HD66: Search for a cure or a killer?

by Babs Carryer

  I don’t understand what’s wrong, he had mused grimly as he had turned around to come back. It had been an unusually fruitless boat ride. No solutions. “Hell, I discovered a cure for Huntington’s,” he told Luna as she whined. “At least I thought it was a cure. Even if it’s washed up now. I can’t believe that NGX cancelled the clinical trial. Now HD66 will never make it to market. My patients will still suffer. All that work, all that money, all that time – empty, useless. Like me.” Where are you Voice when I need you?

  Errol steered the boat around a small floating piece of ice. Luna shook her tags, wagged her tail and looked at him. “Working on a cure for Parkinson’s has been painful and frustrating. And I haven’t found the answer. What if I don’t? They’ll never have a cure.” The Voice was silent. Errol knew by heart the classic statements about the disease:

  “Parkinson's disease is a progressive disorder of the nervous system that affects movement. It develops gradually, sometimes starting with a barely noticeable tremor in one hand. A tremor is the most well-known sign of Parkinson's disease, but the symptoms worsen as the condition progresses over time. There is no cure for Parkinson's disease, although existing medications may improve a patient’s symptoms.”

  He had never felt this bad before. So hopeless. So far from the Voice. From something that worked. There is no cure. And mine is nothing. My invention is not reversing the signs and symptoms. Is it only hubris that tells me that I can change that? I did it before. But now, all I do is kill mice. Instantly and irrevocably. DeathX. It’s not a cure. It’s a curse. I don’t have it in me anymore. I am used up. I am tired. I don’t have any more ideas. I keep trying but nothing seems to work. In fact, it’s not even close. I’m finding the opposite happens. Shit, I am done as a scientist. I’ve fucked up. The university will know. I’m losing my funding. I won’t get tenure. My family. Oh God, I really fucked up this time. With her too. I shouldn’t have gotten her involved. It’s too late. I can’t go back. She’ll kill me. The pressure. I can’t do it anymore. I give up. All these years, I have kept moving forward, never looking back, grandfather. They have all been for naught. I was wrong to not turn the boat around. I could have found you. I left you. I am sorry. It is my fault. I killed you.

  A hand touched his shoulder. He wished he could turn the boat and go back for his grandfather. But it was too late. Now he faced the end. He was forced to go forward, too far, too fast, too late. There is no going back. Ever. The falls loom ahead. His destiny. Through his blackness he hears Luna howl. What have I done?

  Chapter 27

  March 21

  Gosh I love the Internet. Last night, I was able to reserve a parking space in New York City just a few blocks west of where the Megabus leaves their passengers at 7th Avenue and 28th Street. From Pittsburgh, it’s a seven-hour drive to get through the Holland Tunnel. If I leave at five, it would put me in the city around noon, a couple of hours before the Megabus arrives. I don’t want to take any chances with traffic, getting lost, and finding parking.

  I pack haphazardly at the last minute and arrive in the Big Apple just before noon. Parking was a cinch. I send a text to my CMU friend Suzanne, who lives in the city. We plan to get together. That way I am covering my tracks, I reason. I walk a few blocks to Macy’s at Herald Square. I have to buy some essentials. I need to disguise myself. Yahya can’t recognize me.

  At 1 p.m. I scope out the intersection where the Megabus picks up and drops off, a few blocks from Penn Station. I want to find a place where I could see the bus disembark its passengers but that wouldn’t be obvious in case Yahya was looking around. I have to smile because I feel like I am in a Nancy Drew novel. I know that I’m an amateur, that I am not a professional crime solver. I’m just trying to eliminate a suspicion that Yahya is up to no good here in the City. But I’m dressed the part after my purchases. I emerged from the ladies room in trench coat, black boots, floppy hat, and “Men in Black” sun glasses. I snap a selfie on my iPhone. Neal will get a kick out of this when I show him next week.

