The Proteus Cure Read online

  Okay, she thought, translating Hal Silberman’s dermatopathology into RealPeoplese. Here goes.

  “We’ve determined that some of your cells—many of your cells—have cut back their production of melanin.”

  “What’s melanin?”

  “The pigment that darkens your skin.”

  Tanesha snorted. “Shit! I coulda told you that! Tell me something I don’t know. Like why they cut back and what we do about it.”

  “We don’t know why, Tanesha. Not yet.”

  She sobbed and covered her face with her hands. “You promised!”

  “I’m not through yet. We’ve only just begun to fight.”

  “What you mean ‘we’? I don’t see your skin changin’ color. And hell with that ‘begun to fight’ shit. I need help now!”

  “Tanesha, you have to realize that you’ve got a unique, complex problem that can’t be solved in a week.”

  “So all these tests was a waste of time—that what you tellin’ me?”

  “Not at all. We know a lot of things that it’s not.”

  “What good is that?”

  “Look. You know who Thomas Edison is, right?”

  Tanesha made a face. “Course I do. You think I’m stupid?”

  “No, of course not. When he was trying to invent the light bulb he tried a thousand different filaments and every one burned out. So when a reporter asked him if he was discouraged, he said, ‘Of course not. I now know a thousand things that won’t work.’ ”

  “Girl, what’s that got to do with me? I ain’t no light bulb! And a light bulb ain’t got a kid that don’t want to be seen with her!”

  Her face screwed up and she started to cry again. Her sobs, and the realization of what this poor woman must be going through, broke Sheila’s heart.

  She rose and laid an arm across Tanesha’s quaking shoulders.

  “We’ll beat this, Tanesha, but this sort of investigation takes time. The pathologist is running more tests on your hair follicles, and since this may be some rare genetic fluke, I’m going to arrange some DNA testing.”

  Tanesha wiped her eyes and looked at her. “What that gonna show?”

  Sheila smiled. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need to run the tests, would I?”

  “Guess not.”

  “But it’s going to require more skin biopsies. You up for that?”

  “Anything, doc. Just tell me when and where.”

  “Great. I’ll make the arrangements and give you a call.”

  “Don’t be too long. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  “I’ll make it my first priority.”

  Right along with her other first priorities: Coog’s tests, a sit-down with Bill, seeing outpatients, and monitoring in-house chemo.

  “I think it’s gonna turn out to be that treatment I had. You know, the VG thing. I think it changed me inside.”

  Sheila stared, startled. This was the second time Tanesha had brought this up. Bill had warned that she might latch onto VG723 as a cause and go after Tethys and VecGen. Paul had asked her the same thing yesterday.

  Coog’s KB26 had been a stem-cell-based therapy, just like Tanesha’s VG723. What if there was a connection?

  Could it be …?

  She’d better check out some specs on VecGen and VG723. Maybe she could ask them if they’d seen anything like this before.

  Till then, she’d have to do what Bill said.

  “I’m sorry, Tanesha. It’s highly unlikely that your treatment caused this problem. But we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.”

  Tanesha tried to smile as Sheila left the examining room. Sheila tried too. Poor woman.

  TANESHA

  As Tanesha walked toward her beat up, paint-chipped ’95 Dodge Neon, she promised herself she was going to make it to the car before she started blubbering. Damn if she wasn’t feeling like swallowing some killer pills right now. She looked down at her ugly honkey hands and her eyes filled up. Her stocky legs shuffled along fast as they’d go. She just knew she could make it the few more feet to the car.

  “Miss Green!” a man shouted.

  Tanesha turned around to see a good-looking, dark-haired guy. He was hurrying toward her, his coat blowing around.

  “Miss Green, could I have a word with you?”

  She stopped and he caught up with her.

  “Who you?”

  He smiled. “Thank you for stopping.” He put his hand out. “I’m Doctor Gilchrist. I head up Tethys. Doctor Takamura said you’d been in a couple of times and I’d like to talk to you for few minutes if you don’t mind.”

