“So why wasn’t the vaccine a part of the inclusions in the first place?” Jack asked.
She shrugged. “It’s not that common. It’s only indicated for a certain subset of children. But for a child in that subset and whose family can’t afford to go to the doctor, it can be fatal. Malcolm was sponsoring the bill. I don’t understand why he killed it.”
Jack wondered the same thing. Obviously, there was more to it. “We need to read the whole bill—see if there’s anything else. How many children get RSV every year?”
“I’ll check. Let’s hope the laptop didn’t get damaged when you threw it on the ground,” Taylor said. She unclipped her seat belt and reached back to get it.
Jack got a whiff of her hair as she moved past him. Lavender. He heard the twang of the Mac turning on. “Seems to be working.” Her fingers tapped the keys.” Well, someone’s certainly pissed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I Googled RSV, and the entire page is populated with article after article from today. From every news outlet.”
“Strange, considering the bill hasn’t even been in the news,” Jack said.
“There’s a segment on Newsline tonight too, about a family who lost two of their three triplets. From what I can tell, it looks like the whole Knight news outlet is covering it: in print, Internet and television.”
Jack was stumped. This wasn’t the type of do-gooder bill the power players cared about. Catherine Knight was the reigning media queen. Her holding company owned television stations all over the world, over thirty magazines, twenty-five major newspapers, myriad radio stations, and the second largest social media platform. Why would she expend resources to make a bunch of noise about something that affected such a small portion of the population? It’s not like most people wouldn’t already be in favor of increasing funding to make vaccines affordable to children. Someone was trying to stir up a public outcry. But why? And against whom?
“We need to read every line of that bill.”
“I’ll try and get through the rest of it when we reach Boston. It’s over four hundred pages with the rider,” Taylor replied.
She stared out the window into the darkness and they drove in silence for a long while. Finally, she spoke. “I never really knew him at all, did I?”
Jack shifted in his seat. What could he say?
“He was fighting his own demons, Taylor. His heart was in the right place at the end.”
“I think I knew deep down that he was holding back, that things weren’t as they should be, but it was all so intangible. We were both so busy those first few years. Between my hours at the network and the traveling I had to do when working a new story, we hardly saw each other. And then when I couldn’t get pregnant he was so wonderful, supportive. It was like we were finally in a real partnership. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Taylor. That must have been tough.”
“That’s the funny thing. All—and I mean all—of the women I met in the infertility support groups complained about how insensitive their husbands were, how they couldn’t relate to how devastating infertility is. Some of their marriages fell apart over it. But it brought us closer together. He was suffering just as much as I was, and he never said the wrong thing. I wouldn’t have gotten through it without him.”
Jack didn’t feel like hearing what a saint Phillips had been. He drummed his hands on the wheel. “Try and get some sleep. You’ve been through a lot.”
“There’s no way I can sleep with all this going round and round in my head.”
“Just lean back and close your eyes anyway.”
She was out within five minutes. Every turn of their conversation had been rife with minefields. He didn’t want to discuss her marriage or her pregnancy. She was supposed to have married him. That had been the plan. She would finish her last year of college, and they would be married the following fall. He’d gotten an apartment in New York and a job with the Associated Press. Taylor used to come down on Friday afternoons, and they’d spend the weekends together exploring the city. They were going to live the life they’d always dreamed of—two journalists in the most important city in the world, the future at their fingertips.
He had never seen Dakota coming. A flash of red hair that framed a face defined by angles and contours, her blue eyes flashed with an intensity he’d found irresistible. He might never have met her if not for his sister. She had talked him into accompanying her to the art exhibit—not his usual Tuesday night diversion. Once they arrived, Jack went straight to the bar, grumbled that there was no beer, and grabbed a plastic cup of wine. Nails with chipped red polish reached out and took the cup from him.
“You don’t want that rot. Come with me.”
Surprised and delighted by her boldness, he went along. She grasped his hand in hers and led him to the back of the gallery where a small kitchen hid. Picking up two crystal wineglasses, she held a bottle of pinot noir in her other hand and showed it to Jack.
“Much better, no?” She smiled.
“It’s lost on me.” He grinned. “I’m happy with a cold beer.”
She stared at him and bit down on her plump bottom lip, her white teeth showcased by the soft pink hue. He found himself wondering how her lips would feel on his.
“Time to change that. You have no idea what you’re missing.” Moving towards him, she lifted the glass to his lips.
He took a sip then shook his head.
“Sorry. Still rather have a beer.”
The full lips puckered in a pretty pout. “You’re a terrible boor.” A smile lit up her face, and she put a hand on his shoulder. “No matter. I’ve decided I like you, and I’m going to keep you.”
Jack frowned. “Keep me?”
“Oh don’t worry, silly. I mean I want to be your friend. I’ll keep you as a friend. Come on, let’s see if any of my paintings have sold.”
“You’re…?”
