PART ONE: NEAH BAY

Chapter 1

Neah Bay is a Makah Indian village at the northwest tip of the Olympic Peninsula, which itself is the northwest tip of Washington State and the contiguous United States of America. Five hours from Seattle via ferryboat and a series of ever-narrowing roads, I pulled my Mustang off Bayview Avenue onto a graveled parking area on the brink of an embankment between the beach and the construction site where the grave had been discovered.

It was about noon. The bay was a serene semicircle of smooth water ringed by low banks and flat seaweed-strewn beaches, overlooked by small houses with a backdrop of tall dark evergreen forest. The weather matched our morbid business. A slow, cool breeze off the North Pacific Ocean was laden with billows of gray fog.

Peyton McKean got out of the passenger side and stretched his lanky limbs as though folding himself like a pretzel in the Mustang’s front seat hadn’t agreed with him. Soon, however, he was moving around excitedly. As is his habit at murder scenes and places of strange happenings, he strode along the front of the lot with his bony hands clasped behind his back like a gangly schoolteacher, pondering the lay of the land. His olive-green Stetson safari hat and canvas field coat protected him from the weather, but I felt a chill and zipped the collar of my windbreaker under my chin to keep out the damp air. The bulldozed construction site across the road from our parking spot was a miasma of dark brown muck after days of drizzle. I warned McKean, “I don’t want a speck of mud on this car.” The pristine midnight-blue metallic paint on its hood was dotted with tiny drops of clean rainwater.

He turned and glanced at the Mustang. “The guys in the repair shop did an excellent job,” he remarked.

“They did,” I replied.

“Your shiny toy is in no danger on this trip,” he said. “Even if this turns out to be murder, the perpetrator will have been dead for two centuries. I promise you, Fin, no car chases this time.”

McKean’s dark eyes took on a faraway look as though another thought were crowding into his prodigious mind. He turned a complete circle, gesturing at the neighborhood around us. “I can see why the Spanish chose this site for their fort,” he said.

“Fort?” I joined him in the middle of the empty street, looking vainly for signs of a ruin. “You never mentioned a fort. Especially not a Spanish fort.” I saw nothing but a row of modest cottages, most weathered by sea air and some in need of repair and all splotched on their sides and roofs with green moss. A hillside beyond the houses was thick with lichen-draped bigleaf maple and Sitka spruce trees. “I’ve never heard of any Spanish settlements at all in Washington State.”

“Then your knowledge of local history is inadequate,” McKean replied, “although quite understandable given that nothing remains to suggest a fort ever existed. Its walls were built of timbers, which would, of course, have moldered into the ground long ago. But the entire western end of Neah Bay was once a Spanish stockade.” McKean held up a long, pedantic forefinger. “Capitan Salvador Fidalgo built the fort here in 1792. It was the farthest Spanish outpost north of California, and a fine choice of location.” He swept the area around us with the palm of a hand. “Beach frontage, a stream to provide water year round, and a hillside from which a few cannon could defend the bay against British warships.”

“Why didn’t they stay?”

“They evacuated under mysterious circumstances just a few years after they arrived. They burned their stockade and left no traces - aboveground, anyway.”

“And the grave we came to see? Where’s that?”

“It should be over here somewhere.” McKean moved onto the lot motioning me to follow, which I reluctantly did. The lot was a rectangle of dark brown mud crisscrossed with the tread marks of the bulldozer that had cleared it. That huge, mud-spattered yellow hulk was parked at the back of the lot beside a jumble of giant stumps it had scraped from the land. We went past several stacks of two-by-fours and pallets of construction materials intended for framing a house, and as we picked our way among the water-filled tread marks I chided, “As usual, Peyton, you didn’t warn me about what we’d be getting into.”

“Sorry,” McKean tossed back casually. “Those running shoes were a poor choice compared to my more practical hiking boots.”

Near the center of the lot we approached a dark hole that went straight down into the mire. Its opening was partly covered by a heavy rectangular slab of stone that had been knocked aside by the bulldozer. Inside the triangular opening was the top of a stone staircase that had once been sealed off by the slab.

“Hello!” McKean called into the hole.

“Hello! Hello!” came back a muffled, friendly response from the depths. A moment later, a mud-streaked yellow plastic construction helmet emerged atop the head of a blond-bearded fellow so heavyset that he had to worm his way out of the opening by twisting and turning his body to squeeze past the slab. He wore a yellow Mackinaw raincoat, well filled by a robust chest and smudged with reddish-brown mud. Smudged too were yellow rain pants on his thick legs and black rubber boots and gloves. Once fully emerged from the opening, he stood as tall as lanky Dr. McKean, but carried a weight advantage of about two-to-one. He greeted us with a wide, even-toothed grin and a twinkle in his blue, bespectacled eyes. “Peyton McKean!” he exclaimed, pulling off a glove and thrusting out a stout-fingered hand. “I’m glad to see you!” They shook hands, and then the man turned and clasped my hand in a warm, strong grip. “Phineus Morton, right? Peyton told me he had a driver.”

“Driver and news correspondent,” I corrected, rankled by the notion I was no more than Peyton McKean’s chauffeur.

McKean said, “Fin, this is Leon Curtis, the UW archeology professor who called us here.”

“Welcome to my mud bath,” Curtis said with a grin. Everything about him was streaked with muck, including some traces in his curly blond beard.

McKean gestured down at the opening. “Anything new to report?”

“Sure,” Curtis replied. “Plenty.” His wire-rimmed, slightly fogged glasses had their own smudges of mud. “I’ve been clearing the entry so you guys can get in without getting too dirty. I tried to get Pete Whitehall to move the slab - ” He pointed toward the bulldozer, where I now noticed a small man wrapped in an army-green hooded poncho standing beside it. The man stared at us without moving, with no expression on his face.

“Pete’s having a hard time this morning,” Curtis explained. “Acting kind of weird. Not making too much sense. I think he’s a little spooked. He says Gordon Steel warned him the spirits of the dead would escape if he left this place uncovered. Told him to bulldoze over the hole and go home.”

“Gordon Steel?” McKean asked. “Who’s that?”

“An old Makah buzzard who claims to be a shaman. He’s made it his personal business to meddle in this project. Hangs around here constantly. He’s got Pete pretty nervous about ghosts and spirits. Personally, I think Pete’s gotten himself a little drunk or stoned. He doesn’t look too good.”

Even at a distance of fifty paces Pete Whitehall’s face looked rigid and ghastly pale. He stood stalk-still, as if waiting for someone or something to set him in motion.

McKean was more interested in the crypt opening. “Where are we in relation to the rest of the fort?” he asked.

“Near the center, I think,” Curtis replied. “Under the floor of a storehouse, judging by some traces of wood foundations I found.”

McKean leaned his long frame over the stone slab and peered at it down his long, shepherd-dog nose. “From the looks of that lid,” he said, “someone wanted to keep this place sealed tight. That’s a local type of stone, Cape Flattery conglomerate, I believe. It appears rather hastily hand carved into a slab that might weigh half a ton. Sufficiently massive to keep anyone from getting in.”

“Or out,” I remarked, glancing again at Whitehall’s spooked expression.

“That’s about right,” Curtis agreed. “And it was sealed and forgotten for more than two centuries. Then last Tuesday, Pete’s dozer knocked the slab off while he was clearing the lot for the builder. You know the rest.”

McKean nodded. “Controversy over whether the burial is Native American or European. Jurisdictional fights between the tribe and the land owner. And, inevitably on a reservation, NAGPRA issues.”

“NAG-what?” I asked McKean, who had pronounced the acronym “Nagpra.”

“N-A-G-P-R-A,” McKean spelled it out. “The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, approved by the U.S. Congress in 1990. It restricts what can and can’t be done with Indian burial sites.”

“And makes life difficult for archaeologists,” Curtis added. “Although it has its bright side - fines and imprisonment for illegal collectors and grave robbers.”

“It’s NAGPRA that brought us here,” McKean explained to me. “The DNA tests I intend to carry out will settle the Native-versus-European issue once and for all. Shall we proceed?”

Curtis turned and began to descend the staircase, motioning for us to follow. He wriggled his big body past the stone block as he had done on his way up but when he was about chest deep, an angry shout came from the woods beyond Pete Whitehall. “You there! Keep out of that place. It’s sacred!”

The man who made the outcry emerged from an animal trail and brushed past Whitehall, who remained frozen in place, and came at us. He was a frail old man who hobbled, steadying himself with a tall walking stick. His body was wrapped in a black bearskin cloak that he clasped at the front with his free hand. His forehead was bound by a red felt scarf, tied headband style, and his long gray hair flew wildly on the breeze. Below the cloak his scrawny bowed legs were bare. He was barefoot too, despite the cold and mud.

“Meet Gordon Steel,” Curtis said to us under his breath as the old man approached. The strange old bird stopped a few paces away, wheezing like he had smoked too much over a long lifetime. He let out a guttural, disapproving grunt. A harsh scowl drew his bushy gray eyebrows together. His eyes shone intelligently, but there was no hint of friendliness in his wizened Native American face. His upper lip and chin bristled with wiry gray whiskers. His mouth turned down at the corners pugnaciously. He pointed an arthritic finger at Curtis.

“I thought I told you don’t come around here no more.”

“Tribal elders told me otherwise,” Curtis replied.

Steel’s expression grew darker and his eyes narrowed to slits. “You can get some of those old fools to agree to anything.” Gesturing at McKean and me with his cane, which was topped with the carved head of a raven, he demanded, “Who are these guys?”

“Doctor McKean came from Seattle to get a DNA sample,” Curtis explained, indicating McKean with a gloved hand.

Steel fixed his beady eyes on McKean and glared. As I watched them staring each other down, it dawned on me that McKean had once again sweet-talked me into the path of trouble. My hackles rose at the old man’s hostility.

Steel flinched first and glanced away. “More babalthuds from Seattle,” he muttered angrily to Curtis. “Who says they can take anything from the grave?”

“You know who,” Curtis replied. “I’ve already got permission from the Tribal Council, the Makah Museum, and the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

“None of them speak for all Makahs,” growled Steel. “Not even the Tribal Council. None of them keep the old ways like I do. They don’t live at Spirit Cove. They don’t hear the wind talk. They don’t see the ocean move. They use babalthud electricity, babalthud cell phones, babalthud garbage trucks and sewers. They eat and drink babalthud poisons. What do they know about what’s important to a Makah?”

“Babalthud,” I interjected with my tongue stumbling on the pronunciation, in which Steel had voiced “lth” as a single consonant with air escaping out the sides of his mouth. “What’s that word mean?”

The old man looked at me with disdain equal to that he had shown Curtis and McKean. “It means, ‘Those whose homes are on the ocean.’ It’s our name for white people who came here on sailing ships - and black and yellow and brown people who came with them. All you newcomers. All you Americans. All the outsiders and Johnny-come-latelys.”

“I get the picture,” I said.

Curtis gestured at McKean. “My friend here is a careful investigator. He won’t disturb anything - “

“He disturbs everything just by being here!”

“He’s an internationally recognized scientist. He’s developed the best DNA tests to distinguish one tribe from another - “

“DNA!” Steel shook his stick at McKean. “Go home to Seattle, DNA man! Leave our ghosts alone. And you!” He turned to me, all but thumping the raven-beaked head of his walking stick on my chest. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a medical reporter,” I said, restraining my rising anger.

“Newsman, eh?” The whiskery corners of his mouth curved down deeper in distaste. “You write stories about us big bad Makahs killing them innocent whales?”

I shook my head in the negative.

His expression moderated slightly. “Too many stories been written about us killing whales. Brings boatloads of protesters. They don’t know nothing about whales or why we hunt them.”

I shrugged. “Not my kind of story. I write medical news.”

He thought a moment. “Plenty of medical reasons why we hunt whales.”

“Come on, Gordon,” Curtis cajoled. “What harm is there in taking just a small DNA sample?”

“Harm? Seems like everything a babalthud does harms a Makah one way or another. You wouldn’t get no DNA if I had a say in it.”

“Hrock! Hrock!” A loud bird call arose at the back of the lot in the trees above Pete Whitehall. Two large ravens left their cover in a bigleaf maple and swooped down to land on the muddy ground just behind Gordon Steel, one on either side of him. Their alert dark eyes added an eerie, demonic feel to an already unsettling scene. When one called its low-pitched “Hrock,” again, Steel broke into a peg-toothed smile. “Raven sends his greetings,” he chuckled. “These birds are here to keep an eye on you guys.”

Curtis let out an exasperated sigh and took a step down the stone staircase, watching Steel carefully. “I believe this is a Spanish burial, not Makah,” he said.

“And I believe you’re desecrating a sacred Makah place!” The ravens joined Steel with a chorus, “Hrock! Hrock! Hrock!”

Curtis continued his descent until only his head and shoulders were above ground. He said pointedly to McKean and me, “Coming, guys?” Then he disappeared into the hole. McKean went down after him and I followed, avoiding the old man’s angry stare. I half expected a blow from his walking stick, but he let me descend unmolested. I twisted my body carefully to avoid the slab and the muck-smeared edges of the hole, joining McKean and Curtis in the dim light at the base of the staircase ten feet below ground.

“An interesting place,” McKean remarked as Curtis shone a flashlight around the chamber. It was a small stone vault with an arched ceiling made from large blocks of the same dark brown conglomerate as the lid. The place smelled dank, but the stonework was dry except where slimy seeps wetted the walls and puddled the stone floor. The corners of the ceiling were draped with cobwebs that moved on ghostly air currents.

“A very interesting place,” Curtis agreed. “Definitely not Makah construction.”

“It has the look of a bunker,” McKean observed as Curtis moved his light around the claustrophobic space, scarcely ten feet on a side. “Perhaps it was the garrison’s powder magazine, built strong enough to withstand a bombardment by British naval ships.”

“There were no powder kegs down here,” said Curtis. “Nothing at all - except this.” He shone his light on a large stone bier in the center of the chamber. About three feet high, it supported a dusty rectangular box about three feet long, by two feet, by two feet.

“A Makah funeral box,” McKean remarked.

“That’s right,” said Curtis. “Kerf-cornered, bent-cedar-plank construction, traditional Makah style.” The archeologist played his flashlight over the surface of the box. “It’s built according to classic Northwest native techniques. Split a single large plank from the heartwood of an old-growth cedar tree. Score it crosswise and bend it to make the four sides of a box from one continuous piece. Attach the top and bottom planks with wooden pegs, carve some totem symbols, stain red with berry juice, black with charcoal, and green with oxidized copper.”

McKean inspected the images carved on the sides of the box. “It’s decorated in a most un-Spanish style,” he murmured. The front panel bore the image of a two-headed serpent-like creature whose body undulated across the width of the box, and whose twin reptilian heads doubled back to face each other. McKean circled the box and I followed. “The same design, repeated,” he said.

“Serpents on all four sides,” said Curtis. “And a raven on top.”

“Spirit guardians, no doubt.” McKean studied the images closely. “To keep evil spirits out, perhaps.”

“Or in,” I suggested.

The pupils of the serpents’ and raven’s eyes were inlayed with pearly shell that glinted in the dim light. Staring into those cold pupils, I became acutely aware of the dank chill in the tomb’s air.

Curtis shone his flashlight at a back corner of the box. “Have a look here, Peyton. The coffin is in great condition except for this one gap.” His light illuminated an opening in the rear of the box where dry-rotted wood had sagged away from the lid. Through the gap, dry gray bones were visible, stacked in a crisscrossed pile. The skull sat on top with its dark eye sockets staring at those who had disturbed its slumber.

“A typical Northwest Native reinterment,” said Curtis. “The flesh was allowed to rot away on a raised platform or in a canoe left in the woods. Once the bones were cleaned by birds, they were gathered and put in the box. But have a closer look inside.”

McKean nearly stuck his nose inside while Curtis played his light around the interior. “Ah!” McKean exclaimed, pointing a long index finger at the far corner. “A sword.” I craned my neck to look past McKean and spotted a tarnished metal object - narrow, slightly curved, and almost three feet long. It crossed the upper space of the box and lay across the pile of bones that had presumably been its owner.

“Spanish, late seventeen-hundreds,” Curtis explained. “A basket of silvered metal filigree protecting the grip, green and black enamel on the scabbard. Military. Officer’s issue. Undoubtedly European and therefore not covered by NAGPRA.”

McKean continued to peer inside the box. “So most Makahs must agree this grave is not subject to NAGPRA jurisdiction. Who’s been down to see it?”

“Not too many people I know of,” said Curtis. “Out of respect for the dead - or fear. Pete Whitehall was the first, but he’s not a Makah. He’s a construction contractor from Forks, hired to bring his dozer here and clear the lot. When he saw what was down here, he fetched the land-owner, who got the Makah Museum involved. They contacted me.”

“Anyone else been down here?” McKean asked.

“Just that old coot, Gordon Steel. Came down and performed a ceremony a couple days ago. Chanting, drumming, some incantations to communicate with spirits. He came back up and declared that since it’s a Makah coffin, it’s a Makah burial no matter who’s inside. I pointed out the crypt isn’t like any other Makah grave and the remains don’t look like those of a Makah. See that?” He pointed his flashlight at the skull. “Gold-capped tooth.” One of the skull’s front teeth was covered in green tarnished metal that had once been bright gold. “I’m convinced the guy’s Spanish. And some Makahs agree. But Gordon Steel still says no.”

McKean observed the gold cap carefully. “I suppose Steel argues the dental work was done on a Makah by the garrison’s surgeon and the sword was a gift from a Spaniard.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“Steel’s resistance is all the more reason to get my DNA sample quickly.” McKean pulled an orange-capped plastic test tube from an inner pocket of his field coat along with a pair of purple rubber gloves. He put on the gloves, retrieved a clear-plastic freezer bag from another pocket and took a large pair of forceps from it. He peered intently into the coffin. “Now then, Senor,” he addressed the skull, “if you don’t mind.”

He reached his long arm into the box and gently probed the bones for a suitable spot from which to take a sample. While he did so a rumbling noise came down the staircase.

“Hmm,” Curtis murmured. “I wonder why Pete’s firing up the dozer?” He handed me the flashlight and moved to the staircase. “I’ll go see what’s up.” He ascended the steps and squeezed out the opening, leaving me shining the light into the box while McKean probed the bones. A musty, dank stench came from the coffin. Another look at the skull’s hollow eye sockets and grinning teeth set me on edge. Bits of skin remained, grayed and tightened over the bones of the face. The eye sockets had eyelids within them, sunken and shriveled against the bone. Desiccated lips stretched away from the gaunt teeth. A few wisps of dark hair hung from the dome of the skull.

“Hold the light steadier, please,” McKean said.

“I’m trying,” I replied in a voice seemingly too small and spooked to be my own. In contrast to my reluctance to be in this place, McKean showed no hint of disgust or anxiety. Instead, he coolly described what he was doing. “Ah. Here we go. Right clavicle with several bone splinters adherent. I’ll just take a small bit with attached dried dermis.” He probed the forceps into the bone pile, gingerly pried loose a tiny fleck of bone, and then withdrew his hand from the coffin and dropped the bit inside the test tube. Then he sealed it one-handedly with the orange cap and put it back in his coat pocket. While the bulldozer rumbled louder above, he stripped the gloves off his hands and put them and the forceps in the pocket as well. “That’s it,” he said. “I took a piece just big enough for DNA analysis. No one’s ancestral spirit will miss it.”

What had started as a faint rumbling above had grown to an earthquake-like vibration shaking the vault around us.

“Is it coming this way?” I called to McKean as dust fell from between the ceiling stones.

Above, Leon Curtis shouted, “Hey! Watch out!” I hurried up the staircase with McKean close on my heels. When my head emerged past the cover slab I gasped. Twenty feet away, the bulldozer’s blade was churning up a mountain of muck and pushing it straight at my face. Above the blade was an even more unnerving sight - Pete Whitehall tugged the steering levers with jerky, maniacal motions, his eyes wide with a demonic gleam. A taut grin on his mouth seemed to match the one I had seen on the skull. When Pete saw my head protruding from the hole, he accelerated the bulldozer.

Curtis shouted again, but there was no need to warn of the all-too-apparent danger. As the blade and its pile of muck surged to within inches of my face, I stumbled backward down the steps to avoid decapitation and backed into McKean at the bottom of the staircase. He grabbed my coat sleeve and pulled me away from the muck spilling through the opening and blotting out the triangle of daylight above us. In my frantic haste, I dropped the flashlight. The torrent of mud, rocks and roots cascading down the steps quickly covered it. Cast into total darkness, we backpedaled to the far wall. As the colossus rumbled over us, it shook the crypt and the pit of my guts as well. I was certain we would be buried in suffocating muck. But once the bulldozer had run completely over us, the roar of its engine and the clank of its treads subsided. The slurch of inrushing mud stopped. We were left in relative silence with a mountain of earth rising to the ceiling and completely plugging the opening, blotting out any trace of daylight.

“My God, Peyton,” I gasped, staring into the darkness where I thought he was standing. “We’re buried alive!”

“Yes, we are,” McKean agreed in an unexpectedly calm voice, which came out of the blackness at right angles to where I thought he was.

“What are we going to do?”

“Let’s wait to be rescued,” he replied in a calm and calculated tone.

“No way!” I cried. My heart was pounding to the point of bursting. “We’re trapped in a black hole with a grinning corpse and snake-demons! I’m not waiting for anyone!” Leaving McKean to contemplate when and how rescuers might reach us, I threw myself at the pile of mud. I dug in with both hands to the elbow and pulled down masses of yielding muck. Soon, my arms and legs were completely smeared with clammy wet goo but the blackness around us remained absolute. “Maybe that shaman guy wants us buried,” I called back to McKean while I dug.

“Maybe he does. But my advice is still to wait for help.”

I kept at my task but each time I swept an armload of muck down, more replaced it from above, increasing my hopelessness and panic. After several minutes of futile digging, I sat down on the stone floor, panting, covered in muck, and almost frozen by the chill of the wet earth.

“It’s a simple proposition, Phineus Morton,” McKean explained. “If Gordon Steel or some other Makah wants us to stay in this fix, then Leon may not be able to help us immediately. On the other hand, if Leon is free to act…”

Clank! The sound of a shovel on stone came from above us. Seconds later, a small shaft of daylight shone in at the top of the steps.

“You must be superhuman,” I wheezed at McKean as a hand in a black rubber glove pushed more mud aside. “How can you stay so calm?”

“Fear is a useless sentiment,” McKean replied. “I try to avoid it.”

Leon Curtis’s face appeared at the opening. “You guys all right?”

I was too out of breath to speak, but McKean said calmly, “We’re doing just fine.”

“Good,” said Curtis. His face vanished and the shovel reappeared, scraping mud off one step and then another, working down from the top. I joined in, pulling mud off the lower steps with both hands, unconcerned about my clothes, which were already wet and encased in muck. After a few minutes of mutual effort, the staircase was cleared and the crypt was lit by daylight again. McKean, now visible standing in a far corner, was calm and untouched by mud. He looked me up and down and smiled.

When Curtis reached the bottom of the stairs, McKean asked him, “What happened up there?”

“Pete Whitehall went nuts.”

“Apparently so,” McKean remarked, deadpan.

Curtis pulled off a glove and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a hand. Then he turned to go up the steps. “C’mon,” he said. “I’m not sure what Pete’s gonna do next.”

I slogged up the steps after Curtis, glad at least that we didn’t have to wriggle past the cover slab, which had been carried off by the bulldozer. Emerging into daylight, I looked around for the dozer and saw that it had run the length of the lot and stopped near the road.

“He drove right over us!” I wheezed, still trying to calm my pounding heart.

“Obviously not Pete Whitehall’s day,” McKean said from behind me. I expected McKean to be coated in as much muck as I. Instead, he emerged from the opening with his canvas field coat unmarred, his olive denim pants unbesmirched and his safari hat unsullied. In fact, there was no mark on his clothing at all to suggest he had been imprisoned in the same hellhole as I - with the exception of a small spot of mud on the toe of one of his hiking boots.

He chuckled, appraising my condition. “Just look at you, Fin.”

I glanced down at my body, which was encased in thick chocolate brown mud from chest to toe. Feeling a warm blush of humiliation rise in my face, I touched a cheek with mud-sodden fingers only to find the cheek already smeared with as much muck as the fingers that touched it.

“That’s my friend Phineus Morton,” McKean quipped. “Never too shy to throw himself into the middle of the action.” He laughed heartily and Curtis joined in. I began to laugh too, struck by the ridiculousness of my condition and the stark contrast of McKean’s cleanliness.

“You see, Fin,” McKean said between chuckles, “the second alternative was the correct hypothesis. There was no shamanistic spell cast, so logically, Leon was able to help us without hindrance.”

I lifted my face to let a misty rain wash some of the mud from my cheeks. “Peyton McKean,” I muttered, “one of these days you really will get us killed.” I inhaled fresh sea air, beginning to regain my composure.

McKean said, “I wonder what’s up with Pete Whitehall and the old man?” A glance at the bulldozer made my blood heat up. The machine was idling at the front of the lot and Pete Whitehall sat in the driver’s seat in an unnaturally stiff posture, his face hidden from us by the hood of his poncho. Gordon Steel stood nearby, saying something to Pete that was inaudible from our distance. The two ravens stood near him, cawing occasionally, as if they were joining in the conversation.

Curtis cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Hey, Pete!” He got no reaction. Steel glared at us disdainfully.

Rage replaced my fear. Without a plan in mind, I ran for the bulldozer along one of the tread-tracks it had left after running over us. McKean and Curtis followed, picking their way over the uneven ground more carefully. I sprinted, driven by fury that grew at every step. Steel turned to face me and appeared about to intervene. “Out of my way, old man!” I warned him as I moved onto the road and circled to the front of the bulldozer. I shouted at Pete Whitehall, “Hey, man! What’s your problem?”

He didn’t reply. He sat rigidly, staring at the two ravens as if they were mesmerizing spirits in control of his mind. His hands gripped the steering levers tightly. A continuous tremor coursed through his body like an electric current running through him. His face was white as a sheet except the flesh around his eyes, which had taken on a sick hue somewhere between pink and purple.

“Hey!” I shouted again. “I’m talking to you.”

Curtis approached and put a big hand on my shoulder. “Easy, Fin. He doesn’t look too good.” Curtis called Whitehall’s name but got no response other than a quick, convulsive twitch of the man’s head to one side. After that, Whitehall resumed his forward stare at the ravens.

“Peculiar behavior,” McKean said when he joined us. “Notice the dazed, absent look in his eyes, and how he blinks repeatedly?”

“Does that mean something to you?” I asked.

“Answer: no. Nothing obvious, anyway. But they’re peculiar symptoms when coupled with the pallor of his skin and that purple discoloration around his eyes.”

Curtis climbed up on the treads beside Whitehall and switched off the ignition key. Even killing the engine got no reaction from the man. But when Curtis put a hand on Whitehall’s shoulder, the effect was immediate. Whitehall jolted to life, making a noise somewhere between a moan and a Frankenstein’s-monster growl. He lashed out with arms flailing and legs kicking, driving Leon down off the bulldozer.

“What’s wrong with him?” I cried, shocked by the mad-dog look in his eyes.

“Unclear,” McKean replied.

“Oh, I think I know,” chortled old Gordon Steel, who stood off a few paces watching Whitehall. “He’s lost his soul.”

“Quit talking like that!” growled Curtis, whose good humor had finally run dry. “You’re not helping!”

“Bahh!” snapped the old man. “You don’t know nothing.”

Whitehall, given a little room and some time, calmed down. He sat back in his seat and then shook himself. He glanced around in a disoriented way, like an immobilizing spell had just been broken. “Where - ?” he sputtered. “Wha - ?” The look on his face transitioned from vacant to confused. “How did I get here?” After a moment, he climbed down from the dozer in jittery, jumpy movements. Then he stood on the pavement with small tremors running through him. His head twitched involuntarily to the side again.

McKean appraised him thoughtfully and then said, “You’d better see a doctor.”

“Yeah,” Whitehall agreed. “I’m not feeling so hot.”

“That’s an understatement,” I muttered.

“Come with us,” said Curtis. “We’re going to the Makah Elder Center to show them the sample Peyton took. Somebody there can help you.” We turned and walked along the road toward the middle of town and Pete Whitehall fell in with us, trailing Leon like a whipped puppy. Old Gordon Steel stayed behind, chatting amiably with the ravens as if they were friends.

“What’s up with him?” I whispered to McKean, eyeing Whitehall learily as he doddered along behind us.

“Answer: uncertain,” McKean replied. “Delirium tremens, perhaps.”

“DTs? From drinking?”

McKean shrugged. “That’s my best guess, given limited data.”

“He’s got to have the world’s worst hangover, then,” I said.

McKean’s diagnosis did nothing to improve my attitude toward a man who had nearly killed me, but I let my anger cool as we walked the three-block distance along the shore drive to the elder center.

Chapter 2

On the way, our attention was diverted by a blaring noise and an odd sight. Across the bay, two boats were coming in from beyond the harbor’s mouth. The first was a wooden dugout canoe about twenty-five feet long, paddled fast by a crew of eight men. Not far off the canoe’s stern and dwarfing it was a ship shaped like a coast guard cutter but painted with eye-popping murals of spouting whales and leaping dolphins. She followed the canoe at an unsafe distance. Her engines streamed black smoke and a man’s voice crowed over her loudspeaker, “We stopped you today and we’ll stop you tomorrow. Makah whaling is history!”

“That,” Curtis muttered, “is an unwelcome sight when I’m trying to be diplomatic. It’s the Righteous, flagship of Whales First.”

“Ah, yes,” said McKean. “The anti-whaling protest group. Captained by Wayne MacGraw, the computer mogul. He’s worth billions. And his first mate is nearly as rich. Michael Cohen, the Hollywood movie magnate.”

“Guaranteed to stir up hard feelings around here,” Curtis said.

The two craft came straight for us but as they neared a small dock below the bank where we paused to watch, the Righteous veered away and slowed to a stop in the middle of the harbor. The paddlers brought their canoe in beside the dock and stopped by back-paddling. The canoe was an interesting craft, painted black on the outside and red on the inside. Its tall bowstem rose to a prow carved in the shape of a wolf’s head, while the pointed stern rose to a lesser height. On the sides of the bow - where ancient Greeks would have painted eye spots - the Makahs had carved and painted a red, black, and white design in geometric Northwest Coast style, depicting a Thunderbird with wings spread wide and a whale clutched in its talons. The boat, carved from a single huge log, was wide enough for two men to sit abreast on a half dozen cedar plank seats.

Some of the debarking crewmen wore Tshirts and shorts. Others wore wetsuits, some peeled to the waist. Their shoulders, arms, legs, bare feet and faces were dark bronze, their long straight hair was dark brown or black. Some wore their hair in Indian braids or tied in a knot on top of their heads. Some wore woven cedar-bark hats, headbands or armbands.

“Now, wait a minute,” I said. “I thought a court in San Francisco banned whaling by Makahs.”

“Thanks to a lawsuit brought by MacGraw,” said Curtis. “Maybe you missed the fact that a Federal Appeals Court overturned that verdict just last week. So the whalers are back in action.”

McKean said, “I’ve seen that canoe on TV. It’s the Makah Pride.”

“Right you are,” said Curtis. “The Tribal Whaling Commission and the International Whaling Commission have given the crew permission to take a whale.”

“Hence the protesters.” McKean pointed at the cutter, which was dropping anchors at its bow and stern.

“The Righteous,” Curtis said ruefully, “is the floating home to the angriest bunch of whaling protesters you’re going to find. They’ll probably stay here for as long as the Makahs try to hunt whales. MacGraw, Cohen and their movie-star friends have deep pockets.”

The ship’s loudspeaker blared again over the calm waters. “Give up, Makahs. We’ll never let you get that close to a whale again.”

Meanwhile, the crew below us busied themselves with unloading. Each man had a wooden paddle, ornately carved and painted with native designs. Two men lifted out a long coil of rope. A man at the bow hefted a ten-foot long pole from the canoe and stood it on end. It was a harpoon with a dangerous-looking, six-inch, shining metal barb at its tip. He raised the weapon and held it over his head and shook it at the Righteous, bringing a round of hoots and jeers from a dozen men and women lining her upper deck railings.

The last Makah to get out of the boat needed assistance from two of his mates. He was injured and cradling his left arm with his right. As we watched the man step onto the dock with his fellow crewmen helping him, a wailing siren sounded the arrival of a medical rescue van with red lights flashing. It pulled into a gravel parking area just ahead of us.

We paused and watched the Makahs escort their wounded mate along the pier and up a grade to the van. Two medics briefly examined his injured arm and then helped him onto a stretcher in the back of the van. They closed the doors and the van sped away, and we were left standing uncomfortably close to the angry whalers.

The loudspeaker of the Righteous blared over the harbor again. “That’s what you get for attacking whales, Makahs. Whales feel pain, too.”

The Makahs eyed us sullenly as we resumed our walk, which led in their direction. Curtis murmured, “Their lead man with the harpoon is Andy Archawat. He’s - well - not too friendly.”

“Archawat,” I repeated. “An interesting name.”

“A traditional family name, I suspect,” said McKean.

We walked on an angle that would take us to the elder center, but Archawat strode to a point directly in front of us and stopped with the harpoon’s butt on the ground and its barbed steel tip glinting at the end of the long wooden shaft. He blocked our way and we stopped.

Archawat wasn’t as tall as McKean, but he was taller than me and therefore over six feet. He wore a short-sleeved wetsuit unzipped to the waist. His bronzed torso and arms were muscled and lean and covered with sweat or rainwater, or both. Steamy vapor rose from his shoulders. His black hair was shaved at the temples and a long ponytail arched out from the back of his head in a streamlined, dolphin-like flow. He wore a band of woven cedar-bark fibers around his head, tied in such a way that the bristling ends of the cedar strands projected from his forehead. He was a particularly handsome Makah but his dark brows pinched together below the cedar bristles in an evil-tempered scowl. He had a tattoo on his chest in the form of a lightening bolt zigzagging from under his left nipple, across his pectoral muscles and onto the right side of his neck, where it ended in a Northwest-style serpent head with bared fangs and protruding tongue.

He and his men gathered in a semicircle around us, scowling darkly as the ship’s loudspeaker echoed across the water again. “Shame on you, Makahs.”

Archawat gestured toward McKean and me with his free hand and demanded of Curtis, “Who are these guys?”

“They’re - ” Curtis hesitated, ” - from Seattle. Fin Morton and Dr. Peyton McKean. They came to get the DNA sample.”

As Archawat eyed me and McKean pugnaciously with his chin thrust out and his eyes narrow, the hair stood up on the back of my neck. “More white people from Seattle,” he muttered. “Who says they can take anything from the grave?”

“You know who,” Curtis replied evenly. “I’ve already got the elders’ permission.”

“Elders don’t speak for all Makahs. Old folks don’t come out on the ocean with us. They don’t see what goes on out there.”

The Righteous’ loudspeaker blared. “Give up, Makah murderers.”

“My friends aren’t protesters,” said Curtis. “They’re scientists.”

“You know what happened today?” Archawat growled. “We had a whale on our bows. Seven men at full stroke and me in the front, harpoon ready. Then a goddamn Zodiac rammed us. Broke Billy Clayfoot’s wrist and his paddle too. Whale went down and didn’t come up for half a mile. We lost him.” There was a choked note of pain in his voice that I hadn’t expected from such a fierce-looking man.

The loudspeaker from the boat didn’t let up. “We stopped you today and we’ll stop you every day until you quit whaling.”

“We got families to feed,” Archawat muttered. “Some Makah kids are two, three years old and they never tasted whale.”

“But surely they get plenty to eat,” I responded, “without needing to eat whales.”

“Who are you to say, mudpie?”

“Well, I’m - a medical reporter.”

He pointed toward the Righteous. “Why don’t you report genocide, then? They’re trying to kill Makahs.” His face was hot and his neck veins pulsed. I decided not to make any more arguments.

“Stop the slaughter!” the loudspeaker cried.

Archawat’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Pretty soon we’re not gonna take no more crap from white people. Not them protesters. Not you grave robbers from Seattle.” He glared at McKean and me with undisguised contempt.

Curtis took a conciliatory tone. “Come on, Andy. What harm is there in taking just a small DNA sample?”

Archawat remained stony, leaning on his harpoon’s shaft. “You wouldn’t take nothing if I had a say.”

Curtis shrugged. “I’m certain it’s a Spanish burial, not Makah.”

“It’s on Makah land. It’s not your business.”

Some of the crew had remained on the dock, unloading the canoe. One called, “Hey Andy! Here they come!” Two Zodiac launch boats had been tied at the stern of the Righteous. Now they came toward the pier with two-man crews. Each boat carried a load of red five-gallon fuel cans.

Archawat’s tan face reddened with rage. “Sons of bitches!” He put his harpoon into the back of a large black pickup truck in which the other men had been stowing gear, and then rushed back down onto the pier.

The Zodiac crewmen disembarked at the far end of the pier, near a solitary gas pump with a long black hose. Before the Zodiac men could begin fueling, Archawat and the other Makahs raced to the end of the dock and closed in on them. A tense standoff ensued, with shouting and shoving on both sides. One protester in a purple Sherpa hat and a pullover jacket of black polypropylene began aggressively elbowing his way toward the pump, but Archawat piled into him like a football linebacker and drove him back. The two men grappled on the brink of the dock while the others, Makahs and protesters alike, seemed divided between egging them on and trying to pull them apart. Suddenly, both men plunged into the water beside the dock. The scuffle was over as fast as it had begun. Both sides fished their man out of the water. The protesters got back into their boats and roared back to the Righteous without getting gas. The Makahs resumed unloading their canoe. The Righteous’ loudspeaker blared again, “No problem, Makahs. We’ll get gas over at Snow Creek landing. See you tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

We resumed our walk to the elder center. McKean asked, “Whose side would you choose, Fin?”

I shrugged. “I don’t consider myself an out-and-out whale lover, but I don’t see why Makahs need to take out their macho aggressions on gentle sea creatures.”

“And I don’t consider myself a defender of Makah whaling,” McKean replied, “but there are usually two good sides to any argument that goes on as long as this one has.”

“What’s good about whaling? It’s a return to barbarism.”

“Or to tradition,” Curtis interjected.

“But who needs a tradition that involves slaughtering intelligent creatures?”

“Don’t overstate your point, Fin,” said McKean. “Whales are about as smart as cows or dogs. People slaughter cows for food and use dogs as experimental animals.”

“Leave it to Peyton McKean,” I said, “to resort to cool logic and science. I hate to think of the suffering of a harpooned whale.”

“A clash of cultures,” Curtis sighed as we walked on. “I don’t want any part of it.”

“And I’m more concerned right now about my own miserable condition,” I said. My wet clothing had begun to make me shiver.

The Makah Elder Center is a large wooden structure, one of very few buildings that stands on the beach side of Bayview Avenue. Constructed on a framework of huge round log beams and uprights, its wood-planked sides and slanted roof recall the native longhouses that once crowded the shore.

We approached the building via a walkway that passed a twenty-foot-long, open-sided, wooden shed standing just outside the main doors. Pungent driftwood smoke billowed through a hole at the top of its roof. On the sandy floor was a driftwood fire that had been rendered into a huge heap of hot embers. Desperately cold as I was, I moved close and raised my chilled hands toward the bed of coals. Its radiance warmed me from head to toe.

There was a man on the opposite side of the fire who nodded a friendly greeting and gave me a smile. “Looks like you fell in a mud hole.”

Curtis explained, “We had a little trouble at the grave site.”

“Always trouble there.”

The man wore a chef’s apron over blue jeans and a red western shirt. His long, straight, gray hair was pulled back in a single braid. He moved around the sandy floor of the pavilion on bare feet, tending to the preparation of some tempting food. A half dozen whole salmon fillets were arranged around the fire, each one fastened on a three-foot upright cedar-wood stake with its sides spread like a square-rigged sail and kept in place by horizontal wooden skewers like yardarms holding it flat. Having been exposed to the heat of the bonfire for some time before we arrived, the filets’ pink meat had roasted to a crisp golden brown. The chef turned each fillet on its stake and then tamped the sand around the stake’s base with his foot. “One last turn and they’re done,” he said amiably. The fillets steamed from the heat of the embers, bubbling and dripping juices onto the sand. My wet clothes steamed too. The scents of baking salmon and driftwood smoke combined with mouthwatering effect.

Leon continued in the direction we’d been walking, to a large cedar door that led into the elder center. Seeing that neither McKean nor I were in a hurry to leave the warmth of the fire, he called, “Come on, gentlemen. We’ve got business inside.” He opened the tall door and gestured for us to go in. I reluctantly left the warmth of the cookhouse and followed Curtis and McKean into the building. Pete Whitehall, who had just shambled up, hesitated on the walkway. “I gotta go park the dozer first,” he said to me. “I feel a little better now.” Without waiting for a reply, he hurried back the way he had come. Curtis led us into a foyer where he began taking off his muddy outerwear and hanging it on wooden wall pegs. In a moment, he was clean and dry in a blue plaid Pendleton shirt, blue jeans and stocking feet. McKean hung up his wet hat and coat and was passably dry himself. I, on the other hand, had a distinct problem. “I don’t know what to do about all this.” I gestured with both hands at my soaked and muddy body and a spreading puddle of drip water. “I can’t go inside like this.”

At that moment a small old woman with permed white hair, wearing a long white cotton dress, an embroidered blue felt vest, and beaded moccasin boots, approached us. “Hello! Welcome! Come in!” she cried, smiling sweetly at Leon and Peyton. When her gaze fell on me, her neatly penciled eyebrows rose high. “Oh my gosh! You poor dear! What happened to you?”

“I had…a little accident.”

“I guess you did!” She scrutinized me up and down through her thick bifocal glasses. “You’re all over mud.”

A group of other Makah oldsters came out of the main room and gathered around us. Old men, some with crew cuts and others with long gray hair in Indian braids, and old ladies with flower-patterned dresses, some with braids and some with thinning hair permed into gray-and-white curls, looked me over with expressions of mixed concern and humor.

Curtis, McKean, and I hesitated, uncertain of what to do with me, until the first grandmother said, “Come here.” She waved me to follow her to a door just beyond the entry foyer with a men’s room symbol on it. “Go in there and take off those wet clothes. We’ll get someone to wash and dry them for you. And meanwhile, I’ll get you something else you can wear. My name’s Alma Kingfisher, by the way.”

