by Thomas Hopp
McKean shook his head. “At this point, I would be glad to try Devilfish’s cure on him, if Gordon Steel would cooperate.”
Erwin hung up the phone and rejoined us wearing a sour expression. “I traced my CDC contact from his work number to his home. His daughter says he and his wife have gone to the ballet in Atlanta and they aren’t expected home until later. His cell phone is switched off. Damned bureaucracy! Every little thing gets in the way. We should have had a quarantine days ago, and now Neah Bay may not even be a good perimeter any more. If it spreads fast we could have a major calamity on our hands. And I can’t seem to get a response out of Atlanta to save my life!”
“To save your life,” I repeated. “That has an unpleasant ring to it.”
We left Erwin in her office making another call, and went down the elevator. As we were about to leave the hospital I suggested we stop by John Steel’s room to see how he was doing. When we went to the front desk and inquired about his location, the receptionist typed some information into her computer. “Hmm,” she said. “It looks like he left the hospital without being discharged.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I can’t help you with that.”
I drove McKean to ImCo and left him to continue his laboratory work, and then drove the few blocks to my apartment building. Inevitably, as I walked up the stone staircase to my landing, Penny Worthe opened her door.
“Another late one?” she asked the obvious.
“What are you?” I snapped. “My mother?”
“I was just trying to be friendly.”
“I’m sorry, Penny. It’s been a long, brutal day.”
She stepped out, dressed in her pink evening gown and wearing a mischievous smile. “Maybe you need to eat a little sea spinach?”
I was seized by sudden inspiration. “Thank you, Penny!” I grabbed her and gave her a hug and a big smacking kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, thank you!” I unlocked my door, rushed inside and went straight to the refrigerator. I fished around among the jars and bottles on its shelves and pulled out the jar of Gordon Steel’s greenish potion. “Eureka!” I cried.
Within fifteen minutes I had retraced my path to ImCo and was in Peyton McKean’s office. I pulled the jar out of my coat pocket and handed it to him, explaining its provenance via Tleena and Penny Worthe. “Do you think the cure could be in there?” I asked.
“Answer: unknown,” McKean replied. “But, given our lack of recourse to Devilfish’s cure, why not give them a try? I’ll have Robert test the ability of this…preparation…to inhibit the growth of the virus in a cell culture. If there is any activity, we could try to isolate the antiviral substance.”
“That could get you around Gordon Steel’s stonewalling.”
“Yes, it could.”
PART FOUR: CONTAGION
Chapter 16
The next morning I arrived at Peyton McKean’s office as Beryl Shum and Janet Emerson were on their way out. Janet said hello to me in passing but seemed preoccupied. The two technicians disappeared into the lab as I entered the office. “Nine-oh-five,” McKean said in response to my hello. “Nicely punctual, Fin. You’re here just in time to look at Beryl’s latest results. The Clallam County Coroner’s Office sent us a sample of Pete Whitehall’s blood and Beryl analyzed its reaction with the virus. The good news is, Pete was in the process of becoming immune to it. He had anti-virus antibodies in his bloodstream.”
“Antibodies,” I repeated. “Molecules of the immune system.”
“Yes,” McKean concurred. “And very important ones in this case. Antibodies are protein molecules your body produces that bind to the surfaces of viruses. Once attached, antibodies act as alarm signals alerting the body’s defenses to kill what they’re bound to. White blood cells engulf the virus and digest it before it can spread the infection.” He gestured at a sheet of white paper on his desk with several blue spots on it. “Beryl has been working fast. She’s identified the viral surface antigens that those antibodies attach to, using this Western blot.”
“Antigens,” I said. “Target molecules of the immune system.”
