Darwin's Radio Page 19

Lipton smiled bloodlessly. “They’re not very happy. They’ve undergone enough tests in the last few days to . . . Well, to make them not very happy.”

  The women within the room looked up at the sound of voices. Lipton smoothed her lab coat and pushed the door open.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” she greeted them.

  The meeting went well enough. Dr. Lipton escorted three of the women to their private rooms and left Dicken and Kaye to talk more extensively to the fourth, the older black woman, Mrs. Luella Hamilton, of Richmond, Virginia.

  Mrs. Hamilton wondered if she could get some coffee. “I’ve been drained so many times. If it isn’t blood samples, it’s my kidneys acting cross.” Dicken said he would get them each a cup and left the room.

  Mrs. Hamilton focused on Kaye and narrowed her eyes. “They told us you found this bug.”

  “No,” Kaye said. “I wrote some papers, but I didn’t actually find it.”

  “It’s just a little fever,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “I’ve had four children, and now they tell me this one won’t really be a baby. But they won’t take it out of me. They say, let the disease take its course. I’m just a big lab rat, aren’t I?”

  “Seems like it. Are they treating you well?”

  “I’m eating,” she said with a shrug. “The food’s good. I don’t like the books or the movies. The nurses are nice, but that Dr. Lipton—she’s a hard case. She acts nice, but I think she doesn’t like anybody very much.”

  “I’m sure she’s doing a good job.”

  “Yeah, well, lady, Miz Lang, you sit in my seat for a while and tell me you don’t want to bitch a little.”

  Kaye smiled.

  “It pisses me off, there’s this black nurse, a man, he keeps treating me like some sort of example. He wants me to be strong like his mammy.” She regarded Kaye with steady wide eyes and shook her head. “I don’t want to be strong. I want to cry when they do their tests, when I think about this baby, Miz Lang. You understand?”

  “Yes,” Kaye said.

  “It feels like all my others did around this time. I say maybe it is a baby and they’re wrong. Does that make me a fool?”

  “If they’ve done the tests, they know,” Kaye said.

  “They won’t let me visit my husband. That’s part of the contract. He gave me the flu and he gave me this baby, but I miss him. It wasn’t his fault. I talk to him on the phone. He sounds all right, but I know he misses me. Makes me nervous, being away, you know?”

  “Who’s taking care of your children?” Kaye said.

  “My husband. They let the children come and see me. That’s okay. My husband brings them by and they come in and see me and he stays out in the car. Four months it will be, four months!” Mrs. Hamilton twisted the thin gold wedding band on her finger. “He says he gets so lonely, and the kids, they ain’t easy to be with sometimes.”

  Kaye grasped Mrs. Hamilton’s hand. “I know how brave you are, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “Call me Luella,” she said. “I say it again, I ain’t brave. What’s your first name?”

  “Kaye.”

  “I am scared, Kaye. You find out what’s really going on, come and tell me first, all right?”

  Kaye left Mrs. Hamilton. She felt dried out and cold. Dicken walked with her to the ground floor and outside the clinical center. He kept looking at her when he thought she would not notice.

  She asked to stop for a minute. She crossed her arms and stared at a stand of trees across a short stretch of manicured lawn. The lawn was surrounded by trenches. Most of the NIH campus was a maze of detours and construction sites, holes filled with raw earth and concrete and jutting forests of rebar.

  “Everything all right?” Dicken asked.

  “No,” she said. “I feel scattered.”

  “We have to get used to it. It’s happening all over,” Dicken said.

  “All of the women volunteered?” Kaye said.

  “Of course. We pay for all their medical expenses and a per diem. We can’t compel this sort of thing, even in a national emergency.”

  “Why can’t they see their husbands?”

  “Actually, that may be my fault,” Dicken said. “I presented some evidence at our last meeting that Herod’s will lead to a second pregnancy, without sexual activity. They’re going to hand the bulletin out this evening to all researchers.”

  “What evidence? My God, are we talking immaculate conception here?” Kaye put her hands on her hips and swung around to face him. “You’ve been tracking this thing since we ran into each other in Georgia, haven’t you?”