Leon said, “Go ahead Fin, we’re going to be here awhile.” I went into one of the stalls and peeled off my soggy windbreaker, my soaked shirt, my muddy running shoes, my damp socks, and finally my mud-caked black levis, dropping each piece into a pile in a corner of the floor until I stood there in just my white skivvies, which somehow had managed to stay dry. A glance in the mirror at my muddied face and hands encouraged me to go to the sink and splash soap and water over myself. As I scrubbed, an old Makah gentleman with hearing aids and a crewcut shuffled in and gingerly picked up my pile of clothes, putting each piece into a black garbage bag.

“Folks across the street can wash these for you,” he said, turning and carrying them out while I dried off with paper towels from the wall dispenser. I stood there a moment, wondering if they expected me to go out and join them as I was. Then the door opened a crack and a small hand appeared, holding a red-and-black felt blanket towards me.

“Here,” said Alma Kingfisher. “It was all that was handy. Wrap yourself up and come to lunch.”

I took the blanket and the hand withdrew. I threw the blanket over my shoulders and wrapped myself in it, clasping it shut in front with one hand like old Gordon Steel had done with his bearskin cape. In the mirror I noticed that this was no ordinary blanket. I turned myself around to inspect its front and back. It was a square of heavy red felt cloth edged in black felt, about five feet on a side, with a black felt applique design of a thunderbird with its wings spread diagonally from corner to corner. The thunderbird and the blanket itself were outlined with half-inch mother-of-pearl buttons.

“It’s Henry Clayfoot’s old button blanket,” said Kingfisher from outside the door. “It’s for dancing. Come on out and let’s see how you look in it.”

I had wrapped myself in the blanket as thoroughly as I could, but when I stepped out into the main hall and was appraised by a dozen elders, I looked down with dismay at my legs, which were exposed below the knees. My bare feet, shiny with water, were much too white-looking for the company, who all had one shade or another of Native American coloration. The oldsters ooh-ed, ah-ed and chuckled, getting some cheap entertainment at my expense.

Alma Kingfisher said, “Oh, don’t look so glum, sonny. We’ll have your clothes back on you before you know it. Come on now and eat some lunch.” She took a pinch of my blanket and led me into the main hall where another several dozen elders were seated at long tables. The great room spanned the building’s forty-foot width. Huge log beams sawn from whole tree trunks supported a slanted ceiling that rose to join a wall more than twenty feet high on the bay side. Almost entirely windows, the wall gave a wide view of glittering Neah Bay. Three giant upright logs carved as totem poles integrated into the wall to support the ceiling beams. The central house post was topped by a thunderbird with outstretched wings, clasping a whale in its talons.

Everyone in the great room seemed to be talking at once, filling the place with a lively hubbub. My benefactor led me to one long table and gently pushed me down into a chair at one end, which happened to be near a large stone fireplace in which a pile of driftwood logs blazed.

She moved to the other end of the table and took her seat, smiling with queenly serenity at Leon Curtis, who was already seated on her left with McKean beside him. They began chatting with her as soon as she was seated. I found myself excluded at the far end of the table but didn’t mind because the fire warmed my chilled body.

Basking in my new warmth, I looked around the place, admiring its bold architecture and hand-carved furnishings. On my left sat an old man and woman who leaned close to one another and conversed softly, occasionally casting glances my way. His face was dark tan and deeply lined and his white hair was cropped short and bristling. Her face was much paler than his and dotted with large sparse freckles. Her thin salt-and-pepper hair was curled. Her dark eyes looked watery and outsized behind thick, dark-rimmed glasses, but they twinkled when she saw me glance her way. Flashing a white-dentured smile, she introduced herself. “I’m Ginny Musselshell and this is my husband Arnie.”

Arnie, the man who had taken my clothes, looked me over amusedly. “Had some trouble at the grave, did you?” he asked.

“Word travels fast,” I replied.

“Always trouble there,” he remarked, echoing the sentiments the cook had expressed.

Several young Makah men and women were circulating around the room, serving luncheon plates brought from the kitchen. A young man leaned over my shoulder and placed a plate in front of me. On it were a generous slab of the salmon that had been cooking outside, buttered corn on the cob, a bun of white bread, and a large dollop of something that looked like creamed spinach. The others were already eating, so I picked up my fork and tried the salmon. The savory, steaming pink flesh was almost indescribably good - buttery, mildly smoky, crisply browned, and intensely warming to my chilled body.

“Good?” asked Ginny.

“Wonderful,” I said without exaggeration. “I’ve never had better!”

She nodded her approval and then went back to her own meal. Other than Ginny and Arnie, the elders paid little attention to me. However, as they ate, the old men and women occasionally paused to eye Curtis and McKean with keen interest. When Peyton McKean took the orange-capped test tube from a pocket and allowed Alma Kingfisher to inspect it, the room grew quiet. Young and old alike watched her intently. When she smiled and handed the test tube back to McKean, the conversations resumed, quieter than before. It was clear the DNA test was of concern to every Makah, but Alma Kingfisher seemed to hold the deciding vote - perhaps due to her seniority.

Chapter 3

The general buzz of conversation escalated when some newcomers entered a side door and went to the right-front bayside corner of the room. This was a small group of young Makah children who looked excited and a little nervous. Each child wore a small version of a button blanket like the one I wore, and each held a small wooden canoe paddle painted with red and black native-style art. They giggled and fidgeted, and some scampered about heedless of the exhortations of a Makah woman in her mid-twenties who watched over them like a mother sandpiper.

The woman was dressed more strikingly than anyone in the room. Her shoulders were wrapped in a red, black, and mother-of-pearl button blanket, and on her head was a headdress of soft doeskin with a raised tiara-like front covered in geometric patterns of small, light and dark seashells. Her lustrous black hair hung in braids on each side. Her long dress of pale doeskin was ornamented with small, olive-shaped shells hung in pairs on short leather strands, tapping together in a chorus of clacking sounds as she moved. On her feet were doeskin moccasin boots adorned with colored feathers that fluttered with each step.

Ginny Musselshell noticed me looking and leaned across the table. “Tleena’s kids are going to dance in honor of Alma Kingfisher’s ninety-sixth birthday.”

The boom of a single loud drumbeat silenced every conversation. In the corner where Tleena had finally gathered the children, five men sat around a three-foot-wide painted tom-tom. They wore headbands of woven cedar bark, jeans and black felt vests with totem animal designs appliqued in red. Some wore single eagle feathers in their black hair. Having gotten everyone’s attention with their first loud impact, they settled into a moderately-paced rhythm using leather tipped beater sticks.

At the first sound of the drum, Tleena began arranging the children into a line, one after another, in the open floor space at the center of the room, around which the elders’ tables were arranged. When the children were organized to her satisfaction, she nodded to the drummers. They intensified their beat and raised their voices in a chant, “Wo-ee-ello-ee-ello! Wo-ee-ello-ee-ello!”

The children began a slow dance step, moving their bodies up and down by bending their knees and pantomiming a stroke of their paddles timed to the cadence of the drummers’ chant, urged along by their attentive headmistress, who stood at the rear of their line. They raised their paddles in unison and pulled a slow right-handed stroke in the imaginary water beside their imaginary canoe, took a step, and then pulled a similar stoke on their left. As they moved forward in unison in their rhythmic knee-bending motion, they gave the impression of a canoe crew paddling across a rolling ocean. Advancing across the open floor space, they beamed with pride at their achievement. The elders smiled back. A sense of communion hung thick in the air between the new generation and the old. I, too, was swayed by the rhythm of the drum and lulled by the gentle melody. I felt privileged to witness something timeless, a moment that echoed across generations of Makah tradition.

Tleena held a paddle as well. She joined in as the last person in the canoe line, smiling proudly at the approval her children got from the elders. As she dipped her paddle into the invisible water and moved to the music, it was clear she had danced this dance many times and now carried out each ritualized motion with a fine and subtle style. I noticed she was most agreeably shaped. Her curves were outlined momentarily under the doeskin each time she bent her knees in the paddle motion. Enchanted by the beauty of her movements and the cadence of the drums, I felt afloat on a placid ocean with Tleena and her crew.

The canoe line paralleled our table. As Tleena moved past me, I saw that she was extremely beautiful - mild facial features, honey-colored skin, gentle amber-brown eyes and a delicate jaw line that made her look smallish in the mouth and correspondingly cute.

She held her paddle in hands that were fine-boned and delicate, and as she swung it back and forth in time to her step I noticed the lack of a wedding band on her left hand. I wondered if Makah culture was so different from mainstream America that she would wear some other token of marriage. As she followed the line of children in the canoe’s slow circuit of the floor space, I saw on the back of her red blanket a black Raven design outlined in pearly buttons.

Eventually, the canoe passed the last table and the drummers hit three loud beats and stopped. Tleena ushered the children up to the front of the room to take a bow and the elders applauded heartily. McKean, Curtis, and I joined in the applause until Tleena guided the children to some small tables on one side of the room for a salmon lunch of their own.

Alma Kingfisher spoke up from the head of our table. “Why haven’t you fellows eaten your sea spinach?” She looked from McKean to Curtis to me, and then lifted her fork and took up some of the green paste I had assumed was regular spinach, never having heard of sea spinach. She ate the bite, savoring its taste with an approving smile, and then gestured to us that we should try ours. McKean and Curtis each took forkfuls of the dark and unappealing green mush and raised it to their mouths. Never a fan of spinach, I forked up a small bit, held it under my nose and sniffed at it. The seaweedy, sulfurous, and muttony aroma that rose from it killed my enthusiasm. But Curtis and McKean politely tried theirs. Alma Kingfisher watched them expectantly. “Well?” she asked after a moment.

McKean swirled the goo on his tongue and then swallowed twice. He said diplomatically, “An intriguing taste.” Alma and the other elders watched amusedly as he set his fork down and didn’t take another bite.

Beside him, Leon Curtis had unobtrusively lifted his napkin and spit his mouthful into it. Alma grinned and asked, “Something wrong, Leon?”

“I’m not too hungry right now.” He crumpled the napkin and set it on his plate.

Alma turned to me next. “How about you, Mr. Morton?”

I still held the forkful of sea spinach in front of my mouth. Compelled by the stares of Alma and the others I took a small nibble. The paste sat offensively on my tongue - a sticky, seaweedy, vaguely nauseating mass of slime. Even though I had taken very little from the fork, the glob of goo seemed much too big to swallow.

“Well?” Alma asked again.

I forced myself to swallow and the sticky mess slid down my throat in a queasy, slithering way that made me feel seasick. I swallowed a second and third time, my eyes dimming as I force the offensive glop down. Everyone at the table awaited my response. “That’s uhh - ” I gulped again, searching for a word. “Different.”

Alma laughed delightedly. “Yes, it sure is. You want some more?”

I waved a negative hand gesture. “No, thanks.”

“Going to finish what you’ve got?” She looked from one to the other of us with a perverse pleasure in her eye.

McKean was game enough to take up his fork again and try another small bite. He rolled it on his tongue like a connoisseur savoring a sip of an unusual but intriguing wine. Curtis, however, shook his head no. Alma grinned at me expectantly.

Deciding to end the matter gallantly, I took a deep breath, picked up my fork and swept up the entire remaining mass. I poked it into my mouth and immediately gulped it, relieved that it slid down my throat with less negative reaction than before.

Tleena came to the table to wish Alma Kingfisher happy birthday and then she and Curtis exchanged familiar greetings. She turned to McKean and put out her hand. “I’m Tleena Steel, and you must be the famous Dr. McKean.”

“Steel?” he inquired as they shook hands. “Any relation to Gordon Steel?”

“He’s my father,” she said, causing me a moment of astonishment that this native beauty could share any relationship with the haggard old man. “I’ve heard so much about you from Leon,” she went on. “He says you’re going to solve the mystery of the grave.” Her large dark eyes glowed with an intelligent light.

“I’ll do my best,” McKean replied.

She looked down the table at me and asked, “And, who’s this?”

McKean said, “Tleena Steel, meet Fin Morton.” She came around the table and held out her hand, which I gladly took, searching for words to complement her dance and her beauty. However, she quickly let go of my hand and drew back a pace. She looked down the front of me and her expression changed to shock and amusement.

“What?” I asked reflexively.

“Your - ” she stammered, pointing down at my lap. “You need to, um, adjust your blanket.”

I looked down and saw that I had unconsciously let my left hand release its grasp on the blanket, exposing my pale-skinned lap and white skivvy briefs. I quickly gathered the edges of the blanket. I grinned sheepishly with the heat of a deep blush warming my cheeks. I said lamely, “Sorry.”

She smiled at me sympathetically. “You’ve had a tough day, haven’t you Mr. Morton? But at least you ate all your sea spinach.” She pointed at the trace of green goo that remained on my plate.

“What is that stuff, anyway?” I asked, hoping to change the subject while I pulled the blanket tighter around me.

“A recipe my father has been experimenting with. Something from old times. Would you like some more?”

Mesmerized by the smile that lit her face, I was as pliant as clay. “Sure,” I murmured. “I’d love to have some more.”

She hurried away to the kitchen and reappeared carrying an oblong wooden bowl carved in the shape of a whale. It had a human face on one end and human feet on the other with soles up to give the impression of a whale’s tail. In the hollow of the bowl was a formidable mass of sea spinach. She set the bowl down in front of me and used a wooden spoon carved like an otter to plop another green gob on my plate.

I hesitated, thinking there were limits beyond which I wouldn’t go to get Tleena’s approval. The rank mudflat aroma from the new glob made my stomach turn. “What’s in it?” I asked, stalling as I took up a forkful and dubiously eyed the congealed, greasy mass.

“Let’s see,” said Tleena. “There’s seaweed - “

I screwed up the courage to take another mouthful as she continued, ” - two kinds of leaves and a root - “

In my mouth, the stuff seemed to take on a life of its own, coating my tongue until I almost gagged. My senses rebelled at the oily consistency and sulfurous aroma.

” - and vitamin W,” she concluded.

“Vitamin W,” McKean repeated. “Never heard of it. What is it?”

“My father calls it vitamin W,” Tleena said with a laugh. “But it’s really whale oil.”

Whale!

I stopped in mid-swallow, but only managed to choke myself. With the wind cut off to my lungs, I doubled over and clutched at my throat. Everyone around the table reacted in alarm as I gagged, unable to inhale or exhale. I began to think only the Heimlich maneuver could save me - but I finally managed to swallow the mass and haul in a ragged breath.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Tleena said, thumping an open palm on my back. “Are you alright?”

My breathing returned to normal. I pointed at the remainder of the sea spinach on my plate. “If this has whale oil in it, I don’t think I should eat it.”

Gasps and murmurs around the room made me realize such a statement was not to be made lightly at a Makah dining table. “That is,” I said with my breathing still spasmodic and my mind rushing, “I just don’t believe in killing them, that’s all.”

That made things worse. A cold silence fell over the table. Realizing I had offended everyone present, I looked imploringly at Tleena. A scornful word from her would make my isolation complete. Instead, she managed a forbearing smile. “Oh, no you don’t!” she said in the tone of a schoolteacher managing a petulant child. “You’re not getting off that easily.” She grabbed up the carved spoon, dug it deeply into the whale bowl and splatted a huge glob of the concoction on my plate. “Now eat!”

Hard pressed by scowls and dubious expressions on all sides, I realized Tleena had offered me the only path to redemption. I picked up my fork and shoveled a big gob into my mouth and quickly gulped it down. The sight of me chastened by Tleena triggered uproarious laughter around the table. Seeing how Tleena’s good graces had given me a path back to social acceptability, I swept up the last forkfuls of the sea spinach from my plate and bolted them down. As I did so, the tension around the table abated.

“Not so bad after all?” Tleena asked, patting my shoulder.

“Not so bad,” I allowed. An unexpected thrill started where her hand touched me and coursed throughout my entire frame. While I pondered her powerful effect on me, she glanced across the room at the fidgeting brood of children. “I’d better get back to my kids.”

“Which children are yours?” I asked, thinking this interesting woman had just declared herself married and a mother.

She looked at me for a long moment and then laughed. “Why, all of them, of course. I’m a teacher at Neah Bay Elementary School.” She watched my face for a moment. Another warm flush spread over my cheeks.

“I’d better get going,” she said, flashing a smile and then hurrying off to the children’s tables. I watched her organize her brood into a double-file line for the walk back to school. My heart rate slowed from the gallop it had reached when she was near.

“Here you go,” said a voice behind me.

Arnie Musselshell stood there, his arms heaped with my clothes, which were now washed, dried, and neatly folded. Even my jogging shoes had been dried and cleaned up.

I thanked him and hurried to the men’s room clutching the bundle of laundry under one arm and clasping the blanket tightly closed with the other hand. I got dressed quickly and came out and handed the blanket to the old man. I looked around for Tleena and the children but they were gone. McKean and Curtis were in the foyer, putting on their coats and rain gear.

“There you are, Fin!” said McKean. “Our bone sample is duly approved, not without some dissenting opinion, of course. This would be a good time to fetch your Mustang and hightail for Seattle.”

I trailed Curtis and McKean out to the street feeling a little queasy from too many helpings of sea spinach. As we walked along the wet asphalt toward the Spanish fort, I asked if they’d had much trouble convincing Alma Kingfisher and the elders to let the bone sample go to Seattle.

“Answer: no,” McKean responded. “Most elders are ambivalent and only Gordon Steel is firmly opposed. While he speaks with authority on some matters of tradition, he doesn’t have veto power in an issue like this.”

“Oh, my God!” Curtis suddenly cried.

Chapter 4

McKean and I followed Curtis’s gaze.

The bulldozer was in motion again on the muddy lot. Pete Whitehall steered it in erratic turns with the engine racing and then nearly killing, and then racing again. Huge puffs of black smoke belched from the exhaust stacks. Pete grappled wildly with the controls, sitting in the unnaturally stiff posture we had seen before. We ran toward the scene as Pete plowed into the stumps at the back of the lot and the huge blade scattered them like cordwood, even though each weighed tons. Pete tugged hard on a steering lever and the machine veered toward the house next door - a small bungalow with a mossy peaked roof and pale blue siding. The blade edged in at the rear but the bulldozer turned slightly, only tearing off a long strip of siding while the house shook like it was in an earthquake.

As Pete steered his juggernaut toward the front of the lot, a young Makah woman burst out the front door with a baby in her arms, hysterically urging a small boy to follow while she pulled a toddling girl along with one hand. As she hurried away down the street, people emerged from other houses and came to her aid. A potbellied man in a white T-shirt picked up the boy and carried him. A middle aged woman grabbed up the toddling girl and ran with the mother to the porch of a house three doors down, where they turned to see what Whitehall would do next. As we raced toward the scene, the canoe men emerged from another house and came on at a dead run.

McKean and Curtis slowed as we neared the lot, but I accelerated - my Mustang was parked too close for comfort. The canoe crew ran onto the lot and began waving and shouting at Pete, who ignored them and kept on his crazy, zigzag course. As I reached my Mustang, Pete yanked a control lever hard and the machine jerked onto a new path, coming straight for me. His mouth contorted into a snarl and a demonic light glittered in his red-rimmed eyes.

Curtis and McKean both shouted and waved me away from my car as the bulldozer ran up and over a pallet of stacked two-by-fours, crushing them to matchsticks. Now there was nothing between it and the Mustang. I reached into a pants pocket for the keys - and discovered they weren’t there. They had either been removed or fallen out in the wash. The bulldozer neared the street. McKean, Curtis and the canoe men retreated out of the way. But I stood my ground, determined that Pete, no matter how insane, would not take my car from me. I searched my other pants pockets and found them empty.

Pete veered over a pallet of fiberboard sheets and reduced them to wood chips. While McKean and Curtis shouted more warnings, I patted a side pocket of my windbreaker and felt a lump. Someone had put everything back in one place after the wash was done. I fished around and felt my wallet, two pens, some pocket change, and at last - my keys! I yanked them out just as Pete bumped across the street gutter and the bulldozer came up onto the pavement. I opened the door and jumped behind the wheel. I plunged the key into the slot and cranked the ignition. Just for an instant, my eyes locked on Pete’s mad face. He leered at me over the top of the blade, his eyes afire with animal rage and ringed by ghoulishly purple sockets. His cheeks were ashen and his teeth gnashed like a mad dog’s.

The engine fired quickly and its roar mingled with the rumble of the bulldozer’s engine and the clank of its caterpillar treads on the asphalt. I jammed the floor shift into reverse, gunned the engine and dumped the clutch. The bulldozer’s blade was five feet from the driver’s-side door when the Mustang’s rear tires spun and gravel clattered on her undercarriage. The tires skittered on the yielding ground but began pulling the Mustang back in a bucking, fishtailing movement. As the blade closed to within a foot, my view became one huge metal scoop. The car gained backward momentum and I thought I could escape the blade - but I was wrong. The rear of the Mustang was out of danger but a corner of the scoop caught my left front fender and the Mustang lurched ninety degrees sideways. The force of the impact jarred my foot off the accelerator pedal and the engine killed. I found myself halted parallel to the still-charging bulldozer and facing Neah Bay. Outside my mud-spattered driver’s-side window, the caterpillar treads churned past, inches from my face.

I cranked the ignition again but a chugging groan told me the carburetor was flooded. There was nothing to do but watch the bulldozer’s huge rear sprocket wheels move by me. I feared Pete might back up and crush me yet, but in his mad effort to run over me, Pete reached the brink of the embankment and the dozer plunged over the edge. Dumbstruck, I watched the huge machine topple forward into the bay. At the bottom of the slope its blade dug in where the beach met the embankment. With its forward and downward progress halted, the bulldozer went in the only direction its momentum would allow. The massive yellow chassis rose into the air, pivoting up and over the blade. After a moment of impossible balance in which the machine stood on end, it toppled forward, smashing the cab - and Pete - into the shallows of Neah Bay. The ground shook with the impact of its fall. Walls of white spray launched twenty feet on either side. Even then, the wreck of the yellow behemoth was still in motion. It rolled ponderously and smashed down onto one side, sending out a second wall of white spray.

I quit trying to start the Mustang and got out and joined McKean and Curtis at the brink, among a gathering crowd of neighbors and canoe men, all staring at the toppled bulldozer. Circular waves moved out from it into Neah Bay. Partially immersed in the two-foot-deep water of an incoming tide, the engine hissed and steamed like a dying dragon.

A loud sound from behind made everyone turn. A Makah Tribal Police car approached with the driver tapping his siren, making a whoop, whoop sound at ear-splitting levels. The crowd moved aside and the trooper nosed past my Mustang and pulled in where the bulldozer tracks went over the brink. A native officer in a blue uniform got out the passenger side, while the driver could be heard speaking into his radio handset. “Better send an aid car. We may have a serious injury here.”

The first officer hurried down a footpath through the tall grass of the embankment to a narrow sandy beach with driftwood logs. Some of the crowd followed, including the canoe crew, Curtis, and McKean. Still trembling from my near-death experience, I tagged along behind the rest. The tide had turned since our arrival and had covered the mudflat with shallow water. Where the cab of the bulldozer lay on its side, the water was churning. “Look there!” someone cried. “It’s the driver!”

Inside the partially smashed yellow roll-bar framework of the cab, Pete Whitehall was pinned beneath the wreckage. Far from being crushed as I had imagined, he flailed in the water, trying to free himself. The lead officer waded to the wreck and reached out a hand. Unexpectedly, Pete roared like an enraged animal and tried to bite the proffered hand. The surprised officer backpedaled, tripped, and splashed down butt-first in the water. He called back to his partner, who had threaded his way through the crowd, “Watch out, this guy’s nuts!”

Pete raged in the water he churned up trying to free himself. Pinned by one or both legs, he could only raise his head by clutching a yellow roll bar and craning his neck to keep his face out of the water, which was muddied by his exertions. Horrific sounds came from his mouth - a strangling noise from deep in his throat, a sound that would have been grotesque even in less dire circumstances. There was a choked, chiding, desperate tone to it, like the cry of a cornered animal as death approaches. Part rage, part terror, the sound filled me with horror and pity.

McKean stood beside me, observing the scene in his clinical fashion. “The tide,” he remarked. “It’s coming in at full flood.”

I looked at the water around Pete and realized its turbulence wasn’t just due to his thrashing. The current swirled around him briskly, surging toward the beach.

“He’ll be submerged in no time,” McKean concluded.

“Come on buddy,” the first cop pleaded to Whitehall. “You gotta let us help you. The tide’s coming in.”

Pete snarled and bared his teeth again. He clawed at the cop with one hand like he would rather rend the man’s flesh than be rescued. The canoe crewmen joined the cops knee-deep in the water and just out of Pete’s reach. With Andy Archawat in the lead, they pressed forward and grappled with Pete in the roiling water. After a moment, they straightened up with both of Pete’s arms in their grasp, tugging him despite his raging resistance. He gnashed his teeth at the hands trying to help him and, one by one, the would-be rescuers let go, leaving him floundering in the water again.

“Let’s try this!” called Curtis, who’d gone back to the lot and fetched his shovel. He joined the group at the bulldozer and probed beneath the twisted yellow metal framework, trying to get at the muck holding Pete’s legs. But he reeled back when Pete lunged at him, snarling.

Archawat caught one of Pete’s wrists and tugged hard, pulling Pete away to make room for Curtis to work. Curtis went in with the shovel again near Pete’s legs and came up with a scoop of muck, which he tossed aside and went in for a second shovelful. As he did so, Pete lunged hard at Archawat and sank his teeth into his arm just above the wrist. Archawat shouted in pain and let go, splashing backward in the now thigh-high water. Pete disappeared beneath the muddy surge momentarily, but broke the surface again and flailed at Curtis, driving him back before he could get another scoop of mud. Then he went down again. Muddy tidewater swirled over the spot where he disappeared. The whole crowd went silent. After a moment a line of bubbles rose and moved shoreward with the tide.

“He’s drowning,” said the first cop, pushing past Archawat, who was cradling his bitten wrist with his other hand. The cop leaned near the spot where Pete had gone down, but caution kept him from reaching into the water for a few seconds. Curtis moved in and probed with his shovel tip once, twice, and then on a third try he touched something underwater. “There he is!” he cried. This time there was no thrashing. The muddy surface remained calm.

“Come on!” cried the first cop. “He may still have a chance if we can get him loose.”

Several canoe men and the two cops pressed forward and took Pete by the arms, raising his inanimate body while Curtis probed under the dozer with his shovel. Another man appeared with a shovel and they worked as a team. But Pete Whitehall - or Pete Whitehall’s body - steadfastly refused to come free of the wreckage.

McKean and I stood among a growing crowd on the beach, watching the tide rise higher on Pete’s would-be rescuers. Given the speed with which the water had risen and Whitehall’s madness keeping them at bay, the outcome was no surprise. When the shovels finally freed his legs, Pete came up limp, his head still submerged. The two cops, Curtis and one of the canoe men hauled him to shore, one man on each arm and leg. They splashed onto the beach with Pete between them, his belly up and his head hanging limp. As they hurried past us up the hill, I saw Pete’s face was an ashen gray color and his eyes stared vacantly from purple-rimmed sockets. Water ran from his nose and mouth.

They rushed him up the path to where a red-and-white ambulance van had pulled in with lights flashing. McKean and I followed the crowd up the bank to watch a pair of emergency medical technicians administering oxygen and doing CPR and heart massage on Pete. He remained lifeless. After five minutes, one of the EMTs went to the cab of the ambulance van and got his radio handset. “Afraid we got an unresponsive one here,” he said. “We’re bringing him in.”

Andy Archawat stood by, holding his wrist with blood dripping from his fingertips. McKean said, “You’d better go along and get that looked at.” Archawat said nothing, but got in the back of the van. As it drove off with lights flashing and siren screaming, the crowd stood silently watching it go, each person no doubt reflecting on the confusing scene they had witnessed.

I shook my head. “It’s been one hell of a day.”

“If hell is made out of mud,” Curtis replied, “then you’re right. I can’t believe Pete’s dead.”

“You knew him well, did you?” asked McKean.

“No. I just met him three days ago when I got called into this.” He gestured vaguely at the muddy lot.

“Was Pete an alcoholic?” McKean questioned.

“Not as far as I knew. He seemed like a fairly regular guy.”

“Drugs? Cocaine? Methamphetamine?”

“I don’t know.”

“Odd syndrome, then.”

“Odd?” Curtis put a gloved fist on his hip and gazed down at the bulldozer where the two cops, now waist deep in the muddy water, inspected the exposed part of the cab for clues to Pete’s demise. “I’d say it was downright terrifying.”

We stood silently for a moment and then I asked, “Why did he fight off the very people who could have saved him?”

Curtis shrugged his big shoulders, which were slumped in frustration under his yellow raincoat. He leaned on his shovel, looking weary.

McKean stroked his angular chin with long fingers. “Answer: unknown,” he said, thoughtfully.

“I know why!” a thin but piercing voice called from behind us.

Old Gordon Steel stepped out of the crowd on the street, still wrapped in his bearskin cape. His long gray hair, now unbound, flew wildly about his head in the breeze. He chuckled malignly, looking McKean in the eyes with a scowl furrowing his weathered brow. He pointed a gnarled finger at the bulldozer. “What did you see down there, DNA man?”

McKean hesitated a moment. “I saw a man die. An accident - “

“No accident,” Steel grunted. “Fella lost his soul.”

“His soul?” McKean cocked an eyebrow at Steel.

The old man grinned derisively, the sparse gray whiskers on his chin jutting and his black, beady eyes fixed on McKean’s. “You ever heard the legend of the Lost Souls?”

McKean shook his head. “The man was delirious. But as far as losing his soul - “

“But - nothing!” Gordon Steel shot back, the corners of his wire-mustached mouth pulling down. “His soul was gone. He had a look in his eyes, same as the old legends.”

“Modern medical science - ” McKean began, but Steel cut him off with a wave of his raven-headed walking stick.

“No modern science. No DNA.” A sardonic smile spread over his grizzled face. He crowed in a mocking, sing-song voice, “Lost his soul. Spirit flew away.”

His perverse glee riled me. “Why don’t you just shut up?” I barked.

He turned and glared at me. At that instant, a raven that seemed to be following him called out, “Hrock! Hrock! Hrock!” Its deep and challenging voice sent an icy chill jangling along my spine. Steel glanced at the raven approvingly. “You see,” he said lightheartedly, “Ravens know.” Other ravens standing in the middle of the lot joined the first in a loud chorus. To my rattled mind, it seemed as if the natural world were adding its voice to Steel’s.

Peyton McKean didn’t share my irrational reaction. “Not buying,” he said flatly to Steel.

The smile drained from the old man’s face.

Suddenly, Curtis charged onto the lot shouting, “Hey! Shoo!”

Two ravens on the ground near the crypt entrance were tugging at something between them. As Curtis rushed toward them, a third raven hopped out from the crypt with a morsel of something gray in its mouth. It leaped into the air with its prize and flapped off on heavy wing beats. Curtis brandished his shovel and the other two ravens dropped whatever they were squabbling over and sprang into the air to join the first. The trio flew to the branches of a maple at the back of the lot, joining a mob of crows perched above where the bulldozer had been parked. The raven from the crypt landed on a waving branch, wolfed down its prize, and then joined the cacophony of chiding raven and crow voices.

“Ah, shoot!” Curtis exclaimed, returning to us with the bit he had retrieved from the mud in one of his gloved hands. “That explains who’s been getting after the skeleton. I’ve had to keep the place covered with a tarp since the first disturbance.”

He showed us the object the ravens had been fighting over. It was a white finger bone with gray flesh attached.

“Ravens’s gotta eat, too,” Gordon Steel said.

Curtis explained, “I already had to put some bits and pieces back in the coffin yesterday. They were scattered on the floor down there. I thought it was - ” he paused and looked at Steel.

Steel stared back at him, and then broke into a peg-toothed grin. “I don’t mess with bones,” he chortled.

McKean pulled his cell phone from a pocket and glanced at the time. “I want to extract the DNA from the sample this evening,” he said to me. “We’d better go.”

“Gladly,” I replied, going to the Mustang and looking over the damage to the front fender. It was insufficient to hinder driving. “I’m ready any time you are.” I got in as McKean exchanged farewells with Curtis, promising to have a DNA result within two days. He opened the passenger door as I started the engine.

Steel came near. “Know what happens after you lose your soul?”

“Enlighten me,” McKean responded.

“You die. Everybody who gets sick with Lost Souls disease goes mad like a dog and then they die. I think a lot of babalthuds will die like that bulldozer man.”

“One case,” McKean countered, “does not constitute an epidemic.”

“Just the same. More babalthuds will die. Legend says so.”

McKean sat and closed his door.

Fed up with the old man’s guff and not caring what his oblique remarks meant, I turned the Mustang and drove off. But Gordon Steel’s rasping, raven-like laughter followed us along the shore drive.

Chapter 5

I followed Bayview Avenue through gloomy Neah Bay with a welter of feelings in my chest. I asked McKean, “What’s up with that old man? Where’s he get off mocking Pete Whitehall’s death?”

McKean shook his head. “I doubt he thinks it’s funny. He strikes me as a bitter man. I suppose DNA tests, bulldozers, and those whaling protesters all seem like threats to his old ways.”

“But why be nasty about it? Hostile Indians are a thing of the past.”

“Today proved otherwise, didn’t it, Fin? Old Steel obviously feels threatened - and the perception of a threat is often the source of anger.”

“Threatened by a DNA test?”

“Answer: yes. If the DNA test shows the corpse to be Spanish, then Steel’s objections will be overruled and Curtis is free to collect any or all of what lies in that grave. Furthermore, Steel’s upset can only be magnified by the presence of the anti-whaling protesters. They’re yet another force bent on disrupting the status quo here in Neah Bay and altering the tribe’s authority over its own reservation.”

“But Steel is in a distinct minority. Most of the elders seemed fine with the DNA test.”

“I am sure Makahs, like any other ethnic group are more diverse than people give them credit for. Some may be old-fashioned like Gordon Steel. Others are much more modern. Some may want to hunt whales while others don’t. Some are educated, some are fools. Some are criminal, some are as righteous as those protestors claim to be. Good, bad, indifferent, I’m sure you’ll find all types in Neah Bay, just like in Seattle.”

“You’re urging me not to stereotype.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, Peyton,” I said. “But that kind of hostility is inexcusable.”

“It’s behind us now. At least we had the pleasure of seeing an enchanting dance by his daughter and her children.”

“I can’t believe a beauty like her is any relation to that old buzzard.”

McKean eyed me carefully. “Tleena Steel is very beautiful indeed, Fin. More’s the danger.”

“Danger? I thought she was the least dangerous person we met.”

“A danger to your heart, Fin. Are you sure you’re recovered from your last romantic catastrophe?”

“I’m sure I am not. And I’m not even considering another romance.”

In the same way we had traveled to Neah Bay via a succession of ever-narrowing and more primitive roads, we now returned by incrementally larger thoroughfares. We went out of town on a sea-cliff-skirting two-laner, which widened at Clallam Bay, and grew wider still when we reached forest-lined Highway 101, then grew to freeway size near the urban centers of Port Angeles and Sequim. We departed the main Olympic Peninsula on the Hood Canal floating bridge, crossing the mile-wide span just after sunset. The day’s tensions melted as I watched in my rearview mirror while the Olympic Mountains and their framing clouds went from fiery orange to soft pink and purple. A sea fog hugging tree-blanketed headlands to the north took on the deep blue tone of twilight. We lapsed into silence for the remainder of the drive across the dark, forested Kitsap Peninsula and Bainbridge Island. We arrived at the Winslow ferry terminal just in time to catch the superferry Snoqualmie loading for her eastbound run. I pulled in at the end of a line of cars on the main deck just before the drawspan raised and the deck hands unfastened the ropes from their dockside cleats. The ship’s engines throbbed to life and the pier quickly dropped behind us. McKean and I went up the central staircase to the observation deck and got coffees from the snack bar. We strolled along the inside aisle while I sipped a double shot of espresso with sugar and McKean had a tall mocha. People sat in booths and at tables, reading newspapers, texting on cell phones, or gossiping with companions.

“After all we’ve been through,” I said, “this all seems too normal.”

“Indeed,” McKean replied vaguely, as if he hadn’t really heard me. I turned to find him leaning his lanky frame over an empty booth on the inner wall of the ferry, looking over a blown-up sepia-toned photograph hung there. “Interesting, isn’t it?” he asked as I doubled back to join him.

The picture was a reproduction of an old photo taken from within a dugout canoe like the one we had seen at Neah Bay. The canoe was at sea with a huge swell on her bows, and the photo looked over the shoulder of a man at the front of the boat. He was dressed in a long bearskin cape that flew in a headwind. His long, bushy black hair also blew in the wind. His right arm was held high and in his hand was a harpoon raised for a strike. His target, just off the canoe’s bow, was the back of a sounding whale. Given our encounter with such a whaling crew just hours before, the sight of the picture sent a tingle along my spine.

McKean pointed at the lower right corner where a photographer’s note had been written in pen and ink. It read, Makah whaling, 1903.

“1903,” he murmured. “I wonder if those protesters realize how deepseated a tradition they’re fighting? And look at this - ” He moved to the picture at the next booth, which showed a scene of Makahs butchering a whale on the beach at Neah Bay, handing out portions of meat and blubber to tribe members. “It underscores the fact that whales were a part of the ancestral Makah diet, and whaling was a means to that end.”

“But we live in the modern world now,” I resisted. “Why don’t they just eat cheeseburgers?”

“Makah whaling,” McKean replied, “according to Leon Curtis, has been documented at least as far back as the archeological record at Neah Bay goes, and that’s four thousand years. It probably is much older.”

“Maybe so, but what’s more important nowadays, tradition or animal rights? Who says anyone should kill a whale, Makah or otherwise?”

“The Makahs’ treaty with the United States government, for one.”

“So, you’re on the Makah whalers’ side of the issue?”

“Answer: no,” McKean replied. “Nor am I opposed. I am a scientist. I’ll stay quite neutral on the subject until I have more data. But bear this in mind, Fin. Even though Neah Bay is part of the United States, Makahs are not nearly as assimilated as most Americans assume. Their traditions go back continuously to times long before American culture was born - probably long before ancient Rome and even before the Pharaohs. Those traditions, of course, include whaling.”

I returned to look at the Makah whaler poised for his lethal harpoon strike. As I stood there, a large sea swell made the ferry’s deck move under my feet, adding to my perception of the whale hunter’s experience. The motion also gave me a queasy feeling in the pit of my gut. “Too much sea spinach,” I muttered.

McKean chuckled. “You do look a bit green, Fin.”

“I’ve been through a lot today. I think I could use a little fresh air.”

McKean accompanied me through a forward passage and out to the front deck railing, where we stood with cool night air rising off the Snoqualmie’s bow like a stiff but refreshing gale. I leaned on the rail and observed the dazzling lights of Seattle as we passed the midpoint of the crossing. The city’s skyscrapers loomed against a deep-purple eastern sky with their windows reflecting the afterglow of sunset and painting shimmering, striped reflections of gold and turquoise on the dark water ahead of the ferry.

“The Emerald City,” I said. “I wonder who gave it that name?”

“Tourism promoters,” McKean replied. “For a city touted as green, it hasn’t got much in evidence - except when you consider that under all those towers lies a mountain of green compost.”

“Compost? What do you mean?”

McKean spread his gloved hands as if to embrace the panorama of gleaming buildings. “Grown by the Almighty Dollar.”

“Are you saying that’s a good or a bad thing?”

“This land was once covered in magnificent forest, exactly as the city’s nickname suggests. But the very trees that drew the pioneers here were viewed as nothing more than a money-making opportunity.”

“Sawmill timber, you mean?”

“Exactly. A lot has changed in the century and a half since the pioneers arrived. The world’s greatest rainforest grew here when the Denny Party rowed ashore at Alki Beach. The Amazon jungles were a collection of twigs by comparison. Douglas firs grow as tall as four hundred feet, did you know that? That’s forty stories, about half as tall as the tallest buildings you see in front of us.”

“Trees were the original skyscrapers around here.”

“Precisely, Fin. Now there’s hardly a tree to be seen on the east shore of Puget Sound. American culture, and now global culture, have sprouted skyscrapers where Douglas firs used to reign.”

I sighed. “That’s progress, I guess.”

“Contrast it with Neah Bay, which has the blessing of remoteness and therefore remains a small village surrounded by forests. Nature and tribal culture still hold the upper hand there - for the time being at least.”

“What a contrast,” I said. “The heights of civilization here, the deepest connection to nature there, only five hours apart.”

“Good insight,” McKean replied, “for someone not exposed to Washington State history as a child.”

“How did you know that - ?”

“From that faint midwest accent and from your minimal knowledge about our native tribes. I learned about them in grade school. It’s a short and not very sweet story from the native perspective. Starting in the 1850s their culture was swept away in scarcely a decade - but not by war. There were no Indian Wars of any consequence here. The Denny pioneers arrived aboard a schooner from San Francisco in 1851 and by 1861 the majority of natives in the entire region were dead of smallpox or measles. Their passing was as much a tale of global culture and its global epidemics, as of racism or war.”

“But I’ve heard some white settlers would give out smallpox-contaminated blankets to the natives - “

“Conceivably, but there really was no need for treachery. Viruses move through populations without anyone’s help. It was, I am sure, merely an outfall of globalization.”

“Globalization? That’s a modern phenomenon.”

“Not really. The era of worldwide communications, trade, and population movement began with the steamships of the 1800s. Those migrations were the earliest manifestations of globalization, and they brought the local natives down by a two-step process. First, native populations were decimated by epidemic diseases and the scourge of alcoholism. Second, a tidal wave of immigrants simply submerged the remains of their culture, especially in the Seattle area. Have you ever read Chief Seattle’s great speech?”

“No,” I replied. “It wasn’t a part of our curriculum in Chicago.”

“Old Chief Seattle spoke in Port Townsend, at a gathering of tribes for treaty negotiations with Governor Stevens” emissaries in the mid-1850s. They signed over most of their tribal lands to American settlers. Some tribal people disagreed and argued for war, but Chief Seattle became notorious for having argued that a land give-away was appropriate, because there were so few of his people left. He said he didn’t blame the settlers for the diseases, and he successfully argued that his people should move across Puget Sound from Seattle to the Suquamish Reservation, abandoning their home village in what is now West Seattle. In so arguing, he gave a speech that was full of references to disease, contagion, death and extermination. He said of the pioneers, “Your people are as many as the blades of grass, while my people disappear like a fast-ebbing tide.””

“Sad.”

