by Thomas Hopp
“Uh-huh,” he said, continuing to glance past me into the office. “I’ll bet your landlord’s not too pleased.”
“He’s not. He’ll be charging me for the repair.”
The officer eyed me carefully, but apparently bought my story as the second officer came scuffing slowly up the last flight. “We just wanted to make sure everyone was safe in here,” he said. The second officer, hefty, sweaty, and very winded, joined him.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Thanks for your concern.”
The first cop turned to the second. “Nothing here,” he said. “Let’s go.” He got no argument from the winded man, a slump-shouldered and pink-cheeked fellow who immediately turned and started back down the stairs, glad to be going. The first followed the second but called back, “Have a nice day sir. Sorry to disturb you. Please call the precinct if you see anyone suspicious around here.”
“I will.” I breathed a deep sigh of relief as their footsteps receded down the stairs. John Steel rose from his hiding place and whispered, “Thanks man.”
“You’re welcome, I guess.”
He held up the harpoon. “I had to get it any way I could.”
“Well, I guess you got it,” I said irritably. I gestured for him to sit in my overstuffed guest chair. I took a seat at my desk. “Now, maybe you can explain why you took it.”
“The harpoon? It’s my mission, remember? My father says it’s the symbol of male power for Makahs. It’s the return of our traditional strength.”
I shook my head. “While you’re playing with your phallic symbol,” I grumbled, “our society is crumbling.”
“That’s too bad for you guys,” Steel said sincerely. “But this is a connection to our ancestors. Something Makahs lost.”
“A lot of good it will do the rest of us. Haven’t you heard what’s happening on the peninsula?”
“Yeah. People are going crazy everywhere with the Lost Souls disease. Just like old times.” Steel seemed more interested in his harpoon than my concerns. He admired it, running a fingertip along one edge of the mussel-shell point.
I used my desk telephone to call McKean at home. “Interesting,” he remarked when I told him about Steel. “Bring him here. I want to question everything he knows about his father’s recipe for sea spinach.”
“Sea spinach!” I exclaimed. “Have you come around to that again?”
“I left the jar you brought me in the hands of Janet and Robert. They’ve gotten some very interesting laboratory results. Get John Steel here quickly and I’ll explain.”
Given the presence of the police in the neighborhood, it was necessary to smuggle Steel out of the building. I left him in the office while I ran to get my car. A few minutes later I pulled the Mustang up in front of the office building and Steel scuttled out the doorway. He got in quickly and laid the harpoon on the back seat. As I drove off, he crouched down to avoid being spotted by cops swarming the neighborhood like angry hornets.
* * * * * * * * * *
We arrived at McKean’s home a few minutes later. I went to the door and rang the bell. Steel followed me carrying the harpoon, from which he was unwilling to be separated for even a short time. After a second ring, McKean answered the door. “Come in gentlemen,” he said, immediately turning and motioning for us to follow him upstairs. “I’m in the middle of a very interesting Skype video call.”
In his office, we took chairs as McKean sat at his desk and resumed a conversation with Janet Emerson and Robert Johnson, who were at a computer in his former laboratories. McKean introduced John Steel to them and then proceeded. “You see, Fin, Robert has been testing the effects of sea spinach on the Neah virus in cultures of human cells. He’s been able to demonstrate an antiviral effect that blocks the growth and spread of the virus.”
“That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed. “So you’ve found a better vaccine?”
“Not a vaccine,” McKean said. “But an interesting alternative.”
“If it’s not a vaccine,” I asked, “how does it kill the virus?”
“More like an antibiotic,” he replied. “It’s a substance with a direct virus-killing effect. No immunization needed.”
“That’s great! It’s an alternative to the Holloman vaccine!”
“Possibly,” said McKean.
“You don’t sound too certain,” I said. “It could cure the epidemic, couldn’t it?”
“Answer: unknown,” McKean replied. “It works on a small scale in tissue-culture flasks, but we don’t know if it’s potent enough to protect humans. And let’s not forget that the substance itself is still unknown.”
