Curse of the Afflicted

by David Chill

  "Maybe you just didn't trust yourselves."

  "Maybe. I don't know. But when I told my wife and daughter about my diagnosis, it was ... awkward. I was the one who had to comfort them, not vice versa. I needed to reassure them I'd be okay."

  "Do you believe that?" he asked. "Do you believe you'll be okay?"

  The weight of that question bore down on me. I realized I did not. Despite the encouragement from Eli, from Leslie and Angelina, from the confident doctors who treated me, I could not run from the feeling that I simply would not be okay. Eli told me not to pay attention to the chatter on the internet, but I could not deny the statistics. The majority of stage four lung cancer patients die within two years of diagnosis. Even if the numbers were a little dated. Even if advancements were being made. Even if those patients were older than me. Stage four was stage four. There is no stage five.

  "No," I said weakly. "I guess I don't think I'll be okay."

  "Do you want to be okay?"

  I looked at him sharply. "What kind of a question is that? Of course I want to be okay. I have a wife, a seventeen-year-old daughter, a family to take care of. Yes. How could you think to question me on that?"

  He held up a hand. "I'm just asking. But tell me something. You say you're stage four. Just how far has the cancer spread?"

  I stopped. "I'm not sure, really. I ... I just was told it had spread to other parts of the body."

  "You don't know?"

  I shook my head. "I've had so much on my mind the past week. So many things to process. I'm not a scientist, these things never ... occurred to me before."

  "It's important to find out," he said.

  "Why?" I asked.

  He leaned forward. "Because you need to own your cancer. You need to know what you have so you can be part of the decision process," he said and took off his glasses once more. "This is actually very important. More so than you might think."

  "Isn't that the doctors' responsibility? To guide treatment?"

  "It is. But doctors are human. It's your body and your life. And it helps if you have a plan."

  I tried to take this in. "I'm not sure I follow," I admitted wearily.

  "You have to have an approach. It's different for everyone, but you have to have yours. Are you going to try and live every day to the fullest? Are you going to try and do some things you always wanted to do? Write a novel? Travel the world? Climb the highest mountain? It's all right if you don't want to do any of those things. It's all right if you want to just take it easy and not flood your body with chemo. You get to choose. But it's important to have an approach. Everything you do from here on out will flow from that."

  I thought for a minute. It made some sense. And I hadn't given myself much time to think through all of this, so many ancillary things had been coming at me fast.

  "I believe," I said, "I have an idea what mine might be."

  "Oh?"

  "I want to live a normal life for as long as I can live it. That's all. No interest in climbing Mount Everest. Just doing what I've always been doing. Until I can't do it anymore."

  The doctor smiled for the first time. "Now I think we're finally getting somewhere."

  We finished the session shortly thereafter and I returned home. Leslie was at work, Angelina was still at school, and I had an empty house in which I could ponder my new approach. But as I was thinking through what Dr. Heck had said, my thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected visitor.

  Any doubt that I was still under law enforcement scrutiny was removed during last week's run-in with the smarmy FBI agents inside the LAPD parking lot. But on a lazy afternoon, with me just one day out of the hospital, the front doorbell rang, and I found myself staring out at the latest federal agent assigned to my case. The man was middle-aged and was mostly nondescript, except for a well trimmed brown goatee that he rubbed a few times.

  "Hello, Mr. Baker," the man said and quickly flashed an important-looking gold badge. "Rob Lamb. I'm with the DHS. I don't mean to disturb you. But I'd like a moment of your time, please."

  "The DHS?" I asked.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said apologetically, "Department of Homeland Security. I just have a few questions for you. May I come in?"

  I stared at him for a long moment before finally opening the door. "I guess I don't need to ask what this is about."

  "No, I suppose not," he said and as he entered the living room and sat down on the couch. "It won't take long. This is mostly background information."

  "All right," I said. "But I don't know what else I can help you guys with."

  "I'm sure you've had a rough time of it," he said, with all the fake sympathy of someone who could likely care less. "And if it will make you feel any better, I'm really looking into your business partner."

  "Blair? Why?"

  "Mr. Baker, your partner has been making some nasty public insinuations about the federal government. He's hardly unique, but we believe he's become a bit of a loose cannon."

  "Fair observation," I said dryly. "But I can assure you, other than his mouth, he's harmless."

  "That's not so harmless," Lamb responded, eyeing me curiously. "We'd like him to stop."

  "Me, too. Hope you get farther than I have."

  "You've spoken with him?" he asked curiously.

  "What I've told him is that his big mouth will get him into a lot of trouble one day. But it's his stock-in-trade," I said. "It brings in business and it brings in women. That's mostly what he cares about."

  "Ah, yes. The women. I was going to raise that subject. His relationship with Iris Hatcher. You're familiar with her?"

  "Yes," I said. Now it was my turn to be curious. "And how do you guys know about his relationship with Iris?"

  "You guys?" he repeated.

  "Yes. I was stopped the other day by a pair of FBI agents. They wanted to know the same thing. They were tailing me."

  "Oh," he said, frowning. "I see. What did you tell them?"

  "Not a lot. I don't know a lot about Blair and Iris."

