Tainted

by Ross Pennie

  “How about a family doctor?” Zol asked.

  “I think there’s a GP’s name on the autopsy report,” said Natasha, as she stood up. “The charts are in my office.” She hurried toward the door. “Back in a sec.”

  “She’s keen, isn’t she?” Colleen said.

  “Better than most doctors at this investigational stuff.”

  “Commitment without ego.” Colleen paused, examining her polished nails. “Like you,” she added.

  “Careful, you’ll make me blush.”

  “I’m serious. You remind me a lot of Liam.”

  “I trust that’s good.”

  “Very.”

  “Here we are,” said Natasha, scurrying into the room. “The autopsy report is being sent to Dr. Elizabeth Hammill. Her office is in Dundas.” She waved a yellow Post-it note. “Here’s her phone number.”

  “Who’s going to call her?” Zol asked.

  Colleen looked at him. “You, of course. You won’t have to mention Extendo-Tox. Just ask for the details of Owen Renway’s therapy for Tourette’s.”

  Zol shrugged and took the number from Natasha. “I guess I can be as discreet as either of you.”

  He dialled, then stared into his notepad feeling the weight of the women’s eyes upon him. After eight rings, a live voice answered. Zol explained who he was, then was put on hold with the promise that the doctor would be with him shortly.

  “Yes?” said a woman’s voice, clearly anxious and harried.

  “Dr. Hammill? This is Dr. Zol Szabo. I’m the Associate MOH at Hamilton-Lakeshore Health Unit.”

  “Look, as I told the inspector yesterday, the man’s coming on Monday to fix our fridge. Most of our vaccines are in Dr. Nishio’s office down the hall. They’re perfectly safe there. I just have a few doses here in a cooler. I’ll use them up today. I don’t see what’s the big deal.”

  “Actually, I’m not calling about your fridge. And thank you, it sounds like you have everything in hand.” It was against the rules to store vaccines in a cooler where the temperature could not be properly maintained or monitored, but he needed her on his side.

  “Oh. So what’s this about?”

  “I’m hoping you can help us. One of your patients died recently, and we’re investigating the cause of his death.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Mr. Owen Renway.”

  “I can’t divulge any information about my patients. Not without them signing a release.”

  “Mr. Renway has passed away.”

  “But —”

  “It’s okay. When it comes to matters of public health and safety, the law provides for you to give me, in good faith, any information pertinent to my inquiries. Especially in the case of a reportable disease like encephalitis. Everything you tell me is kept in confidence.”

  “I understand,” she said above a background of screaming infants.

  “If you would prefer, you can call me back. That way you’ll know you’re connected to the health unit and everything is above board.”

  “No. I haven’t got time for that. What do you need?”

  “Can you tell me anything about Mr. Renway’s general health? I understand he was undergoing treatment for Tourette’s syndrome.”

  “Goodness. You don’t die of Tourette’s.”

  “Quite right. But we’re looking at his life and death from a variety of angles.”

  “Oh . . . Then you should be more interested in his dementia. What a terrible thing that was.” She gasped. “Don’t tell me . . . he got that prion disease from those chocolates they’re warning everyone about?”

  He paused, wondering how much he should tell her. She was bound to get the autopsy report in a day or two. “I’m afraid I know nothing about the chocolates,” he said, “but we’ve been advised he had a form of CJD, a prion encephalitis.”

  “Oh my God. I knew he was a gourmet cook and loved to eat, but . . .”

  It sounded like triplets wailing in the background.

  “You were going to tell me about his Tourette’s.”

  “Oh yes. That’s easy. The treatment was working wonders.”

  “And what did it involve?”

  “That new stuff. Injected into his voice box. Very effective.”

  Zol’s pulse quickened. “Do you have the name of the medication?”

  “Sure. It’s what all the dermatologists are using these days. Extendo-Tox.”

  Zol gave Colleen and Natasha a thumbs-up. “How long had he been getting the injections?”

  “I don’t remember. He went to Toronto for them. Started about a year ago, maybe longer. I’d have to check his chart.”