“But predictable. This corner of the world was one of the last places reached by the global smallpox and measles epidemics. Europe had been decimated by such plagues in the time of the Romans, and China and Egypt suffered great calamities before that. Old-World peoples were disease-resistant, precisely because they had already suffered the kind of annihilation that Northwest natives had yet to experience. Chief Seattle was one of the last and most eloquent of those humans whose lot it was to observe a virus running rampant in a susceptible population. The apocalypse of the Northwest natives was really nobody’s fault. It had been coming for centuries. American settlers just happened to be the vehicle by which it arrived. I think Chief Seattle understood that.”

“He saw his place in the global spread of disease viruses.”

“Exactly.”

“Were the Makahs represented in those treaty negotiations?”

“No. They were so remote from the new towns of Seattle, Tacoma, and Olympia, that they weren’t involved. They signed treaties several years later, but not before they were devastated by disease the way Seattle’s tribe had been. Like Seattle, they gave up most of their lands, too. They did, however, win one point the other tribes had not. In exchange for land, they exacted a written promise from the Governor’s negotiators that they would retain the right to hunt whales forever. So you see, old Steel and the whalers feel they are protecting a legitimate part of Makah culture, one that is guaranteed by treaty.”

He turned to go inside. “I think I’ll have another mocha, even though it’s getting late. I’ll be in the lab past midnight getting a quick start on the DNA extraction procedure. You’re welcome to tag along and watch.”

I stayed at the rail. “No thanks. I’ve got just enough energy left to drive off this ferry and go back to my apartment. I’ll be asleep early.”

“I can walk off the ferry and be at my lab in five minutes,” he said. “You go home and get some rest, Fin.”

After McKean left me, I watched the city loom while sorting through all I had experienced: a grave, a corpse, the horror of Pete Whitehall’s death, the charm of the dancing children, and an introduction to a Makah beauty named Tleena Steel. My mind whirled.

Eventually the ferry terminal loomed. As the deck crew prepared to attach the pedestrian gangway that McKean would use, I hurried down in time to start my car and join the twin lines of vehicles exiting onto the city streets.

I drove home to Belltown, left my car in its garage space across the street and climbed slowly up the stone steps of the Denny Heights Apartment Building to my small second-floor studio apartment. As I scuffed up the staircase feeling absolutely fagged, the door across the landing opened chain-wide and my neighbor Penny Worthe peeked out at me. “Hi Fin. How was your day?” she asked.

“Don’t ask,” I replied, entering my apartment and closing the door. I figured I should eat despite a lack of appetite, so I microwaved a small meal of leftover ham, potatoes and broccoli scavenged from the refrigerator. I picked at it while sipping a glass of cabernet. After a while I gave up on eating and drank another glass of wine and then a third. Anaesthetized, I climbed the ladder of my loft bed feeling I had experienced far too much for one human in one day. I fell asleep and didn’t wake until morning.

Meanwhile, Peyton McKean labored late at Immune Corporation on experiments that would propel us into the heart of the Neah virus labyrinth.

PART TWO: LOST SOULS

Chapter 6

When dawn light spread across the hardwood floors of my apartment I awoke refreshed. I breakfasted and then went out and walked to the Pioneer Square District where my writing office is located in one of the old brick buildings. After a stop at Cafe Perugia on the ground floor, I climbed the stairs to my office punctually at 8:00 am with pastry and triple espresso in hand. But I wasn’t fit for a day at the computer. I grappled with writer’s block. I stared out the windows of my fifth floor garret at a sky that darkened with overcast. The patter of raindrops on glass promised another short, dreary Seattle late-Autumn day.

Then Peyton McKean phoned. “Can you come over right away? We’ve got some interesting results.”

Within seconds, I had grabbed my coat from the brass rack beside my office door, locked up, and hurried down to the street. I rushed the dozen blocks to Immune Corporation’s waterfront laboratory building. Although it’s no skyscraper, the concrete-and-glass structure nestles comfortably in the center of Seattle’s waterfront surrounded by the towers of banks that financed it, sharing their view of Elliott Bay from a lower vantage point. The old fish-storage building has been transformed into a modern biomedical research facility with large windows, brightly lit lab spaces and rows of scientists’ offices. As I signed in at the desk, the guard handed me a permanent pass. “What’s this?” I asked, not quite believing such a gem had been handed to a medical reporter.

“Dr. McKean got security to approve it. That’s all I know.”

On the elevator I pondered my good fortune. I supposed McKean knew the pass would increase his chances of being featured in my news coverage. Perhaps it was his way of garnering a little media attention for himself and escaping the shadows of his superiors at ImCo.

On the third floor, I followed a long hallway skirting windowed laboratories to reach Peyton McKean’s office, which was no elaborate affair. It was a small, paper-strewn, crowded scientist’s lair. I stopped outside the open office door and observed McKean in his natural habitat for a moment. He sat in a swivel desk chair with his back toward the door, his lanky frame dressed in a long white laboratory coat. He was facing a small, cluttered desk that abutted a window with a view looking straight into the mossy brick wall of a neighboring building. McKean could have heard my footsteps in the hallway, but if so, he ignored me. Absorbed by a photocopied scientific article, he underscored several sentences with a yellow highlighter. I rapped lightly on the doorjamb but even then he didn’t respond immediately. Only after placing one more highlight did he swing his chair around and look my way. “Hello, Fin,” he said, smiling. “Have a seat.” He pointed me into a guest chair crowded next to his desk.

“I thought you would enjoy seeing our first test results,” he said while continuing to read the article. “I extracted the DNA and set up the test last night. Janet has been busy running the procedure this morning and gathering the data. She’ll be here in a minute - in a second,” he corrected as the laboratory door across the hall opened and Janet came to join us.

Janet, a pretty brunette dressed in blue jeans, a pale yellow blouse, brown comfortable looking shoes and, of course, a long white lab coat, smiled and said, “Hi again, Fin.” She hummed cheerily as she sat at a side desk next to McKean’s and booted up a computer screen. “The data look nice,” she said as the screen displayed a magnified image of a DNA microchip, a square of metal and glass with hundreds of rows of green dots in a rectangular array. Some dots were bright against the chip’s dark background, others less bright and some quite dark.

I saw no pattern to the distribution of light and dark dots but McKean glanced at the screen and immediately said, “Ahh, looks like a solid, nominal experiment. So, what does it tell us about the subject?” He leaned toward the screen until his and Janet’s shoulders nearly touched. They began pointing at different dots and conversing in thick scientific jargon. Half-familiar terms like “single nucleotide polymorphism,” “allele,” “short tandem repeat,” “genetic marker” and “haplotype” flew between them in a dense discussion that quickly left me behind.

“So,” I interjected after a moment. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Is the guy European or Native American?”

McKean smiled confidently. “European, Fin. Spanish, as might be expected, with as close to absolute certainty as you can get with seven-hundred thousand autosomal SNPs.” He pronounced the term, “snips.”

Janet nodded her concurrence. “We’ve got multiple hits on European ethnicity probes, and none on New World probes.”

“Sounds like pretty strong evidence,” I agreed. “But how close to absolute certainty?”

McKean tugged at his angular chin with his long fingers and did a quick mental calculation. “The odds are approximately sixty-six-billion-to-one that he’s European. Don’t bet against it. Sixty-six-billion-to-one is about a hundred times more than the total number of people on earth at that time.”

“Pretty conclusive,” I agreed. “So, does this mean Leon Curtis gets to do his archeological work in peace?”

“Answer: yes,” McKean replied. “And I suppose we should inform him of that fact.” He punched a number on the computer keyboard and quickly was talking to Leon Curtis via a video connection. Curtis was in his office at the University of Washington, having returned from Neah Bay that morning. After Janet and I added our hellos, McKean said, “We’ve got great news. The skeleton checks out as Spanish.”

“You’re sure?” Curtis asked.

“Absolutely,” McKean responded. “How does one in six times ten-to-the-ninth-power sound for a probability?”

“Fabulous,” said Curtis. “I’ll call the Makah Museum right away for permission to start a thorough investigation.”

“Congratulations,” McKean said. “I’m sure the Spaniard’s story will unfold in a most intriguing way.”

“Speaking of which,” Curtis replied, “I found something very interesting inside the coffin yesterday. I was putting back the bones taken by the ravens when I spotted this.” He held up a small, curled, yellowed roll of paper. “It’s a letter. A handwritten note in pen and ink on what looks like parchment. It was tucked in at the foot of the coffin.”

“What does it say?” I asked.

Curtis laughed. “That will take time to figure out. The scroll is brittle and it’s rolled up pretty tight. It might crumble if I go at it too aggressively. I looked inside the length of the tube and I could see writing, but only a little. It’s written in an old-fashioned cursive script. I’d guess it’s an old dialect of Spanish, but I’m no Spanish scholar.”

McKean nodded thoughtfully. “Can you get some help from another department?”

“Yes, I suppose I could but - that’s a delicate subject at the moment.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Curtis said uncomfortably, “nobody knows I took the scroll from the coffin. Without tribal permission, that’s technically a violation of NAGPRA.”

“I see,” McKean replied. “So you want to keep this quiet until you find out what it says, and then get retroactive approval from the tribe.”

“Right. At the very least, I’d like to get it unrolled and photographed. After that, I’ll be able to go through proper channels and get all the help I need. For now, silence is golden. Okay Peyton, Janet, Fin?”

We agreed, and Curtis went on. “One little creepy thing - “

“Yes?” McKean prompted.

“I could make out just a couple of words and I checked them in a Spanish-English dictionary. ‘Almas,’ which means souls, and ‘perdidas,’ which means lost.”

“Lost Souls!” I gasped. “The Lost Souls disease the old man talked about!”

McKean raised a long index finger for silence. “That’s one possible interpretation, Fin. But let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Curtis shrugged. “I don’t know, Peyton. After what happened to Pete, I’m thinking the way Fin’s thinking.”

“Me too,” Janet interjected.

“I’ll wait for more data,” McKean countered. “Once you get that scroll photographed, please e-mail me a copy immediately.”

“Sure, Peyton,” Curtis replied. “But I’ve got to tell you I’m definitely with Fin and Janet on this one. You may not have heard this, but they’ve got two new cases of people going berserk at Neah Bay.”

The three of us exchanged concerned glances.

“I hadn’t heard,” said McKean. “Who?”

“Two fishermen.”

“White guys?” I asked.

“Not sure,” said Curtis. “Probably. I know they’re from out of town. They had a boat moored in the marina and were staying at the King Salmon Motel. In the middle of the night they both went crazy. Ran screaming through the streets naked. The reservation police thought they were drunk and arrested them after quite a tussle. Maced one, tasered the other. They’re under watch now at the Makah Clinic. Restrained and raving like wild animals, both of them. If it was drugs or alcohol it should have worn off, but it hasn’t. They’re to be transferred to the hospital in Port Angeles.”

“Other symptoms?” McKean asked.

“Delirious, feverish, I don’t know what else. I didn’t see them. I got all this from the folks at the Makah Museum when I stopped by on my way out of town this morning.”

“Anecdotal evidence cannot be considered scientific proof of anything,” said McKean. “But I’ll go along with the three of you. We can test some viral DNA probes to see if the Spaniard was infected with a known pathogen, just to keep you all from getting too upset.” He eyed each of us significantly as he spoke.

“Good,” said Janet. “I’ve got some viral-probe microchips left over from the jihad virus experiments. I can get a result by tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” said McKean. “And just as a precaution, let’s keep the remainder of the our bone sample under tight bio-containment.”

“Don’t worry,” said Janet. “I’ve been handling it as a biohazard ever since you gave it to me.”

Curtis said goodbye a moment later. McKean switched off the phone link and leaned back in his chair. After a contemplative pause he said, “Personally, I’m more interested in the man’s origins than his death. I’ll bet he was a Spanish nobleman.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked. “How can you even distinguish Spanish from Mexican?”

“With a high-resolution ethnicity-testing microchip,” McKean said confidently, “we could probably trace him back to his relatives in some village in Andalusia. But for the moment, the DNA says he is definitely Spanish and not Native American. I’ll go a step further and suggest he was probably a gentleman of the King’s court. Maybe even royalty. Perhaps the captain of a ship or an officer of the garrison at Neah Bay.”

“You can’t tell all that from DNA,” I scoffed. “Can you?”

“Answer: no,” McKean agreed. “But allow me a little interpretation. You see, Fin, by the time the Spanish came to Neah Bay, they had been in the New World for generations. A common seaman or garrison soldier would most likely have been of mixed Spanish and Indian descent - a mestizo. But this gentleman was not one of those. According to Janet’s results, he was a full-blooded Spaniard with no New World DNA in him at all. Hence, he must have been from the ruling class. And that meant Spaniard in those days.”

“Okay,” I admitted. “I’ll accept that interpretation. But I’m more interested in what killed him.”

McKean smiled. “I know you’re worried about Gordon Steel’s Lost Souls disease, Fin. But I’m not so easily swayed by the raging of an angry old man. Nevertheless, I’m willing to look for viruses. Given the history of smallpox and other diseases that ravaged Neah Bay in those times, we might illuminate history a little if we find this man was carrying something dangerous.”

He turned to Janet. “Let’s shoot the works. Do a full analysis with every pathogenic-organism microchip we’ve got. See if anything turns up positive. Of course,” he said, smiling at me, “we have no microchip for Lost Souls disease, or any other hypothetical or metaphysical disease.”

Janet made a few notes on a pad of paper and then went back to the lab. McKean turned back to his desk and picked up the article he had been reading, but paused to look at me inquisitively. “Something else on your mind, Fin?”

“All this talk of viruses has me nervous,” I said. “What if we were exposed to something - smallpox, for instance?”

He looked at me slyly. “Maybe we’ll die.” And then he laughed.

“That’s a cavalier attitude,” I remarked.

“Why worry over something I know nothing about, and therefore can do nothing about? Viral particles in a two-hundred-year-old sample are unlikely to retain their infectiousness, at least not without passage through an animal host or tissue culture. Neither one of those conditions apply in this case. The Lost Souls disease just isn’t real to me. If I thought we were threatened, I would react. What would you have me do, Fin?”

I shrugged.

“Clearly,” McKean said in a lecturing tone, “the events of yesterday have made you a little irrational. I think you should put speculations out of your mind. Rest assured that my actions will be guided by thoroughly logical thought processes.”

Still not entirely convinced, I left McKean working at his cluttered desk and went out and walked back to Pioneer Square. Approaching the five-story brick building that houses Cafe Perugia and my office, I strolled past the shops and art galleries without paying them much attention until something in one window caught my eye. The Ortman Gallery trades in Northwest Native art, its showroom displaying dozens of pieces sculpted from cedar logs and painted in geometric patterns of red, black, and green, set on white pedestals or standing tall from the hardwood floor nearly to the ceiling. I had paused many times to look over the carved figures of eagles, ravens and savage half-human spirits, but I had never taken much interest until this day. Now my attention was drawn to an object mounted on a white panel facing the window. It was a harpoon. Or rather, the wooden foreshaft of a harpoon, about three feet long and meant to be attached to a longer hindshaft via an overlapping notched joint. Its tip was made from the shell of a large mussel, the gray-black rim of which had been sharpened into a barbed, deadly-looking point. The tip was bound to the age-blackened wood of the foreshaft by cords of dark leather, and this leather continued into a short length of braided strap whose frayed end must have been part of a longer line that the whalers used to haul in their prey. A card on the wall read, “Makah Harpoon, circa 1850. Artist: unknown. Price: $2,500.”

“Artist,” I murmured to myself. “This isn’t artwork. It’s a hunter’s weapon.”

“You got that right,” a voice muttered not far from me.

There is an alley adjacent to the Ortman Gallery and at its entrance a man sat with his back propped against a green garbage dumpster. He had his knees up in front of him with a plank of cedar wood between them, which he was whittling with a large jackknife. I caught the reek of whiskey from him and saw that his denim pants and red nylon parka were blackened with street grime. He glanced up at me and then resumed his carving, which he was going at with great intensity and precision. The plank’s rectangular corners had been rounded and sculpted into an oblong, chain-link shape that followed a serpent’s winding contour with two heads facing each other, just as I had seen on the coffin the day before.

“I’ve seen that serpent at Neah Bay,” I said, surprised and a little disturbed to see it again so soon.

He glanced at me again and I could see from his facial features that he was Native American. “I’ve seen it too,” he remarked, but he said no more, returning to his sculpting and ignoring me despite my interest. His detailed whittling had brought out the three-dimensional shapes of the serpent’s heads and scales and dorsal ridges that outlined the body, all of which were subdivided into smoothly carved geometric patterns I wouldn’t have thought achievable with a tool as simple as a jackknife. The man, despite his pathetic appearance, clearly possessed a great talent. A logo printed on the breast of his jacket depicted a dugout canoe being paddled over the sea by half a dozen men. Words in large black letters encircled the design: “Makah Pride - Neah Bay - Washington.”

I glanced back at the Ortman Gallery, wondering if this impoverished sculptor aspired to put his work on display inside, and he answered my unspoken question.

“They give me a hundred bucks for one of these and turn around and sell it for two-fifty. ‘I’ll let you have this one for a hundred-fifty.’ He looked at me cagily.

“No thanks,” I replied, moving on toward my office. I had suddenly developed a queasy feeling. Maybe it was the whiskey stink of the man, or the pungent odor of urine in the alley, or maybe it was the uncanny appearance of this emissary from Neah Bay when I was still afflicted by my own recent experiences. Whatever the cause, a sudden malaise clutched at my guts. I hurried along the street, quickly covering the last block to my office building as if I were fleeing a ghost. The thought of this fallen soul carving little planks in exchange for drinking money was appalling.

Chapter 7

The next morning I was at Peyton McKean’s office by 11 am, in time to see how the viral DNA probes had worked out. Janet came in from the lab, sat at the computer desk, and brought up an image of a DNA microarray chip on the screen. The chip was almost completely black. However, in one column near its right edge lay a series of green dots glowing with greater or lesser intensities against the dark background.

McKean studied the screen minutely, explaining for my benefit, “This is a twenty-four-by-twenty-four array of viral DNA dots, Fin. The DNA of twenty-four well-known viruses, in columns of twenty-four probe dots each. Tiny by comparison to the array for human DNA we looked at before, but sufficient for these much simpler organisms. Most columns are dark and therefore no match. But the second-to-last column is clearly a match by virtue of quite a few bright green DNA dots.”

Janet explained further. “Each dot is actually an area where a short DNA probe sequence has been attached to the glass surface of the microchip, trillions of copies of a different piece of viral DNA within each dot. When you attach a green fluorescent chemical to your DNA sample and wash it over the microchip, the dots light up where the sample DNA matches the DNA on the chip and sticks to it. Each green dot in that right-hand column is a different DNA match for the same virus. The dark columns on the left side of the chip are DNA probes for unrelated viruses. Our sample DNA didn’t match any of them.”

“So you have twenty-three viruses that are misses, and one that is a hit?” I asked.

“Good, Fin,” McKean said with a note of condescension. “You’re catching on.” He swept a finger over the many columns of dots so dim as to be lost in the dark background. “The mismatches are herpes virus, two common cold viruses, four recent strains of influenza, three avian flu viruses, and a dozen other viruses whose DNA probes make up one column each.” His finger stopped over the penultimate column. “Some dots in this column are definitely positive.” He leaned nearer the screen. “That is the most intriguing finding - some dots in this column are positive, but not all.” He pointed out several faintly-lighted dots and dark dots in the otherwise green-dotted column.

“They’re sort of hit-and-miss,” Janet remarked.

“I have seen results like this before,” McKean murmured, his face illuminated by the glow of the computer screen - and by insight. “There are three cases. Some dots are bright green and therefore exact matches. That is, every DNA code letter in the probe matches the corresponding code letter on the viral DNA. Dark dots mean the codes are entirely unmatched. Dim green dots are partial sequence matches. That is, most code letters match, but a few are mismatches. This is typically seen when two viruses are related but not identical.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I said, “what virus is it?”

“Lyssa?” McKean asked Janet.

“Lyssavirus genotype one,” she confirmed.

“But there’s a catch,” McKean elaborated. “If a normal lyssavirus were present in the Spaniard, then all of the dots in this column should light up brightly, not just some. I personally find this sort of odd result more exciting than a precise match. We may be dealing with a new virus here, one never described by science before.”

McKean spoke with the enraptured tone of a scientist in the thrall of discovery. But I felt a deep qualm. I said, “It makes me nervous to think you’ve got something new when Gordon Steel is talking about Lost Souls disease. Is lyssavirus dangerous?”

“Oh!” Janet said. “I was forgetting that you’re not an expert, Fin. The lyssaviruses are dangerous, all right. You already know the common name for lyssavirus one. It’s rabies.”

“Rabies!” I exclaimed. “So that’s what made Pete Whitehall go mad!”

“That makes some sense,” McKean allowed, “given Whitehall’s violent behavior. But this is not exactly rabies virus.”

“That makes me all the more nervous,” I said.

McKean stared hard at the column’s mix of bright, dark, and half-lit probes. “I would conclude that this virus is indeed a member of the lyssavirus family, but the half-lit probes say it’s not authentic rabies and the unlit probes suggest it’s a distant family member.”

“Family member? You mean there are other rabies viruses?”

“Oh, most assuredly,” said McKean. “Rabies belongs to a large group of related viruses, the mononegavirales, which include the rabies-like animal viruses Mokola, Duvenhage, and West Caucasian bat virus, as well as more distant cousins like measles, mumps and Ebola.”

“Ebola!” I exclaimed. “Now you’ve got me scared.”

Janet added, “We didn’t test for all those viruses because we didn’t have the full set of virus microchips.”

“But you can get more?”

“Certainly,” she replied. “And we can keep looking until we find a set of viral DNA probes that match this virus exactly.”

“And if none match?”

“Then we’re looking at a previously unknown virus,” said McKean. He put a hand on Janet’s shoulder and his eyes lit with inspiration. “Imagine discovering a whole new member of the lyssavirus family.”

Janet smiled. “We could co-author a paper.”

“A whole series of articles,” McKean replied enthusiastically. “Or publish a book!”

“But wait a minute,” I said, interrupting their happy communion. “If it’s related to the rabies virus, it might be deadly. It killed the Spaniard, didn’t it?”

“Deadly? Quite possibly,” said McKean, his smile diminishing.

“If it killed the Spaniard,” I pressed him, “and if it killed Pete Whitehall, then - “

McKean’s smile disappeared and the light of scientific excitement faded from his eyes. “Then,” he concluded for me, “you and I may have been exposed to something dangerous.”

“And Gordon Steel’s claim of a Lost Souls disease - “

“Might have a basis in fact. But let’s not get ahead of our data.” He turned to Janet. “You can get microchips from Kay Erwin at Seattle Public Health Hospital covering every known mononegavirus. Let’s rule them all in or out. After that, we can decide whether or not we’ve got something new.”

My heart rate had kicked up several notches. “Are we in danger?” I asked.

McKean stared at the screen for a moment and then murmured, “Answer: unknown.”

McKean made a video call to epidemiologist Kay Erwin at Seattle Public Health Hospital. Kay answered at her office desk. She’s a thin, pale, short-haired, salt-and-pepper brunette, who was dressed her white lab coat. McKean explained recent events and the nature of his sample from the grave. “You’ve got the most extensive collection of pathogen DNA microchips in the Northwest,” he said. “Can I send Janet to pick up a sample of every mononegavirus chip you’ve got?”

“Yes, you may,” Erwin replied. “I’ll tell one of my people to have it all waiting by this afternoon.” She and McKean briefly discussed the idea of a contagious virus and Gordon Steel’s notion of a Lost Souls disease, but Erwin was as dubious as McKean and perhaps more so. “No one has informed me of anything going on at Neah Bay,” she said.

“And as you are the local coordinator with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta,” McKean replied, “I suppose you would be the first to hear of anything really contagious.”

Erwin said, “I’ll make a call to Neah Bay and see what their local clinic has to say. Thanks for the heads-up, Peyton. I hope the microchips help. Keep me posted on your results.”

After ending the call, McKean turned to Janet. “Let’s move as quickly as possible. As soon as you’ve got the chips, get the tests running. Meanwhile, have our DNA synthesis lab make samples of the strongest-reacting lyssavirus probes. We’ll to use them to isolate the virus from the tissue sample - under strictest bio-containment in the BCL-4 lab.”

As Janet took her note pad and jotted down her assignments, a crease of concern showed on her forehead. When she had gone to the lab I asked McKean, “So, are you starting to share my worries about the Lost Souls disease?”

He thought a moment and then replied, “Answer: yes.”

I had lunch with McKean in ImCo’s cafeteria, questioning him about details of his experimental plan and jotting his explanations in a black leather-bound notebook I had brought with me. Then I watched him and Janet and the others bustling around their lab for a while. Then I got bored. With no results immediately forthcoming and a heavy load of new information to write down, I excused myself and headed for my office. I walked away from ImCo slowly, my mind a tangle of new concerns. A nagging fear had been with me since Neah Bay. Despite Peyton McKean’s admonishment not to overinterpret the known facts, I couldn’t help feeling something horrific was in the air.

Nearing my building, I paused at the Ortman Gallery to look over the Makah harpoon again. It seemed a stark symbol of danger, death, and a past that refused to surrender to the present. I moved on, but my eyes lingered on the harpoon until I stumbled over something in my path. I took several steps back and was horrified to see I had trodden over the outstretched legs of the native sculptor. I blurted an apology - but stopped in mid-sentence. The man was unconscious. He sat upright only because he was propped against the dumpster. The reek of whiskey from him was stronger and his grimy right hand lay across his lap, palm up, as if he had been holding it out for spare change. He moaned feebly but hardly stirred in response to my trampling. Deaf to my hastily spoken regrets, he tilted his head with one eye half-open, and murmured something unintelligible. Then his chin slumped and he lost consciousness again.

Perplexed and feeling guilty, I looked him over more carefully than the day before. He looked and smelled completely ruined, a pitiable but not-unfamiliar sight in the Pioneer Square district, where the downtrodden of Seattle congregate. His long straight black hair was braided on each side in Indian fashion. Under the filth on his cheeks, his complexion was a naturally dark tan. Although he seemed to be in his early twenties, his cheeks were puffy and purple-tinted and his eyes were nearly swollen shut from the toxic effects of alcohol. I knew he was by no means the first native to come to no good on skid row, but my experiences at Neah Bay had increased my awareness of the problems that brought him this low. I felt guilty enough to decide not to pass him by. As I puzzled over what do with him, I noticed two objects beside him on the wet alley cobbles. One was his jackknife with its long blade open. The other was the serpent carving, lying upside down. On its flat back was an inscription made with a few small cuts:

John Steel - Makah Tribe

My eyes widened. I had guessed where the man was from by the logo on his jacket, but I hadn’t guessed this. “John Steel!” I gasped.

He stirred and looked at me dimly. “Yeah?”

“Are you related to Gordon and Tleena Steel?”

“Maybe,” he mumbled. “What’s it to you?”

Despite the puffiness of alcohol and exposure to the elements, I could now see the family resemblance in his face. I stood a moment in shocked silence, trying to fathom the coincidence and then wondering if it was a coincidence at all. Sometimes I feel mysterious forces propel my life, and this was one of those times. Precisely when I was deeply concerned about events at Neah Bay, fate had sent a man related not only to the cantankerous old shaman, but to his beautiful daughter as well. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee or some food?” I asked.

He looked up at me dizzily and then shrugged and gave me a faint smile. “Why not?”

Fumblingly, he folded his jackknife and tucked it into a pants pocket. Then he picked up his sculpture and stood unsteadily. Seeing he might have trouble walking, I grabbed an elbow and helped him stay upright and moving in the direction of Cafe Perugia, which fortunately was just around the corner. I led him inside, passing genteel patrons sitting at small tables that looked out tall windows at the art galleries of Occidental Mall. I steered him to the counter, where the barista and register clerk looked him over with disdain. The clerk said, “I’m sorry, but we don’t usually serve - “

“You usually serve me, don’t you?” I said. “I’m a regular customer.”

She nodded her head yes. I was as familiar to her as she was to me.

“This is a buddy of mine who’s a little messed up. Just give him a while to pull himself together. Then we’ll go.”

“Okay,” she said in a tone that implied it wasn’t. I ordered a triple tall Americano, black, for John and a double espresso for myself. And a couple of grilled ham-and-cheese croissants. We sat at a little round table and John straightened up considerably as he ate and sipped his coffee, although his shabby looks still attracted disapproving glances from other patrons. His eyes gradually cleared and focused on me.

“I met your father and sister a couple days ago,” I said. “Tleena’s children danced at the elder center.”

“That’s my sister,” he murmured with a half smile. “She’s the white sheep of the family. I’m the black one. When’d you meet my old man?”

“Same time, different circumstances. He wasn’t…too pleasant.”

John stopped chewing and smiled at me with his cheeks full like a chipmunk. “Not too pleasant,” he said past his mouthful. “That’s my father.” Then his expression dimmed and he looked down at the floor. He swallowed hard. It seemed like his appetite was gone.

“Something wrong between you and him?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. Then he gazed at his arms and legs as if seeing himself for the first time in a long time. He turned his left hand over, inspecting the grime on it. “I screwed up again.”

“How?”

“Lost the money.”

“What money?”

“To buy the harpoon.”

“The one in the Ortman Gallery?”

“Yeah.”

“You lost twenty-five hundred dollars? How?”

“Drinkin’” he said. “What else? It’s the Indian’s curse. On the rez, booze is illegal. Here, it’s everywhere. Seems like everybody I meet here is a drunk. I ran into a high school chum from Neah Bay. A guy named Dag Bukwatch. He got me drunk. I was staying at Aunt Edna’s house in West Seattle. Second time I came home drunk she told me she didn’t allow no drunken Injuns in her place. So I took off. After that…I don’t remember. Seattle just ain’t no place for klitsukhads.”

“For what?”

“For Indians. At least not this Indian.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I remember a lotta booze,” he said with a far away look. “And I remember smokin’ crystal meth in an alley with Dag Bukwatch. He makes it at his place in the woods back on the rez, and then he brings it to Seattle to sell. I smoked a lotta rock with him and I drank a lotta booze. One day I woke up in that alley and my good old buddy Dag was gone. So was my money.”

“All twenty-five hundred dollars?”

“I only had twenty-two hundred. We took up a collection at the elder center. Everyone chipped in some of their savings. I was given the task of buying the harpoon and bringing it home where it belongs.” He cupped his face in a grimy hand and blinked back tears. “I really screwed up this time!” He sobbed once, and then paused to collect himself.

“My father says it’s got spirit power. Folks at the gallery think it’s just artwork, but we know better. It belonged to our family. One of my ancestors made it. That’s why the elders chose me to come and get it. I offered the twenty-two hundred dollars, but the guy said he wouldn’t take no less than twenty-five hundred. I tried to bargain him down but he wouldn’t budge.” John pointed at his sculpture. “I said I’d make up the difference by carving some of these for him. He said okay, so I carved two, but he said he wanted four. When I was working on the third, that’s when Dag came around and got me drunk and stoned. Now I don’t even have the money I came here with. My old man’s gonna kill me.”

“I’m sorry - ” I began, but Steel went on without pause.

“I suppose it don’t really matter. I’m already a lost soul to my father.”

“A lost soul,” I repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, I failed my vision quest.”

“This trip to Seattle is a vision quest?”

“No, man.” He looked at me as if remembering I wasn’t a native. “I mean my real vision quest. The time when I was supposed to find my spirit guide. This quest to Seattle was supposed to make up for it.”

“What do you mean by a spirit guide?”

“In the old days, every Makah had a spirit animal that gave him power to do what he had to do in life. Came to him in a vision.”

“How did you fail your vision quest?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“A couple years ago, I had some trouble with the law. Drunk driving. My father said it was time I got the help of a spirit guide. He told me, ‘Go to Serpent’s Cave. Stay inside four days. No food, no water, no bed. Then your spirit guide will come.’ ‘

“Serpent’s Cave? Where is that?”

“It’s under the cliffs at the head of Spirit Cove where my father’s longhouse is. You can only get inside by wading in at the lowest tide on the new moon. Then the tide comes in and the breakers come right up to the highest ledge. They wash at your feet. You’re trapped right up under the cave ceiling on that ledge. They say if your spirit’s not purified before you go in there, a really big wave will come and drown you. Your fate’s in the hands of the two-headed serpent.” He held up his sculpture. “That cave’s his home. The waves wash in and the waves wash out, going two directions just like the serpent. If your heart isn’t pure, then in comes a big wave and you’re dead.

“My spirit wasn’t clean. I had a flask of whiskey with me. Second day I was in there, big waves started coming in at high tide. I had a little driftwood fire but it got dowsed and I got soaked. I spent that night freezing cold. I sang every magic song my old man taught me but no vision ever came. So when low tide came the next morning, I decided I couldn’t take it. I waded out and I went home. My father seen me coming back after only three days and he said I wasn’t fit to be a man and maybe I never would be. He said a man can’t be afraid of death. But I was.”

“So you’re still without a spirit guide?”

“Yeah. Lots of Makahs think having a spirit guide is evil. Un-Christian. They say spirit guides are the work of the devil.”

“If that’s what you think, then why look for a spirit guide?”

“My father says the old spirits aren’t evil. They’re angels sent to help us. Maybe some are demons but most are angels. He says now I’ve got one last chance - come here and get the harpoon. If I do it, then I proved I’m a man because I brought back something important for my family. If I fail, then I ain’t worth a damn and let the demons have me.” He choked on the words briefly but went on. “Now the dreams won’t stop.”

“Dreams?”

“Of this guy.” He picked up the carving and held it out toward me as if making an introduction. “Quykatsayak, the two-headed serpent.”

I admired the skill displayed in Steel’s carving. The two heads meeting at the top of the design seemed alive. The reptilian, staring eyes, the bared fangs, and the jutting tongues almost appeared to move.

Steel said, “He speaks to me out of both mouths. Says two different things at the same time. It’s hard to understand. In my dreams, he keeps coming at me and coming at me.” Steel’s eyes stared vacantly like he was remembering something horrific.

“How big is this snake supposed to be?” I asked.

He held up the sculpture. “Sometimes this size. Other times he’s as big as a house. He wants to kill me because I lost the money. It makes me crazy!” Steel raised his voice with this last statement, causing other patrons to look at him askance or exchange disdainful looks with the girls at the counter.

“Maybe we’d better finish this conversation somewhere else,” I suggested.

We left the coffee shop and went up the stairs to my office. Steel’s gait had gone from shambling to almost respectable. After climbing the four flights of stairs to my garret, he seemed to have recovered most of his sensibilities. I unlocked the old glass and hunter-green painted door and motioned him to sit in the worn overstuffed chair in the corner. He looked around my cramped work space and nodded approvingly. “Nice place. You got a view.”

“Such as it is,” I said, glancing out the dingy, pigeon-spotted windows overlooking the dirty streets of Pioneer Square.

“Better’n I got.” He laughed and then looked around at the red brick walls. “You got your degrees on the wall. UW writing school. I’d like to go to the U someday. You got a clock on the wall, computer, nice big desk - a desk like my sister has at school.”

“Your sister - ” I interrupted his cataloging of my possessions without knowing what I would say. “She’s, uh…”

“Yeah?” he said with a hint of protectiveness.

“Well, she’s very nice.”

He studied my face for a moment and then nodded. “Like I said. She’s the white sheep. The good one.”

I was about to say she had made more than a nice impression on me, but Steel spoke first. “What do you write about?”

“I’m working on a story about Neah Bay. The body in the Spanish crypt.”

He looked at me blankly.

I asked, “Haven’t you heard about the body they dug up?”

“I been drunk a while. I guess I missed it.”

“So you’re saying you’ve never seen what’s carved on the coffin?”

He shook his head no. I pointed at his two-headed serpent carving sitting on his lap. “It has serpents just like that on all four sides. I thought maybe the coffin had inspired your carving.”

He shrugged. “Nope.”

“Anyway,” I said. “I went there with Dr. McKean of Immune Corporation - “

“ImCo,” said Steel. “I know where that is. They got three dumpsters out back. One’s always got food from their lunch room.”

I hid my disgust. “McKean’s doing DNA tests on the skeleton to see if it’s Makah or Spanish.”

“Hmm,” Steel mumbled, as if the concept meant nothing to him. He stared at the worn wooden floor and my old Persian rug for a while, deep in thought.

I said, “What can I do to help you, John?”

An ironic smile twisted his stubble-ringed mouth. “Got twenty-five hundred bucks, plus tax?”

“Sorry,” I replied, gesturing at the tiny office around us. “Do I look like a rich man?”

Steel looked out the window. “It’s gonna be dark soon. I could use a good night’s sleep.”

“I’ve got a car not far from here,” I said. “I could drive you to your aunt’s house.”

He shook his head. “She said keep away until I straighten up. I’m still half-stoned.”

“Where to, then?”

“I’ve got a place to stay that’s not too far from here.”

I locked my office and followed Steel down the steps to the street. He started off in a still-staggering walk and I accompanied him, steadying him by an elbow. We went about ten blocks through the International District and on to a place where the I-5 freeway loomed overhead and the roar of traffic filled the air. Leading me down a dismal, deserted, deadend street lined with old warehouse buildings, he stopped beside a cyclone fence.

I looked around dubiously. “Where’s your place?”

“Up there.” He pointed to where the cyclone fence was slashed open. Beyond it, I saw no dwelling of any kind - just a dirt bank leading up under the freeway.

“It’s all right, man,” Steel said, countering my unspoken disapproval. “There’s an old Indian guy up there. He’s got a tent made out of a blue tarp. Ain’t too ritzy but it’s home for now. The guy’s a Tlingit. He’s pretty good to me. Lets me use a spare sleeping bag and some of his pots and pans and his little stove. I’ll be all right.” He turned and ducked through the gap in the fence.

“Wait!” I said. “Come back and see me tomorrow. I’ve got more questions. Here’s my business card in case you forget the address. And here, let me give you something to get by on.” I took out my wallet and found four twenties inside. I gave all four to him and he stashed them in a shirt pocket with the card.

“Thanks,” he said. Then he began scrambling up the dirt bank on his still-unsteady legs. As he disappeared on a trail among blackberry brambles, I pondered whether I should shout after him and offer my couch for the night. But the notion he might be infested with lice, or worse, kept me silent. I walked away and went home.

Chapter 8

The next morning I got up late after a night of tossing and turning. My discovery of John Steel, pickled in alcohol and virtually on my doorstep, seemed uncanny, given the traumatic associations I had with his hometown. While I was eating breakfast, Peyton McKean called and urged me to come to ImCo. He said he was expecting results in what was now a full-scale effort to identify the biological agent from the Spaniard. I went out and hurried the few blocks to ImCo. Finding McKean’s office empty, I went across the hall to his laboratory and found him talking on a wall-mounted telephone. He quickly finished his conversation and hung up the phone.

“That was Kay Erwin with more news,” he said. “There are now five cases of mania in Neah Bay. The Centers for Disease Control is on the verge of getting involved.”

“Are they going to declare a quarantine?”

“Not yet, but maybe soon.”

“Why not right now?”

“There still has been no definitive diagnosis of a disease or what’s causing it. Kay reminded me that public health is always a balance between protecting people and alarming them needlessly.”

I shook my head. “After what happened with the jihad virus - “

“The CDC may have waited too long in that case,” McKean agreed. “But even then, consider the outcome. A few people died, to be sure. But my vaccine was available in time to stop a general outbreak. You can’t expect any government agency to do much better than that. On the other hand, we may not have to wait on the CDC very long this time. The situation has escalated. Kay just told me one of those two non-Indian sport fishermen died this morning at the Makah Clinic, before the ambulance arrived to take him to the county hospital at Port Angeles.”

“How did he die?”

“Fever, convulsions, and a raving mania like we saw in Pete Whitehall. But high fever is what finally took him.”

“So, why isn’t it obvious they should quarantine Neah Bay?”

“That’s easy for you or me to say because we saw Pete Whitehall die. But look at it from the CDC’s perspective. They have one drowning victim and one death from a fever of unknown origin. They have yet to get hands on any microbe or any DNA evidence from either of the cases. Now, to be sure, five cases of odd behavior in the same town is provocative, and I imagine they take it quite seriously. But without a microbe or some other data, they can’t conclude this is beyond the realm of random chance. They can’t quarantine a town just because they think there may be a problem. They’ve got to consider the economic costs. Businesses suffer. The marina would lose its customers. People might lose their jobs. Quarantine is not a step to be taken prematurely. But I think Kay has been moving the CDC in the right direction. She said they’re sending an outbreak-response team from Atlanta to Neah Bay, arriving tomorrow. That’s pretty snappy service from a government bureaucracy.”

“I suppose it’s the best we can hope for,” I said. “But something else has come up.” I explained my discovery of Tleena Steel’s brother and his need of money to buy the harpoon.

“Interesting,” said McKean. “Buying the harpoon for him might bring us into the good graces of his father, who could tell us more about this legendary disease. But twenty-five hundred dollars is quite a lot for an uncertain payoff. Maybe the old man knows nothing more.”

“Could you get ImCo to pay for it?”

“Holloman would laugh me out of his office.”

“Okay,” I acquiesced. “But if this disease turns out to be real, then you and I must be at risk.”

“Possibly, but we still have no idea how contagious the Spaniard’s virus is. Rabies requires direct contact with a diseased animal or human - ” He stopped and caught his breath, seized by a sudden thought. “Archawat! He was bitten! He is our test case of virulence. If he has the disease, then we have proof that the CDC can rely on!”

McKean hurried to his office and used the speakerphone on his desk to track down Leon Curtis, who was back at the Neah Bay dig site. Talking on a scratchy connection from his cell phone, Curtis said, “I’m sorry Peyton, but I can’t confirm your theory. I saw Archawat half an hour ago. He and his crew paddled out of the bay with the protester ship on their tails. He was at the bow in the harpooner’s position and paddling as strong as any of them.”

McKean looked at me and shrugged. “The best laid theories of mice and men - ” Then he asked Curtis, “How’s progress on that mysterious parchment?”

“I’ve got it in a humidified cabinet at my office,” said Curtis. “Moisture should make it flexible enough to unroll. When I get back to Seattle tomorrow, I’ll flatten it out and make a photograph. I’ll e-mail you a copy as soon as I’ve got it.”

“Good enough,” said McKean. “I’ll be eager to see it.”

When he switched off the phone, McKean turned to me. “You see, Fin, it’s not a good research practice to jump to conclusions. If Archawat is still healthy after being bitten, then our epidemic may be nothing but a figment of hyperactive imaginations. Seeing Pete Whitehall die may have affected not only your judgment but mine as well.”

“I suppose that’s true,” I admitted. “But I plan to keep on worrying.”

“Me too,” McKean agreed.