  "Ah, fine. But how much do you think your partner knows? Blair. He and Iris were having a fling, weren't they?"

  "I guess. Brief. They just met recently."

  "Do you know if Iris had told him anything?"

  I shrugged. "I wouldn't know. What's this all about?"

  The man rubbed his goatee again. He struck me as unusual, but I didn't have much of a yardstick with which to compare. My reference points were FBI and Secret Service agents who came off as haughty and demanding, insular personalities who pledged allegiance to a particular team, with interlopers unwelcome. Rob Lamb looked more like an outsider, a person who was seemingly uncomfortable in his skin.

  "We at the DHS have reason to believe Iris Hatcher was actively involved in the assassination. She was acquainted with the killer. She may have been helped facilitate it. We're still investigating, although there's only so much we can do at this point. But anything you know, Mr. Baker, anything at all, would be helpful."

  I sighed. "I keep saying the same thing to everyone. I'm a pollster. I was hired to conduct some focus groups for the vice president. I met with him at his hotel. That's all I know. "

  "And with regard to Blair ... ?"

  "Blair," I said, "I don't imagine he was involved in any of this. Why would he be? Sudeau was our client, we had every reason to want him to get the nomination. But did Blair learn anything after the fact? Did Iris tell him things? I have no idea. But why aren't you approaching Blair about this? Or Iris?"

  "We're trying to be thorough at the DHS. Methodical. We obviously can't speak with Iris, but yes, we've spoken to Blair, and he is of interest. And I agree with you. His only involvement in this is probably what he learned after the fact. And what he's not saying."

  "And why can't you speak with Iris?" I asked. "Has she disappeared?"

  The man's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Baker. You haven't heard."

  "Heard what?"

  "It appears you have not turned on the news today."


  "No, I haven't," I responded, starting to get a little testy. "Why should I?"

  "Because," he said, a stern look crossing his face, "Iris Hatcher was found this morning in a parking lot near the airport. Or, I should say, her body was found. Next to her car. Cause of death was suffocation. They're doing an autopsy, but apparently someone strangled her."

  I took a breath. "Oh, my God."

  "I understand you didn't know Iris well. But is there anything about her you could share with us?"

  I looked down and thought about the dossier in my car. You'll do the right thing, Ned. The voice of Iris Hatcher was etched into my psyche. She thought she was in danger, and she was correct. I briefly considered handing the manila envelope over to the DHS agent. But there was something off-kilter about this man, something that did not feel right. I couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. A few weeks ago, I might have reacted differently. Cooperate to the fullest. Capitulate and hand over everything. But my conversation with Dr. Heck was looming in my mind. I needed an approach, not just to the cancer, but to these unwanted intrusions that were floating in and out of my life. I also thought about what Iris had said. You'll do the right thing, Ned.

  I turned back to the DHS agent. "No. I'm sorry. I don't know anyone who would harm her," I said. "No one at all."

  Chapter 23

  The Assassin lounged near the big pool, sipping on a virgin piña colada. A few small children ran by, screaming and splashing the puddles of excess water that had sloshed onto the deck. A few drops landed in his drink and he put it down disgustedly. The operation was not going well at all. This was not how he liked to work. His modus operandi was to spend some up-front time in a city, scouting his assignment, executing the plan flawlessly, and then departing in a hurry. Sticking around could bring him no good.

  He had already finished some solo clean-up work, deftly removing the pretty operative who had recognized him in Century City. With all of his excruciating attention to detail, who would have thought someone from his past would be driving down the street, a former agent who could actually recognize him in his disguise? He liked his habit of wearing the nondescript suit and tie, the fake beard and clear eyeglasses, during an operation. There was a comfort level to his regimen that made him feel secure. This was his workaday outfit, the uniform he put on when he was going to fulfill a contract. It allowed him to separate, to conduct his business anonymously, to play a part, to assume a role. To even pretend he was dressed as a character in a movie.

  The Assassin terminated lives for money, actions that were surely barbaric, but no, he did not consider himself a barbarian. He simply earned a living, plying his trade, applying the tricks he was taught, the skills for which he had a profound level of expertise. And if he chose to decline a contract, it would certainly not change the victim's fate. If he said no, there would be others who would say yes. If a person needed to be removed, it was only a question of how best to engage. At least he was efficient and didn't take pleasure in anyone's demise. He tried to end things quickly for them. A compassionate killer. At least that's what he told himself.

  His pattern was inconveniently altered this time. His identity had been compromised. Naturally, he used a different disguise when he choked the former operative, yanking hard until he was certain she had taken her final breath. The sultry woman with the bright green eyes, the kitten who had left the Company many years before, securing a cushy job on Capitol Hill. She had gone on to work for the vice president when he was a mere Congressman, and had apparently continued to service him. Smart woman, foolish choices. If only she had stayed home that night instead of driving to have a hotel tryst with a man who could surely care less about her. Those green eyes. He knew those eyes had recognized him as he crossed Constellation Boulevard that night, and they recognized him again, albeit too late, as he wrapped the twine around her neck and tugged until her body went limp. But a more crucial concern lay in front of him, the very real possibility she had alerted someone, revealing his identity to an operative cunning enough to thwart him.

