By eleven Warren could stand the waiting no longer. He pulled out his cell phone and punched numbers on the keypad. Chalmais, who had come in with Lomax to check on the boy, winced. Warren waited, then punched the numbers again. “No service? What’s wrong with this frigin’ thing?”
“The boy’ll be fine,” Chalmais said. “But if you think you need more specialized care…”
“Yes! Absolutely!”
“Portland Legacy has the best head trauma unit in the Pacific Northwest,” Chalmais said.
“That’s hours away,” Warren said, still waving his phone around trying to get a signal.
“Not by helicopter,” Chalmais said. “I can have one here in 10 minutes.”
Warren didn’t know anything about Oregon hospitals. He felt lost. He thought of Ilene, who always seemed to know what to do.
“A head trauma unit,” Lomax said as he examined the boy. “That’s what I’d recommend. Anything else would be too risky.”
Wanting only the best for his son, Warren nodded.
Chalmais was gambling that with containment no longer possible, the next best thing was to ship the EPA agent and his son a half-state away in the middle of the night, to a large, busy hospital with corporate ties to Gyttings-Lindstrom. Maybe the press corps wouldn’t notice. Maybe it would buy him a day or two, maybe enough.
It was midnight when the medevac chopper left the rooftop pad. The Vice President saw them off, Warren, Tyler, and a nurse, and after the machine had clattered up into the sky in a tornado of wind and hurtling bits of paper, Chalmais made a mental note to call Austin in the morning and get Blackburn transferred to Eugene immediately. Security here was a disaster, barely able to control the perimeter. A kid had managed to wander into an unlocked lab in the middle of a dangerous experiment and no one had even noticed!
At least Blackburn’s cellphone jammer had worked.
Day 5
Tuesday
Legacy Cosmopolitan Hospital,
Portland, Oregon
It didn’t take Warren long to regret moving Tyler to a large hospital. His problems began the moment the medevac chopper landed on the roof of Legacy Cosmopolitan Hospital in Portland. It was now almost 3 a.m. Detained by the admitting desk, Warren had temporarily lost track of Tyler who had been rushed down to radiology. By the time Warren tracked him down, Tyler was in MRI in the middle of a head and neck series. Warren’s protests were overruled by the ‘doctor’s discretion’ form which Warren had signed in the heat of trying to get his son admitted. An hour later, when he finally got an opportunity to explain the nature of the trauma-causing accident to the resident neurologist, the man could make no sense of it. “An MRI explosion? We haven’t had an MRI explosion here.”
“Not your MRI! The one in Eugene,” Warren railed. “Where they’re doing the Manzanita research! Don’t you people read newspapers?”
“We understand you’re upset,” the doctor patronized, “but the boy doesn’t appear to have any skull trauma…so we’re going to need more tests to help us understand why he’s unresponsive. The good news is he doesn’t require any life support. He’s quite strong. He’ll likely come out of it.”
While awaiting word from radiology, Tyler was placed in a holding room and hooked up to vital signs monitors. Again, Warren found himself in a chair beside his unconscious son, feeling depressed and guilty. It was almost 7 a.m. Late enough to call Ilene?
His cellphone battery was dead, so he picked up the receiver on the nightstand, a phone with neither dial nor keypad. A receptionist told him she could not give him an outside line at that location, that he would have to come to the nurse’s station to make out-of-hospital calls. He glanced at Tyler, who’d been unconscious for almost ten straight hours, and reasoned he could leave him alone a few minutes - long enough to make a call. He’d left Eugene in haste, hadn’t brought anything with him, not even a toothbrush. Maybe Ilene would be kind enough to bring some of his things.
But just as Warren cleared the door, Tyler grunted and his head moved. Warren raced back in. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on the boy’s brow. “Tyler, what is it? Talk to me, son!” Warren punched the nurse call-button.
Tyler’s eyes popped open, focused on Warren but seemingly void of recognition. Baring his teeth, the boy uttered a low, guttural growl.
