OMEGA

by Patrick Lynch

They shook hands. Now that he knew who the man was, Ford was struck by his rumpled appearance. He wore an old-fashioned green suit that was shiny on the lapels, and his loud striped tie had a grease stain just under the knot. It looked as if he had slept in his clothes. He certainly didn’t look like one of the drug industry executives.

  “So, what brings you to the conference?”

  Novak shrugged.

  “I like to keep abreast of developments. But that wasn’t … Actually, I wanted to ask you something. This pneumoniae you’ve had at the Willowbrook—has it shown up at any of the other hospitals in the area?”

  “Not as far as I’m aware, but that doesn’t necessarily mean very much. We report resistant infections to the CDC in Atlanta, and they’re supposed to keep us posted if anything dangerous is going around. But, frankly, the local lines of communication could be better.”

  Novak nodded. “Yes, I see. And I suppose a lot of the people that come in—I mean in that area—they’re often at an advanced stage of infection. Is that right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So that they could die before the full properties of a particular pathogen have been discovered.”

  “It can take two weeks to culture out a sample and find out for sure what you’re dealing with. A lot of our patients never last that long. As I tried to explain earlier, a high proportion have no regular access to health care. They come to us as emergencies.”

  “Still, I’d welcome a chance to go over the data with you,” Novak added. “If you could spare the time.”

  “Yes, of course. If you’d like to give me a call at the hospital. I’m usually…”

  A woman had approached them. She was standing a few feet away, holding a cup and saucer in both hands, waiting for him to finish. Ford was surprised he hadn’t noticed her before. She had abundant dark hair and dark, almost Arabic eyes. Ford guessed that she was probably in her mid-thirties. She was power-dressed in a gray outfit that accentuated her Mediterranean complexion.

  “You did say you take sugar, Professor Novak?” she said, smiling at Ford.

  Novak looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Yes, I did, thank you. Dr. Ford, this is…”

  He hesitated, unable, it seemed, to remember her name.

  “Helen Wray,” the woman said, holding out her free hand. “Stern Corporation. A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Ford.”

  They shook hands.

  “Congratulations on your speech,” she said. “I think you made quite an impression.”

  “I’m not sure I made myself very popular,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “It certainly woke us all up. What did you think, Professor Novak?”

  “It was interesting,” said Novak. He looked down at his coffee.

  But Helen Wray persisted: “Would you favor greater regulation of the industry? Dr. Ford seemed to want export controls.”

  Novak frowned. He was suddenly very reluctant to talk.

  “Resistance is a serious problem. How to deal with it… That may be a matter for politicians, but certainly not for biochemists like me. Dr. Ford, do you have a card, by any chance?”

  “Yes, I do.” Ford took one from his top pocket.

  “Thank you. I hope you’ll excuse me. I have to…”

  “Of course,” said Wray.

  Novak turned and wandered out of the room. Helen Wray watched him disappear and frowned.

  “Hell, I hope it wasn’t something I said.”

  Ford smiled.

  “I don’t think so. Do you know him?”

  “Not really. Know of him. He’s actually an incredibly difficult person to get to meet. Almost a recluse these days.”

  “He’s retired, then?”

  “Very. You should be flattered that he wants to talk.”

  Ford shrugged.

  “Well, then, I guess I am.”

  She looked at him hard.

  “He used to work at a biotech company we took over a few years back. High-powered back then—as in gigawatts.”

  “But still keeping his hand in, it seems.”

  “Yes,” she said, again fixing Ford with her dark eyes, “so it seems.”

  Ford smiled and wished he weren’t looking such a mess. Sunny was always telling him to “get out and meet some girls,” but one way and another it never happened. Now it finally was happening and he was in a hundred-year-old suit that made him look fat.

  “So how long have you been working in South Central?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Jesus. And how long are you going to stick with it?”

  Ford hesitated. It was clear from the tone of her voice that in her view no one would stick with it for a moment longer than necessary, no one who had a choice.

