the downwind side of the holding pens. Once past the windshadow of the building, she came into the scent of blood and began to buck.
“Hoy-ya,” JD commanded, pulling down hard on her headstall, maneuvering the heifer toward a large steel building. After a brief struggle, JD had the bovine inside. “Someone up at the office wants to see you,” JD said as he cinched the animal to a stainless steel railing.
Dr. Vrynos, sporting a stark white labcoat with a prominent bloodstain along the hem, took a yellow slip of paper from JD’s outstretched hand.
“If you don’t need me no more, Doc?”
Gill waved him off while reading the note. It was brief:
Gill.
There’s been another accident!
This could be it!
Sara.
“You say this woman is here?” Gill called after the cowboy, whose languid stride had not yet carried him out of the building.
“Yep,” JD answered with an overstated hoist of his bushy eyebrows. “And it ain’t your wife, neither.”
From the office porch of what was once a rambling, one-story ranch house, Gill paused to watch the steady stream of tractor-trailer rigs headed north on the I-5, their roofs barely visible through a wispy, early morning fog. Gill strained to hear the faint rumble of the distant interstate. Half the rigs had their red and amber marker lights still on. As he semi-consciously counted trucks, assembling lists of trucks with lights on, trucks with lights off, trucks with lights on but bad bulbs in one or more, Gill realized he was stalling. He hadn’t seen her in years. He counted in his head. One, two… maybe two and change. Oh, she’d called a couple times to share her suspicions about reports of other accidents. One in China somewhere, which – it turned out - had nothing to do with medical imaging equipment at all. And another, a baby in some rural Saskatchewan clinic. That had been a little suspicious, but Sara had not reported back, and of course Gill didn’t really want any part of it. I don’t have time for this nonsense!
But now she’d actually shown up at his work! This may be it? Sara lived in a townhouse near Boston, 3000 miles away. For her to show up here…this had to be serious.
And I made a promise.
The yard manager poked his head out the smoke-tinted glass door and gave Gill the head-to-toe. “Looking stylish today,” he said, gesturing with his forehead at the blood-stained hem of Gill’s labcoat.
Gill hung the gory garment on one of the hooks mounted next to the door, installed thus for this very purpose.
“She’s in my office,” the manager said, impatience in his voice. Gill’s office was in the lab building; visitors were absolutely NOT allowed out there. “I hope you can make this short, Gill. I got work to do.”
Gill crossed the lobby slowly, adjusting his glasses by first bending the arms while off his head, then fidgeting with them on. When he’d finished, the gold wire frames were still slightly crooked. The yard manager’s office door was open and Gill, rapping lightly on the jamb, stepped in.
Sara Keplar, facing away from the door, her back to Gill, sat in the big leather chair, fingers interlaced behind her head, enjoying the view through a wall of tinted glass, a dark brown ocean of crowded cattle pens extending off to the horizon, eastward across the gut of Fresno County. The early sun was blood-red from all the kicked-up dust in the air, a cloud covering the ranch two hundred feet thick.
When she heard his voice she did not turn around. “Has a certain beauty to it from in here, away from the stink,” she said.
Gill instinctively took a deep breath. “You get used to it,” he mumbled, the last three syllables trailing off toward the sub-audible.
She swiveled the chair in so that her long, brownish-blond ponytail floated around her head in a graceful arc, coming to rest on her left shoulder. “I thought I’d surprise you.” Then she scrunched her neck, which caused the ponytail to drop away.
“Fifteen years we’ve known each other and you still haven’t figured out I don’t like surprises?”
She let out a long breath, then folded her hands somberly. “I called this morning from the airport, Gill. You’d already left. Marcy told me where to find you.”
He was pacing now and she eyed him warily. This is what he did to organize his thoughts into one of his coherent, long-winded explanations. So she cut him off: “Damnit, Gill, would you please sit down a minute?” She pointed at an overstuffed chair by the picture windows. “Sit.”
