More Things In Heaven and Earth

by Jeff High

  CHAPTER 31

  The Difference

  As I came through the front door, an incredible exhaustion poured over me. Rhett was dozing on the living room rug and offered only a slight flopping of his tail as I entered. The house was quiet, the bright midday light providing little warmth to the silent rooms. The sirens of sleep were pulling at me, moving me upstairs to the sanctuary of my room, the warmth of my bed. Arriving upstairs, I realized I was still holding the brown paper bag of Scotch. I set it on my bedside table, kicked off my shoes, and crawled into bed, pulling the covers heavily over me. Turning on my side, the paper bag was the last thing in view as I drifted off.

  I entered the deepest of dreams.

  A young boy is running through the tall grass on the high hills overlooking a farm. From the distance he smiles at me, grinning, motioning me to come closer. I know it is Knox McAnders from many years ago, a carefree child playing in the open green fields. He is a make-believe soldier charging the enemy in the trenches, using a tobacco stick as a gun, cheering his triumph. Twilight is approaching. Crisp, cool breezes pass over the cathedral of tall trees on Akin Ridge and waft over him. Heaving for breath, he collapses into the tall field grass, joyous over his victory on the battlefield. He lies there, gazes far into the distant stars, steam pouring off of him. His father calls him from the far reaches of the hill. He runs to meet him but as he comes closer I see instead a man in uniform. His brother. Cullen. He has come home.

  Knox runs to him and leaps into his older brother’s arms. He laughs riotously and climbs onto Cullen’s back. Together they head off down the hill toward home. Knox looks back at me one last time. He smiles, waves, and yells out a single word.

  I awoke abruptly.

  Daylight spilled richly into the bedroom, but the bedside clock revealed that it was past three. I had slept for two hours.

  I threw the covers off and sat on the side of the bed, still hazy in the half fog of sleep. But the dream had not yet dissolved and was still vivid in my head. Knox McAnders. Why in the world would he have been rolling through my subconscious? I stared at the brown bag on the bedside table. Had that been the reason?

  Then a thought came to me—an incredible, unimaginable thought. It was the word Knox had yelled to me, the same word that had been rolling through my head earlier that day. With all my training, all my empirical reasoning, the answer was not to be found in what I was seeing before me. The answers were buried in the past, sleeping quietly, patiently waiting for the right moment to surface. It now all made sense, illuminated by the one simple word Knox had said: reawakening.

  I grabbed the brown bag and headed downstairs, nearly flying over the steps. Finding my keys, I was speeding down Fleming Street within seconds. I was going to Ice Cave Road.

  I made my way to the state highway that ran to the northwest of the county. It was a long stretch of straight two-lane blacktop. I pressed the accelerator to the floor. No cars were in sight and on either side of me were nothing but treeless, far-reaching pastures filled with ankle-deep frozen grasses. The cold air rushing by was brisk, exhilarating. The winter sun was still high, bright, commanding, and now almost blinding against the vast sky of cloudless, delicate blue. It was intoxicating. I could barely contain my excitement. A single word, one simple word. How had I not thought of it before? I laughed at myself, not believing the clarity with which I now saw what I’d previously been so blind to.

  Somehow—incredibly—the damned virus had managed to lie dormant with the bottles in the cold, wet darkness of the old ice cave for over ninety years. Knox had said that his father had also gotten the flu. He was the one who had placed them there, there in the icy cold, where they had patiently, silently awaited the opportunity for rebirth. For reawakening.

  Toy had likely given away or sold a number of those bottles to friends. One after another they had caught the virus. Quickly, the disease had spread. By an odd chance, Toy hadn’t gotten the flu. Somehow, he was immune, whether by some random fluke of exposure or, perhaps, something in his genetic makeup. But that realization stirred in me another revelation, one I knew I would need to discuss with Toy.

  When I approached the old McAnders farmhouse, I saw Toy’s truck parked outside. I pulled up and cut the engine. Leaning forward, I sat for a moment and stared at the house, my arms draped around the steering wheel. Despite the enthusiasm that had carried me out here, I was unsure what my next move should be, how I should approach Toy. Although I had witnessed firsthand a considerate side to the man, I also knew he had a propensity for volatile, unmeasured behavior. I had heard stories.

