“Who was the guy in the bar?” Dicken asked.
Special Agent Bracken shook his head. “I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea, sir.”
“Joke?” Dicken asked.
Bracken smiled. “He was the best we could do on short notice. Good people with experience are kind of in short supply now, if you get my meaning. Slim pickings for honest folks.”
“Yeah,” Dicken said. Special Agent Bracken opened the door and Dicken walked to the Chevrolet.
Bloch's appearance was a surprise to him. He had never seen pictures and at first he was not impressed. With her prominent eyes and fixed expression, she resembled a keen little pug. She held out her hand and they shook before Dicken slid in beside her on the rear seat, lifting his leg to clear the door frame.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” she said.
“Part of the assignment, I guess.”
“I'm curious why Jurie asked for you,” Bloch said. “Any theories?”
“Because I'm the best there is,” Dicken said.
“Of course.”
“And he wants to keep me where he can see me.”
“Does he know?”
“That NIH is keeping an eye on him? No doubt. That I'm speaking with you, now, I certainly hope not.”
Bloch shrugged. “Matters little in the long run.”
“I should get back soon. I've been gone a little too long for comfort, probably.”
“This will just take a few minutes. I've been told to brief you.”
“Who told you?”
“Mark Augustine said you should be prepped before things start happening.”
“Say hello to Mark,” Dicken said.
“Our man in Damascus,” Bloch said.
“Beg your pardon? I don't get the reference.”
“Saw the light on the road to Damascus.” She regarded Dicken with one eye half closed. “He's being very helpful. He tells us Emergency Action is soon going to be forced to do some questionable things. Their scientific underpinnings are coming under severe scrutiny. They have to hit pay dirt within a certain window of public fear, and that window may be closing. The public is getting tired of standing on tiptoes for the likes of Rachel Browning. Browning has put all her hopes on Sandia Pathogenics. So far, she's keeping the Hill off her back by appealing to fear, national security, and national defense, all wrapped in tight secrecy. But it's Mark's belief that Pathogenics will have to violate some pretty major laws to get what they want, even should it exist.”
“What laws?”
“Let's leave that open for now. What I'm here to tell you is that the political winds are about to shift. The White House is sending out feelers to Congress on rescinding Emergency Action's blanket mandate. Cases are coming up in the Supreme Court.”
“They'll support EMAC. Six to three.”
“Right,” Bloch said. “But based on our polling, we're pretty sure that's going to backfire. What's the science look like so far, from the Sandia perspective?”
“Interesting. Nothing very useful to Browning. But I'm not privy to what's going on with all the samples brought in from Arizona—”
“The Sable Mountain School,” Bloch said.
“That's the main source.”
“Goddamned bastard is consistent.”
Dicken sat back and waited for Bloch's face to clear an expression of angry disgust, then concluded, “There's no evidence that social interaction or stress is causing viral recombination. Not in SHEVA kids.”
“So why is Jurie persisting?”
“Momentum, mostly. And fear. Real fear. Jurie is convinced that puberty is going to do the trick. That, and pregnancy.”
“Jesus,” Bloch said. “What do you think?”
“I doubt it. But it's still a possibility.”
“Do they suspect you're working with outside interests? Beyond NIH, I mean?”
“Of course,” Dicken said. “They'd be fools not to.”
“So, what is it with Jurie—a death wish?”
Dicken shook his head. “Calculated risk. He thinks I could be useful, but he'll bring me into the loop only when it's necessary and not a second before. Meanwhile, he keeps me busy doing far-out stuff.”
“How do the others feel about what Pathogenics is doing?”
“Nervous.”
Bloch clenched her teeth.
Dicken watched her jaw muscles work. “Sorry not to be more helpful,” he said.
“I will never understand scientists,” she murmured.
“I don't understand people,” Dicken said. “Anybody.”
“Fair enough. All right,” Bloch said. “We have about a week and a half. Supreme Court is scheduled to release their decision on Remick v. the state of Ohio. Senator Gianelli wants to be ready when the White House is forced to cut a deal.”
Dicken fixed her gaze and raised his hand. “May I have my say?”
“Of course,” Bloch said.
“No half measures. Bring them down all at once. Tell the big boys Department of Health and Human Services needs to revoke EMAC's blanket national security exception to 45 CFR 46, protection of human subjects, and exceptions to 21 CFR parts 50 and . . . amended, what is it, 312? 321? Informed consent waiver for viral national emergency,” Dicken said. “Are they going to do that?”
Bloch smiled, impressed. “21 CFR 50.24 actually applies. I don't know. We've got some institutional review boards coming over to our side, but it's a slow process. EMAC still funds a boatload of research. Get us whatever you can for ammunition. I don't want to sound crass, but we need outrage, Dr. Dicken. We need more than just pitiful bones in a drawer.”
Dicken tugged nervously on the door handle.
“We're on the knife edge of public opinion here. It could go either way. Understand?” Bloch added.
“I know what you need,” Dicken said. “I'm just disgusted that it's gone this far, and we've become so difficult to shock.”
“We don't claim any moral high ground, but neither the senator nor I are in this for political advancement,” Bloch said. “The senator's approval rating is at an all-time low, thirty-five percent, twenty percent undecided, and it's because he's outspoken on this issue. I'm beginning to take a dislike to our constituents, Dr. Dicken. I really am.”
Bloch offered him her small, pale hand. He paused, looking into her steady black eyes, then shook it and returned to his car.
Special Agent Bracken closed his door for him and leaned down to window level. “Some friends in the New Mexico State Police tell me that citizens around here aren't happy about what's going on at Sandia,” he said. “They—the police, and maybe the citizens—plan to engage in some civil disobedience, if you know what I mean. Not much we can do about it, and damned few details. Just a heads up.”
“Thanks,” Dicken said.
Bracken tapped the roof of the car. “Free to go, Dr. Dicken.”
24
ARIZONA
Stella awoke before dawn and stared at the acoustic tile ceiling over her bunk. She was instantly vigilant, aware of her surroundings. The dormitory was quiet but she smelled something funny in the air: an absence. Then she realized she couldn't smell anything at all. A peculiar sensation of claustrophobia came over her. For a moment, she thought she saw a pattern of dark colors form a circle over her bunk. Little flashes of red and green, like distant glowing insects, illuminated the circle, became tiny faces. She blinked, and the circle, the lights, the faces faded into the shadowy void of the ceiling tiles.
Stella felt a chill, as if she had seen a ghost.
Her thighs were damp. She reached under the covers with her hand and brought up her finger, curling it to keep the sheet clean. The finger was tipped with a smudge of black in the moonlight shining through the windows. Stella made a little sound, not of fear—she knew what it probably was, Kaye had explained it years ago to her—but of deeper recognition.
Just that afternoon, she had seen spots of blood on a toilet lid in the bathroom. Not her own; some other girl's. She had wondered if somebody had cut herself.
Now she knew.
With a sigh, she wiped the blood on her nightgown, beneath the fabric of her short sleeve, then thought for a moment, and touched the finger to the tip of her tongue. The sensation—taste was not really the right word—was not entirely pleasant. She had done something that seemed to violate her body's rules. But slowly her sense of smell returned. The sensation on her tongue lingered, sharp with an undertone of mystery.