Submerged Page 4

“So?”

  “So, a man with cataracts as advanced as his would be un-able to see well enough to walk, let alone drive a car.”

  “My father doesn’t have cataracts,” Perry said. “I saw him yesterday and his eyes were clear.”

  “His eyes were fine before lunch,” Anna offered. “They turned white after he passed out.”

  Perry remembered his mother’s panicked phone call. “Oh, Perry, his eyes—his eyes.”

  Monte Grant turned the undersized steering wheel of his Troy-Bilt lawn tractor to the right and chastised himself again. He should have gone with the larger model, bigger engine, more available gardening attachments, and twenty-one horsepower. But no. He had tried to save a few bucks. The riding mower was a good one, but more horsepower was better even if one didn’t need it.

  Before him lay an acre of lawn needing a trim, and he was doing his best to get it done before the Arizona sun melted him to the seat. It had been a busy morning, even for a retired civil engineer. He had trimmed the roses, hand-watered the trees, swept the concrete driveway, and grabbed a bite of lunch. Mail came, and he riffled through it. Nothing demanding his immediate attention. He tossed it on the counter and told his sister that he was going to “plow the lower forty.” Of course, there was no lower forty, just two acres of desert land beat back with hours of labor, gallons of water, and a hearty grass.

  “Don’t forget to milk the cows,” Luisa Grant-Winston called after him.

  There were no cows either, just the humor of a widow and widower who now shared a home in Kingman, Arizona. They had started their lives in the same home, went their own ways through most of their adult years, and came back together to share expenses and company when death forced each to be alone. Heart disease had taken Luisa’s husband two years ago; a stroke had taken Monte’s wife last year.

  Now Monte was wheeling his mighty lawn tractor over a large patch of green, thankful that the days of pushing a lawn mower were over. If he finished in time, he might be able to sneak a few hours in under the hood of the 1954 Ford Victoria Skyliner that had once belonged to his father. Of course, a nap would be required first.

  He turned the wheel again to straighten the mower’s direction so the blades would overlap the previously cut swath by a few inches. Nothing worse than stragglers.

  He wiped his brow of perspiration that threatened to trickle down his sixty-five-year-old face. At least his sweat glands were still working as they should. He wished he could say that about the rest of his body. Although he enjoyed good health, he wasn’t aging as well as he would like. Oh, to be a young fifty again.

  Monte blinked and tried to clear his eyes. Things were getting a little blurry. Too much sun, perhaps, or maybe it was time to get new glasses. It wasn’t that long ago that a once-a-year trip to the optometrist was fine, but now he found he needed new glasses every six to nine months. He hated growing older.

  Reaching the end of his run, he cranked the wheel again. His lungs didn’t feel right, and why was his vision blurring? His back hurt. Now his chest hurt. Something wasn’t right. Monte focused on his breathing, forcing each breath. That wasn’t right. Breathing was supposed to be normal. He gripped the wheel. The green of the grass and the blue of the sky were turning milky white, like a cold winter’s fog on the coast. But it wasn’t winter, and he wasn’t on the coast.

  Maybe he should see a doctor.

  He turned from his path and drove the mower toward the house. Need to slow . . . slow down, he thought and reached forward for the large plastic button that would release the cruise control. He missed. He couldn’t see it.

  Monte began to think. Odd to have to think about thinking. Why wasn’t his mind working as it should?

  The tractor moved forward.

  I should do something. Of course he should do something, but what? This shouldn’t be hard—brake pedal!

  Monte commanded his right foot to press the brake that would disengage the cruise control and bring the mower to a stop.

  His foot refused to move.

  His eyes refused to see.

  His lungs refused to work.

  The lawn tractor found the stucco side of the house.

  “No? You’re not serious. What do you mean, no?” Carl Subick stood before the desk of Captain Julius Whitaker. No one called him Julius.

  “Just that, Carl. I am not sending more men up there, and that’s final.”