“I’m right here, son. It’s Dad!”
The eyes darted back and forth, clear and alert. Then Tyler screamed with enough force to send Warren reeling backwards. The boy seemed to relax a little, his expression slackening.
“You’re in the hospital with Dad,” Warren said, voice cracking with fear. “Stay with me! Where’s that nurse?”
Tyler’s head and neck suddenly went slack, sinking into his pillow.
The nurse arrived.
“He’s - he was - awake!” Warren stuttered.
“I heard,” she said. The nurse checked a length of paper hanging from the VS monitor and said as she hurried away: “I’ll have the doctor here shortly.”
A moment later the boy opened his eyes and sat upright, disturbing several of the wires patched to his forehead.
“It’s me, Tyler,” Warren tried again. “I’m right here!”
But the boy had already settled back down and closed his eyes
The nurse returned with a female doctor Warren hadn’t seen before.
“I’m Dr. Patel, she said while checking the monitor. “It’s very important these electrodes stay in place.”
“He sat up,” Warren said. “They came loose when he sat up.”
“Any additional brain activity would be recorded here,” the doctor said. “But I’m afraid the graph doesn’t show anything.” She continued to check the body. “He has bruises and cuts,” she said thoughtfully. “Are there problems at home?”
“Problems at home? What are you saying?”
“It’s the law. We have to ask.”
“Good, you did your job. Now please watch him while I go make a phone call.”
Warren could hear the doctor’s protests as he left but he did not turn around. He had suffered enough indignity for one morning.
He went to the nurse’s station and called Ishue. She didn’t answer so he left a message at the Holiday Inn desk. He tried her cell and left the same message. Then he called Al. He got Al’s voice mail so he left another message. Next he tried the San Francisco law firm where a college buddy worked. He was angry, thinking lawsuits, against Gyttings-Lindstrom, this hospital. But also thinking about defense – from Louise. His friend Jamie wasn’t in so he left yet another message. After taking a leak and washing his face he found a coffee machine. On his way back to Tyler’s room he calculated how long it had been since he’d slept in a bed. About 30 hours. He had a fleeting thought of Ishue, naked and warm, that smell, sexy, next to him in bed.
There was a commotion outside Tyler’s room, Patel and a nurse standing at the doorway looking in excitedly. Warren ran forward, spilling coffee on his arm. He pushed the two women aside and entered and found Tyler squatting on a countertop, flailing his arms menacingly at two approaching orderlies. Warren froze.
Patel had him by the arm, yanking, saying something to him, but he didn’t hear. He watched the orderlies circle around the boy, who growled and whooped at them like a wild animal. When they got close he attempted to leap between them but was caught, kicking and screaming and slammed to the floor, the orderlies piling on.
Warren lurched forward to the aid of his son but his path was blocked by a third orderly who kept saying “Sir, sir, sir,” over and over. Tyler was restrained with tie-wraps and hoisted to the bed where Dr. Patel tranquilized him. Warren wrestled his way to the boy’s side as the eyelids grew heavy and fell.
Someone was going to pay for this, Warren thought; someone was going to pay big.
Day 5
Tuesday
Gyttings-Lindstrom Research Unit,
Eugene, Oregon
A square-jawed man in a dark suit and tie entered the main lob
by, quickly pushing his way through a crowd of reporters to the security station.
“May I help…” was all the elderly guard got out before the man had moved around the console, shoving him aside.
“Hey,” the guard yelped, fumbling for his holstered gun.
But the man in the suit easily disarmed him, at the same time punching three buttons on the back of the security console. Behind them, the door buzzed and clicked open and in a moment the man was in.
Armed with the security officer’s gun, which he carried easily at his side, the man strode confidently into the administration wing hallway and burst into the security office.
“Put your hands on top of your head,” he said calmly to the lone security cop in the office. Then he turned on the PA system and announced: “Vice-president Chalmais. I have taken control of this facility. Meet me in the security office immediately.”
