Curse of the Afflicted

by David Chill

  * * *

  It was quiet in Dr. Ashland's office. Leslie and I sat next to each other, holding hands. Angelina was nearby, looking down at her phone, momentarily disengaged. Our daughter had landed a summer job, counselor at a local day camp for underprivileged kids, but today, for the first time in what felt like years, she expressed interest in being with us. In fact, she insisted upon it.

  My second chemo infusion was last week, and yesterday I had gone in for scans. The tests would become my life's scorecard, the measurement of the tumors, the tenuous glimpse into the future. On the face of it, my body had tolerated the chemo surprisingly well. There was no hair loss and only minimal discomfort. Some fatigue and some queasiness occurred once the protective shield of the Decadron wore off. But my ability to handle the treatment was meaningless if the chemo did not successfully attack the cancer. If the tumors were shrinking, life would be extended; if they were growing, we would need a new approach.

  The door opened and Dr. Ashland walked in, followed by a nurse. He shook hands with us, holding a file. And smiling. He was indeed smiling.

  "How are you feeling, Ned?"

  "Nervous."

  "You know, he said, "when we first met you, I wanted to say what a great name you had. But my nurse didn't want me to jinx things."

  "You believe in jinxes?" I asked.

  "Not really," he admitted. "But I didn't want to get your hopes up. Stage four and all. We didn't know what would happen with you. Everyone responds differently to treatment."

  "But how did Dad do with his treatment?" Angelina asked anxiously. "Did the triplet work? We're dying ... I mean, eager to know."

  Dr. Ashland smiled more broadly. "Do you have an interest in medicine? Or oncology?"

  "I do now," she said. "I read Dad's CT scans from last time. When he was first diagnosed. Dad's friend Eli explained them to me. It was actually ... pretty fascinating. I learn all this stuff in school, chemistry, math, all that. But I never have a chance to see what it all can really mean."

  "It can be fascinating," Dr. Ashland said. "And rewarding sometimes, especially when I have good news to share. And this is very good news. The primary tumor in the lung has shrunk. Decreased by more than seventy percent. Remarkable."

  "Wow," I said, as I quickly did the math in my head. "So it's only two centimeters now. And the tumors in the nodes and the kidney?"

  The doctor chuckled. "You're sounding like a pro. But it's true, you have fantastic news. The other lesions, and we're not even sure they're tumors at this point, they could be cysts. They've shrunk by half."

  "That's such great news," Leslie clapped.

  "It gets better," he said. "We sent your biopsy off to Mass General for further testing. The sample came back positive for a mutation that's called the Ross One Rearrangement. Less than two percent of lung cancer patients have that."

  "Ross? Is that good?" asked Angelina.

  "It's like winning the lottery," he responded. "It's actually R-O-S and the number one, but pronounced Ross One. But here's what's great about it. There's a targeted treatment already developed, a pill you take twice a day. The side effects are minimal, far milder than chemo. It's in clinical trial now, and the patients on it have shown great response."

  "That is ... wonderful," Leslie choked, tears spilling onto her face.

  "Additionally, it's a phase three trial, which is good, they're getting close to asking for FDA approval. The timing couldn't be better."

  "How so?" I asked.

  "If you had been diagnosed two years ago, we wouldn't have known that this drug would work on you. If you were diagnosed two years from now, the clinical trial would be closed. Your timing is impeccable."

  "Finally," I smiled.

  "You were unlucky to get lung cancer. But you are very lucky to get this news."

  I sat back and drank all of this in. I would be getting a new lease on life, and the death sentence I had been fearing had been given a divine reprieve. I was being granted the one thing you can never count on in life, that being more time on this Earth. I had put on as brave a face as I could muster over the past month, and it had been exhausting.

  "I'll make arrangements with the doctor running the trial," Dr. Ashland continued. "And we'll get you an appointment with her, I think you'll have no trouble getting in. This is truly fantastic news. The best of both worlds. The chemo worked, it reduced your tumors. But now you can go off it. For a while at least."

  "I'm so happy for you, Daddy! Happy for us!" Angelina exclaimed.

  "Yes," I nodded and then held up my hands. "Can I ask a few questions?"

  "I'd be surprised if you didn't," he chuckled.

  "Just so I'm clear, this isn't a cure, is it?"

  "No, not a cure. There is no cure for cancer. Not yet. But this is the next best thing. Cancer medicine is becoming personalized. Different drugs work for different people. In your case, we were able to isolate the genetic mutation of the tumor, and luckily we have a drug that works for patients with this specific mutation. It's been proven to extend life for years. How many, we don't exactly know. Everyone reacts differently to the drug. The goal is to keep you around long enough for the next drug in the pipeline."

  "To outlive the cancer?"

  "That's exactly right. We're trying to turn cancer into a chronic condition that can be treated almost indefinitely. For certain people, it's working. We have some patients who are on their third line of drugs, and they're still with us."

  "I'd like to be one of those people."

