Taji's Syndrome (9 page)

“You don’t have to write out a prescription, if that’s what you mean,” said Harper, an undercurrent of defeat in his words. “All right, I’ll do as you tell me, but it won’t make any difference. A week from now I’ll be back and I’ll
want something to do.”

“If that’s what you decide then, fine.”

“How can you doubt it? Sam, I
owe
something to my son. I owe it to him to find his killer, and to do everything I can to be certain that killer claims no more victims.” He stopped abruptly.

“You can’t save them all, Harper,” Sam said evenly. “No matter what you decide, you have to face up to that now; you will not be able to save them all no matter how diligent you are and how honorable your purpose.”

“All right. I accept that. And I accept that murderers go scot-free and laws are circumvented every day. I can live with that reality. But I can’t live with my own inaction. Can’t you understand that?” He rounded on his friend, his face filled with pain.

Sam gave Harper a long, measuring look. “How much do you know about Kevin’s illness? I don’t mean what they told you at the hospital, I mean what you learned about it while he was . . . getting sicker.”

Harper was about to snap back an answer, but then he stopped and gave the question genuine consideration. “I know,” he said thoughtfully, “that there was some dysfunction of his blood, that he became weak and lethargic, that he ran a low temperature for several weeks, and then the temperature went up to one-oh-two and stayed there until just before he died. He had trouble eating, he developed respiratory problems, he became disoriented, he suffered severe pain and inflammation of his joints in the last four days of his life.” He came back and sat down opposite Sam. “He was apathetic for the last two weeks, and by the time they put him on IV feeding, he had already lost more than twenty pounds, and he didn’t need to take any weight off. He complained of cramping in his intestines, but that might have been from the lack of food as well as from the disease itself, whatever it is.” Harper’s face took on the distant look which indicated intense concentration. “For the six months before he was hospitalized, he had mild, flu-like symptoms from time to time, nothing very specific, but they hung on, and he never developed any stamina once the disease took hold. He had swollen glands in his neck and chest before he became really sick. That’s when you ordered the extra tests in case it was leukemia. I remember how relieved we were when it turned out he didn’t have leukemia.”

“I remember, too,” said Sam with difficulty.

“And I think that Kevin felt worse then than he let on, for whatever reason—”

“Pride,” suggested Sam.

“Kids can have terrible pride,” agreed Harper. “It might have been that, it might have been his own desire not to worry us. He kept telling us not to fret, not to be so concerned, that he would get well. I wonder if that was as much for himself as for us? Mason said it was.”

“Mason’s a smart kid, we’re agreed on that.” Sam folded his arms and watched his friend. “Anything else, Professor?”

“I don’t know,” Harper said after a slight hesitation. “I keep thinking that there ought to be something I could pinpoint, a detail that would show the way to the rest, but nothing comes to mind.”

“You realize, I hope, that if you do decide to help us out with this that you might have to watch a lot of other kids die.” Sam held up his hand to stop the objection Harper was beginning to voice. “I know I’ve said this before. You think you’re prepared to deal with it. The trouble is, I’m not sure you are. Hell, I know I’m not. It isn’t fun and there’s no way to get used to it. Are you prepared to deal with that? Don’t try to answer me now, but promise me you’ll keep it in mind during the week.”

“Sure,” said Harper seriously.

“And I want you to accept that we might never find the cause, not in a way that would satisfy you. My personal belief is that it’s connected to some kind of environmental contamination, a toxic waste dump or some other similar problem. I don’t think you can decide in advance that you’ll get the secret. These days, there are lots of conditions that come and go.”

“All right, I’ll do my best to remember that,” said Harper. He was about to get up when something occurred to him. “Would my journal be any help? I kept a record of Kevin’s condition once it became apparent that something wasn’t right. Do you think you might be able to make use of it?”

“Could be,” was Sam’s cautious answer. “I think it would be worth looking at, no matter what. You probably saw aspects of his illness that the rest of us missed.” He did not mention how slim a chance it was that this record would reveal anything of merit, but he knew better than to discard a document that might contain a clue to the cause of Kevin’s death.

“How many other kids have you seen with the same symptoms?” Harper asked, the question sounding much louder than it was.