Janet came in and sat at the computer. “I believe we’ve got ourselves a new virus,” she said.

McKean leaned near the screen with her and I looked over their shoulders.

“First of all,” Janet said, “most of the mononegavirus chips were blank.”

“That’s not too surprising,” said McKean. “I don’t think anyone seriously thought the Spaniard or Pete Whitehall died of the mumps.”

“But there are some interesting things going on with the rhabdovirus family microchip. First, the column of lyssavirus-one probes have lit up in exactly the same pattern we saw before.” She pointed to a column of brighter and darker green dots on the left side of the chip.”

“Excellent,” McKean remarked. “The first test of any scientific discovery is, can the experiment be reproduced? And you have done just that, Janet.”

She smiled at the compliment and went on. “Over here is the really interesting result.” She pointed to a column near the middle of the chip, which showed a pattern of lighter and darker green spots similar to, but distinct from the lyssavirus-one column.

“Hmmm,” McKean murmured. “Another virus with a partial match. Which virus is it?”

“VHSV,” Janet replied. “The Makah strain.”

“Makah,” he repeated. “Very interesting.”

“So it is a known virus after all?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” said Janet. “It’s the same kind of result we got with rabies virus. Strong matches on some probes, but weak matches on others, and no matches on still others. So it’s not exactly VHSV either.”

“VHSV,” I said. “What does that stand for?”

“Viral hemorrhagic septicemia virus,” Janet replied.

“Hemorrhagic,” I repeated. “Sounds nasty.”

“You would think so,” McKean interjected. “But it’s never been reported in humans. VHSV causes a fatal disease in salmon hatchlings. Quite a bad syndrome if you’re a fish. Victims begin to swim in circles and then they thrash around wildly. Next, their skin begins to slough off in bloody lesions. Finally, they die.”

“Thrashing about in water and dying,” I said. “That just about sums up what happened to Pete Whitehall.”

“I congratulate you, Phineus Morton,” McKean said with a smirk, “for consistently getting your speculations one step ahead of the facts. The extrapolation of thrashing fish to thrashing humans is apt, but also without any precedent in medical science. Still, I’m open to your theory.”

“What confuses me,” Janet said, “is that we’ve got some clearly positive probes with rabies and some clearly positive probes with hemorrhagic virus, but the dark probes say it’s neither one.”

“Confusing indeed,” McKean agreed, “unless one considers a third alternative. Perhaps the virus is a recombinant.”

“Recombinant?” I asked. “You mean, a combination of the fish virus with the rabies virus?”

“Exactly,” said McKean. “A sort of Frankenstein’s monster virus. Stitch a portion of the VHSV genome to a portion of rabies genome and viola! You’ve got a new organism made with parts of both. Conceivably, it could possess the biological properties of both. Recombination occurs rarely in nature, but it could be the answer here.”

“It sounds horrific,” I said. “The thought of madness and hemorrhage, both caused by the same microbe.”

“Possibly,” said McKean. “But just knowing what sort of virus we’re dealing with doesn’t tell us what it’s capable of doing or how to deal with it. The ways in which viral genes can recombine are almost infinite. And when dealing with viruses as deadly as two rhabdoviruses, I doubt we could guess which traits would survive the merger.”

“What about vaccines?” Janet asked. “Won’t a rabies vaccine block the infection? What about a VSHV vaccine?”

“Good thinking,” said McKean. “Conventional rabies vaccine, as well as a salmon vaccine from the aquaculture industry are readily available, I am sure. We can get some test sera from Kay Erwin and check their reactivity with the virus. But the half-lit probes worry me more than the strongly-lit probes. Their non-identity with the authentic viruses suggest this virus has mutated to something substantially different from either of its ancestors. It’s possible no existing vaccine will protect against it.”

“You are not inspiring much confidence,” I said. “I hate to think there is nothing we can do if this disease spreads.”

“Don’t worry Fin,” McKean responded. “We’re being pro-active.” He turned to Janet. “How have your efforts been going to isolate this virus?”

“Not well. I think the DNA in the bone sample is too old and damaged to give us the whole virus in one piece. We seem to be getting only fragments.”

I interjected, “How on earth could a fragmented virus infect Pete Whitehall or anybody else?”

“The ravens!” McKean exclaimed suddenly. “Fin, you are right to doubt that a virus can be infectious after two centuries of degradation. But if it were processed through living cells, in a living animal - “

“Then it could be - what? - reanimated, like Frankenstein’s monster?”

“Precisely, Fin. And you will recall that we observed ravens eating some of the corpse’s flesh and perching in branches over Pete Whitehall’s bulldozer. Perhaps he came in contact with their droppings.”

“How awful!”

“But not without precedent, Fin. If the bird flu epidemics have taught us anything, it is that birds can act as carriers of human diseases. In this case, the ravens may have reactivated the virus and delivered it to Pete Whitehall after two centuries! And old Gordon Steel’s predictions may carry more weight than he realizes.”

“Or maybe he does realize,” I said.

I went back to my office and made some notes about McKean’s unsettling new theories. In the evening I went home and poured a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and watched the TV news, which made no mention of any virus at Neah Bay or any threat of an outbreak. Only the briefest mention of Neah Bay came in a quick report about Whales First protesters successfully blocking another Makah whale hunt. There was not one word about raving maniacs or a death at the Makah Clinic. I made dinner and made some notes on my computer. Then, deciding tomorrow’s updates from Peyton McKean’s laboratories couldn’t arrive too soon, I went to bed.

* * * * * * * * * *

The next morning I went to my office more eagerly than I had on the previous day, hoping for another telephone summons from McKean. I wasn’t disappointed. His call came before I was halfway through my morning espresso.

“More excitement, Fin. Come and join us.”

I walked quickly to ImCo and found McKean in his office, where my knock was greeted by an over-the-shoulder wave that bade me enter and be seated. I took a chair and waited silently for some time while McKean leaned his lanky frame over one of the many photocopied scientific papers piled on his desk, until I began to suspect my arrival hadn’t made a sufficient impression on the man’s prodigious mind. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, he addressed me without turning. “She’ll be here in a moment.”

I assumed he meant Janet, but when the lab door opened, another woman with whom I was only too familiar crossed the hall and came into McKean’s office.

“Kay Erwin!” I rose to greet her. She smiled and shook my hand and as she did so, I consciously chased away memories of the day I had lain in a fever on her isolation ward and she, dressed in a biohazard suit, had inspected my body for smallpox sores, leaving no part of me unexamined.

“Hi, Fin,” she said, smiling thoughtfully as if remembering the same event. “You look well. Recovered from your close call with the jihad virus.”

“I’m glad that’s over with,” I replied. “It’s the least of my worries right now.” Kay sat down at the computer desk. I took my seat, watching McKean for a reaction. Although he too had been infected almost fatally with the jihad virus, he remained focused on his article, using a yellow highlighter on a passage that was of particular interest to him.

“It seems that my colleague here,” Kay gestured toward McKean, “has once again discovered an entirely new virus.”

“I’d heard that much yesterday,” I replied. “What’s making me nervous is that he and I might be among its first victims.”

McKean made no reaction, although I was sure he had heard.

Kay said palliatively, “Now Fin, you know we have yet to establish a link between the virus and anyone’s death. The Spaniard and Pete Whitehall may have died from other causes.”

I nodded affirmatively.

“You don’t look convinced,” she remarked.

“I’m not.”

“If it’s any comfort, we’re setting up a forward post for the CDC to track any new cases of mania on the reservation.”

“New cases? Last I heard there were five. How many how?”

“The victim count is up to six. Normally that wouldn’t trigger so much effort on my part, but Peyton is way ahead of us. He’s already got a possible etiological agent that’s hard to ignore. Haven’t you, Peyton?”

He nodded while continuing to read. I craned my neck to look at the running title of the article. It read: “Life Cycle And Variations Of The Rhabdovirinae.” McKean used his yellow highlighter pen to mark several more lines.

“This is not the usual order of things with a new outbreak,” Erwin explained to me. “Usually the virus is the last thing to be identified. But, given that Peyton has already got a potential agent from the rabies virus family in his sights, the pattern of symptoms is hard to overlook - sudden outbursts of raving mania, fever, convulsions, death.”

I pointed a thumb at him. “It’s beyond me how he manages to stay calm about all that.”

McKean finally set down his marker and turned to look at Erwin and me with a pleased expression on his face, which I thought was inappropriate to the subject being discussed. He said, “If we can isolate the new virus from any of those cases, that would be definitive.”

He said this with such enthusiasm that I was annoyed. “Peyton!” I said rather harshly. “Don’t you dread an epidemic as much as I do? Or do you want one?”

“I only meant it would be scientifically…engaging.”

“Fun, is what you mean to say.”

Erwin seemed to be infected by the gleam in McKean’s eye. “You’re right, Peyton,” she concurred. “Even if we can’t cultivate the virus directly from a victim of the mania, I’d say another four or five deaths would warrant a major investigation.”

“Then we’ll get everything we need.” said McKean. The gleam in his eyes increased. “Government grant money, more personnel to gather lab data about which organs are destroyed, some high-quality autopsies, detailed family histories.”

Erwin’s enthusiasm mounted to match his. “Peyton, this could be bigger than your discovery of a vaccine for the Congo River virus.”

I slapped my hand on the arm of my chair. “I can’t believe you two! I’d like to hear something other than premature congratulations. I want to know if I’ll be on that list of victims you’re so eager to study. I suppose if I dropped dead right now, you would giggle like schoolchildren and put me on the autopsy table!”

McKean and Erwin stopped smiling and both looked at me appraisingly. “Sorry Fin,” said McKean. “I get focused on science and sometimes forget I’m in this to save people’s lives.”

Kay placed a hand on her chest. “Oh my,” she said. “Did we really sound so heartless?”

“Yes, you did.” I sat back and folded my arms.

“Don’t misunderstand us,” McKean explained. “We’re merely excited at the prospect of solving this mystery before any substantial outbreak occurs.”

“Okay,” I said after a moment. “But you can’t blame me for being irritated. If I become one of the victims, I’m sure you’ll gladly add me to your statistics.”

“Why, of course, Fin,” McKean replied, suppressing a grin. “And myself too. At least then our sacrifice will add to scientific knowledge.”

“Sacrifice! I’m not going to let you make an experimental animal of me again.”

“But therein lies our problem.” McKean raised a long index finger. “Too few patients. Right Kay?”

She nodded. “Even though I’m half-convinced we’re dealing with a new viral disease here, it takes more than a hunch to convince Atlanta and Washington D.C. We’ve never quarantined any part of the country for a case of rabies.”

“But this isn’t exactly rabies,” I countered.

“Apparently not,” she agreed. “At least in Dr. McKean’s theory. But the government would be the bad guy if it closes down Neah Bay. If the outbreak doesn’t materialize it’s hard to tell people we’re sorry we messed up their lives, ruined their fishing season, screwed up their community. It was a false alarm.”

“I see your point,” I admitted. “But the new virus in the Spaniard and the new disease in Neah Bay seem like too great a coincidence to ignore.”

“Nevertheless,” McKean said, “we’ll get little government interest until we prove a causal connection between the virus and the mania. And that requires evidence of transmission of both the virus and the disease from one person to the next.”

“But it may have already happened in Pete Whitehall!”

“May have. But we have yet to culture a virus from his body.”

“Then what about Gordon Steel’s claim that it’s a disease already known to him?”

“Some would call that a mere speculation.”

“But if he knows the oral history of the tribe’s old medicine men and he says it’s Lost Souls disease, that counts for something.”

Kay shook her head. “I’m afraid the CDC would never take a non-professional’s word.” She turned to McKean. “So far, we’ve got four European Americans, one Asian American, and one African American down with mania and fever but no Makahs. What do you make of that, Peyton?”

“Statistically speaking,” McKean mused, “out of the six cases, there ought to be more than one Makah, given that they constitute the great majority of the local population. That strikes me as very odd.”

“But it agrees with what Gordon Steel told us,” I reminded them.

Erwin nodded. “If it’s the start of a trend, then the old man might have a point. We would be looking at a disease that leaves Makahs untouched but hits everybody else.”

“A sort of cosmic retribution,” said McKean. “Once, it was outsiders who brought diseases that killed the Makahs. We might now be looking at the opposite situation.”

“Karma,” I said. “What goes around comes around.”

Erwin looked at her watch. “On that pleasant note, gentlemen, I’ll take my leave. I’ve seen enough data to convince me your virus is something new, Peyton. I’ve got to work fast if I want to get an update filed with the CDC before their workday ends.” After goodbyes, she hurried down the hall for the elevator, leaving me sitting in brooding silence while McKean resumed reading the paper on his desk.

After a few moments I remarked, “Peyton, I am astonished at how matter-of-factly the two of you discussed what might be an apocalypse in the making.”

“Umm-hmm,” he responded vaguely, continuing his reading.

“How can you be so calm about what looks like a dangerous situation? I’m thoroughly spooked.”

He paused and looked at me curiously. “If you think about it, Fin, I have no choice but to remain calm. If this is indeed the start of an epidemic, then cool-headedness - especially in this laboratory - is absolutely necessary to avoid a larger calamity. Secondly, it still remains possible that this virus has cropped up somewhere else before and it’s just a matter of identifying the microbe and putting in place the proper control measures. That’s why I am reading every literature report on rhabdoviruses I can lay hands on. That’s much better than sitting and wringing my hands, wouldn’t you agree?”

“But what about you and me?” I persisted. “How can you not be as worried as I am about having been exposed?”

He paused his reading and put a hand reassuringly on my forearm. “Worry is useless, Fin. Calm focus will get this puzzle figured out. If we have contracted something, I’ll make better progress toward a cure if I concentrate on the task at hand, rather than worrying over my own fate or yours. Have faith, Fin. I’ll get this thing before it gets us.”

“Have faith?” I chuckled bitterly. “I guess I have no other choice, do I?”

Chapter 9

McKean read for some time until I said, “Anyway, I’m glad you invited me to come and meet Kay again.”

He looked up from his reading with an expression of faint surprise. “But that wasn’t what I called you here for.”

“No? What, then?”

There were footsteps in the hall and a husky voice outside the office door said, “Knock, knock.” A large man entered, who at first didn’t seem familiar without his yellow raingear and mud on his granny glasses and beard.

“Leon Curtis!” I said, standing and offering a hand. He shook my hand with a big warm paw and then shook Peyton McKean’s hand as well. McKean sat and gestured Leon into the chair Kay Erwin had just vacated. The archeologist overfilled the chair, his broad shoulders tight inside an oversized tartan sport coat. He held a brown leather briefcase in his lap.

“You’ve brought the parchment?” McKean asked.

“It’s right here.” He opened the briefcase and drew out a clear plastic slipcase with the now-unrolled yellow parchment inside and handed it to McKean, who set it on top of the article he had been reading.

“Gorgeous!” McKean looked carefully up and down the cracked but meticulously unfolded page.

Curtis sat with his hands on the sides of the briefcase and one knee bouncing like a nervous schoolboy. “What I didn’t tell you,” he said, “is why I’ve brought the original to you. Have you ever heard the name, Charles Grayson?”

“No,” said McKean, continuing to look the manuscript over with eager intensity.

“Bureau of Indian Affairs Special Agent. He’s responsible for the Makah Reservation and a few others. Popped into my lab unannounced yesterday. Seems somebody told him about the scroll and the fact I’d taken it. He’s made it his duty to track it down. He threatened to arrest me for NAGPRA violations if I didn’t give it up. Fortunately, it was squirreled away in a desk drawer and I denied any knowledge. But he gave me the third degree. Somebody told him every detail except where to find it. I suspect Gordon Steel. If anybody’s aware of what’s going on in that crypt, it’s him.”

“Maybe so,” said McKean. “But Grayson should be made to know that any meddling may slow down your investigation of the Spaniard’s history, and my investigation of what killed him.”

“I didn’t tell him any of that. He’s on a crusade and he’s got me worried. I got a call from Tleena Steel. She knows somebody in the BIA Office in Neah Bay who says tomorrow Grayson will be back with a search warrant. So I brought it here for safekeeping, if you don’t mind.”

“Thanks for entrusting it to me, Leon. I’ll have a good look at it.”

“Great,” said Curtis. “I think I’ll take a few days off. Stress is getting to me so bad I can’t work.”

“Oh?” McKean eyed Curtis closely. “How so?”

“Headaches, bad ones. Dizzy spells. And forgetting stuff. Like today, I got lost on the way here. I’ve come here a dozen times but today I couldn’t find this place to save my life. Drove all over the waterfront. Nearly got in a fender bender with a cop car. The officer was kind enough to tell me how to get here.” He rubbed his eyes deeply with the fingers of both hands. When he removed his fingers his eyes looked red and puffy, no doubt because of the aggressive way in which he had rubbed them.

McKean and I exchanged glances. “Any fever?” he asked Curtis.

“Ye - uh, no - uh, I don’t know,” Curtis replied.

After a thoughtful silence, McKean said, “Go to Seattle Public Health Hospital, Leon. I’ll call Kay Erwin and let her know you’re coming.”

Leon snapped the catches closed on his briefcase and stood. He looked pale. “Sure, Peyton,” he said. “That’s a good idea. I’ll go. Just to play it safe…”

He turned and walked away down the hall in a slow, doddering shuffle. McKean made the call and left a message for Erwin, who hadn’t arrived at her office yet. As he set the phone on its cradle, the patter of small feet resounded in the hallway. Suddenly a small boy of about six rushed into the room and threw himself at McKean, who caught him in his arms, chuckling. The boy shouted, “Daddy-y-y!” This was Sean McKean, Peyton’s fair-haired son, whom I met once through the bio-containment window while I was incarcerated with McKean in Kay Erwin’s isolation ward. They hugged for a long moment and then the boy asked, “Who was that big man on the elevator?”

“That was Leon Curtis,” McKean replied. “He’s an archaeologist.”

“An ark-ee-ol-o-gist,” the boy puzzled out the sound of the word. “What’s that?”

“He studies graves, old bones, things like that.”

“Mummies?”

“Yes.”

“Lost temples?”

“Yep.” McKean smiled at the boy’s bubbling enthusiasm.

“Was he sick?” Sean asked.

McKean’s face clouded. “What makes you ask that?”

“He sneezed.” The answer came, not from Sean, but from a woman standing behind him outside the door. I recognized her as McKean’s wife, Evelyn. Her straight shoulder length dark blond hair was pinned back in businesslike fashion and she wore a tan business dress suit. She didn’t embrace Peyton when she came in, as Sean had.

“We had to encourage him to get off the elevator,” she elaborated.

“He didn’t know if he was going up or down,” Sean added.

“He wasn’t the only forgetful one around here,” Evelyn said coolly. “You were supposed to meet us at the curb.”

“Oh, yes!” McKean exclaimed, glancing at the wall clock. “Sorry.” Then he clasped the boy by both shoulders. “Oh, boy!” he exclaimed. “A day in Dad’s office and then it’s my night to cook dinner.”

“I’m already late for the art museum board meeting.” Evelyn glanced at her watch. “And I’m double parked. Goodbye.” She spun on the heel of a brown pump and hurried down the hall. “Bye, Seanny,” she called. “I won’t be home too late. I’ll see you before you go to bed.”

“Bye, Mommy.”

McKean’s expression brightened when she had gone. He asked the boy, “Want to play with the molecular models?”

“Yeah!”

McKean opened the bottom drawer of a file cabinet and Sean knelt and pulled out handfuls of colorful plastic atomic models that could be connected to make molecules. As he fashioned a fanciful molecule that could have corresponded to one of his father’s authentic chemical inventions, my cell phone rang. I excused myself and stepped into the hall and answered.

“This is Dr. Srinivasan in the Emergency Pavilion at Seattle Public Health Hospital,” the female voice said. “I am calling regarding a patient, John Doe. He is comatose. He has no wallet or ID. But he is carrying in his coat pocket a card with your name on it. I am calling to see if you can please help us identify him.”

“John Steel,” I said without hesitation.

“Are you sure? Perhaps you should come have a look at him.”

“I’m on my way.”

I said goodbye to Peyton and Sean and then hurried off.

Within fifteen minutes I was in a small room in the Emergency Pavilion of Seattle Public Health Hospital, standing with Srinivasan, the resident in charge, a diminutive, dark and beautiful woman with a red spot on her forehead and a green surgical scrub outfit that was splotched with other red spots I suspected were from the man who lay on the bed.

“That’s John Steel alright,” I said, dismayed at his condition. He had iv tubes in both arms, oxygen tubes in both nostrils, and his head was bandaged with so much white gauze that he looked like a swami. One eye was swollen shut and the other was half open, although he seemed unconscious. I took some comfort from the sound of his regular breathing and the smooth and even-paced vital signs on the cardiac monitor above him.

“He is resting under heavy doses of pain medication,” Srinivasan explained. “We won’t need to wake him until morning if his signs stay good.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“He is camping in the woods above the freeway. An old man there says he is flashing some twenty-dollar bills and so some other vagrants are beating him and taking the money.”

“It was my fault then! I gave him the money.” I explained the few facts I knew about John Steel to Srinivasan and after that, to the two responding police officers. The cops left to file their report, and Srinivasan got a pager call and hurried off to another patient, leaving me alone with John. I sat down in a corner chair and used my cell phone to find the number of Neah Bay Elementary School. Within minutes I was connected to Tleena Steel.

“Hello, Tleena,” I said when she answered. “This is Phineus Morton.”

“Oh,” she replied. “What a surprise.”

“Not a pleasant one, I’m afraid. I’m at the hospital with your brother John.”

“John! How? Why!”

I gave her a rundown of the situation and John’s guarded but hopeful prognosis.

“Oh my gosh!” she said. “I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”

After Tleena hung up I sat beside John Steel pondering the thick web of events that had followed on what I once considered an almost inconsequential trip to Neah Bay. After quite some time, a familiar thin-but-firm voice came from outside the door. “There you are, Fin. I thought I’d find you here.” Peyton McKean stood in the doorway, his hat and field coat rain-dampened, suggesting he had followed the same route I had walked several hours before. He glanced at Steel and whispered, “How’s your friend?”

“Okay, I guess. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to visit Leon Curtis. I stopped by to find you because I thought you might want to join us up on the isolation ward.”

I shuddered. “Just the mention of that place gives me the creeps. After what we went through - “

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “You and I have reason to fear the place, having recently faced death there. But we’re healthy again and we’ll be on the outside looking in.”

“I think I’ll stay here and keep an eye on John.”

“Oh, come on,” McKean said. “Your friend is in good hands. And he’s not too talkative, it seems to me. You’ll get more out of a visit with Leon. Where’s the intrepid medical reporter? You’ll want to be in attendance. You see, Kay Erwin agrees that Leon has come down with something potentially dangerous.”

“The Lost Souls disease?”

“Answer: yes, if you like that term. Whatever the name, it seems that something is seriously wrong with Leon. The parallels to Pete Whitehall are there and his condition has grown worse. Come on, Fin.”

McKean turned and stalked away and I hurried to follow him through the zigzagging hospital corridors. We took an elevator to the ninth floor, home of the Northwest Regional Infectious Disease Isolation Facility. Kay Erwin came out of her office when she saw us at the elevator landing. We went to the window wall that separates the isolation ward from the rest of the facility. Leon Curtis was in the nearest of six beds inside the windows. He lay with the bed back raised and pillows propping up his head, looking comfortable enough in a hospital gown. He greeted us with a feeble wave and a friendly smile. Since we had seen him last, the whites of his eyes had dramatically reddened and his eye sockets had sunk and showed hints of the purple coloration we had seen around Pete Whitehall’s eyes.

There are microphones and speakers in the window wall that allow communication without compromising the airtight seal. “How are you feeling?” McKean asked his friend.

“Okay. Headache’s gone.”

“High dose ibuprofen,” Erwin explained.

“I get so confused,” Curtis said. “I was lucky to make it here at all. Drove the wrong way on a one-way street.”

“Trouble operating machinery, just like Pete Whitehall,” McKean observed.

“I know,” Curtis replied.

“Furthering our discussion of the parchment,” McKean said, “I’ve gone over it in detail. It’s challenging. An archaic dialect of Castilian Spanish, with some peculiarities that complicate the translation.”

Curtis nodded. But he stared blankly, as if it were a strain to follow what was being said.

“The handwriting,” McKean went on, “in its time, probably would have been considered poor. And the spelling. I suspect the author had little writing skill and no access to a dictionary.”

Curtis made no response. Then his head twitched powerfully to the side. Afterward, he appeared dazed. He shook his head as if clearing mental cobwebs.

“That’s a new sign,” Erwin murmured. “Not quite sure what to make of it. Might be a petit mal seizure.”

“I recall seeing Pete Whitehall do that,” said McKean.

Kay scribbled on a chart she had brought from her office. McKean tugged at his chin with long fingers and looked thoughtfully through the glass at Curtis. “Returning to the manuscript,” he said a bit dispassionately, “I have confirmed your mention of almas perdidas, the Lost Souls disease. That’s definitely a part of the story.”

“Giving more weight to Gordon Steel’s threat,” I interjected.

“Perhaps,” McKean allowed. “But it may simply mean the manuscript and Gordon Steel are referencing the same superstition.”

Curtis had revived somewhat. “Superstition?” he murmured. “Steel said the garrison was cursed by a shaman called Devilfish. Devilfish prayed to Raven for a plague to punish the Spaniards for raping a Makah girl.”

McKean said, “I read the part about El Pez del Diablo, the Devilfish. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.”

“Devilfish is the Makah word for octopus,” said Curtis. “They’re nasty creatures to hunt.”

“No doubt,” McKean concurred. “The Pacific octopus is the largest in the world, up to twenty-five feet across. With a beak that can cut a man’s arm off, it’s a devilfish for sure. But the story seems to reference a man by that name, not an animal. And in any case, devilfish is not one of the terms I’m having trouble with. It’s been translated into Spanish and therefore is easy to translate into English. But other terms are almost impossible to interpret. They may be misspellings or transliterations of Makah words, written as they sounded to a Spanish writer. They’re particularly thick in a passage describing a cure the shaman produced to save the last of the Spanish. I can sound the words out, but without knowledge of the Makah language, they have no meaning to me.”

“I had the same problem,” Curtis murmured. He lay back and closed his reddened eyes.

“Maybe Gordon Steel can help us read it,” McKean suggested.

“Lots of luck with that,” said Curtis. “He’s too bitter. And he lives like a hermit. I tried to find him once but I couldn’t locate him.”

“According to his son,” I said, “he lives in a longhouse on Spirit Cove.”

“Spirit Cove? Do you know where that is?” McKean asked Curtis.

“Not exactly.” Curtis rubbed his left eye deeply with a knuckle. “It’s hidden away somewhere near Cape Flattery. Not many Makahs even know where it is. Steel and some other traditionalists are renewing the ancient ways out there. No road. No electricity. No plumbing. Off the grid, so to speak.” He began rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of both hands. McKean knocked on the glass. Curtis stopped rubbing and looked at McKean with decidedly purplish, sunken eyes.

“How long have you been doing that?” McKean asked him.

“The eyes? They’ve been itching like mad since this morning.”

“What do you make of that?” McKean asked Erwin. “Are there other reports of eye-rubbing in your Neah Bay case histories?”

“All of them,” she said, observing Curtis carefully as he went back to rubbing his eyes. “Several cases mentioned itchy eyes as the first symptom.”

Curtis put his hands to his sides as if trying to keep them from his eyes by sheer willpower. He asked McKean drearily, “Do you think I’ll end up like Pete Whitehall?”

“Hopefully not,” McKean replied. “You’ve got a lot of medical support - and no bulldozer.”

Curtis turned his head and looked at us. “What about you two? You feeling anything?”

“No symptoms so far,” said McKean. “Right, Fin?”

I nodded.

“Your misfortune,” McKean said to Curtis, “was to have worked quite intimately with the coffin and its contents. And Pete Whitehall was the first to enter the crypt. Fin and I were relative latecomers.”

“You reached in the coffin and pulled out the sample,” I reminded McKean.

“Using proper sterile technique,” he replied. “I’m not concerned for myself, but you became quite intimate with the mud of the place. How have you been feeling, Fin?” He turned square with me and looked me in the face. “Your eyes don’t look red. Have they been itching?”

When Kay Erwin pressed near to join McKean in looking me over, I backed away. “Oh no you don’t! Neither one of you is getting me behind that glass wall again!”

We decided to part company for the evening. Curtis would be tended by an orderly in a yellow pressurized biohazard suit. McKean would return to his office and retrieve his son, whom he had left in the care of Janet Emerson. “And you, Fin?”

“I’m thinking, bed rest and plenty of vitamin C.”

We left Kay Erwin at her office and rode the elevator down together. I parted from McKean at the emergency entrance and went to see John Steel. His condition hadn’t changed much. He lay resting as I had left him. But the room had changed. A brown leather shearling coat with Indian beadwork on it hung on a hook at the back of the room, and a rumpled paper grocery bag sat on the small table. A woman’s purse of tanned leather about the size of a saddlebag sat in one of the two visitor chairs. I went to the coat, grasped the auburn wool of one cuff and pulled the coat open to see the entire design on its back. Myriad tiny beads of red, black, white, and turquoise portrayed the mythic Thunderbird with wings spread, carrying a whale in its talons. A faint sound at the doorway startled me and I dropped the sleeve and turned. Tleena Steel eyed me curiously.

“Admiring Aunt Edna’s beadwork?” she asked.

“It’s very nice,” I replied, embarrassed to have been caught pawing her property.

“John’s better now.” She went to his bedside. “My Uncle Charlie gave me a ride from Neah Bay. John was pretty restless, so I gave him some of this.” She picked up a small dropper bottle of purple liquid that was sitting on the table beside the grocery bag. “Father makes this from salal berries and some herbs. I put a couple of drops on his lips and he woke up for a few minutes. He was glad to see me but the drugs in his iv made him sleepy. Before he nodded off again, I fed him some of these.” She picked up a small canning jar from the table. It was filled with the dark greenish paste I recognized as sea spinach. She opened the lid and held the jar under my nose, smiling at the wry face I made at the rancid smell. “Father insisted I bring them along.”

“Trying to get rid of them, is he?”

“Aww,” Tleena said with feigned pout. “You told me you liked them at the elder center. Were you lying?”

“No,” I lied again.

She smiled. “Want to try some more, then? I’ve got four jars. That’s way too much for John.” She reached into the grocery bag and handed me a jar containing about a half a cup of the vile looking blackish-green paste. To please her, I took it and tucked it into my coat pocket. “What’s in that stuff, anyway?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Father keeps his recipes secret, even from me. I’m not a real shaman like him, at least not yet.”

“But he’s for real?”

“Oh, yes. He’s one of the few Makahs who still keep the ancient ways. Learned most of what he knows from an old man that lived in a cabin down at Hobuck Beach. The old guy died before I was born.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked, changing the subject. “I can offer you the couch in my apartment. It folds out into a bed.”

“No thanks, Fin. I’m staying with my Aunt Edna and Uncle Charlie, except tonight. I’ll stay here tonight. I want to keep an eye on John.”

After a moment I said, “I’m getting hungry. Would you like to join me for dinner somewhere?”

She shook her head. “I’ve already eaten.”

With both chairs taken, one by Tleena and one by her prodigious purse, I stood around awkwardly for a time making small talk while she fussed over John. Satisfied that she had done what she could for him, she curled her legs under her on the chair cushion and arranged a spare pillow to rest her head. “See?” she said. “I’ll be comfortable enough.”

I lingered for a while, feeling out of place. I took one last wistful look into Tleena’s pretty face as she watched her brother sleep, and then I said goodnight. It was dark when I went out the front doors of the hospital.

* * * * * * * * * *

Arriving at home a little past 6:30, I let myself into the Denny Heights Apartment Building and trudged up the tiled steps to the first landing. As I put my key in my door lock, I heard the familiar sound of Penny Worthe opening her door from the inside just as I opened mine from the outside. I suspect she has the hearing of a bat.

I turned toward her. “Hi, Penny.”

She wore a familiar dressing gown of satiny pink, cross-stitched fabric. Her legs were bare and her fuzzy pink slippers completed a picture of domestic comfort that she always seems ready to share with me. Penny is a woman of modest size, shape, and looks. She has never made my dating list, but she’s a good friendly neighbor. We water each other’s plants when one or the other is away. She grows three kinds of orchids that seem always to be in bloom. I grow large and small peace lilies that always seem a little wilted and brown around the edges. Between the two of us, we keep each other’s plants going.

“Hi, Fin,” she said, lingering in her doorway as she often does when I come home.

I said, “I brought you something.” Her eyes lit up when I reached into my coat pocket, but she scowled when I held out the jar Tleena had given me. She took it and looked dubiously at the dark green contents. “What is it?”

“Sea spinach!” I exclaimed in an infomercial announcer’s voice. “All the way from Neah Bay Washington! The healthiest, most nutritious food ever. Full of antioxidants, vitamins, minerals and life-extending miracle ingredients!”

“What’s it made from?”

“I’m not exactly sure. But try it. You’ll love it.”

“Thanks,” she said, looking dubiously from the jar to me, and then back at the jar again. I turned, and as I closed the door behind me, I called out, “Let me know how you like it.”

“I will,” she called back.

I locked the door, went straight to my refrigerator, opened a beer and took a long pull. I hung my coat on its peg on the wall and then sat down on the couch, grazing the TV channels on a fruitless search for news from Neah Bay. There was a sharp knock on my door and I answered. Penny Worthe held up the jar of sea spinach. “Eeew!” she said with a scowl. “What’s in this?”

I laughed out loud.

“How could you do that to me? It tastes like it’s a couple years past its expiration date. Here! Take it back!” She thrust the jar at me.

“Did you eat very much?” I held up the jar to inspect its contents, which weren’t significantly changed.

“A tablespoon and that was too much!” She spun, crossed to her door, and then looked back in irritation. “Have a good night, Fin. I’m getting some mouthwash!”

“Goodnight Penny,” I chuckled.

Chapter 10

I slept soundly and spent the early morning tidying up my neglected apartment. McKean called at 9 am and I went to join him at ImCo. I found him in his office talking with Janet Emerson, who was in her usual seat at the computer.

“Two important pieces of news, Fin,” McKean said by way of greeting, directing me to my customary guest chair with a gesture. “First of all, Janet and her coworker, Beryl Shum, have isolated a large number of viral gene fragments from the corpse tissue. Among them are two that react strongly with our DNA probes corresponding to segments of the rabies and VHSV viruses.”

“And the second piece of good news?”

McKean hesitated. “We have just established Koch’s critical proof of transmission of both virus and disease.”

“How?”

“Robert Johnson, our tissue culture specialist, has managed to cultivate the virus that is making Leon Curtis ill, from a sample of Leon’s blood Kay Erwin sent us. And this morning Beryl confirmed both rabies and VHSV DNA probes react positively with it.” His brown eyes were lit with the excitement of discovery.

“I wish I could share your joy,” I said dourly. “But that’s pretty bad news for Leon Curtis, isn’t it? And I’m nervous about what’s growing right here in your labs. Is it - ?”

“Dangerous?” Janet finished for me. “Relax, Fin. You’ve seen our BCL-4 bio-containment lab. It’s got an airlock to get in and out, it’s sterilized by ultraviolet light, and anyone who goes in is gowned from head to foot.”

“Yes, I know, I’ve watched you and Peyton through the windows. But you’ve also been working in the main lab with those viral gene fragments. Couldn’t you get infected?”

“Answer: no,” said McKean. “Not when you consider how broken up the virus is in the Spaniard’s tissues. It has rotted for two hundred years. We were lucky to get anything at all out of that bit of bone.”

Janet agreed. “We’ve isolated a dozen viral gene segments so far, but none of them contain enough of the virus’s genetic material to grow.”

“On the other hand,” said McKean, “the fragments will allow us to read the entire viral genome in overlapping segments.”

“You’ll sequence its DNA?”

McKean laughed. “Before I answer that, Fin, let me give you a little virology lesson. As you are aware, viruses, like all living things, utilize the genetic code.”

“DNA,” I said.

“Good assumption, Fin, but in this case, wrong. Rabies viruses use the other genetic coding molecule, RNA. In fact, their lack of DNA is a cornerstone of the ‘RNA World,’ theory of evolution, in which the original coding molecule of life is thought to be RNA, not DNA. In that theory, DNA is a more recent invention of life, useful for storing rather than utilizing genetic information. Whatever the reason, it is a fact that these viruses possess only RNA. Accordingly, they are among the most ancient forms of life on earth.”

“Ancient and deadly,” I said.

“True,” McKean agreed. “But not so deadly when isolated in separate fragments, each of which lacks several of the genes necessary to encode a whole virus.”

“How many genes are there?”

“These are very compact viruses. Rabies virus RNA encodes only five genes laid out in a straight line on a single RNA strand. The VHSV virus contains six genes. Compare that to humans, who possess around fifty thousand genes on forty-six chromosomes.”

“Five or six genes,” I marveled. “That’s incredibly simple for something that can drive a person mad.”

McKean nodded, and then continued. “So that’s your virology lesson for today, Fin. And now to the point of all that. Janet?”

Janet brightened at the thought that McKean hadn’t kept all the pleasure of lecturing me for himself. She said, “The genes are always arranged in the same way on the RNA strand. They start at one end and go to the other in the order, N-P-M-G-L. And here’s what’s really interesting. Our rabies DNA probe matches the viral RNA within the N gene, and our VHSV probe matches the viral RNA in the L gene. So our probes stick to the two opposite ends of the viral RNA. Get it?”

“Get what?”

Janet and McKean exchanged glances acknowledging they were initiates to mysteries not commonly understood.

“Well?” I insisted.

McKean said, “This implies that we have a recombinant virus, as I suspected. Somewhere in the middle of this virus we can expect to find a crossover point where the rabies virus RNA stops and the VSHV RNA begins.”

A qualm ran through me. “So we really are looking at a virus with properties of two different diseases?”

“Exactly.” There was a note of triumph in McKean’s voice that I could not share.

“It sounds horrible,” I said.

“Potentially,” McKean agreed, sobering somewhat.

“It’s eerie,” I said, “but you know what this reminds me of? The images on the coffin and John Steel’s sculpture. The double-headed snake is like the viral RNA with one end rabies one end VSHV.”

“An interesting analogy,” McKean remarked.

We paused in separate thoughts until I asked, “What do you plan to do next?”

McKean’s expression warmed and the glow of scientific inspiration reappeared. “Our first order of business will be to use Beryl and Janet’s fragments to determine the entire structure of the viral RNA. We have already used enzymes to translate the RNAs into DNA copies. Next we’ll load them into our DNA sequencing machine and read their codes one letter at a time. How many code letters do we anticipate, Janet?”

“We’ve got a rough approximation of about thirteen kilobases.”

McKean translated her jargon. “That’s thirteen-thousand A, T, C, and G code letters. But with our gene sequencers reading several hundred code letters per run, I think we’ll see most of the sequence within a few days. Correct, Janet?”

She made a wry face. “Was sleeping at night a part of your calculation?”

He chuckled. “Within a week or so, then. And some gene segments will be analyzed sooner than others. We might get a look at something quite interesting tomorrow if we’re lucky.”

“I’ll get on this right away.” Janet rose to go.

McKean turned to me as Janet went across the hall. “Any other questions, Fin?”

I thought a moment. “So what does this say about Leon’s chances?”

McKean’s high forehead wrinkled. He thought a long moment before answering. “I’m afraid I am much less certain of that.”

“Poor Leon,” I said. “How is he doing?”

“This morning they added one more symptom to the list - a slight fever. If his disease continues to progress at a slow rate, perhaps we’ll find a way to help him before he gets much worse.”

“Once you’ve read the code, how many days will it take to make a vaccine?”

“The same rules apply as for other viruses,” McKean said gravely. “It takes months to produce each year’s influenza vaccine, and that’s a virus we have a lot of experience with. Given an unknown virus like this, it might take years to create a new vaccine.”

“Years! Isn’t there a shortcut?”

“We could try producing the virus’s surface protein in a bacterial culture - a subunit vaccine. That might be accomplished in weeks or months.”

“But that might be too late for Leon - or us, if we’ve been exposed.”

His expression darkened. “Kay Erwin told me this morning that the number of people with symptoms like Pete Whitehall’s has grown to eight. That’s enough to convince me the virus is dangerous, even if the CDC still isn’t sure. How have you been feeling, Fin?”

“Fine, so far.”

“Me too.” He paused in thought a moment. “Another thing continues to intrigue me.”

“What’s that?”

“The latest Neah Bay victim is another European American, another sport fisherman from out of town.”

“Still no Makahs?”

“No Makahs, nor any local non-natives - no one at the Coast Guard station, for instance.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Makahs may have a genetic resistance if they were exposed to this virus centuries ago. But that still would not explain the local non-natives. Perhaps there are other determining factors.”

“Such as?”

“Lifestyle, general health, climate.” He paused with a distant look in his eyes. “You know, Fin,” he murmured, “I’ve been thinking about Gordon Steel a lot lately.”

“About his curse?”

“That, and his knowledge of old times. I’d like to find out all he knows about this Lost Souls disease. It seems likely it was the ancestor of the present virus.”

“Tleena Steel is in Seattle now, looking after her brother. Maybe she can tell us how to reach him.”

“Good idea, Fin.”

I called a number Tleena had given me, using McKean’s speaker phone to reach her on her cell phone at John’s bedside.

“They’ve had him up and walking,” she proclaimed happily. “He’s on his way to a full recovery. They’re going to watch him for another twenty-four hours and then release him.”

McKean said, “I want to speak with your father about the Lost Souls disease. Can you give me a phone number?”

“No I can’t. Sorry. There’s no phone where he lives.”

“I see. Then I would like very much to pay him a visit, if he’ll meet with me.”

“You’ll have a hard time finding him. Most Makahs don’t even know where Spirit Cove is.”

“You could help with that, by taking me to him.”

“I don’t know. I should stay here until John is released.”

“But you said he’s doing much better. There’s nothing more you can do for him, is there?”

“I suppose not.”

“You could help me a lot by getting your father to talk to me. Leon Curtis is very sick.”

“Oh, my. I guess it would be all right for me to go.”

“Good!” McKean exclaimed. “That’s settled then. There should be a late-morning ferry sailing. We can pick you up in front of the hospital at ten. Will that be enough time?”

“I guess it will have to be.”

“Now wait a minute, Peyton,” I interjected. “You just said, ‘we’ will pick her up. Besides yourself, who do you mean?”

“Why you, of course, Fin. You know I hate to drive, and how poorly I do at the task, always distracted by thoughts and conversations.”

