Panacea (13 page)

“Then she might be a panacean as well.”

Nelson nodded. “My thoughts exactly. Perhaps Brody's gateway into the cult.”

Bradsher's expression turned grim. “I'll get right on it.”

 

6

When Bradsher was gone and Nelson was alone, he slumped back in his chair. It had taken every iota of will to stay focused on the problems at hand. The headache had calmed since this morning—still there, but bearable. The potential time bomb lurking on his neck kept intruding on his thoughts, usurping his concentration. He could almost feel it growing. He knew that wasn't possible, of course, but still …

He touched the bandage. Tender. With or without anesthesia, the biopsy spot would be sore now. But Dr. Moreau couldn't be bothered at the time. Called him a baby. Snail-slurping bitch.

But why had she been so quick to order a chest X-ray? Did she really think…?

He didn't want to borrow trouble. He couldn't be seriously ill. But he'd gone to Forest Hills Hospital from her office anyway and presented her prescription to the radiology department. After a short wait they'd done the chest X-ray—turn this way, hold your breath, turn that way, hold your breath, good-bye. No one would tell him anything about the results.
Call your doctor tomorrow.

But she wasn't his doctor. No way was that icy bitch his doctor. Still, she'd ordered the test, so the results would go to her.

He'd then called Dr. Forman down at Walter Reed to tell him he'd had the mole biopsied and was sending the tissue down to have him do whatever they do to biopsies. Forman had tried to slough him off, saying he didn't take private patients, but Nelson had pushed him hard, arguing that he was the one who had spotted it and the least he could do was expedite the diagnosis. Forman finally relented. As soon as Nelson had reached his office, he overnighted the specimen jar to Bethesda.

So now all he could do was wait. And while he was waiting, he could check out this Laura Fanning. The hunt would provide a little distraction from his health concerns.

With the help of the Internet it took only a few minutes to access the right issue of the Salt Lake City
Tribune
from twenty years ago—he would never forget that date—and the story about a pedestrian run down while crossing South State Street.

Yes! The driver's name was Laura Fanning. No picture of her but her age was given as seventeen. Fast forward to Laura Fanning, MD, with the Suffolk County ME. Same year of birth.

No doubt about it: The driver who'd hit Uncle Jim and left him partially paralyzed, ending his career, had performed the autopsies on the two panaceans Nelson had been chasing.

How does something like this happen? How did—?

His cell phone rang. He didn't recognize the number, but the 347 area code was local. Could be Queens … Forest Hills …

His finger shook as he tapped the
talk
button.

“Allo? This is Agent Fife?”

“Speaking, Doctor Moreau.”

“You recognize my accent, oui?”

“Of course. You're calling to inquire how my neck is feeling?”

“Why would I do that? It is only a biopsy. No, I have your X-ray report.”

So soon?

“And?”

“Not good. The tumor has spread to your lungs.”

Nelson repressed a sudden urge to vomit.

“H-how bad?”

“Any spread to the lungs is bad. You must immediately see an oncologist.”

“Can you…?” His thoughts were scattering in all directions. “Can you fax me the report?”

“I have it in email. I can forward.”

Email … that explained how she'd got it so fast. Those radiologists probably took one look and sent it right out. He gave her his private email address—he didn't want to use the Company's.

“Be aware, Mister Fife, that if it is in the lungs it is in other places as well. Good-bye.”

The words themselves might have conveyed concern had they not been delivered in a better-have-that-taillight-fixed tone.

He watched his smartphone for the little @ symbol that indicated mail in his AOL account, then opened it. The phrases “mass in the right middle lobe” and “hilar adenopathy” from the X-ray report bounced around the inside of his skull without sticking, leaving no trace of meaning other than
This can't be good
.

He forwarded it to Dr. Forman. With the X-ray report plus the pending path report, he'd surely be able to offer an idea of what Nelson was up against.

He hadn't slept last night for worrying about whether the panacea would work. He knew he was looking at a second sleepless night, but this time for an entirely different reason.

But he had an important stop to make before he reached his bed.

 

7

At the Advocate, Uncle Jim greeted him cordially, saying, “We shall forget Wednesday night ever happened.”

That was perfectly fine with Nelson. Hiding his continuing wonder at the outcome, he told him how the successful demonstration of the panacea had prompted an ops fund from Pickens. He withheld mention of the melanoma, instead producing a photo of Laura Fanning.

“Yes,” Uncle Jim said, staring at the facial close-up. “That's her. No way I'd forget those eyes.”

Nelson knew what he meant: Laura Fanning's pale blue eyes set in her dark face were striking, almost unsettling because they were so angelic. And yet … he sensed an air of sulfur about her.

“Do you think it's the Serpent's doing—involving her in the Brotherhood's quest—your
life's
quest?”

He shrugged his good shoulder. “Perhaps. But if so, I'm sure she's unaware.”

The remark took Nelson by surprise. “She ruined your life, made it impossible for you to pursue the panaceans. How do we know she's not one of them?”

“I prefer to think of her as an instrument of the Lord to visit this trial upon me. Because that made you step up and be His sword.”

As much as Nelson loved the idea of being the Lord's right arm, His archangel on Earth, he couldn't let Fanning off that easily.

“Still…”

“Do you know she visited me almost every day when I was in that Salt Lake City hospital?”

“To gloat?”

“Not at all. Mostly she cried and kept saying how sorry she was. She was a child and devastated by what she had done. I've forgiven her, Nelson. Apparently you haven't.”

“I don't know if I can.”

“You must. Even if the Serpent has manipulated events so that those two panaceans wound up on her autopsy table, it is not her doing. The Serpent is using her to distract you. Don't let it succeed. As your abbot, I am telling you to stay focused. Keep your eye on the prize.”

