by Thomas Hopp
“I do.” McKean remained steadfastly grim.
“Gee. Peyton McKean. Why am I not surprised?”
“Janet,” said McKean, “please show your G1 and G2 western data.”
With a few keyboard entries, Janet brought up a slide with two pairs of blue spots side by side.
“On this slide,” McKean explained, “we are looking at the reaction of Leon Curtis’s antibodies versus those of Pete Whitehall. Could you give the details, Janet?”
“The darkness of the blue color is a measure of how strongly the antibodies react to the G proteins,” she said. “With Pete Whitehall’s serum, the reaction is about identical in strength. Two dark spots, one above the other for G1 and G2. But for Leon’s serum, the G1 spot is faint, while the G2 spot is strong.
“The point being?” Holloman asked impatiently.
McKean said, “Pete Whitehall died. Leon Curtis is recovering. The different responses to G1 and G2 may mean something.”
“I doubt it,” Holloman resisted. “Different people always react differently to viral proteins.”
“Perhaps so, but Janet’s results raise several questions in my mind. If Leon’s recovery is driven by his anti-G2 response, why include G1 in the vaccine at all? And, given Pete Whitehall’s severe disease and death, can we be sure the anti-G1 response is beneficial? It clearly didn’t help him, and perhaps it could even have been harmful in some way.”
“You have one hyperactive imagination!” Holloman muttered. “This is all just speculation. The way I see it, you’re trying to keep this project under your thumb by casting doubts on it. And I won’t stand for it! This time, Peyton McKean, you’re going too far.”
McKean sat stolidly with his elbows on the table, his fingers knit and his paired long index fingers pressed to his lips. “I’ve made my point,” he said with an air of finality. “Perhaps you’re the one who’s going too far, Stuart. You’re basing your conclusions on insufficient data, which Janet and I have not had time to analyze ourselves.”
Holloman began to shake with rage. “I am quite capable of drawing my own conclusions, right here and right now!” He cast a baleful eye on Janet. “How certain are you that Leon’s G1 response has faded? Maybe it’s still strong like Whitehall’s but your western blot is technically messed up. Is there any chance your result is just an experimental error?”
She paused, searching for something to say. She flushed beet red.
McKean had sat stiffly, wearing an irritated scowl. But now he burst out, “This is not the time or place - !”
“I asked - ” Holloman interrupted, shouting, “for Janet to speak - not you, Peyton.”
With a bleak look on her face, Janet said, “I’m not sure.”
“Not sure,” said Holloman. “Now we’re making some progress.”
“This is preposterous,” McKean grumbled. “We’re working on a mystery in my labs, and I’m sure there is more to it than meets the eye. Leon Curtis is recovering even though his antibody reactions against G1 are falling. G1 is one hundred amino acids larger than a normal G protein, and I think there may be some reason that Curtis has responded to it poorly while Whitehall had a high level response but died.”
“Don’t baffle me with data,” said Holloman. “You have snowed me like this before, but I’m not going to let it happen today. My source tells me Virogen is proceeding with both G1 and G2. So maybe they know something you don’t know, Peyton - like maybe G1 plus G2 is the best choice?”
“Or maybe they’ve got spies who have done exactly what yours have done, Stuart. Maybe they’ve gotten hold of our data and now they’re taking the same course.”
“Fahh!” Holloman waved McKean to silence. He turned to Janet. “So, tell me,” he said, looking her hard in the eyes, ” - given Dr. Curman is ready to produce the G1 plus G2 vaccine, just how certain are you of your data?”
She opened her mouth but was afraid to speak.
Holloman pressed her, “Are you willing to stake your job on your results?”
She looked down at the tabletop in front of her and clammed up.
“Let me rephrase,” Holloman said with his eyes boring into her face. “Would you be willing to admit that your data might - just might - be incorrect?”
She wilted further, flushing a deeper red and seeming to shrink under his glare like a flower in hot sun. A tear ran down her cheek. She began to tremble. “Yes,” she said so faintly I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.
“Yes, what?” Holloman cajoled, leaning toward her.
