Hebron, and there were nine in Tefka and six in Muellersville.”
The rabbi caught the phrasing. “You say you ‘had’ eleven patients. . . .”
Meyer gave him a bleak stare. “Three have already died. Two more are . . . well, they have lapsed into comas. The others are getting sicker almost as I watch. The muscles needed to swallow become atrophic and paralyzed. We’ve intubated them, and I’ve even trached a few, but the paralysis spreads so fast. I don’t know how to treat any of them.”
“There’s no cure. . . .” The rabbi said it as a statement. “God help us.”
“Researchers have been looking into gene therapy and other treatments, but even if we had a genetic option in hand, these people don’t have the time for it.”
“These are all children?”
Meyer shook his head. “No, and that’s what scares me the most. Infantile and Juvenile TSD are both fatal, but not LOTS. And yet every one of these patients is over twenty. Some are in their forties and fifties. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Could . . . could the disease have mutated?”
“It apparently has,” said Meyer, “but
how
? It was nearly eradicated. We’d beaten it. We’ve never had a single case here in Hebron, or in the other towns, and most of the people here are second- and even third-generation American born. We haven’t married strictly within the communities of Ashkenazi Jews, which means statistics should be on our side.”
Rabbi Scheiner put his hand on the young doctor’s arm. “Be strong, David. Tell me . . . what will you do?”
“I’ll have to report this. Now that I have the results from the genetic tests I can reach out to the major university hospitals.”
“What about the disease people?” asked the rabbi. “What about the Centers for Disease Control up in Atlanta? You went to them with the botulism problem a few years ago—”
“No,” said Meyer, “this is a genetic mutation, not a pathogen. It’s not contagious in any way that could cause an epidemic.”
Rabbi Scheiner’s eyes were intense, probing. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” said Meyer. “It’s an inherited disorder. You can’t just catch it.”
The rabbi nodded and turned to look out of the alcove at the patients in the ward. “Are you sure?” he asked again.
Chapter Twelve
Baltimore, Maryland
Saturday, August 28, 9:05 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 98 hours, 55 minutes
After I drove around for twenty minutes I switched on my scramble and tried to make some calls. Church’s line rang through to voice mail. His voice message was: “Speak!” I was tempted to bark, but instead I left a simple request for callback.
Next I called Grace, but she got on the line long enough to tell me that she got outside to “take a butcher’s at a bunch of dodgy blokes with federal badges who have me totally hacked off, so I’d better sort them out.” The more pissed off Grace gets, the more British she becomes. There are times I can’t understand one word in three, and English is my mother tongue.
Finally I got Rudy Sanchez on the phone. A few years ago my dad—who was Baltimore’s police commissioner until a couple of months ago—got Rudy a job as a police therapist, and Rudy’s association with me got him hornswaggled into the DMS. It’s a bit of a sordid soap opera. Rudy still did a couple of days with BPD, and today he’d be at his office near the Aquarium. He was very low profile, so maybe he’d be off the NSA sweep.
“Joe!” he answered, and from his tone of voice I knew that he was already aware of what was going on. “Thank God!”
“You heard?”
“Of course I heard!” he snapped, and said something about the Vice President in back-alley Spanish that was too fast for me to catch anything except vague references to fornication with livestock. When he finally slowed to a crawl, he asked, “
Dios mio
, Cowboy—are you all right?”
“I’m wearing filthy clothes, I’ve been hanging out
The rabbi caught the phrasing. “You say you ‘had’ eleven patients. . . .”
Meyer gave him a bleak stare. “Three have already died. Two more are . . . well, they have lapsed into comas. The others are getting sicker almost as I watch. The muscles needed to swallow become atrophic and paralyzed. We’ve intubated them, and I’ve even trached a few, but the paralysis spreads so fast. I don’t know how to treat any of them.”
“There’s no cure. . . .” The rabbi said it as a statement. “God help us.”
“Researchers have been looking into gene therapy and other treatments, but even if we had a genetic option in hand, these people don’t have the time for it.”
“These are all children?”
Meyer shook his head. “No, and that’s what scares me the most. Infantile and Juvenile TSD are both fatal, but not LOTS. And yet every one of these patients is over twenty. Some are in their forties and fifties. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Could . . . could the disease have mutated?”
“It apparently has,” said Meyer, “but
how
? It was nearly eradicated. We’d beaten it. We’ve never had a single case here in Hebron, or in the other towns, and most of the people here are second- and even third-generation American born. We haven’t married strictly within the communities of Ashkenazi Jews, which means statistics should be on our side.”
Rabbi Scheiner put his hand on the young doctor’s arm. “Be strong, David. Tell me . . . what will you do?”
“I’ll have to report this. Now that I have the results from the genetic tests I can reach out to the major university hospitals.”
“What about the disease people?” asked the rabbi. “What about the Centers for Disease Control up in Atlanta? You went to them with the botulism problem a few years ago—”
“No,” said Meyer, “this is a genetic mutation, not a pathogen. It’s not contagious in any way that could cause an epidemic.”
Rabbi Scheiner’s eyes were intense, probing. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” said Meyer. “It’s an inherited disorder. You can’t just catch it.”
The rabbi nodded and turned to look out of the alcove at the patients in the ward. “Are you sure?” he asked again.
Chapter Twelve
Baltimore, Maryland
Saturday, August 28, 9:05 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 98 hours, 55 minutes
After I drove around for twenty minutes I switched on my scramble and tried to make some calls. Church’s line rang through to voice mail. His voice message was: “Speak!” I was tempted to bark, but instead I left a simple request for callback.
Next I called Grace, but she got on the line long enough to tell me that she got outside to “take a butcher’s at a bunch of dodgy blokes with federal badges who have me totally hacked off, so I’d better sort them out.” The more pissed off Grace gets, the more British she becomes. There are times I can’t understand one word in three, and English is my mother tongue.
Finally I got Rudy Sanchez on the phone. A few years ago my dad—who was Baltimore’s police commissioner until a couple of months ago—got Rudy a job as a police therapist, and Rudy’s association with me got him hornswaggled into the DMS. It’s a bit of a sordid soap opera. Rudy still did a couple of days with BPD, and today he’d be at his office near the Aquarium. He was very low profile, so maybe he’d be off the NSA sweep.
“Joe!” he answered, and from his tone of voice I knew that he was already aware of what was going on. “Thank God!”
“You heard?”
“Of course I heard!” he snapped, and said something about the Vice President in back-alley Spanish that was too fast for me to catch anything except vague references to fornication with livestock. When he finally slowed to a crawl, he asked, “
Dios mio
, Cowboy—are you all right?”
“I’m wearing filthy clothes, I’ve been hanging out
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