Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “The Governor has said that he wants the outbreak contained as much as possible and the outbreak itself not given any sensationalistic coverage.” Azada tapped one of the charts he had opened. “According to the figures at PHES, there is no reason to think that this will be more widespread than it is; it’s possible that the disease cycle has already peaked and that we’ll see a reduction of cases over the next month.”

  “Wishful thinking, Vicky,” said Weyman with a sweet, insincere smile. “Very wishful thinking.”

  “The Governor has a very large state to consider,” began Captain Lorrimer. “That means that he might not appreciate how serious the situation is here.”

  “He has an excellent staff and PHES has some of the best epidemiologists in the field,” Azada reminded them defensively.

  “Yes,” said Weyman. “Like Doctor Kostermeyer, here, and of course, Doctor Wren.” He waited a bit to give everyone in the auditorium an opportunity to consider what he had said. “The epidemiologists in Sacramento are very good, we all know that, but the operative word there is Sacramento. They haven’t been here, they are basing their evaluation on reports only. That can cause inadvertent misunderstandings, which is why there are four of us in the field now from Atlanta, working to determine what areas of investigation are the most crucial.”

  Azada glared at Weyman. “You’ve got a much larger staff than we do at PHES. You’re dealing with other states, as well.”

  “Which is what PHES better start doing pretty damned quick,” said Weyman mildly. “Or there is likely to be hell to pay.”

  “I think,” said Commander Tolliver, “that it’s time we make some of our hospitals available for your use. It will take about twenty-four hours to process the paperwork, since this is an emergency. After that, you will have another eight hundred quarantine beds at your disposal. I hope you’re willing to put them to use.”

  “I can’t think why we wouldn’t be,” said Sylvia. “What about your personnel on base? Does that leave enough space for them, if the disease spreads there?”

  “Oh, yes. We’re reserving a comparable number for our men and their families. We have already seen about twenty cases of—did you call it TS?—TS, and we’re prepared for more. I hope that we’re being too cautious, but . . .”

  Colonel Packard cleared his throat. “The Marine base is making similar plans.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Azada protested. “You guys are acting like this is the Black Plague or something. This isn’t the Middle Ages, you know. We’ve got vaccines for everything from flu to AIDS. This is just another one of those leaking cannisters, and once we find out what it is and where the whole thing will be under control. You’re overreacting.”

  “You might try to explain that to the families who have lost members to TS,” Weyman countered. “You’re afraid that the Chamber of Commerce is going to be upset over an epidemic, that it won’t be good for tourists. Well, I should fucking hope so. I’d like to think that most people have the good sense to know to stay out of an epidemic zone. But you can’t bet on that. Knowing how people are, you might have to pay them to stay away from San Diego.”

  “You’re out of line, Mister!” Azada burst out.

  “Doctor,” said Weyman. “And I’m not. I’m trying to talk sense.”

  “Listen to him,” said Sylvia. “Please listen. He’s telling the truth; this place is already a high-risk area, and until we know more, we can’t rule out any possibility.”

  “If it’s a toxin, it isn’t contagious,” Azada reminded them huffily.

  “But what if it’s triggered by a toxin, what then?” said Weyman. “What if the combining element is a virus, which is mild when the toxin isn’t present, but deadly when it is?” This was his own pet theory, but so far he was the only person who thought it was a possibility.

  “It’s safer to be careful,” said Tolliver, attempting to mollify the outraged doctor from Sacramento.

  “And what am I supposed to tell the Governor?” Azada asked sarcastically. “Oh, Governor Derelli, there’s some kind of toxin in San Diego and we have to close the state for repairs? Come on!”

  “I’ve heard of worse ideas,” said Weyman.

  “What is wrong with you?” Azada shrieked at Weyman. “Are you Lord-High-Mucki-Mucks from Atlanta completely unaware of how much this state depends on tourism, and how much of it is devoted to agriculture? We’ve got commitments for produce and dairy products that have to be met. We can’t hold up trucks and drivers and the rest of the commercial shipping on a whim.”

  “This isn’t a whim,” said Sylvia. “When the nearest bed in a quarantine wing is half an hour away, there is something wrong. Don’t you understand that?” She was shaking again, this time from anger. “If you haven’t the guts to tell Governor Derelli what’s going on down here, I will; and if that means you throw me out of PHES, so be it.”

  “They won’t throw you out,” said Weyman, looking Azada in the eye. “Will they?”

  “No,” said Azada.

  Once again Tolliver intervened. “I hope that you will talk to Governor Derelli, Doctor Azada. Because all of us”—he indicated his fellow officers—“have to make official reports about this meeting, and it would appear strange if you did not give the Governor the same information that we will report.”

  Azada gave a low, angry gasp. “All right, all right. I’ll recommend a provisional quarantine and a . . . a six-month testing period. Will that do, or is there more?”

  “That will do for a start. It’s close enough to what we plan at Miramar.” Commander Tolliver gave his attention to Weyman. “And you? What will you tell them in Atlanta?”

