by Robin Cook
“Two of them were associated with chiropractic care,” Bingham said. “The other was idiopathic, meaning we never did find out. Now, let me tell you . . .” For the next few minutes, Jack and Calvin had to listen to Bingham retell the stories of his three VAD cases. Although it was always impressive to hear the level of detail Bingham could remember, at the moment Jack found it tedious at best, yet common sense told him not to interrupt. Having decided to reveal John Junior’s cancer, he was eager to do it and get it over with.
At the moment Bingham finished his detailed remembrance, Jack began his mea culpa of sorts. “A few moments ago I said I didn’t want to explain how my behavior at the chiropractor’s office was personal. I’d like to amend that.”
“I’m not sure I want to know if you were acquainted with your VAD patient personally,” Calvin growled.
“No, no!” Jack assured them. It had never occurred to him that Calvin might think such a thing. “I had no association whatsoever with the patient. I had never seen her, met her, or knew anything about her. The origin of this mess is my new baby boy.”
Jack hesitated a moment to let his statement sink in. Immediately, he could see a softening in the expressions of both men, particularly with Calvin, whose concern instantly replaced his anger.
“I’d like to ask one thing before I reveal what I’m about to,” Jack said. “I would ask that it doesn’t leave this room. It is a highly personal matter.”
“At this point I believe you will have to let us decide,” Bingham said. “If this suit goes forward, we could easily be deposed. If that were to happen, you can understand that we might not be able to honor a promise we make to you.”
“That I understand,” Jack said. “Short of being deposed, I would trust that you could keep Laurie’s and my secret.”
Bingham looked at Calvin. Calvin nodded in agreement.
“Is the baby okay?” Calvin demanded hastily.
“Unfortunately, no,” Jack admitted, and the moment he did, there was a catch in his voice. “I know you are aware Laurie has not returned from maternity leave as originally planned.”
“Of course we’re aware,” Calvin said impatiently, as if Jack was deliberately extending his story.
“Our child is gravely ill,” Jack managed. He’d not told anyone about JJ, for fear that the mere telling would somehow make the situation more real. Jack had been using a kind of denial as a way of dealing with the shock since JJ’s diagnosis.
Jack hesitated while he took a few deep breaths. Bingham and Calvin waited. They could see Jack’s jaw quiver and knew he was fighting back tears. They wanted to hear more details but were willing to give him time to collect himself.
“I know I haven’t been myself work-wise over the last three months or so,” Jack managed.
“We had no idea,” Bingham interrupted, suddenly feeling guilty about coming down so hard on Jack.
“Of course you didn’t,” Jack said. “We’ve told no one other than Laurie’s parents.”
“Do you mind telling us the diagnosis?” Calvin asked. “I suppose it’s none of our business, but I’d like to know. You know my feelings about Laurie. She’s like family.”
“Neuroblastoma,” Jack said. He had to take another deep breath to continue. “High-risk neuroblastoma.”
A hush fell while Bingham and Calvin digested this revelation.
“Where is he being treated?” Calvin asked gently, breaking the silence.
“At Memorial. He’s in a treatment program, but as luck would have it, they had to put it on hold once he developed an anti-mouse antibody. After he finished his chemo, his treatment has been based on a mouse monoclonal antibody. Unfortunately, he is not being treated at the moment. As you might expect, Laurie and I are having trouble dealing with the delay.”
“Well,” Bingham said after another short, uncomfortable silence. “This does put a different spin on the current situation. Perhaps you need a leave of absence, but a paid leave of absence. Perhaps you need to be home with your wife and child.”
“No!” Jack said forcefully. “I need to work! Seriously, the last thing I need is a leave of absence. You cannot believe how frustrating it is to watch your child suffer and not be able to do anything about it. Threatening me with a leave of absence is what pushed me to tell you about this in the first place.”
“Okay,” Bingham said. “No leave, but in return you must promise me you will refrain from making site visits, particularly to chiropractors.”
“I’ll promise that,” Jack said. From his perspective, that was hardly a concession.
“I still don’t quite understand your behavior at the chiropractor’s office,” Bingham said. “Was it something specific or just your general dislike for the field? It’s pretty obvious from what you said when you first came in here that you do not have a high regard for chiropractic therapy. Have you had a bad experience with a chiropractor yourself?”
“Absolutely not,” Jack said. “I’ve never been to one, nor did I really know much about them, but because of my VAD patient yesterday, I decided to look into chiropractic and alternative medicine in general to occupy my mind. Obviously, I’ve been obsessed about JJ, particularly with him off treatment. Before this VAD case, I hadn’t really thought about people dying from alternative medicine. When I began to look into it, one of the first articles I read described a case of a three-month-old infant having died from chiropractic cervical neck manipulation. I was appalled, especially since JJ is nearly the same age.
“I didn’t dwell on it, at least not until I started talking with Ronald Newhouse. As he was describing the insane rationale for chiropractic treatment for things like childhood allergies, sinusitis, or even something as benign as fussiness, and killing the kid in the process, I saw red. It’s one thing for an adult to be stupid enough to put themselves in jeopardy with a snake-oil salesman, but not a child. With a child it is criminal.”