  “Since before Georgia. Ukraine, Russia, Turkey, Azerbaijan, Armenia. Herod’s started hitting those countries ten, twenty years ago, maybe even earlier.”

  “Then you read my papers, and it all fell into place? You’re a kind of scientific stalker?”

  Dicken made a face, shook his head. “Hardly.”

  “Am I the catalyst?” Kaye asked in disbelief.

  “It’s not simple, Kaye.”

  “I wish they’d keep me in the loop, Chris!”

  “Christopher, please.” He looked uncomfortable, apologetic.

  “I wish you’d keep me in the loop. You act like a shadow around here, always following, so why do I think you may be one of the most important people in the Taskforce?”

  “Thank you, it’s a common misperception,” he said with a wry smile. “I try to keep out of trouble, but I’m not sure I’m succeeding. They listen sometimes, when the evidence is strong—as it actually is in this case, reports from Armenian hospitals, even a couple of hospitals in Los Angeles and New York.”

  “Christopher, we’ve got two hours before the next meeting,” Kaye said. “I’ve been stuck in SHEVA conferences for two weeks now. They think they’ve found my niche. A safe little cubbyhole, looking for other HERV. Marge has put together a nice lab for me in Baltimore, but . . . I don’t think the Taskforce has much use for me.”

  “Going with Americol really irritated Augustine,” Dicken said. “I could have warned you.”

  “I’ll have to focus on doing work with Americol, then.”

  “Not a bad idea. They have the resources. Marge seems to like you.”

  “Let me know more of what it’s like . . . on the front? Is that what it’s called?”

  “The front,” Dicken affirmed. “Sometimes we say we’re going to meet the real troops, the people who are getting sick. We’re just workers; they’re the soldiers. They do most of the suffering and the dying.”

  “I feel like I’m on the sidelines here. Will you talk to an outsider?”

  “Love to,” Dicken said. “You know what I’m up against here, don’t you?”

  “A bureaucratic juggernaut. They think they know what Herod’s is. But . . . a second pregnancy, without sex!” Kaye felt a quick little chill.

  “They’ve rationalized that,” Dicken said. “We’re going to discuss the possible mechanism this afternoon. They don’t think they’re hiding anything.” He screwed up his face like a boy with a dark secret. “If you ask questions I’m not prepared to answer . . .”

  Kaye dropped her hands from her hips, exasperated. “What kind of questions is Augustine not asking? What if we’re getting this completely wrong?”

  “Exactly,” Dicken said. His face reddened and he sliced the air with his hand. “Exactly. Kaye, I knew you would understand. While we’re talking what ifs . . . would you mind if I spill my guts to you?”

  Kaye leaned back at this prospect.

  “I mean, I admire your work so much—”

  “I was lucky, and I had Saul,” Kaye said stiffly. Dicken looked vulnerable and she did not like that. “Christopher, what in hell are you hiding?”

  “I’d be surprised if you didn’t already know. We’re all just hanging back from the obvious—what is obvious to a few of us, at any rate.” He searched her face closely through squinted eyes. “I’ll tell you what I think, and if you agree that is possible—that it’s probable—you have to let me
decide when to make the case. We wait until we have all the evidence we need. I’ve been living in a land of guesswork for a year, and I know for a fact neither Augustine nor Shawbeck want to hear me out. Sometimes I think I’m not much more than a glorified errand boy. So—” He shifted on one foot. “Our secret?”

  “Of course,” Kaye said, leveling her gaze on him. “Tell me what you think is going to happen to Mrs. Hamilton.”

  34

  Seattle

  Mitch knew he was asleep, or rather, half-asleep. On rare occasions his mind would process the facts of his existence, his plans, his suppositions, separately and with stubborn independence, and always on the edge of sleep.

  Many times he had dreamed of the site where he was currently digging, but with mixed frames of time. This morning, his body numb, his conscious mind an observer in a wraparound theater, he saw a young man and woman wrapped in light furs, wearing ragged reed and skin sandals laced up their ankles. The woman was pregnant. He saw them first in profile, as if in some rotating display, and amused himself for a while viewing them from different angles.