  Carl stared at the twenty-year veteran of the Sheriff’s Department. Captain Whitaker had a reputation for plain speech, hard work, and a low tolerance for foolishness. “Did you hear what I said? We were attacked, held at gunpoint, assaulted, relieved of our sidearms, and I was handcuffed to the patrol car.”

  “I’ll make sure you receive new weapons at no cost to you.”

  “That’s not the point, Captain,” Janet Novak said. “Four men held automatic weapons on duly sworn officers of the law.”

  “You were on a military base. You know how much secret stuff goes on around here. Nevada is conspiracy central.”

  “We were on public land, Cap,” Carl retorted, louder than he intended. He lowered his voice. “I know those hills, I know that area. That’s why you sent me and not someone else.”

  “I have no doubts about your intelligence or your skill, but in this case you’re wrong.”

  “I may be a deputy sheriff, but I am still a citizen, and I want to swear out a complaint against the men who did this.”

  “You can swear in any way you like, but the issue is closed. We don’t have names, and the only description we have is that they wore black BDUs. So what?”

  “I can identify them,” Carl insisted.

  “Me, too,” Janet said.

  Whitaker shook his head. “You have to let this go. Trust me—it’s the best thing for your career.”

  “This isn’t like you, Captain,” Carl fired back. “Who got to you?”

  Whitaker was on his feet, his face red and his eyes narrow. Carl took a step back. Whitaker sliced at the air with a finger. “You watch yourself, Deputy, you watch yourself real close, because you are one hair’s breadth away from getting on my bad side. Unless you want to spend the rest of your career frisking criminals in the county jail, I suggest you take a moment to rethink the next thing you say.”

  The furnace of Carl’s anger blazed to a new level. His jaw clenched so hard he was certain his teeth would give way in splinters of enamel.

  “Let’s go.” Janet touched Carl’s arm. “We’re done here.”

  Carl didn’t move.

  “Come on, Carl. Let’s not make things worse,” she pleaded.

  Captain Whitaker dropped into his chair. He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Carl. Some things are beyond my control. Please, trust me on this. Let it go.”

  “We could go straight to the Sheriff.” Carl’s words stretched as taut as an elastic band.

  “It would do you no good. I’ve already spoken to him, or more accurately, he has already spoken to me.”

  “This came down from the top?”

  Whitaker nodded. “Yeah. The old man is none too pleased.”

  “With me? I mean, with us?”

  “He’s fine with you two, but something’s got him chewing through his lower lip. He wouldn’t tell me, so I can’t tell you. And if I did, I’d have to use language that would make birds drop dead from the air.”

  “So someone got to him,” Carl said.

  “A piece of advice, Deputy: Cut that phrase from your vocabulary. There are people who would take offense to it, people who can rip that star off your chest. Now get out of my office. Take the rest of the day off.”

  “We haven’t finished our report.”

  “There will be no report.”

  “No report? But—” Carl began to argue.

  “No report!”

  Carl slammed his hand on the desk; the sound of it filled the office. He swiveled and exited the captain’s office with Janet right behind.

  “I guess th
at’s that,” Janet said.

  “This isn’t even close to being over.” Carl marched away.

  Janet chased after him. “Wait a second.” She caught up. “What do you mean it’s not over? You’re not going to finish off your career and mine.”

  “Then go home, Deputy Novak. Go home.”

  Chapter4

  The MICU cubicles were full with those needing special attention—more than they could receive in a traditional hospital room. Normally a caring man moved by the plight of others, Perry had trouble feeling sorry for the other ill men and women. There was just one patient on his mind.

  Henry Sachs lay on the hospital bed, covered by a single white sheet that draped his slender form and reminded Perry far too much of a shroud. He was surprised how frail his father seemed. Always an active man, Henry was far more fit than the majority of men his age, but the years had taken their toll. No one remained young forever, not even the irrepressible Henry Sachs.

  It was hard for a son to see his father this way, Perry decided. Children always see their fathers as indestructible, but sooner or later the truth of life and death demands notice, he thought. Perry was no child, but he had always assumed that his father would continue on as he always did. And with that assumption Perry had blinded himself to avoid the thoughts that cross the mind of every adult child.

