Mutant (10 page)

Wednesday, May 3, 2000, 2:00 P.M. The Outskirts of Kailua

The air was absolutely still, yet Kathleen Sullivan saw a white curtain in an upstairs window shift slightly as she approached the run-down, gray stucco farmhouse. The heat baked the treeless yard, and the parched ground under her feet felt hard as concrete. What few tufts of grass remained had long turned to yellow straw. There were no dogs—she’d stayed inside her car a full minute before opening the door, making sure none would bound out at her. Nevertheless, she remained wary, walking slowly while peering nervously beyond the house, where a ramshackle barn and midsize shed leaned toward each other like two piles of bleached driftwood.

Seeing nothing, she began to suspect he had no animals at all. Neither did she catch so much as a glimpse of machinery, such as a tractor or plow. Perhaps he no longer works the land, she thought, eyeing the few small fields that stretched from a rickety fence in back of the barn to the steep base of the Koolau Range less than a mile away. She did spot a relatively new red pickup truck parked under a dilapidated carport, the vehicle seeming completely at odds with the impoverished appearances of the place. Then an empty, rusted-out chicken coop built alongside the tumbledown fence came into her line of sight. It commanded her attention more than anything else.

Proceeding to a faded green front door, she stared in through the grimy windowpanes that bracketed it and knocked loudly, the force of her knuckles on the wood dislodging flecks of peeling varnish from its sunburnt surface.

Only silence came from the dark interior.

She stepped back and looked up in time to witness a hand release the curtain she’d seen move a few seconds ago. “Mr. Hacket?” she called out. “My name’s Dr. Sullivan. The Department of Public Health suggested I talk with you. I’m studying the bird flu outbreak that happened here eighteen months ago.”

Still nothing.

Damn! she thought, wondering if she shouldn’t just march over to the area around the coop, grab her samples, and leave. She’d arrived for the conference a few days early specifically to gather such specimens and collect as much data as possible about the case. She’d even arranged the use of a genetics lab in the university where she could run a polymerase chain reaction analysis on anything she turned up, all in the hope of finding genetic vectors and demonstrating how they could cause a disease to jump the species barrier. She’d actually asked Azrhan, her chief technician, to accompany her from New York and help with the work, but he’d begged off. “My parents are visiting from Kuwait, and I couldn’t leave them alone in New York,” he’d explained, sounding miserable about missing the excitement of the meeting and whatever she might find.

Eighteen months ago, when word first broke that bird flu had jumped the species barrier in Oahu, she’d pushed the planning committee to settle on Hawaii as the conference site, it being only one of several places considered. “After all, it’s a cogent argument that if such crossovers can happen by random accident without the aid of genetic vectors, then surely we must consider the possibility of such catastrophes occurring much more easily with their help. And what better way to drive home the dangers of horizontal gene transfers,” she argued at that time, “than by involving the clinicians and scientists who so successfully contained the resulting infection. Having them tell the story in the very community where the deadly gene swap actually occurred will make an abstract threat frighteningly real for every delegate present.” She kept her intent to carry out tests at the site to herself, knowing the UN body would shy away from such controversy.

Shuffling footsteps from beyond the door brought her out of her reverie. She heard the lock turn, and the door opened a crack. A cool dampness flowed over her, accompanied by a musty odor of mold. “Mr. Hacket?”

The opening widened enough that she saw a stooped old man with a sharp thin face and deep-set eyes staring out at her. The initial aroma of the house’s interior grew stronger, tinged with the sourness of unwashed skin, the smell of cigarette smoke, and a hint of stale urine. “What you want?” he demanded belligerently in a high voice that could almost be a woman’s.

“Mr. Hacket, I’m studying the bird flu outbreak—”

“I don’t want any more trouble about that. Damn neighbors won’t even talk to me no more—sayin’ I started it, and got all their hens slaughtered. You get outta here. I won’t have you or anyone else stirrin’ up that trouble again—”

“Mr. Hacket, I just want to take some soil and vegetation samples from around the coop where you kept the chickens—”

“What for?” His bushy gray brows arched like a pair of angry alley cats.

