The Cure Conspiracy

by Clayton Jones

  The “Cure” Conspiracy

  by

  Clayton Jones

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER 1 Dawn

  CHAPTER 2 Building Relationships

  CHAPTER 3 The Call

  CHAPTER 4 Office Visit

  CHAPTER 5 Finding Wayne

  CHAPTER 6 Conference Call

  CHAPTER 7 Vincent and Daryl

  CHAPTER 8 Personal Disasters

  CHAPTER 9 Wrapping up Loose Ends

  CHAPTER 10 Meeting Arranged and Arranging for the Meeting

  Introduction

  Much of today's advanced research could lead the way to cures, but it goes into a black hole. How and why does this happen?

  Chapter 1 Dawn

  Dawn came slowly from the East. The first fingers of light feeling their way through the chilly morning mist onto the high spots in the foothills. They came to the casual two-lane blacktop road. Onward they came, through the weeds and litter on the shoulders, past the guardrail and onto the rooftops of the wall to wall houses down below. Finally, they reached the wide, white, deserted beach that provides a psychological barrier between the cliff houses and the momentarily placid Pacific Ocean.

  Inside the cool, dark, bedroom of one of the houses, a metallic click breaks the silence. In mid-song, a girl group from the sixties is singing “someday, we'll be together...” A man's scarred, weather-beaten hand reaches out from the left side of the bed and hovers over the alarm clock now displaying 5:01. Realization sets in and the hand withdraws; no reprieve today. Out of bed as if doused with a bucket of ice water, the half-naked man moves like a stiff cat just evicted from a favorite chair. He crosses the cold tile floor to the balcony and pulls open the drapes to reveal twenty feet of sliding glass doors. Beyond the teak deck, as far as the eye can see to the North, West, and South, lies the ocean, now sparkling thanks to the morning sun shinning through a cloudless sky.

  The beach is hemmed in by a horseshoe shaped cliff of about fifty feet in height all around. This little pocket of man-made civilization is crammed with houses. Separated by only a few feet, each house clings to the side of the cliff for dear life, lest they fall onto the beach and into the ocean. Sane people would not build here, but this is California, sanity is not a prerequisite. Meanwhile, the ocean bides it's time. Those big Pacific swells advance slowly, relentlessly, toward the beach. As they approach, in their last seconds of life, their personality changes. Some rear up in a brief show of force seconds before slamming onto the beach and disappearing forever. The ocean bottom near the shore determines whether or not a swell becomes a wave or merely laps the sand submissively. Many people are the same way. Unless prodded by an outside force, most live their lives in relative tranquility; they never have to draw upon the dormant fury within.

  Any other time, this would be the start of just another beautiful day. As I turned away from the view, the thought crossed my mind I might never see it again; I turned back and took one last look. Funny how so many things in life are taken for granted when it is assumed they will always be there, yet take on such significance when perceived to be coming to an end. I turned away and looked at the bed I had just gotten out of. More specifically, I looked at the unoccupied right side. I pictured my wife there, laughing, vibrant, loving. No words can describe the feelings of loneliness and despair that washed over me. It was like being under one of those big, dark, Pacific rollers that comes crashing onto the beach during a storm; I felt overpowered, short of breath, and drowning. It would have been so easy to succumb to the temptation to give in, craw back under the covers, or into a bottle and hide from life for awhile, maybe forever. But there are people counting on me, people I love. Besides, every fiber of my being, everything I have ever been leading up to this moment would not let me take the easy way out. The Chinese say a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. I believe each person's life is that journey, each breath we draw, and the good or evil we extract from it, adds to the sum total of our being. At any instant, for better or worse, we can be called upon by God, fate, or whatever name you want to use, to demonstrate to ourselves, and to the world, who we are at that point in time. Some people live and die and are never challenged; others are, and wish they hadn't been. Still others “pass the test” to varying degrees. Some are stellar, like fireworks that soar into the night sky and, at the apex of their flight, burst into a wonderful, awesome, display of sound and fury. Some sustain the flight and never look back. Others have their moment and fade. The important thing is that when the situation demanded it, they delivered. For the rest of their lives, if they are never tested again, they can look back and know they came through when they had to. Today, I'll find out how well I do.