  “I enjoy my work,” he heard himself saying. “It’s what I chose. Trauma, I mean.”

  She studied him for a moment, as if doubtful of his sincerity. He felt a faint buzz of tension travel up his spine. It was her eyes. They had a hard mineral quality that reminded him of … volcanic glass. Obsidian. Yes, that was it. Hard, but hot rather than cold. She was really something.

  “Sure, why not?” she said. “That’s great.”

  “It’s really not as—”

  He was interrupted by his beeper. It meant he was needed. A Code Yellow cardiothoracic, probably. And he hadn’t even had a chance to find out what she did for a living.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to go. Do you know where there’s a phone?”

  “No problem,” she said, reaching into her jacket pocket. “Use mine.”

  4

  Turning into his street, Ford forgot to slow down to the obligatory crawl, dropped into the speed dip at the intersection and clunked the front fender of the Buick. It was still seesawing from the impact when he rolled up in front of his house. With a disdainful wrench he pulled the gearshift across to park and snapped off the ignition. Four hours working on the Shark, then the conference, then another two hours in the critical room had taken its toll. It had been a very long day.

  He sat for a moment, staring at the fine layer of dust on the burgundy vinyl dashboard. Sweet, grassy, suburban air drifted in through his open window, still warm two hours after sundown. And over the smell of the newly mown grass he caught the leafy tang of the Spanish oaks that grew thickly along the sidewalks. In the distance he could hear the stuttering hiss of a sprinkler. He looked up at the house, half expecting to see Sunny’s face appear through the living room drapes. But the window was empty, and out of nowhere he was hit by a feeling of loss strong enough to make him grab the wheel, as if the car, though stationary, was swerving out of control. He snapped the ignition back on and turned to KKGO, hoping for something soothing. Gary Hollis was introducing the next piece in his sleepy drawl. Mozart. A piano concerto.

  Ford listened to the opening bars, waiting for the bad feeling to go. It was a sensation he knew well, a sudden cold squeeze that crept up on him at odd moments like this. Returning home, seeing the lights on in the house, was always difficult, but normally he was ready, prepared to get over it the way he negotiated the dip at the end of the street. But if he was really tired, if he wasn’t really paying attention, he could hit this little pocket of despair, a depression he had to get out of straightaway or it could deepen into a gloomy evening in front of the television or, worse, feelings of guilt about not being around more for Sunny.

  It had been three years since Carolyn’s death—three years and two months, in fact, since the call from the LAPD notifying him of the smash on 405—and he had more or less gotten over it, indeed had been obliged to get over it, if only for Sunny’s sake. But there were still moments like this, when he felt complete and utter incomprehension—so that the idea that Carolyn was not behind the living room drapes, and never again would be, seemed absurd. For him, in the moment of confusion, gripping the wheel, she was there, sitting with Sunny, waiting for him to come in through the door.

  He switched off the Mozart and
climbed out of the car. Still there was no face at the window. Sunny was either out with friends or sulking—angry with him for being so late. When she was younger, she always used to wait for him at Mrs. Ellerey’s, two doors down, but nowadays she didn’t bother unless he called to say he’d be late. She insisted she was old enough not to need a baby-sitter. He stepped onto his own patch of carefully manicured grass and checked out what looked like a little moss, pushing at it with his foot.

  The front door opened.

  “I thought Conrad was coming back.”

  Ford looked up and saw his daughter framed in the doorway. She was wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt through which you could clearly see her developing breasts.

  “He got held up. He’ll be along in a minute. How did the game go?”

  “Oh, okay, I guess. I made dinner.”

  “Thanks, honey.” He closed the car door. “Did you use the vegetables I bought yesterday?”

  “Nope.”

  She gave him what he knew she felt was a winning smile.

  “Why not?”