“Yes, my data might be wrong.” She kept her eyes resolutely downturned, and stifled a sob.
“Good,” Holloman said with cruel finality. He turned to the group and smiled, leaving Janet struggling to regain her composure. “I think we all agree it’s a moot point, whether G1 is useful or not.”
“Not all of us agree,” McKean said forcefully.
Holloman smiled smugly at McKean. “You don’t agree, Peyton? What a surprise. Well, why don’t we put it to a vote?”
“A vote?” McKean’s flabbergasted expression spoke volumes about his opinion of the idea.
“Yes. A vote.” Holloman indicated the entire group with a sweep of his hands. “We’ll vote on it. Everyone here has a stake in this, financially and scientifically. Why not vote?”
McKean growled, “Science is not a popularity contest, and therefore not a democratic process. You can’t vote scientific data right or wrong. Some of the people in this room have decades less experience than I have. Their votes shouldn’t equal mine.”
“Oh?” Holloman mugged. “Elitist, are we? The great Doctor McKean doesn’t care what other people think. He wants it all his way.”
Nervous laughter rippled around the room. McKean sat stiff in his chair, grimly silent.
Holloman turned from him and said enthusiastically, “Now then, all those who think we should proceed with both G1 and G2, raise your hand!”
He lifted his hand and other hands shot up quickly all around the room. Certain exceptions stood out. McKean kept his arms folded. Janet, plucky despite the deep shade of red on her face, watched McKean and did as he did. Virtually everyone else including Holloman held a hand high. Holloman scanned the forest of raised hands approvingly until his gaze halted on Janet.
“Hmmm,” he murmured, eyeing her patronizingly. “Still holding out? We need team spirit here, Janet. Come on.”
Her flush faded and the color drained from her face. Holloman’s eyes bored into the side of her head. She tore her gaze from McKean and looked at Holloman. Slowly, she raised her hand. Her lip quivered. She cast her gaze down and tears spotted the tabletop.
Holloman ignored her anguish. He looked around the room with a chipper expression. “That’s good enough for me. Any votes opposed?”
The hands went down and McKean wordlessly raised a hand. Beryl and Robert, who stood near me, abstained, looking fearful. Holloman looked around the room, and a mocking smile broke across his face.
“Gee, Peyton,” he said. “Looks like you’re in the minority.”
McKean seethed. “Go to hell, Stuart.”
There was a collective drawing in of breath. Holloman grinned and looked around at the group. “That’s settled then. We proceed with the vaccine as it is.”
There were sighs of relief and the buzz of soft conversations, but the room remained thick with tension. Neither McKean nor Holloman spoke, but eventually Holloman’s expression turned venomous. He stared fiercely at McKean and said slowly and loudly, “Every scientist here will report to David Curman from now on. Dr. McKean, you are no longer in charge of this project. Am I understood?”
McKean locked eyes again with Holloman but said nothing. A protracted stare-down followed, until Holloman looked away. After a moment, he looked at the group again. “The President of the United States has let it be known he’ll back a crash program to vaccinate the entire population of Washington State. That’s five-to-ten-million doses and an opportunity for ImCo to make hun
dreds of millions of dollars - and to save some lives, of course. Now, Dr. McKean’s delaying tactics have cost us some time, and Virogen is hot on the vaccine trail, so they will no doubt cut into our profits. But I remind you that you are all ImCo stockholders, so you’ve got a personal interest in taking this project ahead at full speed.”
He paused a moment to let his message sink in. Then he said, “Now, this meeting is over, and I want every one of you back at your posts, hitting it hard.” He stood and left the room as if in a hurry to put his corporate plans into action, leaving the group quiet and McKean frozen. People rose and filed out until only McKean, Janet, and I remained. Janet had held her emotions in check but now she folded her arms on the table and put her head down and cried out loud.
McKean rose and went to put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he began.
“I’m so sorry!” she said in a pain-choked voice.
“It’s not your fault,” he soothed. “You couldn’t stop him. You’d only have put your own job in jeopardy.”
