Panacea (53 page)

“I don't think that will be a problem, seeing as I'm all out of
ikhar
.”

“I will be sending you a dose every few months.”

The responsibility shook Laura. And the fact that she was shaken made her realize that she'd drunk what Rick had called the panacea Kool-Aid: She was a believer. At least in the
ikhar
. As for the rest …

“I'm probably not the best choice. Most of the people I deal with are dead.”

“You were taught how to deal with live ones before you devoted yourself to the dead, were you not?”

“Well, yes, of course—”

“Then perhaps it is time you changed your field of endeavor.”

She'd already been leaning that way.

“Why me?”

“The All-Mother guided you to Auburon, and then to me. She smiles on you.”

“Yeah, well…” Whatever. “Just don't expect me to get my back tattooed.”

Because no way was that going to happen.

“Only if you wish.” She smiled. “Expect your first shipment next month.”

And with that she turned and walked away.

 

VISITORS

 

1

“Good to be home?” Laura said as she ushered her daughter through the garage door into the utility/mudroom.

Marissa trotted into the kitchen and went straight to the refrigerator.

“Super! Do we have anything to eat?”

At Marissa's insistence they'd stopped at a Burger King on the way home.

“You just had a whole Whopper and fries.”

Not her child's usual fare, but this was a special occasion.

“Yeah, but I'm still hungry.”

After less than a day on a regular pediatric floor, Marissa had been going stir crazy. She was still weakened from the aftereffects of the infection and of living off IV fluids instead of food, but Laura had decided she didn't need more hospital. She needed
home
.

Dr. Lerner had refused to discharge her, despite the fact that her blood picture had returned to normal. She overheard one of the doctors saying not only was it like she had never had the infection, but like she'd never had the stem-cell transplant for the leukemia.

Laura remembered Clotilde's words: It resets your health to maximum.

Lerner insisted she needed to be under observation for another day or two. Laura disagreed and signed her out AMA. She knew what Lerner meant by “observation”—more poking and prodding and testing to see if he and his team could find an explanation for this miracle. They weren't going to and she refused to allow her daughter to be a lab rat.

Of course, it didn't hurt that the second miracle in the PICU—Cory Nicolay's overnight recovery from a severe cardiomyopathy—had drawn attention from Marissa. Laura had mentioned him to Dr. Lerner. Though not a cardiologist, Lerner had consulted on Cory's pulmonary function and been astounded to hear that the boy's ejection fraction had jumped from a disastrous 16 percent to a very normal seventy overnight.

“What are they doing in that PICU?” he'd said.

Laura had shrugged. “Must be something in the water.”

She followed Marissa into the kitchen. Not much to snack on. She'd spotted ice cream in the freezer when she'd come home to shower yesterday. Why not? Marissa needed calories to regain those lost pounds. And besides, what passed for ice cream in this house was really frozen nonfat yogurt.

“Will ice cream do?”

“Yes!”

Laura placed a three-scoop serving in front of her, then sat down at the kitchen computer. She accessed Google and began searching for East Meadow nursing homes. She intended to find James Fife and visit him … see if she could do anything for him. The names were just starting to pop onto the screen when the front doorbell rang. Her first thought was 536—but they weren't the type to ring the bell. Still …

She and Marissa were alone in the house. Steven had gone back to work—he'd done nothing but hang by Marissa's side for days—and a Monday seemed like the perfect time to restart a normal schedule.

She tiptoed to the door and was relieved when a peek through the sidelight revealed a familiar—and yet not so familiar—face. And then the anger came.

She yanked open the door. “I don't think we have anything to say to each other, Mister Stahlman.”

He stood there looking contrite … and wonderfully healthy. His posture was straight, his face pink, and not an oxygen tank in sight.

“I apologize for my callousness. My only excuse was my desperation.”

“You knew my daughter was dying and—”

“But she didn't die. And the only reason she is alive is that you did not prematurely rush home to be with her. If you had, you would have arrived in the PICU empty-handed. Instead of celebrating her return home right now, you would be planning funeral arrangements.”

She recognized the irony: Marissa was alive because of Fife's elaborate web of false texts and Stahlman's silence. Their lies and deceit had paid an unexpected benefit for that little girl … and for Laura.

She allowed a grudging nod. “That's a harsh way of putting it, but … touch
é
.”

“I stopped by to thank you personally and to let you know I've added another fifteen million to the account.”

The amount jolted her. “Fifteen? I thought five—”

“I doubled it, remember?”

She guessed she hadn't taken that seriously. Twenty million dollars … that was going to take some time to sink in. She pushed it aside.

“You're looking well, which can only mean that Rick delivered the dose.”

“Yes. Good man, although at the time I did not appreciate the side trip.” He frowned. “You haven't seen him since?”

She shook her head. “No contact at all.”

She'd wondered at that herself. They'd spent almost a week in virtually constant contact and then … nothing.

She missed him.

“As I said, good man … but a strange one.”

“You don't know the half of it.”

She missed his strangeness too … and their strange conversations.

“I probably do. But there's another reason I've stopped by. I have a proposal.”

“No offense,” she said, “but I'd rather be catching up with my daughter. She went to close the door. “Good-bye, Mister—”

He put out a hand to stop her. “Wait. Just hear me out. It's not really a proposal. Just an idea. I can formalize it later.”

Curious now, she said, “Make it quick.”

“You know Rick's theory that the panacea was from ‘outside,' right?”

“He may have mentioned it.”

An understatement, to be sure.

“Well, I'm beginning to think there's merit to that.”

If not for her experience with Marissa and Cory in the last two days, she might have closed the door right then.

“I'll reserve judgment on that. Go on.”