  “My recommendations might be more stringent, but that’s because I’m used to having them made less so. For the time being, I think the program could provide some containment until we have enough information to change what we believe to be risks. And for all our sakes, I hope we find out quickly. We’re on the edge of a real mess.” Weyman looked around the room, wanting to convince every person there of the danger he saw. “If this is contagious, and if it has a long incubation period, then we are all likely to catch it, sometime down the line.”

  “Because of a toxin?” Azada mocked, but without any support from the others.

  “It could be,” said Sylvia. “It would be foolish to pretend that it couldn’t.”

  “And if you’re wrong, and we have a panic, what then?” Azada persisted.

  Sylvia answered for all of them. “Then we’ll be very, very lucky.”

  —Dale Reed, Wendell Picknor and Donna Howell—

  “What’s so unusual about Irene Channing’s case,” said Donna Howell to Dale Reed as they faced each other over the small cafeteria table, “is that she’s still alive.”

  “She’s a very strong woman,” said Dale, his face changing color subtly.

  “It could be more than that. So far, we know of only one other patient who has run a temperature of more than one-oh-two and survived more than five weeks beyond. She’s had a fever, and it’s done something quite unprecedented with TS: it’s come down. That makes her a curiosity, if nothing else.”

  Dale lifted his chin. “But you’ve already said that we’ve had far fewer cases in Dallas than they have in Southern California and the Pacific Northwest. Perhaps the outbreak here isn’t as severe.”

  “Perhaps, but that doesn’t change the death statistics, does it?” Donna took a forkful of what was fairly tasteless salad. “Have you seen any patients other than Irene Channing who have run a high fever with this disease and lived?”

  Slowly Dale shook his head. “No.”

  “Then I reiterate—there’s something quite remarkable about her. I wish I knew more.” She had some of the lukewarm tea and continued on with the salad. “I’m puzzled about this small outbreak now in Arkansas. You said that you
have reports of a couple dozen cases.”

  “Yes. We’ve been doing some investigating on our own, and it appears that there are at least twenty-five cases in the Ben Lomond-Hope area, and that’s troubling. I can’t stop thinking that there’s a relation to the cases in Dallas.”

  “Well, there are many families in the Dallas area that have recreation homes in that part of Arkansas, just as some of them do down toward Shreveport. It gets them away from the city.” He had a barbecued chicken sandwich which he had not touched, but now he bought himself a little time with a large bite.

  “What are your contacts in that area like? I’d rather use yours if we can. If I mention Atlanta, everyone gets defensive.” She saw that he was more at his ease and this relieved her. “Is there someone I can talk to?”

  “I can give you the name of four docs in Texarkana and one in Hope. If you’re eager to talk to them, they can probably help you contact more.” He paused to chew on the sandwich.

  “Do you think you can persuade them to take the necessary specimens for our analysis? There are times that docs can get pretty territorial about their patients, especially when we’re involved.” She did her best to make it apparent that she did not include him in that number. “We’re hoping to find out what toxin is causing the disease, or what combination of toxins. Every sample we get, every analysis we can complete, brings us closer to finding a solution.”

  “You don’t have to give me the pep talk,” said Dale as he wiped barbecue sauce from his mouth. “I agree with you. I want to see this disease stamped out as soon as possible.”

  “And we do want to run a few more tests on Missus Channing.” She hoped that he would not balk at the request.

  “Why?” he inquired, suddenly reserved.

  “To learn, of course. It may be that she has something in her blood that resists the breakdown we see in others. You know how the blood looks before they die—it’s all to bits. But so far as we can determine, that hasn’t happened yet with Missus Channing. You said yourself that no other patient you’ve seen has lasted so long.” This gentle reminder did not have the effect Donna was hoping for.

  “She’s not a guinea pig for you to experiment with!” He slapped his sandwich back onto its plastic plate. “She’s already lost her husband, she’s separated from her children, and now you’re proposing to . . . to make a lab animal out of her. Not a chance, lady.”

  “But—”

  “She’s my patient. And I say she’s been through enough and you ought to leave her alone. I don’t want her to have to endure anything more. As soon as she can leave, I want her out of the hospital and off with her kids, taking a rest.” There were spots of color in his face.

  “What if she isn’t safe to leave?” Donna suggested as diplomatically as she could. “What if there is—”

  “She isn’t a carrier. All the work we’ve done indicates that she’s had the disease and she’s recovering. She has two sons who need her, who’ve been kept away from her. She wants to be with them, to get back to her painting again and to put this behind her.” His insistence was so emphatic that Donna decided not to push it.

  “Tell me about her kids.” What she wanted most to know was if either of them had shown any sign of TS, but she was afraid to ask directly, given Dale’s current frame of mind.

  “They’re fine, both of them. There’s Steven—he’s thirteen, and Brice—he’s almost seven. Neil Channing adopted Steven, but . . . he was Irene’s by a . . .”

  “Previous marriage,” supplied Donna, not understanding the reluctance that Dale showed in talking about it.

  “No. She lived with a man for two years, when she was younger. Steven’s his boy.” He swallowed awkwardly. “I know that this isn’t supposed to be important anymore, but there are parts of the country, and this is one of them, where an illegitimate child is a . . . hindrance. Some of the people who knew Neil thought he’d made a mistake marrying Irene because of Steven.”