“Very good, Fin. The term antigen derives from the observation that antibodies are generated in response to them. Normally, people become immune to the G protein of rabies virus, G standing for glycoprotein. It’s the major surface antigen molecule of the virus. In Pete’s case, Beryl’s Western blot has detected two forms, rather than just one G protein. We are not entirely sure why there should be two of them when viruses of this family usually only have one G protein. But whatever the cause, we have begun calling them G1 and G2, with G1 being the larger form and G2 somewhat smaller. One or both of these molecular forms will be the target of our vaccine.”
“Impressive,” I said. “How soon will the vaccine be ready?”
“It will take time,” said McKean. “Janet has yet to isolate the full segment of RNA corresponding to the G antigens. She will have to reverse-transcribe it into a DNA sequence that she can put into bacterial culture to produce the proteins. All that has got to happen before we can create a vaccine.”
“Days?” I asked.
“Maybe weeks,” McKean replied. “At worst, months.”
“Meanwhile, we’re still at risk, and the virus is spreading. What about using a conventional rabies vaccine instead?”
“Nice question,” said McKean. “A cross-reactive immunization might neutralize the virus. However, Beryl has addressed that issue in this experiment.” He shuffled through the chaotic pile of papers on his desk and came up with a sheet that was essentially white. “No blue spots at all on this test, in which she looked for a cross-reaction with a blood sample from a patient immunized with the conventional rabies vaccine. The serum reacts strongly with rabies virus G, but it has no reaction whatsoever with our virus’s G1 or G2. Conclusion: the G antigens of our virus are very different from rabies G antigen.”
“How can that be?”
“I strongly suspect that the G genes derive from the fish virus, not the rabies virus.”
“So the existing rabies vaccine is entirely useless?”
“Answer: yes, unfortunately.”
“Is there a fish virus vaccine?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’m afraid we’ll have to take the long route of creating an entirely new vaccine.”
“That’s terrible news.”
“It certainly is, if the contagion spreads quickly.”
“How’s Kay Erwin doing on that quarantine?”
McKean shook his head. “The CDC feels we have too little proof the virus constitutes a threat to the general population. But these results should help. They show Pete Whitehall was definitely infected with this virus. That’s another step in proving we’re looking at a lethal outbreak. I’ll email Kay Erwin these photos and she’ll relay them to the CDC.”
“That should get a reaction from them.”
“We’ll see. Don’t underestimate the ability of a bureaucracy to drag things out.”
We sat quietly for a moment, each wrapped in private thoughts.
“By the way, Fin,” McKean said. “You’ll be interested in something else I’ve turned up. As you know, I am intrigued by the lack of Makah victims.”
“Me too.”
“So Beryl and I have tried to measure the levels of antiviral antibodies in the blood samples Kay took from Tleena and John Steel.”
“And?”
“Neither she nor John have any trace of the antibodies in their bloodstreams.”
“They’re not immune to the virus?”
“Apparently not, at least not by that measure. And if they are typical of the Makah population, then I am still at a loss to explain the lack of Makah victims.”
“How about your blood, and mine?”
“Sorry Fin. No antibodies there, either.”
We paused again. My thoughts were anything but sanguine. “One more thing, Peyton. You said Pete’s antibodies against the virus were the good news. What w
as the bad news?”
“He didn’t make enough of them to save his life.”
“Ahem.”
Stuart Holloman had appeared at the doorway. He entered without a word and sat in McKean’s second guest chair. He struck me as more piggish than I had recalled. His pink dress shirt was stuffed with flesh that strained its buttons. The cuffs of his rolled up sleeves were tight around thick forearms and his underarms were ringed with perspiration. He exuded a skunky body odor I associated with stress written on his face in veins that stood out on his temples. He scowled at McKean, and a scarlet flush worked its way over the bald dome of his head. “I’m glad you could stop in this morning,” he said sarcastically. “I was in board meetings all yesterday afternoon concerning this virus. The least you could have done was call from Neah Bay with an update.”
“I was preoccupied,” McKean responded in magnificent understatement.
“I hope you weren’t wasting company time talking with witch doctors.”
“I never waste time. Neither the company’s nor mine.”