Steel said, “I’ll bet that’s why Makahs aren’t getting sick. My father’s been passing this stuff around ever since the last whale hunt.”
“I had begun to surmise as much,” McKean acknowledged. “And hence my assignment of Robert and Janet to begin the search for the active principle in your father’s recipe.”
“Couldn’t you just feed sea spinach to everyone who needs it?” I asked.
“And where would we get it from?”
“From Gordon Steel, I guess. He’s the only one who knows how to make it.”
“I see two problems there, Fin. First, old Steel has already made clear his lack of desire to help us. And second, Tleena Steel told us the mixture does indeed contain whale oil among a host of other ingredients. Given that the protesters have blocked Makahs from hunting any more whales, I doubt we can develop a medical product from it. We need a reliable source, or a way to identify what substance in the mixture is the active ingredient. Perhaps it’s not a component of the whale oil at all. One of the plants may be its source, or it may be a substance generated during the cooking process. There are too many possibilities. Without more material and more knowledge, I’m not certain how to proceed.”
“But it will take a long time to sort all that out.”
“Yes, of course,” said McKean. “Scientific research is always a slow and uncertain process. But we have made exemplary progress so far. Robert has developed an excellent bioassay for antiviral effects in the sea spinach, and Janet has begun an effort to isolate the active substance. Speaking of which, let’s continue with our discussion. Janet, why don’t you tell my guests what you were telling me before the interruption?”
“Like you suggested, Peyton, I made a chloroform-methanol extract of sea spinach and separated it by reversed-phase HPLC.”
“Good,” said McKean.
“Then I took the active fraction and saponified it with sodium hydroxide and Robert analyzed it on the mass spectrometer.”
“Good again. And what did you find?”
Janet held up a sheet of computer printout with an x-y plot of data on it, showing a large series of sharp, spiked peaks above a low, shaky baseline. “There are too many substances in the mix to get a simple answer.” She used a pen to point at a particularly tall spike near the center of the plot. “But we’ve got a good clean result for this substance. It’s an exact match to the mass of cetyl glyceryl ether.
“Ah!” McKean exclaimed. “Cetyl! The name suggests its source. Cetus, in Greek, means whale, and cetylol is a fatty oil that was first isolated from whale blubber. I think there’s little doubt about the source of that component.”
“And another component, here,” said Janet, pointing at a second tall peak. “It’s got the mass of DHA.”
“Docosahexaenoic acid?” McKean asked.
“That’s right.”
“And again a clear indication, not of its source this time, but of its function. DHA is the precursor molecule to resolvin and neuroprotectin, two substances that the body uses to fight inflammation. So we have a molecule from whale oil that contains a substance that might fight the brain inflammation associated with this disease. That’s extremely interesting.”
“The other peaks - ” Janet indicated more tall spikes to the right of the first two, ” - those are all still unknown and cross-contaminated.”
“So, there’s s
till more to the molecule,” McKean remarked.
“But there are so many other peaks on the data plot,” she said. “I’m not sure how we’ll ever sort it out.”
McKean thought a moment. “I see that your other mystery peaks all have greater molecular weights than the two components you’ve identified. It is therefore a good assumption that we’re looking at a complex lipid. Assuming it may be a ganglioside or an alkaloid, why don’t you try the hydrofluoric acid reaction next? And hydrolysis with hydrochloric acid as well. And permethylation.”
She made notes. “There’s one thing you should know, Peyton. We’re running out of sea spinach. Those experiments will finish off what we’ve got left.”
“That’s bad news,” McKean murmured. “But if my assumptions are correct, then you’ll get a definitive result from the last bit of material. If I’m wrong, then a precious sample will be wasted.”
“That makes me nervous,” Janet said.
“You’ve got to press on. Those procedures are my best guesses as to what will get the answer.”
McKean ended the Skype call after urging Robert and Janet to begin their work immediately.
“They’re shouldering a heavy burden,” I said.
McKean nodded. “They’re first-class researchers. I’ll be to blame if the experiments don’t succeed.” His expression blanked as if his mental wheels were spinning unsuccessfully in an effort to come up with a more satisfactory course of action.
