Gabriel's Stand (2 page)

“It was my Alice,” Gabriel had said, glowing with pride.

“John? Earth to John.” Gabriel was waving his hand at his friend from his seat on the boat.

John Owen smiled. “Sorry, I was just remembering…our history together.”

“Like?”

“Oh…like when the doctors cleared Alice for release, and Snowfeather and I met you for pancakes before our flight back to Seattle. You didn't look that much worse for wear. That's when you told me you're going to have that crease in your skull filled in.”

“You said I wouldn't want to damage my hard-headed reputation.”

“Thick-headed.” The two men smiled. As John stood to stretch, he caught Gabriel with a direct look. “There was something more you were going to tell me about your skull surgery?”

“Yes.” Gabriel also got up. “Dental surgeons do something like it but I will be supplying the filling.”

Snowfeather had been quietly standing behind the two men when Gabriel made his “bone” announcement. She made a face, and Gabriel patted her on the shoulder.

“Using your own bone?” John asked.

“No, but it's sort of in the family,” Gabriel said.

“Please, Dad, can I tell?” Snowfeather was gleefully impatient. Gabriel nodded and winked. “It is from the skull of a bear Grandfather Tall Bear killed in Montana.” Snowfeather dramatically rolled her eyes—she was enjoying this moment.

“Oh boy,” Dr. Owen remarked. “I'd love to see the look on the face of that surgeon.”

Gabriel's skull surgery took place a month after their Seattle boat trip with John and his family. After a call from Dr. Owen, the surgeon used a bone graft made of powdered bear bone, neatly filling the furrow left by the bullet.

A few months later, Gabriel and Alice kidnapped Snowfeather from school for a long weekend in Northern Idaho where they would meet the family's old friend, Fred Loud Owl, a Navajo tribal healer. Gabriel's skull had healed quickly. Some new gray hair had grown back over the spot. Fred Loud Owl's reputation as a shaman and a healer had gained a wide following in and outside the Northwest and Southwest tribes. At Fred's direction, a sweat lodge had been dug out of the earth and roofed with lashed willow branches and pine logs on a private preserve leased to a foundation owned by
The Native Americans of Idaho
.

It was autumn in Northern Idaho, several hours before sundown. Inside, Gabriel Standing Bear sat cross-legged on a pile of fresh pine needles and sage. Heat was heavy in the air, and the mid-afternoon sunlight leaked through cracks in the logs overhead. The deerskin stretched over the frame entrance glowed softly, making a webbed lantern covered with backlit symbols for fire, sun, earth, the bear, the bison, the hawk and the eagle.

The doorway slid aside, the sunlight lancing through the dim lodge space. Then the lanky silhouette of Fred Loud Owl filled the opening, carrying a large heated stone in forked branches. He slipped in almost soundlessly, and the deerskin closed behind him. Gabriel blinked as a rush of cool air was swallowed in the heat—sweat was trickling freely down his face.

A fire outside filled the nearby air with the pungent smells of burning pine, sage, and willow. Gabriel closed his eyes. In the hot gloom, he could hear the heavy click of the final stone, and Fred's soft breathing. In the remote distance, a dog barked.

——

Fred Loud Owl sometimes described himself as a neo-orthodox shaman. Raised in New Mexico as Navajo Catholic, Fred had absorbed all of the modern permutations of the North American aboriginal experience, soaking up a full century of cultural fads and developments. From his father and grandfather, he memorized stories of the Red Power movement of the 1960s, their disparaging jokes about the aborted “God is Red” movements of the 1980s, even the casino syndicate scandals and the reservation welfare revolts.

As a young man, Fred joined in the pan-tribal movements in the early 21
st
century. In his thirties, Fred Loud Owl became a leader of a more thoughtful and serious effort to knit the authentic common threads of the old traditions. His mission was to keep the Indian sense of life alive and relevant. For Fred, the “Indian Way” was a deep, rooted counterpoint to the rootless, fragmented postmodern culture and to the self-centered hollowness of the New Age.
Just in time
, he believed.

As a teenager, Fred Loud Owl had been standing with Gabriel's father and mother during little Gabriel's naming ceremony. It was a reinvented tradition, a partly adapted, partly made up ritual, born of necessity. The ceremonies were well guarded, because of ersatz re-naming rituals abused by opportunistic whites attempting to cash in on “the Native American thing.” The special naming rituals for children of Native Americans remained a closely held family practice that gradually grew in acceptance among the tribes, completely under the white culture's radar. It was thought to be a matter of necessity because most 21
st
century Native Americans had so mixed their bloodlines and so commingled and diluted their tribal traditions that the continuity of old names was rapidly disappearing.

