Mark of the Beast (28 page)

“That's why I am calling for help. All we need, I think, is probably about ten to twenty HLA B66-positive people in each arm, then follow the three arms and see where they go.”

“When do you suggest calling it off, if nothing happens?” Dickerson asked.

“I think six months will be sufficient. What do you think?” Dr. Norfolk asked.

“I don't know,” Abramhoff said, with a strong doubt in his voice, “I can see giving the water only for six months, but to give someone chemo or a transfusion when it's clearly not indicated, that's a whole different issue.”

“Can you at least give it a thought, and then let me know?” Dr. Norfolk asked.

There was silence at both ends of the line, and then Dickerson spoke. “I guess that will be okay.”

“I have no problem with that,” Abramhoff agreed.

“What do you think?” Dr. Dickerson asked after Dr. Norfolk hung up.

“I don't know. I have strong reservations about the outcome. How do they know it wasn't the cancer cells themselves that obliterated some regions on the B locus?”

“I think they are reacting to the nuances of this water, and its supposed wondrous deeds,” surmised Dickerson.

“I know, but there are just too many variables here for legitimizing the association between the water and the supposed obliteration of HLA B27—”

“You know what I think?” Dickerson interrupted. “I can foresee doing only a two-arm study here, if at all—one for the water only, and the other for the HLA B66 positives who happen to be either anemic and require frequent transfusions, like the hemophiliacs or sickle cell patients, and certain cancer patients.”

“If it is the water we are after, let's just do the water for three months and see what happens,” countered Abramhoff.

“You know what? Let's just sleep on that and converse later.”

“Okay.”

 

5

“H
OW ARE YOU DOING?”
Dickerson asked. She was on the phone with Detective Pinkett. Dickerson was surprised to hear from her friend. Ever since she had relocated to Washington, D.C. to co-spearhead the Pellagrini-Pinkett Project, there had been little communication between them, except for occasional phone calls to exchange information. There had been little time to talk and gossip.

“I'm fine. We're very busy here in D.C.,” the detective said. “The constant phone calls around here are tasking. Hours of investigative work, dispatching field agents to collect the triple six samples…”

“Triple six?” Dickerson said. “You guys are so cavalier about that number.”

“Why shouldn't we be?” Detective Pinkett said. “If your theory is correct, and so far it appears to be, these people should be treated like the scum they are.”

“I guess you've got a point there,” Dickerson agreed, a little subdued.

“What's the problem?” asked Pinkett, detecting a little resignation in Dickerson's voice. “You sound somewhat down or something.”

“Oh, nothing,” the doctor said. “There are just too many little things happening around here.”

“Like what?”

“Like … like running the state mandatory testing program … Like running the university's heme-onc lab … Like…”

“Hey … hey, what's a heme-onc lab?” Pinkett asked.

“Hematology-oncology; that's my department.” Dickerson made a hissing sound like Pinkett should have known that.

“I didn't know what that meant,” Pinkett said. “And don't be giving me that hissing sound. You really don't feel well, do you?”

“I am fine.” Dickerson was emphatic.

“Again I ask, what's the problem?” Pinkett persisted.

“Well, if you must know.” Dickerson took a deep breath. “The federal government is taking us to court.”

“Uncle Sam is taking you guys to court … for what, dereliction of duty?” Pinkett asked.

“No, silly, they claim that the state of California violated federal statutes by imposing mandatory testing on United States citizens.”

“What kind of crap is that?” the detective asked, sounding angry.

“I don't understand that one, either. I thought states had the right to test their populations for certain conditions, if they chose to,” Dickerson said. “Just like the alcohol breath test—not all states have an alcohol breath test. Even the test itself varies from state to state.”

“And that's absolutely true,” the detective said. “That's why you guys should fight this all the way to the Supreme Court, if necessary, because I see the courts as where the final decision is gonna come from anyway.”

