“They’re talking?” Carl asked.
“Meggs started anglin’ for a deal in the first two minutes. When Hanson heard the others were fixin’ to send him on to the Promised Land with all his flock, he got kind of irritated and wanted to return the favor. We haven’t told him most of them are already dead.” Cord shook his head. “To start out tied up down there in the dark with no weapons and end up killin’ three of those who were holdin’ you . . . that’s about as major a reversal of fortune as I ever heard about.”
“What brought you and all those troops here?” Beth asked.
“About an hour ago, Governor Royston got a phone call from that Irby fella you mentioned, sayin’ hundreds of people here were about to be killed. If Royston hadn’t known the caller, it might have been dismissed as a hoax.”
“So Frank still has a conscience after all,” Carl remarked.
“Pretty big one as it turned out. Just before I left home, heard they found him in his study, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot.”
As horrible as Irby’s sins were, Carl could not help but feel saddened that he was dead. Looking back on everything that had happened, it was apparent Carl’s life had slowly started to unravel from the moment he’d had the patient who’d received the unit of contaminated blood. Now, with the death of Frank Irby, his deconstruction was complete. What would become of him now? He had no idea. But this wasn’t the time to think about that. There were hundreds of other lives to consider first.
The troops had found two bottles of white powder labeled dissolve in 3.1 L of communion wine in Hanson’s room. Gesturing to those bottles, which now sat on the table behind Cord, Carl said, “Sheriff, the people of Artisan, need the chemical in those bottles. They’ll require one of them today and the other on Wednesday. Otherwise, their health will begin to deteriorate, culminating in their death a few weeks from now.”
Cord’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what’s in there. And even if I did, I couldn’t let that happen. Those bottles are evidence and this whole town’s a crime scene. We’ll have to let a judge sort that out.”
“There isn’t time for a protracted legal squabble over this,” Carl said.
Cord’s brows knitted together. “I know my job.”
“Are you prepared to be responsible for the death of three hundred people?” Beth asked.
“Suppose it’s not what you think it is,” Cord said. “Maybe it’s a poison. They tried to kill those folks once already. That powder could be somethin’ they were gonna use if the cyanide gas failed.”
Beth took a breath to continue her protest, but Carl interrupted. “He’s right. We’re assuming that’s the drug you all have been given. We can’t just use it without some kind of analysis first. And even if it is the drug, there’s only enough there for a few more days. We’ll still have to find a permanent solution.”
“Or get more from Jaeger,” Beth said.
“How? They’re never going to admit being involved in this. I’m betting they’ve already destroyed all records of this drug and all existing supplies. They may keep a copy of the formula and instructions on how to make it, but no search warrant will ever find it. Let’s hold off and try to get a judge to release some of the chemical for testing. If we can determine that it’s not toxic, maybe he’ll release the rest of it for use.”
“But there’s no time for that,” Beth said.
“It’s all we can do.”
“In Puerto Rico, when I told you about all this, you said you could find an answer.”
Carl remembered saying that. But it was more a fervent hope than a promise. Suddenly, he remembered what Meggs had said in the truck. We had hopes you would be their salvation “Sheriff, could I speak to Meggs?”
“I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”
“It’s extremely important.”
“Sorry. Now, here’s the situation. We’re gonna get some forensic expertise in here to look at those bodies in the mine and see if they agree with your descriptions of what occurred. In the meantime, there’s no need for you all to stay around here. You should go home, but keep yourselves available . . . don’t go takin’ any trips, like back to Puerto Rico or anything. Dr. Martin, I have your home address and phone number and Mr. Ferguson, yours as well. Ms. Corbin, will you be stayin’ in Artisan?”
She looked at Carl. “For now, I think I should . . . then I can explain to everyone what I’ve learned. There’ll be a lot of questions.”
“Maybe you should tread lightly on the deterioration issue until I’ve had a chance to think about it,” Carl said.
“I’ll do that.”
“What about my clothes and the computer equipment they stole from me?” Roger said to Cord. “It’s all down in the mine.”
“Sorry about that, but it’s evidence. I’ll go and arrange for one of the choppers to take you both back to Little Rock. Once you get there, I’m afraid you’re on your own.” Cord then left the room.
Roger watched Cord until the door shut behind him, then turned to Carl. “From what you were saying about the contents of those bottles, it sounded like it’d be a big help if you knew what the drug was doing to harm these people.”
“You have no idea how valuable that would be.”
Roger reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Then you’ll want to read this.”
“What is it?”
“The medical information you asked me to locate on the Jaeger site.”
Chapter 61
“WHERE’D YOU GET this?” Carl said, taking the document from Roger.
“When I was looking for sunglasses after I got loose, I found it in the truck that brought us here. They must have taken it off my printer.”
Carl was so eager to see the contents he partially tore the paper along one crease as he clumsily unfolded it. For the next minute, he was aware of nothing but the words in front of him.