  I inhale deeply. There is no smell in the world like that of New York City. I love this city. I lived here for a brief spell, after college, before moving to Pittsburgh. I had taken a job at a life sciences accelerator for six months, a sort of prolonged internship that was run by a fellow Hampshire College alum. I lived on the Upper West Side and commuted up to my job, north of Harlem. That experience had led me to Pittsburgh. One of the companies in the accelerator was run by a young woman who graduated from CMU and had gotten her PhD at Centre. She raved about Pittsburgh. Her enthusiasm certainly factored into my places to look when the urge to go to grad school came knocking.

  Hampshire College had been the first path on my journey. New York had woken me up. But Pittsburgh seemed like a place where I could stay and make a life. My life in a startup. In spite of its recent entrepreneurial activity, Pittsburgh was still struggling to get to the next level. Investment dollars are scarce, and it’s fiercely competitive. “What we need is more success stories – exits,” I had read on Jim’s “NewVenturist” blog. “The more exits, the more money that gets invested, which, in turn, creates more exits – a virtuous cycle. Investor returns have been slim in Pittsburgh. Quixotic is the tipping point. If the company is successful, it will make a significant difference – not just to Quixotic’s investors and staff, but to the whole region.” Jim is right. We have to succeed. For all of us.

  I buy a Nathan’s hot dog from a street vendor and slather it with sloppy yellow mustard. I have no trouble poking around NYC for an hour. As I munch I watch the people of New York and feel the vibrations of the City in my soul. It’s like no place on earth. I think that Neal and I should come here for a long weekend, take in a show and the Indian food on 6th Street. We could visit some of my old stomping grounds. He’d like that. It would be nice to make it a surprise for him. For his birthday in June.

  It’s time to take my place behind a food stand across 7th Avenue. I have a view of where the bus will stop and am pretty hidden to anyone across the street. I buy a newspaper and open it, pretending to read. I haven’t thought too much past this point although I made my high-level plan on the long drive this morning. My strategy is to observe, to stay out of the way, to make sure that I’m not seen, but to find out what Yahya is up to. If I can confirm that it’s something bad, then I’ll let Straler know right away. I figure I can call him on my drive back.

  Now that I’m executing my plan, I realize that there are some holes. Here I am in NYC, and nobody knows that I’m here. My intention is to follow Yahya. But how do I actually do that? I’m an idiot. But then I see the bus pull up. Passengers start to disembark. I see Yahya step off the bus. He looks around furtively, but he can’t see me. He has a bag slung over his shoulder and he hurries up 7th Avenue.

  I feel like I’m in a mystery movie. Yahya is walking fast uptown, me trailing him. He turns left on 34th. As I make the turn I know that Hells’ Kitchen is a few blocks away. I follow a safe distance behind, around a half a block. He doesn’t seem to notice me, and even if he did, he wouldn’t recognize me.

  He turns right on 9th Avenue and then left on 37th, weaving his way into the thick of Hells’ Kitchen. Then he glances around, turns onto 10th Avenue, crosses the street and enters a building on 10th and 39th. Crap! What do I do now? My heart is pounding. Calm down! I wait for a few minutes, but he doesn’t come out. I wait a few more minutes, and then, my heart in my mouth, I approach the building. I can get in the foyer, but the inner door is, of course, locked. I don’t know which apartment he went up to. Shysta. I’ll have to wait. I hate to admit this, but I’m in a stakeout. Is that the right term? I cross the street and stand on the corner, reading my newspaper.

  As it turns out I don’t have to wait long. Yahya comes out with several other men. Yahya still has his bag with him. They all look to be around the same age. They look like they might be Arabs, but what do I know? They walk up the street, and a few blocks later they enter another house. I mark the ad
dress, wait a few minutes, approach the door, but the same thing – the inner door is locked. It’s 4 p.m. There is a coffee shop a half a block up. I go in and order a latte. No Italian Cappuccino here, I note.

  A couple of hours go by. I have actually read the newspaper cover to cover, checked my email and doodled in my notebook. It’s 6:30 p.m. It’ll be dark soon. I can’t be doing this on my own on 10th Avenue. Yahya and some others come out a few minutes later, and I see that he doesn’t have his bag on him. Good, I think, that means that’s where he’s staying the night. They wander east, and I follow at a safe distance. They’re pretty easy to spot because there are five of them. Yahya has his arm around one guy. They are laughing and all talking at once. They turn on 8th Avenue and pretty soon I see them duck into a restaurant. I can’t decipher the name of the restaurant as it’s in Arabic, but it also says “Good Wholesome Middle Eastern Cuisine.”