  I didn’t have long to decide. Within moments, he was standing on the side porch peering at the Corolla. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the paper bag and got out of the car. As I approached, he offered a cautious smile.

  “That you, Doc? What in the world brings you out here?”

  As we shook hands, I said, “Hi, Toy. Sorry to barge in on you like this. I just need to figure something out, and I was hoping you could help me.”

  Toy was absorbing everything carefully, his eyes going to the paper bag in my hands. His answer was clipped. “Okay.”

  I spoke in a guarded tone. “This flu epidemic that’s been going around— It’s had me baffled. It’s not a strain that anyone has seen. The vaccine doesn’t work against it and the drugs we normally use have done a poor job helping people recover. Candidly, I’m surprised someone hasn’t died from it yet.”

  Toy was poker-faced. “I understand, Doc. But how can I help you with that?”

  “Well, a thought occurred to me. How in the world could a new strain of the flu surface in Watervalley? And that’s when I realized it’s not a new strain of flu. It’s an old strain. The same one that killed your grandfather’s brother, and the one that Knox survived. The flu of 1918.”

  “I’m still not following you, Doc. What are you saying?”

  I carefully pulled the bottle of Scotch from the paper bag. “I got this from John Harris. He’s got the flu. He told me about the ice cave and what you found there.”

  At first Toy’s gaze sharpened with suspicion. Then a wry grin spread across his face. He rolled his eyes. “That’s quite a theory, but I don’t see how some old Scotch could be giving anyone the flu.”

  “It’s not what’s in the bottles. It’s what’s on the outside of the bottles.” My voice grew firm. “Look, Toy, I’m not a narc or with the DEA or anything. I couldn’t care less about you giving away or selling off a few old bottles of Scotch made by your great-grandfather. But here’s the point. Both Knox and his father were exposed to the influenza epidemic of 1918. You know the stories. It killed your grandfather’s brother Cullen. But Knox was only eight at the time and he survived it, because this strain of flu hits hardest on those with the strongest immune systems. Men and women in their twenties and thirties are the most vulnerable. Their immune systems react so violently that it chokes their airways. It’s called a cytokine storm. Knox’s dad was fifty-eight and he also survived.”

  Toy stared at me blankly.

  I continued, “So I’m thinking that when your great-grandfather put those bottles away in the cave, somehow the virus got on the outside of them. Maybe he coughed and it was on his hands as he placed each one on the shelf. I don’t know. What I do know is that the cold, dark cave provided the perfect place for this virus to sit dormant. For almost a hundred years it has waited for the opportunity to find new victims. I know you haven’t gotten it. For some reason, your genetic makeup isn’t vulnerable. That’s why this is hard for you to believe.”

  Toy pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it, and inhaled a deep breath. He turned and gazed out across the backyard toward the distant bluff and the entrance to the ice cave. He exhaled the smoke slowly, carefully, and rubbed his chin with his thumb.

  “Nah, Doc. I’m not buying it.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not buying it?”

  “Pretty simple words. You heard me.”

  �
�Toy, that’s just not going to cut it.”

  He shot me a hard look. It was clear he had caught the rising anger in my voice. He flicked his cigarette away, a subtle signal that the amiable part of this conversation was over. His eyes grew sharp, sizing me up, assessing me coolly. The Scottish blood in him smelled a fight. His shoulders were firming back. Instinctively he was squaring up to me. I knew from his reputation that Toy was not one for words. Yet now all the weight of misery, disappointment, and defeat that I had known over the long, exhausting hours treating this damn flu hardened me. I wasn’t backing down—not now, not after all the hell of the last week, not after getting this close to the answer. Slow seconds passed. The air between us grew tense, explosive.

  Then, just as quickly, an easy grin emerged across his face. He exhaled a small, gushing laugh and looked back into the distance. I knew Toy wasn’t afraid of a fight, but apparently he had decided that going to blows with me, right here, right now, would accomplish nothing for him. “Doc, unless you’ve got something else to add to this conversation, I think we’re done here.”