Medical Report, Artisan Phase of Project Creation
Shortly after administration of the first several rounds of FRS, it became apparent that all subjects were now presenting with erythrocyte blisters. The percent of cells involved in every case was one hundred percent. It subsequently became clear that withdrawal of FRS induces within two weeks, wholesale red cell fragmentation that quickly activates the clotting mechanism throughout the vasculature. The thousands of forming clots interrupt blood flow to every organ. Without oxygen, there is rapid and irreversible progression to total organ failure in all systems. In the final stages, there is often massive uncontrollable internal bleeding due to the complete consumption of available clotting factors.
Attempts to replace the altered red cells through transfusion with normal reds have been unsuccessful. This failure is believed to be caused by contamination of donor cells with FRS leaching from the surface of host cells. When even a minute amount of FRS binds to a cell, that cell will fragment when the amount bound falls by half. Thus, when new cells are added, rather than solving the problem, it accelerates the normal depletion of FRS from already present cells, accelerating their fragmentation. Consequently, the more fresh cells that are given, the worse the problem becomes.
At this point in his reading, Carl became hugely excited because he had thought of a possible answer to the problem. Then, in the next paragraph, he saw that whoever had written this account had the same idea.
A theoretical answer would be to replace the host reds with a cell-free solution that would sustain life until all the host cells have been removed. Currently, there is no such solution available. However, work is currently underway at Arkansas Pharmaceuticals . . .
Arkansas Pharmaceuticals . . . . My God, they were talking about him.
. . . work is currently underway at Arkansas Pharmaceuticals on a cell-free blood substitute. Should that study be successful, all subjects could safely be
taken off FRS.
Now he understood. That’s what Meggs meant when he said it was hoped Carl would be the salvation of Artisan. His father’s assignment to develop a blood substitute and Irby’s interest in bringing Carl on board to help was part of the Creation Project. When his father was killed, Carl had become the sole hope for the research.
The sheriff returned. “Chopper will be leavin’ from the front lawn for Little Rock in five minutes.”
Carl looked at Beth. “Is there a phone with an outside line anywhere nearby?”
“I don’t know of any.”
“There’s one in the parsonage study,” Cord said. “Called out on it myself a half hour ago.”
“Okay if I use it?”
“If you like, but don’t touch anything else in there. I’ll have to send a man with you.”
Carl looked at Beth. “Wait for me, will you?”
“Of course.”
IN THE STUDY a few minutes later, Carl used his calling card to make a long distance call to Marge Preston, his lab tech, at her home number.
“This is Marge . . .”
“Hi, it’s Carl. Sorry to bother you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Did you get my message?”
“No. What about?”
“The latest lab results.”
“I’ve been too busy to check my machine. What happened?”
“Friday, I replaced all the blood of two animals with Synheme.”
This was exactly what Carl wanted to know. “Yeah, go on. Did they survive?”
“Handled it fine. I checked on them yesterday and they still seemed unaffected by the experience. Reds and whites weren’t back to normal levels yet, but they were coming on strong. “I was planning to look in on them again today.”
“I can do that. This is very exciting. Good work. Thanks for using up some of your weekend on business.”
“Did everything work out on your end . . . with what you had to do?”
“Not yet, but what you’ve just told me may make that happen.”
WHEN CARL WALKED back into Fellowship Hall, Cord said, “Chopper’s ready to go.”
“Can you hold it for just a minute? I need to speak to Beth.”
“Make it fast.”
“I’ll see you on the lawn,” Roger said. He followed Cord out to the waiting helicopter.
Carl pulled the folded medical document from his pocket, turned to Beth, and held it up. “This describes what the drug has done to you and the others. I realize now I was hired by my company to find an answer to exactly that problem. After just talking to my lab tech, it appears I may have succeeded. But it’s still only been tested on two animals. I’ll need to do more.”
“Are you talking about your artificial blood?”
“Yes. I believe if we use it as a total blood replacement for everyone who’s in trouble, the danger will be over. But ultimately, we’ll only know if it works and is safe to humans by trying it on someone. I’m thinking it should be me.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why you? You aren’t in any danger. I’m the obvious choice.”
“Beth, I don’t know what I’d do if it hurt you.”
“How do you think I’d feel if you were hurt by it? There’s just no argument here. I’m going to be the first.”
Engulfed by the difficulty of the situation, Carl said nothing for a few seconds. Then, knowing Beth well enough by now that he was sure he could never change her mind about being the first one to undergo the treatment, he said, “I’ll go home and do what’s necessary to get ready. With the screwy phone system here, how can I get in touch with you?”
“Better give me your number.”
Carl took a plumber’s dog-eared business card from his wallet, grabbed a pen from Cord’s makeshift desk, and jotted his home number on the back. He handed it to Beth. “Call me when things calm down here and we’ll see where we are.”
She took the card, looked briefly at it, and lifted her face to his. “I’ll miss you.”
“Me too.”
They exchanged a long kiss and held their embrace after it was over. “It’s going to work,” Beth whispered into Carl’s ear.