It caught him off guard. He obeyed, plunking his suede loafers up on the sill, pouting.
He was worthless to her in this frame of mind. She knew she’d have to lighten the mood, make a little small talk. “So you left an assistant professorship at the University of Akron to come here and make hamburgers?”
“Yeah. They pay me an obscene amount.”
They were both looking out the windows. “Quite a place,” she said. “How many cows?”
After a pause, Gill said: “Forty thousand, give or take. Everything from range-fed to old dairy stock.”
Far across the ranch a loaded string of cattle cars crept along the railroad siding. “Last stop,” Sara announced, cupping her hands around her mouth to give the words a tinny, train-conductor effect. “Everybody out!” She laughed, and the sweet, high sound rang in Gill’s memory. He swallowed.
“Just exactly how do you fit in here, Dr. Vrynos?”
“Sorry. That’s classified.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Seriously. I have a loyalty agreement in my contract. This is a multi-billion-dollar industry. How do I know you’re not a spy from Big Sky Foods or Whitcomb?” He was only half kidding. He flipped her a business card from his pocket with a smudge of dry cow’s blood covering his first name.
“Nice touch,” she grimaced, holding the card at arm’s length. It said: “Dr. Gilbert T. Vrynos, PhD, Director of Livestock Research.”
“A six-figure title if ever I heard one. What kind of research?”
“I guess I can tell you this much: A few years back there was an incident or two where some folks allegedly got sick from ‘T-bone Acetate’…a bovine growth hormone which doesn’t always metabolize. It wasn’t URI products, but public scrutiny forced the entire industry to redirect research toward more natural, less-invasive techniques at making the process...” Gill paused here, searching for the right word.
“Happier?” She said, turning again to gaze across the ranch.
“Yeah. Less epinephrine in the muscle tissue equals less toughness on the plate.” He stopped short of telling her about the ongoing development of cheap tranquilizers to soothe the animals’ trauma on the killing floor. And he neglected to mention the engineered virus that attacks bovine muscle tissue, breaking it down – tenderizing the meat right on the hoof. And he didn’t see the need to burden her with details about cloning muscle tissue, in effect, growing steaks without cows.
Sara settled back comfortably in the leather chair. “Whatever you’re doing here is fine I’m sure. But we agreed at Mark’s funeral – that I’d contact you the moment there was another accident.” Sara’s soft blue eyes got huge as she leaned forward, her tone and manner focusing. “I’m here in person because it’s the real deal this time, Gill. Hospital down in Manzanita. Sunday morning. You must have heard about it.”
“Can’t say that I did.” He had, but he hadn’t given it much thought. Mistake.
“MRI clinic has a fire that forces the evacuation of more than 200 patients, no flammable materials, cause unknown. And get this: an elderly woman who was supposed to be getting an MRI at the time is now missing! They ca
n’t find her! No trace!”
“Yeah,” Gill said despondently, looking at his shoes.
Sensing his resistance, Sara altered course. “I apologize for not calling yesterday, Gill, really, I am sorry, but when I heard about this one I knew you’d want to come. So I detoured through San Francisco to see you. Got in early this morning, rented a car and now I’m on my way down there.” And, of course, she came in person because of how much more easily he might have refused her over the phone.
“That’s pretty amazing. But what do you expect me to do about it?”
“Don’t play hard to get,” she said, squinting at him. “The MRI manufacturer is under heavy fire for this accident…and you and I both know it’s not the machine’s fault. Gyttings-Lindstrom has a huge interest in what we already know, and I’m sure, once they hear it, they’ll be willing to finance another INF experiment.”
Gill at last sat down. “Sara, honey, I’ve got a life here…”
She tried pleading: “You promised you’d help. Galtrup is coming too. It’ll be the old gang again.”
Gill shrugged. “I… I know what I said…” He rubbed his face with both hands. “But that was so long ago.”
He’s caving. “Only three years ago! Gill, you’re too good a scientist to be close-minded.”