  “That won’t be necessary. But let me take just one more minute of your time, then I won’t need to bother you again.” He kept the smile in his voice and asked a few more questions about Owen’s general health. He thought it best to deflect the focus of his inquiry away from the Extendo-Tox. He thanked her again and wished her a pleasant day.

  He turned to the women. “Well, there you are. Extendo-Tox number six. Good work, Natasha.”

  The look of alarm returned to her face. “But now what, Dr. Zol? We’ve got to get the stuff banned as soon as possible.”

  He shook his head. “We have to do our homework first.”

  “I’ll do my best to speak with Brenda McEwen today,” said Colleen.

  Natasha fidgeted with her cardigan. “But —”

  “There’s no way around it,” Zol said, fishing the loonie from his pocket. “We have to prove our case. I’m not going to go on national television and pull a Wyatt Burr.”

  Natasha shivered. “Even if all seven cases did get Extendo-Tox,” she said, “how do we prove it caused their CJD?”

  “For that we need an expert. I’ll talk with Julian Banbury. He must be having a field day with these cases. He might even welcome our Extendo-Tox wrinkle.” When Colleen groaned at the pun, he opened his palms and shrugged.

  He saw the two women out of his office and returned to the desk and opened his PDA. It contained the phone number of a specialist who was far more important at that moment than Julian Banbury: Dr. Margolis, the pediatric neurologist who was set to inject Max’s spastic arm with Extendo-Tox. With what Zol knew now, he was not going to let Margolis shoot any of that stuff into his son.

  Margolis’s answering machine came on with a click. Zol flipped the loonie between his fingers as he listened to an interminable spiel about office hours, street address, scope of practice, and prescription renewals. When he finally took a breath to leave a message, the female voice advised, “This machine does not take messages. If this is a medical emergency, call nine-one-one or go to your nearest Emergency Department. Otherwise, call back on Monday between ten and eleven in the morning or between two and three in the afternoon.”

  He crashed the receiver into its cradle, then calmed himself and glanced at the calendar. There wasn’t really a problem. Max’s appointment wasn’t until January. There would be plenty of time in the next six weeks to cancel the injection.

  CHAPTER 21

  Friday morning’s glint of sun promised a reasonable day for a hike. Ken gripped his Bruce Trail map like a talisman while Hamish sped the Saab northwest from the city on Highway Six. The late November countryside lay ragged and colourless. An undulating quilt of barren fields and leafless woods. To Hamish’s relief, the slush had vanished from the roadways thanks to three days of above-freezing temperatures. He’d not paid a visit to the car wash for forty-eight hours, maybe a record for this time of year.

  Hamish steered off the highway and onto the country road Ken said would take them to a spot on the Bruce Trail a couple of kilometres from the Krooner farm. Ken’s Internet search of Ontario’s land-registry records had revealed the exact location of the Krooner property — Swytt Road, just beyond the hamlet of Kilbride. The farm backed onto the Escarpment and the Bruce Trail, so it seemed like a straightforward matter to start hiking along the adjacent section of the trail, build
up a credible sweat, and drop in on the Krooners.

  As the familiar bustle of the suburbs faded behind them, and increasingly more snow filled the ditches, Hamish’s anxieties flared. They hadn’t formulated much of a plan. He and Ken had only a vague idea of what they would do, what they would say, once they arrived at the Krooners’. The farmhouse might be a long way from the Escarpment trail or on the wrong side of a ravine. And there was no way around it, Lanny Krooner was an unstable creature.

  Ken pointed through the windshield. “Turn to the right, there.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Hamish, pulling a face. “That’s not a road. That’s just a strip of muck.”

  “Of course it’s a road.”

  Hamish winced. “We’re going to get stuck.”

  “Hikers drive up here all the time.”

  “In November?”

  Ken waved away Hamish’s fears. “We’ll be fine. See that sign?”

  A black-and-white arrow, nailed to a tree, pointed into a thicket. Below it, a small white notice said simply, Bruce Trail.

  Hamish shook his head. “You mean this is it? All that hype about Canada’s longest public footpath, and not even a parking lot?”