  She shook his hand. Strong handshake.

  “I don’t mind.”

  And she didn’t. If he headed up Tethys, then maybe he’d have some answers.

  “Good. Would you like to go out for a coffee or something?”

  That got her hackles up. Why not right here, unless it was bad news? She sure as shit wasn’t driving all the way to Starbucks and putting up with the stares to hear no death sentence.

  “Start talkin’. I’m listenin’.”

  She folded her arms. She’d read once that in body language that meant Don’t bullshit me. I don’t trust you.

  “All right then. Well, I just want to let you know that Tethys will find the answer to what’s happened to you. It may take a while but we will find it. You have my word.”

  “Doctor Takamura already told me that. You got something new?”

  “No, but, well, I just think if you look at this from the right perspective and—”

  “And what perspective is that, mister?”

  Her arms were folded tight now, which wasn’t easy with this big belly.

  The doc looked a little less cocksure now.

  “The perspective that …” He cleared his throat. “That you’re alive. Sure your skin has changed but you’re still you underneath. Your skin is healthy and uniform. It’s not like you’re covered with tumors or ulcers or burns. It could be a lot worse, you know.”

  Tanesha glared at him, getting madder by the second, but he just kept talking.

  “And your cancer is gone. Forever. You’re cured. And you’ll live a long life and be around to raise your son—”

  “That’s it! No one says nothin’ ’bout my son, you no good snake honkey bastard!” She reached out and grabbed him by the arm, digging her too-pale fingers into his wrist. “You know what? Lookin’ like I do, I don’t want to live a long life. I want to curl up and just die right here and now. It could be worse, my ass! You try facing your kid when he don’t want nothin’ to do with you.”

  She could see by the look in his eyes he was done talking so she let go.

  “That what you wanted to tell me? You come runnin’ after me to tell me I should be happy? Tell you what, I give you till my appointment next week to get some answers or I’m callin’ Doctor Phil, The View, and Oprah. We’ll see what they think of your damn perspective.”

  She turned around and walked. Didn’t look back, just opened her car door, started it up after a few tries, and took off.

  Snake bastard.

  SHEILA

  Bill had said he could meet with her, but it would have to be in his office—a working lunch of sorts. He said he was waiting for a fax that required an immediate response.

  Sheila played waitress. Why not? She’d asked for the meeting. She brought a tray from the caf: turkey club for Bill, vegetable lasagna for her.

  She was stiff from the accident and muscles she’d only seen in textbooks were killing her. Carrying the tray was no easy feat, but this would be the first lunch they’d ever eaten in private. She noticed how he closed the door behind her as she brought in the tray. She hoped this wouldn’t be awkward.

  The desk would serve as a barrier of sorts. Lately he’d made her uneasy. He used to be the center of her fantasies, but lately they were starting to flow elsewhere. To the man Bill had described as “blue collar.” Last night, when she’d been scared and lonely, she’d found her
self wishing Paul were there, not Bill.

  “Now,” Bill said around a bite from his sandwich, “what’s on your mind?”

  Besides the fact that every muscle in my body feels like it went through a meat grinder and my life is in danger? Had he forgotten everything?

  At least he seemed to have recovered from yesterday’s phone snit over the mysterious Proteus and was the same old even-tempered, mild-mannered Bill she knew.

  “I went to look up someone’s record, a patient who received KB-twenty-six, and his past record came up blank.”

  Bill held up a finger. “Let me guess: He was here more than five years ago.”

  “How did you know?”

  “That’s when we had a system crash.” He waved his hand. “A host of records sailed into the ether.”

  “Everything?”

  “No. We had almost everything backed up. Almost, but not all. We won’t make that mistake again. Who was the patient?”

  “Coogan Rosko.”

  “Oh, the boy who was hit in the parking lot.”

  Sheila was surprised that Bill would remember.

