Suspect Number Two was brucellosis, a bacterial infection. Nickname: Bang’s fever. Worldwide occurrence. Reported annual incidence in USA: 150 to 250 cases. Transmitted by cattle. Fatal in 2 to 5 percent of cases. Usually responsive to tetracycline plus streptomycin or other aminoglycosides.
“Untreated, either can last months, a year,” Gosselin said. “Don’t you remember them? We studied them in med school.”
“Vaguely,” Bostwick said. “They’re not exactly your garden-variety disease.”
“No. In fact, they’re quite rare. Still, I can’t believe no one’s tested for them. Heck, not with all these dairy farms.”
“Like I said, they’re not your average diseases,” Bostwick said. He felt Gosselin was pointing a finger of blame at him.
“I don’t fault you,” Gosselin said quickly. “I doubt there are five family practitioners in the entire country who have ever seen them—except perhaps in the big cattle states, which Massachusetts definitely is not. Even out West it’s almost unheard of today. The vets have done a damn good job cleaning it up. But I would fault somebody in your health department for not testing for it. At least they hadn’t in the reports I have. It should have been one of their first candidates.”
“What’s your third possibility?”
“A nasty little bugger called relapsing fever, spread by lice and ticks. It’s an appropriate name. Borrelia recurrentis knocks you on your ass for a week, lets you up the next week, knocks you down, lets you up, on and on like that through as many as ten cycles. The epidemiology is very unusual. To a layman, it appears to have no logic, no order, no clear progression even.”
“Sounds like what we have here,” Bostwick said hopefully.
“Yes, except there hasn’t been a documented case in the U.S. for fifteen years, and that one was somewhere out West. But diseases sometimes have a way of popping up when and where you least expect them,” he said, that excited tone back in his voice. “I keep waiting for the day smallpox returns.”
“Well,” Bostwick said softly, “I hope you find it, whatever it is. And fast. I was at the little girl’s funeral yesterday and—and—” His voice was suddenly choked. A part of Bostwick—a very private, very personal part buried somewhere under layers of logic and common sense and professional judgment—blamed Bostwick. It was a blame he knew would only get worse with the passage of time, just as it had with Justin Rosenberg.
Bostwick’s sudden emotion made Gosselin uneasy.
“Oh, we’ll find it, all right,” he promised. “Heck. Don’t you worry about that. No, sirree.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Wednesday, December 3
The nursing home was a cinch to find. Up Route 7 to Williamstown, across the Vermont border into Pownal, then west across the New York line into Hoosick Falls, whose major claim to fame was the gin mills that operated there so flagrantly during Prohibition. The home stood at the entrance to town, on a bluff overlooking the Hoosac River, not far from a valley where Quidneck Indians once had their largest village.
At the front desk Charlie asked for Ben Wilcox. He wasn’t even sure Ben was still alive. The Quidneck who’d tracked him down for Charlie hadn’t been up in years, and Ben had no family. None that Charlie could find, anyway. It was a long shot, but that’s what Charlie was down to now. Rolls of the dice.
“Ben Wilcox?” the nurse said, evidently surprised.
So he is dead, Charlie thought.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Are you a relative?”
“No,” Charlie admitted.
“Then who are you?”
“A friend,” he said, fudging.
“He can’t have visitors. He’s a very sick old man.”
At least he’s alive, Charlie thought, relieved. I’ll take my chances.
“Just five minutes,” he pleaded. “I’ve driven a very long way.”
“And he’s very sick,” she snapped.
The nurse scrutinized the stranger, Ben’s first visitor since she’d started at the home two years ago. It was obvious from his ponytail and dark, chiseled features that he was an Indian, like Ben. Probably here for some crazy reason only Indians would understand, maybe a secret tribal ritual associated with dying. There was no doubt Ben was nearing his end. Although mentally he still had moments of sharpness, physically his house had crumbled. Staff’s only question now was could he possibly hang on to his hundredth birthday, July 13 of next year. The latest line was that he could not.
