“Most of you knew some if not all of these people. They were all clients of Triple E or close associates of clients. They all died of some form of neurologic disorder. Discreet inquiries when we called to express the company’s condolences indicate the definitive cause of death in all cases remains unknown. Alzheimer-like memory loss, Parkinson’s-like spasms, epilepsy-like seizures. Sound familiar?
“Pradeep and Sung.” The marketing director’s quiet words could be heard clearly in the still room, the two Triple E employees having been friends and colleagues of many of those gathered. Pradeep, one of the in vitro specialists, had started having cognitive issues almost three years before and had retired on disability three months after his symptoms began. Within six months, his wife had turned him over to the care of a nursing home in Bismarck, close to hospitals and specialists who were trying to understand what had affected him. By then, he was in deep dementia, unable to care for himself and prone to wandering, no longer recognizing or able to interact with those around him. Two months later, Thurman’s administrative assistant was sending flowers for his funeral.
Sung, a veterinary technician, had been head keeper in the nursery, caring for the surrogate mothers and their young. Not every new mother could be trusted with offspring — theirs or others — and Sung had a knack for being able to tell which animals had the temperament to be a nurturing parent. She also had the patience required to introduce newborns to foster mothers. And when one or more foster siblings grew too large or too aggressive to be with the others, Sung had the experience to know when to separate them before serious injury occurred. Regardless of which sector they wound up in as adults, all the animals started out in the nursery together, and Sung’s expertise from the company’s beginning had ensured each one had the proper start it needed to grow and thrive within the confines of the Triple E compound.
She’d fought against the uncontrollable muscle spasms that had started in year six of her tenure. But soon the wayward movements of her arms and legs compromised both the safety of the young animals she examined on a regular basis and her own safety when a sudden jerk of an arm was apt to alarm an adult tiger or elephant or wolf with fatal consequence. By year seven, Sung had gone to live with her parents in Zhengzhou, where she died a few weeks later.
Haunted glances passed around the conference table, the significance of what was happening not lost on a group of people chosen specifically for their bright minds.
Genius or not, the executives were still human. Peter Carne asked the question that in their gut they already knew the answer to. “What does that mean for us?”
The haggard lines in Thurman’s face tightened as he was recalled once more to leadership duties. “For each of you individually, we don’t know. Statistically, it’s a good bet more of us are going to start experiencing symptoms. If it is a pathogen, we’ve all likely been exposed already and, as our clients across the world are proving, it won’t matter whether we’re here or elsewhere if we’re harboring this disease.
“Our genetics team started the research years ago to determine why we were seeing degenerative neural disease in our stock when it became apparent it wasn’t a one-time anomaly. The good news is that they have a pretty solid theory, but it is still only a theory right now. They’re ramping up their research and, as of yesterday, have been instructed to devote their attention to proving out that theory and to follow it to its natural consequences — to the exclusion of all else.
“Today, our company has a decision to make. We can’t pretend not to recognize the connections between our animals, our clients and our employees. And we can’t undo any exposure our clients and employees have already had. But we can stop operations as they are now, regroup, relocate and be back in business in a year or two.
“None of us can tell you what the risks are if you stay, financially or healthwise. If we can keep this glitch relatively quiet and out of the hands of the press, and if we can contain the problem over the next few weeks, we all have a chance to make some sizeable bonuses in the short term based on the plan we’ve come up with. Whether the potential reward is worth the potential risk will have to be your decision.”
“What about lawsuits?” Peter was looking visibly shaken. “These clients who have already died —”
“Have no reason or proof to trace back to Triple E. And if their relatives were to try, well, our indemnity clauses got special attention from our lawyers when they were drawn up in the client waivers. And,” Thurman looked pointedly at Peter, “in our employee contracts.”
“How do we stop it?” It was unusual to hear David Margolis, the facilities manager, speak up in a meeting, and just hearing his voice underscored the frightening and foreboding feel this meeting had taken on.
“First,” Thurman said, “we have to destroy the inventory.”
Even the seasoned executives who had been prepared for it had a visceral reaction to hearing it spoken so bluntly.
Thurman pressed on. “Knowledge, not inventory, is our most valuable asset right now. Our supply of frozen zygotes, excepting Sector C animals, is completely unaffected. We can start over with them immediately. There are still plenty of zoos and sanctuaries around the world willing to get rid of older breeding stock at bargain prices. We can get new surrogates and two years from now be hosting hunts again.”
“Not here,” David said with certainty.
“You’re right,” Thurman agreed. “Not here. This compound will have to be closed. Sterilized. Maybe chemically. Maybe just through time. It depends what the genetics department comes back with. In any case, we’ll have to relocate.”
“Where to?”
Thurman could almost see David calculating the time and costs for rebuilding, and knew he had at least one experienced player on board with him. “Canada maybe. But we can move the headquarters wherever we need to.”