  “Right. Well, I treated him in the ER and got curious about KB-twenty-six since I don’t know much about it. Can’t seem to find any information on that either.”

  “Why would you want to? It’s dead and gone.”

  “But it was a stem-cell-based therapy like seven-twenty-three, right?”

  Bill nodded. “It was sporadically successful, but not enough to continue in trial. The Rosko boy was lucky.”

  “I’d still like to learn some details.” She saw his lips pursing for a Why? so she hurried on before he could voice it. “Who supplied it?”

  “A company called Kaplan Biologicals.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Nowhere. Gone. Finis. Kaput. When KB-twenty-six proved not to be the blockbuster it had been touted to be, Kaplan Biologicals went under and its founder, Gerald Kaplan, a brilliant researcher, was left with nothing. I offered him a post here but he refused it.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  He shook his head. “Haven’t a clue.”

  Damn.

  Bill said, “I must say I’m baffled by all this interest in a defunct therapy.”

  Sheila hesitated. She wasn’t sure how he’d react to what she was about to broach.

  “Well, remember how I was wondering if there was any connection between seven-twenty-three and the changes in Kelly Slade and Tanesha Green?”

  He nodded. “I also remember instructing you not to breathe a word of that to anyone else.”

  “And I haven’t. But Tanesha Green asked me about it again this morning. She seems convinced seven-twenty-three is behind her hair and skin changes.”

  “I trust you disabused her of that notion.”

  “Seems I’ve been doing a lot of disabusing these past few days.”

  Bill leaned forward. “Someone else?”

  “Paul Rosko. His son’s DNA doesn’t match his and he refuses to believe it. Yesterday he asked me if KB-twenty-six could have changed him.”

  Bill’s lips tightened into a straight line. “He signed a consent acknowledging that KB-twenty-six was an experimental therapy and that its side effects were unknown. If he’s looking for a malpractice angle, he’s out of luck.”

  Sheila was taken aback.

  “He’s too grateful to Tethys. I can’t imagine that’s even crossed his mind.”

  “Well, imagine it. And get used to imagining it, Sheila. America has become Victimland. Gratitude and fairness go out the window when the almighty buck rears its ugly head. The odds of a jackpot in the malpractice lottery are infinitely better than in Powerball.”

  “He wouldn’t—”

  “He’s a man whose wife screwed around on him and now he’s looking for a lightning rod for his anger. Tethys makes a convenient target.”

  Bill’s vehemence shocked her. He was making this personal. Abra was right. He was jealous of Paul. Maybe that explained his cold attitude. Sheila found herself on Paul’s side here. His concern was for Coog, not cash.

  To hide her discomfort, she took a bite of her lasagna. Cold. She swallowed the clump and put her fork down. Something he’d said bothered her.

  “How do you know so much about Paul Rosko?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, well, you don’t think I’d give someone access to our campus without a thorough vetting, do you?”

  But to know his ex-wife cheated on him? Pretty thorough background check on a volunteer.

  “And on the subject of litigation,” he added, “watch out for Tanesha Green. If you don’t handle her better she’ll be looking for a payday at the Foundation’s expense as well.”

  Sheila didn’t know what to say. She’d never seen him like this.

  “What?” he asked, staring at her.

  “I—”

  Just then the fax machine beside his desk began to ring, then purr as it printed. Bill lifted the first sheet from the tray.

  “Finally!” He looked a Sheila. “Excuse me while I read these over.”

  “No problem.” She wanted out of here. “I’ve got to run myself.”

  God, so self-centered. Why hadn’t she ever noticed it before? Not once had he mentioned the attack or asked how she was doing.

  She left her tray and hurried out.

  PAUL

  “Hey, that’s me.”

  Paul looked up to see Coog standing beside him, looking over his shoulder. He’d been so engrossed he hadn’t heard him enter.

  “Yep. That’s you.”

  But was it?