“Please,” Charlie implored.
“I’m not sure he’d be able to talk.”
“I only want him to listen. To know I’m there.”
“I can’t guarantee he would. He’s very sick.”
“Please. I may not have another chance.”
“Are you a good friend?” She was softening.
“A best friend.”
“Room one-twelve,” the nurse finally said. “First floor, fourth door on the right. And keep it to five minutes. I’ll be watching the clock.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Charlie walked down the corridor. Suddenly he was in no hurry.
He’d always hated hospitals, convalescent homes, doctors’ offices—any place where sickness was so comfortable. Every one smelled the same: sickly sweet, as if there were a law that said institutional disinfectants all had to have a certain scent. Nursing home sounds were even worse: a cacophony of babbling and snoring, even at midday. Despite the flower prints that adorned every wall, and the Muzak overhead, and all the other phony cheeriness, there was no way to gloss over what a nursing home was: a place to die.
In Quidneck times there had been a place like that. A much more honest place—situated in the very heart of nature, the only place a Quidneck could die with dignity. His father had described it as a grove of pine trees beside a tranquil, trout-filled lake where old warriors and powwows would travel, alone, when they were ready. The Going-Away Place had long since disappeared; even its location had been lost. Bitterly, Charlie supposed it was a white man’s development now, covered over with a shopping mall.
Room 112 was a triple. Medicaid country. The man in the first bed was asleep or comatose, it was impossible to tell. What was left of his body was hidden by a sheet, but the folds and creases could not hide the fetal shape he was locked into. The second man’s eyes were open, but nothing registered on them when Charlie went by.
Both of his legs had been amputated above the knee. The stubs seemed to stare out at the world, fish-belly white, lifeless.
Charlie read the adhesive-tape label at the foot of the third bed. WILCOX, BENJAMIN, it said.
Ben’s eyes were closed, his hands folded peacefully over his belly. Once, Charlie could see, his deeply creased face had been handsome; even now it was not unpleasant to look at. Wisdom and serenity were written on it, but also a tiredness that was not from age alone. This is a man in the process of letting go, Charlie surmised. How much more comfortable he would have been in the Going-Away Place. How much easier to make peace than here, in these soulless twentieth-century surroundings. Charlie wished he could take Ben there.
“Ben,” he said, bending down, his voice a calm, motherly thing.
There was no response, not even a fluttering of eyelids. “Ben. It’s Charlie Moonlight.”
Nothing.
“Your Quidneck brother.”
Nothing.
“George Moonlight’s son.”
The old man drew a deeper breath but did not open his eyes.
“George said you were a very wise man.” Actually his father had mentioned him only once, in passing, but there was nothing to be gained by saying that. “Like your father, and his father before him, Running Fox.”
Ben’s hands twitched. Charlie brushed the old man’s forehead with his hand. Ben’s skin felt like old newspaper.
“Hobbamock,” Charlie said.
Ben’s hands twitched again.
“Hobbamock is free. I need your help.”
; The old man took a deep breath, then another, and another. He seemed to be struggling with something. Perhaps it was the decision to respond to this stranger or to stay where it was quiet and warm.
“The children are dying,” Charlie whispered.
Ben opened his eyes. Charlie was surprised to find them clear, blue, intense. Even so far gone, fire still smoldered in them. “I need your help,” Charlie said.
The old man nodded.
Charlie had not remembered Ben’s Christian name. He’d had to ask around before learning that. But once he’d remembered the old tale his father had told—of Hobbamock’s momentary escape when Thunder Rise was first being mined—he remembered the Quidneck who had stopped the evil. He had been an illustrious powwow, this Quidneck. In fact, that was the context in which he’d come up. George Moonlight had been telling his son, who was eternally fascinated by such things, about some of their people’s distinguished leaders. Running Fox had been one of the greatest, and not only for his role in reimprisoning Hobbamock. Running Fox had been the last powwow to also hold the title of chief sachem, a rare distinction in Quidneck history.