On that private occasion, little Gabriel's naming ritual was a joy, the magical day when the sturdy little boy's baby name, Little Bear, became Standing Bear, a man who would become a great leader.

In the sweat lodge, Loud Owl thought of Gabriel's naming when he began to chant an ancient Navajo song about the tribes and the earth, the animals and the stars. While Fred was silent, Gabriel simply sat, breathing very slowly, feeling the heat penetrate his bones. Finally Fred asked, “How is your bear?”

“Awake. But worried…haunted even,” Gabriel said softly. He studied Fred Loud Owl's lined face the dim light.

“Bears don't worry much.”

“Bears don't get mugged very often,” Gabriel said. Fred nodded, keeping an attentive silence. “This haunted bear is thirsty.”

Loud Owl passed Gabriel a small stone cup. The water, surprisingly, was very cold. “Let us talk to the Great Spirit.”

Outside, another hour had passed as Snowfeather and Alice Canyon Hawke waited in a steel-reinforced teepee near the lake. Several small trout were wrapped in wet willow leaves, roasting on a bed of coals. A pot of coffee bubbled, balanced on a stone. Nearby, Alice's stallion, Thunder, snorted and shifted his weight. More time passed, and then Alice heard the heavy tread of two men walking on gravel. She looked over at her daughter, and marveled at how grown up and beautiful she was now. Snowfeather smiled back, her eyes already wise beyond her years.

The sunset cast a golden light across the camp. It had been six hours altogether. Gabriel appeared first, walking over the crest of a small hill. His face was shining, his bare skin still making steam in the chill air. Snowfeather ran to her father, holding out Great Grandfather Fat Bear's ceremonial blanket. Gabriel kissed her on the forehead, wrapped the blanket around his torso, then continued striding toward his wife. Snowfeather walked along happily at her father's side, while Loud Owl hung back at the crest of the small hill. As Gabriel reached the camp, Fred Loud Owl waved briefly in the distance. “Be well, old friend,” he called out, and dropped out of sight.

“I have my Bear Brain back,” Gabriel announced, and he took Alice into his arms.

Alice laughed as she hugged Gabriel fiercely. “You better be smarter'n the average bear,” she said. “Or we're suing the surgeons.” Gabriel pantomimed a bear face and growled. “No change there,” she said, laughing.

——

Fred Loud Owl drove to Seattle the next day, having detoured there for an afternoon of sightseeing before rejoining his group on the trek home to New Mexico. The next morning, through a fine rain, Fred noticed a coffee shop near campus, a warm oasis of light, comfort and heat. As he entered, he took in the scene: a group of kids, probably all students, were gathered in the corner near the triple-paned window that looked across the street into an upscale tattoo and body piercing salon.

Coffee in hand, Fred drifted toward the clutch of students, his ears tuned to the conversation.

“We've gotta junk all the high tech clutter, get back to basics. I mean ALL.” The speaker was in his mid-twenties, holding court, surrounded by several students about the same age. “Too many people in the world.” The members of the group were dressed alike in deliberately shredded jeans and chinos, their puffy, insulated vests hanging on chair backs. Fred Loud Owl noticed their survival watches with multifunction telecom capabilities, the high-end running shoes and hiking boots, and the expensive earth-colored sweatshirts.

The speaker was stockier than the rest. His swarthy, wide face bore an eager, almost fierce expression, and he wore a thick napped tee shirt with the slogan, “TECHNOLOGY SUCKS.” Below the words, a cartoon picture of Mother Earth was struggling under a load of gadgets. A thought balloon carried her plea, “HELP!”

Loud Owl approached, carrying his tall cup of black coffee. “Mind if I listen in?” he asked.

“No problem,” the speaker said, pointing to a chair by the next table. “Pull up a seat. Glad to have a ‘man of the earth' join us.”

Fred nodded, keeping his expression opaque as he slid the chair next to a freckled young woman.
Man of the earth?

“I mean my dad is one of the worst. He actually
makes
this high tech stuff.”

“Oh. What does your father do, exactly?” Loud Owl didn't like prying but sometimes he couldn't help himself.

“My father's the CEO of General Advanced Technologies.”

Fred nodded sagely. “I have actually heard of Edward Gosli. You have a famous dad. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Famous asshole.” The girls tittered. “As I see it, we'd be better off without all these modern developments. We charged ahead without a clue what we were doing to the earth. I say dig a huge hole and bury all this stuff.”

“That's a pretty big hole,” Loud Owl said. “So we should go back to a simpler time?”

“Exactly.”

“Sort of like my great, great grandfather enjoyed, I imagine. Just how far back do you have in mind?”