John sat cradling his harpoon like a cherished child. He said, “I’m sure my father would give you more sea spinach.”
“I doubt it,” McKean replied. “He’s already refused to cooperate with us.”
“When I bring him this.” John patted the harpoon. “He’ll be proud of me. Then I’ll tell him he’s got to help you.”
“What do you say, Peyton?” I asked. “I’m willing to drive you there.”
There followed a lengthy debate about the wisdom of another trip to Neah Bay, in which McKean held the negative view and parried our reasons for going, one after another, citing the need for him to stay close to the action in the lab, the impossibility of crossing the quarantine lines, and the probability of the old man refusing us again regardless of John Steel’s intervention.
While the conversation carried on, some muffled noises arose outside McKean’s office. Eventually he held up a hand to silence the debate and went out the door. We followed him to an adjacent room, which was decked out in the boyish trappings of a child’s bedroom. The source of the noises, Sean McKean, lay belly-down on the floor half-hidden under his bed with his face obscured from us.
“Sean,” McKean called to the boy with a smile fading from his face. “What are you up to?”
When the child made no response, McKean’s smile faded further. “Sean?” He leaned his long body over the boy. Still no response. He touched the boy’s shoulder and got an immediate reaction. Uttering a growl like an enraged wildcat, the boy exploded into movement. Red-encircled eyes glaring, he lashed out at his father with clawed hands, one of which scratched McKean’s cheek. Before McKean had time to react, the boy went at him with a snarl and sank his teeth into McKean’s left hand.
McKean cried out and tried to withdraw his hand, but the boy had the fleshy part in his teeth, shaking it like a pit bull on the attack. McKean used his right hand to pry his left hand loose, shoving Sean away so roughly that the boy fell backward and rapped his head against the wall. The impact changed his expression from rage to pain. He burst into tears and keeled over sideways, taking a fetal posture and whimpering.
McKean stared at his son, his face taut with anguish, holding his bleeding left hand with his right. “My God,” he gasped. “He’s got the disease! But I brought him some sea spinach. I watched him put it in his mouth.”
“Did you watch him swallow it?” I asked. “Kids are notorious for not eating their vegetables.”
McKean thought for a long moment without answering my question. Then he murmured, “He seemed fine this morning. But he’s already reached stage two. It hit him quickly. Just like those children in Port Angeles.” He leaned near his son again to inspect the purplish circles around the boy’s eyes. The boy reacted to his nearness with an enraged hiss. He backed away and plunked down onto a child’s chair, sprawling his long arms and legs around him in devastation. “What am I gong to do?” he moaned. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet and hurried to his office. He had Janet on the phone within seconds, asking her whether there was any sea spinach left.
“Sorry,” she sympathized. “The last bits are already on the machines. I wish there was something I could do.”
“You’re not to blame,” he said. “It’s just the worst of bad luck.” He ended the call and sat at his desk, looking bleak and desperate. Sean could be heard moaning in the next room.
“The vaccine,” I said. “You’ve got to take a chance with it.”
“How can I?” He stared at the floor. “All my scientific training tells me no one should use the vaccine. But my heart says, ‘Just this once Peyton, relax your scientific scruples. This is your only child! Do whatever you can to save him.’ ‘
“I agree with your heart, Peyton. You can’t let science get in the way when it comes to your son.”
A look of agonized indecision came over his face. Then he resolutely shook his head no. “Don’t you see, Fin? It’s just the opposite. The scientist in me knows I can’t risk Sean’s life on the Holloman vaccine. My commitment to the scientific method isn’t something I can shed when it becomes inconvenient.”
“But you can’t just sit by and let this happen to him - “
“Nor can I quit being a scientist. I will not treat him with that vaccine.”
“What would your wife say?”
“She’s out of town on a business trip. She can’t get home because of the airport shutdown.”
“But don’t you think she would want to play it safe and get a dose of the vaccine Holloman took?”
“Maybe she would. But I can’t make myself ignore the gp91 threat.”
“You can’t just sit and watch him die.”
“No. Of course not. But - ” his voice broke off, choked with pain.