“Yes, I’m Dakota Drake.” She took a bow. “Welcome to my world.”
“Stop. Stop. Jack! Beau needs to go out,” Taylor shouted.
Jack glanced at her, startled. “Sorry. I’ll pull over.”
He steered the car to the shoulder and put it in park, then turned on the interior light.
“You stay here. I’ll take him. Where’s his leash?”
Jack held the leash while Beau sniffed in the dark for a place to relieve himself.
When he had finished, he loped up to Jack and licked his hand. Jack envied the dog his uncomplicated existence. He shook his head and wondered how he had managed to screw up his life so badly.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Evelyn was about to leave Damon’s office when his phone buzzed again and he put a finger up to stop her. He grabbed it from the desk and swiped. The color drained from his face as he listened to the man on the other end. “You lost her?” he demanded.
“Logan must have had some training,” he told Damon. “They got away.”
He ended the call and looked at Evelyn, the fury building in his chest. “You know her. What will she do next? Will she call again?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he won’t let her.” She began to say something else, then seemed to think better of it and waited for him to speak again.
If Jeremy had indeed told Malcolm the truth about the bill, and he had passed that on to Taylor and Jack, they would follow the story to its conclusion. They were news hounds after all. He needed to find them before they got to Jeremy. He didn’t share this with Evelyn. He leveled his gaze at her. “Figure something out. Use your talents. Find a way to make her call.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Institute, 1975
May
The entrance foyer is enormous, and there are racks lined up on the marble floor, each tagged with a sign bearing a name. Clothes hang there—uniforms is perhaps a better word. Shiny black jumpsuits with a red scorpion embroidered on the lapel. I ta
ke one from the rack and hold it up in front of me. It appears to be a perfect fit. There are slippers too, and scrubs, cotton shirts, blankets and pillows on a shelf below. I notice a Dopp kit and pick it up. Inside are toiletries—toothbrush, mouthwash, shampoo, and soap. I look around at the others. Everyone has the exact provisions. They have thought of everything.
Our driver clears his throat, and we all turn to look at him.
“You may follow me. Pull your cart behind you. We’re going to your quarters.”
His face is as expressionless as it was when he first picked us up, and I wonder at his lack of affect. I have an urge to reach out and poke him, try and provoke a reaction. But of course, I don’t. I make my face a mask and follow along with everyone as if this is the most natural thing in the world. We are led to an elevator and go down in groups. No one speaks while we wait our turn. I have to pee, but am embarrassed to ask. He comes for us, and we descend six floors, and when the elevator opens, we are faced by a steel door. A woman stands next to it, in a black jumpsuit, and smiles.
“Good evening, students. Welcome.” She is pretty, not much older than me, and her eyes are kind.
I feel myself relax and gratitude rushes through me at her warmth.
She opens the door, and we push through with our new belongings.
There are beds lined up on each side of the room, army-barracks style, and others have already staked their claims and are sorting their things.
She turns to me and puts a hand on my arm.
“Maya, you’re over here.” She leads me to a bed at the end of one of the rows.
I am surprised that she knows my name.
“I’m Evelyn. I’ll be your coordinator for this session. Anything that you need, any problems you have, you can come to me.”
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice cracking. I look around. “Are we all staying in here?”
“Part of being here is learning how to think differently. Does it matter when you treat a patient, if the person is male or female? Does your examination differ?”
I shake my head.
“Of course not,” she says. “You would find it absurd if a male patient refused to let you examine him because you are a woman.” Her hand sweeps across the room. “It is no different here. This is where you all sleep, no matter your sex.” Then she laughs. “Trust me, at the end of the day, the only thing that will be on your mind is sleep.”
She leaves me then, and I watch her walk over to someone else. I think about what she said and I guess it makes some sense.
* * *
Today is the first day of classes. We are awakened early, though I don’t know the exact time, as I no longer have my watch. We all wear our black jumpsuits and slippers. There are about thirty of us, and I dress silently, averting my eyes to avoid looking at the other half-naked bodies in the room and hoping they are doing the same. Despite my conversation with Evelyn, I am still unnerved to be quartered with the men and didn’t sleep well last night. I whisper to Amelia, the woman assigned to the cot next to me. “Don’t you think they should separate the men from the women?”
She doesn’t turn to look at me, but casts a glance in my direction out of the corner of her eye and answers, her words barely audible, “Shh. They’ll hear you.”
I bite back my retort, disappointed to realize that she’s a rule follower, and that I won’t be finding any companionship in her. We were told during initiation to keep to ourselves and focus on one thing only—being chosen as one of the final twenty. The competition is going to be fiercer than anything we’d experienced at medical school. Our ability to display a singular focus and to shut out everything around us is one of the things we will be judged on. I can see that Amelia is as serious as I am about being one of the twenty admitted to phase two. Okay then, we won’t be friends.