  I stared at him impassively, desperately considering my next move. I nodded and looked out at the high grassy hills rolling in the distance. I spoke as I stared into the vast expanse of Akin Ridge.

  “Look, Toy, I know you’re smart. You’ve probably already figured out where you’re going to hide the rest of the Scotch now that the cat’s out of the bag. I don’t care. I just need to confirm the source of the virus. Think about it. Don’t do this, Toy. Just because you haven’t gotten sick and neither has your son—”

  “My son?”

  “Yeah, Toy. Your son, Sam. Sarah got the flu, but you know that of course. She came by the clinic and had Sam all in her face. But he didn’t get it—still hasn’t. I’m a doctor, Toy. I see bloodline connections in more ways than one with you and Sam. So, yeah, I’m sure of it. He’s your son.”

  I turned and looked squarely at him, speaking low and firm. “You may be a lot of things, Toy, but I don’t think you’re a liar. You know he’s your son and you also know he hasn’t gotten the flu. What I’m saying is true. It’s the Scotch bottles. Help me here.”

  For the longest time his lips pressed firmly together. Finally he nodded, clicking his tongue on his teeth. “Well, okay, then, Doc. So what happens now?”

  I smiled. It was all the answer I needed.

  When I returned home later that afternoon, I went online and found a medical article I had remembered reading. It was a report on the 1918 flu epidemic done by researchers at Vanderbilt. Working with other research facilities, scientists had resurrected an active strain of the virus by taking it from the remains of flu victims who had been buried in the frozen soil of Alaska. The Vanderbilt researchers had taken blood samples from living survivors of the 1918 flu and isolated the immune cells that created the antibodies to it. Thus, they were able to develop an antidote, a cure that would destroy that particular flu strain. As I read the details, I could hardly contain myself.

  After spending several hours on the phone and twisting the arm of some old classmates, I was able to connect with one of the Vanderbilt researchers involved in the study. At first he didn’t appreciate being disturbed at home on a Sunday evening. But as the facts poured out, I caught his interest. He agreed that the virus could very well be from the 1918 outbreak. He told me to sit tight and he would call me back.

  Two painful hours passed. Finally, around nine thirty, the phone rang. It was a conference call with the professor and the local head of the CDC. I had finally gotten their attention.

  Other phone calls followed late into the night and ultimately a plan of action came together. By Monday afternoon, staff from the CDC, the state Department of Health, and Vanderbilt’s Office of Vaccine Sciences converged on Watervalley. Lab results confirmed that the strain of flu was, in fact, a resurrection of the 1918 virus.

  By Tuesday a mobile clinic had been brought into town to help assist with administering inoculations to those with the flu and to give vaccines to those who had not yet fallen sick. The staff at the clinic once again worked nonstop, but this time there was an exuberance in our efforts. Our patients began to improve within twenty-four hours and no new cases took hold. It was an incredible, ecstatic victory. Just that quickly Watervalley was on the mend.

  CHAPTER 32

  Conspiracy

  The week passed and by Friday life at the clinic had returned to a steady and wonderfully predictable pace. I had decided to wait until after Christmas to disclose to the mayor that I would be leaving town. Christmas Day was less than a week away, the following Tuesday. At noon on that Friday I pulled Nancy aside and told her I had some things to take care of and would be gone for several hours. The mobile clinic was still set up and assisting where needed, but in reality the crisis was over.

  “In fact,” I told her, “I might not be back at all for the rest of the day. The nurse practitioner in the mobile clinic should be able to handle anything that comes up. If not, give me a call.”

  Nancy nodded, but appeared puzzled. I was no actor, and even though I hadn’t mentioned anything, my polite detachment had probably given the others some cause to suspect I might be leaving. Despite the great relief of having ended the flu outbreak, I’d lately been reserved, distant. Now, taking off in the middle of the day was yet one more thing out of the ordinary, and I couldn’t help but think the others would take notice.