“You may be right on that one. The governor is already preparing the defense team.”

“What about the testing? It continues while the case is being argued in court, doesn't it?”

“No.”

“No! And why not?”

“A federal court issued an injunction against us to cease and desist until the resolution of the case.”

“That's ridiculous. I thought we were all on the same page on this issue. Why is mandatory testing an obstacle to them folks on Capitol Hill?”

“I believe the order came directly from the president. He directed the attorney general to file a suit against California.”

“You guys should fight this.”

“We intend to.”

“I wish you luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Take care of yourself. Seriously.”

“Don't I always?”

Dr. Dickerson wondered out loud why Pinkett should ask her to be careful. Does she know something I don't know? Dickerson asked herself. Dismissing it as nothing, she headed toward the ladies' room.

 

6

A
T THE
R
ONALD
R
EAGAN
Federal Court Building at the corner of Tenth Avenue and L Street in downtown Santa Ana, Federal Judge Alberto Finney was presiding over the case of the United States Government versus the State of California.

The federal prosecutor, in his opening statement, noted, “First of all, your honor, the state of California went ahead on its own and ordered a mandatory testing program without consultation with the federal government.” He was waving a pencil in the air, at about an eye level, as if to write home his point as he argued his case.

“Mind you,” he continued to argue, “the state did not even bother to notify the CDC and NIH before undertaking this colossal task, which may have both national and international implications. This is something the federal government should be deciding, not the state government.”

The California state attorney general responded, arguing that the state had every right to test the citizens of California in matters of health and civility.

Witnesses were called to the stand to argue for the federal government.

In rebuttal, the state of California had the state health commissioner, and the Pellagrini-Pinkett Project directors testify. Dickerson was also called to the witness stand.

With leading questions from the California attorney general, she meticulously, and with great ease, explained the HLA B66 findings and their implications. She also shared the latest statistics from the Pellagrini-Pinkett Project. Avoiding her own personal interpretation of the HLA B66, she maintained that the state had the right to monitor citizens who might be HLA B66 positive.

At the conclusion of the day-long testimony, Judge Finney thanked the participants for their enlightenment and promised to render an opinion in less than a week.

After that, Dickerson called it a day and went home to retire early.

*   *   *

Driving on Highway 5, after grabbing a quick bite from the cafeteria, Dickerson thought about the entire proceeding. She had been to court before, usually as a defendant consultant in malpractice cases. The lawyers would always attempt to have her commit to the fact that another accused physician did not follow standard medical practice. She would always refuse to be pigeonholed into making such a pronouncement; instead, she would always only defend the medically recorded facts of the case. Here, she found herself defending the state of California.

What a jump, from testifying about patients who thought that they had been wrongfully treated, to defending one of the most powerful states in the Union.

The road was slippery wet. It had been raining all day. The rain was coming down heavily. Dickerson could barely see less than a mile in front of her. And they say it never rains in southern California. What a farce, she thought. Dickerson had the windshield wipers on full cycle.

Even though she could hardly see more than half a mile in front of her, other cars were zooming by like she was crawling instead of driving. Looking in the rearview mirror, she noticed two strange lights behind her. These new cars with their strange headlights, she thought.

“But why is this driver not moving over to the fast lanes?” she asked aloud.

Dickerson decided that she was not going to drive any faster, not on this awful rainy night, on the account of some lunatic. Suddenly the car moved to the left middle lane.

“Thank God,” muttered Dickerson.

The car approached and was soon parallel with her Mercedes 320E. She looked to see who the heck the driver was. She could hardly discern a face in the rain, but it appeared the driver was trying to say something to her.

Dickerson could not help but entertain some wild thoughts. Could this be abduction, sexual assault, carjacking, but most frightfully, homicide? She decided that at the next exit she would get off and head to a police station.