  OK, I think, they are in for a while. I am tired. I have booked a hotel uptown, so I walk back to my parking garage and get my bag. I hail a cab. As I sink into the hotel bed I am glad to be away from the watch. I have tomorrow, I think, and yawn.

  …….

  The next morning I show up early to the place where I think that Yahya has spent the night. I get into place just in time to see him and another Arab-looking man emerge from the building. They seem to be arguing, loudly, but of course I can’t understand what they’re saying. Once they are a few steps away from the front door, they quiet down, but it looks from their body language that they are still in the midst of a heated discussion. The other man is taller than Yahya and has full black facial hair. They walk quite closely together and I wonder if they are friends, relatives, or whether they know each other from Syria or the US? I am in a quandary about whether I should follow them or not. Once they are a block away, I decide to follow them, but not closely. They don’t seem to be up to much, so I feel OK about going for what I hope looks like a casual stroll.

  I see the companion glance around a couple of times, but not really back, and not at me. They go into a corner market, and I busy myself at a newsstand until they come out with a couple of parcels. Breakfast, I guess; looks like fruit and other items. They are coming back my way and I cross the street at the corner, while they are still a half block away. They don’t notice me. They are talking animatedly, it seems, from their gestures, and I hear an occasional guffaw, so I assume that the argument is over. When they get back to the building they enter, and there I am again, a half a block away and at a loss for what to do. Should I wait?

  I don’t have to wait long at least. About 15 minutes go by while I check my email. Not much has come in, probably because of my away message. A group, including Yahya, emerges from the building. They are talking and gesticulating and a couple of them glance around. One casually looks in my direction but I don’t think he sees me. I am at a bus shelter and look like anyone else waiting for the bus. I decide not to follow them this time, and a good thing too because they walk a couple of blocks up to the newspaper stand where I was a little bit ago to buy a magazine. They buy several papers; I had noticed that they had a lot of foreign papers at the stand. They split up into two groups, one coming back my way and pretty soon they go back into the building. The other group disappears around the corner. I sit down on the bus bench and am looking at my phone when they walk by. They don’t glance at me, and I’m pretty covered with the raincoat, droopy hat and sunglasses. I don’t glance up once I realize that it’s them, so I don’t know if Yahya is in that group. I am petrified to look up even after they pass, so I don’t see if they all go into the building. I assume so. A full five minutes go by before I dare look up. A bus comes by, and I let it go, but then I get on the next one that stops. I just figure that I should. I get off two blocks later and continue to walk uptown, towards my hotel and away from Yahya and his friends. I am exhausted even though it’s only late morning. I will give this one more try I think, but tomorrow, not today. And then home.

  Neal calls me in the afternoon wondering how it’s going with my folks. I tell him that I don’t feel well and that I am going to take a nap. He seems to accept that, and I feel better about the white lie rather than making something up about my folks.

  I had arranged to meet Suzanne for dinner. She works downtown near Wall Street, and we agree to meet at 7 p.m. at a restaurant in the Village. I take a cab downtown but ask the driver to round the block and head up past the building on 10th Avenue before heading downtown. He obviously thinks it’s weird because my destination is downtown not uptown, but he does it without complaining. New York cabbies know better than to ask questions.

  There is no activity around the building. I see a light on in an apartment on the third floor and a person at the window that looks like Yahya or one of his cronies, but I can’t be sure. In any case, we go right, and then right again heading downtown. I check my phone and notice that I missed a call from my mother. I’ll call her tomorrow.

  I’m looking forward to an evening with Suzanne. She always has a lot to say, and it will take my mind off of my own situation. I don’t have to tell her about what I am up to, about Errol, about DeathX, about Straler. I want to tell her about Neal. She knows him and knows that we are an item. It’ll be fun to tell her about how he dotes on me. She’s been dating a guy from India too. We can compare notes. I put on my pearls, looking forward to a stress-free evening with a friend.