“Before all the ecological trouble started.”

“Wow. That's quite a ways. My people wiped out the mastodons and the saber tooth tigers using Paleolithic technology.”

Ed Gosli, Jr. frowned. “Look at the harm we Europeans have done since we got beyond sticks and stones.”

“True enough,” Fred said. “Aren't there
any
technologies you'd want to keep?”

There was a pause as if Ed Gosli's son hadn't thought that through. “I think dirt bikes are okay,” he said.

“That's a good one. I'm fond of my music collection. Can I keep my digital player?” Most people tended to miss loud Owl's irony, and young Gosli was no exception.

“Sure,” he said, smiling. “Music is harmless.”

“How about modern outdoor clothing?”

“Of course. It's the mechanical things, the large, intrusive machines I hate.”

“Hiking boots?”

“Sure. They don't burn energy.”

Obviously the kid doesn't have a clue about manufacture and transportation
, Loud Owl thought. “It's a pretty long walk from here to the mountains,” he said.

“Horses are a good thing.”

“I have three Appaloosas. But no way will they agree to take me between here and New Mexico. Not in their lifetimes.” A couple of girls laughed. The Gosli kid scowled, having momentarily lost the stage. “But I see what you mean,” Loud Owl said.

“I mean people
did
travel before jets and cars.”

“True. But you do get a sore butt after a few days on a horse,” Loud Owl said.

“I imagine.”

“Visited a doctor lately?”

“Well…I get that. I suppose we'd have to keep the doctors, of course.”

“A very good idea. My great grandfather died at about your age because he didn't have one. Of course, it helps if the doctors know something about medicine and have some basic tools.”

Gosli Jr. scowled. “Things must get really bad before they can get better,” he finally pronounced.

“Can't make an omelet without breaking an egg?”

“That's a good one.”

“Not original. I'd be careful what you ask for…you might just get it,” Loud Owl said. He drained his coffee and stood. “Sorry to intrude on your meeting.”

“No problem,” said Gosli Jr.

“Funny thing,” Fred added as he slipped on his worn denim jacket. “Without some of the things invented within the last two hundred years, you kids wouldn't even be here.” He pointed at their insulated vests and coffee cups. “Starving, freezing, and dying of curable diseases are really overrated.”

Loud Owl smiled and slipped out of the shop into the rain, shaking his head in bemused wonder.

The next spring, months after their boat trip, Dr. John Owen and Rachael were packing for another trip to India. John had a new energy in his walk and a twinkle in his eye. Elisabeth had just finished her residency, and announced to her parents: “We're getting pregnant soon.” Owen's businesses, Edge Medical and Vector Pharmaceutical, continued to lead the industry in cutting edge epidemiology. When John and Rachael left for New Delhi, Josh who was COO of Vector Pharmaceutical, was left in charge of the Seattle plant.

The Indian subcontinent had been falling victim to a plague that was running rampant among the population and Owen had insisted on having a physical presence there to help move along some of the research and to assist in treatments. Things went well their first week in India. On their first full day in, Rachael, also a physician, was busy attending to patients in New Delhi hospitals. John was equally occupied solving a problem in the distribution chain of Edge Medical's latest antibiotic helping to treat victims.

But on Tuesday of their second week, Dr. John Owen took a call. Moments later, he put the phone down in shock. In spite of all the precautions and warnings, he had been totally blindsided.

The Great India Plague had just infected his wife.

Before rushing to a car, John ordered an Edge Medical company jet quickly modified to accommodate a bio-containment space. John had Rachael evacuated within two days. She was admitted to a private, quarantined room in a Seattle hospital on arrival.

Gabriel, Alice and Snowfeather wanted to visit, but John advised them to wait. For twenty-one days, John stayed by Rachael in her isolation chamber wearing a containment suit. During that time, Rachael held on by a thread, trusting in her husband and his research teams. For these weeks, she hovered between sleep and the vague awareness of John's stolid presence, occasionally awakening to squeeze his gloved hand.

When he wasn't with Rachael, John threw himself into his work, and checked in with their daughter. In these visits, he tried to project resilience and optimism, but he felt deep dread. He had known from the moment Rachael had been admitted to the quarantine ward that there was no cure.

In India, the mortality rate was running at ninety-six percent.

It was Friday night. John was standing in the dim, rainy twilight on the walkway outside his Bellevue, Washington home. He sheltered beneath an old cedar tree, fighting the despair that seeped into his psyche like the fog. The last weeks had passed in a blur.