“Five so far, and two adults whose symptoms are similar. We don’t know yet if this is the same thing, but we can’t afford to take chances.” Sam stood up. “Go home, Harper. Think this over. Don’t decide until next Tuesday night, and if you still want to help out, I’ll meet you here at nine on Wednesday morning. How’s that?”

“I’d rather start right now,” said Harper.

“That’s what you think,” said Sam, trying to make light of his warning. “Give it a week, a full week. If you don’t, I know it will catch up with you later. Believe me.”

“I believe you’re trying to help,” said Harper, taking Sam’s proffered hand and shaking it. “I appreciate that. But I want you to understand that I will be back, and I want to stay with this all the way.”

“All right, I’ll keep that in mind,” said Sam, his hands braced on his hips as he watched Harper go to the door. “It wouldn’t trouble me if you decided to change your mind.”

“I won’t,” said Harper as he walked out.

Sam remained standing for a short while, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. Little as he wanted to admit it, he hoped that Harper would remain firm in his resolve. There was something about this damned disease that vexed Sam, and nothing that he had seen or heard from his colleagues had been able to dispel the deep sense of foreboding that had settled over him since he had admitted Kevin Ross to the hospital. Now he had more patients with the same ominous symptoms and he knew no more about what to do for them than he had when Kevin worsened and died.

He reached over and picked up the telephone and punched in the number of the hospital two blocks away. “I’d like to talk to the epidemiologist, please. Doctor Hal Shevis.” He waited while the automated system transferred his call, playing him selections from
Laughter in the Dark
while he waited.

“Shevis here,” said the man who answered the phone on the eighth ring.

“Hal, it’s Sam Jarvis. Look, I need to get together with you. I need your advice.” He was toying with a pencil, standing it on end, sliding his finger down it until the pencil tipped over and then starting the process again.

“The Ross boy again?” Shevis guessed.

“Indirectly,” said Sam. “I think we have to talk. Really. There are other cases and even though there aren’t enough to involve your department, technically, it seems to me that by the time there is, we’ll all be in deep shit.” He shivered as he said this, and blamed it on the light fall of snow drifting past his windows.

“I’ve been over your notes,” said Shevis. “Little as I like to say it, I think you might be right. I’ve already ordered a review of toxic sites, as you suggested, and I’ve put out a request for the monitor records on contaminants. The regs on them are new enough that we’re not going to get much, but it’s worth a try.”

Sam was pleasantly surprised. “You mean I don’t have to come over there and throw a fit?”

“No,” said Shevis. “We might be out of the mainstream of practice, but we’re not stupid, you know,”

“No,” agreed Sam with a sudden rush of relief. He felt as if he had cleared an enormous hurdle with nothing more than a hop and a skip. “Thanks. I mean that.”

“You’re welcome,” said Shevis. “And I would appreciate being kept abreast of anything you come up with. I’ll do the same for you. When did you want to get together for this talk, by the way?”

“Tonight?” Sam said, wondering how Shevis would take such a suggestion.

“Fine,” said Shevis at once. “I’m going to send out a few queries, just in case. I want to know if there are any other cases like the ones you have currently in the Pacific Northwest area, and if there are, how many and how advanced. I might have some news by five. If not, I will in the next day or so.”

“Good. I’ll check with the hospitals in the network, to find out if they have anything going.” He started to make a note to himself, but Hal Shevis cut him short.

“I’ve already attended to that. And for what it’s worth, there are another six possible cases at Harborview. Five of them are teenagers,” he added.

“That fits,” Sam sighed. “Why teenagers? What are they doing, where are they going, that it happens to them? Are they simply more susceptible, and if so, to what?”

“Thinking out loud?” Shevis asked. “Save it for tonight. Say eight, at the Moroccan restaurant?”

“Fine. I’ll meet you there,” said Sam, not sure he would have an appetite by the time he arrived.

“For what it’s worth, I hope you’re wrong,” said Shevis.

“For what it’s worth, so do I,” said Sam.

—Wilson Landholm—

Coach Jackson paced across the basketball court, his shoulders hunched and his scowl deepening with every step. “What do you mean, four of the boys can’t play?” he demanded of the team physician.