Jack’s voice trailed off. Once again a heavy silence settled over the room.
Bingham broke the silence by announcing, “I believe I can speak both for myself and Calvin by saying how very sorry we are about JJ’s illness. Although I certainly cannot condone your behavior vis-à-vis the chiropractor, I can say I understand it better now. I can also say that I strongly encourage your investigating alternative medicine; from the forensic pathology point of view, it will be good for you for the reasons you gave, and good for forensic pathology. I can envision a valuable paper for one of the major forensic pathology journals, which will add to the alternative-medicine debate. However, during your investigation, I must insist you do not make any site visits to any alternative-medicine provider. Also, I want you to avoid any statements to the press on your own. Any releases have to go through public relations after being screened by me. The alternative-medicine issue is more political than scientific. In my opinion, there is very little science involved at all. To emphasize this point, in addition to getting the lawsuit this morning, I got a call from the mayor’s office. It seems you were picking on His Honor’s favorite health provider.”
“You are joking,” Jack said. It seemed impossible. Jack had met the mayor and had been impressed by the man’s intelligence, at least until that moment.
“I’m not joking in the slightest,” Bingham continued. “Apparently, Mr. Newhouse is the only person who can relieve the mayor’s lumbar back pain.”
“I’m shocked,” Jack admitted.
“Don’t be,” Bingham shot back. “As for this current lawsuit, we will make every effort to defend you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jack said, relieved.
“We will also honor your wish for privacy, depositions notwithstanding. We will not divulge your secret, particularly here at the OCME.”
“I appreciate that,” Jack said.
“If you change your mind and want a leave of absence, consider the request already granted.”
“I appreciate that as well. You’re very kind.”
“Now, I assume yo
u have work to do. Calvin tells me you have more cases pending than usual. So get to work and get them signed out.”
Jack took the cue and rapidly disappeared.
For a few moments, neither Bingham nor Calvin moved. They stared at each other, still shocked.
“Has his work really been suffering?” Bingham asked, breaking the silence.
“Not from my vantage point,” Calvin said. “It’s true he’s more behind than usual, but the quality is up to par, and, although he’s behind, he’s still been by far our top producer, with about one and a half times the output of everyone else.”
“You didn’t have any idea about this terrible news concerning his child, did you?”
“Not the slightest,” Calvin said. “Even Laurie’s decision to extend her maternity leave didn’t raise any red flags for me. I just thought she was loving being a mother. I knew how much she’d wanted children.”
“He’s always been such a private person. I’ve never understood him, to tell you the honest truth, especially back when he first started here. He was self-righteous and self-destructive, and I’m not sure which is worse. When the suit came in this morning and I fielded the call from the mayor’s office, I thought he was reverting to bad habits.”
“The thought went through my mind as well,” Calvin confessed, “which, I suppose, is why I didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt with this current affair.”
“Talk to the general counsel,” Bingham said. “Tell her we’re going to defend the case unless she thinks we should settle. And with that said, get out of here so I can get some real work done.”
12
8:15 P.M., TUESDAY, DECEMBER 2, 2008
ROME
(2:15 P.M., NEW YORK CITY)
The flash of the one hundred million volts of electricity came first, followed by a sputtering crackle as it knifed through the humid air to ground itself on the ancient Egyptian obelisk in the center of Piazza San Pietro. A blink of the eye later came the sharp crack of thunder that literally shook the Fiat.
“What the hell was that?” Sana demanded, before her mind told her exactly what it was.
“Thunder and lightning,” Shawn said disdainfully, although he had jumped nearly as much as his wife had. He’d never seen a bolt of lightning so close. “For God’s sake, calm down! You’re out of control.”
Sana nodded as she looked out the rent-a-car’s windows. In the darkness there were lots of pedestrians on their way home, bent into the wind using their umbrellas like shields against the near-horizontal rain. “I can’t help it. Are you sure we should be doing this?” Sana questioned. “I mean, we’re sneaking into an ancient Roman cemetery on a rainy night to steal an ossuary. It seems more like the script for a horror movie than something appropriate. What if we get caught?”
Shawn drummed his fingers irritably on the rent-a-car’s steering wheel. He too was tense, and Sana’s second thoughts were only magnifying his anxiety.
“We’re not going to get caught,” Shawn snapped. He didn’t want to hear any negativity. He was on the verge of making his most spectacular find, provided Sana cooperated.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I worked in there at night for months, and unless I brought people in with me, I never saw a soul.”
“You were using pencil and paper and photography. We’re going to be using a drill and hammer and chisel. As you suggested, what if someone up in the basilica hears us?”
“The basilica is closed up tight as a drum,” Shawn spat. “Look, don’t do this to me. You already agreed to do it. The time is right. We’ve got the tools. We know where to look. And by using the drill to probe for the stone ossuary, we should be in and out in a couple of hours. If you’re dying for something to worry about, worry about lugging the ossuary out of the necropolis and into the trunk of the car.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Sana commented. She stared out the windshield into Piazza San Pietro with Bernini’s curved, elliptical colonnades sweeping off on either side.