Blunted, Holloman glanced down at his brown wingtip shoes, collecting his thoughts. His feet looked too small to support his hefty body. “Meanwhile,” he grumbled, “I’ve been doing enough work for both of us. I made some calls to the CDC and even to the White House. The President himself got back to me this morning. It seems he’s looking for a political success in healthcare and this little epidemic of yours might put one in his victory column. He offered to pressure the National Institutes of Health to give us a ten-million dollar grant to support vaccine development. I told him we would be happy to accept it. If enough people die, this disease might be a bigger business opportunity for ImCo than the Congo River virus.”
McKean seemed unimpressed. “I don’t like to think of people dying as a business opportunity,” he said.
“Why not?” Holloman responded. “What do you think pays your salary? Goodwill? I expect you to keep yourself busy in the lab. Instead, you seem to think there are more important things to do.”
“I wanted to assess the knowledge of the indigenous people of Neah Bay before going any further.”
“And you’re telling me your work doesn’t suffer when you trot off to chat with your Indian friends?”
“Answer: no. I trust Janet and Beryl completely.”
Holloman shook his head. “I’ve learned not to trust my subordinates to work if I’m not there to ride their asses. You might try that approach. I highly recommend it.”
“I prefer to encourage their autonomy,” McKean replied. “It makes better scientists of them.”
Holloman leaned close and pointed a pudgy index finger at McKean’s nose. “Let me give you a little perspective, Doctor McKean. We’ve got a golden opportunity here to make a pot of money. We have a lead over other vaccine companies right now but it won’t last. The President told me he’s bringing Virogen in on the game and connecting them with Kay Erwin to get a sample of the virus. That means pretty soon we’ll be in a horserace with Virogen. And that gives me a bad case of heartburn. Now I want you to promise me you’ll get this project into high gear.”
“I’ll do what I can to pick up the pace,” McKean agreed reluctantly. “But scientific understanding has got to come first.”
“Scientific understanding? Spare me the lecture, McKean. We’ve already got the virus in hand and you know damn well we can make a subunit vaccine that’s as safe as aspirin.”
“Not necessarily,” McKean countered. “Caution always comes first in medical research.”
Holloman seethed. “Not this time around, damn it! Dave Curman has been bugging me to give him a part in this project. And I’m just about to hand it over to him lock, stock, and barrel if you don’t knuckle down and get me a vaccine!” He shouted the last word loudly enough that it echoed in the hallway.
McKean remained cool. “Good science takes time and inspired thinking,” he said. “I prefer not to proceed any faster than knowledge and understanding dictate.”
“Don’t talk to me like this,” Holloman warned. “It’s not what I want to hear.”
“Well it’s what you’ll hear from me as long as I’m responsible for the successful pursuit of this project.”
“That may change,” said Holloman. He rose and stepped to the doorway, pausing to point at McKean again. “Results!” he growled. “Or else!” He turned and said a gruff, “Excuse me!” to Janet, who had appeared at the door with new papers in hand. Then he stalked away on his undersized feet toward the elevator.
McKean motioned for Janet to take a seat. She handed him the papers and pointed to several dark spots near the edge of one page.
“We’ve isolated the viral RNA segment that contains the G protein.”
“Good. Put it into the DNA sequencing system and let’s read the code. That has got to be an interesting G protein. I want to know why it makes two forms of the molecule.”
“It’s quite a long segment. It may take multiple sequence runs to read it all.”
“All the more reason to start right away.”
“You can count on us,” said Janet, collecting her papers. “Anything else?”
“Answer: yes.” He put a hand on her arm. “Thanks for doing such good work.”
Smiling with mixed pride and gratitude, she got up and hurried back to the lab.
I said, “I hope you don’t mind my saying Holloman’s attitude toward you makes me nervous.”
“You and me both,” McKean replied. “What makes me doubly nervous is David Curman waiting to jump on the project. As you heard, Holloman is on the brink of giving it to him.”