  …….

  I wake on Sunday morning feeling refreshed. Detective works suits me, I think. I order a big breakfast at the café downstairs and then head out for 10th Avenue. I take up my same haunt. About 9:30 a.m. I see Yahya and a few of his friends head out. They are walking and talking really fast. Again, they split up into two groups, and I try to tag the group that I think still contains Yahya, but I am not sure. It sounds terrible even to me, but it’s hard to tell them all apart. How Jurassic of me. I spot Yahya when he turns sideways. My phone rings. It’s my mother again. Darn, I think, I forgot to call her back, and I can’t do that now. My eye catches the headlines of a newspaper as I walk by a stand. I catch my breath and back up a bit.

  “Syrian chemical attack kills thousands.” I quickly buy a paper and scan it. Apparently, the Syrian government launched rockets that had warheads filled with deadly chemicals the day before, Saturday. March 22. I read about sarin gas, “a powerful neurotoxin, a nerve gas.” The article went on to say, “The gas used may be a new form that has never before been used. More deadly than other gases…” I am shocked. I read that in spite of the attack, the death and injured toll was relatively small, “roughly equal to the average number of fatalities in an ordinary week in the civil war. Since it started, the war has claimed more than 100,000 Syrians killed by conventional means. Also documented in the last year and a half is a large number of verified war crimes, including the indiscriminate shelling of civilian neighborhoods, summary executions, and the torturing to death of captives.”

  Oh, no. This just got a whole lot more complicated. My mind jumped to conclusions. That attack could have used DeathX. Yahya is selling Errol’s DeathX to the Syrian government. Or, Yahya is a rebel, and is selling DeathX to the rebels. Nerve gas is part of the civil war in Syria, and now Yahya has access to a new type of agent that can be turned into a lethal gas that no one else knows about or can replicate. The reality hits me. Yahya is a terrorist. Of course that’s why he comes to New York all the time.

  My mind races as I read some articles about the Syrian conflict. The civil war is two years old, and many rebels have adopted the same brutal and ruthless tactics as the regime they are trying to overthrow. It’s become a criminal environment populated by gangs, kidnappers and killers who are adopting an extremist stance. Some have openly allied with al-Qaida and the Islamic State, ISIS. Oh my gosh, Yahya is part of one of these groups. I better get out of here. I’m playing with fire.

  My phone rings. It’s Jim. I better take this, I think, and I turn the corner and enter another bus shelter, covered with graf
fiti. There is no one there waiting for the bus. I cower against the dirty glass and say hello to Jim.

  “Where are you, Brie?” he asks anxiously. I don’t answer right away, and he continues, “Your mom called yesterday, and again a few minutes ago. She says she can’t get a hold of you. We all thought you were in Amherst with them? Where are you? Are you OK?”

  I take a deep breath and quietly answer, “Jim, I came to New York. There was something I had to do, wanted to do.”

  Jim interrupts, “Brie, we talked to Detective Henrik. He told us about the visit to the lab and about Yahya going to New York. You didn’t follow him there did you? I mean, we have no idea what he might be tangled up in…” He trails off. “I think you should come home. Brie? Brie?”

  I don’t answer because my phone has fallen to the ground. Well, it’s been knocked to the ground. I watch it fall in slow motion. I have a thought at the back of my head that I am glad that I have the Cell Helmet that will stop it from breaking – a local Pittsburgh company, started by a Pitt grad, sells a phone cover that is also an insurance policy. Then a hand covers my mouth, and I am grabbed in a bear hug. I hear what I assume to be Arabic. It sounds like swearing, but I really have no idea. I see small white dots scatter to the pavement at my feet. The white dots roll, and my eyes swim. My pearls. Granny’s pearls.

  There are suddenly two men on either side of me hustling me to a standing position between them. They both grab me, and I can hardly move. I glance around but there is no one there. I open my mouth to scream, to cry for help, but a voice near my ear says “Shut up; do not yell or we will kill you.” I see someone bend over to retrieve my phone. They will realize that I was on a call. I am terrified of what this will mean. But I have no time to think.