“Because we’re suspicious something may have altered the virus to make it attack humans.”

“What altered it?”

Oh, brother, she thought. How am I going to explain genetics to a hermit. “Well, it’s complicated, but some companies are changing the gene structure of food crops, and the vectors they use—”

“You mean them Frankenfoods I been reading about. We don’t have anything like them here.”

Maybe he’s not such a hermit after all. “What about coffee plants? Some experimental farms are growing genetically manipulated strains designed to be caffeine free. Any like that near you—?”

“No! Now, get off my land and don’t come back. I got a shotgun for trespassers!” He slammed the door and locked it.

“Christ!” she muttered, eyeing the distance she’d have to run if she wanted to scoop up a vial of earth, then skedadle. She really had counted on including the results in her presentation. But an old coot like that just might take a shot at her.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!” she said, abandoning the idea and turning to leave.

“Must be from the mainland,” the old man muttered, peering out the window and noticing the woman’s lack of tan as she walked back to her car. “Not bad lookin’ either,” he added, watching her ass move with each step as she went and enjoying the sight of her legs as her skirt slid up when she got into the driver’s seat.

Making sure she pulled back out on the highway, he continued to mutter his thoughts out loud, as was his habit—the result of living alone for a lifetime. “Last thing I need is her pokin’ around that virus business and bringin’ old fights back down on me. But
they
may like it even less,” he added, getting up and walking to the bureau drawer where he kept his important papers. “And if they’re worried, it might just be worth more to them that I keep my mouth shut than before. Hell, maybe I can buy a boat to go with the pickup.” With his left hand he held the card away from his eyes so he could read the phone number as he dialed.

“Goddamned bastards,” he uttered while listening to the ring through the receiver. He’d always kicked himself that he didn’t demand a bigger payoff from them for his silence. But they arrived on his doorstep even before the public health officials—as soon as the papers began reporting that a kid in the area died of bird flu. Ten grand they offered him, for damages to his flock, they called it, provided he kept his mouth shut about buying a batch of hens and a supply of feed corn from them the week before. He took the cash and insisted they throw in a truck he’d been wanting, all in exchange for a promise to keep his recent purchase from them secret. Then the authorities connected the dead boy to his coop and questioned him for days about his business transactions involving either the birds or their eggs. Scared that he’d end up in jail if they found out he’d initially withheld information, he continued to insist that he’d acquired no new hens recently, but the stress of the ordeal left him resentful, especially since he’d settled for so little money. “They’ll pay big this time,” he mumbled, still waiting for someone to answer.

“Biofeed International, Hawaiian office!” sang out the receptionist.

He gave the name of the man whom he’d dealt with.

“Mr. Bob Morgan no longer works for our company. Do you wish to speak with his replacement?”

“Yeah, I would.”

But after a few minutes of talking with a very junior-sounding man and carefully alluding to the “arrangement” he’d made with Morgan over “damages” to his chickens, Hacket decided that the guy knew nothing of the previous deal. “Give me the operator again,” he gruffly ordered.

“Our last forwarding address for Mr. Morgan was at a company called Agrenomics International near White Plains, New York,” she cheerfully told him. “Let me give you their number.”

After hanging up, he thought about the long-distance costs, then figured the call would be worth it. All he’d need from Bob Morgan was the name of someone at Biofeed who knew about their secret and who might be interested that a Dr. Kathleen Sullivan was now poking around his farm asking about bird flu. Of course, that person, whoever he or she turned out to be, had better be willing to cough up at least the price of a nice inboard cruiser for the information.

Monday, May 8, 7:15 P.M.

Steele hadn’t seen anything like it since the street theater protests he’d witnessed during his student days at university. Outside the entrance to the Honolulu convention center actors dressed as giant monarch butterflies ran in circles and fluttered their wings, then flopped to the sidewalk, dying with an aplomb suited to a lepidopterous version of
Swan Lake
. Other thespians disguised as giant mutant corncobs handed out pamphlets demanding, DO YOU KNOW WHAT WAS IN THE CEREAL YOU ATE AT BREAKFAST TODAY? A chorus line of spotted tomatoes oozing green slime from open sores danced and swirled throughout the crowd.

