“Apoptosis?”
Elmer nodded.
Apoptosis. Nature’s version of suicide. It was still a poorly understood frontier in medicine. In some circumstances, human cells damaged by infection, mechanical injury, or toxins announced their injured state to the body’s immune system, which promptly induced those cells to commit suicide. Specialized lymphocytes — Killer T-cells — served as the messenger of death in those instances, triggering the process of self-destruction.
“Strangest thing I ever saw,” Elmer said. “Eventually, Caleb Fagan and I came up with a way to down-regulate the reaction, to get the immune response we needed without triggering the self-destruct signal.”
“Is it possible that Zenavax is encountering a similar problem with their malaria vaccine?”
“Hardly likely. We published our findings at the time. This was before I’d ever heard of Zenavax. The solution to the problem is available to anyone who wants to read about it.”
“You’re not helping me much, partner.”
Elmer shrugged. “Well, if you’re looking for a connection between Zenavax and those two deaths, look for an alphavirus.”
“What do you mean?”
“Zenavax built their entire company on that virus, and there’s still a lot of untapped potential for using alphaviruses in future vaccines. In fact, it’s an ideal vector for a malaria vaccine. It promotes the kind of immune response you need to protect against malaria. What I’m saying is, if there’s a connection between Kate and those children, you’re likely to find the remnants of an alphavirus in their blood. Run some antibody titers, take some tissue and—”
Elmer’s gaze moved toward the door just as Ben heard the knock.
“I need to talk to you.” It was Caleb Fagan, and he was looking at Elmer. “I just got out of a Risk Management Committee meeting.”
What nitwit had come up with the euphemism, risk management? Ben wondered. The term was nothing more than a roundabout way of referring to litigation and malpractice lawsuits.
Caleb continued without bothering to excuse the interruption. “Barnesdale’s favorite attorney was there, the same jerk that rallied the troops against Luke. Of course, the Erickson thing came up and this guy tells us that the hospital is already negotiating with the football player’s attorney. Long story short — Barnesdale’s going to write a letter to the Department of Children and Family Services saying he reviewed the E.R. records for Erickson’s daughter and found no convincing evidence of child abuse.”
“What?” Ben said. “Why the hell’s he gonna do that?”
“Because when Barnesdale does that, DCFS will probably drop the investigation,” Caleb explained. “And if that happens, it sounds like Erickson will drop whatever legal action he was planning against the hospital and medical staff.”
Ben said, “I always thought that DCFS called their own shots.”
“I’m sure they do,” Caleb said, “but look at this from their point of view. The only thing that DCFS has to go on are Luke’s E.R. notes describing some bruises. There’s no other evidence — no X-rays, no pictures of the bruises, no statements by anyone. And supposedly, Erickson has no history of abuse in the past. Luke’s the only person stepping forward on this, and his scuffle doesn’t make him look very objective. If someone here at Children’s — someone with credentials like Barnesdale — looks at the records and says there’s little or no evidence of physical abuse, it weakens the case even further. DCFS is probably going to drop the investigation.”
“Oh, Lord,” Elmer said.
Caleb said, “That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid.”
* * *
Luke’s first instinct was to ignore the ring of his cell phone, but when he saw his father’s office number on the display, he took the call.
It turned out that his first instinct had been right.
Luke took slow deep breaths as his father, Ben, and Caleb recounted Barnesdale’s manipulation of the DCFS investigation.
But when Caleb said, “From DCFS’s perspective, I guess it’s a losing proposition,” Luke’s temper boiled over.
“Next time,” he said, “when Erickson’s daughter comes in with a crushed skull, someone will just have to explain to her that she was a losing proposition.”
There was a long silence before Caleb said, “There’s one more thing. The attorney told us that Erickson would probably still file a lawsuit against you as an individual. You’re not included in the deal they struck.”
Ben jumped in to state the obvious: “Barnesdale and his weasely attorney are hanging you out to dry.”
“If you haven’t already done it,” Caleb said, “find yourself a lawyer.”
23
It was just after three-thirty when Luke finally pulled out of his driveway and headed down the hill. He had allowed just enough time to get to Kolter’s.
His father and Ben had called back minutes after his discussion with Caleb. When the first words out of Ben’s mouth were, “We need to talk about Zenavax and Guatemala,” Luke had cut him off and suggested a four o’clock meeting at the deli.
He hadn’t wanted to have that discussion while searching for listening devices in his apartment.
Luke’s knowledge of listening devices was limited, and more than a decade old. His only advantage was that any potential adversary would likely assume him ignorant of such methods. He had first searched his apartment for signs of tampering — dust layers missing from the upper edges of wall-mounted electrical plates and picture frames, scuff marks and nicks on the screws that held together his phones and appliances, and indentations in the carpets where table legs had been moved.
After completing his visual inspection, he turned over every piece of furniture, pulled out every drawer, examined every light fixture, unscrewed every wall-mounted plate, ran his hands over the trim of each door, and removed the covers from both phones.
He had found nothing.
As he turned onto Los Feliz Boulevard, Luke was wondering if the turmoil in his life had stirred his suspicions to an unhealthy level. It was then that he spotted the vintage blue Ford Mustang in his rearview mirror. It was three cars behind him, in the right-hand lane.
