Panacea (10 page)

Nelson didn't like that. He'd never doubted that the cases would be connected, but he hadn't wanted the tattoos made public. They indicated too intimate a link.

“Who is she?”

Bradsher pulled out his smartphone and did some screen tapping.

“Name's Laura Fanning, MD, Deputy Medical Examiner, Suffolk County.”

Laura Fanning … the name had an oddly familiar ring.

“Have we dealt with her before?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Is she going to be a problem?”

“I don't think so. She did discover something we missed.” He tapped some more on his phone, then passed it to Nelson. “I took this off her computer. The panacean wrote something on his palm.”

A photo: The sight of
536
on the dead skin startled him.

Nelson shook his head. It wouldn't be an issue if his body had been immolated as planned. This was not good … not good at all. Dissemination of the photo of the tattoo would put all other panaceans lurking about on alert. If this
536
photo got out, however, it would send them scurrying into hiding.

As for the medical examiner, she'd obviously connected the tattoos, but she had no way of knowing about the panacea or the two corpses' connection to it. That was the prime concern: Hide all evidence of the existence of a panacea. It had to remain in the realm of myth until Nelson had tracked it to its source. He had to be the first and only to find it. As for the number on the second corpse's palm, that would mean nothing to her.

So, the ME was not important, though the photo was.

“We have to disappear those photos.”

“Not so easy. I can delete them from her computer, but the originals may remain in her camera. And she's already emailed copies to the sheriff's office in Riverhead.”

“Do what you can.”

“I'll get right on it.” But instead of leaving, Bradsher stood there, shifting from foot to foot. “I had a thought.”

The comment struck Nelson as odd. Bradsher was an excellent field agent—competent, efficient, obedient. He rarely offered an opinion unless asked.

“What, pray tell?”

“Not a pleasant one.”

“All the more reason to voice it.”

“All right … if the
536
on the panacean's palm means he knew we were coming—”

“He might have heard of Hanrahan's death, then he could have seen you getting out of your car and put two and two together.”

“I hope that's the case.”

“If not, what's your unpleasant alternative?”

“That he knew he might be next, and so he hid his real panacea and left dummy samples for us.”

Nelson felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over him.

No … not possible.

He leaned against the desk as he realized it was indeed possible. And if that were the case …

He'd been so sure and in such a rush to convince Pickens of the existence of the panacea that he hadn't done a preliminary experiment.

If the panacean had worked a switch …

But why would he do such a thing? What benefit to him?

And yet … he'd known they were coming for him—the
536
on his palm left no doubt—and so he might have concocted a placebo as a diversion.

Should that possibility prove true, then Nelson's credibility—and Pickens's opinion of his mental stability—would be forfeit.

“Is it too late to test it?” Bradsher said.

Nelson nodded. “The deputy director and I dosed two of the sickest on Ward Thirty-five.”

“Then we can only pray…”

“Yes!” Nelson said, dropping to his knees. “Pray with me, Brother.”

Bradsher knelt opposite him. They joined hands, and Nelson led them in prayer.

 

7

Laura sat in the first-floor lobby and waited for Dr. Sklar. The rheumatologist had been treating Tommy Cochran for years; he had been the one to determine that Marissa wasn't suffering from juvenile rheumatoid arthritis but leukemia instead.

Laura remembered how hope and horror had warred at the news. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia was potentially fatal but the newest therapies offered up to an eighty-percent chance of a cure to ALL victims Marissa's age. JRA was incurable.

Dr. Sklar hadn't believed what she'd told him about Tommy's autopsy and had insisted on seeing for himself. So she'd invited him to Hauppauge and called down to the basement to have Tommy's remains removed from the cooler. When Sklar arrived she escorted him downstairs to where a small body waited on a gurney.

After they were both gloved and gowned, she unzipped the top half of the body bag, revealing Tommy's damaged face. Dr. Sklar crouched and inspected the undamaged side.