  Gradually, this control came to an end, and the man and woman walked over fresh snow and windswept ice, in bright daylight, the brightest he had even seen in a dream. The ice glared and they shielded their eyes with their hands.

  At first, he looked upon them as people just like himself. Soon, however, he realized these people were not like him. Their facial features were not what aroused this suspicion at first. It was the intricate patterns of beard and facial hair on the man, and a thick soft mane of hair circling the woman’s face, leaving her cheeks, receding chin, and low forehead clear, but drawing from temple to temple through her brows. Beneath the furred brow, her eyes were soft and deep brown, almost black, and her skin had a rich olive color. Her fingers were gray and pink, heavily callused. Both had broad heavy noses.

  They are not my people, Mitch thought. But I know them.

  The man and woman were smiling. The woman reached down to scoop up snow. Slyly, she started to nibble at it, then, when the man was not looking, she formed it into a quick hard ball and threw it at his head. It hit with a thwack and he reeled, yelped, his voice clear and bell-toned, almost like a beagle’s. The woman made as if to cower, then ran away, and the man chased her. He pulled her down despite her repeated grunts of supplication, then stood back and raised his arms to heaven and heaped loud words upon her. Despite the gravelly timbre of his voice, deep and rolling, she did not seem impressed. She flapped her hands at him and pouched out her lips, making loud smacking, sucking sounds.

  With the lazy editing of a dream, he saw them walking single file down a muddy trail in drizzling rain and snow. Through slow cloud cover, he could see patches of forest and meadow in a valley below them, and a lake, upon which floated broad flat rafts of logs bearing reed huts.

  They’re doing all right, a voice in his head told him. You look at them now and you don’t know them, but they’re doing all right.

  Mitch heard a bird and realized this was no bird, but his cell phone. It took him some seconds to put away the paraphernalia of his dream. The clouds and valley floor broke like a soap bubble and he groaned as he lifted his head. His body was numb. He had been sleeping on his side with one arm curled under his head and his muscles were stiff.

  The phone persisted. He answered on the sixth ring.

  “I hope I’m speaking to Mitchell Rafelson, the anthropologist,” said a male voice with a British accent.

  “One of them, anyway,” Mitch said. “Who’s this?”

  “Merton, Oliver. I’m a science editor for the Economist. I’m doing a piece on the Innsbruck Neandertals. It’s been tough finding your phone number, Mr. Rafelson.”

  “It’s unlisted. I’m getting tired of being chastised.”

  “I can imagine. Listen, I think I can show that Innsbruck has bollixed up the whole case, but I need some details. Chance for you to explain things to a sympathetic ear. I’ll be out in Washington state day after tomorrow—to speak with Eileen Ripper.”

  “Okay,” Mitch said. He considered simply closing the phone and trying to bring back the remarkable dream.

  “She’s working on another dig in the gorge . . . Columbia Gorge? Do you know where Iron Cave is?”

  Mitch stretched. “I’ve done some digs near there.”

  “Yes, well, it hasn’t leaked to the press yet, but it will next week. She’s found three skeletons, very old, not nearly as remarkable as your mummies, but still quite interesting. Principally, my story is going to focus on her tactics. In an age of sympathy for indigenes, she’s put together a really canny consortium to protect science. Ms. Ripper solicited support from the Five Tribes Confederation. You know them, of course.”

  “I do.”

  “She’s got a team of pro bono lawyers and she’s kept some congressmen and senators in the loop as well. Not at all like your experience with Pasco man.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Mitch said with a scowl. He picked a piece of sleep from his eye. “That’s a day’s drive from here.”

  “Is it that far? I’m in Manchester now. England. Just packed my bags and drove over from Leeds. My plane goes out in an hour. I’d love to talk.”

  “I’m probably the last person Eileen wants out there.”

  “She was the one who gave me your phone number. You’re not the outcast you might think, Mr. Rafelson. She’d like to have you look at the dig. I gather she’s the motherly type.”

  “She’s a whirlwind,” Mitch said.

  “I’m very excited, really. I’ve seen digs in Ethiopia, South Africa, Tanzania. I’ve been to Innsbruck twice to see what they’d let me see, which isn’t much. Now—”

  “Mr. Merton, I hate to disappoint you—”

  “Yes, well, what about the baby, Mr. Rafelson? Can you tell me more about this remarkable infant the woman had in her backpack?”