“And you know what happened last time I went to Neah Bay,” I resisted. “I got buried alive and exposed to a deadly virus.”

“Come on, Fin,” McKean cajoled. “Where’s your spirit of adventure? The spirit that sent researchers into swamps where yellow fever lurked a century ago? The spirit that still draws researchers to lands swarming with malaria mosquitoes, tsetse flies - “

“You’re not convincing me,” I said.

“How about this then - for the sake of a good story and the company of a beautiful woman?”

I sighed. “You’ve got me there, Peyton.”

“All right then,” McKean concluded, smiling. “Let’s be off to Neah Bay on the next ferry!”

“Excuse me,” said an intrusive voice. McKean turned as a newcomer appeared at the door without a greeting smile. It was David Curman, a brown-haired man in a white lab coat whose face was reminiscent of a weasel.

“If you’re going off to Neah Bay,” Curman began as he entered the office uninvited, “why not let me put my team on the project? Give me some of your samples and we’ll get them analyzed for you.”

“No need.” McKean turned away from him and began adjusting the piles of scientific papers on his desk. “I’m sure Janet and Beryl and Robert will get it done in a timely fashion.”

“Or maybe they won’t.” Curman’s face reddened. “Yours aren’t the only lab technicians at ImCo. Maybe someone else should have a try.”

“Just the same,” McKean said firmly, “we haven’t isolated enough viral materials to share.”

Curman slammed a fist against a metal file cabinet and shouted, “Damn you, Peyton McKean! Whenever you come up with a hot project, you keep it for yourself. All glory to you, right?”

McKean turned and regarded him stiffly and coolly. “This isn’t about glory. And it’s nothing my group can’t handle.”

“Fine!” Curman bristled. “We’ll see if Stuart Holloman agrees with that.” He spun on his heel and marched out the door and down the hall.

McKean shook his head. “There goes Dave Curman, off to tattle on me to Holloman again. ‘Peyton won’t share his toys!’ ‘

McKean quickly reverted to his normal behavior, sifting through the stack of photocopied articles on his desk, taking up his inevitable yellow highlighter and reading as if his hyperactive mind was ill at ease unless it was either offloading or on-loading technical information.

“You mentioned a viral surface subunit vaccine,” I said, interrupting his on-load. “Could you explain the difference between a subunit vaccine and - what? A natural one?”

“All vaccines,” he said, “are man-made, of course. But conventional vaccines are created by growing a virus in vats of cultured cells or, for influenza vaccines, inside infected chicken eggs. Subunit vaccines, on the other hand, never involve growing the whole virus. They are made by putting only one or two viral genes into a docile laboratory strain of a bacterium such as Escherichia coli, or a yeast such as Saccharomyces cerevisiae, and then growing that microbe in a culture vat. It’s a safe process much like brewing beer. Once the host cells have grown they are harvested by filtration, much the way beer is filtered, and the yogurt-like mass of microbes is extracted to isolate the viral protein. At no time is the complete virus present. Hence, subunit vaccines are inherently safer than vaccines where the virus itself is grown and then must be killed before use. You can imagine what happens if the virus isn’t quite dead. Vaccinated people catch the disease they were supposed to be protected against.”

“That doesn’t really happen, does it?”

“Unfortunately, it’s not unheard of with conventional viral vaccines. But it’s quite impossible with subunit vaccines. Subunits give the desired immunization without the risk. As you might guess, subunit vaccines are beginning to replace the old conventional ones. The applications of the procedure are endless.” He said this last word with a hint of weariness in his voice.

“You seem bored by that prospect,” I said. “Why?”

“Once a technique becomes routine, the excitement is gone for the true scientist. The techniques for creating subunit vaccines are now a series of predictable, tedious steps. The real thrill of discovery was creating the first one.”

“You participated in creating the first subunit vaccine for Congo River virus, didn’t you?”

“Yes, back in my early days here at ImCo. Now, each new subunit vaccine is just another application of the methodology we developed for the Congo River virus. The fun has gone out of it.”

“But the reward of saving lives has got to make a vaccine-maker like you feel good.”

“Of course, but the outcome is a foregone conclusion. A subunit vaccine will save lives no matter who makes it, and there are plenty of people eager to do that sort of uninspired science.”

“David Curman, for instance.”

“Right. I suppose he correctly perceives that the mystery will be gone for me, once the genetic makeup of this new virus is understood. Things will become routine once Janet and Beryl have isolated and sequenced the surface antigen gene.”

“But don’t you want to see this vaccine through to its completion?”

“Yes, of course. But other forces may come into play.”

“Like what?”

“The innovative scientist can never rest easy. He always has to watch his back.”

“How do you mean that?” I sensed something melodramatic in his tone.

He paused a moment as if considering how best to broach a difficult subject. “You know,” he began slowly and deliberately, “controversy has dogged my steps throughout my career. Looking back, I see a succession of colleagues who attempted to step in and take away discoveries that initially were mine. As a young scientist in New York, when I discovered a totally synthetic approach to vaccine manufacture, a senior investigator at my institution moved in and claimed it as his own. He went so far as to argue I was no more than a hireling who carried out his orders while making my discovery, as if I were his chore-boy.”

“If I hear you correctly, Peyton, the world of science has its share of scoundrels, just like any other walk of life. But there must be more good scientists than bad?”

“Answer: yes. But whenever a great discovery comes along, let the meek beware. Research breakthroughs attract the powerful and the greedy. They can smell the sweet aroma of success and money.”

“Money? Isn’t scientific discovery itself the reward?”

“For some of us, yes. But for others, it’s power and wealth that mean the most.”

“But science isn’t really a great source of wealth, is it? My image of a scientist is that of an underpaid zealot.”

“For the rank and file, your impression is correct. But among the top dogs it’s always, ‘How can I make this pay?’ That’s why scientific breakthroughs always draw a crowd. Everyone with position or power wants to use the new discovery to increase his own eminence and personal wealth. And those without high position, like Curman, want to use it to increase their status.”

“It sounds like a gold rush.”

“Exactly. Research breakthroughs are like hitting paydirt, spawning a whole cavalcade of government grants and new biotechnology company startups, created mostly by those already in power. They’re empire builders, claim-jumping on the latest Mother Lode.”

“Sounds indecent,” I said. “Obscene, when you consider that human health depends on it.”

“It is obscene. Welcome to the real world of science, Fin. The powerful are greedy, and sometimes the true innovators are cast aside.”

“How do you fit into this, Peyton?”

“How do I hold my own against the power grabbers, you mean?”

“Without becoming one of them?”

A smile crossed his face. “There is another way.”

“What’s that?”

“Move fast.”

“Meaning?”

“Despite the inevitability that the big players will try to dominate, one can succeed by excelling. Achievements count. Let’s put aside any pretext of humility, Fin. I’ve made my way by doing science better than anyone else. I’ve kept from being swallowed by bigger fish by swimming in unknown waters where they fear to go. I’ve done things they thought were impossible, found things they were too timid or too uninformed to seek. I’ve survived by racing far enough ahead that, by the time they came along to take over my research, I’ve already moved on to something else.”

“Amazing!”

“But it has its cost.”

“What’s that?”

“My back is always exposed. With the wolf pack gobbling up every scrap I leave behind, I survive only as long as I move fast. If I hit a series of failures, then the Hollomans and Curmans will devour everything I’ve got. My career will die when I run out of discoveries.”

“But why? Isn’t there a meritocracy in science? Recognition for past accomplishments?”

“Answer: yes, for Nobel laureates. But short of that, not much. You become yesterday’s news.”

“Now I see why you gave Curman the cold shoulder.”

“Exactly,” McKean said wearily. “I don’t want him mucking things up before I’ve had a chance to deal with this virus myself. He’s making his takeover move too soon for my tastes.”

“I had a higher opinion of scientists.”

“Sorry Fin.” McKean gave me a wan smile. “Scientists are cut from a common mold with everyone else, despite their brainpower.” He looked at his wall clock. “That ten-thirty ferry will leave without us if we don’t get going.” He got up and took off his lab coat and fetched his field coat from a hook on the back of his door.

“Going where?” a gruff male voice asked from out in the hall. A short, bald, heavy man stepped through the doorway - McKean’s boss, Stuart Holloman. He wore a charcoal gray three-piece pinstriped suit with a vest button pulling across his too-ample gut. He stepped inside and backed McKean into the center of the room. He put his round fists on his hips and faced off with McKean, who overtopped him by a head in stature but under-matched him in sternness of expression.

PART THREE: FEVER AND FIRE

Chapter 11

“To Neah Bay by the next ferry,” McKean answered evenly. “To gather some anecdotal information about the origins of our new virus and its treatment.”

“Don’t you think you should clear such a trip with me?” Veins stood out on Holloman’s bald cranium, highlighted by curly brown hair that mushroomed from his temples. The man looked clownish and dangerous at the same time. “You come and go a lot these days without keeping me informed.”

McKean replied calmly as he put on his coat. “If I had anything significant to tell you, you would have heard it already.”

“Why am I not reassured by that?” Holloman’s forehead developed a deep crease. His right cheek twitched. “I got a call this morning from a buddy at the Centers for Disease Control. He told me Kay Erwin has asked for a quarantine of Neah Bay. He said he thinks this is starting to look like a real outbreak. And you don’t think it’s worth mentioning to me?”

“Eventually,” McKean said, buttoning his coat and looking impatient to leave.

“If it’s really a new disease,” said Holloman, “it might be ImCo’s next big financial break.”

McKean sighed. “Is it always money with you?”

Holloman moved to McKean’s window and stared out. “You know, Peyton, you are one dense man. If this epidemic gets big, the profits could be huge. If enough people need a vaccine and if ImCo has that vaccine waiting, then we could ring up billions of dollars in revenues.”

McKean frowned. “No one knows how virulent this disease is, yet. If we’re lucky, it might not spread at all.”

“Lucky!” Holloman spat the word like poison. “I’d say unlucky!” He turned from the window and glared at McKean. “Damn it, Peyton! Don’t give me that snooty scientific crap. This virus could be a golden opportunity.”

“But we’re far from having a product ready. Janet hasn’t identified the key antigens yet. I have no enthusiasm for rushing forward before we understand the basic nature of the virus.”

“No enthusiasm, huh? Well I know someone with plenty of enthusiasm. Let me tell you something - ” Holloman leaned close and pointed a fat finger in McKean’s face. “I’ve had enough of you gainsaying my authority.” He pointed down the hall. “And I’ve got someone who will gladly take your place on this project.”

“David Curman.” McKean mouthed the name with distaste.

“You’re damn right! Dave’s got a half-dozen scientists in his group standing by waiting for a shot at this virus. And he’s ready to start producing a vaccine as soon as he’s got the right genes. If you won’t put some hustle in it then by God he will, and with my blessing.”

“I’m glad to hear Dave is eager to get involved in my project,” McKean said coolly. “But I caution you not to rush ahead before we’ve got the basics figured out.”

“Rush? Why not rush? This disease could rocket ImCo to the top of the industry. I’m going to encourage Dave Curman to rush all he wants. And I hope the epidemic is a big one. Enough demand for our vaccine could make us all rich - including you, Peyton McKean.”

“True,” McKean admitted with some reluctance. “And I’d be one one-hundredth as rich as you. But we can’t let corporate ambitions get ahead of science. I need this trip to Neah Bay. It’s that simple. Good science doesn’t happen overnight. I’ll move as fast as possible with the work force I’ve got. But I advise you to keep Curman out of it. Too many cooks spoil the broth.”

“Dave was right,” Holloman muttered. “He said you’d protect your turf.”

McKean stiffened. “It’s not about turf. It’s about science.”

Holloman shrugged. “I don’t see why Curman’s people can’t work in parallel with your people. I think you’re not motivated to get the job done quickly enough.”

“That’s not it.” McKean shook his head slowly. “I’m just naturally thorough. Like David Curman should be.”

“In this case I think you’re being too thorough. That’s why I’m here to tell you I have just ordered Janet to turn over a portion of every viral sample she’s got to David Curman.”

“It’s your company.”

“Damn right. And if you insist on puttering around Neah Bay, then I’m sure David will be only too glad to stay here and - as you put it - rush things forward.”

“And I am sure you’ll get precisely the quality of work you’re asking for.”

Holloman let out an exasperated sigh that sounded like a python’s hiss. He turned to go, but outside the office he wheeled and pointed a trembling finger at McKean. “Go chat with your Indian friends if you want, but be back here by tomorrow morning! I want a vaccine, not a lot of witchdoctor mumbo jumbo.” He stalked down the hall and turned into Curman’s office, where we could hear the sounds of an agitated conversation. After a moment, McKean shook his head, clearing extraneous thoughts. Then he looked at me. “Rushing to make a profit,” he muttered. “The wrong motivation for doing research.”

I said softly so Holloman would not hear, “I thought you worked for a very smart man, Peyton. Now I see I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t,” McKean countered. “Stuart Holloman is extremely clever. But there’s an important lesson you haven’t learned about smart people, Fin.”

“What’s that?”

“They can spend an incredible percentage of their time acting stupid.”

McKean and I walked to my parking garage and then I drove us to Pill Hill and parked on the street near the hospital. We went into the Emergency Pavilion and found John awake, although groggy on pain medication and propped up in bed. Tleena sat in a chair by his side. He held his sculpture in his hands, turning it and eyeing its finely carved lines. “They took my knife,” he complained. “I wanna keep carving.”

Tleena pointed to an iv bottle slowly dripping a clear liquid into a line taped into John’s left forearm. “They’re giving him some more pain medication for the skull fracture.”

John gave us a dizzy smile. “S’good as rock cocaine.”

“How’s our patient?” asked a newcomer at the door, a young female doctor with short-cropped blond hair, a white coat, blue plastic gloves and a nametag that read Sandra Dean MD. She went to John Steel, took his pulse, and flashed an examining light in his eyes that made him flinch but not fully awaken. She made some notes on a clipboard and then turned to us. “Now then. I’ll need you all to roll up a sleeve.”

“What?” I asked.

“Phineus Morton?” She said, drawing a rubber tourniquet and blood collection tube from a pocket of her coat.

“Yes, but - “

“But nothing.” She pushed me backward with her fingertips on my chest until I plunked into a guest chair. “Dr. Erwin’s orders. Everyone in this room gives a blood sample for the sake of science.”

She tied off my forearm and stuck the needle in as I asked, “What’s the point of - Ouch! - our giving blood?”

“Dr. Erwin wants a sample from everyone who might have been exposed to the disease, including John and his sister.” She snapped the tourniquet loose, withdrew the needle and put the tube in her pocket, motioning me to hold a cotton ball over my puncture wound. Then she drew another test tube from her pocket and read its label. “Dr. Peyton McKean, you’re next.”

I got up and McKean sat and rolled up his sleeve. “That’s the Kay Erwin I know and respect,” he remarked as Dr. Dean drew his blood. “The supreme epidemiologist. These samples will be a good initial data point if any of us get sick. I should have thought of it myself.”

After Dean drew samples from Tleena and then from John, McKean asked, “How are things with Leon Curtis?”

She shook her head. “Still very guarded. He fades in and out of consciousness.”

McKean glanced at the time on his cell phone. “Our best prospect of helping Leon is to go to Neah Bay. Tell Kay I’ll report what we learn as soon as we get back.”

Tleena put on her coat and slung the strap of her big purse over her shoulder. Then she leaned and kissed her groggy brother goodbye.

“Steel,” I said, making small talk as we walked the few blocks to my Mustang. “That doesn’t sound like a Native American name.”

Tleena smiled. “Oh, a lot of people think it isn’t. But it’s an Indian name all right, translated into English.”

“Makahs didn’t traditionally make steel, did they? I thought they used stone tools.”

“That’s mostly true,” she said. “But our family name is very old. It goes back long before Caucasians came to Neah Bay.”

“How can that be?”

“The winds blow across the North Pacific Ocean from Asia. In old times, the winds brought Chinese and Japanese shipwrecks. My ancestors got steel spikes from them and shaped the metal into woodworking tools. Steel was worth more than gold. According to our traditions, one time a whole wrecked fleet washed ashore. My ancestors owned the tribal right to the salvage work and they collected enough steel to become very wealthy. Our family chiefs have called themselves Steel ever since.”

“How long ago did the wrecked fleet wash in?”

“Father says it was Kublai Khan’s armada, sent to invade Japan but destroyed by a typhoon the Japanese call Kamikaze, the Divine Wind. It was a miracle on two sides of the ocean. The typhoon saved Japan and made my ancestors rich.”

When we reached my Mustang waiting at the curb, McKean shoehorned his lanky frame into the back seat so Tleena, who would be our guide at Neah Bay, could take the front passenger seat. As I drove through the wet and busy streets of Seattle, Tleena asked me, “How did you get involved with Dr. McKean?”

“Sometimes I think I’m just his preferred choice of chauffeur.”

McKean said, “You’re being too modest about your role as a medical reporter, Fin - although it’s true you’re as bold on the road as an Indianapolis 500 racecar driver.”

“If you were a Makah,” Tleena said. “You would probably be good with a canoe. Maybe you’d be a whaler.”

I reacted poorly to the suggestion. “I can’t imagine myself doing such a thing.”

She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. “I meant that you would be brave, Fin. And I meant that you would be a good man. Whalers are heroes to most Makahs. They’re the good guys.”

“Yes, of course. But Europeans used to hunt elk, deer, and even whales. We’ve changed our ways to eat beef and pork and chicken raised on farms. I don’t like it when Makahs slaughter one of nature’s most gentle creatures.”

“You think we Makahs are savages? Do you, Fin?”

“No, but - “

“It breaks our hearts to kill a whale. But we have to think of our children.”

“Children? How are they involved?”

“They’re the whole reason for whaling, according to Father. He says Makah babies need vitamin W to grow strong. And that only comes from whale oil. He says the modern American diet is poison to Makahs.”

“The modern American diet is poison to everyone,” I countered.

We arrived at the ferry terminal with just minutes to spare. There was a dark rain squall coming in from the west. I bought a ticket at a kiosk, raced down the now-empty loading lanes and pulled in behind cars and trucks already loaded onto the ferry’s wide central deck. A deck hand put a block under my right rear tire just as the ferry’s horn blasted once for departure and the drawspan from the dock lifted. We were underway within seconds. The ferry’s rumbling engines pressed forward into the wind-whipped waves. The rectangular opening at the end of the car deck seeming like a movie screen filled with ragged gray clouds.

Chapter 12

We stayed in the Mustang for a few minutes, sheltering against a gusty cold wind that dappled a mix of rain and bow-spray on the windshield as the ferry gained speed and left Seattle behind. McKean seemed in good spirits, smiling as if he had put the stark realities of our situation out of his head. He said, “Tleena, have you heard about the parchment letter Leon found in the crypt last Tuesday?”

“Father mentioned it. He said he told Grayson about it.”

“Yes, and now Grayson is on the case.”

“But Grayson is a blowhard.”

“A blowhard with the authority to arrest people.”

“Anyway, I’m on Leon’s side.”

“Good,” McKean said. “Leon passed the manuscript to me before he became ill. I’ve looked it over so many times I have it nearly committed to memory. But it’s hard to translate in places. I’ve had trouble with some words that don’t seem to be Spanish. I think they may be Makah, so you might be able to help.”

“What words?”

“Kakalaklokadub.” He said the tongue-twisting word with remarkable ease. “Does it mean anything to you?”

“Kakalaklokadub,” she repeated carefully, and then thought for a moment. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but - sorry.”

“Perhaps an herb of some kind?” McKean pressed her.

She shook her head. “Father might know. But most of our language was destroyed when the BIA forced Makah children to leave their homes and attend English language boarding schools. That was in the early 1900s. Hardly anybody can really speak Makah now. Just Father and a few other holdouts.”

“That’s a shame,” said McKean.

“So tell me, Peyton,” I interjected. “If you’ve read most of the manuscript, have you found any other mention of the Lost Souls disease?”

“Answer: yes. There was quite an interesting story about it. One passage even offers an opinion as to where the illness came from. A rather dubious and superstitious explanation I think, but intriguing nonetheless. It seems that our skeletal subject was the comandante of the fort, one Capitan Alejandro de Nuniez. And it was he who was to blame for bringing divine retribution down on the garrison.”

“Divine retribution? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“According to the manuscript, Capitan Nuniez was accused of raping a young Makah maiden and getting her pregnant. He claimed the girl was willing but her father insisted she had been forced. This incident led to bloody skirmishes between the Makahs and the Spanish. Then, supposedly, a shaman by the name of Devilfish put a curse on the Spanish. He called upon Raven to visit a plague on them and the spirit bird obliged. Raven brought the Lost Souls disease, which made the Spaniards lose their minds. They shed their clothing and scratched off their skins with their fingernails. They ran through the forests naked and bloody and finally died like mad animals. Devilfish claimed their spirits had been stolen away from them by a forest demon called Pukwubis. The garrison was decimated. Ultimately their comandante, Capitan Nuniez, died as well. Given that he was the one said to have raped the girl, Devilfish was satisfied and lifted the curse with a great healing ceremony. After that no more Spaniards died. But the garrison’s survivors were demoralized. They burned the fort and sailed away, never to return.”

“Amazing,” Tleena said. “So Raven took revenge for the sins of Capitan Nuniez.”

“Yes,” said McKean. “One of the later passages is most intriguing. It confirms the man in the grave is Capitan Nuniez himself, and that he was the last victim of the Lost Souls disease. The Makahs found him in the forest like others before him, naked, bloodied and dead. The writer of the manuscript waxed rather religious toward the end. He wrote, ‘Know that his body had no soul when he died, and fear for your own. With the help of our prayers to the Holy Virgin, and Devilfish’s medicine made from kakalaklokadub, klochtap, and ba’akhbupt klupach, we were spared from the disease of the Lost Souls. We take leave of this Godforsaken place now and bid farewell to our beloved Capitan Alejandro de Nuniez. May his body and soul be reunited in the kingdom of heaven.’ ‘

“So Gordon Steel is right,” I said. “There is such a thing as Lost Souls disease.”

McKean nodded. “It is conceivable Pete Whitehall’s illness had been lying dormant since the seventeen hundreds. The fact that Makahs weathered the first outbreak while the Spanish suffered - that is telling us something. I wish I knew exactly what.”

“But what do you want to know from my father?” Tleena asked.

“The identities of kakalaklokadub, klochtap and ba’akhbupt klupach.”

I interjected, “With modern medicines available, we don’t really need ancient cures, do we?”

McKean looked thoughtful. “Most diseases arise spontaneously out of nature, and nature provides some of our best cures. Penicillin comes from a bread fungus. Medieval Europeans placed pieces of moldy bread on wounds to heal them. Where else should we seek a cure for an ancient malady like Lost Souls disease but among people who have dealt with it before?”

As the ferry crossed Puget Sound a stiff headwind whipped spray off the waves and splashed it across the deck and the windshields of the cars, including mine. We got out and dashed through a hatch door and went up two flights of stairs to the windowed observation deck for coffee.

At the counter, I bought Tleena a cafe latte and McKean a grande mocha, and got a double shot with sugar for me. Sipping our assorted brews, we strolled along the aisle of the observation deck until we came to the sepia-toned photographs McKean and I had seen before. We had by chance boarded the Snoqualmie again, and had the same pictures to look at. The picture of the harpooner and whale grabbed my attention, but Tleena went father along the aisle to a picture that McKean and I hadn’t noticed before. “He’s an ancestor of mine,” she said when we joined her. The photograph showed a canoe on the beach at Neah Bay with a man posing behind it, surrounded by a group of curious and smiling dark-haired children. The man was wrapped in a blanket with a thunderbird emblem on it and wore a crown-like leather headdress encircled with upright bear claws. His face reminded me of some I had seen in the Makah Elder Center - Native American with hints of Eskimo or Japanese lending a broad-faced, high-cheekboned, wide-jawed look. His complexion was dark. Wavy black hair flowed from under his bear-claw crown. His broad mouth was surrounded by the bristling dark hairs of a sparse mustache and goatee. He wore a pleasant smile.

McKean read the picture’s title out loud. “Young Doctor with canoe and masks, Makah Reservation, 1903.”

“My great-great-grandfather,” said Tleena. “He was a guardian of Makah culture at the turn of the last century.

“Doctor?” I asked. “A shaman?”

“Yes,” Tleena said. “He’s the one who taught Devilfish’s knowledge to Father.”

McKean murmured, “Look at what he’s holding.”

The man’s outstretched arms held two wooden masks propped on the canoe gunwale on either side of him. Carved and painted in geometric Northwest native style, they represented reptilian-looking creatures with fangs bared and long tongues extended. A chill rippled along my spine. “The two-headed serpent,” I said.

McKean leaned close to the photo and inspected the sculptures. “I’ve begun to think these serpents are related to medicine somehow, like the two snakes of the caduceus.”

“The caduceus? What’s that?” Tleena asked.

“The symbol of the medical profession. I’m sure you have seen it - the winged staff of Mercury with two serpents twined around it.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Perhaps Young Doctor used the snakes as a totem of his medical calling?”

“He did,” said Tleena. “Father says that’s one of the things Young Doctor told him about when he was little.”

“A universal symbol of the medical profession,” McKean concluded.

As McKean pondered the old photo, I noticed the drizzle had stopped streaking the windows and suggested we go on deck and take in the view. Tleena was game, but McKean remained silent, brooding over the picture. “You two go ahead,” he mumbled absently, staring at the medicine man as if communing with a kindred spirit.

Leaving him to his reveries, Tleena and I went to the forward observation deck of the Snoqualmie, where a stiff cold breeze made me clutch the collar of my squall jacket. Tleena buttoned her coat but didn’t bother to close her collar. She seemed to revel in the way the wind blew her hair back.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked through clenched teeth, shuddering from a chill that quickly cut through my jacket and sank in bone deep.

She smiled at how my hand clutched my collar. “Cold doesn’t bother us Makahs as much as you…city people.”

“I can see that.” I marveled at how placidly she faced the freezing wind.

“Father says we’re part whale. That’s why we stay warm without having to bundle up. We’ve got blubber in us.”

“Blubber?” I allowed my eyes a quick sweep of her from head to foot. “I don’t see any blubber on you. You look - “

“Yes?” Her smile prompted a compliment.

I took the bait. “You look very shapely, Tleena Steel, and very beautiful.”

She looked down modestly and then laughed. “Why, thank you, Fin Morton. I didn’t think you noticed.” She turned to the rail and looked out at the cloudy horizon, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts. I wanted to avoid saying or doing anything stupid. After a moment she said, “You have an honest face, Fin. It’s easy to see what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking now?”

She turned and looked up at my face carefully. I wondered what she was reading in my eyes. I had an urge to pull her close and kiss her, but the ferry’s whistle blew two deep blasts signaling our approach to the Winslow terminal. The spell broke between us.

We went inside to collect Peyton McKean and found him still staring at Young Doctor’s photo. We went down to the automobile deck and climbed into the Mustang as the terminal loomed and the ferry’s engines revved in reverse to slow our momentum. The Snoqualmie gently thudded against the pier buffers and dayglo-jacketed deck hands lashed her to huge pier cleats with fat brown ropes as thick as a man’s arm. I fired up my engine as the ramp lowered to the deck like a drawbridge. A deck hand pulled the block from under my tire and directed me into the line of traffic leaving the ferry. As I drove up the pier and onto the road that led through Winslow, a light rain speckled the windshield.

We fell into a comfortable silence as I drove across Bainbridge Island and the north Kitsap Peninsula and on across the Hood Canal floating bridge. The waves of Hood Canal were whipped into a froth and the wind carried foam off their crests and over the roadway, splashing the Mustang’s windshield. Continuing with my speedometer just above the speed limit, I traversed the forested foothills of the Olympic Range, passed Sequim and Port Angeles and sped on along the coast road. The highway narrowed by stages as we moved along the Straight of Juan de Fuca shore. The rain increased and dark green overhanging boughs of hemlock drizzled water down sickly yellow-green streamers of Spanish moss. Beyond the wet ditches, moss-covered roots and tangles of fallen branches looked like arms and legs jumbled in mass graves. Squalls of rain drove mudslides off the hill and onto the road. In one place a huge tree had fallen across the highway. It had been sawed through the middle to allow traffic to pass between the two circular ends. Beyond it, we came upon a line of stopped cars. I pulled up behind the last car and joined the line, slowly inching forward. Ahead on the left a Clallam County Sheriff’s car was pulled out on the shoulder with lights flashing. An officer was talking to motorists and directing them to turn around and go back the way they had come. Beyond the patrol car was a group of a dozen or so raincoated, soggy people carrying signs on the side of the road and calling out a protest chant.

“Demonstrators,” Tleena said with disdain. “This is the reservation boundary. The police stop them here to keep them from causing trouble in town.”

“Does this happen often?” McKean asked.

“Every time we schedule a whale hunt.”

We rolled up to a Sheriff’s deputy standing at the centerline. He put a hand up and motioned us to stop. I rolled my window down and he came to look inside the car.

“Sorry folks,” he said, observing my pale face. “We’re not letting anyone but tribe members onto the reservation today.”

“I’m a full-blooded Makah,” Tleena said. She dug into her bag and came up with a card that she flashed at him. “Enrolled tribal member since I was a baby.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he apologized. He took his hands off my window ledge and motioned us to go on. I moved past the demonstrators, keeping my window down to catch a few lines as we rolled by.

“Shame - on - you,” they cried in an exaggerated cadence. “Whales have - rights - too. Shame - on - you. Whales have - rights - too.”

Several waved their protest signs in front of my windshield. One read, “Your last whale was your LAST whale.” Another read, “Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.”

Tleena cried in outrage at one last sign. It read, “Save a whale. Harpoon a Makah.”

“See what they think of Makahs?” she growled. “They’d rather see us dead than a whale!” She leaned toward my open window and shouted, “Shame - on - you! Makahs are - people - too!”

This brought jeers from the crowd. Several men rushed after us but I accelerated and left them behind.

* * * * * * * * * *

Neah Bay was dreary. A constant rain wet the streets and a dull gray overcast hung low in the sky. However, the town was far from lifeless. A mother with two little kids in hooded parkas walked toward Washburn’s General Store. Two raincoated boys on bicycles shot across the road in front of us with a soggy mongrel dog trotting in their wake. A pickup truck turned into the lot of a small waterfront restaurant. I drove along Bayview Avenue at a slow clip until, about midway through town, I heard the roar of boat engines and the echoing sound of a loudspeaker coming across the water of the bay. I opened my window to listen.

“Makahs!” an amplified female voice shrilled. “We are not going anywhere. We’ll never desert our whales.”

“They’re chasing the Makah Pride again!” Tleena pointed beyond the boat-filled marina and out across Neah Bay. Near the tree-covered silhouette of Wa’adah Island on the bay’s far side loomed the Righteous, just entering the bay and steaming directly behind the black-and-red dugout canoe, in which daylight glinted off half a dozen paddles moving in the hands of the Makah whaling crew. The men paddled their canoe toward the marina and their adjacent home pier while two other boats moving at high speed raced around them. An orange Zodiac sped along one side of the canoe and a yellow-and-blue jet ski cut across the canoe’s path, each boat splashing water on the whaling crew in passing. Behind all three came the Righteous, splitting the canoe’s wake with her bow, her stacks belching black diesel smoke and her loudspeaker blaring. Despite the harassment, the whalers drove their craft steadily toward the pier on an angle that would pass near the massive rock-works of the square breakwater surrounding the marina.

I pulled the Mustang into the marina’s parking lot and stopped to watch the drama unfold.

The woman on the mother ship’s bullhorn went on in her shrill tone. “We will never - repeat, never - give up. As long as whales are in danger, we will be here. You have committed your last murder.”

The canoe pressed on toward the pier until the Zodiac and jet ski were forced to veer off to avoid hitting the giant boulders of the breakwater.

“Your whaling days - ” the voice began again, but broke off. “Wayne? What are you doing - ?”

“Look at that!” McKean exclaimed as the bow of the Righteous rose in sudden acceleration. With its engines gunning, the cutter followed a zigzag course that no pilot in his right mind would attempt. Swerving right and almost ramming the Zodiac, the Righteous hove left and rushed at the canoe, aiming to cut her in half. The canoe crew bent their backs to their paddles and their boat seemed to fly over the water but the Righteous came on at a clip that would crush them long before they reached safety. Tleena cried out in terror as the bow of the Righteous sliced through the water and approached the canoe’s starboard beam, but a call from the helmsman at the rear caused the whalers to paddle hard astern on one side while the helmsman himself swept his steering paddle wide, pivoting the canoe by ninety degrees just in time to miss being broadsided by the Righteous. Now paralleling the ship, the canoe was tossed by the Righteous’ bow wave but managed, through the skillful and coordinated paddling of her crew, to stay upright.

Unexpectedly, the cutter did not slow, but instead surged forward on a crazy, zigzagging course dangerously near the breakwater. The microphone somehow managed to stay on and a terrified scream over the loudspeaker joined our cries when the Righteous crashed headlong into the rocks at top speed. The ship’s impact was so great that the bow crumpled and huge boulders were scattered in all directions. Impaling the jetty at a right angle, the cutter came to an instantaneous stop. Gear and hardware flew off her decks. Washes of white water sprayed out on both sides. A moment later, as the boulders rumbled around her and the sound of stone grinding against metal continued, huge puffs of black smoke shot out from her stacks. A billow of orange flame rose from her rear deck. A long agonized scream from the female announcer was overridden by a man’s voice bellowing like an enraged bull. Then the ship’s fuel tanks exploded. A huge billow of flame engulfed her superstructure. The screaming and bellowing ceased abruptly and the speaker buzzed with static.

“Oh, my God!” Tleena cried. She turned away from the horrific sight and reached for me. I put my arms around her protectively but couldn’t tear my eyes from the scene. The Makah crew ceased paddling to watch. The jet ski and Zodiac did the same. The blazing Righteous began to settle off the breakwater, taking on water and sinking at the stern. Sliding backwards, she went down, down, down, until only the blazing upper deck and pilot’s cabin stood above the surface.

She slowly heeled over to starboard, and with the groan of twisting metal, toppled on her side. Her superstructure smashed onto the water and raised walls of white froth, into which the blazing cabin and upper decks vanished. For a moment, the side of the ship’s hull floated just above the surface with waves washing across the painted images of whales and dolphins. Then, with fountains of air spouting through her cracked steel plating like a pod of sounding whales, she slipped beneath the surface in an almost serene dive. A wide billow of black smoke mushroomed above her, diffusing and drifting over the gray waters of the bay. Bubbles churned and a oil slicks spread where the once-formidable protest boat had been. An empty Zodiac tied at her stern disappeared last, pulled down by its tether like Captain Ahab entangled with Moby Dick. The canoe and the Zodiac and the jet ski floated, becalmed, while their crews watched bubbles stream from where the Righteous had been. No one had gotten off the ship alive.

Tleena sat upright and looked out over the bay. “Those poor people!”

A tribal police car with siren wailing rushed into the parking lot, followed by an aid car and then a yellow fire truck. The police officer got out and waved us away but I was already in motion, pulling my Mustang back onto the road just as the aid car pulled in. McKean watched the rescue workers, firemen, medical technicians and policemen hurrying down onto the marina’s piers. “There’s nothing we can do here,” he said. “In fact, there’s not they can do, either.”

It was true. The Righteous and her crew, so proud and challenging just minutes before, were gone. I kept an eye on the situation through my rear view mirror as I drove along Bayview Avenue toward the far end of town. By the time the first small boats from the marina reached the site of the wreck, the surface of the bay was smooth. Nothing remained of the Righteous but an oil slick and some bits of floating debris.

When we reached the Spanish fort area I asked, “Where do we go from here?”

“That way,” Tleena said, pointing to the left, where a road turned southbound from Bayview Avenue. “That road will take us south to Wa’atch. I’ll give you directions from there.”

I drove out of town on a thoroughfare that changed from asphalt to gravel within several miles. The rain lifted. I passed a deserted World War II Air Force base, then followed Tleena’s directions onto a graveled road wending west toward Cape Flattery. We passed over headlands, above beaches, and through tall forests for several miles until Tleena pointed out what seemed no more than a dent in the thick greenery lining the road. “Turn here,” she said. I reluctantly steered the Mustang off the roadway and we began jouncing over a deeply potholed, two-rutted track hemmed in on both sides by a tangle of branches and vines under a gloomy canopy of tall trees.

“I see why this place is hard to find,” McKean observed.

Twigs screeched and scratched against the side of my car. I muttered glumly, “I can’t believe you live out here, Tleena.”

“I don’t,” she said. “My house is in town near the school. But Father lives as far away from civilization as he can get.”

I pressed on, holding the wheel tightly and following what appeared to be a twisting old logging track, which meandered around giant stumps or veered out from under the forest canopy along cliff edges, giving us vertiginous glimpses of whitecapped ocean swells a hundred feet below.

After a half mile or so, a veil of forest parted and we rolled into an open space surrounded by a stand of tall Douglas firs. In the clearing was a ratty-looking house, some sheds and two house trailers nestled back among the trees.

Chapter 13

“This isn’t the place, is it?” I asked, stopping the Mustang and regarding the area in disbelief. The main dwelling was an old single-wide trailer house with sagging pale-green siding streaked with green moss, a roof partially covered in a brown plastic tarpaulin and a column of lazy wood smoke rising from a rusted metal chimney. Rickety side buildings attached to it had deep moss coatings on their roofs. But the house itself was not the worst aspect of the place.

“What a junkyard!” I exclaimed. Four rusted cars of various makes and ages were scattered around the house, including a broken-down white pickup with all its wheels off and its axels held up by blocks of wood. A half dozen dogs of mixed breeds lay around in the dirt and tall grass of the yard, eyeing us as if barking was too much effort. Blackberry brambles grew through the shattered or missing windows of several of the cars. Behind the main house, two old-fashioned, rounded camper trailers of 1960s vintage sat under burdens of twigs and small branches that had fallen from overhanging trees. Moss covered, rust-streaked and apparently immobile for years, they were partially submerged in thickets of brush and blackberry brambles. The whole squalid menagerie of metal, wood, dogs and moss was arranged haphazardly around a central gravel parking area, through which the dirt road crossed and vanished into the forest on the other side.

Trash was strewn everywhere. Old plastic milk bottles, TV dinner trays, potato chip bags, aluminum cans, and plastic forks and knives abounded. Food wrappers, pig shanks and cow bones all had been chewed or licked clean by the dogs.

I glanced questioningly at Tleena.

“Don’t worry, Fin. This isn’t my father’s place. He lives all the way out at the cove. Keep going.”

I moved forward slowly, allowing time for a mangy mongrel to hobble out of the way as we rolled through the clearing. “Who lives here?” I asked.

“Dag Bukwatch.”

“That name is familiar. John said he’s involved with drugs in Seattle. Methamphetamine.”

“I could believe it,” Tleena replied.

There was a roofed wooden staircase and front porch built against the side of the trailer home to serve as its main entry. On the porch was a person I hadn’t noticed when I drove into the clearing. A stocky Makah woman of about thirty wearing a dirty pink nightshirt leaned on the open front doorjamb, dragging on a cigarette and eyeing us hostilely. A toddling baby girl in a yellow tee shirt with no diaper clutched the hem of her mother’s nightshirt, begging unsuccessfully to be picked up. The woman called into the house as we neared and a moment later a man moved past her and came out onto the porch. He was tall and emaciated, with the sunken cheeks of a chronic substance abuser. He wore army camouflage fatigues, combat boots, a black western scarf tied around his forehead to hold back his long tangled black hair. My heart rate kicked up a notch as we rolled past the porch and he stared down at us darkly.

“Dag Bukwatch and his wife, Denise,” Tleena half-whispered. She gave the couple a little wave, which neither returned. Then she pointed ahead where the road continued past the house. “Keep moving, Fin.”

“Gladly.” I pressed the gas pedal and moved on, losing sight of the house and its scowling occupants once we passed the trunks of two big trees and a screen of foliage that closed in behind us.

I pushed on into the wilderness for another mile or so, following the rutted track through brushy thickets and around cliff exposures, dropping into forested ravines and climbing out again to the cliffs. Eventually we entered a very different sort of forest, one of giant trees towering more than a hundred feet above us on trunks a dozen feet wide at the base.

“Old growth forest!” McKean exclaimed, enraptured by the titanic thick-barked trunks with open forest spaces between them. “Coastal hemlock! Sitka spruce! And cedar!”

“You’re right, Dr. McKean,” Tleena said. “These are sacred ocean bluffs, here. According to old legends they are the favorite hunting place of Thunderbird, so nobody’s ever been allowed to cut the trees down.”

The road emerged from the cathedral-like forest and ended in a wide, rocky clearing with one side forested and the other open at the top of a sea cliff. On the forest side lay a giant mossy fallen log as thick as my car. I pulled up and parked beside an old tan-colored, gem-top Toyota pickup nosed in facing the log. We got out and walked to the brink of the bluff. Tleena cried happily, “Spirit Cove!”

Below us was a scene of primordial nature almost too stupendous to believe. A long, finger-shaped cove split two rocky headlands and penetrated inland for a distance of nearly a quarter mile with its near end directly below us. Huge ocean rollers with wildly writhing brown kelp fronds on their backs followed one another up the length of the cove. The waves rose as the channel narrowed and broke into foaming white surges thundering against cliffs unseen below us. Their roar was so loud that speech was difficult, but McKean called out, “Nature in her savage glory!”

The far side of the cove was not so much a part of the mainland as a line of jagged pinnacles that jutted skyward at every imaginable angle. Looking down at the pinnacles and frothing water below us, I hollered to Tleena, “I can’t believe people actually live here!”

“Not here,” she hollered back. “Down there.” She pointed to the right. On the near side, out by the mouth of the cove, lay a narrow shingle-stone beach sheltered by a rocky prominence that deflected the incoming waves to provide a haven where the surf swept ashore with much less force. Above the dark gray cobble-covered beach, a massive tangle of whitened driftwood logs stretched along the base of the cliff. A long, dune-covered bench lay above the driftwood and beneath the cliff. On this flat area stood a most remarkable dwelling. “My father’s longhouse,” Tleena called with pride. The house, built parallel to the cove among the dunes and protected from the surf by the driftwood line, was about sixty feet long and thirty feet wide, an entirely wooden structure of rough-hewn cedar planks. “Father lives there with a few other Makahs who keep the ancient ways.”