“That's him,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “First JRA, now this. Some kids never get a break. You're absolutely sure he was riding a bicycle?”

“I spoke to a uniform who was on the scene, who spoke to the driver of the truck that hit him: not a doubt.”

“This is so bizarre. Let me see the hands, if I may.”

Laura unzipped further and bent both arms so Tommy's hands lay on his abdomen.

“This…” Dr. Sklar said, a tremor in his voice as he inspected the fingers. “This can't be. He had the typical fusiform swellings last time I saw him.”

“Let me show you the knee I opened.”

She pulled the zipper the rest of the way down, then snipped the few quick sutures she'd used to close the incision she'd made in the joint. She angled the overhead surgical lamp so he could have a good view.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “The synovium … it's pristine. And the cartilage…”

“Smooth as a baby's cheek. I wouldn't steer you wrong.”

“No-no, I never meant to imply … it's just that it's so…” He seemed to run out of words.

Laura zipped up the bag again. “I know. Impossible.” That word was popping up a lot today.

“But … but even if the disease process were somehow miraculously arrested—I'll go so far as to say
cured
—the damage wouldn't be reversed. The articular cartilage would remain pitted, the synovium would remain thickened. But this … it's like he was never sick, like he swapped joints with another child.” He pulled off his gloves. “Have you spoken to his mother?”

“No. I need to, but I thought I'd give her a day, at least.”

“That's good of you.”

“I'm a mother too.”

“Yes, yes, of course. She called today for an appointment, said he'd been cured. I didn't believe her, of course. If only I hadn't put her off.”

“She asked for me to do the post.”

Sklar frowned. “That's odd, isn't it?”

“Almost unprecedented. But now I realize that she knew I was an ME, and knew that I'd seen Tommy in a wheelchair-bound state. Any other ME would simply report death by trauma. Only I would wonder what happened to his arthritis.”

“Yes-yes. That must be it. Will you let me know what you find out?”

“Absolutely.”

He laid a hand on Tommy's bagged body. “Something extraordinary has happened here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You need to find out everything you can.”

Her gaze wandered to the drawer where the unidentified second grower lay.

“I intend to.”

 

GREEN LIGHT

 

1

Nelson pulled his rental to a stop in the Walter Reed parking lot. This morning's spot was right next to yesterday's. He turned off the engine and rubbed his temples. Another killer headache. They were always worse in the morning—sometimes they woke him. Lack of sleep wasn't helping. He'd spent the whole night wondering if he'd been played for a sucker by that second panacean. Giving up on sleep, he'd risen before dawn and caught another shuttle to Reagan.

If the two sick agents he'd dosed yesterday showed no improvement, what was his next step? He hadn't a clue. Pickens would never give him a second chance. Might even section-eight him out of the Company.

He looked up and was shocked to see the grim-faced deputy director striding toward him. Pickens had stayed overnight in the D.C. area, so he was undoubtedly fresher. Nelson practically leaped from the car.

“About time you got here,” Pickens said.

Nelson checked his watch:
8:52
. Friday morning traffic from Reagan had been hell, but he'd still made it with time to spare.

“I thought we agreed on nine o'clock.”

“We did but Forman's been on the phone with me all morning—three calls already. Wants to talk to you.”

“About what? What did he say?”

“We'll just have to find out, won't we.”

He had a feeling Pickens already knew. Why wasn't he saying anything?

To torture me?

Dr. Forman was waiting in the lobby. He bounded from a chair as they entered, grabbing Nelson's arm and practically dragging him to the elevator.

“What was in that solution?” Forman said as soon as the doors pincered closed.

Nelson glanced at Pickens. “I told you, I'm not at liberty to say.”

Forman's face reddened. “Damn it, don't feed me that bullshit! This could be the most important medical find in history. I'm not going to stand by and let—”

“You will do as you are told,” Pickens said in a stern headmaster's tone. “You are not in private practice. You are employed by the United States government and when you went to work on Ward Thirty-five you signed an airtight NDA with harsh penalties for breaking confidence. Penalties that will be pursued to the limit should word of what has transpired here slip out.”