Luke immediately called his father and, without giving a reason, postponed their meeting until five-thirty. Ben was grumbling in the background when Luke thumbed the END CALL button.
If Erickson’s P.I. wanted something to put on film, he was going to give him an eyeful.
When Luke walked into the tae kwon do studio ten minutes later, Grand Master Kim and two other black belt instructors were stretching on the mat. After coming to America fifteen years ago, Kim had established his studio in L.A.’s Koreatown. He had come with a reputation for unforgiving standards and debilitating workouts, qualities that contributed to his coaching Korea’s national team to three consecutive world titles.
Luke was a regular at the studio, training there no less than once a week. He had never bothered to test beyond a second-degree black belt, but after almost twenty-five years of martial arts, he could hold his own against any of the instructors and had a standing invitation to train with them.
The stale odor of dried sweat, an olfactory signature that he had acclimated to long ago, filled his nostrils as he walked through the rear entrance. He bowed to Grand Master Kim, receiving a curt nod in return. It was as enthusiastic a welcome as anyone ever received from the man.
Luke took his place on the canvas mat and began contorting his body into peculiar postures that most people could achieve only with the help of equipment found in a medieval prison. While stretching, he spotted the Mustang through the floor-to-ceiling glass window. It was parked halfway up the block on the opposite side of the street.
Fifteen minutes later he was several minutes into a sparring match with the younger and burlier of two instructors. Luke executed a spinning crescent kick after blocking a jab — a centrifugal spray of sweat launched from his head like water from a blowhole. A volley of kicks and pun
ches ensued, but none landed. Both combatants backed off and eyed each other, looking for an opening between feints.
When Luke determined that he’d given the P.I. sufficient time to capture the action through a telephoto lens, he lowered his guard just long enough for the other black belt to catch the side of his head with a glancing blow.
Luke held up his hand to acknowledge the hit and bowed to his sparring partner, then lifted a cupped hand to his mouth and pointed to the back of the studio — an exaggerated thirst gesture meant for the miscreant across the street. Once in back, he tore off his sparring uniform, threw on jeans and a T-shirt, and ran out the rear door. He worked his way around the perimeter of the studio and scouted the street from behind the corner of the adjacent building. The Mustang was parked ahead of four other cars on the other side of the street.
A UPS truck drove up the street. As it passed, Luke bounded across the road, using the truck to conceal himself. He crouched behind a parked car.
He advanced one car at a time, straddling the curb, hoping the Mustang’s driver didn’t bother to check his passenger side mirror. He didn’t.
When Luke reached the rear of the Mustang, he stood upright. The thick-necked P.I. twitched at the sudden apparition, threw his camera on the passenger seat and grabbed for the ignition.
But Luke was already there. He reached across and grabbed the man’s right wrist, twisting and flexing it in one violent motion. The man yelped, his ruddy complexion reddening like a beet.
“Ahh, shit! You’re breaking my goddamn wrist.”
“Tell your client that I don’t like being followed.”
“What the hell are you talking—”
“I don’t like having to explain myself either.” Luke twisted the man’s wrist again, to the accompaniment of a high-pitched scream. “Just so we can move this discussion along, let’s assume that you know what I’m talking about now. Okay?”
The man grimaced. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell him.”
“Tell Erickson, if he has business with me, he knows where I live.” Luke’s rage swelled like a tidal surge. “If I see you again, I may have to break your neck, and then I just might break your client’s neck. Who knows? I’m unpredictable.”
Luke reached in with his free hand and patted the man’s coat. He felt the bulge and removed a 9mm Glock. He popped the magazine, racked the slide, and checked the chamber to confirm that it was empty. Then he threw the gun onto the passenger seat.
Next, he lifted a single-lens-reflex camera with an enormous telephoto lens from the man’s lap. He let go of the man’s wrist and fiddled with the camera until he found a button that opened a side panel. He popped out a digital memory card, then dropped the camera back onto the man’s lap.
“Get out of here,” Luke said.
The P.I. picked his keys off the floor with his left hand while nursing his right arm. In a clumsy motion, he placed the key into the ignition and started the engine.
Luke stepped back, tapping the palm of his hand with the 9mm cartridge.
The man gunned the engine and used his left hand to work the gears. “You’re nuts, pal. Erickson’s right about you. You’re a lunatic.” He ground the gears a few times, then peeled away.
Luke watched gray contrails spew from the Mustang’s dual exhausts as it squealed around the corner at the end of the block. Just as his eyes were about to turn away, they fell on an Asian man sitting in a black town car at the end of the block — the same man he had seen earlier, outside the hospital.
Before Luke finished accelerating into a full run, the Asian had pulled away and was gone.
* * *
Megan awoke to groans from the bus’s transmission as the driver downshifted through what seemed an endless number of gears.
After leaving behind the frantic street traffic of Guatemala City, she remembered the bus wending its way around miles of tightly curved roads and finally emerging onto a highway. Then sleep had overtaken her.
She checked her watch. It was just after 4:00 P.M. She had slept almost three hours.