Passersby rushing home from work, most of them Hawaiian, treated it all as a fiesta, laughing and pointing at the various costumed characters. This prompted the quick intervention of zealots with loudspeakers who immediately rushed over and tried to squelch any such outbursts of fun by bellowing, “Stamp out toxic foods!” Shaking his head as he made his way through these humorless, in-your-face activists, Steele found their aggressive tactics completely alien to him and figured the only things they’d rid the earth of would be people’s smiles.

Once inside, however, amid the crush of delegates around the registration desk, he sensed a more kindred excitement—one similar to what he’d known a quarter century ago at disarmament marches, antiwar demonstrations, and save-the-planet rallies. The hum of fax machines spitting out notices replaced the clatter of mimeograph copiers, the laptop had become the tool of choice for issuing global manifestos, and the incessant trill of cell phones gave the sounds of an aviary to the assembly—but the special electricity that fills the air when the world’s brightest and best gather to lead the charge against a great wrong hadn’t changed a bit. It remained as palpable to him now as it had been then.

The predominance of women confirmed something else which had stayed constant—it’s mostly the female of the species who answers the call when mother earth is threatened. He smiled at the memory of joining one or two causes simply to chat up a pretty coed. That’s how he met Luana—he’d seen her painting protest signs and picked up a brush to help out. He couldn’t even remember what they were rushing to the rescue of. He was still grinning when it struck him that he’d been able to savor a memory of her without it ripping his guts out. Well, well, he thought, recognizing the first hint that he might be slipping the chains of his grief.

At the reception that evening he stood in the thick of the throng and watched as waiters in “Aloha dress”— Hawaiian sport shirts and creased trousers—wielded trays piled high with red shellfish, yellow peppers, and green avocado, each wrapped in white rice and black seaweed. Around him, he heard a language both familiar and strange. Terms like
retrovirus
,
ribosomes
, and
gene
expression
belonged to his jargon, but they came to his ear woven in words like
transposons
,
plasmids
, and
promiscuous genes
. He’d no idea what the new terminology meant, so much so that he began to doubt if he’d be able to follow the proceedings. To make matters worse, he seemed to be the only physician at the party, and the big
MD
on his name tag became a beacon for the other delegates.

“Oh, you’re a doctor.”

“Right!”

“Do you have any concerns about the uptake rate of genetic material in the host recipient of edible, genetically engineered vaccines?”

“Edible what?”

“What’s your position on the use of retroviral vectors?”

“Retroviral? You mean like AIDS?”

“Attenuated, of course.”

“I should hope so.”

Many such conversations later Steele spotted a woman at the other end of the room who seemed to be receiving similar attention. To his relief, he saw that she, too, sported an
MD
on her identity tag, it being just as visible through a crowd as his. He also took in her well-tanned skin and the fact that she wore a traditional Polynesian wrap with her hair done up in a braid reaching down to her waist.

Perhaps she lives here, he thought, continuing to stare while she smiled and gave lengthy responses to all the inquiries directed at her. In fact, she looks like she could teach
me
a few pointers on how to answer all the questions this bunch keeps asking. Glad to have a reason to introduce himself, he drifted toward her.

But before he got halfway there, the man who’d grilled him about edible vaccines waved him over to another ring of people. “Dr. Steele, there’s someone you should meet who agrees with your stand against retroviral vectors—”

“My stand?”

“Dr. Steele is the medical authority for the conference,” he persisted.

“Authority? Oh, no, not by a long shot. I’m afraid I’ll have to observe and learn a great deal before being of much use.”

“Nonsense, Doctor!” interjected one of the more senior men in the circle. “We’ve been crying for a real physician at these shindigs for years.” He had gray curly hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and sported the clothing—dark blazer, pale blue shirt, tan pants—of someone about to step onto his yacht. He swept his arm around the room. “Everyone here is running around making doomsday claims for the health of the human race, and most have never had anything more than rats as their patients.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the group.