Fleeting images of Rachael still played across his mind: Rachael with coffee and sleepy hair, Rachael next to him on the boat, Rachael with baby Elisabeth. Rachael was a fine physician, with the kindest eyes of any human being he had ever known and a consuming interest in children's diseases. When he tried to imagine her standing next to him by the tree, he felt the tears sting again.

Then his phone beeped. All calls these days carried a background of dread, like a grinding noise in the floor that never stopped. The call was from Edge Medical's research facility.

John answered, tapping his tiny headset with the tip of one finger. “Hello?”

“Dr. Owen? Hello. Dr. Owen? It is Heinrich, reporting for Dr. Christoph Fischer.”

“Yes, it's me, Heinrich. You dialed the right number.” John smiled in spite of his mood. Heinrich was a very competent assistant with the appeal of a puppy. It was impossible to dislike the man.

“I am so happy to reach you.”

“If you're happy, Heinrich, I'm happy. What's on your mind? What are you still doing at work, anyway?”

“I'm just so excited. I couldn't wait to share the information. I think Dr. Fischer has actually solved it.” John's stomach fluttered. “We are almost positive this time. The Beta-amine series is producing consistent results in New Delhi. Fifty-five terminal patients, all still alive. Dr. Fischer was jubilant when he got the report. He told me to tell you, ‘John, after four weeks, half of them seem to be actually recovering!' I am so happy.”

Dr. Owen grinned.
Thank God
. “And where is Christoph?”

“I suppose he is celebrating.”

“Of course he is. You please give him my best.” A beat later he asked, “How soon can we get Rachael included in the trials?”

“I made the calls right away, John. We've set aside an entire course left over from the experimental batch. They'll start her within the hour if that's agreeable.”

“Absolutely. Thank you. Thank you. You were right to call. Tell Christoph I am so very proud of him…and of you…of the whole team…and so grateful. Now get home to your island and celebrate. Or did you miss the ferry again?”

“It is a hotel for me, tonight, Dr. Owen.”

“Well, congratulations to all.” For a fleeting second, John's eyes brightened with tears. “And thank you.”

——

Meanwhile, a fusillade of raindrops struck the heated windshield of the BMW convertible as it rolled into the passenger loading zone outside the Edge Medical Research facility in South Seattle. Except for the guard in the lobby and a man in a hat and overcoat who was walking across the boulevard toward the parking garage, the complex was dark and quiet. A BMW convertible was parked near the pedestrian entrance to the garage. An extremely pretty woman with very short blond hair rolled down the window.

“Going my way, stranger?”

“Karen?” The man in the overcoat looked up from under his gray hat. He had a distinguished, almost handsome face, and smiled immediately at the sight of the woman he was dating. Dr. Christoph Fischer, Nobel laureate in molecular biology and head of research at Edge Medical, pulled the brim of the old fashioned felt hat down against the wind and walked towards the car. The woman reached over and opened the passenger door, smiling like a child with a new toy.

“Karen Kanst, you never cease to surprise me. How on earth did you get your hands on one of these?” Fischer slid into the leather bucket seat, and closed the door.

“Hang on, guy,” she said, as full throttle and deft steering moved the car effortlessly into the deserted roads. Tires hissed on wet pavement and headlights snaked through the industrial park, catching raindrops in mid-flight.

Fischer regarded her carefully. “Karen, where have you been? It's been two weeks.” The brightly-lit boulevard rolled past them.

“Almost as busy as you were, dear. We are going to celebrate tonight, Chris.”

“Outstanding,” Fischer said. “Now?”

“Now. I have seen your latest research,” the woman said, suddenly turning the vehicle into an empty parking lot near a dimly lit warehouse. “The new treatment model could save millions of lives.” The wind gusted, stirring damp leaves and paper, while the car steamed. Karen grinned seductively.

“You have? How—”

“Never mind how. We are going to a very expensive restaurant,” she interrupted gaily, but first…” She leaned over and planted a fierce kiss on Fischer's mouth, gripping him on either side of his neck. He hardly noticed the stinging sensation over his carotid. Karen held the kiss, fiercely holding the palm syringe in place against Fischer's neck, until his heart and respiration ceased forty-three seconds later. She let go, and Christoph Fischer slumped against the door.

“From Gaia, to Gaia,” she said. Cold, moist air rushed in as she opened the passenger door. Dr. Fischer, a workaholic who had been living alone for the last year, would probably not be missed until Monday. Karen deftly released Fischer's shoulder harness and gave his body a shove. The sound of the gunning engine obscured the crack of the man's head against the concrete. Smiling, the woman closed the door.