“No worry about that, Prior. I'm close, and getting closer.”

Jim leaned back and looked at him. “And what then, Nelson? If you succeed and send the panacea back to hell, what will you do with your life?”

The question took him by surprise. “I … I'll…”

“Do you even
have
a life, Nelson?”

He was totally off balance now. “Of course I do. I have the Brotherhood and the Company.”

“But nothing else, right?”

“I've no room for anything else.”

Especially not now with melanoma in his lungs.

“I and the rest of the brothers appreciate your zeal. But let me speak as your uncle now instead of your abbot. Your first duty is to the Brotherhood. Your second duty is to the Company because the Company provides access to intel that allows you to be proficient in your first duty. But you also have a duty to yourself, Nelson.”

“I take care of myself.”

“I don't mean staying in shape and eating right. I was like you until the accident. Then I no longer had the Company and, although I'm still abbot of the Brotherhood, my role is largely advisory. The accident left me facing a void.”

“All the more reason not to forgive Laura Fanning.”

“To forgive is divine, remember? But I'm talking about
you
not ending up like
me
. I look back and wish I'd done other things with my life. Besides raising you, I don't have any fond memories to look back on—I was so consumed by the Brotherhood and the Company, I didn't do anything else.”

Nelson felt at sea. “But … I joined the Brotherhood and the Company to continue your work.”

“And I appreciate that, I do, but I wish you'd get a life outside all that. Tell me, Nelson: What do you do for fun?”

“Fun?”

“Yes,
fun
. As in a pleasurable activity with no purpose other than the enjoyment it brings. Like scuba diving or hiking or playing basketball or reading a thriller. You know:
fun
.”

Fun wasn't on his agenda. And fun was overrated. Mostly wasted time.

“A good job well done is fun.” He knew that sounded lame even as he said it.

Jim shook his head. “You haven't a clue, have you? Trust me: If something disables you, you'll wish you'd taken a little time for fun. I know I do.” He looked away. “I also wish…”

“What?”

“That I'd gone easier in my dealings with some of those panaceans.”

“But they're pagans, servants of the Serpent.”

“I know that, son, but I
hated
them with such a passion. You've heard the saying, hate the sin and not the sinner?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I was blind to that. I hated the sinners as well. But as I look back I wonder if they were sinners at all.”

Nelson couldn't hide his shock. “What?”

“Hear me out. A mortal sin requires a grave matter—which is met by attempting to sabotage the Divine Plan—full consent—which they certainly gave—and sufficient reflection. I'm no longer sure they met the last requirement.”

“How can you say that?”

“It means you have to know you're doing wrong. I've come to realize that none of them believed they were doing wrong. They were dupes, servants of the Serpent, certainly, but
unwitting
servants. The ones I interrogated and condemned to the Leviticus Sanction … yes, they were pagans, they weren't saved, but they meant no harm. They only wanted to heal and I … I hurt them.”

“You were doing the Lord's work.”

“I keep telling myself that.”

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' Remember?”

“Oh, I remember, all right. I remember all too well.” He glanced at the clock. “They serve dinner early here. I'd better get going.”

Nelson rolled Uncle Jim to the dining room and then wandered back to his car in a daze.

What had happened to Uncle Jim? Was he getting senile? Wishing he'd been
easier
on the panaceans? He was the Brotherhood's abbot and their mission was to scour those pagans from the face of the Earth.

And his forgiving Laura Fanning … absurd. Maybe the injury she'd inflicted was softening the rest of his brain.

As soon as he reached the car, he phoned Bradsher.

“Have you chosen who will acquire the doctor's phone tonight?”

“I was just speaking to him. He's on his way.”

“Call him again. Tell him to plant a locator on her if he can. I want to know her every move.”

“Will do.”

“And one more thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell him to hurt her—hurt her bad.”

 

8

It all happened so quickly.

Laura pulled into her driveway and stopped before the garage as usual. The motion-activated security light over the door came on, illuminating the area. A remote for the door clung to her visor but she didn't use it. The clutter in the garage had long ago banished her car to the elements.

She gathered up her things and stepped out onto the asphalt. She was shutting her door when a heavy weight rammed her back, slamming her against the car. The blow knocked the wind out of her, leaving her barely able to breathe, let alone cry out for help.

She felt her bag ripped from her shoulder and made a grab for it. She got a grip on the strap and was pulled around to face a thin man with scraggly hair and beard wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

“Give it, bitch, or you're gonna get hurt!”

A very aware part of her knew that was just what she should do—let him take it. Nothing in it was irreplaceable. But another, more primitive part was screaming,
This is mine and you can't take what's mine!

So she hauled back on the strap.

And he swung at her face. She flinched away, allowing just a glancing blow, but still pain shot through her jaw, shocking her. Her fingers loosened their grip and he yanked the strap free. It took a second or two for her vision to clear, but he wasn't running. In fact he had his fist balled for another blow. But before he could throw the punch, someone grabbed his arm and spun him around.

Laura watched the second man push the first back to arm's length, then double him over with a punch in the gut, followed by powerful blow to the back of his neck. He dropped like a sack of cement, landing on Laura's shoulder bag.

The second man stepped toward Laura. He was wearing a dark blue warm-up with two darker stripes down the sides of the legs and arms. A pair of earbud wires dangled from his breast pocket. Dark hair and a square jaw.

“You all right?”

“I-I think so.”

She wasn't. Not really. Her jaw hurt like hell and she was shaking from the adrenaline overload.

“Just happened to be jogging by and…” He shook his head. “You think of this happening in other towns, but Shirley?”

“I know. I mean, who's even heard of Shirley, right?”

He glanced back at the guy writhing on the ground. “At least he didn't have a weapon.”