  He’d been sitting here in the family room, sifting through shoeboxes stuffed with Coog’s childhood photos. He and Rose had exposed a lot of film during his early years. The photo chronicle abruptly halted around age six. Neither of them had wanted photos of their son wasting away. A year after his cure they picked up again—nowhere near the number as in his early years—but he was in shots of family gatherings, and Paul had taken a fair number of him playing for his middle school basketball team.

  The Coogan Rosko before the illness, and for a couple years after, looked the same—thinner post cancer, of course, but still the same.

  Around age nine, Coog began to change. Nothing obvious. Paul hadn’t noticed it then. But now, because he was looking for it, he had no doubt.

  The change in his build, from stocky—like Paul—to lanky could be blamed at first on the weight he’d lost during his sickness. But he’d never gained it back. Instead he’d begun to stretch. Okay. It happens. So far no problem.

  But then his face had begun to change. Elongating, and developing a cleft chin. He was already five-ten with plenty of time for more growth. Strange but still not alarming.

  But the hair … how could anyone explain the way it had changed from thick, near black, and wavy like Paul’s, to thin, straight, and light brown?

  “Man,” Coog said. “Look at me as a kid and look at me now. Who’d guess this guy”—he tapped Paul’s recent photo of him making a foul shot, then tapped his five-year-old self playing with his Hot Wheels—“came from this shrimp.”

  Paul felt as if he’d been kicked. Out of the mouths of babes …

  “Who indeed?” he managed to say.

  He didn’t dare look at Coog for fear of giving away his inner turmoil.

  After a few heartbeats Coog said, “What are you mad at me for, Dad?”

  “I’m not, Coog.” Now he could look at him. “Really I’m not. I told you that in the hospital.”

  “Then how come we never do anything together? We used to do lots of stuff and now you just sit around. You hardly talk to me.” His lower lip quivered. “What did I do?”

  Paul rose and wrapped him in a bear hug.

  “You didn’t do a thing, Coog. Not a damn thing. I’ve just been preoccupied, that’s all.”

  Coog backed a step away. Fear shone in his eyes.

  “Does this have anything to do with that test?”

  O
h, shit.

  “Not at all. Doctor Takamura and I gave it to you straight: The test results from last week were inconclusive. They just need to rerun it. That’s all.”

  “If there was something wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

  “Of course I would. You’re not a little kid anymore.”

  That seemed to buck him up, driving the fear from his eyes.

  Paul gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder. “Why don’t we go to a movie?”

  “You kidding? On a weekday afternoon?”

  “Why not? You’re out of school, I’m off work. We’ll buy popcorn and Sour Patch Kids and sit with the old folks.”

  He smiled. “Okay. Cool.”

  “Check online for what’s playing. Find some action flick where you have to check your brains at the door.”

  “What if it’s R?”

  “Hey. You’re with an adult. Besides, you see worse gore on your videogames.”

  “All right!”

  “You pick the movie. And after I’ve done a little workout, we’ll head out.”

  Heavy-bag time. Until he got the new results he’d be a ticking bomb. Paul needed to hit something. Hit it hard. And often.

  SHEILA

  Sheila’s phone rang: Bill.

  “Before you hang up on me, please listen. I want to apologize for my behavior at lunch. It was inexcusable.”

  He certainly had upset her, but hearing him contrite and apologetic was making her even more uncomfortable. Cranky was one thing, but lately he was vicious. And too defensive about Tanesha and Kelly for her still to believe there was no connection to VG723. She had hit a nerve. Maybe he wasn’t behind that attempt on her life, but he was hiding something.

  “Look, you don’t have to—”

  “I do. The JCAHO has been nit-picking me to distraction in the accreditation renewal process. It’s not an excuse—there is no excuse—but I offer it as an explanation of sorts.”

  That brought her up short. The JCAHO … the Joint Committee on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations. Dek had worked for them as an investigator who looked for conflicts of interest and made sure everything was on the up and up. He’d been working for them when he’d …