Gaia's Kiss
. She pulled a fire-red lipstick out of her purse and expertly applied it in the rearview mirror, touching the side of her mouth with her baby finger.
I have just eliminated the chief scientist at the world's foremost medical research center. Those fools are dedicated to saving human lives. But lives are not to be saved. Lives are the problem.

Karen would report to Berker later.

—

Saturday night, John found himself outside again beneath the old cedar tree. The rain had stopped, but a wet mist drifted through the air. He had left Rachael sleeping comfortably for the first time in days.

Yet his anxiety had not diminished.
Why does hope seem so cruel
? Rachael's new course of drugs had started, and she seemed to have responded. So had some of the terminal cases in New Delhi.
And where is Christoph? Why haven't I heard from him?

Eventually John went inside. An hour later he was sprawled in his favorite chair, one hand holding a short glass of scotch. When his headset beeped, he flinched. Putting the scotch on the table by the lamp, he checked the number. John relaxed. It was Gabriel's private line in DC. His old friend had made it a project to stay on John's case, and his constant calls, the jokes, the challenges—and the proposed fishing trips—had been a lifeline during the worst days of Rachael's illness.

John picked up. “Okay, Gabriel, exactly why should I cover that brunch meeting of yours?”

“Hi, John. Where are you?”

“Home of course.”

“Good for you. Alice just got your message about Rachael. She called me right away. Is it true? Is she getting better?”

“Maybe. At least today. They've started her on a new course of drugs, something that our bio-tech genius, Christoph Fischer, thought showed real promise. But not everybody responds this late. I hope to God, Gabriel, that it isn't too late for Rachael. Anyway, she was sleeping well for once, and they kicked me out of her room.”

“Good. You have the invitation, right?”

“So why should I go to a Sunday brunch in LA with
that
crowd?”

“You need to get away. It's just a day trip. You'll be back later the same evening.”

“But Gabriel…why me?”

“Because I can't make it and these guys are very generous to my campaign.”

“So am I.”

“Okay. Think of them as your co-contributors. Part of the Standing Bear Fan Club.”

“But I
discovered
you.”

“That's why you need to go.”

“You and I, my friend, are reasonable environmentalist types. This crowd is something else.”

“Knight Fowler has the money and they hang around like fruit flies. Takes all kinds, John. It'll do you good. Hey. I hear the sun is shining in LA.”

“You know what? Your friend, Fowler, is a real ass.”

Gabriel laughed. “But Fowler's a very generous ass, John. And he's a friend as long as he acts like one. He'll be glad to meet one of my
real
friends, after all this time.”

“Gabriel, I really can't stand Fowler's little sidekick.”

“The famous environmental lawyah, Rex, puleeze-bow-to-me, Longworthy?”

“Yes. That slick sonofabitch.”

“So, why aren't
you
going, Gabriel?”

“Well…”

“Out with it.”

“Okay, okay…I confess. I don't want to make any deals with that bunch. I don't want to be pressed and I can't afford to have to openly disagree with some of those radicals, especially when Fowler is hosting. Actually, I've never been to one of those Platinum Brunches myself.”

“NEVER? So you are kind enough to send me?”

“Right.”

“Gabriel, if I do go to this damn thing, you owe me a fishing trip.”

“Agreed, John…and you don't have make this Platinum Brunch a regular thing.”

John laughed. “I hope not.”

“And you're on for that fishing trip as soon as the next recess—Idaho trout from the North fork of the Snake River.”

“As soon as Rachael is better.”

“Good enough.”

“Hey. At least Fowler has the sense to contribute to a good Senator or two.”

“I have no illusions, John. He thinks I'm a good guy just because I'm an Injun.”

“And I know better, right?”

Gabriel laughed. “Just remember Standing Bear's rule of politics,” he said.

“Which is?”

“Only the pricks have the big money, so get used to it. Present company excepted, of course.”

John ended the call with a belly laugh that startled Elisabeth in the next room.

“You'll wake the baby,” she said.

“He hasn't even been conceived yet.”

“You can't be sure of that, Dad.” Elisabeth looked in on her father. She was grinning.

“You're kidding, right?”

“It's just a few days before I'll know for sure.” Elisabeth had taken to her old room during the long evenings when Josh worked late hours. Their newly purchased home was only a short walk away. “Was that Gabriel?”

“Yes.”

“I took his call earlier. I say, go to that brunch! Mom would want you to. It'll do you good.”

“I am thinking about it.”

John went outside again. As he stood alone, the fog had turned again to a wet blanket of light rain. A wind kicked up and large drops began to splatter against the living room window.

When he eventually went back in the house, he found Elisabeth dozing in the easy chair by the fire.
Waiting for Josh again
. His daughter had married a workaholic. Like her father.