by C. G. Cooper
“Why isn’t he with the rest of the tribe?” asked Price.
“Gathering,” answered Antonio, already picking up his belongings and heading for the skinny dirt path.
They found the stick thin medicine man no more than thirty minutes later, the tinkling of small bones and hollow sticks knocking against a walking stick he used as he headed toward them. He had a sack slung over his shoulder, the leaves of his harvest peaking out over the lip.
He stopped when he noticed the strangers approaching. Squinting as if getting confirmation of something he’d just seen, the medicine man’s eyes went wide and his cragged finger pointed directly at Dr. Price. The tribe elder muttered something Price didn’t understand.
“What did he say?” Price asked their guide.
Antonio shook his head and asked the man to repeat himself. Their guide’s face twisted in confusion.
“What did he say?” Price asked again.
“He say you finally come.”
“Who? Us?”
“No, Doctor. He say you.”
The medicine man moved closer, shuffling with a slight limp as he made his way to Price, who could smell him well before the native stood in front of him. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, more of a mixture of unknown herbs and earth.
Stepping right up to Price, the man reached up and traced half circles under Price’s eyes, muttering something again. Price looked to Antonio for the translation.
“He say you The Traveler, señor.”
Chapter 15
Charlottesville, Virginia
11:14am, April 6th
It was like someone had sucked all the air of the room. Not a man moved, latched onto Price’s story.
The good doctor knew his skill as an orator, something years of forced practice as a kid molded without much thought. It felt good to tell someone what he knew. For some reason he believed with all his heart that he could trust these men. The looks in their eyes told of goodness and heroism. Just as they were sucked in by his retelling, he too was relaxing after months on the run.
“Next thing I knew the old native grabbed me by the hand and led me further down the path, motioning for the others to stay put. I didn’t come out for two days.”
“Where did he take you?” asked Gaucho.
“He had a little hut deeper in the jungle. From our rudimentary communication I picked up that he never brought anyone else. It was weird and I don’t really know how to explain it, but he treated me like an equal, open with his basic instruction. Kinda like he was training a pupil to take over for him.”
“And he showed you his secret?” asked Jonas.
“He did. The cure was made out of some kind of root. He never showed me where he got it. I think that maybe it was a seasonal thing. Anyway, he’d make a sort of a poultice out of it, grinding it up and making it into paste then setting it out in the sun. All the villagers ate it as part of their diet because it took a constant active supply to suppress the cancer,” Price explained.
“How does it work?” asked Neil, obviously intrigued by the potential.
“Most people don’t know that there are over one hundred diseases that are lumped under the cancer umbrella. Traditionally, cancer research focused on killing off the abnormal cells. Chemotherapy and radiation are the most common. The medicine man’s supplement did something else completely. I didn’t know it until I took a sample back to my lab, but instead of killing off the cancerous cells, the medicine actually helped the cancer integrate into the host tissue. Instead of invading and taking it over, it played nice and latched on like a friend. Eventually the cell became part of whatever organ it had at first invaded.”
“Hold on. You just said that the villagers supplemented their diets with this stuff. Are you saying the drug you snuck around giving people is going to wear off?” asked Cal.
Price smiled, expecting the question. “No. I was able to engineer the medicine man’s stuff into something stronger. Call it an immunization just like the polio vaccine. But unlike a traditional vaccine where we use viral particles or dead viruses to trigger a reaction, this substance is more like a salve. It’s like it soothes the agitated cancer cells into playing nice and then fully integrating.”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” said a visibly shocked Cal. The rest of the room mirrored his look.
“Nope. I can give the vaccine intravenously, with a simple shot, even orally, and that’s it. As long as a patient’s body hasn’t been completely ravaged by the cancer, my success rate is one hundred percent.”
+++
Washington, D.C.
12:30pm, April 6th
The Senate Subcommittee on Labor, Health, Human Services, Education and Related Agencies was subordinate to the highly visible Senate Appropriations Committee. While not as powerful as its big brother, the Subcommittee had recently gained more clout with the passage of the Affordable Care Act. With the overhaul of the American healthcare system a continuing drain for Democrats and Republicans alike, the chairman of the newly spotlighted subcommittee was once again on the rise within the senate chambers. While not specifically overseeing the healthcare change, the group’s jurisdiction over entities like the National Institute of Health, the centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services and Centers for Disease Control and Prevention afforded obvious parallels and overlap. Simply put, the Affordable Care Act had a direct effect on the subcommittee’s oversight.
Senator Mac Thompson, the subcommittee’s chairman, banged his gavel, sounding the end of the day’s session, another round of endless droning by a handful of lobbyists looking for more money. Sen. Thompson had only half listened to the testimony, his mind elsewhere.
“How’s your son doing, Mac?” asked Senator Alphonse Pontre, a swarthy Hawaiian with a gleaming smile.
“He’s doing much better. Thanks for asking, Al,” said Thompson.
“They taking good care of him at Georgetown?”
“They are. Good crew up there.”