She rose and hugged him. “I should have told him to go to hell like you did.”
“You should have done exactly what you did,” he consoled, patting her back. “There’s no sense in our both getting demoted.” He stepped back and cradled her face in his hands. “Come on,” he said, looking deeply into her tear-filled eyes. “Cheer up.”
She smiled thinly, sniffled, and then leaned forward until her forehead touched his chest. He wrapped her in his arms and murmured into her ear, “I need you now more than ever. You’ve got to help me keep the project on the right track. Can you do that for me?”
“Um-hmm,” she replied softly.
The three of us went back to McKean’s office and took our seats. We lingered in morose silence until a video call came in on his desktop computer. It was Kay Erwin in her office at Seattle Public Health Hospital.
“I’ve got an update on the quarantine,” she said.
“We could use some good news,” McKean replied.
“Then you’ve got it.” She smiled, looking more confident than I had seen in some time. “The National Guard has joined the Clallam County Sheriff’s Department. They’re coordinating their efforts to cover the hills and valleys. They’ve got patrol cars or Humvees at every intersection, even in the remotest parts of the National Forest. They’ve abandoned Clallam Bay, but they’ve reestablished control on a wider perimeter. They’ve moved their line east from Clallam Bay to Pysht on Highway 112 to protect Port Angeles, and south to Beaver Lake on Highway 113 to protect Forks. They’re stopping everyone. Locals, hunters, fishermen, campers, tourists, loggers, you-name-it. Everyone is turned back - away from Neah Bay if they’re heading in, or back toward Neah Bay if that’s where they came from. My Sheriff’s Department contact tells me it’s sealed tight as a drum, and I believe her. You don’t know how relieved I am.”
“I believe I do,” McKean replied.
“How are things on your end?”
McKean and Janet exchanged bleak glances.
“That bad?” Erwin asked.
“Answer: yes,” McKean replied somberly. “I’m no longer in charge of the project. It’s been given to David Curman.”
“Oh, no! Peyton!”
“He’s a competent scientist, I suppose,” McKean said. “But he’s rushing the G1-G2 vaccine forward without adequate analysis.”
“So is Virogen, according to my CDC contacts. I hope that’s the right choice.”
“It appears to be the only choice allowed.”
“Something I’ve heard on the grapevine, Peyton. They’re calling it the Holloman Vaccine in honor of its originator.”
“How nice for Stuart.”
“I thought you’d find that ironic. What’s next for you, Peyton?”
“I’ve been working night and day for more than a week. I think I deserve a break. I’m going home early to play with my son and then spend the evening listening to music. Maybe I’ll meditate over a bowl of marijuana. Something useful will come to mind if I let my thoughts simmer for a while.”
I said, “I’ve got to hand it to you, Peyton. Not many people could relax in the middle of a crisis like this.”
“When problems seem at their worst,” he said, “I’ve learned it’s best to take some time off. If you stop obsessing about things, then inspiration has a chance to strike.”
We parted company a few minutes later, McKean going to his car in the ImCo underground garage and I walking home to my apartment. I understood the wisdom in his plans for the evening. Feeling similarly stressed, I decided to give my writing a rest for the night. I relaxed with a glass of cabernet and listened to music on my stereo. No great inspired thoughts struck me however, so I turned in early and spent the night tossing and turning in my loft bed.
Chapter 18
In the morning, guessing McKean would be in his usual place at his usual time, I went to his office and found him there. He had his yellow marker in his thin hand and was busy reading a thick book entitled Biology of the Rhabdoviridae.
I had barely settled into my customary guest chair when Janet came in. “That new trick you thought of solved our ‘knotty’ problem,” she said to McKean with a smile.
“Ummh,” McKean murmured, still reading his thick volume. “Adding a small antisense probe opened up the DNA knot and let you read more sequence.”
“Yes. We’re past the blockade and running strong.”
“Congratulations. I eagerly await your revelations regarding the G1 protein sequence.”
“We’re analyzing the data now. It will take an hour or two to get a preliminary read-through. Which, of course, we’ll have to double-check.”