“Well, what if other supposedly mythical things and places and people are real and are out there in the world? I mean, what if they're not based on fantasy but on fact—like the panacea? If they're out there, I want to find them.”

“Good luck with that. But what's this got to do with me?”

“Everything. I'll keep my ears out for stories that may point to one of those. When something starts to sound promising, I'll send you and Rick off to investigate it.”

No way was that going to happen, but she had to ask …

“Why me?”

“Because you're plucky and—”

“‘Plucky'? Did you just call me ‘plucky'?”

He grinned. “I love that word. And it fits you to a T. You're plucky and you have a science head. Rick has a knack for getting things done. The two of you make a great team—you've proven that. And if something you bring back turns out to be commercially viable, we'll all split the profits.”

She shook her head. “Once a businessman, always a businessman.”

“I prefer ‘entrepreneur.' Of course, if it's as resistant to analysis as that panacea—”

“What do you mean?”

“I sent the residue in the vial to a commercial lab for analysis. It crashed every machine they tried.”

“Good day, Mister Stahlman,” and this time she did shut the door.

Through the door she heard,
“I'll call if I have something.”

“Don't call us, we'll call you,” she muttered as she headed back to Marissa.

Plucky
 … seriously?

 

2

Rick stood in the shadows at the rear of the backyard—the same spot where he'd dealt with that 536er the night before their trip—and watched her through the windows. The moon was scheduled to rise later and he might have to find a new vantage point then.

The second miracle cure in the Stony Brook PICU had him worried. He had no doubt what had happened and who was responsible. He'd learned about it when he stopped by the hospital earlier to see how Marissa was faring. Turned out Laura had already taken her home but the hospital was buzzing about miracles.

Not good.

He figured Fife had been using NSA's electronic monitoring to track miracle cures. His boss, Pickens, might do the same, but Rick doubted it. He'd met Pickens years ago; he had a rep as a guy who never stuck his neck out. Without Nelson on point, he'd let it slide.

The Brotherhood was another matter. He didn't know if anyone else in 536 was upper echelon enough to access NSA data, but he'd decided to keep an eye on Laura's place for a couple of days, just to be safe.

Or was he kidding himself?

Because he couldn't get that kiss out of his mind. If Clotilde hadn't knocked …

And so here I am, not just driving past her house like some moony teenager, but taking it a step further by standing in her backyard like some pervo peeper.

And there
she
was, visible through the sliding glass doors that opened onto the low rear deck, cleaning up after dinner while Marissa watched a baseball game on TV. Half a glass of white wine sat on the counter. The sight of someone that special going about everyday mundane tasks caused an indefinable ache in his chest. Why? Why the ache? For some reason he felt he might stop the ache by joining her in there and helping out.

How crazy was that? He did not belong in there, in the light. Out here in the dark, keeping watch, that was his place.

Because she deserved someone better, someone who deserved
her
.

Marissa bounded up from the TV area and into the kitchen. As she passed the sliding glass doors she glanced his way and froze. Then backed toward her mother, pointing at him.

How the hell had she spotted him?

He could duck away but that would only leave them frightened—the last thing he wanted. So he held his ground as Laura quick-stepped to a wall and hit a switch.

The yard flooded with light.

He waved and saw the tension go out of Laura's posture. She slid open the door.

“What are you doing out there?” she called.

“Well, I—”

“Never mind. I can guess exactly why you're there. Come in.”

“No, I—”

She stamped her foot. He loved when she did that.

“No excuses. Get in here right now.”

He shrugged and crossed the rear lawn, hopped up on the deck, and stepped into her kitchen.

“Marissa,” Laura said. “This is Mister Hayden. He kept me safe during my trip.”

“Hayden like the planetarium?” Marissa said.

Rick instantly loved her.

“You're pretty smart to know that.” He extended his hand. “Just like your mom.”

Her little hand disappeared into his as they shook.

“You like baseball?” she said.

He hated baseball.

“Love it.”

“Cool! What's your favorite team?”

He could see himself getting boxed in as to best players and such—he hadn't a clue—so he said, “I don't have a favorite. I just like to watch whoever's playing at the moment.”

As much as I like watching paint dry.

“Do you—?”

“You can talk baseball later, honeybunch,” Laura said, pointing her back toward the TV. “Mister Hayden and I have grown-up stuff to discuss.”

When she'd returned to her cross-legged position on the floor before the screen, Laura turned to him with a concerned expression and lowered her voice.

“Do you really think playing watchdog is necessary?”

“I honestly don't know. Fife told us he'd kept his team small, working on a need-to-know basis. If that's true, there's a good chance no one will connect you to those two miracle cures.”

“I guess that was a dumb move on my part,” she said as she pulled a wineglass from a cabinet. “I'm usually not impulsive, but I was exhausted and euphoric over Marissa, and I saw this little boy and I just…” She shrugged. “I only have white—no bubbles.”

He waved her off. “That's okay. I should probably—”

She opened the refrigerator. “You should probably have a glass of wine and sit down and relax. We can talk. After all we've been through, we should get to know each other a little better, don't you think? I mean, beyond talk of vast, cool and unsympathetic intelligences and such.”

He was trying to grasp the subtext here. Her words were saying they should be friends, but what was
she
saying? That she'd like it to be more? It would never work.

But he said, “I … I'd like that.”

She poured him two-thirds of a glass and refreshed her own.

“Good. I'm quitting the ME's office, you know.”

“No. I didn't know.”

“Decided today. I think it's time for me to get back to seeing live patients. Going to look into a neurology residency.”

“You'd be good at that.”

“No, I'm much better with dead people, but I can learn. I've got motivation.”