“I mean that they’re sick and they can’t play, Jim; just what I said.” Landholm hesitated. “They’ve got mono or something like it. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Jackson insisted. “If we lose those four, we can kiss the season good-bye. Christ, they’re—”

Landholm shrugged. “I’m sorry, Jim. More for them than for you. Those kids are sick. It’s almost as bad as that fever that went around when those army storage tanks leaked, four years back. I’ve sent blood samples to Portland, just in case. I don’t want any more surprises.”

“There are medical labs in Twin Falls,” said Coach Jackson, but with a reserve he had not shown before. “You mean that you have to check mono out with that new center in Portland?”

“It might not be mono,” Landholm admitted. “It isn’t typical, and I got worried. Four boys with the same thing, and that same thing isn’t quite right—”

Jackson stopped in front of his friend. “Okay, Wil, what aren’t you telling me?” His belligerence had faded and now he looked more concerned than annoyed.

“I wish I knew. That’s no dodge: I wish I knew.” He hooked one thumb in his pants pocket. “You remember that fever four years ago, how everyone said it was flu and ignored it for two weeks, until the rashes developed? And then everyone was scared shitless of even a cold for a year after that?”

“Yeah?” Jackson said.

“Well, at the time everyone wanted to blame someone for not finding out sooner that it was from those storage tanks. I don’t want that to happen again, so I sent blood samples to Portland. I don’t know if they’ll find anything, but I don’t want to take any more risks.”

“It’s bad enough that the Porter boy moved, now we have four more boys off the team,” muttered Jackson, then stopped. “Sorry, Wil. You’re probably right and I’m probably wrong about this.” He stared at the steel beams crossing the ceiling. “I see your point. If there’s any more hanky-panky going on, we’d better find out fast.”

Landholm rocked back on his heels. “It might be nothing more than a new kind of flu, but—”

“Un-huh,” said Jackson. “I guess you’ve told the administration?”

“I had to,” Landholm said, making it an apology.

“I suppose so,” said Jackson. “Does that mean tests for the rest of the team?” He did his best to be philosophical but it was clearly an effort.

“At least. If Portland finds anything strange, we might have to check the whole student body.”

“All of Roger Brewer Middle School?” Jackson asked, shocked at the notion.

“We might have to,” said Landholm cautiously.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Jackson swore softly. “You really are worried about this, aren’t you? Hey, Wil, it’s only a fever. Kids get bugs all the time, you’ve said so yourself.”

“Not like this bug,” Landholm said somberly, and watched while Jim Jackson came to terms with what he said.

“You’re on to something, aren’t you?” Jackson asked at last.

“I don’t know. Honestly, Jim. I hope I’m wrong, but I have to be careful.” He looked up as the heater clicked on with the sound of an enormous yawn.

“You think it’s another one of those viruses, don’t your’ Jackson demanded, his face darkening again.

“I hope not.” Landholm was hedging and both men knew it.

“But it’s what you think,” Jackson persisted.

“I hope I’m wrong.” He glanced at the wall clock. “When does practice start?”

“Why?” Jackson asked.

“Because I want to find out if any of the team has sick brothers or sisters or parents at home, that’s why,” Landholm said bluntly. “And if they do, I want to find out what’s wrong with them.”

“You’re kidding,” said Jackson, and without waiting for a response, he shook his head. “No, you’re not kidding, are you?”

Landholm shook his head. He wanted to deny the fear that was building in him, but he could not. “I have to find out, Jim.”

“Oh, God.” Jackson looked at the clock. “You have ten minutes yet. You want to get a cup of coffee while we wait? It’s out of a machine, but it’s hot.”

“Sure,” said Landholm, grateful that Jackson was not going to challenge him further. The two men walked out of the gymnasium and through the locker room to the faculty lounge; Jackson held the door for Landholm as they went into the small, drab room.

While Landholm fished for change in his pocket, Jackson got his coffee. “So are you going to tell me why you’re going to all the trouble, or are you going to keep your ass covered until you hear from Portland?”

“Isn’t four years ago reason enough?” Landholm asked as he counted his change and came up with the right combination for the coffee machine.