Ben Wilcox was his grandson.
“I undertook pniese,” Charlie told Ben.
Since the ordeal Charlie had been obsessed with divining its lessons. He’d concluded that it would be possible—even simple—to seal off the evil god’s cave. A few well-placed sticks of dynamite would take care of that. That probably would stop Hobbamock’s advance. If his strength had not grown to the point where he could break out—a big if—that would be the end of him. (He could not, at this point, let himself consider another possibility: that Hobbamock had left his home and now roamed free.)
But the children already under attack—and Jimmy’s one of them, there’s no doubt of that—what of them? Get them away from here, had been Charlie’s first idea. Send them all to California. With Jimmy, it might be possible. He might somehow be able to convince his sister to pack her bags and go. Then, again, he might not. And what of the other kids? Could he just forget them? No. Not and be able to live with himself. So how do you get all of them out of town? Kidnapping? What were the chances of getting away with that? No, parents would have to be persuaded; the Transcript, prime media outlet for the area, would be the logical place to sound the alarm. Right. He could just hear Brad Gale now: “You want to do what? Oh, certainly, Charlie. Let me introduce you to Rod Dougherty, our ace reporter. He’ll get all the facts for a page one story. And by the way, thanks. Thanks for doing us all a great public service.”
Even if there were some feasible scheme to banish an entire town, instinct told Charlie that it was already too late. That once Hobbamock had his claws into a child, it would take more than mere relocation to save them. Charlie had returned, time and time again, to the legend. In it the Indian children had somehow been freed of Hobbamock’s hold. Cured, as it were. Years ago, in telling the story of the great battle with Hobbamock, his father had said that what had finally tipped the balance was a spear.
“In the pniese there was a spear,” Charlie whispered into Ben Wilcox’s ear.
With effort the old man nodded. It was as if Charlie had stated something obvious, like the fact the sun rose in the east this morning and likely would set in the west.
“In the pniese I thought I could kill him with it. I was certain that was why it was there, for me, to use against him. But it was useless in my hands. I . . . must have been lacking something. Maybe it’s an incantation. Or a dance. A cry. Something. Something to supplement the spear. Or maybe it’s not the spear at all. Maybe I’ve been misled. Please. Please help me.”
With one curled finger, he motioned for Charlie to come closer.
When Charlie’s ear was inches away, he spoke a single word: “Child.”
Charlie thought a moment. “A child must be sacrificed?” he said doubtfully.
Ben shook his head. He spoke another word: “Spear.”
Charlie was baffled. Then it hit him. “A child must use it. A child must use the spear.”
Ben nodded.
“A child must use it against Hobbamock.”
He nodded.
“Can it be any child?”
Ben shook his head and uttered another word: “Sick.”
“It must be one of the sick children.”
Again, a nod.
“And if this does not happen?”
Ben closed his eyes.
“They will die?”
Ben’s eyes flitted open. He nodded.
“All of them?”
“All,” Ben said hoarsely. Even one-word answers were exhausting him.
Charlie sensed that. “Ben,” he said gently, “I have one more question. Only one. Where is the spear? Please. Did your grandfather ever say?”
Ben tried to push himself up in the bed, but the effort was too much. He would have to answer as he was. With obvious pain, he completed four sentences—the last sentences he would speak on this earth. He told Charlie that the spear had passed into the hands of a Quidneck who lived in New York, that this was long before Charlie was born, that the man’s name was Brown, and that he had been very, very rich.
Ben closed his eyes again, and this time he did not reopen them. He was done.
“You’ll have to go now,” an irked voice from behind Charlie said.
He turned. It was the nurse. He had not heard her enter. “I’m done,” he said.
“I said five minutes. It’s way past that.”
“I’m done,” Charlie repeated. His voice had a threatening tone that the nurse did not like one bit. She was very glad he was leaving voluntarily.