“That’s assuming any of us are still alive,” Chloe Glenhaven blurted out. The accounts manager had always worn her heart on her sleeve. “Or has everyone here forgotten we’re likely next in line for a casket — and this bloody company isn’t going to help us, or our families, out.”
“That isn’t helping,” Helen snapped at Chloe, overriding the frightened women by immediately asking Thurman, “How do you intend to ‘destroy the inventory’? That could be tricky on down the road from a PR perspective.”
“Isn’t helping?” Chloe, cheeks reddened, forehead limned with sweat, faced the marketing director. “And what, worrying how the public may feel about a dead elephant is?”
“Look,” Helen tried the reasonable approach to calm Chloe down, “you’re not sick and may not even get sick. We don’t know what other factors may have to be present for people to get whatever this is. Maybe you have to have a weak heart or a certain gene or a birthmark on your hiney. We don’t know. And until we do, there’s no use worrying about it any more today when we know about it than yesterday when we didn’t. For now, we have an obligation to stop it. Preferably without doing irreparable damage to Triple E as a company. Which, by the way, you are a part of. There isn’t any other person or entity going to step in and miraculously help you out. This board is Triple E. You signed on with a venture company hoping to strike it rich. Well, a venture is like a marriage: for better or worse. You can’t just expect to reap the profits in the good times and wig out in the bad. We have a responsibility — to each other and to the company.”
That silenced the table for a moment, until Thurman spoke again. “We could put all the animals down quietly and move on. But,” he flipped the projector back to the pie chart, “we have 128 specimens that are healthy as far as we know. Twenty-two of them in Sector C. And many of the others that are affected are only showing mild symptoms right now. That’s a lot of money still on the table.” He advanced the slide and $35M popped up in bold red. “That’s a minimum. Seed money for starting over, if we can collect it. And here’s how we’re going to do that.
“We’ll hold a megahunt in six weeks. Inv
ite all our former clients — only people who have hunted here before so we’re not exposing anyone who hasn’t theoretically already been exposed. We’ll schedule hunts over two weeks, and provide special rates for Sector C animals that are more obviously afflicted. Open it up to clients who wouldn’t normally qualify. Call it a 5-Year Anniversary Mega-Special or some such and make it more attractive by highlighting that it’s exclusively for past clients. Helen, I’ll leave the promotions up to you. Work out special packages, once-in-a-lifetime type deals. And be sure to let them know it’s their last opportunity before we close the gates for an unspecified time while we retool.”
“Maybe a spoof on those going-out-of-business, selling-to-the-bare-walls commercials?” Helen was already working the details. “We could even ship out the invitations with a new rifle. Something in the two to three thousand dollar range, maybe, assuming a good discount on 50 or 60 decent guns. What’s the budget?”
Thurman smiled. “For this one, whatever you need. We want enough paying clients coming through our gates that we won’t have to put a single reasonably healthy animal down ourselves.”
“Wow — more than 130 animals in two weeks. That’s a lot of taxidermy work. Experienced people, storage, shipping …” As asset manager, Ilaria Zicaro would have to hustle to line up the suppliers necessary. “Not to mention confidentiality arrangements. And what about museum space?”
“Speaking of,” David Margolis said, “what about the museum?”
“Fair questions,” Thurman acknowledged. “And they segue right into our final announcement. Our plans to take the company public in the next six months have, obviously, been deep-sixed. With GenRep and Clonco hot on our heels, and other research teams we undoubtedly don’t even know about closing in, we can’t afford to stay under the radar for the time it will take to rebuild. We have to put our stamp on history now.”
A murmur ran around the table of executives in anticipation of Thurman’s next words.
“Most of you already know we’ve been looking for suitable real estate near Orlando for the past few months. That search, today, has been accelerated. If we can’t take the company public in six months, we will by God, take the museum to the public by then. By the end of the year, everyone will know what we’ve done. You’ll all be celebrities — that hasn’t changed. Assuming you can all stay on task till then.” He looked pointedly at Chloe, who sat in uncomfortable silence, tempted by the same promises of recognition and money that had lured her to Triple E in the first place and no longer sure how she should be feeling toward the company now.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Thurman said, “we have a hunt to organize.”
CHAPTER 11
MIKE SHAFER STARED AT THE prominent spike on his monitor. Regional admissions to emergency rooms in the central northern plains had increased precipitously overnight. Unless the numbers could be attributed to some major catastrophe such as a plane crash or a stampede in a crowded stadium, he had a long day ahead of him.
Taking a sip of hot coffee, he drilled down into the details.
Two hours later, the dregs of his coffee cold in their cup, he called his manager’s extension. “Kevin, I think we’ve got a code yellow for the ZVED group. Maybe the CID team as well. Can we meet?”