“Well, it still seems a whole new world to me,” Steele answered, chuckling along with the rest. “But thanks for the encouragement.”

“You don’t hesitate to let me know if I can be of any help,” he replied, offering his card. “My name’s Steve Patton, and I’m an over-the-hill environmentalist who never outgrew the sixties,” he added with a grin. He then excused himself, turned, and strolled over to where a half dozen reporters were interviewing a pretty woman with short auburn-gold hair and the most remarkable green eyes. She and Patton greeted each other with a formal-looking peck on each other’s cheeks, and the pair proceeded with the interview together.

That’s Dr. Kathleen Sullivan, the geneticist, thought Steele, recognizing her from her television program. He’d have to speak with her later, to find out what panels she wanted him on. Excusing himself from those still around him and continuing to move toward the woman he’d set out to talk with in the first place, he glanced at Patton’s card. PRESIDENT—THE BLUE PLANET SOCIETY, he read, recognizing one of the most high profile conservation groups in the United States. Slipping it into his pocket, he muttered, “ ‘Over-the-hill environmentalist,’ my ass.”

He stopped a polite distance behind her, waiting for the latest group of questioners to finish up. She stood near the edge of an open balcony, outlined against a fan of flaming orange, crimson, and fuchsia streaks as the last of the sun dipped below the ocean. In the final flare of light, he saw the shape of her long legs and the swell of her hips illuminated beneath the thin material of her outfit. He looked away, embarrassed at being such an accidental voyeur, yet kept taking quick surreptitious glances in her direction. Purely to see if she’s finished talking, he kept telling himself. Yet each time her silhouette remained as revealing as ever, until he slowly returned his gaze and held it on her, surprised to find himself interested.

A breeze stirred the folds of her dress, lifting it ever so slightly up around her body like a floating bell jar. While he watched she widened her stance, as if to better let the cool air run freely around her lower limbs. Ashamed of his sudden lasciviousness, he nevertheless let his eyes roam upward, surveying her thin waist and particularly noticing the nape of her long elegant neck where a few strands from her braid had slipped loose to nestle against her bronze skin. He could not see her face, only the line of her cheek, and in the afterglow of the sunset he made out a thin covering of down on its surface, delicate as an aura. The smell of her perfume completed his intoxication.

She finished speaking, excused herself from the last of her audience, and turned, only to catch him staring at her. “Hello,” she said hesitantly, her expression puzzled.

He felt his face grow flushed. “Uh, hello. I’m Dr. Richard Steele from New York,” he began, holding out his hand. “I was hoping you could give a fellow MD some help. You seem at ease with all the inquiries being put to you. I’m new to this business and am not doing nearly as well. Frankly, I’m beginning to feel stupid.”

She studied him for a second, her arms crossed and head cocked to one side, long enough for him to immediately appreciate the delicate shape of her slender nose and full lips. Then she smiled, the corners of her mouth easily forming into laugh lines, but her eyes didn’t join in the greeting. They remained dark and recessed, giving her gaze a sadness at odds with the rest of her expression. “Of course, I’ll help you if I can,” she said, extending her hand and uncovering her name tag. “I’m Dr. Sandra Arness, from Honolulu. I’m afraid that’s why you’ve seen so many people buttonholing me. Mostly they want to know about good places to eat.”

He chuckled. “Well that’s a relief. Here I thought I was hopelessly unqualified compared to you. What kind of medicine do you practice?”

Her eyes darted away from him ever so slightly. “I’m a family physician,” she said quickly, “but I’m on sabbatical right now. What about yourself?” The question came at him like a return serve.

“ER. Except I was sidelined with a heart attack over five months ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Will you be able to go back?”

“Hopefully. My new masters, the cardiologists, insist I wait until they’re sure. But I’ve been fine.”

She seemed at a loss for what to say next, twirling the long stem of her empty champagne glass between her fingers.

“Say, can I get you a refill?” he offered.

“Sure,” she answered.

As they walked together toward the bar, he noticed that she wore no wedding ring.