“Good-bye, Ben,” Charlie said softly. “Thank you.”
The old man did not respond.
On the drive home Charlie reflected. Now there were two tasks facing him.
Finding the spear.
And a child to wield it.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Thursday, December 4
Rational people do not, perhaps, do such things. But Justin McLaughlin was not a rational man the morning his eight-year-old son died at Berkshire Medical. He was an angry, saddened, frustrated, scared-shitless powder keg of a man who still had two live and seemingly healthy children to think about.
So he called the press.
McLaughlin knew what he was doing. He was a partner in an advertising firm in Pittsfield, and he’d dealt with the media before, understood their power. Even in his rage and grief he was able, through several phone calls, to orchestrate an impressive turnout. A network-affiliated TV station from Albany joined the Transcript, the Berkshire Eagle, a stringer from the Boston Globe, two Pittsfield radio stations, and the AP at his conference, which he held on the front steps of the hospital.
He hoped to hell the Health Department tuned in that night. “Jay’s dead,” he said, weeping from the outset. “I can’t bring him back. I know that.”
Rod Dougherty’s tape recorder was running.
“But there are four other kids inside there with the same thing, and four other sets of parents, and maybe a dozen other kids just a step or two away from being hospitalized, and . . . and . . . nobody knows, damn it! No one knows what is killing these children. No one knows how to make them better.
“This—this thing . . . we want answers, and we want them now! Before anyone else . . . dies.”
McLaughlin fumbled for his wallet, found the snapshots he wanted, and held them up for the cameras.
“These are my children,” he said, pointing to three smiling faces gathered around a birthday cake.
“Jay’s in the middle,” he said, his voice breaking. “He’s the one wearing the party hat. This is Becky. She’s nine now, in third grade, at Morgantown Elementary. Peter’s four, and still at home. Both of them, thank the Lord, aren’t sick. But they’ve watched their brother . . . die . . . these last few weeks. Watched him go from . . . God, he could throw a baseball like you wouldn’t believe, boy, could he ever . . . to go from all that to the hospita
l.
“And now—now, what’s happened is giving Becky and Peter nightmares. They can’t sleep, they see monsters, they wake up crying and sweaty, and it’s because of Jay. They’re scared it might happen to them, too, can’t you see? Can’t you?”
His wife could not bring herself to join him, so he’d faced the press alone. He looked particularly vulnerable now, Rod thought, standing alone in the sun, the cold breeze ruffling the lapels of his coat.
“We live over near the rise,” he continued when he’d composed himself again. “On mornings like this Jay liked nothing better than to play in those woods. He would come home, his cheeks red, all out of breath, so—so happy. Maybe after lunch we’d go outside together. I’d have my catcher’s glove and he’d throw . . .”
He paused, remembering, sniffling.
Someone ought to stop him, Rod thought, before we’re all crying.
It wasn’t necessary.
McLaughlin waved the snapshots of his children and said, “It’s too late for Jay, but for their sake . . . for the sake of all the other children . . . I beg you, please . . . please . . .”
He did not finish his sentence but turned and walked back inside the hospital, where his wife was waiting. The reporters, trained since Journalism 101 to toss questions as naturally as drawing breaths, didn’t say a word.
“You sound frustrated,” Brad said.
“Perhaps a bit,” Gosselin conceded. “But heck, all that means is we’ll just have to work harder.”
They were in the Transcript’s conference room. Bostwick, who’d arranged the meeting at Brad’s insistence, was with them. So was Rod Dougherty. Gosselin ordinarily didn’t talk to the media—no matter how carefully you explained something, he believed, they always got it wrong—but for his old college buddy, he’d made an exception, provided it was strictly for background.
“So what’s next?” Brad asked, absently drumming his pen.
“Atlanta, of course,” Gosselin said. “There’s all that lab work to be run. Half the blood probably hasn’t even arrived there yet.”
“Mark says you leave this afternoon.”
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