“I’m telling you it will be easy,” Shawn said with apparent conviction, though Sana’s misgivings were heightening his own. In reality he knew there were plenty of opportunities for things to go wrong. Despite what he’d just said, he was aware they could get caught. A more probable problem was they wouldn’t find the ossuary. If they didn’t, he’d have to tell the authorities about Saturninus’s letter and share the prestige if the ossuary was eventually found. Of course, that would happen only if the pope allowed the search to take place—unlikely, since the ossuary’s discovery would put Church dogma and papal infallibility in question.
“All right,” Sana said suddenly. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it and get it over with. Why are we still sitting here?”
“I told you. We got here faster than I thought. The last security sweep of the basilica is at eight p.m. I want to give them plenty of time to finish and get the place locked up tight.”
Sana looked at her watch. It was almost eight-thirty. “What if they find something amiss, like the Pietà is gone?”
Shawn turned to study his wife’s profile in the dark. He was hoping she was teasing him, but that didn’t seem to be the case. She was looking out the car windows like some kind of hyperalert prey about to be eaten. “Are you being serious?”
“I don’t know,” Sana admitted. “I’m nervous and exhausted. I mean, we traveled all the way from Egypt today. That might be easy for you, but it’s not for me.”
“You can be nervous, that’s okay. Hell, I’m nervous, too. It’s natural to be a little nervous.”
“What if I get claustrophobic?”
“We’ll make sure you don’t. I won’t make you come into the tunnel. There probably won’t be room for you anyway.”
Sana regarded her husband in the half-light of the car’s interior. Headlights from the multitude of passing cars played intermittently across his face. “Are you sure you won’t need me in the tunnel?”
“If we’re down there and you don’t want to go into the tunnel, we’ll deal with it. Let’s think positively. Can I count on you?”
“I suppose,” Sana said, without a lot of confidence.
At quarter to nine Shawn started the car and eased away from the curb. With the windshield wipers struggling to keep up with the rain, he had to strain to see. The traffic entering the piazza careened past them at breakneck speed. Entering Saint Peter’s Square, he drove along Bernini’s Colonnade toward Arco delle Campane. “If the Swiss Guards question why you don’t have a Vatican ID card, let me do the talking,” Shawn said. The two dark-brown guard shacks loomed out of the mist ahead. The guards stepped out, wearing dark rain capes over their black-and-orange uniforms. They didn’t look pleased to have pulled guard duty on such a night. Shawn lowered his window as he came abreast of the guard shacks and stopped. A few wayward raindrops immediately blew in through the open window and danced in the swirling air.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Shawn said pleasantly, making an effort to suppress any nervousness in his voice. As he had expected, the shift had changed. They were different guards.
As was the case that afternoon, the guard took Shawn’s Vatican ID card without a word. He examined it with a flashlight, comparing the photo to Shawn’s visage. As he handed it back, he asked, “Where are you going?”
“To the necropolis,” Shawn said, while handing over his access permit. “We’re going to do a little maintenance work.”
The Swiss Guard studied the permit for a minute before handing it back. “Pop the boot,” he said, disappearing toward the rear of the car.
Sana sat uncomfortably as the second Swiss Guard shined his flashlight in her face. Prior to that, he’d used the flashlight and a mirror on a long stick to inspect the underside of the car for bombs.
Shawn heard the trunk slam, and a moment later the guard returned to Shawn’s open window.
“What are the tools for?” the guard asked.
“For our maintenance work,
” Jack said.
“Will you be entering through the Scavi office?”
“We will indeed.”
“Should I call security to open it?”
“No need. We have keys.”
“Okay,” the guard said. “Just a moment.” He returned to the tiny guardhouse for a parking permit. A moment later he was behind the car to copy down the license plate number, before returning to the open window. There he tossed the permit onto the dash. “Park straight ahead in the Piazza Protomartiri and leave the parking permit visible on the dash.” He then saluted.
“Phew,” Sana voiced as they pulled away. “I was afraid we were already dead meat when they looked in our trunk and saw the tools.”
“Me, too. During the months I worked here I never got that kind of attention. They’ve certainly beefed up security.”
Shawn parked where he’d been told but as close as possible to the Scavi office. “I’ll get the tools. You get yourself over to the shelter of the portico. I don’t want you getting wet, like this after noon.”
“Will you be able to manage?” Sana asked while getting an umbrella from the backseat.
Shawn grabbed her arm. “The question is: Will you?”
“I’m better now that we’re here.”
Sana was about to climb from the car when Shawn tightened his grip. “Wait for these cars,” he said. Sana turned to see a line of cars bearing down on them in the darkness. They went by with a whoosh on the slick, puddle-filled cobblestones, sending a heavy spray of water to splash against the Fiat. Shawn and Sana turned to watch the red taillights speed away, passing through the Arco delle Campane without even slowing.
“That must have been one of the bosses, maybe even the big boss himself,” Shawn commented.
“Thank you for keeping me from opening my door,” Sana said. “I would have been drenched.”
A few minutes later they were inside the darkened Scavi office. Shawn had carried the tools and other paraphernalia in the two buckets. Now that he was this close, his excitement and anxiety ratcheted up several degrees.