  "You're on your way. I'll be honest, the long-term survival rate is not high right now, but some people do make it."

  "No reason why I can't be one of those people," I said. "Someone has to be."

  "Sure. And I also understand the ordeal you've been through recently. If anyone deserves some good news, it's you."

  "I have one other question," I said.

  "Go ahead," he smiled paternally.

  "You mentioned something earlier. About my name. What did you mean when you said I had a great name? This isn't the first time I've heard that, but I didn't think it really sunk in. What does Ned mean?"

  "Ah. In the cancer world, Ned is an acronym. N-E-D. It stands for No Evidence of Disease. It's what I hope to tell every cancer patient. You're not there yet, but you're on your way."

  "That's ... all wonderful," I said, reveling in what was, by far, the best news I had heard in the past two months, perhaps in my whole life. There is no better gift than the gift to keep waking up each morning.

  "Do you have any more questions?" Dr. Ashland asked.

  "No," I said. I had no more questions. None, in fact. None at all.

  THE END

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  My seven other novels, Post Pattern, Fade Route, Bubble Screen, Safety Valve, Corner Blitz, Nickel Package, and Double Pass are part of the Burnside Mystery Series, and are also available on Amazon.com. If you'd like to read an excerpt of my first novel, Post Pattern, I've attached Chapter 1 here. Read on!

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  Post Pattern Preview

  Chapter 1

  The people who tried to kill Norman Freeman last night
came dangerously close to succeeding. Or at least Norman thought they were trying to kill him. Despite having the passenger window of his car shot out on the Santa Monica freeway, he still wasn't entirely sure.

  "They may have been after my brother," he said. "It's very confusing."

  "Getting shot at often is," I answered. During my tenure on the police force, I had exchanged gunfire on two occasions. Both times I escaped without physical harm but paid an emotional price. There were the countless nights where sleep never came, and many others that were altered by petrifying nightmares. Each shooting incident took a couple of months to overcome, but I don’t think I ever fully recovered. The bad dreams still slip in occasionally. Trauma can stay with you forever.

  "I'm just stunned at what happened," he said, as his pretty blonde fiancée sitting next to him took his hand and squeezed it slightly. A large diamond ring glittered from her finger.

  "You told me that over the phone," I reminded him, "but let me ask you something. How did you happen to select me? Burnside Investigations doesn't exactly stand out in the yellow pages."

  Norman brightened for a moment. "Dick Bridges recommended you."

  Dick Bridges was director of campus security at Los Angeles University, more commonly referred to as LAU, and we had known each other since I played football across town at USC. That was almost twenty years ago. Time goes by so quickly. It seemed like yesterday that I resigned from the police department; in fact it was only two years.

  I nodded. "Dick and I go back a long ways. He's done well for himself."

  "Mr. Bridges told me you were the best."

  Laughing, I said, "Dick owes me a few favors. Has he lost any weight?"

  Norman shook his head. "No. He'd make a good offensive tackle. I could have used him two years ago. I played quarterback at LAU."

  I was well aware of Norman Freeman. His name or photo had appeared almost daily in the Los Angeles Times. The blond hair, blue eyes, rugged jaw, and muscular frame were right out of central casting. He wore a long sleeve oxford cloth shirt with a button down collar and pressed khakis. It was as if Frank Gifford, the all-American boy of the fifties, had magically reappeared. He made me feel old, but at forty, that was far from a herculean task.

  Norman had been a second round draft pick of the Patriots, but his pro career was short-circuited by an injury during a pre-season game. When no receivers were open on one fateful play, he took off on a scramble and attempted to hurdle the safety who stood between him and the goal line. The defender upended him brutally, separating the shoulder of his throwing arm and causing a concussion when he landed on the unforgiving turf. Despite attempts at rehabilitation, the shoulder never fully recovered and headaches became a regular part of his day. And Norman Freeman's gridiron career came to a sudden halt.

  "So what are you doing now?" I inquired.

  Norman smiled shyly. "Working for my father. He owns a bunch of car dealerships on the Westside. I'm being groomed to take over the business."

  "Nice work if you can get it," I remarked. Being a smart ass was a gift which came naturally to me. And as off-putting as it might be at times, it often got people to say things they ordinarily didn’t intend to.

  But Norman Freeman sat in silence for a minute, pondering the end of his left thumbnail. I noticed that it had become slightly warm in my office, and I made a mental note to contact the property manager to fix the air conditioning. Had I something more interesting to do that afternoon I would have hurried him along, but Norman was more entertaining than staring out my window. And his fiancée was certainly a sight to behold.

  Her name was Ashley and she was about Norman's age, tall and slender, with golden hair that flowed freely down her back. She wore a black top, white slacks and pink and white Nikes. Despite the warm weather, she carried a white denim jacket with little silver stars sewn into the collar. She wore a face full of makeup including violet eye shadow and scarlet lipstick. When she smiled, her teeth were big and white, a gleaming Pepsodent smile if there ever was one. I tried not to linger too long on her and began to mentally review my calendar for the rest of the day. I needed to be at Mrs. Wachs' house at five o'clock, but that was a few hours away. Aside from that, the only thing I had to decide was what to have for dinner.