Megan stretched her arms above her head and took in the countryside of Guatemala. Orange sunlight bathed the waist-high grasslands outside her window. The meadows were spotted with clearings, each shaded by a tree that looked as old as the land itself. Aboveground roots the size of sewer mains reached out like claws from the base of each tree, holding steady the massive trunks that stretched a hundred feet into the air and opened into rounded canopies as large as circus tents.
Beyond the grasslands, towering peaks covered in dark shades of emerald stood like a remembrance of a civilization that was once great.
When her bus rounded the next curve, the mountains suddenly gave way to open sky. They drove onto a massive steel-cantilever bridge and crossed high over a half-mile-wide expanse of river.
The bus’s brakes squealed as they came off the behemoth structure and rolled into a narrow and crowded strip of bustling commerce. A barrage of painted signs announced the town’s name: RÍO DULCE.
She had come prepared for the rainy season, wearing a lightweight olive-colored poncho she had hoped would blend into the local scene. Looking around, there wasn’t another one in sight. Lots of Nike T-shirts and hats sporting the insignias of various NBA teams, but no ponchos.
The clinic manager’s sketchy itinerary instructed her to catch any one of several buses going to her final destination, a small pueblo named Santa Lucina. When she disembarked the bus, a horde of ticket vendors thrust themselves at her, waving their hands and yelling destinations as though trying to come up with the answer that would win them her fare.
Twenty minutes later she was on the road again, heading northeast toward Santa Lucina. For this leg of the trip she sat in a weather-beaten minivan that listed heavily to the right. The owner had replaced the factory seating with four crude bench seats that left everyone’s knees propped just under their chins. Nineteen passengers were crammed into the creaky vehicle, including five small children who were sitting on the scuffed metal floorboard.
Megan glanced around. No one seemed the least bit bothered by it. The women sat pensively, wordlessly, never turning to one side or the other. There was a quiet gracefulness about them. The men were as jovial as sailors returning home to port. Several appeared to take a keen but respectful interest in the only gringa among them.
As soon as the red sun dipped below the horizon, Megan noticed for the first time that there were no lights along the roads. They had left the highway about thirty minutes earlier, and the load of passengers was gradually thinning as the driver made seemingly random stops along mostly dirt roads. She could finally see the windshield from her seat in the center of the minivan, but almost nothing was visible in the darkness beyond the thirty or so feet illuminated by the minivan’s dim headlights, one of which flickered whenever they hit a rut in the road.
A sense of tedium set in as the bus rose and fell over a series of undulating hills. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of the thick vegetation that lined the sides of the roads. But mostly her view was of complete darkness, interrupted occasionally by lights from distant villages.
By 7:00 P.M., Megan and a family of three were the only remaining passengers. All of them were going to the last and final destination on this road, Santa Lucina. As the minivan rattled its way over the crest of a particularly steep hill, the driver pointed off to the right. There was a fire burning in the distance.
When they started down the hill, Megan saw a few, then several, dimly lit dwellings scattered across the valley on either side of the blaze.
“Is that Santa Lucina?” she asked in Spanish.
The driver nodded, but she could see that his attention was still fixed on the fire. He stopped the van in the middle of the narrow road, and for several minutes everyone watched in silence as the flames rose and fell to their own eerie rhythm. She thought of her father battling an inferno in his final moments.
Her chest suddenly felt heavy and her breathing quickened.
It was a ritual she endured every time she saw a burning structure.
The woman made the sign of the cross and drew her daughter closer. “Mi Dios,” she said.
Megan asked, “What’s over there?”
The husband replied, “Our church. Oh, let it not be the church.”
The woman looked at her husband and said, “Also, the clinic.”
24
Calderon crouched and dug a finger into the soil, which was still wet from the previous night’s rain. He scanned the area to either side while listening for sounds that did not belong on a southern California hillside at night.
His toes were beginning to cramp — the Nike running shoes were a half size too small — but the exhilaration coursing through him overrode the pain signals trying to reach his brain.
He would reach the site in another five minutes, at exactly 8:00 P.M. Everything was well within his mission plan.
He grabbed the knife from his ankle sheath, turned the bottom of his right shoe toward him, and cut two small grooves in one corner of the rubber sole. Then he stood, took two heavy steps, and looked back at the tread prints he’d left in the wet ground.
Satisfied, he started moving along the edge of the path again. There was always a chance he’d run into someone up here, but with temperatures in the low forties — far below the tolerance of most southern Californians — he doubted it. If that happened, he’d spot them long before they saw him.
In Los Angeles, it seemed that even the criminal element was soft. Violent crime plummeted whenever the temperature dipped below fifty degrees Fahrenheit. What he was about to do, though, wasn’t a crime in any real sense of the word. He was exterminating a spineless insect.
He reached the spot along the ridge of the hill that he had scouted that afternoon. It wasn’t an ideal perch; the scrub brush wasn’t as thick as he would have liked, but it would do. Calderon’s skin tingled as he studied the target area downslope from his position. It was a two-story Spanish-style house nestled against the hillside, with a deck extending from the second story. Of course, that description also fit almost every other home in the area.
Stigma Page 15