“I’m just old. And tired. And I’ve got too much responsibility…”
Sara laughed. “Forty-four isn’t old, you weenie. And you don’t look a day over 39.” Time for the close. “I’ll tell you what, Gill. I’ve got to get down there while the clues are still fresh. I’m sure the police and media are missing important details because they don’t know what the hell to look for. If I find enough persuasive evidence I’ll write the proposal and take it to Gyttings-Lindstrom. All I’m asking is you check my work …”
Gill groaned.
“…Then come with me to Austin, help me with the presentation. Two days. Just two, lousy days of your busy, freaking life.” She smiled sweetly, then followed up quickly with: “Think of it as a short, fun vacation.” When he didn’t respond, she added sharply: “If Spock is willing to beam in all the way from Vulcan...then the captain has to give it two lousy days. Call in sick.”
Gill chuckled at the reference to Wilson Galtrup’s shamelessly sci-fi Trekkie preteenhood. And to his own. In college, he and Galtrup had easily been the geekiest grad lab assistants this side of Berkeley. When was the last time he’d seen Will? Not since the funeral. “Fun vacation,” Gill repeated monotonously in half-agreement. Admittedly, a nice change of pace. And since it was probably just another false alarm anyway, why not be agreeable and score some style points?
Sara hugged Gill goodbye, pressing her trim body against him for an extra second to whisper: “I promise. Only two days.” She didn’t harbor any fantasies about the likelihood of any of this. It had always seemed completely impossible. And yet…and yet, here it was. The evidence, solid. Could it be old professor Deverson was actually right about how the universe works? God I hope so.
Day 19
Tuesday
Mayton County Community Hospital,
Mayton, California
Mayton Hospital’s early morning press release simply said:
Claire McCormack, though no longer in critical condition, remains in our intensive care unit for the time being. Ian Nigel has been upgraded to ‘stable condition’ but is still in a coma. Neither are presently available for interviews or photographs.
To accommodate additional patientload from Manzanita Community Hospital, Mayton Hospital is now operating on emergency standby only. Please route patients to the next nearest facility.
Members of the media: Refrain from visiting the Hospital during this difficult time.
Another reporter might have been discouraged by this. Another reporter might have stayed away. Not Ishue.
She put on her dark business suit, shark-skin, a snug, knee-length skirt, and accessorized with an aluminum clipboard tucked under her arm. Effective professional camouflage…except for the lack of the obligatory medium-high heels, in which she had never been able to navigate with any semblance of grace. So she wore her tired, black flats. “Not bad though,” she said to her image in the mirrored closet door, Ed and Chal on the unmade bed, yapping approvingly. It was the same outfit she’d worn to pick up the police blotters at Hal Whitman’s house. Hal, city editor at the Register, was a handsome, rugged, hunk half-again her age. He’d complemented her legs, said something about having never seen them before. Yes, she’d always worn pants or ankle-length skirts to work. Why had she gone to his house that day wearing the tight skirt, her legs carefully shaven? And why had she followed him into the bedroom, sat on his bed? Hal had touched the skin lightly just above her knee, electricity jumping into her. “Where did you get such smooth, brown legs,” he had asked, voice cracking with nervous anticipation.
“My dad was Japanese,” she’d whispered, not resisting, trying not to care he was married.
Two years ago, it was. The last time she’d been with a man.
Ishue knew the lay of Mayton County General from a previous story; had acquired Claire’s room number by telephone, pretending to be a florist dispatcher. She made her move before afternoon visiting hours, easily forging past the bustling nurses, many on loan from Manzanita Community Hospital, thus unaccustomed to procedural nuances here.
Ishue found Claire housed in a double room converted for three beds. Curtains on portable stands separated the patients. Claire, wired to bedside monitors above her head, appeared to be asleep.
Ishue checked the chart quietly. It indicated regular doses of Valium, recently increased by half, signed by a Dr. Morris.