She motioned for McKean and me to follow her to the head of a small trail that vanished into a drift of wind-stunted Sitka spruce trees at the brink of the bluff. “Come along,” she said, entering the small opening like Alice going down the rabbit hole. McKean followed and I went after him into a world made suddenly darker and quieter by an overhanging canopy of dense spruce foliage. The path plunged steeply downward, switching direction constantly on gnarled tree roots that served as steps. I stumbled on the uneven footing but as my eyes adjusted to the dim light I gazed in wonder at the life that clung to the steep slope. Between the spruce trunks grew a profusion of green salal bushes and lush sword ferns. The air was heavy with smells of forest soil and cold salty sea air. As we made our way down the bluff, the tree trunks increased in size and the understory was augmented with ten-foot tall salmonberry bushes.

As the roar of the surf subsided a small chiding animal voice drew our attention. McKean pointed out a squirrel perched on a snagged-off spruce branch. “A Douglas’s squirrel,” he declared. “Lovely coloration. Chocolate brown above, caramel-tan on its underside. A nice contrast to the drab gray squirrels we see in the city. That spunky little fellow is a sure sign of a healthy forest ecosystem.” The little rascal chirped at us, “bieu-bieu-bieu,” as we resumed our descent. When we reached the bottom of the bluff we emerged from under the trees onto a sandy beach trail that followed the landward side of a line of titanic driftwood logs with upended roots towering much taller than our heads. The trail threaded between dunes tufted with tall blue-green dune grass. When we came to the rear of the longhouse, McKean and I stopped to stare up at it in amazement. It was a massive structure of three-foot-thick log uprights and crossbeams sided with long hand-hewn cedar planks and covered by an overhanging peaked roof made from more planks. The boards of the walls and roof were lashed to the beams with heavy fiber twine and chinked with brown seaweed.

Following Tleena along the shore side, we came to the far end of the house. There, a flat sandy clearing was bordered by the driftwood line, a stream’s mouth, forest on the uphill side, and the front facade of the longhouse. Facing toward the open ocean beyond the mouth of the cove, the wide facade was a wall of tightly-fitted vertical cedar planks, each one five or six feet across, with elaborate carving on their otherwise smoothly finished surfaces. On one side, a giant representation of a bear’s snarling face and on the other, a beaver with grinning buck teeth were carved in Northwest-style geometric patterns and stained with charcoal black, berry red, copper green, or left as bone-white wind-bleached wood. A totem pole fashioned from a six-foot-thick tree trunk formed the center of the facade. Towering well above the roof peak, it was topped with a carved wooden thunderbird whose wings stretched a dozen feet wide, and whose talons held a whale. Figures of serpent heads and other fantastic creatures descended in succession below that. The thick base of the totem was penetrated by an opening that was the longhouse’s front door. The hole, large enough for a man to pass through standing, was sculpted in the form of the open maw of a raven, which represented the basal creature of the totem. Its huge black beak projected above and below the entrance in such a way that the visitor would symbolically be swallowed by the raven as he went inside the longhouse.

Tleena watched amusedly while we took in the jaw-dropping grandeur of the place. Then she said, “Come on. Father will be inside.” She entered the raven’s-maw doorway and McKean followed her, bending his tall frame to avoid braining himself on the raven’s-beak entry roof. We paused inside the door to let our eyes adjust to the dim light, which was provided only by shafts of daylight filtering through several gaps in the cedar-plank ceiling.

The first impression given by the interior was that of an unfinished farmer’s shed of epic proportions. The floor was hard-packed sand from which three rows of huge cedar-log uprights rose to support equally huge beams that in turn supported the cedar plank roof and walls. The wall-planks, in some cases four feet wide and twenty feet long, were lashed with plant fiber twine to smaller log uprights that spanned the gaps between the larger house posts. Although the breeze had been cool outside, the interior was warmed by an earthen hearth in the center of the floor with a bed of coals that glowed red and radiated heat. Thin smoke rose and drifted out a roof opening above the hearth.

The broad interior space was subdivided into separate living areas by walls made of cedar planks or curtains of woven cattail fabric. The planks and curtains were decorated with native animal-face designs carved or painted on every available surface. We had entered into the first of these walled-off areas, and here a man sat on a couch-like bench made of carved cedar planks and covered with mats of woven cattails. Although busy with a project, he paused when Tleena called to him, “Hello, Jerry Tibbut.”

“Hello, Tleena,” Tibbut replied. He was a squat, heavyset fellow in his mid-forties dressed in blue jeans and a chambray shirt with a black braided pony tail hanging down his back. He was using a knife like John Steel’s to carve a bevel on the end of an eight-foot-long pole that looked like it was the backshaft meant to mesh with the shorter foreshaft of a harpoon tip like the one in the Ortman Gallery. He paused his work and looked us over. A frown knit his dark eyebrows. “What are they doing here?” he asked Tleena.

“They came to see Father.”

“He’s down there,” Jerry muttered, pointing toward the rear of the longhouse with his knife and then resuming his work.

We followed Tleena toward the far end of the longhouse, where another thin column of smoke was visible escaping through a second ceiling gap. Although the interior of the longhouse was a single large space above, it was partitioned below into multiple living spaces, which made it a maze of elaborately decorated cedar plank walls about seven feet high. Each living area we passed was a semi-private room with its own unique decor. Cedar benches served as sitting or sleeping couches. Bentwood boxes, large and small and carved with mythic faces, were the equivalents of cupboards and closets. One room housed a collection of wood, stone and steel tools, some of whose functions were unclear, as well as a collection of canoe paddles, each of which was carved with distinctive totem symbols. Overhead, strings of plant fiber stretched between upright posts, and from these hung very large quantities of salted and drying fish, herbs, and meat. Overall, the longhouse had a smell that was peculiar but not unpleasant - a meat-market aroma that mingled smoke, cured flesh, and essences of spicy herbs and cedar in an intriguing way.

Leading us to the far end of the longhouse, Tleena paused where a doorway between two carved cedar plank walls was covered by a cattail curtain with an intricately painted bear face. “Father?” she called.

“Tleena!” the old man replied. “Come in.”

She pulled the curtain aside and motioned for us to follow her inside a square room about twenty feet on a side, where the second hearth glowed with banked embers. The space was edged by cedar-wood benches placed against the three walls facing the door. Behind the bench on the left was a large cedar plank decorated with an image of a soaring Thunderbird. On the right wall was an image of Bear with grinning fangs. On the far wall was the largest plank of all, bearing an image that sent a ripple of adrenaline through me - the twin-headed serpent.

Gordon Steel sat crosslegged on cattail matting on the bench below the serpent mural. He was dressed only in a loincloth of cedar-bark fibers with a coverlet in front with woven-in images of canoes and whales on it. His scrawny dark brown arms and legs were bare and his bony chest was naked except for a small ivory amulet carved in the shape of the two-headed serpent, hung around his neck by a thin rawhide strap. He had been weaving a rope from plant fibers when we entered. He looked up from his work and his warm greeting smile vanished when he saw McKean and me.

“Hello, Father,” Tleena said.

He grunted, glowering at McKean and me. “What do they want?”

“They’ve come to ask for your help.”

He went back to his rope-winding task, ignoring us.

“Father - ” she began again but he interrupted her, demanding of McKean in an imperious voice, “Tell me where you’re from, DNA man!”

“Seattle,” McKean replied.

The old man shook his head. “Seattle is a place. Tell me you’re ancestors’ names.”

McKean hesitated. “Well, I - “

“No one - !” Steel growled, keeping his eyes locked on McKean’s, ” - enters my house without telling who he is and who his ancestors are. This house is sacred. You come here with respect for our traditions or you don’t come at all!”

McKean began again. “I am a scientist. I was raised in West Seattle. My father was a printer and my mother was a pharmacy clerk. I know less about my grandparents. They were homesteaders and children of immigrants from England and Ireland and Germany.”

“Immigrants!” Steel muttered. “You babalthuds are like dumb animals. You don’t know where you come from or where you’re going!”

He glared at me. “And you?”

“I am a medical news reporter. I was raised in South Chicago. I think my family came from England and maybe Scotland. I know I had an uncle named Phineus Costas, who was supposedly part Greek. I don’t know much more.”

“Don’t know much at all,” Steel mumbled. “I know my ancestors have lived here since the beginning of time. My ancestors are Devilfish, the great shaman, and Young Doctor, the savior of our culture.” He sat scowling for a moment and then his scowl lifted. He turned to Tleena. “How’s Johnny?”

“He’s much better. They say he’ll be on his feet in a couple of days.”

“Seattle’s a bad place,” Steel grunted. He stared into the fire embers for a moment, his face a mask of impassivity. Then he cocked his head and grinned up at McKean sidelong. “Some more babalthuds getting sick, are they?”

“You’ve heard?” asked McKean.

Steel nodded. “People talk. I’ve got ears.”

“Then you know it’s a dangerous condition and it may be spreading.”

A hint of perverse smile wrinkled Steel’s wire-mustached mouth. “Spreading among babalthuds.” He reached beside him on the cattail mat and picked up a wooden rattle carved in the image of a raven. He aimed the beaked end of it at McKean and shook it twice. He set the rattle aside and eyed McKean sharply. “Ask your questions, man with no ancestors.”

“Who was Devilfish?” McKean began.

“Been reading about him, lately?”

“I’ve learned that he lived in the time of the Spaniards, and that he had a cure - “

“He had a daughter that was raped,” Steel interrupted testily.

“Unfortunate history,” McKean acknowledged. “But the cure - “

“The Spanish!” Steel interrupted again, “came in big boats like longhouses on the ocean, and that’s why we named Europeans babalthuds, house-on-water people. The Spanish were a wonder to Makahs. We greeted them as friends, just like others who came to trade at our village. Our chiefs made a potlatch and gave them great riches, otter and seal furs, and carved boxes. The Spaniards gave us metal knives and shiny pots and said they wanted little from us, only some land to build a fort against their English enemies. These rights were granted and the Spanish lived among us in their wooden stockade.”

“But it ended poorly,” said McKean.

“One of them raped the girl. So Devilfish sang a song asking Raven for vengeance. And Raven, the trickster, flew to the mountains and brought back Pukwubis, the Wild Man Spirit. Whenever Pukwubis saw a Spaniard, he sneaked up behind him and sucked the man’s soul out his ear. Then the man would wander the woods naked and scratched and bleeding. Then he would die like a mad dog. After enough Spaniards died from losing their souls, the rest left Neah Bay. They burnt their fort so the English couldn’t claim it and they sailed away. No one ever saw them again.”

“A colorful story,” said McKean. “It matches what I’ve learned so far about this disease. Of course, it’s embellished with folklore.”

“It’s all true,” the old man said. “Told to me by my father and my father’s father. You calling them liars?”

“No. Most certainly not. But Devilfish is said to have cured the last of the Spaniards, according to a parchment found in the coffin.”

“I saw that parchment,” Steel murmured. “I didn’t touch it.”

“It mentions medicines.”

“Makah medicines?”

“Yes. That is what I hoped you could help me with. They are described vaguely. Klochtap is one of them.”

Steel laughed. “It’s right here.” He picked up a small bentwood cedar box about the size of a cigar box from the floor near where he sat, and opened it. Inside was a tangle of small blackish dried leaves and pea-like pods. He fingered the rustling leaves and grinned. “Smoke this and you get higher than marijuana.” And then his smile vanished. “Only use klochtap with yellow flowers. Use white or pink and you’re dead.” He broke into his gap-toothed grin again and laughed loudly. Then he turned from McKean and eyed me sternly. “You got any questions for me, newsman?”

I pointed at the two-headed serpent carving on the wall. “Can you tell me about that creature?”

Steel turned and studied the sculpted panel for a moment. “My great-grandfather, Young Doctor, taught me about it when he was very old and I was just a little boy. I forgot most of what he told me. Why do you care?”

“Your son carved an image of it. He’s still working on it in the hospital.”

The old man’s expression darkened and he stared into the fire’s coals. “John’s got a lot of troubles these days. He’s trying to get himself straight with the serpent’s help. There’s a lot of power in it. Up north they call it Sisiutl. Down south in Quinault they call it Tamallay. I call it Quykatsayak, the medicine snake. He can cure you or kill you, just like klochtap. They found a carving of him buried in a five hundred-year-old mudslide down at Ozette village. Great-grandfather said the two heads are the balance between good and evil, day and night, men and women, health and sickness, tide-goes-in, tide-goes-out. Like the Tsuyess River runs both ways with the tides, twisting and turning across the land - snake crawls this way, snake crawls that way.”

“A world in balance,” McKean suggested.

Steel nodded. “Or out of balance when the two heads don’t see eye to eye. That’s when people get sick. People die.” His smile faded. “Like Makahs died when the American babalthuds brought smallpox here in the Caucasian Invasion. Everything went out of balance. Still is. Quykatsayak’s angry about that.”

“You can’t blame the Americans for everything - ” I began, but Steel cut me off with a shout.

“Blame them? I do more than blame them. I hate them. Whose courts stopped us from hunting whales for years? Babalthuds! Whose protestors broke Billy Clayfoot’s wrist? Babalthuds! Indian Wars are still going on in Neah Bay and we’re still losing. Just like Indians everywhere did.”

I offered a conciliatory thought. “It isn’t like you’re going to starve without whale meat. You can go to any grocery store and get beef - “

“No beef! No pork!” Steel shouted. “That’s babalthud food! Makahs eat whale, seal, salmon. You know something, newsman? Right now, Makahs die younger than white Americans. We got more trouble with alcohol and drugs. We got more diabetes and cancer. And a lot of our kids don’t do so well in school.”

“But how can eating a whale help - ?”

Steel thumped his fist against his chest. “This body - ” he growled, ” - is made to eat whale. From the time of the creation we were meant to eat whale. You can’t change that.”

“Over time,” I said, “Makahs could lose their need for whale meat, couldn’t they?” I looked to McKean for support but he remained silent.

Steel’s eyes flared. “How are we supposed to lose our need for whale?”

I shrugged. “Evolve?”

The old man stared at me hard. “Newsman,” he said. “Didn’t you pay attention in biology class? You can’t change your DNA. The only way for Makahs to lose their need for whale is for those who need whale meat to die. Ain’t that right, DNA man?”

“True,” McKean reluctantly agreed. “That’s how evolution works. The fittest survive while the unfit die off.”

“Die off!” Steel fumed, glaring into my eyes. “So you’re telling me you want Makah babies to die off?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Yes, you did, newsman. You said we should evolve. But the only way to evolve is to let the ones who aren’t fit to eat American food die off. Isn’t that right, DNA man?” He glared at Peyton McKean, who reluctantly nodded his concurrence.

“What Gordon is alluding to,” McKean explained to me, “is that Makahs have adapted to a diet of whale over many generations, especially to the oils that are unique to whales. Most of those are poorly understood by modern science. But it’s logical that a Makah’s diet might be deficient without whale meat.”

“Vitamin W,” said Steel. “It’s something Makahs get from whale oil. Something we need in our diet, a vitamin that makes us strong.”

I resisted. “There’s no scientific basis for that idea, is there?”

McKean put up a hand. “Don’t rush to judgment, Fin. It’s easy to assume modern science knows all the answers, but I’m sure there’s never been a study regarding which foods are best for Makahs. The USDA publishes recommended daily allowances for Americans in general, but - “

“But Makahs,” Steel finished the thought, “aren’t people in general. We’re Makahs.”

McKean nodded. “You’ve existed on the meat of marine mammals for thousands of years, maybe tens of thousands. You’ve surely adapted to a whale-fat diet. You may well have a different metabolism from the rest of us. Even a need for whale meat.”

“That’s why I say the protestors are trying to kill us,” Steel muttered. “They’re taking healthy food away from the mouths of our babies. That’s why I hate them.”

“I would hate them too,” McKean agreed, “if they did anything to threaten the health of my son.”

“So, newsman,” Steel said, turning back to me, “you’re saying our children should die, or grow up sick if they can’t have whale meat?”

Mortified to be on the wrong side of such an argument, I conceded. “I would never say such a thing. But how can you know if Makah children really need whale meat or not?”

Steel grunted. “Let the protesters prove they don’t.” He sat back and there was a moment of quiet. “To Makahs,” he said more coolly, “those protesters are just the latest in a long line of babalthud outsiders trying to convert us like missionaries. They want us to quit our old ways and be just another kind of babalthud. But Makahs can’t change our DNA. Our trouble with alcohol proves we’re different. Every doctor knows we can’t handle alcohol. So what makes you so sure we’re going to be healthy eating cheeseburgers? Let the babalthuds stay at home and drink their wine and eat their beef and leave us alone out here to eat our whale meat. How dare they come here telling us to quit eating food that made Makahs strong since the beginning of time? If they keep it up, I’m gonna think they’re trying to kill me. Do you get it?”

I acquiesced. For the first time I saw a light of great wisdom in Gordon Steel’s dark eyes.

“Another thing,” he muttered. “Babalthud congressmen passed the MMPA law, didn’t they?”

“MMPA?” I puzzled.

McKean clarified, “The Marine Mammal Protection Act.”

Steel hawked up a throat-full of phlegm and spat it emphatically in the fire, making the coals hiss. “That’s what I think of the MMPA. MMPA says no one kills whales. Says no one can even go near them. But Makahs already had a treaty saying we could hunt whales till kingdom come. So, where’s the government get off making a new law that says we can’t? Which is it, yes or no? Because if it’s no, then I say to hell with the USA. Our treaty with them said we could hunt whales. So, I guess the treaty’s null and void now. We became a sovereign nation again on the day they passed the MMPA.”

Tleena intervened. “But Doctor McKean didn’t write the MMPA.”

“His people did,” snapped Steel. “Babalthuds. And then the protesters and their money men and their lawyers took us to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals in San Francisco and enforced the MMPA on us. They tricked the court. They said we were going to kill off the resident gray whales.”

“Resident whales?” I keyed on the unexpected term. “What are those?”

Tleena explained. “They’re said to be a group of gray whales that don’t migrate from Mexico to Alaska. They supposedly stay here in our waters all the time.”

“Damn protesters!” Steel grumbled. “They made up a story. They told the judges these resident whales are an extra-endangered bunch compared to the rest of the gray whales, which aren’t even on the endangered species list anymore because there’s too many of them.” He paused a moment, and then he laughed bitterly. “Newsman,” he said to me. “Do you know the old Makah word for a resident gray whale?”

“No,” I said. “What is it?

“Dinner!” He broke into a hoarse laugh. “Somebody ought to tell your Ninth Circuit Court that the environmental impact of eating them is zero. You know why? Because they’re not real. Our ancestors already ate them a long time ago. So now your protesters want to bring them back, even though they’re phony. They’re just a babalthud trick to get the courts to go along with the protesters. That’s the reason we couldn’t go whaling for years - a bunch of lies from a bunch of damn tricky lawyers and rich people in a courtroom in San Francisco. Hell with them, I say. I know a greater trickster, and that’s Raven. They want to get tricky with resident whales? Well, let them get tricky with the Lost Souls disease. Raven has answered my prayers.”

There was a long silence and then old Steel gestured at the benches. “Have a seat,” he sighed forbearingly. “What else do you want to know?”

McKean sat on Steel’s left and Tleena and I sat on his right. “That leaf, klochtap,” said McKean. “You say it is a powerful hallucinogen, but according to the parchment it is also useful for treating the Lost Souls disease. Can you describe how it is used?”

Steel shook his head. “My family’s recipes are secret.”

McKean turned his palms upward in a supplicating gesture. “Couldn’t you tell us just this one? The disease appears to be very contagious. If it keeps spreading we may have a substantial epidemic on our hands.”

Steel shook his head. “Sick babalthuds are your problem, not mine. Klitsukhads - Indians - we’ve got our own problems.”

“But if I could get just a little of each herb that goes in the recipe,” McKean pleaded. “To study - “

“No studies, DNA man. No more studies.”

Tleena leaned close to him. “Father please. People are dying.”

“Babalthuds are dying.”

“People!” she exclaimed, suddenly angry. “No matter what you think of them.”

He looked into her face and anger lit his eyes. “What do babalthuds think of me? And what do they care for you?” His wizened old body trembled with renewed rage. “If I save them, will they lift their ban on whaling? Will they take away the curse of laba’uts babalthdik?”

“Of what’” I asked.

“The white man’s whiskey,” Tleena translated.

“Alcohol,” Steel muttered as if tasting bile. “It nearly killed me. I lost myself in a bottle for ten years. Couldn’t keep a job because of it. When I sobered up, they still called me stinking redskin.”

“Some did,” McKean corrected. “Not all.”

“Enough,” muttered Steel. “Plenty of ‘em would spit in my eye, and Tleena’s, too.’

“I sympathize - ” McKean began, but Steel interrupted with bitter laughter.

“Sympathy? I don’t want your sympathy. You go pity someone else. I think time is running out for babalthuds.”

McKean sighed as if realizing the futility of further conversation. “Can I at least take a sample of that vine for analysis?”

Steel picked up the box and emptied its contents onto the fire embers. McKean bent and reached for the vine but it flared and he pulled his hand back. Steel pointed a gnarled finger at McKean. “You go back home, DNA man. You go back to your own kind. Maybe you’ll see as much suffering as I have.”

Tleena intervened. “But if you know something that can help, father - “

“I know what I know. And I know the babalthuds’ turn to suffer is coming. Maybe they’ll die off and leave Makahs to hunt whales in peace.”

“But,” McKean persisted, “surely it’s not right for you to sit by and keep the secret of the old cures when people are dying.”

“Babalthuds are dying. That’s the same folks that destroyed our way of life, poisoned us with alcohol, blocked our whaling with their money and courtrooms and damn protest ships and kept good food from our children. They don’t care if a Makah baby is healthy or not. So why should I care if they live or die? Let them evolve!” He folded his arms on his chest and his whisker-bristled mouth turned down in a disdainful arc. It was clear the conversation was at an end.

McKean looked at Tleena bleakly, signifying he was out of arguments. We rose silently and followed her out the curtained door. As we withdrew along the corridors of the longhouse, we could hear old Steel burst into loud rasping laughter. At the front of the longhouse Tleena silently waved goodbye to Jerry Tibbut and led us out through the Raven-mouth doorway. We paused outside listening to the roar of the surf.

“I’m sorry,” Tleena said. “I didn’t think he could be so mean.”

McKean gave her a thin smile. “Thanks for trying, Tleena.”

“What will you do now?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Go back to Seattle and make do with what we know. Can you show us where klochtap grows?”

“It doesn’t have flowers this time of year. If you pick the wrong kind, it could kill somebody.” She followed McKean and I back along the trail through the dune grass.

“DNA man!” the old man called, having come out of the longhouse with his walking staff and a cedar-fiber shawl around his shoulders. “I think you’ll see many more people lose their souls and die. Family legend says Raven carried his plague on the wind.” He pointed to a group of ravens and crows perched on the roots of a huge overturned driftwood stump. “Ravens and their cousins are waiting to pick your bones, DNA man. Just like how you picked DNA from ours.”

McKean said coolly, “We’ll find a cure without your help.”

“No.” The old man gloated. “You won’t find a cure in time. The bulldozer man died like the Spaniards did. He looked like Pukwubis. Now there’s more sick babalthuds.” His unkempt gray hair blew in the wind and a frightening maniacal rage burned in the depths of his eyes. The ravens cackled as if they concurred with his judgment. The chill of the sea air sank deeply into my bones.

Old Steel waved a scrawny arm toward the ragged tree-covered hills above us. “This disease comes from the land and the sky and the water. It comes from Raven.” He gestured at the ravens with his walking stick and they leaped into the air and flapped away over the frothing waters of Spirit Cove. The crows, too, lifted off in unison and flew after the ravens. He laughed after them as if sharing a private joke. Then he turned to glare at McKean. He pointed at the ravens as they landed on a sea stack across the inlet.

“They can smell death on you before you die. Maybe they smell it on you right now. And they’re happy because many babalthuds will die soon.”

“A bold prediction,” McKean countered. “But I see no real foundation for it.”

“You will see,” the old man said, undeterred by McKean’s bravado. “You will see, DNA man. But for you and Mr. Newsman, I think you’ll live long enough to see death all around you. You will be safe, but you will not be able to help - just like our shamans couldn’t help when your babalthud diseases swept the Makahs away.”

McKean looked at him incredulously. “If there is an epidemic coming, then why should Fin and I be spared for any length of time? That defies logic. If we were exposed first, then we will get sick first.” McKean spoke so matter-of-factly that I was as astonished by his calm as I was terrified by his concept.

“I tell you,” Gordon Steel muttered, “you are under my protection for a while, so you can watch your babalthud world come to an end all around you.”

“I believe we’ve heard enough of this!” McKean snapped, and turned to go. Tleena and I followed him. When we reached the base of the trail up the bluff, Steel called after us, “You will curse me for protecting you, DNA man, when you watch your family die. And I promise you this, you will live to see everyone you love dead. And then you will die, too.”

We started to go up, but stopped again when he called, “You, newsman. You’ll have plenty of time to write the history of the end of your people. I think a lot of babalthuds in Seattle will be dead soon. You will be their last witness. You will write about them all running around like Pukwubis, newsman. But write fast. You will join them.”

I turned to follow McKean, but as I mounted the gnarled root stairway to the first switchback, the old man let out a mocking laugh that grew louder until he seemed possessed by a demon. Across the cove, the ravens and crows set up a cawing chorus that echoed his outburst. “You think I’m an old fool now,” he called. “But death will follow you. It’s already on the wing. Hee hee! It’s coming to get you!”

As we worked our way up the bluff trail he called after us again. “Hey, DNA man. Before you leave Neah Bay, go to Dakwas Park. You will see your fate there.”

Chapter 14

Tleena accompanied us up to the parking area. With the Douglas’s squirrel chiding after us, we emerged from the spruce thicket at the top of the bluff in a morose mood. The sun had sunk near the horizon and was hidden behind a fresh front of dark gray clouds coming in from the west. As we walked onto the parking area, a black and shiny Dodge Ram pickup rumbled up and pulled in beyond the Toyota.

“The whalers,” McKean murmured as a group of young men got out.

Among the scowling crew was Billy Clayfoot, now with a cast in his left wrist. Tall Andy Archawat got out from the driver’s seat. He eyed us sullenly as we walked toward my Mustang, angling past them as we did so. “Hey, Tleena,” he called. “What are you doing with these guys?”

“It’s a long story,” she replied edgily.

McKean paused and pointed at Archawat’s right wrist, exposed where the sleeve of his Pendleton shirt was rolled to the elbow. “How’s that bite wound doing?”

Archawat glanced at his wrist. A semicircular scab covered the place where Pete Whitehall’s teeth had sunk in. “Doing all right,” he muttered.

“Did you put any medicine on it?”

“Didn’t need to.”

“You haven’t felt sick?”

“Okay, buddy,” Archawat growled. “This ain’t twenty questions.” He turned to Tleena and broke into a triumphant grin. “Did you see the Righteous go down?”

“Yes, I did,” she replied somberly. “I saw it all.”

“What you didn’t see was the look on Wayne MacGraw’s face. I got a good look at him in the cabin window. He looked like a crazy madman. Like Pukwubis.”

Another whaler snickered, “Dude’s eyes were like zombie eyes.” He mimed with his eyes open wide, staring straight ahead, fixed but seemingly blind. The other men laughed darkly, suggesting they all found MacGraw’s death amusing.

I changed the subject. “Tleena, do you need a ride home?”

“No thanks. I’ll stay here awhile. Andy can get me home, can’t you, Andy?”

“Sure.” He put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a familiar hug.

“Let’s go, Fin,” McKean urged. I went to the Mustang, got in and fired the ignition. McKean got in and called a goodbye to Tleena. As I pulled away I glanced at the group in my rearview mirror. Andy Archawat still had his arm around Tleena. She threaded her arm behind his waist and hugged him back. As I rounded a huge gnarled spruce trunk, I took one last look and saw her press her cheek against Archawat’s chest. I sighed as the Mustang bounced along the rough road.

“What?” McKean asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I said morosely. “I’m just having a dream shattered.”

“You and me both,” he agreed. But his meaning was very different from mine.

Darkness was falling, so I pushed my Mustang as fast as the rutted road and thick brush allowed. When we emerged into the clearing where the trailer house stood, Dag Bukwatch stepped out from behind a stump directly ahead of us and put out the flat of a hand. I hit the brakes and skidded to a halt.

He scowled as darkly as a demon, peering through the windshield at me and McKean. The door of one of the small trailers opened and two other Makahs wearing camouflaged hunting gear jogged out to join him in front of us. Another man came out of the trailer home and joined the group. He was tall and heavyset with a head of dark unbound hair falling over his shoulders like a lion’s mane. Dressed all in black, he wore a dark scowl like the others but in addition, he had a shotgun slung across one elbow. He stopped ten feet from my side window.

Bukwatch circled to the driver’s side. I rolled the window down.

“Why’d you come here?” he demanded.

“To talk to Gordon Steel,” McKean replied, leaning across from the passenger side.

“He’s got nothing to say to you,” Bukwatch muttered.

“So we found out.”

“We won’t be back,” I added.

“Damn right.” Bukwatch moved nearer and brought his left hand out from behind him to reveal a wooden club. Carved ornately in the form of a seal, it looked like it could deliver a blow equivalent to a baseball bat. “Come here again,” he hissed, “and somebody’s gonna get his head knocked off.”

“Or get his head shot off,” the big man behind Bukwatch said in a thick, dimwitted voice. He hefted his shotgun as if he were bouncing a baby in his arms.

“Now get outta here,” Bukwatch muttered, “before we decide not to let you to go.” The men in front of the car stepped aside, clearing the Mustang’s way. As they did so, Bukwatch raised the club high. “Here’s a little something to remember us by!” He swung the club in a long arc and brought it down on the Mustang’s left-front headlight, shattering it. I jammed the shift knob into first gear, gunned the engine and dumped the clutch. The Mustang leaped forward, clipping Bukwatch at thigh level just as he raised his club for another strike. He tumbled across the hood and rolled off the fender onto the driveway. He got to his feet quickly but by then the Mustang was beyond the house and racing past the junked cars. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw the big man tracking us with his shotgun. Bukwatch raised a hand to stop him from firing as we skidded around the first turn in the road. I expected a peppering of buckshot but instead a loud shout came through the forest from Dag Bukwatch. “If you come back here, you die!”

I drove the Mustang hard through the growing darkness, bumping through potholes and accelerating on every straight stretch. I constantly checked my rear view mirror but we weren’t followed. As soon as we were back on the gravel road and headed for town, I glanced at McKean. He was brooding, deep in thought. I asked him, “I wonder if he really meant that he’d kill us if we came back?”

“I don’t know,” McKean replied. “And I don’t intend to find out.”

Darkness closed in completely as we retraced the route from Spirit Cove. I drove through town on Bayview Avenue with my heart rate decreasing in proportion to the distance between us and Dag Bukwatch. I noticed a faint scraping noise and reluctantly pulled into a little parking area on the shore side of the road. Getting out to investigate, I looked around where Bukwatch had put the light out and spotted the problem. The force of his blow had loosened a piece of fender sheet metal sufficiently to cause it to rub on the tire. I knelt and tugged at the bent metal until I managed to get it clear of the tire.

“Let’s go,” I called to McKean, who had gotten out and wandered along a low cyclone fence that paralleled the parking area.

“Look at this,” he said, pointing at a sign attached to the fencing. “This is the place Gordon Steel mentioned. Dakwas Park, The Place of Rest. I wonder why he wanted us to stop here?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. I just want to leave this town and never come back.”

“Give me a moment, Fin.” McKean wandered farther along the fence, looking the place over. The little park was a simple semicircular patch of ground between the road and the bank of the bay. About seventy-five feet long, it was surrounded by the cyclone fence we were walking beside. Inside the fence was a well-kept lawn that was flat and featureless except for two objects that rose from it. One was a tall totem pole standing in the center of the park and the other was a short post not far from the totem’s base. The park was deserted, as were the nearby rain-wet streets. Diffuse twilight through a bank of mist backlit the totem pole, which was about thirty feet tall - not the largest I had ever seen - but it drew McKean like a magnet. He walked along the fence until he was directly in front of it. He placed his hands on the top rail and leaned his lanky frame forward, studying the painted shapes carved on the totem. As I joined him he said, “It appears to be a copy of the central totem in the elder center. A national totem, perhaps. An eagle on top with wings spread. And under that, let’s see - ” He looked the pole up and down.

I stood beside him, staring at the totem without much interest and wishing we were driving out of town. My attention was drawn to the roar of an engine and headlights moving toward us from the direction we had just come. A large black pickup truck raced along Bayview Avenue, thumping with the rhythm of a loud stereo on which a pugnacious rapper trolled his one-note song. When the driver saw us, he hit the brakes and the big machine skidded to a halt on the wet asphalt. “Here comes trouble,” I murmured. The Darth-Vaderesque truck idled in the middle of the street for a moment, its tinted windows veiling its occupants while the rapper droned. Then the driver revved the engine and powered the hulk into a U-turn with its rear tires screeching and throwing out blue smoke. Coming around in the near lane, it raced at us until I was about to jump the fence. It skidded to a halt in the gravel, hemming us in between the fence and its passenger side door. The door opened and every nerve jangled along my spine. But when the music cut off and the passenger stepped down from the high cab onto a sideboard I cried out in relief.

“Tleena! What brings you here - ?” My exclamation of happy surprise choked off when the driver’s face appeared over her shoulder. A glance into Andy Archawat’s scowling eyes made me clam up. Tleena stepped down to the street and went straight to McKean, who had watched her dramatic arrival with his thin arms akimbo and a habitual look of academic curiosity on his face.

“I came to apologize for my father,” she said. “I’ve never seen him act that badly.”

“I suppose his reaction is understandable,” McKean replied, “given his personal animosity toward the society I’m trying to protect.”

The noise of a chain rattling out on the dark bay attracted all our attention. At the place where the Righteous had gone down, two Coast Guard ships were anchored. One was a cutter and the other a harbor tug with searchlights rigged to look down into the water. They appeared to still be searching for bodies in and around the wreck.

“Neah Bay is usually a peaceful place,” Tleena explained against all indications to the contrary. “People are friendly.”

“I have no doubt of that,” McKean said. “We came here with the worst of timing.”

“It’s all too much,” Tleena said. “First there’s the grave, then people get sick, and then a whaler gets hurt, and now those protesters are dead. Everything’s gone mad around here.”

“Thanks for your concern,” McKean replied a little tersely. “It is duly noted.”

“There’s one more thing you should know.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s about Father’s drinking.”

“A common Native American weakness.”

“It killed my mother.”

“He said that.”

“But it’s how, that’s what’s important. My mother was Violet Parker Steel. She died when I was six and John was eight. It was a car accident. Father was driving, and he was drunk. She was sober. He went off the coast road and crashed down a bluff to the beach. Her neck got broken. If John and I and been with them, we might be dead too. Father’s back got hurt and his leg got shattered. It took him years to be able to walk okay. And he started drinking more. John and I were raised by Auntie Edna and Uncle Charlie Thompson, back when they lived here in Neah Bay. Father stayed drunk for years. He was crushed by grief and shame. He only saved himself by going back to the old ways. But he still sees Mother in his dreams. He talks to her sometimes - I’ve heard him, while he’s carving, while he’s working around the longhouse. Her spirit is with him.”

She paused, and I could see the shimmer of tears in her eyes.

McKean was silent for an uncharacteristically long moment. At last, he said softly, “I see the motives underlying his obstinacy. Although I still can’t accept it.”

Tleena looked relieved, as if she had made her point and knew McKean had received it, albeit on his own terms.

After a further pause, McKean gestured up at the totem. “Can you explain this to me, Tleena? What are the names and meanings of the faces?”

Surprised, Tleena looked up at the totem for a moment. “That’s Thunderbird at the top,” she began.

“I had guessed that much,” McKean said. “And below that?”

“Two serpent heads.”

“Your father’s double-headed medicine snake?”

“I believe so. And beneath that is the whale Thunderbird has caught with the help of the snake heads. They can shoot their tongues out like harpoons.”

“Yes, I see the whale now, complete with tail and blowhole. And beneath the whale? What’s that many-armed thing?”

“That’s an octopus. Makahs call it tithlup. It’s also the Devilfish Father spoke about.”

“El Pez del Diablo in the Spanish parchment. The namesake of your shaman ancestor.”

“Right. Next comes Wolf, and finally Raven at the bottom.”

“But why did your father want us to look at this totem? I don’t see its relevance to our concerns.”

Tleena shrugged. “Maybe it’s not the totem he wanted you to see.”

“What else, then?”

She moved farther along the fence and we followed her to look at the short post, which was made from a round log standing about four feet tall. Its top was beveled at a 45-degree angle with a bronze plaque set onto it, which bore the tribe’s thunderbird-and-whale emblem. Above the emblem was an inscription in raised bronze letters:

IN MEMORY OF OUR ANCESTORS

LAID TO REST IN THIS MASS GRAVE

FROM SMALLPOX - 1850’S

“I had no idea,” McKean said. He leaned his thin body far over the fence and glanced to the left and right, scanning the park as if reading data from a book. “Right in the center of town,” he murmured. “I see why Makahs are never far from thoughts of plague and mass death.”

“It’s a part of our history,” said Tleena. “I teach it at the grade school.”

“A sad history,” McKean remarked. “Do you know how many people are buried here?”

“Nobody knows for sure. Maybe a thousand or two.”

“Two thousand people!” I exclaimed. The realization that a long-forgotten tragedy lay beneath this small plot of grass put a fresh chill in my bones.

“Maybe more,” said Tleena. “It depends on how deep they’re piled.”

“Ninety percent of our people died then,” Archawat called from his seat in the pickup’s cab. He got out, leaving the truck idling, and came to join Tleena. He was dressed in blue jeans, a black leather vest, and a tan T-shirt with a logo across the front that read, “Tradition.” Beneath the logo, basket-weave designs depicting canoes, harpooners and whales stretched across his wide pectoral muscles. His dark hair was tied back in a ponytail that blew over one shoulder in the shore wind. His expression suggested he disdained being Tleena’s driver on this mission. Despite the exception I took to his gruff attitude, I had to admit to myself that he was a good-looking fellow - tanned, strong-jawed, and compellingly handsome. I could see the attraction he presented to Tleena.

“Smallpox was the first way babalthuds killed us,” he muttered. “They brought the disease with them on their ships.”

“True,” McKean responded. “The disease no doubt arrived here from Hong Kong, Singapore, Honolulu and San Francisco, as a stowaway inside the bodies of sick sailors and passengers. It came on the hands of played-out Forty-Niners and on the bodies of Chinese coolie laborers.”

“Yeah,” Archawat agreed. “And on lumberjacks, hustlers, and thieves who didn’t give a shit about our people.”

“But there must have been some newcomers who tried to help,” said McKean.

“That’s true,” said Tleena. “Missionaries and store owners helped us dig the graves and lime the bodies to keep down the stink. When the disease was at its worst, there weren’t enough ablebodied Makahs to bury the dead, so it was up to the Americans who were immune to the disease to clean things up. They brought the corpses out of the longhouses, piled them here in long lines, and then buried them with sand.”

“It’s awful to think of so many people dying all at once,” I said.

McKean shook his head slowly. “In the eighteen hundreds smallpox was the great annihilator of many tribes. The Makahs were victims of foreign diseases for which their bodies had no inherent resistance.”

“It’s horrific,” I said, “to think of an entire population defenseless against an invading virus.”

“Nature knows no horror,” McKean replied. “A virus is as much a part of the web of life on earth as is a human or a whale. The smallpox virus was participating in globalization in its own way. It was pioneering new lands, expanding from the Old World to the New.”

“That’s a cold way to put it,” I said. “Those were real people dying.”

“Logic is a cold thing, Fin, but compelling nonetheless.”

“It wasn’t just smallpox,” said Archawat. “Gordon says it was the missionaries, too. Just when we were all sick and weak and scared they came and said all our troubles were our own fault for worshiping animal spirits. They said our spirit guardians were demons and devils. That’s when we gave up our old ways. But Gordon says the animal spirits were really our angels. So we lost our own souls, too. And that’s when we signed away our lands to Governor Stevens for nothing but a promise that we could hunt whales. Now even that promise has been taken back. Babalthuds are the Indian-givers, not us. Now Makahs are left with nothing that was our own, unless Gordon can bring it back.”

“A moment ago, Fin,” McKean said pedagogically, “I was asking myself why old Steel seemed so bitter. But I believe Mr. Archawat here has explained it all quite nicely. To the traditional Makah the protestors, DNA tests, and other manifestations of mainstream culture are continuations of the sordid history of their tribe’s degradation and ruin.”

“That’s right,” Archawat confirmed. “We call it the Caucasian Invasion, and it isn’t over yet. Babalthuds keep bringing trouble here.” Archawat’s jaw muscles clenched like he was biting back on much more than what he said.

“I see your point,” McKean acknowledged, “but I’m still concerned about what Gordon Steel meant when he told us we’d see our fate here. Is this what he meant? That we’ll all end up in a hole in the ground?”

“Let’s go, Tleena,” Archawat growled. “I don’t wanna be seen talking to these guys.” He eyed us coldly and folded his arms across his chest.

“Just a minute Andy,” said Tleena. “I have more to say.” She turned to McKean. “I wanted to explain that my father is not really mean, he’s just bitter. Even some Makah people think he’s a crazy old coot - but there’s a lot more to him than that. He’s the closest thing we’ve got to a real shaman. He knows more than anybody about the old ways.”

“Although he’s not very inclined to share,” McKean replied sourly.

“True,” Tleena agreed. “But shaman’s cures have always been secret. I’ll try to get him to tell me about the medicines you want.”

Archawat rankled. “Your father doesn’t want to help them. They’re outsiders, just like those Eco-Nazis out there.” He pointed toward where two divers had just surfaced between the Coast Guard boats and were hooking a recovered body into a sling. “They deserve what’s happening to them. They’re trying to kill us off. If we save them, then more rich white people will come and wreck our way of life. Maybe if they die off, that’s the best thing that can happen for us. Makahs are good fighters. It won’t be the first time we outlasted our enemies.”

“But Makahs sometimes lost.” McKean gestured at the grave marker.

Archawat stiffened. “The ships that came here in the 1850s brought smallpox. Now they bring protesters. It’s all part of the same thing.”

McKean looked out over the harbor. “It’s never too late for understanding to prevail. Knowledge is power, and shared knowledge is more powerful. There might be some common ground between whale lovers and whale hunters.”

Archawat snorted derisively. “We’ll agree with babalthuds when they leave us alone. Until then, they deserve what they get.”

Tleena sighed. “Andy, these aren’t protesters we’re talking to.”

“They want Gordon’s medicine to help keep protesters alive. I say, babalthuds started this fight, not us. Let them die.”