“But—”

“
But
nothing, Doctor. This is a matter of national security…”

As Pickens droned on, Nelson leaned back against the wall of the car and braced himself on the handrail. A surge of relief left him feeling a little weak. The temperature in the car seemed to jump twenty degrees. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.

“Are you all right?” Forman said, staring at him with a concerned look.

“Just a migraine.”

Not a complete lie. The headache still throbbed, but he couldn't very well say he'd been agonizing all night over whether or not the solution would work.

And it
had
worked. Dr. Forman hadn't said it in so many words, but the message was clear: The two agents were better. Just how much better, Nelson could only guess, but right now it was enough to know the solution had worked. He hadn't been duped with a dummy concoction. Those two vials had contained the real thing … the real deal.

When the doors opened on the fifth floor, Dr. Forman led them through the halls at near race-walk speed. He first took them to the nurses' desk in the isolation area. The blinds were open and through the glass Nelson saw Jason Kim sitting up in bed, eating from a breakfast tray. He'd been bare-chested yesterday, but now wore a hospital gown. He smiled and waved when he saw Dr. Forman.

“That's Agent Kim?” Pickens said in a hushed tone. “He looks so…”

Forman was motioning to Kim to pull his gown down. The agent nodded and complied.

Nelson repressed a gasp. The crimson abscesses and oozing sores of yesterday were gone. All that remained were slightly reddened areas.

“What you're seeing is impossible, gentlemen,” Forman said.

Nelson could only stare. His uncle Jim had drilled the existence of the panacea into him since he was a child. But Jim had never been able to secure a sample. He'd seen the results of the panacea post-facto but had never witnessed a cure firsthand. Nelson wished he were here now to bask in this.

“Not impossible if we're witnessing it,” Nelson said.

Forman shook his head. “I won't argue that. Seeing isn't always believing, but I'm seeing and I'm believing. The infection is gone. A super staph that thumbed its nose at every antibiotic we threw at it just … just upped and cleared overnight.”

“I don't see why that is impossible,” Nelson said.

Forman turned on him. “Because even if we'd administered a totally new class of antibiotic to which the staph was exquisitely sensitive, it would take time, even after all the bacteria were dead, for the skin inflammation to go down, for the purulence to be reabsorbed. Even if the antibiotic worked instantly, Kim's skin would not—
could
not look like it does this morning.”

“But it does,” Nelson said.

He glanced at Pickens's stiff, expressionless face. If his superior was feeling anything, he hid it well.

“It's a fucking miracle,” Forman said. “But not the only one. Let's go see Ashcroft.”

A slower, shorter walk this time. They entered the room of the agent who had been poisoned with polonium-210. Instead of a pale, drawn figure, fading into his sheets, barely able to lift a hand, they found a bright-eyed man sitting on the edge of his bed and shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth.

Agent Leo Ashcroft dropped his fork when he saw them. “My God, what did you do?”

Not God's doing, I'm afraid, Nelson thought. But instead of answering, he said, “How do you feel?”

“Wonderful! Weak, sure. I mean, my muscles are deconditioned from all the time in bed, but on the whole, it's like I was never sick. And look.” He ran a hand over his scalp. “My hair's growing back.”

Nelson leaned in and thought he could make out a faint fuzz in the morning light pouring through the window. He didn't touch it, though.

“What did you give me?” Ashcroft asked.

Pickens jumped in. “A new experimental anti-radiation treatment. All very hush-hush. You're not to mention it to anyone, not even family.”

“Anything you say. I…” His lips trembled and tears rimmed his eyes. “I thought I was going to be leaving here in a box but Doc Forman said the scan this morning showed no sign of radiation anywhere in my body.” He quickly dabbed his eyes with his napkin. “It's a miracle.”