  “Where are the boys now?”

  “With the housekeeper, away. It seemed the sensible thing to do.” He gave her a hard, challenging look. “Or do you want to do tests on them, too?”

  “We might, eventually,” said Donna, as if she were unaware of the hostility in his question.

  Dale rose from his place. “I don’t think there’s much more we can say to each other just now, Doctor Howell.”

  “As you wish. I was hoping you’d come with me to Doctor Picknor’s office, but if you’d rather not . . .” Donna left the suggestion open-ended.

  “I have rounds to make,” he explained. “When I’ve finished, then I’ll see if you’re still with Doctor Picknor. It might be useful to hear what he has to say.” This last was a concession, grudgingly given and spoken in a low, aggravated tone.

  “Good. I look forward to it,” said Donna, determined to ignore his bad manners.

  “Are you going to see Irene?” He had started away from the table, leaving his sandwich unfinished, but he turned back again.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t upset her.” He said it softly, without any of his earlier harshness.

  “I’ll try not to,” said Donna.

  “All right.”

  She watched him leave, and spent the next ten minutes going over everything that Dale Reed had said. By the time she had got up from the table, she was convinced that she would need to talk to the doctors in Arkansas Dale had said he would put her in touch with. It seemed like the only reasonable thing to do. How did Irene Channing feel, she wondered, knowing that at least one of her children was at risk? She could not imagine what it would be like to have one of her three children in their teen years. All hers were under ten, and for once in her life, she was deeply grateful because of it. As distressing as this investigation was to her, she knew it was worse for those who faced losing children as well as spouses, family and friends.

  “Glad to see you,” said Wendell Picknor when Donna entered his office. “Dale’s not with you?”

  “He’s going to join us later, perhaps,” said Donna carefully.

  “Still hot under the collar about Missus Channing, is he?” Picknor asked. “Not surprising. He’s so stuck on her that he doesn’t know which way is up.”

  Donna was curious, but asked no direct questions. “How is she doing?”

  “Well, she’s weak,” said Picknor, “but she’s still alive, and that puts her ahead of anyone else I can think of. Her temperature is still normal—in fact, a little sub-normal—and she’s able to eat and keep it down. We’re officially guardedly optimistic about her.” He cocked his head to the side. “What’s your opinion?”

  “My opinion is that we have a two-stage toxin. That’s becoming our consensus. And that makes it especially difficult to trace.” Donna reached into the case she carried and took out the latest stack of printouts. “You’ll have a copy sent you this afternoon as well, but I thought you’d like a chance to see it before we see Missus Channing.”

  Picknor took the sheets and looked over them. “These ACTH readings are the ones that get me. Whatever else this disease does, it sure changes things in the brain.”

  “In Missus Channing’s case,” Donna ventured, “have those readings changed since she started to improve?”

  “Somewhat, yes. But they’re a long way from normal. That’s the one thing that really concerns me about her,” he went on in a more confidential tone. “I don’t know what that will mean in terms of recovery. It could be that she’s going to be left with a permanent brain dysfunction, and that has ramifications that are, well . . .”

  Donna waited for him to end his thought, and when he did not, she folded her arms over her chest as if to protect herself from the implications of Picknor’s worry. “Have you talked to her about this?”

  “No, not yet. I don’t want to cause her any stress if I can av
oid it. She’s been through so much.” He tapped the printouts. “What about the docs on the West Coast? Are they getting similar reports?”

  “I haven’t gone over yesterday’s printouts yet, but as far as I can tell, yes. They’re seeing far more cases, but we don’t know the reason for that yet.” She studied Picknor. “Is there anything you want to tell me about before we go see Missus Channing?”

  “Not really,” he said as he picked up his clipboard. “I don’t want to bias your opinions or reactions any more than I have to. You’ve seen so many cases of this—you’re calling it TS in Atlanta, aren’t you?—TS, you’ll know what to look for.” He left his office ahead of her, content to have her trail after him like a student.

  Irene Channing was painfully thin and her eyes now seemed much too large for her face. When she spoke her voice was low and rusty, and her movements were as slow and painful as those of a victim of a beating. “Wendell,” she said when he came through the door.

  “How’s it going, Irene.” He came to the side of her bed, his quarantine gear making static-like noises as he walked.

  “You tell me. I’m alive.” She put one hand to her forehead. “Today I feel as if I had an allergy at the back of my eyes.”

  “How’s that.” He made room for Donna beside him while he studied the monitors over Irene’s head.

  “You know that I can read the monitors backward in the TV screen?” Irene asked as she watched Picknor make a few notes.

  “Really?” His calm was not as convincing as before.

  “Yes. These long afternoons, I’ve been watching them when they won’t let me have the TV on. The patterns are very pretty sometimes.” She looked at Donna. “Did you visit me yesterday?”

  “You were asleep,” said Donna.

  “Half asleep,” Irene corrected her. “I do remember someone being here. I know all the nurses. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Donna Howell. I’m with the National Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, the Environmental Division.” They could not shake hands; she compromised with a wave.