“Would it be so bad to have help?”
“Curman is always too willing to do whatever it takes to please his master.”
“I guess he just knows which side his bread is buttered on. Perhaps you should be more flexible.”
“Every time I get flexible with the principles of scientific research, I regret it. And as you just saw, we are making progress at our own pace.”
The phone rang and McKean put it on speaker. A man introduced himself. “This is Special Agent Charles Grayson, Bureau of Indian Affairs, Neah Bay.”
“How can I help you?” McKean responded, glancing my way with a cagy expression.
“I’ve heard,” Grayson said in a gravelly, longtime smoker’s voice, “that certain objects may have been removed from a certain grave, illegally. Among them is a parchment manuscript. Do you have any idea where it is, sir?”
“I can’t help you,” McKean answered smoothly.
After a long silence, Grayson muttered, “Taking artifacts from Indian graves is a prosecutable offense under NAGPRA statutes, punishable by a few years in prison. Still nothing coming to mind?”
“Nothing,” McKean lied.
“You’ll hear from me again.” There was a click on the other end.
McKean glanced at me and rolled his eyes. “All aboard the bandwagon,” he sighed.
Janet came back from the lab. “Come quickly,” she said. “The President is about to make an announcement about the virus. We’ve got it on the lab stereo.”
McKean followed her into the lab. I was behind them as they joined Robert and Beryl near a stereo on one of the lab shelves. The radio host said, “And now, the President of the United States.”
“Good afternoon fellow Americans,” the President began. “I have an important announcement with implications for the State of Washington in particular, but also for Americans in general. I have been informed by the Centers For Disease Control that an outbreak of a new viral disease has occurred at Neah Bay, at the Northwest tip of the Olympic Peninsula. This virus has killed a small number of people in Neah Bay and surrounding towns. It causes fever, delirium, and in some cases, victims become violent. I want to stress that there is no cause for general alarm. The CDC has a team of medical investigators on the scene to control any further spread of the disease.
“To assure the virus doesn’t move beyond the local area
, the CDC is quarantining Neah Bay and several towns adjacent to the Makah Indian Reservation. No one will be allowed in or out until the CDC certifies it is safe to do so. Rest assured that this outbreak will be handled with all necessary care, and with all resources needed to eliminate the problem. You have my promise that the virus, which has been named the Neah virus, will be contained at its source. In addition, I have instructed the National Institutes of Health to support research efforts to create a vaccine to protect anyone exposed to the virus in the future. Again, let me stress that there is no general cause for alarm. Thank you, and God bless America.”
The announcement ended as abruptly as it had started. As the radio host began a telephone, tweet, and email discussion of the Neah virus, I turned to McKean.
“Do you think a local quarantine is enough? Hasn’t it already gotten well beyond Neah Bay?”
McKean frowned, deep in thought. “A quarantine of Neah Bay will help, but I share your doubts. Let’s hope Clallam Bay is included in the quarantine. Perhaps he just neglected to mention it, or is not aware of all the details. I’m sure Kay Erwin will have more information.”
“He implied that everything is under control. So, are things under control - or aren’t they?”
“Answer: unknown,” McKean replied. “I’m sure the President wants to appear calm, to avoid panic in Washington State. He’ll sound a different note if things get out of hand.”
Chapter 17
The next day, by prearrangement, I rendezvoused with Peyton McKean at Kay Erwin’s office. We gathered outside the glass wall of the isolation facility to look at poor unconscious Leon Curtis, while Peyton got an update from Kay on his vital signs and lab tests.
“Something is definitely odd about that G protein,” McKean remarked while reading Curtis’s chart in detail. “Leon’s antiviral antibody levels are up again today, and that’s good. But they’re only up against G2. His immune response against G1 has dropped off, instead of building.”
Erwin agreed. “His antibodies to G1 haven’t made the conversion from IgM to IgG.”