Pressed against him like that Beth couldn’t see the haunted look of uncertainty in Carl’s eyes. Making sure there was no trace of doubt in his voice, he said, “I know.”
Chapter 62
CARL PAUSED AT the foot of the bridge over Rapid River, looking across to the valley where Artisan lay. There had been a light snowfall during the night and the morning sun glistened off the undisturbed new snow in as tranquil a scene as he had ever seen. Sorry that he would be the first to mar the beauty of the new snow, he took his foot off the brake and set out across the bridge.
So much had taken place, and he’d been so busy helping it happen, it didn’t seem possible that five weeks had passed. The biggest event had been the first . . . the saving of Beth’s life through the use of Synheme. Hard to beat how he had felt after that. Then, the headaches involved in arranging for the rest of the town to be treated . . . 293 folks each requiring ten hours on a transfusion machine to remove their red cells. No way the facilities in Little Rock could handle all that in the limited time available.
Reflecting on it even now, it was hard to understand how Cord could have lost the last two bottles of FRS. Talk about incompetence. But maybe that’s not what was in the bottles . . . probably was, but maybe not. As it turned out, it didn’t matter anyway. Thank God for the Red Cross. Without them, hard to say how he would have gotten the various groups to Memphis, Nashville, Kansas City, and Atlanta for treatment.
He reached the stand of decorative firs on the other side of the bridge and entered the woods, where the occasional evergreens spotted among their bare deciduous brethren, stood out as green sentinels.
Jaeger Medicamente’s denial of all the charges made against them wasn’t surprising. Bastards . . . Blaming it all on Frank Irby and Irby’s father, who was CEO before Frank. But at least Jaeger, in their “continuing interest in the public welfare” had allowed the genetically engineered products division of Arkansas Pharm to crank out the massive amount of hemoglobin he’d needed.
At the Artisan gate, he entered unimpeded and glanced into the information kiosk, where the attendant gave him a big grin and a thumbs up before waving him in.
He drove for a few minutes through the woods just enjoying the incredible number of cardinals he saw in the trees, the bright red feathers of the males sitting on the snow-covered branches creating little postcard tableaus every few feet. It made what had happened there almost seem like nothing but a bad dream.
Thinking back on his resignation from Arkansas Pharm a week ago, he was pleased that Marge, his lab tech, had already found another job. His only regret was that he hadn’t been able to slam his resignation letter down on the desk of the Jaeger CEO and tell him what he thought of him. Jaeger . . . duplicitous cretins. But at least their treachery had an upside . . .
He had just left the woods and looked now at the light dusting of snow on the ball field and the strip of buildings on the other side of the road . . . all now belonging to the town, the factory, too . . . all of it. He chuckled at how Jaeger’s use of phantom corporations created to hide their ownership of Artisan had led a judge to award the entire place to the residents. Because they had operated the factory for years by themselves anyway, they could continue to do that.
The factory . . . He looked in his mirror at the big building. Odd . . . It was his understanding the place had resumed operation. This was a workday, yet it looked like it was closed. Apart from the kiosk attendant, he hadn’t seen a soul. Where was everybody?
It was a workday . . . and he had no place to be. And for now, no salary. Of course, his contract with Arkansas Pharm would pay him twenty percent of all proceeds generated b
y Synheme once they got the marketing underway. He hated the thought of Jaeger profiting from his efforts. Eventually though, he’d have a good income. But what was he going to do until then? And after. A man has to have meaningful work to do.
The beauty he’d seen coming in was nothing compared to the tree fountain, which was still gushing water. But in the cold it had deposited great frozen stalactites and glassy sheets of ice over the bronze forest, which now looked like a massive winter sculpture.
Beth had called and asked to meet him at the Artisan hospital to take a look at something she’d found there. When pressed to tell him more, she’d just said it was impossible to describe and that he’d have to see it for himself. Since it was Beth asking, he would have come just for her, but with the added mystery she’d added to the trip, he now turned onto Corinthian Street, filled with curiosity.
Beth . . .
He recalled the scare they’d had when things had begun to wind down . . . the worry they might have shared the same biological mother or father, or both. He’d thought at the time the document in Hollenbeck’s metal box correlating H numbers with the two numbers labeled History was probably a record of the egg and sperm donors used to create the individual given that H number. And when he checked his history against Beth’s, they didn’t match. But he couldn’t be sure that’s what History meant. It was a tough few days . . . waiting for the DNA profiles to come back. What would he have done if Beth had turned out to be his sister? He didn’t even want to think any more about that.
Damn Hollenbeck for the mess he’d created. It seemed like there was no end to the problems that kept cropping up. They had no sooner put their fears about being brother and sister to rest when Beth looked at him and said, “What about all the married couples in Artisan. I wonder if any of them are brother and sister?” Yikes. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Too focused on his own welfare probably. A tip of the hat though, to whoever had paired the residents, for none of the couples turned out to be related.
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