All of a sudden, her driver's-side window glass became the man's face. A face in his late sixties, clean-shaven, handsome, but a face that somehow looked like a Persian cat. The face, however, was reassuring, as Dickerson was visibly shaking all over, sweating, her heart racing. She was frightened out of her mind.

“No me preocupo. Me preocupo sobre lo que está detrás de usted.”

Why is this distinguished, Anglo-Saxon, cat-like man speaking to me in fluent Spanish? Dickerson wondered.

Dickerson's Spanish wasn't perfect, but she understood clearly that the face on the glass was not the problem, but the driver behind was either dangerous, a bad driver, or someone she needed to be wary about.

She looked at the rearview mirror only to see two headlights that looked just like the ones of the car driven by the man with the face in the passenger-side window. The lights were far behind her. Turning to see or ask who the maniac was apparently speeding toward her, she realized that the face in the window and the car itself were no longer apparent. The car behind her was closing in quickly. She definitely did not seem to be making progress at all.

Exit 243A, one mile ahead, the sign read.

Thank God, Dickerson prayed.

“Oh no,” Dickerson shouted, “this idiot is about to ram me off the road before I can reach the exit!”

Looking to be sure there were no other cars around to avoid in case of an accident, she wondered why the guardrails on the opposite side of the road looked like picket fences. She decided to speed up a little.

She decided to quickly take the approaching exit in order to get off the highway, which suddenly appeared almost deserted except for the maniac racing toward her. As she took a sharp turn toward the exit, she felt a loud thud that shook her whole being.

Her car immediately spun out of control, hit the guardrail, sailed over the ramp, and was slowly descending head-on onto the road about twenty feet below the expressway. For an instant, her whole life flashed in front of her. Next thing she knew, the car somehow landed on the water in the Bay some distance from Enchanted Island.

How did the water … I thought … the road…? Dickerson's mind was racing. But with no apparent injuries, Dickerson somehow was still driving the car at normal speed, but on the water. The Spanish-speaking, cat-faced man was sitting on the trunk of the car, paddling.

Just then the phone rang.

Dickerson woke up from a vivid nightmare, shaking. She removed the comforter and discovered that she was soaked in sweat.

Her breathing, still rapid, began to slow down some. She checked her pulse, and discovered that her heart was still racing.

The phone rang again for the fourth time. She finally picked it up.

“Hello?” Dickerson answered with an absent-minded voice.

“Hello, Doc.” It was Pinkett. “Sorry to wake you up so early. I was unable to sleep, thinking about what I said to you, to be careful.”

“What time is it?”

“Three thirty-three a.m. Sorry, again, to wake you up.”

“Why are you calling this early? Is everything okay?” asked the worried doctor.

“You sound like you just ran a marathon,” Pinkett said.

“I just woke up from a nightmare,” Dickerson replied.

“Well, I'm glad I called, then. Tell me about it.”

When…? Right now? Dickerson wondered.

After settling down a little, she said, “I was about to die or drown in my car. I was in an accident.… I was rammed off the road, and I crashed. But I didn't crash. I landed on the water … that was so weird, oh, that was so frightful.”

“Where did this happen?” Pinkett asked.

“It was one of those dreams that appear so real, I'm still shaking.”

“Calm down and tell me exactly what happened.”

“I was driving home on Interstate 5 north of the airport when this car drove close to me and this handsome man—”

“You and handsome men,” interrupted Pinkett.

“Do you mind?” Dickerson asked.

“Sorry, I'm sorry.”

“This handsome man's face appeared on my passenger-side window, or the glass turned into his face, I don't know which. In any case, he spoke in Spanish and warned me to be careful of the car behind me.” Dickerson paused to catch her breath.

“As I turned to look at the car in the rearview mirror, the handsome man's face and his car were gone, and this fool behind me ran me off the road. As I was just about to crash head-on, the road below turned into water, and Mr. Handsome was sitting on the hood paddling the car. Then the phone rang. For some reason, it appeared that the crash was taking forever to happen.”