“Good. Please let me know if I can do anything, okay?” Sen. Pontre patted his friend on the back, giving Thompson that knowing look, the same one he’d gotten from anyone who’d had any exposure to cancer. It was the “poor bastard” look.
Thompson knew it wasn’t intentional, they were only trying to be helpful, but it burned him up inside. He’d show them, every fucking one of them, dammit.
Ignoring the calls from the gallery, Thompson made a quick exit through the senate chambers and out to the car that was waiting curbside. He was anxious to get his son’s results.
“Hey, Dad! I didn’t know you were coming by today,” said Michael Thompson when his father strode into the room with an armful of magazines. He set his load on the table next to the bed and gave his son a hug. The senator wasn’t sure if it was just hope, but Michael looked better. More color.
“Are you kidding? I wanted to be here when the doctors give you your update. Besides, couldn’t have you lying around without the latest Sport Illustrated. There’s a great article in there about the National’s new pitcher.
Michael smiled. He looked stronger too. Something in his eyes. “Thanks, Dad. Have you eaten yet?”
“I ordered on the way in. They should have it here in a second. So, tell me what I missed.”
Father and son spent lunch trading stories. Michael filled the senator in on the latest news from baseball’s spring training reports, something they’d traveled to for years, all except this year. Thompson told his son about the lobbyist who’d obviously had too much to drink the night before, and had almost passed out mid-sentence after turning a swamp-colored green. Michael laughed at his father’s retelling, the sound alone filling his father with hope.
All too soon not one but five doctors entered the private room. Sen. Thompson turned their way, trying to read the expressions on the physicians’ faces.
“Good morning, Senator. Good morning, Michael,” said Michael’s oncologist, Dr. Mehta, a middle aged Indian woman who’d come highly recommended fr
om friends.
Thompson nodded, unable to find the saliva to answer, his mouth suddenly parched.
“Hey, Doc. Are you here to tell me I’m being released today?” asked Michael, his boyish features smiling with the same look he’d had since birth.
Dr. Mehta looked uncomfortable, like she was about to deliver bad news. Sen. Thompson’s chest clenched.
“We’d like to run a few tests in order to—” Dr. Mehta started.
“What did you find, Doctor?” Sen. Thompson finally found his voice, wanting to know. The strength in his tone shook the normally resolute Dr. Mehta.
“I…it’s not necessarily bad news, Senator. I…”
“Then let’s have it, doctor.” Thompson’s heart raced. He was already planning for contingencies, dealing with Cromwell, finding other options…
He felt a hand on his arm. It was Michael’s. “Come on, Dad. Let her talk.” Michael smiled at his doctor, prompting her to continue. Sen. Thompson felt like exploding.
“It’s just that…well, I’ve been very open with you both from the beginning,” said Dr. Mehta. “I promise I’ll continue that for as long as you’re under my care.”
Why won’t this bitch just tell us? I knew I should’ve used that other guy at Mayo, thought Sen. Thompson.
“I won’t bore you with the details yet, but it seems that your blood cell counts have somewhat normalized. The most recent readings also show that your persistent fever has dropped, as have several of your other nagging symptoms. Tell me, Michael, how are you feeling?”
“I feel better than I have in months. No puking’s a big bonus.”
Dr. Mehta looked to her colleagues, who all wore similar looks of puzzlement.
They all thought my son was going to die.
“I’ll have the tech take some more samples and we’ll schedule you for a full work-up. We should know more by tomorrow,” said Mehta.
Senator Mac Thompson ignored the doctors as they said their goodbyes, instead turning to his son, tears already in his eyes. He put a delicate hand to his son’s cheek and brought him closer, holding him as the emotion of relief flowed uncontrolled.
“Jeez, Dad. You okay?”
Thompson moved so they were now forehead to forehead, the closeness something the elder Thompson needed. “We’re gonna be okay, son. We’re gonna be okay.”
Chapter 16
Charlottesville, Virginia
1:27pm, April 6th
They’d spent almost two hours peppering Dr. Price with questions, trying to come to grips with what they’d heard. It was as if God had sent Jesus back to Earth and they were there to witness it. Gaucho made the sign of the cross more than once. Jonas kept mumbling to himself, something about the possibilities and the impact on the world. Daniel sat with a look of utter tranquility, as if to say “I told you so” to the world he’d come to view with a more enlightened sense of being.
Cal was the only one who still seemed rooted to reality. While he appreciated the revelation, he was still very concerned about why Price was doing it on his own. Where was his staff? Who had funded the research? Cal had allowed his team to ask their questions first, following the old Marine Corps system of allowing the most junior to chime in before their leaders. He’d gotten better at it since joining SSI, tempering his emotions once he realized the importance of allowing each team member the chance to ask questions or submit their own recommendations. Cal had found that the system worked, often allowing him to reconsider his initial thoughts and devise a better game plan as a result.
So after everyone had their chance to ask Price about the villagers, Colombia, the intricacies of his research, and his time on the road, his men looked to him. It was their leader’s turn.
“You still haven’t told us why you’re doing this, Doctor Price. Why you and why all by yourself?” asked Cal.
