“How’re you so sure it was a malaria vaccine?”
“Process of elimination,” Elmer said. “Zenavax has just one commercial product — their flu vaccine. It’s been on the market for over three years. If there was a problem with it, the world would’ve known about it long ago. The only new product in their research pipeline that I’ve heard about is their malaria vaccine. I made some calls. The rumor is that they’re testing it in Guatemala right now.”
Antonio walked up to their booth with a carafe of coffee and filled Elmer’s cup, then Ben’s. “Sir, can I make-a a question to you?” He was staring at O’Reilly.
The detective nodded.
Antonio’s head began to tremble. “The police — I no understand how you be so stupid. What you are tinking?” He turned to Elmer without waiting for a response. “Why they do this to your son. They make-a a big mistake. That’s what Antonio tinks.”
The Italian turned abruptly and walked away, mumbling to himself. Across the room, the deli’s only other breakfast customer glanced at their table over the rim of his glasses.
O’Reilly looked into his empty coffee mug, then at Elmer. “You’re also working on a malaria vaccine, isn’t that correct?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Ben asked.
The detective ignored his question. “Dr. McKenna, tell me about your project.”
“We’re further along than Zenavax. In a few months we’ll be in full production and my vaccine will be available in three countries. And our approach is completely different. I’m not using an alphavirus. We’ve developed a genetically altered mosquito that, instead of infecting you with malaria, injects a vaccine when it feeds on your blood.”
O’Reilly’s face curled into a knot. “How does that work?”
“We’ve modified the mosquito’s saliva glands so they produce two extra proteins. The first protein makes it difficult for the malaria parasite to survive in the mosquito’s gut, which is where it grows. The second protein looks a lot like one that’s found in the malaria parasite. In simple terms, that second protein is our vaccine.”
Elmer appeared to wait for the detective to finish writing some notes, then continued, “When a female mosquito feeds on your blood, it injects some of its saliva into your bloodstream. When my mosquito bites you, you’ll also get a dose of my malaria vaccine. Your body will think it’s being invaded by malaria and will activate the immune system to produce antibodies and something called T-cells. The antibodies and T-cells are what protect you against the infection.”
“So you’re creating squadrons of flying syringes?”
“That’s the basic idea,” Ben said.
“And the main difference between your malaria vaccine and Zenavax’s is that you use mosquitoes,” O’Reilly said. “Is that right?”
“There’s another key difference between my vaccine and Zenavax’s,” Elmer said. “From what I’ve heard, theirs only protects against one type of malaria — falciparum. Mine protects against both of the two most common types of malaria — falciparum and vivax.”
Antonio walked toward their booth with a carafe.
The detective held out his mug.
The Italian passed by without stopping.
O’Reilly followed Antonio with his eyes while saying, “A moment ago, you said, ‘we’ve developed.’ Who’s the we?”
“I’m working with our Genetics and Immunology departments,” Elmer said. “Actually, the original idea came out of our Genetics department. A doctor name Petri Kacz—”
“Detective, it seems your horse is wandering off the trail here,” Ben said.
“Maybe so.” O’Reilly flipped back a few pages in his notes. “Let’s go back to that other blood test you told me about — the one for cystic fibrosis. What’s the significance of that, in your mind?”
“The test was conclusive. That boy had cystic fibrosis,” Ben said. “Whatever killed the boy attacked the same organs that are targeted by CF. But his organs weren’t just damaged — the tissues literally dissolved. That’s not how Mother Nature works. This wasn’t a natural biological process. And the girl at the morgue — the one I told you about earlier — I think the same thing killed her.”
“Doc, what’re you trying to say?”
“We think the Zenavax vaccine caused a toxic immune reaction and cystic fibrosis probably played a role,” Ben said. “For some reason that I haven’t figured out yet, children with CF seem to be especially vulnerable to this toxic reaction.”
O’Reilly’s gaze shifted between the two of them before settling on Ben again. “And what would you like me to do about that?”
Ben glanced at Elmer. The two of them exchanged bemused expressions.
“Do your job, Detective,” Ben said finally. “Look into Zenavax.”
O’Reilly looked at each man in turn. “Your entire theory rests on a blood sample that’s been in the possession of the murder suspect’s father. Who, other than a moron, would believe that you didn’t alter the blood, or substitute someone else’s?”
“No, no, please.” Elmer said. “I didn’t change anything.”
Ben thought back to his visit from the mysterious black man and the directive he had passed along from Luke: Drop the inquiries into the two dead children. Now, more than ever, Ben knew he couldn’t do that — not if the police had stopped looking for other suspects.
“What kind of dimwit detective are you?” Ben banged his mug on the table, then shook the spilled liquid from his hand.
“Want me to keep going?” O’Reilly inspected his shirt and fingered a fresh spot of coffee. “What about the tissues you say disappeared from your lab, the ones from the coroner’s case? A cynical person might wonder why you waited almost three days to tell me about that.”
Ben stared at the detective for what seemed like a full minute, then said, “You don’t believe a thing we’ve just told you, do you?”
O’Reilly tossed his notepad on the table. “Doc, you’re either the dumbest cluck I ever met — or the cleverest — and I have no idea which.”
Luke’s climbing partners, Frankie and Paco, were slowing noticeably as the threesome neared the top of the heavily forested peak. Paco was in front, leading the group, but there was a reticence in the Indian’s gait that seemed to derive from something other than the steep incline.
On the other side of the summit they would find the remains of Mayakital, he’d been told.
Father Tom had deposited them at the mountain’s base after driving three hours through overgrown jungle trails that almost swallowed his small Nissan sedan several times. He would return at sunset to retrieve Paco and the boy. Luke had other plans.
It had taken another two hours to climb the slope, and Paco hadn’t said a word to Luke during that whole time. Even making eye contact seemed a struggle for the diffident man.
But not so with Frankie. Paco and the boy had an almost immediate rapport, cultivated in no small part by the little urchin’s formidable storytelling skills. The night before, when the priest had delivered them to Paco’s home, Frankie cooked up a fictional tale in which he cast himself as an orphan whose only hope for eventual adoption lay with Luke finding Megan, marrying her, and, soon thereafter, the happy couple adopting him.
Throughout the telling of his fable, Frankie’s face had been a bundle of innocence. Luke unwittingly reaffirmed the yarn, nodding like a simpleton every time the boy glanced in his direction, blissfully ignorant of what the urchin was saying. It wasn’t until later that he pieced it together from some comments by the priest.
Frankie’s efforts had had the desired effect, though. Paco opened up like a faucet. He described Megan’s assailants. They had worn black fatigue uniforms, which, to Paco, meant that they were military. Two were Caucasian, three Hispanic, and all five wore headsets. Luke wasn’t dealing with a ragtag group of thugs.