  “What did you expect? A McDonald’s? Valet parking?”

  “Very funny.” He peered around. “It doesn’t look like a United Nations heritage site to me. Where’s the delicate ecosystem? There’s nothing here but trees and rocks. And far too much mud.”

  Hamish drew onto the verge beside the primitive roadway and set the handbrake, then turned off the engine and opened his door. His shoulders slumped at the sight of the mud on the side panels. He could hardly wait to get back to the car wash. He grabbed his backpack and retied the laces of his hiking shoes. The woman at the camping store had told him these were perfect for the Bruce Trail — lightweight with hefty, non-slip treads.

  At the edge of the thicket, he stopped and read a notice nailed to an evergreen tree. Bruce Trail Users’ Code. It said to leave only thanks and take nothing but photographs. That would be easy; what would anyone want with a bunch of twigs and stones?

  Ken pointed to the left and headed onto what looked like a track between the trees. Frankly, it was hard to tell. All Hamish could see were rocks, soggy leaves, and the occasional patch of grimy snow.

  After twenty minutes, it was apparent that the woman in the camping store had never hiked this mucky trail in November. Certainly not after three weeks of intermittent snow and rain. Hamish’s shoes were so clotted with mud they hobbled him like shackles. Ken’s natural pace soon had him well in the front.

  When Ken’s lead had grown to seventy-five paces, Hamish’s chest began to tighten. He leaned against the nearest tree and tried to calm his breathing. It was no use. His chest constricted rapidly into full-blown wheezing. He hauled his inhaler from his pocket. Three puffs of salbutamol. A minute later, three more. His mouth was as dry as a sandbox but he was too exhausted to pull a water bottle from his backpack. His heart raced, spurred by the heavy dose of asthma medicine. He looked around, desperate for somewhere to sit. All he could see was mud. Not even a log to squat on. He slumped against the tree trunk.

  He called for Ken, but the effort was wasted: his voice box emitted only a pathetic croak.

  Finally, Hamish saw Ken turn, shielding his eyes against the low, late-autumn sun and peering impatiently. “Come on,” he called. “Hurry up. Two klicks to go.”

  Still gasping, Hamish drew a hand across his throat.

  Ken threw up his arms. He scuffed the soles of his boots against the root of a tree. “What’s wrong?” he called.

  There was no way Hamish could respond.

  Ken started trudging back. He scowled in alarm as he approached, then gripped Hamish’s arm and peered into his face. “What’s the matter?”

  “Asth — ma.”

  “Jesus. You should have warned me.”

  “Didn’t — know — this — heavy-going.”

  “You gonna be all right?”

  “Used — puffer.”

  “Is it working?”

  Hamish shrugged, then nodded.

  Ken peered through the trees and out over a meadow strewn with boulders. “No signs of a farm.” When Hamish made a face, Ken mimed stay cool with his hands and said, “Catch your breath, then we’ll go to Plan B.”

  Half an hour later, Hamish handed Ken the car keys and pitched heavily against the trunk of the Saab, grateful that the long trek was over. He gulped from his water bottle, then dropped into the passenger seat and struggled to pull off his shoes. They fell to the ground. That’s where they could stay. He was not going to let them mess up the Saab.

  Ken slipped into the driver’s seat. “You gave me a scare out there. You sure you’re okay?”

  Hamish sucked back the last mouthful of water and checked his pulse. Strong and regular, and below one-twenty. “I’m just out of breath.” He felt like a fool for having forced the termination of the hike. He looked straight ahead through the windshield. “I told you. I’m too young for a heart attack.”

  “You look like shit.”

  “Good. I won’t have to fake it at the Krooners’.”

  “Forget Plan B. I’m taking you straight home.”

  “No way,” Hamish said. Sweat stung his eyes. “Hell’s bells. I didn’t just walk an hour through quicksand so I could go home empty-handed.” He pulled a Kleenex from his backpack and dabbed his face. “We’ll just drive to the Krooners’ and tell them we’re lost.”

  “Then stop wiping the dirt off your face. You’ll need to look convincing, not pretty.”