  This particular job was special, the opportunity of a lifetime. It was the Super Bowl for people in his line of work. The payday was huge, a gigantic windfall, but one that came coupled with enormous risk. Everyone would be looking for him, and there was no clandestine place to hide, other than in plain sight. He had received a phone call the day after he removed the vice president; he was ordered to stick around Los Angeles. He wasn't told why, he was never told why. Just that there would be another assignment. At first, he thought the next step was Iris, a task he had taken upon himself to fix. Finding her wasn't difficult, a few calls to the speaker's office allowed him to con an unsuspecting staffer into revealing the name of her latest boyfriend. Staking out the man's home in Santa Monica Canyon made it remarkably easy to find her. And after following her to the airport, he was able to act fast.

  But even after he had taken Iris out, he was told to await further instructions, his client had other plans. And so he waited. The compensation was robust, so he was outwardly agreeable. He was always agreeable. He never made waves. But he also knew that he needed to leave L.A. soon, to distance himself from the growing risk that his identity could be compromised. The longer he stayed, the greater the chance of his being apprehended, and that was just something he could not allow to happen. Not again. And yet, there was nothing he could do. He had to remain in a holding pattern and wait for further directives. Disobedience could keep him from continuing to do what he was doing. Earning what he was earning. Defining himself in a world where most people lived undefined lives. And it was a sober fact that in his line of work, an unhappy client would likely result in a death sentence for him. That was just how this business operated.

  He would receive more details when the time was right, but he was told the final step here should be very rote. That it would have to be routine. The Assassin had a hunch who this might involve, and he had already begun baseline work on his new target. The man was a civilian and had no background in espionage. He was told to prepare for an everyday killing, as simple as a drive-by shooting, one of those random freeway murders that happen in L.A. Road rage, a disagreement, perhaps on who should be in which lane, there could be a dozen plausible explanations for this one. The beginning of the Santa Monica Freeway would be perfect if it could be arranged. It just needed to be done, and executed without leaving any footprints. And he could no longer wear the facial hair and glasses. Maybe this time he would mix it up and wear a light blue UCLA baseball cap. Or one of those silly football jerseys that grown men wore, emulating their gridiron heroes. He smiled as he thought of it, a momentary pleasure that was quickly erased by the screaming children running by him again, in the opposite direction this time, but loud, shrill, and still managing to splash him once more. He glowered at the children and silently thought of ways he could voice his displeasure.

  * * *

  Dr. Ashland's assistant wanted me to come into the office the next day, and I did not take that as a good sign. Eli once told me that when doctors have good news, they often call you themselves, they relish the moment when they can hear that sigh of relief, the heartfelt gratitude and to enjoy the brief moment of serenity. Physicians, especially oncologists, encounter too much heartbreak, too many people they cannot cure, lives they can only extend for a short period of time. It was an unfortunate conundrum of working in medicine, he told me, that many treatment options are available, but there were some illnesses doctors just could not fix.

  Leslie and I arrived at the clinic, but we did not wait long. We were quickly whisked into an exam room and told the doctor would be right with us. Dr. Gus Ashland came in two minutes later, a dour look on his face, his eyes cast downward, ostensibly reading my radiology reports, but to my mind, simply averting his gaze. No one wants to look at the condemned.

  "Hello, Ned," he said softly, finally turning to us, nodding formally to Leslie and then shaking my hand. "How are you feeling?"

  "All right," I said a
pprehensively.

  "Well, the good news is that the pleurodesis procedure went well. I spoke with Dr. Silverstein and you won't have any more back pain. At least not because of the fluid buildup in the lungs. The talc procedure took care of that."

  "Okay," I said and swallowed.

  "But I do have to tell you about the genetic testing. We could not determine a driver mutation. That's not to say there isn't one there, we just can't identify it at this time. I have an idea for further testing, but it may take a little while. I've heard of a new clinical trial. I just don't want to delay treatment for you. Time is not on our side."

  "What does that mean?" Leslie asked, as if reading my mind.

  "It means we can't put Ned onto a targeted drug right now. At least not one we think will work."

  "So," I said, my mind racing, "what are the options?"

  "I would recommend starting chemotherapy. And bear in mind, there are some fairly new chemo drugs that have been developed specifically to treat lung cancer. The one I have in mind is Alimta. I'd like to start you off with a triplet, three drugs: Alimta, Avastin, and a platinum agent called Carboplatin. They're all effective, but taken together they have a synergistic effect. You'll also need some B-12 and folic acid beforehand."

  "I have some questions."

  He smiled paternally. "I remember. You work as a researcher."

  "Yes. Good memory. So. Is this what you might call an aggressive treatment?" I asked, remembering some gem I pulled down off the internet last week.

  Dr. Ashland nodded. "Yes, very much so. Three chemo drugs at once is aggressive. We'll see how you handle it. But I think it gives us the best chance."

  "How soon will you know if this works?" I asked.

  "We can do scans after the second infusion. We try to do six infusions, that's about the max most people can stand. The Carboplatin can be difficult to tolerate for an extended period. I like to do the infusions three weeks apart. Attack the cancer cells quickly."