  I walked across the room to the master bath. The pain in my left leg reminding me it hadn't been that long since the “accident.” I turned on the lights and looked in the mirror. Forty years old, light brown hair starting to gray, tan, blue eyes with circles as a result of too many sleepless nights, a day's growth of beard, and a look of determination, desperation, anger, and fear. Nice way to start the day. I shaved and took a shower. Stepping out of the stall, without thinking, I got on the scale. At five-eleven, one-seventy-five wasn't bad but today I wished I was a whole lot bigger. I went to the closet and contemplated what to wear, even though I already knew every item by heart. Jockey shorts; being uptight is my nature. Levis because they're tough and, next to leather, more protection for your legs than anything else you can wear. White athletic socks and high-top sneakers, great traction and ankle support while looking benign. I would have preferred combat boots, but that would be like wearing a sign. I left the sneakers off and went to the night stand on my side of the bed to retrieve a package I had brought home the night before. Taking care to remain away from any windows, I unwrapped a military Colt 45, five full clips and a shoulder holster. The leather was cold across my back and under my left arm. I could have gotten something smaller and more accurate, but I was used to a 45 from the service and I expected any confrontation to be up close and personal. Besides, I wanted massive stopping power. With a muzzle velocity of only 950 feet per second, being on the receiving end of a 45 caliber slug is like being hit with a sledgehammer. I put in a clip, pulled the slide back to chamber a round, and gently let the hammer back down. I pulled on a short sleeve sweatshirt and hoped I wouldn't have to draw the weapon in a hurry. I pulled up the left leg of my jeans and used black electrical tape to tape my diving knife, handle down, to the outside of my calf, about five inches above my ankle. I pulled my trouser leg back down and put my sneakers on. Having completed dressing, I stood in front of the mirror and looked for obvious bulges. Damn fool, you'll probably screw everything up and only succeed in pissing them off. What else could I do? I had no choice, they had seen to that by making all the right moves with the precision of a chess Grand Master. I was one step away from being checkmated and I knew it. I went to the bureau and put on my divers watch. I remember I had gotten it the year we were in Jamaica on vacation over Father's Day. Shawn was nine and Samantha ten. We had a great time, renting a car and driving to Dunns' River Falls in Ocho Rios. The island is beautiful and the people warm and friendly. On first contact, you can be taken aback by the aggressiveness of some of the vendors, but if you realize how desperate the situation is for many of them you can understand and accept their forwardness. Given similar circumstances, many of us would be as bad or worse.

  I walk out of the bedroom and up the open spiral staircase to the living room. The room has a glass wall and deck similar to the bedroom. I walk over and look outside. It is now 5:30 and the beach is coming to life. Gulls are circling overhead, making their shrill sounds in a futile effort to extract some morsel of fo
od from the people arriving on the beach below. Surfers, a few have already caught their first ride of the day, paddle out in search of the perfect wave. Two joggers are running side by side a few feet from the waters edge. One lone person is sweeping the sand with a metal detector, looking for who knows what. Any other day these people are regarded as friendly co-inhabitants of our beach. Today, any, or all of them, could be the enemy. In war, at least a war in the classical sense, lines were drawn. People wore uniforms, everyone knew which side they were on and their role in the conflict. In this situation, there was no way to know the enemy; it could be anyone. The only rule is that there are no rules. I began to have a small appreciation of what our people must have felt fighting in Viet Nam and more recently in the Middle East. What a minute-by-minute, never-ending, living hell it must be; not knowing friend from foe. I went to the kitchen and got a glass of orange juice and some vitamin pills. Shawn loved orange juice, he loved life and everything about it. Before he became ill, he played all sports. He was one of those natural athletes who, even at an early age, had all the right moves and mental attitude to be a winner. My eyes filled with tears and I got such a tightness in my throat that I couldn't swallow. Life is not fair, life is life and we each have to make our own way through it as best we can. I swallowed the pills with a mouthful of juice. I washed and dried the glass. As I put the glass away, I was struck by the absurdity of the act. Odds were very good that I would never see this place again. Habits die hard.

  Pictures of Shawn, along with those of my wife Vicki, Samantha, the dogs, house and relatives back in Pennsylvania, are on the fireplace mantel at the North end of the living room. Up until recently, we were well on our way to having it all. We had built, with our own hands, a house in the country about an hour outside of Philadelphia. We had a family and a way of life that seemed too good to be true, in fact it was. Now it all seems so long ago and far away. One thing I've learned is to enjoy each day and to make the most of it; it will not come again. Those things we think will last forever can be gone in a flash. Ask anyone who has been through a disaster, seems like the numbers are growing daily, if not caused by Nature, then caused by man. Maybe it comes with getting older, or maybe it's just that communications are so much better than they used to be, but we seem to have more “little tyrants” than ever before. Today, anyone with a few dollars can buy his or her own soapbox and proceed to put their views in front of the rest of the world whether we like it or not. Those who don't have the money can just be outrageous and the media is more than willing to put them in front of everyone on the six o'clock news. This wouldn't be so bad if we didn't have so many searching for something to believe in. The problem is these people don't believe in themselves so they wander around like lost puppies, ready to follow anyone who appears to have “something” regardless of the ultimate destination. If the media would show some backbone, many of these people would never see the light of day; but I digress.