  Hamish stuffed the tissue into his pocket and pulled his door closed. He didn’t have the strength to slam it.

  Ken frowned. “And you’re really going to leave those shoes behind? They’ll be fine when they dry out.”

  “Forget it. Do you know where you’re going?”

  Ken patted the map on his knee. “It should be just up the road.” He started to turn the ignition key, but hesitated. “What are we going to say when we get there?”

  “Like we agreed — we got lost.”

  Ken ran his tongue around his lips. “And we’re thirsty.” He started the car and gently revved the engine.

  Hamish stiffened. This was his first time in the passenger seat. “Don’t forget to adjust the rear-view mirror. You sure you know how to drive a standard?”

  “My Accord’s a five-speed.”

  “But watch the clutch. It’s touchy. Grips fast.”

  Ken looked over his shoulder then eased the car onto the roadway. “Just relax.”

  A few minutes later, Ken brought the Saab to a stop beside a battered mailbox. Hamish squinted at the faded letters across its side — KROONER. A long gravel driveway led two hundred metres to a farmhouse. It seemed a lot farther from the road than any of the neighbouring houses. Several buildings clustered beyond it.

  Hamish scrunched his nose. “Smell the pigs.”

  Ken pointed to a distant barn with a curved roof, its walls shiny, like aluminum. “Over there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, see how it’s built a long way from the house? And look, no grass around it. Just mud.”

  “Please, I’ve had enough mud for one day.” Hamish pointed to four long, low sheds. Each stood open-sided and protected by an overhanging pointed roof. “Those look like cages under there. Must be for the mink.”

  Ken let out the clutch and turned into the driveway. “Here goes.”

  They were halfway to the farmhouse when a Rottweiler with a massive head and huge shoulders bounded toward them, barking. With its teeth bared, it looked fierce enough to rip the bumper off the Saab.

  “So much for Plan B,” said Hamish as Ken inched the car toward the house.

  Ken stopped behind a pickup truck. “We’ll soon see if anybody’s home. No one could miss that commotion.” He killed the engine.

  The dog worked its jaws, looking as if it itched to jump through
Hamish’s window.

  After a few long moments, a male voice shouted from the right side of the house. The dog looked over, stopped barking, and sat on the gravel beside Hamish’s door. Its back muscles quivered; its teeth looked as dangerous as ever.

  Lanny Krooner appeared, holding a shovel. He wore a plaid jacket and a pair of tall rubber boots. He drew his lips tight across his teeth and stooped to peer into Hamish’s window. “You lost or something?”

  Hamish rolled the window down a crack. He swallowed hard. “Hello, Lanny. It’s Dr. Wakefield. From Caledonian.”

  Lanny stepped back. It was impossible to tell whether he was angry or horrified. “Jesus Christ,” he said, shaking his head, wiping his mouth with his hand. “It’s Ned, isn’t it? Going to get that amputation after all.”

  “No, no,” Hamish said. “He’s fine. Really. He’s fine.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “We were hiking on the trail and — and we must have made a wrong turn on the way home. Saw your name on the mailbox and . . .”

  Lanny rapped the hood of the Saab. “No GPS in this machine?”

  “No.”

  “So you wanta get back to town?”

  Hamish nodded. On his home turf, and with that shovel in his hand, Krooner looked more forbidding than Hamish remembered him. No carefully gelled hair, no razor-pressed jeans, no stylish loafers.

  “Dead simple. A left, a right, then left and right again, then left.”

  “Sorry?”

  “That’ll get you back to Highway Six.”

  The dog was panting beside Lanny and wagging its tail, which meant it was probably safe for Hamish to power his window down a bit farther. But the second he put out his head to look back along the driveway, the dog bared its teeth.

  Lanny patted the animal’s massive head. “Easy, Millie.”

  “You mean we turn left here?” asked Hamish, eyeing the dog, his finger hovering by the electric-window button.

  “Then right, then left and right and left. No sweat.” Lanny stepped away from the car. He was going to let it go at that. No offer of a drink. No tour of his operations. No samples of his sausages.