  I drove the Corolla the few blocks from the clinic to the downtown stores and city hall. The day was cold but bright and sunny. For the first time, I paused to admire the Christmas decorations. The streets were filled with banners, large tinseled balls, and holiday garlands, and many of the churches had constructed magnificent nativity scenes. On the lawn of the city hall was a beautifully lit Christmas tree. Storefronts glowed with displays of red and gold ribbon, bright holiday colors, and twinkling lights.

  The normally languid pace of downtown had quickened to a lively step and a feeling of mirthful anticipation filled the air. The stores were vibrant, bursting with activity. Shoppers were everywhere. People greeted each other with exuberance, easy laughter, and the embracing warmth of shared lives. The cold, the sounds of Christmas carols, the brilliant displays, the imminent joy of parties and gatherings had permeated the hearts of Watervalley’s inhabitants. The whole town was held in a collective enchantment of the delight and mystery of Christmas.

  And the flu outbreak had had the unexpected benefit of serving to blur the hard lines of social distinction. Its indiscriminate hand had respected no degrees of intelligence, wealth, or virtue. It had been a great leveler of aloofness, pride, and privilege. Having been washed in a common fear, the people of Watervalley had exhaled a communal sigh of relief.

  I found a parking space in the downtown municipal lot. Normally this small area was half vacant, but the heavy shopping day availed only one or two open slots. I pulled up the collar of my wool coat and warmed my hands in the large side pockets. Rounding the corner toward city hall, I encountered a bell-ringing Santa Claus standing beside a small, colorfully decorated metal bucket. He was calling out a lively “Ho, ho, ho” as he gathered donations for the local food pantry.

  Peering out from under his fake beard was none other than Chick McKissick. With his toothy grin, thin frame, and black skin contrasting the red and white of the Santa suit, he was not an image one could easily overlook. Chick was loud, and laughing, and loving it, and seemed as entertained as anybody about the unconventional Santa he made—he was anything but a plump elf.

  He recognized me and spoke robustly, extending his hand. “Merry Christmas, Doc!”

  I grinned, returning the handshake. “Merry Christmas, Chick. Aren’t you a sight?” I began to reach for my wallet, wanting to make a donation.

  He became even more animated. “Ho, ho, ho, Doc! Ain’t this something? How you like me in this getup? Crazy, huh? Anyway, I’m just doing my part. All the guys in the volunteer fire department are taking turns to raise mon
ey for the food bank.” He bent toward me and spoke in a confiding tone. “Truth is, Doc, it’s hard to ignore a skinny black Santa. I get twice the donations anybody else does.” He reared back his head and released a hearty laugh. His joy was contagious.

  I laughed and tossed a couple of bills into the bucket.

  “Thank you, Doc. Thank you muchly.”

  I held up my hand in a gesture of departure. Once again, Chick leaned in toward me. “Hey, Doc, let me ask you a question.” He looked to either side of himself, ensuring that his next words would be in confidence. “What’s going to happen to my little man Will?”

  “So I guess he told you everything? About what he’s been doing?”

  “Yeah, I told him that he and I and his mom needed to go talk to the sheriff. I felt pretty bad, like I was an accessory or something. I had no idea. But he promised me that you were handling the situation. He said he gave you the account details about all the stores and the money. Is that so, Doc?”

  “That’s right. I am handling it. Matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I want to present an idea to Sheriff Thurman and see what can be done to get this worked out.”

  “Okay, Doc. That’s good. Let me know if I can do anything to help. He’s actually a good boy, you know.”

  I nodded. The cold was starting to penetrate, so I waved good-bye. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  He smiled. “Merry Christmas!”

  To my surprise, it seemed that many of the passersby I encountered either smiled or spoke outright to me. One elderly lady I had never met before stopped me, took my hand, and patted it. She simply smiled, thanked me, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

  I actually had two matters to discuss with Sheriff Thurman. As I neared the steps to city hall, I stopped and reached into my pocket and felt the leather cover of my checkbook. That would address the first matter. Satisfied, I pursed my lips and walked briskly up the steps to the large wooden front door.