  Saying nothing, she took his hand and led him into the house, where there was a warm smell of tomato and melted cheese. He followed her into the kitchen, where she had prepared the breakfast nook for supper. She had thrown a blue cloth across the little pine table and had set out knives and forks for three people.

  “Mmmmm delicious,” he said. “Monosodium glutamate, anti-caking agent, preservative, mood stabilizers, plutonium. Let me guess.”

  Sunny opened the oven door on a huge pizza she had taken from the freezer.

  “Come on, Dad. You know Conrad likes it.”

  And he did. He turned up five minutes later, and they sat right down to eat. Allen’s wife, Ellen, was going through a Creole cuisine phase, and he said it was great for him to eat something that didn’t involve rice. That Sunny should have remembered this—apparently Allen had mentioned it the last time they had eaten together—was not surprising. She was particularly fond of Allen, and he seemed to return the affection. Seeing them together, Ford often got the feeling they were somehow on the same wavelength, while he was tuned into something else altogether.

  But although supper went well, with Ford telling them all about the conference, Sunny was more reserved than usual. She was also clearly having trouble swallowing her food. When she refused a second slice of the pizza, Allen asked her what was wrong.

  “What’s up, sugar? You in love again?”

  “No, I am hungry, but I’ve got this…”—she rubbed at her throat—“this killer pain in the throat.” She made a face, pressing her lips into a hard line and gulping. “I can hardly swallow.”

  Ford reached across the table and gently tilted back her head.

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Sunny opened her mouth, rolling her eyes at the same time for Allen’s benefit.

  “You should have made soup,” said Ford, letting go of her chin. “We could have had soup.”

  “So, what about my throat?”

  “It’s a little inflamed. That’s all. You should have made something a little easier to swallow.”

  “I wanted pizza.”

  “We could always put yours in the blender,” said Allen, smiling, his mouth full of food.

  “Very funny,” said Sunny, delivering a playful slap.

  She swallowed another piece, frowning with the effort.

  “Just chew for a while, sweetheart,” said Ford.

  She made a show of elaborately chewing, watching him out of the corner of her eyes.

  “So, how was your speech?” asked Allen. “Do you think they understood it?”

  “Oh, I think they managed to follow most of it,” said Ford. “You know what a paragon of clarity and concision I am. Marshall West was there. He seemed to share a lot of my views, actually.”

  Allen nodded noncommittally. Like most of the staff at the Willowbrook, he viewed West with a mixture of suspicion and gratitude. As health czar West was so powerful it was good to have him defending your interests, but because he was so powerful, and because he moved in political circles, any interests he might be defending came down to being his own. Who knew when healthcare provision in South Central might drop off his personal agenda? When West visited the Willowbrook, people smiled a lot and were careful about what they said.

  “Did you meet any nice women?” said Sunny out of the blue.

  Ford pushed back from the table, faking surprise.

  “Honey, conferences are for professional people to exchange ideas.”

  “I heard they were where businessmen went to have parties and pick up girls.”

  Ford looked across at Allen for his reaction to this and was surprised to see him looking very serious.

  “I think that’s more conventions,” said Ford, frowning. Allen caught his expression, tried to smile, and then looked down at his plate.

  They finished the pizza in silence, Ford preoccupied with what had been said at the conference, thinking also of the woman he had spoken to. He wondered if she was the type Sunny would consider nice. She was certainly good looking.

  “What was your speech about, anyway?” asked Sunny, putting a tub of ice cream on the table.

  “I told you. It was about medicine—the way we take it.”

  Sunny raised her eyebrows.

  “Right. But you never really went into details.”

  She scooped expert round balls of mint chocolate chip into three bowls. She had begun to take an interest in biology at school, but Ford was always wary of talking too much about his ideas and his work. He worried that one day she would reject it all precisely because it was an interest of his. He preferred to let her find her way into it herself.

  “Didn’t I?” he said, adopting his usual fake indifference. “Well, it was about antibiotics, specifically.”

  Sunny pointed at Allen with the scooper, dripping melted ice cream onto the tablecloth.