  A sniff and whimper snapped Perry’s attention from his father to his mother who sat in a wide, yellow hospital chair. Since long visits in the MICU were discouraged, there was only one chair. Access was limited to immediate family and that to a mere ten minutes. They had been there for over an hour. The nurses checked in from time to time but made no effort to evict them. Perhaps they knew it was a useless act. Or perhaps they granted extra time when they knew the patient was dying.

  A short, white-smocked Asian with thick black hair entered, carrying a metal clipboard. He glanced at Perry who stood next to his father’s bed and then to Anna in the chair. She started to rise, but he held up a hand.

  “I’m Dr. Yukio Nishizaki. My specialty is epidemiology. I’ve been asked to consult on this case. Have other doctors been by?” The man had a no-nonsense way about him. He had no accent.

  “No,” Perry answered. “Not since he was moved to MICU.”

  Nishizaki nodded. “They will. The nurses tell me that you’re Mr. Sachs’s son and wife, correct?”

  Perry said it was and made introductions. “What can you tell us? What have you learned?”

  “Not much. We’re still waiting on some test results. There will be more tests, I’m certain of that.”

  “You mean you don’t know anything,” Anna said.

  Nishizaki frowned. “We have found a particulate matter in your husband’s blood. As yet we don’t know what it is. I’ve never seen anything like it. At first I thought I was seeing something inorganic, but then I would see indications of biological activity.”

  “You mean like a virus?” Perry asked.

  “Yes, something like that. In many ways a virus teeters on the threshold of organic and inorganic. A virus is genetic material, DNA or RNA, wrapped in a protein sheath. They’re not free living organisms—that is, they can’t reproduce on their own. They can only exchange genetic matter inside a living cell. But . . . these aren’t acting like viruses, at least as far as we can tell at this stage.”

  “How so?” Perry’s brain was soaking up every word.

  “First, when Dr. Hibbard admitted Mr. Sachs through the ER, he called for a wide spectrum of antibiotics. Viruses don’t respond to antibiotics, yet your father stabilized. Right now we’re assuming the antibiotics are helping, but we don’t know how. And we don’t even know if that’s true, only that he stabilized soon after receiving the first course.”

  “Can’t you just look under a microscope and see what kind of virus he has?” Anna dabbed at her eyes again.

  “No, ma’am, I wish we could. Viruses can be up to one hundred times smaller than bacteria. Most are too small to see. The substance in your husband’s blood is very small, maybe thirty nanometers or less.”

  “Nanometers?” Anna asked.

  “It’s a unit of measurement.” Perry said. “A nanometer is a billionth of a meter, about point four millionths of an inch.”

  “The point is,” the doctor continued, “we have to identify the virus or substance or whatever it is by different means. His blood work has been sent to a lab with better facilities than ours for additional tests. In the meantime, I’ve notified the Center for Disease Control and requested their help.”

  “You think this might be communicable?” Perry asked.

  “We don’t know. So far there’s been no indication of it. I’ve brought on the CDC because of their vast database of diseases.”

  “You’re saying you need help.”

  Nishizaki nodded. “I’m not too proud to admit it. If it turns out to be routine, then at worst I’ve been cautious. I’m willing to risk that. In the meantime, I want a nurse to take blood samples from both of you. Let’s see if we can’t rule out any fear of contagion. Let’s start with you, Mrs. Sachs.”

  “I don’t want to leave my husband. Can’t the nurse come in here?”

  “Go ahead, Mom. I’ll stay until you get back.”

  It took several more encouraging prompts, but Anna Sachs, guided by the doctor, at last moved through the door. She seemed to have aged a decade since the morning.

  Perry returned to his father’s side and stared down at the man who was everything to him. Tears rose again. Grief was a poison, Perry realized. One disease had felled his father, and now a different disease threatened to knock Perry to his knees. He took his father’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m here, Dad.”