“But there are many Americans who support your right to hunt whales,” McKean countered. “I do.”

“Where were you when the protesters broke Billy Clayfoot’s arm? You go back to Seattle! Let the disease kill off all the protesters. Then things will be like they were before babalthuds came here!”

“How will it sit on your conscience,” McKean asked, “if thousands of people die? Or millions?”

“Why should I care about them any more than they care about me? This is just getting-even time. Now it’s their turn to die.”

“Andy!” cried Tleena. “Stop being so cruel!”

Archawat wasn’t in a conciliatory mood. He asked McKean brazenly, “You know what I’m going to do when the babalthuds are gone?”

“What?” McKean asked.

“I’m gonna go catch me a whale!” He grinned vindictively.

At a loss, McKean turned to Tleena. “Please tell your father we really need his help.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll try again.”

He turned to me. “We’d better get going, Fin. We’ve gotten precious little help here, so I’ll have all the more work to do in the lab tonight.”

A few seconds would see me parted from Tleena again. I looked into her beautiful dark eyes. “Tleena - ” I said, but Archawat interrupted by putting a hand on her shoulder and leading her toward the truck.

“C’mon, Tleena,” he muttered. “Leave these babalthuds to their fate.” As he helped her step up onto the truck’s high running board, he glared back at me darkly. Angered by his possessive behavior, I wanted to demand of the sullen Makah, just what is your relationship with this woman? You don’t own her, do you? But the words froze in my throat.

“Goodbye, Fin,” Tleena called as she got into the passenger seat. Her gaze lingered on me for a moment. Then she closed her door as Archawat gunned the engine and tore away in the direction of Spirit Cove, his tires clattering gravel at our feet.

A cold drizzle fell as we walked back to the Mustang. McKean muttered, “This certainly has been a fruitless trip.”

“Yeah,” I agreed as Archawat’s taillights and thumping music faded around a corner in the Spanish fort. “It sure has been.”

Chapter 15

Night fell as I drove out of Neah Bay on the coast road. A heavy rain began pounding my windshield with a staccato roar like automatic weapon fire. Despite the wipers on high speed my vision was blurred by water. The swerving cliffside highway was made more treacherous by the lack of one headlight and my determination to put as much distance between us and Neah Bay as I could. The Mustang verged on four-wheel drifts around some turns but I gripped the wheel tightly, gritted my teeth, and kept the gas pedal down. “You don’t have to be drunk to go off this road,” I muttered.

McKean seemed not to notice. He watched the raindrops battering the windshield with an air of Zen-like calm. No matter to him that the cliff-like road cuts were alive with cascades of white froth, or that the ditches were clogged with tangles of branches and mud, or that sheets of water spilled across the road. I charged through these, throwing out sprays on either side. Signs urging me to WATCH FOR FALLEN ROCK brought an ironic smile, given that whole sections of the fern-choked embankment had slumped off the soggy rock wall and into the ditches.

McKean took a cell phone from a pocket of his overcoat. “I should call Janet,” he murmured absentmindedly. “I’d like an update on her progress.” He tried to make the call but turned the phone off after a moment. “No service,” he said.

After a dozen miles of white-knuckled driving, I passed the reservation boundary. The protesters and cops had disappeared. As the highway smoothed out and went through a series of wide farmstead clearings, I relaxed my grip on the wheel and breathed easier. We rolled into the coastal hamlet of Clallam Bay where the houses and little tourist shops were dark and shuttered against the storm and the streets were deserted. Approaching a well-lit gas station and convenience store, I noticed that my gas gauge needle was near empty. I turned in and stopped beside a pump, pulled the hood of my squall jacket up, and got out to brave the rain that was slanting under the gas island roof. As I began filling my tank, McKean got out and, holding his hat against the lashing wind, jogged across the lot to a phone booth.

As the gas pumped, I pocketed my hands to get them out of the chilly mist. I kept a wary eye on my surroundings. In a forested area across the road, once logged bare but regrown into a tangle of Douglas firs, bigleaf maple trees, and blackberry brambles that were dimly lit by the glow from the gas station lights, I heard a noise. Somewhere within the tangled vegetation a raven called deeply, “Hrock! Hrock!” I peered among the dark branches and could just make out the form of the bird perching high on a limb of a bigleaf maple. It crouched low as I spotted it and called out again, “Hrock! Hrock!” The notion that it had been watching me sent a tingle along my spine. That tingle was followed by another when I heard a new noise. It was a low mournful moan that came, not from the raven, but from a human throat somewhere in the dark woods.

I glanced at the pump, hoping it might soon be finished, but it had scarcely pumped the first quarter tank. I glanced at McKean. He was busy inside the telephone booth, engaged in a conversation with Janet. I peered again into the darkness under the maple tree and saw something thrashing among the blackberry brambles. The eerie moaning continued.

The raven called out another loud “Hrock!” and took wing. It disappeared into the woods just as a man lurched out of the undergrowth. My jaw dropped when I got a look him. He was naked except for a soaked pair of short underpants. He was smeared from head to foot in muck and brown leaves as if he had been crawling on the forest floor. As he splashed across the rain-swollen gutter and lurched up to the street, I saw that his body was crisscrossed with bleeding scratches from blackberry vines. His wet, dark hair was plastered to his head with leaves and mud. He made a noise that will haunt me forever. “Ngahhh!” he called in a throaty howl that was a combination of a mountain lion’s roar, a reptile’s hiss, and a mournful human voice. There was a maniacal urgency to it that set my heart racing.

“Ngahhh!” he roared again as he spotted me and lurched straight at me in stiff, zombie-like strides. Although barefoot, he crossed the sharp gravel of the street shoulder oblivious to any pain, fixating on me in a way that made my blood run cold. As he came into the glare of the station lights, I got a look at his face. His muddy, bloodied lips were parted, baring his teeth. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, with the same purplish circles around them as Pete Whitehall’s. His pupils gleamed like those of a mad soul lost in the pits of hell. Even more terrifying, his ghostly white skin had been torn by more than blackberry brambles. Sets of three or four parallel gashes marked where he had raked himself with his fingernails so deeply that the marks bled. Scratches covered his arms, legs, body, neck and face - and from that horrific bleeding face his eyes glared at me so piercingly that they shook me to the core.

Peyton McKean cried, “Look out, Fin!” and raced back toward the car. I was uncertain how to react as the madman came to the rear of the Mustang, but I was certain he intended to bite me. As he circled the rear of the car and came at me, I grabbed a wooden-handled windshield squeegee from a tub of soapy water near the pump and raised it high. The man paused where the gas hose intervened between us and clutched at me with hands whose clawed fingers were red with his own blood. I took a long, high swing and brought the squeegee down hard on the top of his head. There was a loud crack! as the handle shattered across his cranium and the pieces flew out of my hand. He reeled backward, howling in pain. I raised my arms high and shouted, “Ya-a-ah!” The blow, and my shout, froze him in place. He began gibbering an unintelligible, whining protest. He swatted at the air around him as if it were filled with unseen flying demons. A fresh gout of blood ran down his forehead from the wound I had made on the top of his head.

“Hang up the pump!” McKean called across the Mustang to me as he opened his door and got in. “Let’s get out of here.”

The pump was still running, so I reached for the handle. But the maniac instantly recovered and came at me. I shouted again and he stopped short, but now we were in a standoff on opposite sides of the gas hose. I was poised with my hand outstretched to grasp the nozzle, and the maniac was ready to pounce if I did. Blood flowed heavily from the split on his brow and dripped from his chin.

“Forget the hose,” McKean called from the passenger seat. “Get in and drive away.”

I turned and quickly sat into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and twisted the key in the ignition. As the engine roared to life, I glanced around to see the madman tug the still-pumping gas nozzle free of the fill port, splattering gasoline around himself. I put the Mustang in gear and drove quickly out of the fueling spot. As I did, the maniac came after me, holding the nozzle out and spewing gasoline onto the rear of my car, all the while baring his teeth like an enraged animal. The station’s lot was small, forcing me to circle and go out the way I entered. As I steered around the gas island, the maniac raised the nozzle high over his head, splattering the pump island and himself with gas. He tried to come after us but the hose stretched tight and stopped his lurching charge. Further enraged, he turned his anger on the pump. Howling ferociously, he aimed a series of heavy blows at it with the still-running nozzle.

“Drive!” McKean shouted when I slowed to gape at the spectacle. Snapping into action I pressed the accelerator down too hard and spun my tires on the wet pavement.

The maniac pounded the nozzle down on the pump again. As my tires gained traction and the Mustang began to move, several things happened at once. The manager of the gas station, a hefty man in khaki coveralls and a hunting cap, ran out of the convenience store and shouted, “Hey! What’s going on - ?” His words were cut short when a spark from the madman’s blows ignited the gasoline-soaked pump, from which flames quickly spread over the maniac and the ground around him. The manager ducked back inside the store as the maniac shrieked in pain and crumpled to the ground, his body a blazing torch.

The Mustang fishtailed and gained speed slowly with tires spinning on slick pavement. The madman’s agonized scream was lost in the roar of a massive explosion that burst from the pump island. The fireball nearly swallowed the Mustang, but we escaped by a matter of inches. I kept the accelerator floored as the explosion engulfed the whole gas island in a colossal ball of fire. I tore away on a straight stretch of road, keeping one eye on the rear view mirror. The madman had vanished in flames, which swirled around the pumps and rose into a towering mushroom-shaped billow. The store manager crept back to the door and helplessly watched with his face lit by the hellish orange glow.

The awful sight fell behind us when I rounded a bend. “I can’t believe it!” I cried. “I can’t believe it!”

“Calm down, Fin,” McKean said with inexplicable cool. “Concentrate on your driving or you’ll put us in the ditch.”

I took a deep breath and focused on steering. After a moment I said, “Thanks, Peyton.”

“For what?”

“For shouting at me back there. I’d still be there in those flames if you hadn’t thought fast.”

“We would still be there,” he corrected, turning to look back at the fire glowing through intervening dark tree tops.

“Do you think we should go back?” I asked. “There might be something we can do to help.”

“Answer: no,” McKean said emphatically. “We’re no help to a dead man. And clearly the disease has left the reservation. I’ll be needed at my labs now more than ever.”

I drove quickly through the empty, rainwashed streets of Clallam Bay and out the far end of town. Fumes of gasoline on the Mustang nauseated me, but eventually dispersed. I adjusted my speed to a rate consistent with the winding road and the continuing rainstorm. After a brief stop to close my gas cap, I drove swiftly past Port Angeles and Sequim. Not until I crossed the Hood Canal floating bridge did I feel we were a safe distance from Neah Bay.

“The most disturbing thing,” McKean mused somberly, “was the way the man seemed quite capable of operating the pump despite his delirium. It was as if his higher thought centers were gone but his reflexive, learned responses, like squeezing a gas pump handle, were still operative. A maniac like that is much more dangerous than one who is fully disoriented. I dread to think what could happen if that sort of madness spreads to a city.”

“The most creepy thing,” I said, “was that raven. Did you hear it calling just before the man came out of the woods? I almost believe it was leading him in our direction.”

“According to Gordon Steel,” McKean said thoughtfully, “Raven and his cousin Crow will spread the disease. I suppose the bird might have brought the disease to Clallam Bay and infected the man, but I’m unwilling to accept your demon-bird theory.”

“Just the same, that raven really gave me the creeps.”

“Everything else that happened wasn’t bad enough for you, Fin? You need to throw in a little hocus pocus to go with it?”

“All I know is this situation just keeps getting worse and worse.”

“Agreed.”

* * * * * * * * * *

The superferry Hyak was loading when we got to the Winslow terminal. The foul weather from Neah Bay arrived with us, and a gale-force wind blew from the northwest as we crossed, frothing the black surface of Puget Sound with giant waves. These rollers made the going tough even for the huge ship, the hull of which was pushed so hard by the wind that she had to plow forward at an angle to maintain her course. As she wallowed and shuddered into each new wave, sea spray blew horizontally across the car deck on the fierce wind.

I watched this spectacle from inside my Mustang while McKean dashed off to the snack bar for a double tall mocha, intending to dose himself with sugared caffeine and stay up late with his work. When he returned, he sipped his drink in silence for some time. I laid my head back on the headrest and tried to relax. McKean had a dollar bill in the change for his coffee, which he examined closely. “Look at this, Fin,” he said, pointing at the Great Seal on the back. “The American Eagle holds a ribbon in its beak inscribed with the words ‘E Pluribus Unum.’

“The national motto,” I said without much interest.

“Meaning, ‘One Out Of Many.’” he said. “It refers to one nation fashioned out of many separate nations, including Indian nations incorporated - willingly or not - into America as a whole.”

“And your point?”

“Gordon Steel has a legitimate concern about diet and alcohol. If we are truly a nation made up of many nations, then what should we do about dietary inequality? How do we adjust for the fact that some people have different nutritional needs? The most obvious example is alcohol, where the majority of Americans consume it beneficially and moderate consumption contributes to longevity. But for Makahs, other Native Americans, and most Asians, alcohol is poison.”

“You can’t just outlaw drinking,” I said. “They tried prohibition and it didn’t work.”

“Agreed. But Steel’s point still holds. If Makahs are full citizens of our nation, how do we compensate for their deleterious reaction to alcohol?”

“It’s not our problem, is it? Can’t Makahs take responsibility for their own relationship with alcohol?”

“Of course they can, and do. It’s a simple matter of abstinence.”

“That’s the answer, then.”

“For alcohol, yes. But Gordon Steel’s bitterness is two-fold. His experience of alcohol has been extremely negative, and now he sees the U.S. introducing a new negative factor into Makah life, namely the courtroom prohibition of whaling. From his perspective, our culture benefits from alcohol but refuses to let Makahs benefit from vitamin W. That’s doubly cruel, and a form of genocide, according to Steel.”

“But what proof is there that Makahs really need whale oil?”

“None at present, but what if the idea is ultimately proven true? My scientific curiosity is aroused. Consider the genetic information regarding alcohol. Up until a decade ago, the notion that alcohol metabolism was different between whites, blacks, Asians, and Makahs was little more than a hypothesis. Now we have detailed scientific data on the precise genes that affect alcohol metabolism in different groups. Native Americans and East Asian peoples share a small group of DNA mutations that lower the levels of alcohol-metabolizing enzymes in their livers relative to whites, blacks, and some others.”

“So, the inequality in alcohol metabolism is actually spelled out in different people’s DNA.”

“Precisely right. Now, concerning Gordon’s claim that Makahs need vitamin W, scientists have yet to find any information at the DNA code level, but that’s not to say there isn’t any. It’s simply an unknown, just as the alcohol codes were unknown a few years ago. Steel could be right. If so, then his perception of a great wrong being perpetrated by the protesters - up to and including genocide - would also be correct.”

“How will we ever know the answer?”

“Time and experimentation will uncover the facts. Steel’s concept will either be vindicated or disproven. Until then, Steel has his point of view and the protesters have theirs. But it all sits poorly with me. What ever happened to E Pluribus Unum? I assume our motto implies that we respect our differences even as we join in the union of all of us. How are the protesters honoring the Makahs’ differences?”

“They’re not.”

“And now the shoe is on the other foot. The protesters and all of us non-Makahs need something that only Gordon Steel has.”

“The cure for Lost Souls disease.”

“Exactly. A cure that comes from his heritage as a Makah. If the protesters don’t want to honor the Makah in him, why should he honor anything about the protesters? Why should he care about their susceptibility to the disease? It’s a tit-for-tat situation in the worst negative sense. ‘You keep me from the whale meat I need, and I’ll keep you from the cure you need.’ ‘

I shuddered. “If this epidemic spreads, then Gordon Steel will be to blame. He’ll have to live with that.”

“‘Turnabout is fair play,’ he might say. The protesters started the confrontation, not the Makahs.”

“Can’t you intervene, Peyton? Can’t you find the Makah whale-eater gene and convince the protesters to back off?”

“I have carried out prodigious feats in the lab, Fin, but I can’t work miracles. Finding one altered code letter in the entire human genome is a doable project. But it’s a needle in a haystack with three billion straws in it. Such a search could take my team years to complete. We won’t have the luxury of that much time if this epidemic spreads.”

A particularly huge roller hit the Hyak’s bow. The heaving of her decks made me queasy. “This has been one long day,” I sighed. “I’ll be glad to get home and go to bed.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” said McKean. “I need you to drive me to see Kay Erwin. I called her while I was at the coffee stand. She wants me at the hospital as soon as we can get there.”

I shook my head. “Don’t you ever let up, Peyton?”

“Leon Curtis is gravely ill. He’s been raving like Pete Whitehall. She’s got him under heavy sedation.”

The Hyak arrived at the terminal about 9:30 pm and by 9:45 we were at the isolation ward with Kay Erwin, observing Leon Curtis through the window wall. He was unconscious and pale. His eyes were surrounded by purplish-red sunken flesh. They were partly open, unfocussed and moving here and there as if watching some unimaginable horror. His forehead was covered in sweat. His wrists and ankles were fastened to the bed rails with white cloth ties. An intravenous line ran into his left arm from a saline bag on a pole.

“Poor fellow,” said Kay. “He got feverish and threw the sheets off his bed and tore off his clothes. He said they made him feel like he was on fire. When we tried to get him back in bed, he went berserk. He bit one of our people, Nurse Hawkins. You remember him, Fin?”

“The black fellow, built like a linebacker?”

“Yeah. Leon bit him on the arm while Hawkins was trying to restrain him. Didn’t break through the isolation suit, though, so Hawkins is okay. We had to inject Leon with a sedative and lash him to the bed. It took three big men to do it.”

I watched Curtis while she spoke. Seeming to hear our conversation coming through the speakers on the other side of the glass wall, he tugged at his restraints and uttered a stream of mumbles punctuated by weak snarls. His eyes opened wide but he didn’t look at us. Instead, he stared vacuously at the ceiling. His head twitched hard to the side.

McKean looked at his friend and murmured regretfully, “I wish there were something I could do for you, Leon.”

“What I would like to understand,” said Erwin, “is why Leon is down but we still don’t have any sick Makahs. The tally of cases, including your gas station man, is up to twelve white people and one black.”

“The mystery deepens,” McKean replied absently.

“Another thing,” said Erwin. “The CDC still is not responding the way I want them to. I’d like to see orders to seal off the reservation, but the bureaucracy hasn’t moved very fast. They’ve got people setting up a forward base halfway between Seattle and Neah Bay, at the Olympic Medical Center in Port Angeles. But they’re waiting for more documented cases before they’ll take drastic action.”

“The man at the gas station!” I said.

“He’s not really documented yet, is he?” Kay responded. “And if the body is burnt badly enough, he may never be.”

Curtis let out a long moan.

“Poor Leon,” Erwin murmured. “We’ve been making a case study of him. We’ve started the Milwaukee Rabies Protocol, giving him ketamine to induce a coma that protects his brain from the inflammation, and the antiviral drug amantadine to inhibit viral growth. We’re trying to keep him as comfortable as possible while observing the disease’s progression and symptoms.”

McKean leaned near the glass to look into Curtis’s unseeing face. He shook his head slowly and said, “It turns out, my friend, that you are our first guinea pig, like it or not.” He leaned nearer the window until his long straight nose almost touched the glass. “Are those fingernail scratches on his cheeks?”

“Yes,” Erwin confirmed. “Before we restrained him, he scratched himself all over.”

Curtis uttered a pathetic wail, “Hoooo! Hoooo!”

“That was a lot louder before,” Erwin said. “The ketamine has turned the volume down.”

“We heard it at Clallam Bay,” said McKean. He stared at Curtis’s tormented, unseeing face for a long moment. Then he turned his back to the window wall. He looked quite pale himself.

“Do you feel all right?” I asked him.

“I’m much better working with diseases than patients,” he said. “I can handle any virus in the lab, but I can’t stand to see a fellow human suffer.”

“I had come to think of you as the ultimate in professional detachment,” I replied. Noting that he had gone from pale to ashen, I let the subject drop.

After a moment Erwin said, “I’ve divided the disease progression into four stages.”

“Oh?” Peyton McKean’s expression cleared as if switching to intellectual matters was all he needed. “What you’ve come up with?”

“Phase one,” Erwin explained, “begins with itchiness around the eyes, which in turn causes swelling and redness.”

“And eventual purplishness,” McKean added, “as we saw with the bulldozer man and the madman at Clallam Bay. I suspect it’s an early effect of brain swelling, compounded by constant rubbing.”

Erwin nodded. “Then phase two starts with mild signs of mental derangement, the inability to concentrate and occasional lapses into a trance-like state.”

“Like Pete Whitehall when we first saw him,” I said. “And Leon Curtis in Peyton’s office two days ago.”

“And then comes phase three,” Erwin continued. “Discomfort with clothing, a tremendous urge to scratch the skin, and more mental derangement interspersed with moments of wild erratic behavior. Leon would be much more scratched up if we hadn’t tied him down and sedated him.”

“Regarding the erratic behavior,” McKean said, “add this observation. Victims seem to retain their ability to operate machines, even though they don’t seem to know just what to do with them.”

“Pete Whitehall’s mad driving,” I said.

“Exactly,” McKean concurred. “And the gas station maniac’s apparent understanding of the use of a gas nozzle - much to his regret.” McKean’s color returned as the clinical discussion proceeded. On the other hand, I felt myself blanching at the memory of the awful look in the madman’s eyes.

McKean finally regained his detached academic expression. “It seems that our peculiarly human ability to use machines and tools is coopted by the disease in the same way that rabies coopts an animal’s biting instincts. Where a dog’s primary weapons are its teeth, it makes sense that humans may resort to their own most efficient weapons, namely tools and machines.”

“In addition to biting,” I pointed out.

“To summarize stage four, then,” said Erwin, “raging, biting, and attacking with machines. I haven’t seen a fullblown case of that stage yet but I’ll take your word for it. Leon was probably headed in that direction before we sedated him.”

“I wonder what Leon would be like if you weren’t treating him?” I asked. “As mad as Pete Whitehall? It was awful to watch Pete lashing out at his rescuers.”

McKean turned to look at Curtis again. “Leon is lucky to be here where he can be helped. It’s encouraging that his fever and mania can be controlled by drugs.”

“That’s something,” Erwin agreed. “But if this contagion gets out of hand, there won’t be enough medical facilities and personnel to handle all the cases. I wish we knew how fast this disease spreads, and how it is transmitted.”

“Biting,” said McKean. “There’s an effective means of spreading this disease rapidly, if you want one.”

“No, I don’t want one,” I said. “This situation’s bad enough without screaming zombies biting people.”

“One victim biting the next,” Erwin murmured. “Truly a human version of rabies. In crowded urban areas transmission could be incredibly rapid. Much faster than we’ve seen so far. But Leon wasn’t bitten - was he?”

“No,” McKean replied. “And that’s got me thinking there might be multiple ways the disease can be passed. It wouldn’t be the first disease with different means of propagation. Leon’s case seems to have come on slowly. I perceive he may have gotten a low-level exposure, perhaps from the ravens or their droppings after they had eaten some of the corpse.”

“Transmission by birds!” Erwin exclaimed. “That’s really scary. Like avian flu, it could spread on the wing!”

“Just like Gordon Steel claimed it would,” I added.

“This all fits with what we’ve seen,” McKean observed. “A low level exposure via the lungs or skin leads to a slow-acting disease, as we see in Leon. However, a bite victim might be expected to go down much faster, given a much heavier initial virus dose delivered directly into the bloodstream. So there might be a range of incubation times - bitten people having the shortest period before appearance of symptoms, while those exposed via air have longer latent times and a more slowly developing disease. And some people may be more resistant than others.”

“This conversation is making me nervous,” I said. “Where do you and I fit in, Peyton?”

McKean thought for a long moment. “I wish I had an answer for you, Fin. Perhaps we avoided exposure. Or, with a mild enough exposure, perhaps our bodies will hold off the virus.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then the clock is ticking.”

We fell silent for a moment, pondering the implications. McKean then asked Erwin, “Tell me more about the fever. How intense is it?”

“Very,” Erwin replied. “Leon hit one-hundred-and-three before we started him on heavy doses of ibuprofen to control it. We’re continuing ibuprofen, otherwise the fever might have been fatal by itself.”

McKean stared soberly at Curtis through the glass. He murmured, “Then, my friend, you would have reached phase five.”

“Phase five?” Erwin puzzled. “What’s that?”

“Death.”

After a moment, Erwin was struck by a sudden thought. “Wait a minute, Peyton. I just realized you told me your gas-station madman was in Clallam Bay. That’s off the reservation. So it’s already too late to quarantine just Neah Bay.” She turned and hurried toward her office. “I’m calling CDC right now. This quarantine has got to get a higher priority or it will be too late.”

She sat at her desk and picked up her phone. She progressed through a series of calls while McKean and I stood disconsolately watching Leon Curtis moan and hoot his way toward whatever fate awaited him.

McKean shook his head. “At this point, I would be glad to try Devilfish’s cure on him, if Gordon Steel would cooperate.”

Erwin hung up the phone and rejoined us wearing a sour expression. “I traced my CDC contact from his work number to his home. His daughter says he and his wife have gone to the ballet in Atlanta and they aren’t expected home until later. His cell phone is switched off. Damned bureaucracy! Every little thing gets in the way. We should have had a quarantine days ago, and now Neah Bay may not even be a good perimeter any more. If it spreads fast we could have a major calamity on our hands. And I can’t seem to get a response out of Atlanta to save my life!”

“To save your life,” I repeated. “That has an unpleasant ring to it.”

We left Erwin in her office making another call, and went down the elevator. As we were about to leave the hospital I suggested we stop by John Steel’s room to see how he was doing. When we went to the front desk and inquired about his location, the receptionist typed some information into her computer. “Hmm,” she said. “It looks like he left the hospital without being discharged.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I can’t help you with that.”

I drove McKean to ImCo and left him to continue his laboratory work, and then drove the few blocks to my apartment building. Inevitably, as I walked up the stone staircase to my landing, Penny Worthe opened her door.

“Another late one?” she asked the obvious.

“What are you?” I snapped. “My mother?”

“I was just trying to be friendly.”

“I’m sorry, Penny. It’s been a long, brutal day.”

She stepped out, dressed in her pink evening gown and wearing a mischievous smile. “Maybe you need to eat a little sea spinach?”

I was seized by sudden inspiration. “Thank you, Penny!” I grabbed her and gave her a hug and a big smacking kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, thank you!” I unlocked my door, rushed inside and went straight to the refrigerator. I fished around among the jars and bottles on its shelves and pulled out the jar of Gordon Steel’s greenish potion. “Eureka!” I cried.

Within fifteen minutes I had retraced my path to ImCo and was in Peyton McKean’s office. I pulled the jar out of my coat pocket and handed it to him, explaining its provenance via Tleena and Penny Worthe. “Do you think the cure could be in there?” I asked.

“Answer: unknown,” McKean replied. “But, given our lack of recourse to Devilfish’s cure, why not give them a try? I’ll have Robert test the ability of this…preparation…to inhibit the growth of the virus in a cell culture. If there is any activity, we could try to isolate the antiviral substance.”

“That could get you around Gordon Steel’s stonewalling.”

“Yes, it could.”

PART FOUR: CONTAGION

Chapter 16

The next morning I arrived at Peyton McKean’s office as Beryl Shum and Janet Emerson were on their way out. Janet said hello to me in passing but seemed preoccupied. The two technicians disappeared into the lab as I entered the office. “Nine-oh-five,” McKean said in response to my hello. “Nicely punctual, Fin. You’re here just in time to look at Beryl’s latest results. The Clallam County Coroner’s Office sent us a sample of Pete Whitehall’s blood and Beryl analyzed its reaction with the virus. The good news is, Pete was in the process of becoming immune to it. He had anti-virus antibodies in his bloodstream.”

“Antibodies,” I repeated. “Molecules of the immune system.”

“Yes,” McKean concurred. “And very important ones in this case. Antibodies are protein molecules your body produces that bind to the surfaces of viruses. Once attached, antibodies act as alarm signals alerting the body’s defenses to kill what they’re bound to. White blood cells engulf the virus and digest it before it can spread the infection.” He gestured at a sheet of white paper on his desk with several blue spots on it. “Beryl has been working fast. She’s identified the viral surface antigens that those antibodies attach to, using this Western blot.”

“Antigens,” I said. “Target molecules of the immune system.”

“Very good, Fin. The term antigen derives from the observation that antibodies are generated in response to them. Normally, people become immune to the G protein of rabies virus, G standing for glycoprotein. It’s the major surface antigen molecule of the virus. In Pete’s case, Beryl’s Western blot has detected two forms, rather than just one G protein. We are not entirely sure why there should be two of them when viruses of this family usually only have one G protein. But whatever the cause, we have begun calling them G1 and G2, with G1 being the larger form and G2 somewhat smaller. One or both of these molecular forms will be the target of our vaccine.”

“Impressive,” I said. “How soon will the vaccine be ready?”

“It will take time,” said McKean. “Janet has yet to isolate the full segment of RNA corresponding to the G antigens. She will have to reverse-transcribe it into a DNA sequence that she can put into bacterial culture to produce the proteins. All that has got to happen before we can create a vaccine.”

“Days?” I asked.

“Maybe weeks,” McKean replied. “At worst, months.”

“Meanwhile, we’re still at risk, and the virus is spreading. What about using a conventional rabies vaccine instead?”

“Nice question,” said McKean. “A cross-reactive immunization might neutralize the virus. However, Beryl has addressed that issue in this experiment.” He shuffled through the chaotic pile of papers on his desk and came up with a sheet that was essentially white. “No blue spots at all on this test, in which she looked for a cross-reaction with a blood sample from a patient immunized with the conventional rabies vaccine. The serum reacts strongly with rabies virus G, but it has no reaction whatsoever with our virus’s G1 or G2. Conclusion: the G antigens of our virus are very different from rabies G antigen.”

“How can that be?”

“I strongly suspect that the G genes derive from the fish virus, not the rabies virus.”

“So the existing rabies vaccine is entirely useless?”

“Answer: yes, unfortunately.”

“Is there a fish virus vaccine?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’m afraid we’ll have to take the long route of creating an entirely new vaccine.”

“That’s terrible news.”

“It certainly is, if the contagion spreads quickly.”

“How’s Kay Erwin doing on that quarantine?”

McKean shook his head. “The CDC feels we have too little proof the virus constitutes a threat to the general population. But these results should help. They show Pete Whitehall was definitely infected with this virus. That’s another step in proving we’re looking at a lethal outbreak. I’ll email Kay Erwin these photos and she’ll relay them to the CDC.”

“That should get a reaction from them.”

“We’ll see. Don’t underestimate the ability of a bureaucracy to drag things out.”

We sat quietly for a moment, each wrapped in private thoughts.

“By the way, Fin,” McKean said. “You’ll be interested in something else I’ve turned up. As you know, I am intrigued by the lack of Makah victims.”

“Me too.”

“So Beryl and I have tried to measure the levels of antiviral antibodies in the blood samples Kay took from Tleena and John Steel.”

“And?”

“Neither she nor John have any trace of the antibodies in their bloodstreams.”

“They’re not immune to the virus?”

“Apparently not, at least not by that measure. And if they are typical of the Makah population, then I am still at a loss to explain the lack of Makah victims.”

“How about your blood, and mine?”

“Sorry Fin. No antibodies there, either.”

We paused again. My thoughts were anything but sanguine. “One more thing, Peyton. You said Pete’s antibodies against the virus were the good news. What was the bad news?”

“He didn’t make enough of them to save his life.”

“Ahem.”

Stuart Holloman had appeared at the doorway. He entered without a word and sat in McKean’s second guest chair. He struck me as more piggish than I had recalled. His pink dress shirt was stuffed with flesh that strained its buttons. The cuffs of his rolled up sleeves were tight around thick forearms and his underarms were ringed with perspiration. He exuded a skunky body odor I associated with stress written on his face in veins that stood out on his temples. He scowled at McKean, and a scarlet flush worked its way over the bald dome of his head. “I’m glad you could stop in this morning,” he said sarcastically. “I was in board meetings all yesterday afternoon concerning this virus. The least you could have done was call from Neah Bay with an update.”

“I was preoccupied,” McKean responded in magnificent understatement.

“I hope you weren’t wasting company time talking with witch doctors.”

“I never waste time. Neither the company’s nor mine.”

Blunted, Holloman glanced down at his brown wingtip shoes, collecting his thoughts. His feet looked too small to support his hefty body. “Meanwhile,” he grumbled, “I’ve been doing enough work for both of us. I made some calls to the CDC and even to the White House. The President himself got back to me this morning. It seems he’s looking for a political success in healthcare and this little epidemic of yours might put one in his victory column. He offered to pressure the National Institutes of Health to give us a ten-million dollar grant to support vaccine development. I told him we would be happy to accept it. If enough people die, this disease might be a bigger business opportunity for ImCo than the Congo River virus.”

McKean seemed unimpressed. “I don’t like to think of people dying as a business opportunity,” he said.

“Why not?” Holloman responded. “What do you think pays your salary? Goodwill? I expect you to keep yourself busy in the lab. Instead, you seem to think there are more important things to do.”

“I wanted to assess the knowledge of the indigenous people of Neah Bay before going any further.”

“And you’re telling me your work doesn’t suffer when you trot off to chat with your Indian friends?”

“Answer: no. I trust Janet and Beryl completely.”

Holloman shook his head. “I’ve learned not to trust my subordinates to work if I’m not there to ride their asses. You might try that approach. I highly recommend it.”

“I prefer to encourage their autonomy,” McKean replied. “It makes better scientists of them.”

Holloman leaned close and pointed a pudgy index finger at McKean’s nose. “Let me give you a little perspective, Doctor McKean. We’ve got a golden opportunity here to make a pot of money. We have a lead over other vaccine companies right now but it won’t last. The President told me he’s bringing Virogen in on the game and connecting them with Kay Erwin to get a sample of the virus. That means pretty soon we’ll be in a horserace with Virogen. And that gives me a bad case of heartburn. Now I want you to promise me you’ll get this project into high gear.”

“I’ll do what I can to pick up the pace,” McKean agreed reluctantly. “But scientific understanding has got to come first.”

“Scientific understanding? Spare me the lecture, McKean. We’ve already got the virus in hand and you know damn well we can make a subunit vaccine that’s as safe as aspirin.”

“Not necessarily,” McKean countered. “Caution always comes first in medical research.”

Holloman seethed. “Not this time around, damn it! Dave Curman has been bugging me to give him a part in this project. And I’m just about to hand it over to him lock, stock, and barrel if you don’t knuckle down and get me a vaccine!” He shouted the last word loudly enough that it echoed in the hallway.

McKean remained cool. “Good science takes time and inspired thinking,” he said. “I prefer not to proceed any faster than knowledge and understanding dictate.”

“Don’t talk to me like this,” Holloman warned. “It’s not what I want to hear.”

“Well it’s what you’ll hear from me as long as I’m responsible for the successful pursuit of this project.”

“That may change,” said Holloman. He rose and stepped to the doorway, pausing to point at McKean again. “Results!” he growled. “Or else!” He turned and said a gruff, “Excuse me!” to Janet, who had appeared at the door with new papers in hand. Then he stalked away on his undersized feet toward the elevator.

McKean motioned for Janet to take a seat. She handed him the papers and pointed to several dark spots near the edge of one page.

“We’ve isolated the viral RNA segment that contains the G protein.”

“Good. Put it into the DNA sequencing system and let’s read the code. That has got to be an interesting G protein. I want to know why it makes two forms of the molecule.”

“It’s quite a long segment. It may take multiple sequence runs to read it all.”

“All the more reason to start right away.”

“You can count on us,” said Janet, collecting her papers. “Anything else?”

“Answer: yes.” He put a hand on her arm. “Thanks for doing such good work.”

Smiling with mixed pride and gratitude, she got up and hurried back to the lab.

I said, “I hope you don’t mind my saying Holloman’s attitude toward you makes me nervous.”

“You and me both,” McKean replied. “What makes me doubly nervous is David Curman waiting to jump on the project. As you heard, Holloman is on the brink of giving it to him.”

“Would it be so bad to have help?”

“Curman is always too willing to do whatever it takes to please his master.”

“I guess he just knows which side his bread is buttered on. Perhaps you should be more flexible.”

“Every time I get flexible with the principles of scientific research, I regret it. And as you just saw, we are making progress at our own pace.”

The phone rang and McKean put it on speaker. A man introduced himself. “This is Special Agent Charles Grayson, Bureau of Indian Affairs, Neah Bay.”

“How can I help you?” McKean responded, glancing my way with a cagy expression.

“I’ve heard,” Grayson said in a gravelly, longtime smoker’s voice, “that certain objects may have been removed from a certain grave, illegally. Among them is a parchment manuscript. Do you have any idea where it is, sir?”

“I can’t help you,” McKean answered smoothly.

After a long silence, Grayson muttered, “Taking artifacts from Indian graves is a prosecutable offense under NAGPRA statutes, punishable by a few years in prison. Still nothing coming to mind?”

“Nothing,” McKean lied.

“You’ll hear from me again.” There was a click on the other end.

McKean glanced at me and rolled his eyes. “All aboard the bandwagon,” he sighed.

Janet came back from the lab. “Come quickly,” she said. “The President is about to make an announcement about the virus. We’ve got it on the lab stereo.”

McKean followed her into the lab. I was behind them as they joined Robert and Beryl near a stereo on one of the lab shelves. The radio host said, “And now, the President of the United States.”

“Good afternoon fellow Americans,” the President began. “I have an important announcement with implications for the State of Washington in particular, but also for Americans in general. I have been informed by the Centers For Disease Control that an outbreak of a new viral disease has occurred at Neah Bay, at the Northwest tip of the Olympic Peninsula. This virus has killed a small number of people in Neah Bay and surrounding towns. It causes fever, delirium, and in some cases, victims become violent. I want to stress that there is no cause for general alarm. The CDC has a team of medical investigators on the scene to control any further spread of the disease.

“To assure the virus doesn’t move beyond the local area, the CDC is quarantining Neah Bay and several towns adjacent to the Makah Indian Reservation. No one will be allowed in or out until the CDC certifies it is safe to do so. Rest assured that this outbreak will be handled with all necessary care, and with all resources needed to eliminate the problem. You have my promise that the virus, which has been named the Neah virus, will be contained at its source. In addition, I have instructed the National Institutes of Health to support research efforts to create a vaccine to protect anyone exposed to the virus in the future. Again, let me stress that there is no general cause for alarm. Thank you, and God bless America.”

The announcement ended as abruptly as it had started. As the radio host began a telephone, tweet, and email discussion of the Neah virus, I turned to McKean.

“Do you think a local quarantine is enough? Hasn’t it already gotten well beyond Neah Bay?”

McKean frowned, deep in thought. “A quarantine of Neah Bay will help, but I share your doubts. Let’s hope Clallam Bay is included in the quarantine. Perhaps he just neglected to mention it, or is not aware of all the details. I’m sure Kay Erwin will have more information.”

“He implied that everything is under control. So, are things under control - or aren’t they?”

“Answer: unknown,” McKean replied. “I’m sure the President wants to appear calm, to avoid panic in Washington State. He’ll sound a different note if things get out of hand.”

Chapter 17

The next day, by prearrangement, I rendezvoused with Peyton McKean at Kay Erwin’s office. We gathered outside the glass wall of the isolation facility to look at poor unconscious Leon Curtis, while Peyton got an update from Kay on his vital signs and lab tests.

“Something is definitely odd about that G protein,” McKean remarked while reading Curtis’s chart in detail. “Leon’s antiviral antibody levels are up again today, and that’s good. But they’re only up against G2. His immune response against G1 has dropped off, instead of building.”

Erwin agreed. “His antibodies to G1 haven’t made the conversion from IgM to IgG.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

McKean explained. “IgM and IgG are different types of antibody molecules. The IgM-to-IgG shift is a measure of the maturity of the immune response. Failure to shift indicates that Leon’s antibody response against G1 is shutting off, while his anti-G2 response keeps getting stronger. All other things being equal, I would have expected both the anti-G1 and anti-G2 responses to increase with time.”

“But his fever is down,” said Erwin. “That’s a sign of recovery.”

“Yes,” McKean agreed. “Which suggests the anti-G2 response may be sufficient to rid the body of virus. And I see he’s no longer restrained. Is he still sedated?”

“No,” Erwin replied. “But that’s not necessarily a good sign. The violence subsided with the fever but now when he’s awake he seems almost mindless. When we try to talk to him, he just stares.”

McKean looked up from the chart and glanced into his friend’s open, unseeing eyes. An orderly in a yellow hazmat suit came to change the bottle on the iv drip line, and Curtis’s eyes shifted toward him while he worked. But there was no sign of recognition on his face.

“He’s got all the basic reflexes,” Erwin said. “He follows movement like you just saw. He blinks, and closes his eyes when he’s truly sleeping. But we see no cognitive functions whatsoever. He just lies there as if there’s nobody home inside his head.”

“A lost soul,” I commented.

“What?” Erwin asked.

“Gordon Steel’s legend of the Lost Souls.”

McKean continued reading the chart but remarked as he read, “I wonder what Gordon Steel would do for him at this stage?”

“I wonder what we’re going to do for him,” said Erwin. “Feed him iv fluids and wait. I guess that’s all we can do.”

McKean watched the clear intravenous fluid drip from the plastic bag that led through a line into Curtis’s left arm. He remarked thoughtfully, “Without modern medical intervention, a victim would naturally die at this point, if the fever hadn’t already claimed him. That was the fate of Capitan Nuniez.”

Erwin said, “You know, Peyton, another pair of cases were admitted late yesterday to the isolation facility we set up in Port Angeles.”

“New cases?”

“Yes. A husband and wife who were both bitten by a deranged neighbor when they tried to help him.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Farm country just outside Clallam Bay.”

“Inside the quarantine area?”

“We’ve got a team looking into that. They lived on a back road with several possible routes out. There are old logging roads all over the landscape in that area. And it’s all very remote and mountainous. It will take time to figure out whether it was within the containment blockade or not.”

“That does not sound too encouraging.”

“We’re doing our best, given the rough country.”

“You said bitten by a neighbor,” said McKean. “Is that neighbor one of your other cases?”

“No. And that’s quite troubling. The couple said they heard him moaning and thrashing around in the woods and they went out to help him. They found him lying on the ground, naked and bleeding and groggy from exposure, but when they tried to get him on his feet he managed to bite them both. The husband chased him off with a stick, but now the madman is missing and the man and woman are both patients. They hadn’t heard the President’s announcement that day, or they might have been more careful. They waited overnight but then called the police and were fetched to the hospital in an aid car.”