In less than an hour, Mike stood before a handful of CDC response representatives clutching a sheaf of printouts, his Pad-L nearby. Kevin had called in both the National Center for Zoonotic, Vector-Borne, and Enteric Diseases and the National Center for the Preparedness, Detection, and Control of Infectious Diseases. After several reorgs over the years, the CDC, it seemed, had a specialty Center for just about any emergency.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Mike began. “Kevin knows I’m not an alarmist and that I wouldn’t pull you guys away from your jobs if this wasn’t solid. The ASS report this morning shows a 124 percent upswing in unidentified cases hitting the ERs and clinics in a three-state area: Montana, North Dakota and South Dakota. Nearly all of those are children under the age of eight. Symptoms are neurologic and include head wobbling, tremors, muscle spasms and cognitive changes.
“We’ve had four hospitals conduct informal investigations. One found no commonality among its cases, but the other three were able to narrow the possibilities: one to milk shipped and bottled locally; one to a locally produced brand of chicken-and-pork hotdogs; and one to a school party where the kids were served individual bags of O’Brien’s potato chips, Krispin pickles, Big D sodas, chocolate-chip cookies baked by three different mothers, and beef hamburgers donated by a local rancher.”
One of the ZVED reps, Susan Tripp, an older woman with streaks of gray in her once-auburn hair, interrupted. “I take it ‘local’ is key, right? How local are we talking?”
“We’re trying to granularize further, but we’re still looking at those three states for the milk and hotdogs. That’s about a million-and-a-half pigs and maybe 12 million chickens. We can narrow the 8.5 million cattle in the area to about a quarter of a million that are dairy animals. The rancher with the hamburgers is the easy one; he runs beef cattle out of McKenzie County in western North Dakota.
“That’s assuming, of course, that whatever’s causing the problem in these kids is a food-borne agent. But the symptoms presented are pretty atypical. No signs of an immune response: no fever, no elevated white blood cell counts, they’re not throwing up. There’s nothing on their profiles but neurological symptoms. Their heads start to wobble and two weeks later they’re dead. Well, three of them are anyway. I’ve tracked back over the trending data. The threshold for each of the four days prior was just under 8 percent, which is why ASS didn’t flag it until today. The cumulative total for the last five days is more like a 57 percent increase rather than just today’s 24 percent spike. Since kids don’t usually present for neurologic disorders, most of the increase in their age sector is pure. After the Poissons regression model is applied, we’ve got something like 34 kids in three states exhibiting similar symptoms. On top of that, we’ve got a 4.2 percent increase in adults aged 24 to 87 admitted as stroke patients.”
“Stroke?” Rolando Garcia of the CID looked up from taking notes. “That’s not even a yellow flag. What does that have to do with the kids?”
“I didn’t think there was a correlation at first either,” Mike admitted. “And ultimately there may not be. But when I looked into the admitting comments, it struck me that ‘confusion,’ ‘memory loss’ and ‘sudden onset of involuntary movement’ sounded suspiciously like what was happening with the kids. Could be coincidence — and the stroke diagnoses may all be completely accurate — but I’d rather present that 4.2 percent increase to you as a possible puzzle piece now rather than later.”
Rolando drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Most of our field reps are at a training conference in San Diego through the end of this week. Does this really warrant me pulling them away prematurely? Susan, how are you staffed?”
“For three states looking at pigs, chickens and cows? I can send a few lab specialists out, but after the last round of cut-backs, I don’t have the resources needed for that kind of task force. If you can narrow the area and the number of farms and animals — even animal types — and maybe enlist some of the vets out there to help, then I could justify ponying up more people. Get me something more concrete and I’ll see what I can do.”
Mike looked to his boss, Kevin. “I can parse data in the field as well as I can here at the office. I can’t tell a bull from a heifer, but maybe I can run down leads, conduct some face-to-faces or at least recruit some help.”
“It’s three states,” Kevin reminded him. “Where would you even start?”
“The school party was in Williston, North Dakota. That’s just over the county line from where the hamburger came from. Could be some dairy farms around there, too.” He grinned. “No wife, no kids, no dog to board — assuming there’s an airport nearby, I could fly out today.”
CHAPTER 12
IT WAS DONNA BAI
LEY’S THIRD trip to the Spalding Ranch is as many days. Three weeks after his herd had first started showing signs of neurologic disorder, Mr. Spalding had lost seven cows. Nine more seemed to be in the beginning stages of whatever was making its way through his dairy herd.
Standard tests for practically everything in the book had consistently yielded negative results, not just for the Spalding animals but for the surrounding farms and ranches as well. Necropsies validated the symptoms, showing pockets of degeneration, as well as plaque, in the brain tissue and spinal cord. It was clear why the animals were dying, but what pathogen was responsible still eluded Donna and her colleagues as animals in a wider and wider area became afflicted.
The return trips were the ones Donna hated the most. Each call to the Spalding Ranch this week had meant another failure, another cow she was being asked to put down. Even Chad and Alfie seemed subdued by the increasingly depressive situation. The lanky vet tech had been even quieter than normal on rounds today, and the hyper border collie lay curled on the seat with her muzzle resting heavy on Donna’s thigh. The dog’s eyes were shut, an occasional shudder rippling through her body as she presumably chased after dream-squirrels.
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