Chalmais, on the Bridge when the security alarms sounded, was now in the south wing hallway, frozen, listening to the demands of the unidentified intruder. Several agitated technicians were in the hallway also. All eyes swung to the VP, who smiled at the voice. “The cavalry’s here,” he said. “Everybody; back to work.”
Chalmais and Blackburn shook hands. “Was the dramatic entry necessary?” Chalmais asked.
“I needed to assess the system, to determine if it’s as bad as you said.”
“Is it?” Chalmais asked as he coded-in the alarm shutdown command.
“Worse,” Blackburn said.
The two retired to Chalmais’ office where they met Gill and Sara, anxious to learn the nature of the alarm.
“It’s his fault,” Chalmais said. “Doug Blackburn, corporate chief of security.”
Sara, arms folded and leaning against the doorjamb, looked him over. He was hard to appraise, medium build, medium height, a moderately expensive dark suit, short dark hair. He smiled at the attractive blond, looked her up and down behind his dark, silver sunglasses.
“I’m concerned about internal security,” Blackburn said. “We can get the perimeter under control easily enough but we have poor control of internal movements, no checkpoints, no patrols.”
“If we had unlimited time,” Gill said, looking straight at Blackburn, “we could afford to stand around arguing with minimum-wage security guards about security passes to this wing or a clearance badge for that wing.” He turned to Chalmais. “But we’re under an extremely tight timetable here. I’ve worked under military security before and it’s a real time waster.”
“Something must be done to prevent another accident like what happened to Tyler,” Sara said.
“Agreed,” Gill said. “But can’t we do that with cameras in the hallways?”
Blackburn shook his head. “A camera wouldn’t have stopped the kid. We need bodies in the hallways, patrols, automatic lock-downs. If we want or need to let non-employees in and out of this building, sir, we must have internal security. If we feel there’s any chance of a security breech by an employee, we must have internal security. Otherwise we’re only guessing.”
“Do it,” Chalmais said with a wave of his hand. He tossed a photo across his desk. “We have a verbal agreement with this reporter not to print certain confidential details about our project here. Her name and hotel room are on the back. We need to keep close tabs on her, where she goes and who she talks to.”
“Invasive electronic surveillance?”
“It’s entirely up to you, Doug. We just don’t want any surprises. No more surprises.”
“I’ll look into it personally, sir.”
“The bottom line is this: the woman is not terminally ill,” Lomax said, pacing lengthwise along the conference room table. He turned directly into the camera: “My attorney says the new Oregon laws are very specific about this.”
Gyttings voice came on the speakerphone: “In the unlikely event of legal action our lawyers feel confident they can handle it, or at least tie it up for years, doctor.”
“Unlikely? I happen to know the woman’s family is sue-happy. And what about after those years are over? You’re asking me to sign this, and if it were only my license to practice medicine on the line, perhaps I would. But it goes beyond that. This crosses the line from doctor assisted suicide to murder.”
A long sigh whispered through the speakerphone. “Then let’s consider our options. Your two AIDS patients are ready to go?”
“They’re in residence here now,” Lomax said. “Wayne is very ill. Pericarditis. Critical. Yeah, I’ll sign for him. But the other one – Thomas – HIV positive but stabilized on the antiretroviral cocktail.” The doctor shook his head slowly. “Even with properly documented consensus from immediate family…it would look juicy to an attorney…”
“What do you think, Tony?” Gyttings interrupted angrily. “I need positive options here.”
Chalmais leaned forward over the table, bringing his upper-body weight onto his elbows. “We promised her the first Twin Tunnel experiment, but now Lomax seems to be saying Adel is out, can never go at all. That’s a double whammy, Jim. I think we better talk to her about it.”
“I’ll stay on the line while you go bring her in,” Gyttings ordered, then added: “Nice and easy does it, Tony.”
As Chalmais walked the hallway past the atrium he wondered about the outdoor weather. He hadn’t left the building since his arrival here in Eugene, spending his days in his office, his evenings in his modular residence unit. Two weeks ago he hadn’t even known you could buy a modular bathroom, let alone actually take a crap in one.