  The hand squeezed back, and Perry’s heart stumbled. He watched as his father’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing milk-white corneas. His father released his gentle grip and raised his arm. He was reaching for Perry’s face. Perry bent over and guided his father’s hand until it touched and ran down Perry’s stubbled face. Since he had planned to spend the day in the wood shop with Jack, he had not bothered to shave. Men didn’t shave for other men. Now he wished he had.

  “Perry.” Henry’s voice was just a decibel or two above a whisper.

  “It’s me, Pops. You’re in the hospital.”

  “Can’t see. Blind.”

  “I know. The doctors are working on that.”

  “Anna?”

  “She’s with one of the doctors. I’ll go get her.”

  “No. No.” Henry’s breathing became labored.

  “Okay. Easy, Dad. Don’t exert yourself. You need to save your strength.”

  “Listen. Mem–memorize . . . thirty-six, forty-two, thirteen.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Repeat.”

  Had the disease rendered him demented? Perry wondered. That might mean the substance in his father’s blood had reached his brain. Panic began to rise. Were these the last words of his father?

  “Repeat it, boy.”

  “Okay, Dad, okay.” Perry tried to settle his mind and recall the string of numbers. “Thirty-six, forty-two, thirteen.”

  “Good, good.” Henry’s breathing sounded wet. “Lloyd. Lake. Nevada.”

  “Dad, you need to rest—”

  “Listen. Important. Lloyd. Lake. Dam. Nevada. Monte Grant. Cynthia . . . Wagner.” He swallowed, and it looked painful. Victor Zeisler . . .” He licked his lips. Perry could see that his tongue was swollen. “Repeat.”

  “Lloyd. Lake. Dam. Nevada. Monte Grant. Cynthia Wagner, Victor . . . Victor . . . ”

  “Zeisler.” The last word came in breathy tones, as if Henry Sachs had just finished the Boston Marathon. Despite the effort he offered one more word: “1974.” He licked his lips again. Perry reached for the plastic water pitcher and searched for a way to moisten his father’s lips. He knew he was too weak to drink from a cup. Finding nothing, Perry poured a small amount of water into a cup, then dipped his fingers in it. Then he
touched his father’s lips with his wet fingers.

  Henry Sachs licked at the drops on his mouth, then whispered, “Go. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Dad.”

  “Go. Go. Don’t disobey . . . Go.”

  Henry Sachs closed his eyes.

  He didn’t answer Perry’s calls.

  “What did your mother say?”

  They were in Jack’s Dodge Ram pickup. Perry had left the keys to his car with his mother and made certain her cell phone had a full charge.

  “I told her what Dad said, but she didn’t know what most of it meant. She did recognize the number sequence. Apparently my father has a safe in his house. The numbers are the combination.”

  “You didn’t know about the safe?” Jack was steering the pickup toward the Sachs’s home. It was raining again.

  “No, but my dad has many secrets. It goes with his lifetime work, just like it goes with ours.”

  “No argument there.”

  People wanted to be let in on secrets, and when refused, some took it personally. Sachs Engineering had long been a government contractor. Whenever secrecy went with big equipment and unique buildings, Sachs Engineering got the call. The company had helped build underground military bases, continuations of government bases, secure aboveground research centers. Perry and Jack had worked in almost every U.S.-friendly country in the Western hemisphere—if not directly, then at least in the planning stages. Each had secrets they would take to the grave.

  The rain shimmered on the street and coursed down the passenger window. The weather matched Perry’s mood. “I can’t tell you how much I hate leaving him in the hospital.”

  “You don’t have to, pal. I can feel it. He’s still alive. Focus on that.”

  “Yes, he is, but he slipped back into unconsciousness. The doctors aren’t using the word coma yet, but I expect to hear it soon.”

  “We proceed in faith,” Jack said. “Always forward in faith.” Jack went through life with a quip on his lips and a joke at the ready. Perry had seen him face death with a smile. But from time to time, the deep waters of the man rose to the surface.