Their drinks replenished, they found a table in a corner. Slipping into small talk, she evaded telling him much about herself, admitting in passing that she’d been divorced, vaguely citing “health problems” as the reason behind her sabbatical, and, when he inquired why she was at the conference, stating simply, “The topic interests me.” Yet her questions about him were so probing and empathetic that before an hour passed he confided to her his difficulty in adapting to being a widower, his troubled relationship with Chet, and the emotional shakeup he’d experienced after nearly dying. “Are you sure you’re not a psychiatrist?” he quipped nervously, instinctively pulling back after realizing how much of himself he’d poured out to her. “I haven’t told anybody this stuff back home.”

“I know a lot about loss, is all,” she answered, “and I find you easy to listen to.” She reached across the table and laid her hand softly on his forearm, her eyes as full of pain as two fresh bruises.

Steele returned her gaze and thought he read an invitation to become lost in those dark liquid pools. Should I suggest we go to my room? he thought, barely able to breathe. He reached to run his fingertips along the back of her wrist when he heard from a distance, “My goodness, leave it to the only two MDs in the place to find each other and start talking shop.”

Sandra darted her hand away.

He turned to see Kathleen Sullivan descending on their cubbyhole with a big smile and outstretched arms.

“Hi, Dr. Steele, I know we haven’t met yet,” she greeted. “I’m Kathleen Sullivan. Welcome to Honolulu!” She turned to Sandra. “And you’re Doctor—?” She squinted at the name tag, trying to make out the small letters in front of the big
MD
.

“Arness,” volunteered the woman, smiling sweetly as she extended the same hand that had been touching his so invitingly seconds before.

Sullivan clasped it warmly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I must steal Dr. Steele from you for a minute—” She broke into a giggle. “I’m sorry, but I love making puns!” she exclaimed, continuing to laugh. “Lowest form of humor, they say, but then I’m the kind of gal that likes a low joke. The minute I saw his name on the list of participants, I knew I had to try it. But I do need to borrow him, Dr. Arness,” she added, her expression suddenly turning serious and her voice apologetic, “just for a minute to brief him on tomorrow’s schedule—”

“Of course, Dr. Sullivan. He’s all yours. I was about to leave anyway.” She got up from her chair. “Good evening to you both. I’ll see you at the sessions tomorrow.”

Steele jumped to his feet, but before he could think of anything to interject, Sandra nodded, turned, and walked toward the door.

“Good night, Dr. Arness,” Sullivan called cheerfully after her, then took the chair where she’d been sitting. “Dr. Steele, I want you on the panel with me for the plenary session on the dangers of naked DNA. We’ll be focusing on the case of bird influenza that jumped the species barrier here eighteen months ago, to illustrate the kind of event that these vectors can enhance. . . .”

As Steele retook his seat opposite her and listened, he watched Sandra Arness disappear out the door. Well, thanks a heap, Kathleen Sullivan, he thought sarcastically. You certainly managed to keep me safe from what might have been my own encounter with a little DNA tonight, naked or otherwise.

“How did this bird flu learn to kill humans?” demanded Dr. Julie Carr the next morning, standing beside a massive screen on which she’d projected a black-and-white electron micrograph of an influenza virus.

Nobody answered, everyone in the packed auditorium recognizing a rhetorical question when they heard one.

“The answer lies in these bristles,” she continued, indicating with a laser pointer the spiked surface on the ovoid. “They’re made of glycoproteins. Some are rich in hemagglutinin, a three-pronged molecule that recognizes and locks on to a specific receptor site at the cellular surface of its host, thereby determining which species the virus can and cannot invade. Others contain neuraminidase, a molecule able to cleave these bonds, setting the virus free to spread elsewhere if infection at a particular cell doesn’t occur for some reason. Together they also form the molecular template against which a host mounts its immune response. Even slight variations in either of these two structures will allow the virus to evade antibodies acquired during the host’s previous exposure to old strains, and will result in increased infectivity. Now this guy here should only have spikes which fit with the molecules of chicken mucosa. . . .”