  "Mr. Burnside, you're probably wondering why I'm here," he said.

  "The thought crossed my mind."

  "As I told you over the phone, somebody tried to shoot me last night. Actually it may have been Robbie they were trying to kill."

  "So you mentioned. Robbie's your brother."

  "Right. He played for LAU also. He was a really good wide receiver. You may have heard of him."

  I nodded. "All-Conference if I recall."

  "Yes."

  "You were All-Conference as well, weren't you?" I inquired.

  He nodded eagerly. "Three years. Robbie was my best receiver the last two. Freeman to Freeman."

  "Then you graduated."

  "I was a year older."

  "Of course," I said.

  "They changed around the offense after I left. Started using the Read Option. That was probably why Robbie didn't have a great senior year."

  "So I gathered. I still follow the game."

  "Sure," he commented. "I remember watching you when I was a little kid, Mr. Burnside. You played safety at USC, didn’t you?"

  "You've got a good memory. But why don't we get back to why you're here."

  "Oh yeah," he paused. "Well it was like this. I was driving Robbie's car last night. You see, our parents had an affair up at the house. I needed to leave early and Robbie's Honda was blocking my car in the driveway. So I just borrowed his."

  "Sure. I do the same thing when someone double parks in front of me."

  Norman gave me a confused look but continued on. "Anyway, I'm driving on the freeway when all of a sudden someone pulls alongside and fires a gun at me. Shot the side window clean out. I was really lucky they missed, the bullet got lodged in the head rest."

  "And you think they were after your brother."

  "Who would want to kill me?"

  I decided to answer a question with a question. "Who would want to kill Robbie?"

  He thought for a moment. "I don't know."

  "Did you get the plate number?"

  "No," he said sadly. "I was too startled. I can't even describe the car to you."

  I asked if he had gone to the police, and both Norman and Ashley responded with concurrent nods. Norman had the perplexed look of a football player facing a Cover 2 defense for the first time. Ashley responded.

  "The police took a report,” she said, “but they told us that without a license plate number there wasn't much they could do. They also seemed very busy."

  "Business must be booming," I mused.

  "Excuse me?"

  I held up my hand. "Never mind,” I said, and turned back to Norman. “Before I start sticking my nose into your brother's business, have you talked to him about this?"

  He nodded yes. "Robbie... Robbie told me not to worry about things. Not to get involved. He'd be very angry if he found out what I'm doing here. But I'm his brother. I care about him. And I'm worried for him."

  I watched Norman's face to see if it would reveal anything more than golden boy looks. He spent most of his time talking with his gaze aimed at the floor. That might have meant either he couldn't look me in the eye or that my linoleum was developing serious wax build-up. Trial judges often instruct their juries to consider a witness's body movements during testimony, but I've concluded that theory doesn’t always work well in practice. People can tell the god's honest truth with a drooped head and slumped shoulders, while others are able to commit blatant perjury while looking someone dead in the eye.

  "I understand."

  He continued to fidget. "So will you help me?" he finally asked.

  "I doubt I'll be able to find the guy who took a shot at you last night."

  A pained expression filled his young face. "Can you at l
east find out why?"

  I pondered the question while I glanced at the bare walls in my spartan office. I kept meaning to hang some pictures, but procrastination got the best of me. While I scanned my white walls, I also considered whether to order a pizza tonight or splurge and go for some steamed clams near the beach.

  “I can’t guarantee I’ll find the answer. But I can promise you the same thing I promise every client. I’ll do the very best I possibly can and I’ll give you your money’s worth.”

  Norman nodded. “Okay.”

  "Does anyone else know you've come to me for help?"

  "Just my father. And he's completely supportive. In fact he'll pay for it."

  Time to test the waters. "My usual fee is six hundred a day," I said, watching Norman's expression carefully. "Plus expenses."

  Showing not the least bit of hesitation, Norman Freeman pulled himself to his feet and reached hastily into his pocket for a wad of greenbacks. He peeled off a small stack and handed them to me.

  "Here's a week's retainer. Would you mind keeping receipts for the expenses? Dad would like to deduct them."

  In my hand sat thirty pictures of Ben Franklin. I tried to spread them like a deck of playing cards but they barely budged. The bills were fresh and crisp and clung together as if they were bonded. They felt good in my hand. It had been a while since this much cold cash had dropped into my lap and I savored the feeling. Steamed clams, I decided. Definitely the clams.

  *

  Before they left, I instructed Norman to jot down a list of Robbie's friends and acquaintances, and how I could reach them. He also mentioned that many of them would be attending his, Norman's, bachelor party the following evening. He invited me to join the festivities as well, although he warned me Robbie was going to bring some rather outgoing ladies to liven up the gathering. I told him I'd be on my best behavior.