  It's 5:45, too early to go, time for a few more minutes to reflect on the journey thus far. It's summertime, Vicki and I are finishing our house. It was the realization of a dream to build a house from the ground up. Vicki's Dad knew what to do; I provided labor and “go-for” services. It was a great time for all of us. The kids were nine and ten and really becoming “little people” with their own personalities. They both played soccer, baseball, and basketball and kept us hopping, driving them from one practice to another. In the country you don't have a choice about how to get around but we never regretted the time it took to allow them to do what they wanted. I had a good job working with computers. Vicki had put her nursing job on hold and was just getting started in Real Estate. Everything was looking up. By the following spring, Vicki had made enough money to pay for a trip to Jamaica for a week. It was a busy time filled with swimming, sailing, eating, and sightseeing. All of the things you do in a mad pursuit of relaxation. The week we came back baseball started and the kids went out for it. Almost two weeks had gone by when I got a call from the baseball coach. He had left a message saying he wanted to talk about how the kids were doing. I thought it was a little strange for the coach to call, but I wrote it off as another adult wanting to have that “championship team” that eluded them when they played the game. I called him back and started to say that I would work with Sam on her batting, but he cut me off. “It's not Sam, Shawn's game is way off and his attitude needs adjustment.” I was really caught flat-footed. I said I'd talk to Shawn and find out what was going on. “We just came back from Jamaica, probably too much vacation. I'll make sure he gets his rest and he'll be back on top in no time.” Over the next few weeks Vicki and I made sure Shawn got more rest and ate right and he seemed to improve. Even so, I began to have the first, small, nagging fears that there might be something more. Sam had been as active as Shawn on vacation and she was fine. In fact, Sam was playing better than ever and had energy to burn. Over the next few weeks my concern increased. It became more and more obvious that something was wrong. Vicki took Shawn to the doctor for tests. Three days later the results came back and the doctor called; “Shawn has mononucleosis and needs to rest.” Thank you Jesus! That night we went to our favorite restaurant and blew the budget. The kids didn't see the cause for celebration. Shawn wasn't happy with the prospect of missing the start of baseball season and Sam kept after him about “how did you get mono?” Vicki and I felt the relief you feel when a loved one has a brush with disaster and comes away unscathed; you're grateful and at the same time a little less naive about life and how fragile everything is.

  Shawn took awhile to recover. He never did get into baseball that season. Soccer and basketball went OK, but the spark was gone and over time Shawn lost interest. The following year he decided not to go out for any sports. Looking back, I'm convinced the bout with mononucleosis was the start of it all.

  Chapter 2 Building Relationships

  It was six years later. Sam is driving and Shawn is driving us crazy. During the intervening years each of them matured in their own way. Sam became quite the young lady, when she wanted to be, but a Tomboy most of the time. She continued to play soccer, and was very good. We went to many of the games and cheered her on. Shawn made a couple halfhearted attempts to get back into a sport, usually at my urging, but it never panned out. Often I saw it as attitude and gave him a hard time about it; something I now regret. Shawn and I slowly drifted apart. It seemed the more Sam got into sports and the competition, the more Shawn went the other way. It wasn't until recently I realized that he wanted more than anything to play, to be the best, but he couldn't and he didn't know why. He thought he was lacking the drive or skills most of the other players had, so he thought less and less of himself and eventually gave up any kind of physical competition.

  I was searching for something for Shawn and me to share; something to do together. Unbeknownst to me; Shawn was also looking. One Sunday morning he came to me with the classified section of the newspaper. It was the start of car fever. “Dad, take a look at this classic! How can anyone sell a Vette that cheap?” Volumes could not contain all of the reasons I was about to give him; until I saw the look in his eyes. I hadn't seen that spark in so long. “Maybe we should check it out.” I said as I looked first at the price, then the area code, then the description of the car. Shawn was beside himself. “Can I call now? How soon can we go see it? If it needs any work I'll buy the parts and do it.” Shawn my boy, you don't yet know how to check the oil. You have no money and no job. That's what ran through my head. What I said was “It's a deal!” There are moments in life when you have to say to hell with it. Logic has it's places; a first car love affair isn't one of them. Besides, this was the longest conversation we had had in quite awhile, and that's worth more than money.

  When you read a car ad, at least when I read one, you see the car in your mind as it looked on the showroom floor, better yet, the first time you saw it in action on the road. Enhanced by time, it is better than perfect. Too bad we can't stop with reading the ad and just
savor the moment. We have to spoil it by going to see the real thing. The “like new” Vette turned out to be a 1965 roaster, big block 396, manual four speed with side pipes. Long in the tooth and driven hard. It had arrived at it's present mileage a quarter mile at a time. Red light to red light, with a wash and wax substituting for an oil change and preventative maintenance. Next to getting into a cab in New York City and saying “take me,” this baby screamed money pit. Shawn saw it a little differently, as he told me several hundred times on the ride back home. “Dad, it's better than I expected! The colors are great with the white top, black interior, and dark red body.” “In the sixties it was called Honduras Maroon” I added. Shawn continued; “I can wax it and it'll look great!” The color combination happened to be my favorite when I was in high school. A new top, interior, and paint job and this one would look good. “The mags and rubber look almost new.” Translation: sand blast and re-chrome the wheels, those bands across the tires aren't for traction, they're wear indicators saying “replace me.” “The stereo system was great!” It was loud. “The engine sounds like it has a performance cam in it.” The lope is due to uneven compression, caused by any number of expensive maladies, all of which are probably present. Driving home I decided no one in their right mind would buy that car.