  “I had a blinding headache at the time.” Mitch was about to put down the phone, Eileen Ripper or not. He’d been through this too many times. He held the phone away from his ear. Merton’s voice sounded tinny and harsh.

  “Do you know what’s going on in Innsbruck? Did you know they’ve actually had fistfights in the labs there?”

  Mitch brought the phone back to his ear. “No.”

  “Did you know they’ve sent tissue samples to other labs in other countries to try to build some sort of consensus?”

  “No-oo,” Mitch said slowly.

  “I’d love to bring you up to date. I think there’s a good chance you could come out of this smelling like a fresh apple tree or whatever it is that blooms in Washington state. If I ask Eileen to call you, invite you out, if I tell her you’re interested . . . Could we meet?”

  “Why not just meet at SeaTac? That’s where you’re coming in, isn’t it?”

  Merton made a small blat with his lips. “Mr. Rafelson. I can’t see you turning down the chance to sniff some dirt and sit under a canvas tent. A chance to talk about the biggest archaeological story of our time.”

  Mitch found his watch and looked at the date. “All right,” he said. “If Eileen invites me.”

  When he hung up the phone, he went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, looked in the mirror.

  He had spent several days moping around the apartment, unable to decide what to do next. He had obtained the e-mail address and a phone number for Christopher Dicken, but had not yet built up sufficient courage to call him. His money was running out faster than he had expected. He was putting off hitting up his parents for a loan.

  As he fixed breakfast, the phone rang again. It was Eileen Ripper.

  When Mitch finished speaking to her, he sat for a moment on the ragged chair in the living room, then stood and looked out the window at Broadway. It was getting light outside. He opened the window and leaned out. People were walking up and down the street, and cars were stopped at the red light on Denny.

  He called home. His mother answered.

  35
>
  The National Institutes of Health, Bethesda

  It’s happened before,” Dicken said. He broke a sweet roll in half and dunked it into the foamy top of his latte. The huge modern cafeteria of the Natcher Building was nearly empty at this hour of the morning, and served better food than the cafeteria in Building 10. They sat near the tall tinted glass windows, well away from the few other employees. “Specifically, it happened in Georgia, in Gordi, or nearby.”

  Kaye’s mouth made an O. “My God. The massacre . . .” Outside, sun broke through low morning clouds, sending shadows and bright patches over the campus and into the cafeteria.

  “Their tissues all show SHEVA. I only got samples from three or four, but they all had it.”

  “And you haven’t told Augustine?”

  “I’ve been relying on clinical evidence, fresh reports from hospitals . . . What in hell difference would it make if I put SHEVA back a few years, a decade at most? But two days ago I got some files from a hospital in Tbilisi. I helped a young intern there make some contacts in Atlanta. He told me about some people in the mountains. Survivors of another massacre, this one almost sixty years ago. During the war.”

  “Germans never got into Georgia,” Kaye said.

  Dicken nodded. “Stalin’s troops. They wiped out most of an isolated village near Mount Kazbeg. Some survivors were found two years ago. The government in Tbilisi protected them. Maybe they were fed up with purges, maybe . . . Maybe they didn’t know anything about Gordi, or the other villages.”

  “How many survivors?”

  “A doctor named Leonid Sugashvili made it his own little crusade to investigate. It was his report the intern sent me—a report that was never published. But pretty thorough. Between 1943 and 1991, he estimated, about thirteen thousand men, women, and even children were killed in Georgia, Armenia, Abkhazi, Chechnya. They were killed because somebody thought they spread a disease that caused pregnant women to abort. Those who survived the first purges were hunted down later . . . because the women were giving birth to mutated children. Children with spots all over their faces, with weird eyes, children who could speak from the moment they were born. In some villages, the local police did the killing. Superstition dies hard. The men and women—mothers and fathers—they were accused of consorting with the devil. There weren’t that many of them, over four decades. But . . . Sugashvili estimates there might have been instances of this sort of thing going back hundreds of years. Tens of thousands of murders. Guilt, shame, ignorance, silence.”