“Who are you?” Claire said dreamily. “Not another attorney…”
“I’m sorry to wake you,” Ishue whispered, wondering what techniques lawyers used to get past the nurses. She opened her silvery-shiny clipboard cover, pen ready. “Are you being pestered by personal injury lawyers?”
“Who are you,” Claire repeated, sitting up uneasily. “I wasn’t asleep.”
It was time to come clean. “I’m Ilene Ishue from the Manzanita Enterprise. I’d like...”
“We told the L.A. Times we weren’t giving interviews.”
Ishue closed her clipboard. “I understand. This must be very difficult for you. Perhaps we could just speak off the record for a moment – you know, so I don’t get the story wrong.” Claire was just staring at her “I promise I won’t print anything unless you tell me it’s okay.” She sighed. “I really need your help clearing up some serious contradictions about Sunday morning.”
“Ishue!” Claire announced abruptly. “You’re the reporter who covered the hospital fire.” She settled into the stack of pillows behind her head. “I don’t want any stories about me.”
“I’ve come a long way,” Ishue said. “May I sit?”
Not wanting to be rude, Claire nodded with a faint grimace.
Ishue studied the woman for a moment. Short, round, pleasant in a motherly way. Wispy, thinning hair. She indeed looked the stereotype kindergarten teacher, which, for 25 years, she had been. The reporter reached into her jacket pocket and clandestinely turned on her recorder, then slid a chair near Claire’s bed. Before sitting she asked: “Can I get you anything?”
Claire shook her head. She was starting to soften.
“You know, the fire department investigators are completely mystified by this whole business,” Ishue said. “Of course they’re not saying that, but they’ve been all over the damaged hospital wing and they’ve got nothing. No clue.”
Claire half-chuckled. “A fireman asked me a lot of questions after I came up here. I don’t think I was much help.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
Claire shook her head no, very slightly, unconvincingly.
Ishue waited. As a general rule, people love to talk, and her instincts told her Claire was about to let loose.
“I remember the nurse was too busy to push mom’s wh
eelchair up to radiology, being Sunday and understaffed and all…so I did it. Pretty long hallway. Tiring…” She seemed to drift off for a moment. “The technician was late. He seemed out of sorts. I think he was hung-over.”
“Ouch,” Ishue whispered, her reporter’s instinct tingling. Operator error? Alcohol related?
“Nice young man, though. Very knowledgeable. A slight British accent, I believe. Anyway, we got mom on the carriage, then Ian went into the control room. I could just barely see him through that dark brown window.” She paused thoughtfully. “Say, why do you suppose if MRIs are so safe the operators need all that shielding? Anyway, mom was scared so I stayed close. She was squeezing my hand. Ian put the chest thing on her, then rolled her head into the skinny tube.
“The machine was very loud, banging and hammering. I couldn’t stand being right next to it so after a few minutes I let Mom go and moved to the sofa where the noise wasn’t quite so bad. Her hand had gone clammy and limp anyway. Ian warned me the procedure would take 20 minutes. I was pouring through magazines. Several times I looked up and I couldn’t see Ian at all, but I didn’t think anything of it. You know, these machines are automated and computerized, aren’t they?”
Tech leaves room? Check that out.
“I remember I was looking at a Smithsonian when I noticed the room getting brighter. So I glance up and Ian’s in the room, next to the MRI, and I can see the light is coming from inside the MRI! It got so bright I turned away but I still saw it in the reflection of the brown window. I also could see Ian clearly, looking confused, scared. And that frightened me. I instinctively covered my eyes with the magazine, then wham! I wake up here.”
“How absolutely awful!” Ishue proclaimed.
“Worse for Ian. You probably heard the doctors don’t know if he’s going to make it or not.”
That wasn’t in the press release. “Well, how about you? I mean, how did you feel when you woke up?”
“Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. But I could feel people touching me and I could smell this place…you know, hospital smell.”
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