  “That’s what I need,” she said.

  “What for?” said Allen.

  “For my throat, silly. There’s a kid at school says his mother gave him some and his sore throat just went, poof!” She clicked her fingers with a surprising snap.

  “Oh, really,” said Ford. “What did he take exactly?”

  “I don’t know exactly. All I know is he doesn’t have a sore throat anymore. Everybody’s got it, though. The throat, I mean. Mr. Buckley said it was strep throat. Is that right, Conrad?”

  “Probably it is.”

  “What is it, strep?”

  “It’s a bug. Its real name is Streptococcus. But it isn’t very powerful. Your immune system knows how to deal with it.”

  Sunny looked at Allen for a moment, considering this information. She had her mother’s eyes. Gray-blue with flecks of gold radiating out from the pupil.

  “Dad, can’t I have an antibiotic like Carl Merriman?”

  “Do you know what they say about strep throat, Sunny?” said Allen.

  Sunny made a little adjustment on her seat, squaring her shoulders to face Allen, getting ready for the information. Even though she was becoming more of a teenager everyday, she still occasionally reverted to the mannerisms Ford had grown to love in her as a child. He sometimes wondered if she didn’t do it just to please him, to reassure him that she was still his little girl. He smiled and ruffled her hair, something that, officially, she didn’t allow anymore.

  “They say that properly treated strep throat can be cleared up in seven days, but left to itself it can hang around for a week.”

  Sunny frowned for a moment. Then she smiled.

  Ford and Allen sat for a long time after Sunny had gone to bed, talking about the Hammel case and about the situation in South Central generally. Since catching that odd, sober look at the table, Ford had been watching Allen and sensed that there really was something wrong. He asked himself if there had been anything recently that Allen might have said—about his home life, for example, his marriage with Ellen. But whatever it was that was b
othering him, Allen didn’t seem to want to get into it, and so the talk stayed fairly general. They were planning a fishing trip in October, just the two of them alone, and for a while they discussed different options, with Allen, as always, preferring the most expensive.

  At ten-thirty he stood up to go.

  “Oh, man,” he said, stretching his arms. “She’s growing up so fast.”

  It was a moment before Ford realized he meant Sunny.

  “She sure is,” he said. “Too fast, maybe. You know I go into her bedroom sometimes and it’s like somebody else’s kid has moved in their stuff.”

  “She’s just growing up,” said Allen, reaching for his jacket and car keys. “Just moving on.”

  He looked at Ford, and for a moment Ford thought he might be about to say what was on his mind. But he didn’t.

  5

  Despite the wired jaw and the pressure dressings, the Shark was looking alert when Ford went in to see him the next day. There was even a flicker of disbelief—or maybe it was anger—in his eyes when Ford stood at the end of bed three and told him how lucky he had been.

  “Guess he doesn’t feel so lucky,” said Conrad Allen, coming up behind Ford, a clipboard in his hands. Allen was in the ICU to check on the previous day’s casualties. He and Ford reviewed some of the cases together. Ford was especially relieved to see that the patrolman who had been shot in the thigh was making good progress.

  They reached the end of the ward and stood talking for a moment. Allen wanted to know if Lucy Patou had caught up with him at the conference.

  “I was going to ask you last night, but it went out of my head,” he said.

  “No, I didn’t talk to her. She was there, though. She was also in ER yesterday, or so I hear. Sent home three of our best people.”

  “Oh?”

  “Gloria and two of the other nurses have this strep throat infection that’s going round.”

  “Oh, right. Like Sunny.”

  Allen looked down at the floor for a moment. Ford could see he had something on his mind.

  “Yeah, I spoke to Gloria yesterday afternoon,” Allen mumbled. “She mentioned something about that. Some discomfort…” He looked back up, shrugging, raising his eyebrows. “Oh, well. I guess it’s in the patients’ best interests. Don’t want your nurses breathing bacteria all over them.”