He peeked into the atrium, felt the cold radiating downward from the glass ceiling, frowned at the gray, wet sky above and concluded he probably wasn’t missing much.
Adel folded her red-tipped cane and settled onto the conference room sofa, listening while Dr. Lomax explained his dilemma. “What about all those release forms I signed, in Braille, the witnesses, the notary? Wasn’t that good enough?”
“This is the one that matters,” Lomax said, holding up the document. “And I’m the one who has to sign it.”
“My body, my life - don’t belong to me?”
“No,” Lomax and Chalmais said in unison.
“But you promised me…” she protested. “We had an agreement.”
“I’m sorry, Adel,” the speakerphone said.
A painful silence ensued and Adel could tell by the sound of their breathing that she was losing this argument. “I’m almost 70; been in hospital a dozen times. There must be something in my medical file that could have developed into a terminal condition.”
“Maybe,” Lomax considered. “But we’d have to be able to prove it. The autopsy would shoot us down.”
Adel smiled knowingly. “There won’t be any autopsy, doctor, because there won’t be any corpse.”
“We don’t know that,” Chalmais said, surprised at her nonchalance.
“I do,” she answered quickly. “I know the Twin Tunnel will work. There won’t be any trace of me left to autopsy.” Again, silence. “Please,” she pleaded, “at least look at my medical history.”
“Very well,” Gyttings conceded. “But it’s going to take time. You’ll have to let us proceed with other subjects in the interim.”
She seemed distracted, lost in thought. “Yes, yes of course.”
“Where can we find your medical records?” Gyttings asked.
“Sutter Hospital in Davis, California,” Adel said, rising to her feet and unfolding her cane with a snap.
They all stared silently as she left, tapping her way down the hall.
Thomas hadn’t been able to sleep the previous evening, nervously anticipating the great journey he and Wayne were about to take together, two minds as one. It was a powerful brew: fear and curiosity. Beyond the unknown. He’d gotten out of bed several times, looking for something with which to tinker, something to take apart, but the stark room had provided him no such opportunity. So he’d paced back and forth, occasionally trekking the long hall to Wayne’s IC
unit, always escorted by the security guard stationed outside his door. Wayne, wrapped in a clear plastic isolation tent, waging a desperate battle with pneumocystis pneumonia and an inflammation surrounding his heart. A battle he fought without resources, a battle he wasn’t going to win.
Somehow, though, it hadn’t mattered. All Wayne had to do was survive, stay alive until the morning and it would be okay. They would go into the machine together. After that, who knew? They’d be together.
“I hope you can hear me,” Thomas had said through the plastic. “It doesn’t matter that this procedure will be dangerous for me…” He paused, picking nervously at his cuticles. “I’ve got it too. I’ve been on protease inhibitors for six months now. I lied to you about testing negative. I didn’t want to make you feel guilty. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”
Thomas had slumped in the chair, elbows on his knees, head hung, not sure what to do with his hands. “I don’t want to die alone, Wayne. That’s why I’ve been pushing for us to do this INFX thing. You can’t leave me alone like this. I won’t let you.
“It’s not that I haven’t ever been alone. Before I met you I was alone. Sure I went out, had lots of friends, parties, lovers. But when I saw something or felt something or thought something that I wanted to share with someone, there was never anyone…until you.”
Just then he’d forced out a hollow laugh. “Remember how you used to clean up the house without hammering on me to help? How you put my stuff away like hundreds of times without bitching at me about it? I’m glad I’ve had a chance to show you I learned something from that, to, you know, take care of you for awhile.”
He’d fallen asleep curled up in the chair, was awoken by Wayne’s respiration alarm. It took him a moment to recall where he was – he’d been dreaming about a mountain stream, the sound of it, and the feel of warm sunshine on his face, the cool, refreshing water on his skin, and it had occurred to him that this was a kind of prophesy, that these were sensations he and Wayne would share again somewhere – together, on the other side.
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