Price considered the question, obviously hesitant with a response.
“That’s a question with a very complicated answer.”
“We’ve got time,” said Cal, crossing his arms across his chest. Now they were getting somewhere, to the meat of it.
Again the hesitation from Price, but with averted eyes, he said, “Like I said, it’s a long story, but the long and the short of it is that I am a fugitive.”
“So you stole the cure?” asked Cal.
“Yes and no,” said Price, the struggle to explain evident in his tone.
“Who are you running from?”
Price explained his background, his time with the SEALs, the time spent overseas and his last assignment with the National Institutes of Health and his collaboration with the CDC.
“Not long after my team and I perfected the vaccine, things changed. One of my lead researchers was reassigned to Atlanta, another got an obscure grant she’d submitted ten years before while in grad school. Pretty soon it was just me. They kept telling me that replacements were on the way but none came. Honestly, I noticed it, but I didn’t. The implications of my research had consumed me to such a level that I rarely left the office, never made time for friends and almost never saw my family. I’d shut myself in, disconnected from the world I’d promised to help. My work consumed me until it was too late.”
“What happened?” asked Cal.
“One morning, after returning from a forced vacation with my family, I got back to the office and noticed that certain things were out of place. We had a housekeeping staff member who would occasionally put things out of place, but something felt different. Maybe it was the fact that I’d finally gotten a decent week’s rest. Whatever it was, I started looking around. Sure enough, I found that certain files had been tampered with. Early on I’d had the wherewithal to load a tracking program on my collection of work computers. I wanted to make sure no one was tampering with my files. It was pretty basic and probably why it wasn’t noticed. Rather than keep people out, it simply recorded changes made and unique logins. With the push of a button I could pull up a report. That morning I ran the report and found that my files had been accessed multiple times while I was away.”
“Did the files technically belong to you?” asked Cal, familiar with the way government agencies worked within the realm of “need to know.”
“Not technically, but other than my former staff and myself, no one had ever attempted to access those files. I was given autonomy and people rarely asked for anything as long as my team produced. This was blatant. This was someone trying to take my research.”
“Did you tell your boss?”
“Not right away. One of the few smart things I did was to make a copy of the most important data and formulations. I hid them away just in case someone tried to go around me. I’m lucky I did. When I got around to telling my boss, he gave me some line about routine software updates and security sweeps. Someone else might have believed him, but my antenna was way up by that point. After that day, I didn’t confide in him more than I was required to.”
“So you find out someone’s snooping on you, you’ve got no team and your boss is lying to you. What made you jump off the deep end?” asked Cal.
Price exhaled, his energy suddenly drained.
“One morning I showed up to work and a crew was packing up all my things. My boss was right there with them, so I asked him what was going on. He said that the program was being handed to a senior team in another department who’d be in charge of the implementation. I was being shipped off to London for some collaborative tour. To say that I was irate is an understatement. I wanted to deck him right there, but I held my tongue and my fist.”
“And?”
“I did the only thing I could think of. Apparently they hadn’t rescinded my security clearance yet. They also hadn’t relocated the live vaccines. It was just a matter of walking down to the lab and throwing a few in my backpack along with some of my personal belongings. They didn’t even search me when I left. I guess they didn’t think I was that big of a threat.”
There were chuckles from the others. Even Cal smiled
. “I guess they learned their lesson.”
Priced nodded. “I never went back. I found out later that a bunch of black masked guys descended on my house hours later. Got that tidbit from a neighbor who decided to email me to see if I was okay. I shuffled my money around as quickly as I could. Anything I hadn’t moved was confiscated in a matter of hours.”
“Where did you go?” asked Cal.
“I found a crappy little motel, paid with cash, and hunkered down for a week. The fourth night there I happened to be surfing the web when the Google alert I’d set up with my name popped up in my email. It was a brief article based on a press report issued by the CDC. It said that I’d been killed in a mugging. Body found on the banks of the Potomac. Christ, the reporter had even contacted my family who’d just heard of the accident. He said they were planning the funeral service for later that week.”
By then there were tears in Price’s eyes. He looked like what he was, a man who’d lost everything. Cal could sympathize. He’d not only lost his parents, but then later his fiancé to a crazy gangster. More than the story of the cure, the fact that Price had been wronged in such an egregious way made Cal want to fight for the man.
“Last question and then we’ll grab some lunch,” said Cal.
Price looked up, wiping the tears from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “Sure.”
“What was your old boss’s name?”
Price’s eyes hardened and he sat a little bit straighter.
“Cromwell. Colonel Gormon Cromwell.”
Chapter 17
National Institutes of Health Headquarters
Bethesda, Maryland
2:19pm, April 6th
Col. Cromwell told his secretary to hold all calls and to reschedule his afternoon meetings. He needed time to think, time to reorganize. The latest report from his scientists was not promising. They were no closer to replicating Dr. Price’s work. To make matters worse, they were down to their last vial of the starter agent. He’d hoped to either have his overpaid brains come up with a copy of the vaccine, or have Price under his control to do it himself.