The bell rings, and we walk single file behind our training coordinator to begin a day filled with lectures. I am excited, wondering when I will get to meet him. We are taken in groups of five to the elevator and up six floors.
We are ushered into a classroom. It is nothing special, could be any classroom in any high school. There is a large screen at the front. A man walks in the room, and I bite my cheek to refrain from gasping. It is him—Dr. Strombill. He is shorter than I expected, almost diminutive, and I wonder if this can be the man who has written with such passion and brilliance. He stands in front of us, silent, assessing, and seems to examine each of us before he finally opens his mouth to speak. When he does, all my doubts dissolve, and his passion is so palpable I almost believe I can reach out and touch it.
“Welcome. The fact that you are here is evidence of your extraordinary talent and dedication. But more will be required. Innovation. Three-dimensional thinking. You must be able to see into the future and stride into the unknown. You have spent years being indoctrinated into the established way of viewing medicine. But we are to revolutionize the face of medicine, to see the big picture and make the difficult decisions that will advance medicine and treatment far above where we are today.” His Austrian accent is slight, melodic.
He walks from the front of the room without another word and turns off the lights. The screen comes alive, and we are looking at an older man lying in a hospital bed. I watch as the man on the screen gasps and wheezes in a vain attempt to get air into his lungs. His sallow skin is stretched tautly over his skeletal face, and his pained grimace reveals brown teeth. He croaks out a hoarse request.
“Nurse.” It comes out as a whisper.
His bony fingers press repeatedly on the call button as a look of distress fills his face. When there is no response, he sags backward, and his head hits the pillow in despondent resignation. The nurse finally appears, then frowns when she sees that the sheets are wet. She sighs.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, Mr. Smith. Lemme get some help in here.”
Two medical aides appear with another bed, and together they move the frail body into it. The man she called Mr. Smith grimaces in agony as they jostle him, and he cries out.
“Leave me in peace! Why can’t someone make the pain stop?” His anguished cries are punctuated with bouts of coughing and gasping.
The screen goes black, and light floods the room.
“What you have just seen can be prevented.” Dr. Strombill leans forward and peers over the dais at the students in the front row.
His voice rises. “You must be the voice of that poor man. It is up to you to make sure that a human being does not endure that kind of suffering. It is your moral imperative, your sacred duty as doctors, as purveyors of mercy, to spare your patients from this degree of pain and indignity.”
He scans the faces and looks pleased. “Who of us wants to spend our last days on earth filled with pain, fighting in vain for every breath? No. It is indecent. We cannot allow people to linger indefinitely until their disease-ridden bodies finally give up and free them from their torment and anguish.”
A timid hand waves.
“Yes, you.” He points at Amelia.
“What is the alternative? If we don’t give any treatment, the patient will still suffer from the effects of the disease.”
He looks at her, and a frown pulls at his mouth. “I assume you have heard of euthanasia?”
A look of shock appears on her face. “Are you suggesting that we actually kill people? Put them down like a dog?”
“And are you suggesting that a dog has more right to compassion than a human being? What is the profit in prolonging the life of someone who will be left with nothing but pain and indignity?”
I hold my breath, waiting for her response. Can’t she see she’s making him angry?
Her cheeks are flushed. “But it’s illegal.”
He walks toward her. “It is now. But that is changing and we must lead the charge.”
“But sometimes a terminal patient does recover. How are we to know which are hopeless cases and which are not?” She looks around the room, w
aiting, I think, for someone to come to her defense. No one does.
Dr. Strombill’s cheeks grow blood red, and a vein throbs in his forehead. He points a shaking finger at her.
“That is what is wrong with this country. Over-indulged children who grow up to be spoiled adults. The world does not have at its disposal the resources to squander on lost causes. Have you considered the financial and emotional toll on the family? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to watch someone you love wither before your eyes until they are nothing but an empty shell?” Spittle flies from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes are slits.
Every eye in the room is on her. With tears streaming down her face, she stumbles to her feet and runs to the door, leaving her notebook on the desk.
Dr. Strombill turns to the class. “She won’t be needing this anymore.” He knocks the book to the floor. “I trust no one else has any questions?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They arrived at their destination.
“Where are we?” Taylor asked.
“Outside my sister’s house. Come on. Time to ditch the Mustang.”
They quickly moved everything from the car to a truck; then Jack told Taylor to get behind the wheel of the truck.
“Follow me.”
She drove behind him until they reached the Charles River, where they pulled into a secluded clearing set back from the road, and she put the truck in park and got out.
“What are you doing?” she cried at the sight of him positioning his beloved Mustang on the precipice of the hill, aimed at the river below.
“Got to get rid of it or they’ll know where we are. Can’t very well leave it at my sister’s and implicate her.”
“Oh, Jack! You love this car. You’ve spent hours and hours working on it and now you’ve got to get rid of it because of me.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“If Malcolm hadn’t involved you in this, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
The Veritas Deception Page 5