“Being the overly-careful, slow-moving scientists you are,” McKean quipped, still reading, “whom Stuart Holloman so disdains. Don’t neglect to report your progress to David Curman.”
When Janet had returned to the lab, McKean’s computer made a tone. He touched a button and Kay Erwin’s face appeared on a video call from her office. “Some bad news from Port Angeles this morning,” she said. “We heard about it first on Northwest Cable News. Have you heard?”
“Hmm-mm,” McKean murmured, still reading.
“Here’s a video link,” she said. “Have a look. Get back to me and let me know what you think.”
Erwin disappeared and in her place a video appeared in which an Auburn-haired female news anchor at NWCN said, “For more on developments concerning the viral disease from Neah Bay, we go to NWCN remote correspondent Arran Fisk, live at the Olympic Medical Center in Port Angeles. Arran?”
Fisk stood on a windy and wet street corner in a blue NWCN raincoat with his microphone to his mouth and the facade of the hospital in the background. “Thank you Megan,” he said. “Hospital authorities have confirmed that, in addition to twenty-two cases from Neah and Clallam Bays, they now have a single case brought to them from the city of Port Angeles itself last night. Asked whether this represents an escape of the virus from containment within the hospital, they assured us the hospital maintains extremely tight isolation procedures. Asked whether this means the virus has arrived from Neah Bay despite the quarantine, they were unable to confirm or deny.”
McKean closed his book.
The interview turned into a question and answer session between Megan and Arran, in which Arran was unable to clarify the situation beyond what he had already stated. As they talked, Peyton McKean keyed on something ignored by the news people. He pointed to the gray sky visible above the hospital entrance. In the air were dozens of birds, all flying in the same general direction.
“Crows!” I exclaimed. “A whole fleet of them!”
“Mob, or murder,” McKean corrected, “are the appropriate terms for gatherings of crows.” He leaned his lanky frame near the computer and stared at them down his long nose.
“Mob, murder, take your pick,” I said. “What are they all doing there?”
“Answer: uncertain,” he murmured. “Look at that telephon
e line in the distance.”
My eyes widened. There were dozens of crows sitting side-by-side on the wire. “Gordon Steel’s story!”
“Yes,” McKean murmured. “Raven’s cousins spreading the disease.”
We silently contemplated the crows flying over the reporter in an unending aerial procession.
“You know, Fin, it’s just plausible. As transmission vectors, ravens and crows would be deadly efficient. And it wouldn’t be the first time birds spread disease to humans - bird flu in China, West Nile virus spread across America via a crow-and-mosquito connection.”
“Gordon Steel predicted this! He said death was on the wing.”
“Perhaps, Fin. But you may be unduly influenced by Gordon Steel’s outrageous statements. They came in the context of other awful events. Perhaps he only intended to put an irrational fear into us.”
“I already saw enough to convince me, when that raven led the Clallam Bay madman to us.”
“It seemed that way, Fin. But it’s hardly an established fact. The simultaneous arrival of the raven and the madman may simply have been a coincidence. Nonetheless, it would be nice to acquire some scientific evidence on the matter. A blood sample from one of those crows would give a definitive test of the question. Unfortunately, we lack the critical data - unless you propose to drive to Port Angeles and bring one back.”
“No thanks. I’m sticking to this side of Puget Sound.”
The report finished and the video ended. McKean pressed a button and Kay Erwin came back on the screen. She looked frazzled. “What do you make of it?”
“Fin, here, thinks crows or ravens might be transmitting the disease as aerial vectors.”
“Don’t give me a heart attack, Peyton. What do you think?”
“Regardless of the route of infection, if that new patient is genuinely from the population of Port Angeles, then the quarantine has been broken.”
“My fear exactly. And if those crows are involved - ” she paused to think. “Oh my God.”
McKean asked, “How well has the CDC team in Port Angeles reacted?”
“They’re scrambling to set up a second quarantine line between Port Angeles and the next town, Sequim. But their manpower and resources are stretched awfully thin.”