He returned to Sean’s room and stood silently watching his son, who had quieted into a limp and deathly looking sprawl. Observing Sean’s shallow, fevered breathing, McKean murmured, “Fin, do you think you can get through the blockade?”
“I can try, Peyton.”
McKean recovered from his funk quickly. He took a blanket from the bed and wrapped the boy, who had lapsed into unconsciousness. We went down and McKean got in the back seat of the Mustang cradling the boy in his arms. John Steel took the front passenger seat, cradling his precious harpoon. As I drove the Mustang out of McKean’s driveway, I said, “I’m not sure how we can get there from here. The quarantine will be in force any way we go.”
“Turn left,” said McKean with newfound resolution in his voice. “We’ll try the Fauntleroy ferry.”
PART FIVE: GOING TO THE SOURCE
Chapter 21
West Seattle’s Fauntleroy Ferry Terminal is not far from Peyton McKean’s home. Although smaller than the downtown docks, it nevertheless represents a good crossing to the Olympic Peninsula via Southworth, Bremerton, and the Hood Canal floating bridge. A ferry was inbound as I pulled my Mustang up to the ticket kiosk, which was dark and deserted. There was a cardboard sign taped in the window with a note scrawled in red marking pen: Closed Due To Quarantine.
“We’ll see about that.” I rolled the Mustang down onto the long pier, which jutted out a quarter mile into Puget Sound with the ferry slip at its end. All four waiting lanes and the single offloading lane were empty, except for five vehicles at the far end. Near a small cinderblock passenger-waiting building, four military supply trucks were lined up, and near them a police patrol car blocked the point where the pier narrowed into a two-lane passage to the ferry slip. The slip’s loading ramp, a short drawbridge of asphalt on ste
el between tall pilings and under a gantry superstructure, was raised for the incoming ferry.
I pulled up beside the police car and rolled down my window.
The officer rolled down his window and said sternly, “Terminal’s closed, folks. No traffic to or from the peninsula except government vehicles.”
McKean leaned forward between the front seats and explained, “We’ve got a sick child - “
“Move along!” the officer snapped. Grim-faced, he pointed back the way we had come. “Take him to a hospital.”
“We’ve got to get him to Neah Bay - ” McKean began again, but the cop cut him off again.
“You’ll all be going to jail if you don’t get moving!”
McKean was intent on pressing his case but I sensed nothing good would come of it. I pushed in the clutch and shifted into reverse.
“Hey, man, look!” Steel exclaimed, pointing over the top of the patrol car at the ferry, which had approached while we spoke to the officer. “She’s coming in way too fast!”
My jaw dropped. The three-deck-high green-and-white hulk loomed so near I had to crane my neck upward to take it in. Identifiable as the Issaquah by a wooden placard under her pilot-cabin windows, she came on at an alarming speed. Inside the windows, two men grappled with each other against the glass of the central windowpane. One, dressed in a captain’s white shirt and dark vest, was trying to pull a second, naked man away from the pilot wheel. The man flailed at the captain with one arm while grasping the wheel with the other hand. The captain struck back at him in an effort to regain the controls.
John grabbed my shoulder and cried, “Get us out of here!” His shout sent adrenaline surging through me. I stomped the accelerator and dumped the clutch. The Mustang’s tires squealed in reverse and we pulled away from the patrol car, leaving the officer gaping at death bearing down on him only a few yards away. I turned my head so I could glance at both the rearview mirror and the front windshield, simultaneously keeping an eye on where I was going and what was coming at us.
I heard the officer scream as the ferry rammed the slip and the end of the pier buckled. The impact sent a shudder through the dock, jolting the Mustang free of the road surface as we accelerated backward with tires screeching. The loading ramp flew into the air, a twenty-foot mass of twisted metal struts and plating that tumbled twice and then crashed down on the patrol car, crushing it. Simultaneously the captain and his adversary, propelled by their forward momentum, smashed through the pilothouse windows and plunged down onto the wreckage, disappearing into a pile of twisted metal and rubble churned up by the bow of the ferry.