“How rapidly is their disease progressing?”

“Very rapidly, as we might expect for biting victims. They’ve gone through the same stages of the disease as Leon, but on a much faster timeline. Itching in twelve hours, scratching and disorientation in twenty-four, mania in thirty-six.”

“Less than two days!” I said.

“So, by now,” said McKean, “they must have reached this somnolent stage?” He pointed at Curtis.

“No,” said Erwin. “They both died, pretty horribly.”

“Fever?”

“They were given ibuprofen for high fevers, and restrained against scratching themselves or biting. They were sedated with ketamine, but that wasn’t enough. They went into convulsions, quite lengthy, quite severe. Both finally died of cardiac arrest.”

“Horrific,” said McKean. “At least Leon has been spared that fate.”

“So far,” Erwin agreed. “What scares me most is the idea of this stuff spreading faster than it has until now, if biting becomes a trend.”

“There are other reports of biting?”

“Three more bite victims were admitted in Port Angeles this morning. Most telling similar stories of people running naked in the woods.”

“Same localities, Neah Bay and Clallam Bay?”

Erwin looked even more troubled. “Not all. One was from Neah Bay, one was from Clallam Bay, and one was a bit closer to Port Angeles. The little town of Pysht. That’s a good fifteen miles beyond the blockade, as the crow flies.”

“Funny you should mention crows flying,” I said.

“It’s just a very tough place to try to contain a viral outbreak,” Erwin went on. “I’m really beginning to doubt our ability to establish an effective perimeter. I have a hunch there are a lot more cases out there we haven’t heard about yet, given the trend of people coming out of backwoods areas in bad condition. I’ve asked the Clallam County Sheriff’s Office to shut down all roads in the west half of the county. They said they’d get back to me, but it’s been hours with no call. Same response from Atlanta. I feel like going and blockading the place myself.”

“Any Makahs reporting sick yet?”

“As impossible as it seems, not one Makah has shown up sick yet. Everyone so far has been Caucasian or Asian, or African American.”

“Makahs must indeed have an inborn resistance,” McKean said. “It’s the opposite of history. Now they survive while the babalthuds die.”

“And while you’re trying to figure that one out, Peyton, factor in one more thing. We’ve had two cases of young children admitted in Port Angeles, a boy and a girl from Clallam Bay. Both went by the fast progression route, even though neither was bitten.”

McKean thought a long moment. “That suggests the disease hits young children harder, like many diseases. The last time Sean went down with the flu…” He stopped and remained silent for some time.

Erwin could see, as I did, that McKean had been struck by a deeply personal concern. She said, “Keep a close eye on your boy, Peyton. I don’t like the fact that he was exposed to Leon Curtis in your office.”

“Neither do I.” Concern deeply creased his high forehead.

Across the hall, the outer airlock door to the isolation facility opened. A young man in turquoise surgical scrubs came out, having just gone through the sterility control shower and gotten out of his isolation suit. He went to where Leon’s chart was hung on the wall, took it, and made a few notes.

Erwin introduced him as he wrote. “Peyton and Fin, you remember Dr. Zimmer, don’t you? He’s the one who admitted you with the jihad virus.”

Zimmer turned to us and smiled. I recognized him as the blond, wary-eyed man who had checked us over first when we were infected with Sheik Abdul Ghazi’s super strain of smallpox. Something about him looked different, now.

Kay Erwin noticed it too. “Hey,” she said, grasping him by one elbow and then consciously letting go again. “You’re eyes look a little puffy. Haven’t you been getting enough sleep?”

“Sleep?” he said as if he hadn’t understood the question. Then he rubbed a knuckle into the swollen flesh under his right eye.

Erwin, McKean, and I all took a step backward. Erwin raised her hands in a silent command for Zimmer to hold still. “John,” she said, thin-voiced. “I want you to go back into sterility control, put your pressure suit back on, go into the ward and wait there.”

“But I’m off duty,” he protested, still acting like the issue was eluding him.

“You’re on duty until I say you’re off,” Erwin blustered.

He turned, rather robotically, and went back through the airlock door without another word.

Kay shook her head. “I hope I’m just imagining things. But he was the one who admitted Leon. He spent quite a bit of time with him before he was sent to the isolation ward.”

“Time without protection?” McKean asked.

“Not even a respiratory mask,” Erwin acknowledged. “That was five days ago. We didn’t know what we were dealing with then.”

“But if he has contracted the virus,” I said, “he could have exposed other people. His family, coworkers.”

“Let’s hope he’s okay,” Erwin replied. She turned to go to the airlock door. “I’m going to suit up and get some blood from him to test for virus and antibodies.”

We turned to go, but stopped short of the elevators when Erwin called, “Peyton!”

“Yes?”

“We’re all hoping for a vaccine, soon.”

“I’m doing my best.”

* * * * * * * * * *

When McKean and I got off the elevator on ImCo’s third floor, Janet Emerson was waiting at the landing to go up. She stopped halfway aboard as we passed her, looking expectantly at McKean.

“Yes?” he said, mystified by her quizzical look.

“Aren’t you going to the staff meeting?”

His expression clouded. “What staff meeting?”

“Dave Curman just came through the lab and told everybody there’s an emergency meeting of all staff involved with the Neah virus project, right now, in the executive conference room upstairs. I assumed they had already cleared it with you.”

“Not a word spoken.”

She looked more surprised. “I have to hurry. Dr. Curman said Dr. Holloman wants to discuss my data first.” She patted a stack of computer printouts and data notebooks gathered in the crook of one arm. He flashed a look of concern at her, which she returned. He thought a moment and then said, “Go ahead, Janet. I’ll be right up.”

She took the elevator and McKean hurried to his office, hung his coat on the rack, grabbed a pen and pad of paper from his desk and hurried out the door with me on his heels. “Come on,” he said grimly. “Time for some damage control.”

A minute later we entered at the back of an executive boardroom on the sixth floor, finding it crowded with a mix of scientists in white lab coats and dark-suited corporate officers, a group of about thirty people in all. Most sat around the boardroom table but the overflow of attendees was accommodated in chairs arranged around the periphery of the room. A few of the junior staff leaned against the wall in the back. I joined them, trying to make myself inconspicuous. McKean took one of the last unfilled seats at the table, midway down its length from the presiding seat at the head of the table, which was occupied by stout-bodied Stuart Holloman. As McKean took his seat, the room’s hushed conversations fell silent. Holloman eyed McKean coolly for a moment before he spoke. Beads of perspiration shone on his bald cranium and the armpits of his pink dress shirt were once again soaked in sweat.

“I see Dr. McKean has managed to find time to join us.” He glared at McKean as if the fact displeased him. Then he spoke to the group. “We have learned from a confidential source at Virogen that we are in a horserace with this vaccine. I have it from someone in their labs, who will remain nameless, that they have the virus in hand thanks to Peyton McKean’s friend, Kay Erwin. She sent them a package via overnight delivery. According to my source, Virogen has already isolated the G protein segment of the viral genome and is making it into a vaccine as we speak.”

McKean said, “If they have isolated that gene fragment, then they know like we do, just how difficult it is to work with.”

Holloman waved a hand to stop McKean. “And, apparently, they have found a way past that problem. From what my source tells me, they are well on the way to producing a vaccine that contains not one, but two viral surface antigens. Does that sound familiar, Dr. McKean?”

“Of course, G1 and G2. But I have strong doubts they were able to obtain better sequence data than ours in this short a time span.”

“And that,” said Holloman with the satisfaction of someone springing a trap, “is what we are here to make an executive decision about.”

McKean held firm. “I suggest we assume they are stymied just like we are. Janet told me this morning the virus has some physical roadblock in its gene structure that has frustrated our efforts to read the code sequence past the start of the G1 gene.”

“Roadblock?”

“I suspect the gene has a secondary structure in that region, which effectively ties the DNA into a knot like a shoe lace, which is inhibiting the sequencing reaction. Although newer sequencing techniques usually overcome the effect, it seems we are faced with a particularly strong knot to unwind. Odds are it has caused the same problem at Virogen.”

“Odds are!” Holloman repeated impatiently. “I’m not willing to take odds on this company’s future. I don’t care what the source of this problem is. I only want to know how we’re going to solve it.”

“With caution. Proceeding without full knowledge of what we are working with could lead to catastrophe.”

“What sort of catastrophe?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Well, I am certain it will be a catastrophe if Virogen beats us to market with this product.” He took a more conciliatory tone and glanced at faces around the room. “Certainly, we all would like to proceed cautiously and analyze every detail of the viral gene sequence. On that I think we all, as rational scientists, can agree.”

There was a general nodding of heads around the room.

“However,” he said emphatically, stopping the heads in mid-nod. “We are capitalists here as well as scientists - in case you need reminding, Peyton McKean. And as capitalists we cannot afford to come in second in this race. Virogen could dominate the marketplace and exclude us completely. And I would say some people in this room might lose their jobs if we come in second.” He suppressed a cruel smirk and looked at McKean meaningfully. Then he turned to Janet. “I want to see your sequence data, right here, right now. Put it on the projector screen.”

David Curman was seated towards the rear of the board table and across from McKean. He switched on a projector sitting on the table top near him and it shined a blue rectangle on a screen mounted on one wall of the room. Janet used a portable computer in front of her to key in some commands. The projector showed a slide filled with long horizontal strings of the letters A, T, G, and C. The slide contained several hundred of these letters.

“Right here,” she said, picking up a laser pointer and using its red dot to circle a segment of letters near the middle of the slide, “is the start of the G1 protein, with the three-letter amino acid codes translated from the DNA code letters.” She read the beginning of the sequence, “Met-Thr-Arg-Tyr…” and then paused. “Unfortunately,” she said, pointing to the lower left part of the slide, “the sequencing reaction terminated before it got very far beyond the beginning of the gene. It only reads 43 amino acids from one end of a protein molecule that according to our western blots should have about 600 amino acids in it. So most of the molecule is still unaccounted for.”

Holloman nodded as if he had been prepared for this. “And the G2 gene? Tell us about that.”

“We had better luck reading the DNA sequence in reverse from the other end, so we got more information on the second gene.” She typed a few more commands and the screen showed a second slide. “Reading backwards, we start at the tail of the protein and read toward the head.” Again, she pointed her red laser dot at a sequence of amino acid codes. “Ser-Lys-Phe-Glu…In this case the sequence reaction covered more than two hundred amino acids. According to G2’s molecular size of about 500 amino acids on our western blots, that’s nearly the entire second half of the protein.”

“Anything unexpected?” asked Holloman.

“No, it’s quite normal for a fish virus G gene. It’s a previously unknown family member, but it’s similar enough for us to be sure it’s from a fish virus.”

“How are your efforts coming at getting the rest of the sequence?”

“Not so well. We’ve tried to cut the DNA with dozens of different restriction enzymes, but none seem able to break it in the middle and give us a new starting end. Meanwhile, nothing we do seems to get us a better sequence run on the front end of the G1 protein. Heating, cooling, denaturants, we’ve tried it all.”

“That confirms what certain people have told me.” Holloman glanced at Curman, who smiled at him and then glared vindictively at McKean. “And that brings me to the second subject of this meeting. David, why don’t you explain what you have been doing?”

With a smug smile, Curman said, “Janet, put on slide DC1, will you please?”

A moment later a slide appeared, in which two rows of blue spots stretched from one side of the screen to the other.

“My technicians have placed the entire two-gene segment into a yeast expression vector and, lo and behold, the yeast produce both G1 and G2 in huge quantities. Look at the slide. Going from left to right, the pairs of spots get darker, because both G proteins are being made in larger and larger quantities as time goes on. At the twenty-four hour time point on the right, we had produced incredible amounts of both products. We couldn’t ask for more.”

McKean said to Curman without rancor, “Congratulations, Dave. Science sometimes gives us pleasant surprises.”

Holloman said, “You see, Peyton? No need to analyze the sequences, no need to alter them to get the best result. Everything just worked the way I hoped.”

“So far.”

“And, that brings us to the final question of this meeting,” said Holloman. “If Virogen has also discovered how easy it is to produce these proteins, then they may be moving forward with all possible speed. Don’t you agree, Peyton?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Therefore, we need to scale up for manufacturing without more delay. Does anyone here want to dispute that?”

“I do.” McKean remained steadfastly grim.

“Gee. Peyton McKean. Why am I not surprised?”

“Janet,” said McKean, “please show your G1 and G2 western data.”

With a few keyboard entries, Janet brought up a slide with two pairs of blue spots side by side.

“On this slide,” McKean explained, “we are looking at the reaction of Leon Curtis’s antibodies versus those of Pete Whitehall. Could you give the details, Janet?”

“The darkness of the blue color is a measure of how strongly the antibodies react to the G proteins,” she said. “With Pete Whitehall’s serum, the reaction is about identical in strength. Two dark spots, one above the other for G1 and G2. But for Leon’s serum, the G1 spot is faint, while the G2 spot is strong.

“The point being?” Holloman asked impatiently.

McKean said, “Pete Whitehall died. Leon Curtis is recovering. The different responses to G1 and G2 may mean something.”

“I doubt it,” Holloman resisted. “Different people always react differently to viral proteins.”

“Perhaps so, but Janet’s results raise several questions in my mind. If Leon’s recovery is driven by his anti-G2 response, why include G1 in the vaccine at all? And, given Pete Whitehall’s severe disease and death, can we be sure the anti-G1 response is beneficial? It clearly didn’t help him, and perhaps it could even have been harmful in some way.”

“You have one hyperactive imagination!” Holloman muttered. “This is all just speculation. The way I see it, you’re trying to keep this project under your thumb by casting doubts on it. And I won’t stand for it! This time, Peyton McKean, you’re going too far.”

McKean sat stolidly with his elbows on the table, his fingers knit and his paired long index fingers pressed to his lips. “I’ve made my point,” he said with an air of finality. “Perhaps you’re the one who’s going too far, Stuart. You’re basing your conclusions on insufficient data, which Janet and I have not had time to analyze ourselves.”

Holloman began to shake with rage. “I am quite capable of drawing my own conclusions, right here and right now!” He cast a baleful eye on Janet. “How certain are you that Leon’s G1 response has faded? Maybe it’s still strong like Whitehall’s but your western blot is technically messed up. Is there any chance your result is just an experimental error?”

She paused, searching for something to say. She flushed beet red.

McKean had sat stiffly, wearing an irritated scowl. But now he burst out, “This is not the time or place - !”

“I asked - ” Holloman interrupted, shouting, “for Janet to speak - not you, Peyton.”

With a bleak look on her face, Janet said, “I’m not sure.”

“Not sure,” said Holloman. “Now we’re making some progress.”

“This is preposterous,” McKean grumbled. “We’re working on a mystery in my labs, and I’m sure there is more to it than meets the eye. Leon Curtis is recovering even though his antibody reactions against G1 are falling. G1 is one hundred amino acids larger than a normal G protein, and I think there may be some reason that Curtis has responded to it poorly while Whitehall had a high level response but died.”

“Don’t baffle me with data,” said Holloman. “You have snowed me like this before, but I’m not going to let it happen today. My source tells me Virogen is proceeding with both G1 and G2. So maybe they know something you don’t know, Peyton - like maybe G1 plus G2 is the best choice?”

“Or maybe they’ve got spies who have done exactly what yours have done, Stuart. Maybe they’ve gotten hold of our data and now they’re taking the same course.”

“Fahh!” Holloman waved McKean to silence. He turned to Janet. “So, tell me,” he said, looking her hard in the eyes, ” - given Dr. Curman is ready to produce the G1 plus G2 vaccine, just how certain are you of your data?”

She opened her mouth but was afraid to speak.

Holloman pressed her, “Are you willing to stake your job on your results?”

She looked down at the tabletop in front of her and clammed up.

“Let me rephrase,” Holloman said with his eyes boring into her face. “Would you be willing to admit that your data might - just might - be incorrect?”

She wilted further, flushing a deeper red and seeming to shrink under his glare like a flower in hot sun. A tear ran down her cheek. She began to tremble. “Yes,” she said so faintly I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.

“Yes, what?” Holloman cajoled, leaning toward her.

“Yes, my data might be wrong.” She kept her eyes resolutely downturned, and stifled a sob.

“Good,” Holloman said with cruel finality. He turned to the group and smiled, leaving Janet struggling to regain her composure. “I think we all agree it’s a moot point, whether G1 is useful or not.”

“Not all of us agree,” McKean said forcefully.

Holloman smiled smugly at McKean. “You don’t agree, Peyton? What a surprise. Well, why don’t we put it to a vote?”

“A vote?” McKean’s flabbergasted expression spoke volumes about his opinion of the idea.

“Yes. A vote.” Holloman indicated the entire group with a sweep of his hands. “We’ll vote on it. Everyone here has a stake in this, financially and scientifically. Why not vote?”

McKean growled, “Science is not a popularity contest, and therefore not a democratic process. You can’t vote scientific data right or wrong. Some of the people in this room have decades less experience than I have. Their votes shouldn’t equal mine.”

“Oh?” Holloman mugged. “Elitist, are we? The great Doctor McKean doesn’t care what other people think. He wants it all his way.”

Nervous laughter rippled around the room. McKean sat stiff in his chair, grimly silent.

Holloman turned from him and said enthusiastically, “Now then, all those who think we should proceed with both G1 and G2, raise your hand!”

He lifted his hand and other hands shot up quickly all around the room. Certain exceptions stood out. McKean kept his arms folded. Janet, plucky despite the deep shade of red on her face, watched McKean and did as he did. Virtually everyone else including Holloman held a hand high. Holloman scanned the forest of raised hands approvingly until his gaze halted on Janet.

“Hmmm,” he murmured, eyeing her patronizingly. “Still holding out? We need team spirit here, Janet. Come on.”

Her flush faded and the color drained from her face. Holloman’s eyes bored into the side of her head. She tore her gaze from McKean and looked at Holloman. Slowly, she raised her hand. Her lip quivered. She cast her gaze down and tears spotted the tabletop.

Holloman ignored her anguish. He looked around the room with a chipper expression. “That’s good enough for me. Any votes opposed?”

The hands went down and McKean wordlessly raised a hand. Beryl and Robert, who stood near me, abstained, looking fearful. Holloman looked around the room, and a mocking smile broke across his face.

“Gee, Peyton,” he said. “Looks like you’re in the minority.”

McKean seethed. “Go to hell, Stuart.”

There was a collective drawing in of breath. Holloman grinned and looked around at the group. “That’s settled then. We proceed with the vaccine as it is.”

There were sighs of relief and the buzz of soft conversations, but the room remained thick with tension. Neither McKean nor Holloman spoke, but eventually Holloman’s expression turned venomous. He stared fiercely at McKean and said slowly and loudly, “Every scientist here will report to David Curman from now on. Dr. McKean, you are no longer in charge of this project. Am I understood?”

McKean locked eyes again with Holloman but said nothing. A protracted stare-down followed, until Holloman looked away. After a moment, he looked at the group again. “The President of the United States has let it be known he’ll back a crash program to vaccinate the entire population of Washington State. That’s five-to-ten-million doses and an opportunity for ImCo to make hundreds of millions of dollars - and to save some lives, of course. Now, Dr. McKean’s delaying tactics have cost us some time, and Virogen is hot on the vaccine trail, so they will no doubt cut into our profits. But I remind you that you are all ImCo stockholders, so you’ve got a personal interest in taking this project ahead at full speed.”

He paused a moment to let his message sink in. Then he said, “Now, this meeting is over, and I want every one of you back at your posts, hitting it hard.” He stood and left the room as if in a hurry to put his corporate plans into action, leaving the group quiet and McKean frozen. People rose and filed out until only McKean, Janet, and I remained. Janet had held her emotions in check but now she folded her arms on the table and put her head down and cried out loud.

McKean rose and went to put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he began.

“I’m so sorry!” she said in a pain-choked voice.

“It’s not your fault,” he soothed. “You couldn’t stop him. You’d only have put your own job in jeopardy.”

She rose and hugged him. “I should have told him to go to hell like you did.”

“You should have done exactly what you did,” he consoled, patting her back. “There’s no sense in our both getting demoted.” He stepped back and cradled her face in his hands. “Come on,” he said, looking deeply into her tear-filled eyes. “Cheer up.”

She smiled thinly, sniffled, and then leaned forward until her forehead touched his chest. He wrapped her in his arms and murmured into her ear, “I need you now more than ever. You’ve got to help me keep the project on the right track. Can you do that for me?”

“Um-hmm,” she replied softly.

The three of us went back to McKean’s office and took our seats. We lingered in morose silence until a video call came in on his desktop computer. It was Kay Erwin in her office at Seattle Public Health Hospital.

“I’ve got an update on the quarantine,” she said.

“We could use some good news,” McKean replied.

“Then you’ve got it.” She smiled, looking more confident than I had seen in some time. “The National Guard has joined the Clallam County Sheriff’s Department. They’re coordinating their efforts to cover the hills and valleys. They’ve got patrol cars or Humvees at every intersection, even in the remotest parts of the National Forest. They’ve abandoned Clallam Bay, but they’ve reestablished control on a wider perimeter. They’ve moved their line east from Clallam Bay to Pysht on Highway 112 to protect Port Angeles, and south to Beaver Lake on Highway 113 to protect Forks. They’re stopping everyone. Locals, hunters, fishermen, campers, tourists, loggers, you-name-it. Everyone is turned back - away from Neah Bay if they’re heading in, or back toward Neah Bay if that’s where they came from. My Sheriff’s Department contact tells me it’s sealed tight as a drum, and I believe her. You don’t know how relieved I am.”

“I believe I do,” McKean replied.

“How are things on your end?”

McKean and Janet exchanged bleak glances.

“That bad?” Erwin asked.

“Answer: yes,” McKean replied somberly. “I’m no longer in charge of the project. It’s been given to David Curman.”

“Oh, no! Peyton!”

“He’s a competent scientist, I suppose,” McKean said. “But he’s rushing the G1-G2 vaccine forward without adequate analysis.”

“So is Virogen, according to my CDC contacts. I hope that’s the right choice.”

“It appears to be the only choice allowed.”

“Something I’ve heard on the grapevine, Peyton. They’re calling it the Holloman Vaccine in honor of its originator.”

“How nice for Stuart.”

“I thought you’d find that ironic. What’s next for you, Peyton?”

“I’ve been working night and day for more than a week. I think I deserve a break. I’m going home early to play with my son and then spend the evening listening to music. Maybe I’ll meditate over a bowl of marijuana. Something useful will come to mind if I let my thoughts simmer for a while.”

I said, “I’ve got to hand it to you, Peyton. Not many people could relax in the middle of a crisis like this.”

“When problems seem at their worst,” he said, “I’ve learned it’s best to take some time off. If you stop obsessing about things, then inspiration has a chance to strike.”

We parted company a few minutes later, McKean going to his car in the ImCo underground garage and I walking home to my apartment. I understood the wisdom in his plans for the evening. Feeling similarly stressed, I decided to give my writing a rest for the night. I relaxed with a glass of cabernet and listened to music on my stereo. No great inspired thoughts struck me however, so I turned in early and spent the night tossing and turning in my loft bed.

Chapter 18

In the morning, guessing McKean would be in his usual place at his usual time, I went to his office and found him there. He had his yellow marker in his thin hand and was busy reading a thick book entitled Biology of the Rhabdoviridae.

I had barely settled into my customary guest chair when Janet came in. “That new trick you thought of solved our ‘knotty’ problem,” she said to McKean with a smile.

“Ummh,” McKean murmured, still reading his thick volume. “Adding a small antisense probe opened up the DNA knot and let you read more sequence.”

“Yes. We’re past the blockade and running strong.”

“Congratulations. I eagerly await your revelations regarding the G1 protein sequence.”

“We’re analyzing the data now. It will take an hour or two to get a preliminary read-through. Which, of course, we’ll have to double-check.”

“Being the overly-careful, slow-moving scientists you are,” McKean quipped, still reading, “whom Stuart Holloman so disdains. Don’t neglect to report your progress to David Curman.”

When Janet had returned to the lab, McKean’s computer made a tone. He touched a button and Kay Erwin’s face appeared on a video call from her office. “Some bad news from Port Angeles this morning,” she said. “We heard about it first on Northwest Cable News. Have you heard?”

“Hmm-mm,” McKean murmured, still reading.

“Here’s a video link,” she said. “Have a look. Get back to me and let me know what you think.”

Erwin disappeared and in her place a video appeared in which an Auburn-haired female news anchor at NWCN said, “For more on developments concerning the viral disease from Neah Bay, we go to NWCN remote correspondent Arran Fisk, live at the Olympic Medical Center in Port Angeles. Arran?”

Fisk stood on a windy and wet street corner in a blue NWCN raincoat with his microphone to his mouth and the facade of the hospital in the background. “Thank you Megan,” he said. “Hospital authorities have confirmed that, in addition to twenty-two cases from Neah and Clallam Bays, they now have a single case brought to them from the city of Port Angeles itself last night. Asked whether this represents an escape of the virus from containment within the hospital, they assured us the hospital maintains extremely tight isolation procedures. Asked whether this means the virus has arrived from Neah Bay despite the quarantine, they were unable to confirm or deny.”

McKean closed his book.

The interview turned into a question and answer session between Megan and Arran, in which Arran was unable to clarify the situation beyond what he had already stated. As they talked, Peyton McKean keyed on something ignored by the news people. He pointed to the gray sky visible above the hospital entrance. In the air were dozens of birds, all flying in the same general direction.

“Crows!” I exclaimed. “A whole fleet of them!”

“Mob, or murder,” McKean corrected, “are the appropriate terms for gatherings of crows.” He leaned his lanky frame near the computer and stared at them down his long nose.

“Mob, murder, take your pick,” I said. “What are they all doing there?”

“Answer: uncertain,” he murmured. “Look at that telephone line in the distance.”

My eyes widened. There were dozens of crows sitting side-by-side on the wire. “Gordon Steel’s story!”

“Yes,” McKean murmured. “Raven’s cousins spreading the disease.”

We silently contemplated the crows flying over the reporter in an unending aerial procession.

“You know, Fin, it’s just plausible. As transmission vectors, ravens and crows would be deadly efficient. And it wouldn’t be the first time birds spread disease to humans - bird flu in China, West Nile virus spread across America via a crow-and-mosquito connection.”

“Gordon Steel predicted this! He said death was on the wing.”

“Perhaps, Fin. But you may be unduly influenced by Gordon Steel’s outrageous statements. They came in the context of other awful events. Perhaps he only intended to put an irrational fear into us.”

“I already saw enough to convince me, when that raven led the Clallam Bay madman to us.”

“It seemed that way, Fin. But it’s hardly an established fact. The simultaneous arrival of the raven and the madman may simply have been a coincidence. Nonetheless, it would be nice to acquire some scientific evidence on the matter. A blood sample from one of those crows would give a definitive test of the question. Unfortunately, we lack the critical data - unless you propose to drive to Port Angeles and bring one back.”

“No thanks. I’m sticking to this side of Puget Sound.”

The report finished and the video ended. McKean pressed a button and Kay Erwin came back on the screen. She looked frazzled. “What do you make of it?”

“Fin, here, thinks crows or ravens might be transmitting the disease as aerial vectors.”

“Don’t give me a heart attack, Peyton. What do you think?”

“Regardless of the route of infection, if that new patient is genuinely from the population of Port Angeles, then the quarantine has been broken.”

“My fear exactly. And if those crows are involved - ” she paused to think. “Oh my God.”

McKean asked, “How well has the CDC team in Port Angeles reacted?”

“They’re scrambling to set up a second quarantine line between Port Angeles and the next town, Sequim. But their manpower and resources are stretched awfully thin.”

“Had the Port Angeles patient been to Neah Bay?”

“We’ve got no history on him yet. He hasn’t even been identified. He was naked, so of course he had no ID. And he’s been incoherent the whole time. Pretty far gone.”

“A troubling development,” McKean murmured. “How are things with you?”

“Leon Curtis is resting peacefully. But he’s semi-comatose.”

“And Dr. Zimmer?”

Her expression grew bleak. She lifted her laptop computer and swung it to point at the isolation ward window. We could see another occupied bed beyond Curtis’s window-side berth. “He’s still in the dazed-and-confused stage,” she said. “We’re watching him closely.”

“Any other Seattle cases?”

“Not yet.”

“So at present,” McKean recapped, “we’ve got a total of twenty-six cases if you include Whitehall, Curtis, and Zimmer along with the twenty-two now in Port Angeles and the missing backwoodsman. It seems the virus is spreading at an accelerating rate.”

“Um-hmm,” Erwin agreed. “That’s very typical of epidemics, and it’s got me scared.”

“What news from Neah Bay?”

“We haven’t heard from our team since last night, so I don’t know how bad things are there. Telephone communications are down, both cell and land lines.”

“Sounds ominous,” McKean replied.

“There’s no use denying it anymore,” said Erwin. “We’ve got a very serious situation on our hands.”

“By the way,” McKean asked. “How are you feeling yourself, Kay?”

She shrugged. “Okay, so far.”

After goodbyes, McKean switched off the computer. I asked him, “If Leon Curtis has the virus, and Dr. Zimmer has it, and even one guy in Port Angeles has it, then why not us? We were exposed to both Pete Whitehall and Leon Curtis.”

“It’s a mystery,” McKean admitted. “The odds that we missed getting infected keep shrinking. And yet we’re still free of symptoms.”

“Gordon Steel predicted that, too,” I said. “We’re still healthy, and everyone around us is getting sick.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little overstated, Fin? Random chance might explain it.”

“We were in the crypt! We were as exposed as anyone! How can we still be healthy?”

“Not through any shamanistic intervention by Gordon Steel, I’m sure. A non-scientific mind like yours may be susceptible to metaphysical explanations, but I require hard proof.”

“All right then, maybe I do believe Gordon Steel can foretell the future somehow. Can’t you even allow the possibility something paranormal might be happening?”

“Answer: no.”

* * * * * * * * * *

We went out for espresso at a small cafe across Western Avenue from ImCo. I pressed my case for Gordon Steel’s prescience and McKean resisted with high-caliber intellectual arguments. While we sipped and debated, a white television van pulled up in front of ImCo and began deploying its boom and satellite dish. Soon a second van from a rival network pulled up, and then a third.

“What’s all this?” I asked McKean.

“Answer: unknown.”

When we finished our coffees, we walked back and found ImCo’s halls bustling with press people. The security guard explained that Dr. Holloman was about to make a major announcement regarding the vaccine. We went into ImCo’s first-floor auditorium, which was already crowded with press, staff, and executives of ImCo. Bright video camera lights glared above black cables strewn like loose spaghetti across the floor, attesting to the fact that they had been set up in a hurry. The members of the press were mostly local but included a few from national services. Other notables included the Mayor and Governor, as well as some men in black pinstriped suits that I guessed might represent a Washington D.C. contingent. Holloman stepped up to a podium with Immune Corporation’s logo on it. Behind him a large projection screen showed a banner slide reading, “Immune Corporation’s Holloman Vaccine: Protecting Washington And The World.” We found two seats together near the back.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Holloman said into the microphone, “let’s get right to the point of this gathering.” Without more words, he pulled off his gray pinstriped suit jacket and set it aside on a maroon-bunted table beside the podium. He pulled the short sleeve of his pink shirt up over his shoulder and then motioned for a female assistant in a white lab coat to approach. She carried a cotton swab and a syringe, with which she quickly gave him an injection. She disposed of the used syringe in a small biological waste container sitting on the table and then left the stage. Photographers snapped shots and video cameras whirred. The audience sat in rapt silence, except for McKean, who stood just as the dose was administered. He raised a hand and opened his mouth as if he were about to intervene, but he sat down again and muttered to me under his breath, “Damn fool.”

Holloman picked up his suit coat from where he had draped it over the podium, put it on and addressed the microphone. “Within two days of my taking this dose to prove the safety and efficacy of the Holloman vaccine, Immune Corporation will roll out the first large batch of the product. That batch should provide enough doses to immunize the entire population of the Olympic Peninsula. A second batch will follow within days to begin immunizing Seattle and the Puget Sound area. The U.S. Government is working in cooperation with us.” He held out a hand in recognition of the pinstriped fellows. “They’ll beef up our capacity to produce vaccine, using their facility in Bethesda. And then they’ll distribute it quickly throughout the nation. We expect the combined scaleup to produce enough vaccine for the entire country within weeks.”

Holloman paused and smiled smugly after his rapid-fire dissertation. “Now then,” he said after a moment, “I’ll be happy to answer a few questions.”

“I have one,” called out Arran Fisk, who was seated down front. He moved to a microphone that stood in the center aisle. “How can you make a vaccine so quickly? Don’t vaccines normally take months or years to produce?”

“A very good question.” Holloman grew even more smug. “As you know, ImCo is notorious for rapid vaccine responses. This isn’t the first time we’ve been challenged to produce a vaccine quickly, and we’re using techniques pioneered right here at ImCo during the jihad virus crisis. Our subunit vaccine is easy to produce in large quantities - the Neah virus has been remarkably cooperative in that regard.”

“Too cooperative,” McKean muttered. A person in the row ahead of us turned and shushed him.

“And our manufacturing pipeline is well established,” Holloman went on. “Our people are experienced and our facilities are first-rate. The Holloman vaccine is produced in a yeast broth much like beer, and can be processed almost overnight. We’re already far down the road to scaled-up production in stainless steel industrial fermentation vats. And this won’t be any microbrew, ladies and gentlemen. Mass production is just days away. In that regard, I would like to acknowledge Dr. David Curman, who gets credit for taking this project and running with it.”

He indicated Curman, sitting in the front row. “Stand up, David. Take a bow.” Curman stood, feigning modesty while the audience applauded. The expression on his boyish face seemed like a dog enjoying a pat on the head.

“Dr. Curman,” Holloman went on, “deserves the lion’s share of credit for this one.” He spotted McKean in the back and eyed him warily as he spoke, obviously nervous that my tall friend might not agree.

Arran Fisk had stayed at the microphone. “Let me ask Dr. Curman my next question, then. If this vaccine has been produced virtually overnight, just how much safety testing have you done on it?”

“Good question!” McKean murmured under his breath.

Arran went on, “Have you had time to prove it’s safe in animal studies?”

Curman made as if to speak, but Holloman preempted him with a wave of a hand. Curman sat. “Yes, we have carried out animal studies, haven’t we, Dave?” Curman nodded his concurrence.

Holloman paused to wipe perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. “You see,” he explained, “subunit vaccines are not dangerous at all compared to live or killed viral vaccines. They are notorious for lack of side effects, so we required only some very basic toxicity tests, all of which were negative.”

“Not so fast,” McKean challenged, standing up again, and wearing a look of contempt for the proceedings that he couldn’t disguise. He paused while the audience turned to get a good look at the tall, gangly dissenter sprouting up in their midst. Murmurs rippled through the crowd while McKean and Holloman hesitated like two gunfighters about to draw.

Holloman opened his mouth but McKean spoke faster. “The tests done so far are entirely inadequate,” McKean said with the force of conviction.

“That’s preposterous!” Holloman sputtered. “We’ve had no indication - “

“You have had almost no testing, that’s the truth. An adverse reaction to a vaccine might take days, weeks, or months to appear. You know that very well. The Swine Flu fiasco of 1976 taught us not to rush into vaccine production. People died when a hurriedly produced vaccine turned out to have some unexpected contamination.”

“You’re referring to Guillain-Barre syndrome associated with contaminated swine flu vaccines,” Holloman said. “But our methods are much more modern.” He turned to Curman and half-implored, half-demanded, “Haven’t you taken every measure to avoid contamination?”

“Of course,” Curman replied derisively, turning to glare at McKean.

There was a hubbub among the reporters. The video camera crews swung their lights this way and that, getting footage of Holloman and McKean staring each other down. McKean spoke again. “It’s wrong to make the State of Washington a testing ground for an unproven vaccine. We need much more time and many more controlled studies before we conclude the Holloman vaccine is safe. And I’m afraid you’ll find just the opposite.”

Holloman regained enough composure to bluster, “But all our tests show it producing antiviral antibodies in vaccinated animals with no bad reactions.”

“No bad reactions yet,” McKean said flatly. “But animals are not humans. The vaccine contains two subunits, G1 and G2. No lab on earth has determined the gene sequence of G1, although my staff is on the brink of that result. And I suspect something unwanted is concealed in that unknown sequence. The case of Pete Whitehall showed that a strong response to G1 may carry the undesired consequence of - ” He paused for effect and the room became silent save for the whir of camera gear. ” - Death!” The word drew gasps from the crowd.

“That’s outrageous!” Holloman cried, slamming a fist on the podium. Veins stood out on his neck. He went red to the top of his bald head.

McKean remained cool. “Given that the G1 protein represents the larger component of your two-component vaccine, it’s prudent to worry that Pete Whitehall’s immune response to G1 may have worked against him rather than for him.”

“Preposterous!” Holloman roared. He scowled blackly at McKean as a buzz of concerned conversation spread around the room. “G proteins are present in every rabies vaccine ever made.”

“Not this G protein. It’s an unusual member of its family. There is something peculiar about it.”

“So what?” Holloman cried. “If it’s different, then that’s all the more material to become immune to. I’d say that’s a benefit, not a detraction.”

“See it as you will,” McKean replied. “I see it as an unknown and therefore a risk.”

Holloman was silent a moment. Then he drew a slow, deep breath and leaned near the microphone. Speaking in a deliberate, overpowering tone that silenced the side discussions, he said, “If you will return your attention to the front, ladies and gentlemen, I think I can lay some of Dr. McKean’s concerns to rest. We have perfectly good data that rats and mice have become immune to G1 without ill effects. Dr. Curman has already looked into this issue exhaustively, and he assures me that the Holloman vaccine poses no danger. Right Dave?”

Curman glanced dismissively at McKean and then turned to Holloman. “That’s right.”

McKean sat down and mumbled to me, “Curman’s lying. His animals haven’t had time for a full response yet.”

Holloman pushed on. “So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen of the press, a genuine scientific debate, right before your eyes. But I’m going to have to ask Doctors Curman and McKean to please save it for another time.” Taking a more conciliatory tone, he said, “I understand, Peyton, that you have some lingering doubts about G1. However, I am satisfied that there is no danger, if the head of our Holloman Vaccine Program says so. In fact, to prove his confidence in his data, I’m going to ask Dr. Curman to join me on the podium and take a dose, like I just did. Come on, Dave, roll up a sleeve.”

Curman hesitated for just a moment. Then he rose and went to the podium. While the assistant began preparing a second syringe, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeve. Holloman smiled. “That’s it Dave. For the good of science.”

The assistant pinched a tent of skin on Curman’s shoulder and plunged the needle into it, pressing the plunger to inject the dose. As she did so, a worried wrinkle appeared on Curman’s brow and then faded. As the assistant swabbed the injection site, he grew pale. As she put the syringe into the biohazard container, Curman rolled down his sleeve and put his coat back on and returned to his seat. By the time he sat down, he looked positively ashen.

“With that vote of confidence,” Holloman said, leaning into the podium microphone, “I’d like to ask your indulgence for a moment before we continue.” A chorus of questions burst from virtually every pressman or woman in the room but Holloman ignored them. Instead, he stalked off the stage and came along a side aisle to the back of the room. Scowling vilely at McKean, he hooked a pudgy finger and said just loudly enough for McKean to hear, “Step outside please.”

McKean rose and followed him out the auditorium door. After a discreet moment, I followed them into the corridor. There, Holloman wheeled and came at McKean like an attack dog. “You are so goddamn fired!” he snapped, purple-faced with rage. His meet-the-press congeniality was gone. He shook a fat fist under McKean’s chin. “I oughta - I’m gonna - ” His voice broke off in a fit of emotion. “Go to your office immediately and pack your personal things. I don’t ever want to see your face around here again.”

“You will regret this - ” McKean began but Holloman cut him off.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what I’ll regret,” he hissed. He pointed to the elevator. “Now go upstairs, get your stuff, and get out of here. And don’t come back. Do it right now or I’ll call the guard and have him come here and mace you.”

McKean looked thunderstruck. Despite his capacity for calculation, it apparently had not occurred to him that things might escalate to this point. He turned and went for the elevator and I followed. Meanwhile, Holloman spun on a heel and hurried back into the auditorium. He returned to the podium and turned to the press people.

“All right,” he said. “Just a little internal matter. And I see by my watch that we have no time left for questions. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.”

The elevator came while Holloman deflected a barrage of questions. The doors closed and the car went up as he said, “You will all be mailed some additional information - “

* * * * * * * * * *

I followed McKean back to his office. We sank into our chairs, both struck silent by what had just gone down. After a moment I said, “I’ll help you pack.” I glanced around the room. Although it was a small space, the task of packing suddenly took on the dimensions of a major project. There were three large black metal file cabinets, no doubt stuffed with file upon file of photocopied scientific journal articles, each with its own heavy overlay of yellow highlighter marks. There were more file drawers in his small desk and a deep pile of photocopies across its surface. There were bookshelves crowded with scientific symposium volumes, textbooks, technical manuals, and tomes with obscure titles like Lactoferrin, Pterosaurs, and Ethnobotany Of Western Washington. There were pictures on the walls, one of Mount Rainier, one of a wide Puget Sound seascape, and one shot by a Mars rover. There were two laptop computers, one on his messy desk and one on his side desk. There were diplomas and awards in frames, a photo of McKean’s wife and son, and a rectangular Lucite block with the words “ImCo Founders Award For Excellence” printed on it in lime green.

“I’ll leave it all here,” McKean murmured after a moment. “I’ll call and have someone deliver it to my house.”

We sat morosely silent until Beryl Shum came across the hall from the lab. “How was the meeting?” she asked with her daughter-of-immigrants, lightly East-Asian inflection. She was obviously unaware of McKean’s new status as an outcast.

“Just fine,” he said in an even voice. She sat at the computer desk and keyed in a few commands. Her long black hair was primly held back with a clip, her white coat was clean and her personal bearing was impeccable.

“You’ve got some results?” McKean asked.

“I sure do,” she said pleasantly, instilling calm where McKean and I had felt agitation a moment before. “I’ve got the entire sequence of G1 now. Here it is.” She gestured at the computer screen, which showed the inevitable long horizontal lines of A, T, C, and G code letters. Above and below the sequence lines were brackets that marked off different sections labeled, “Regulatory Segment,” “Protein-Coding Segment,” and “Termination Segment.” Within the protein coding segment were further brackets labeled “G1-N,” “Inserted Sequence,” and “G1-C.” McKean leaned near the computer and studied the sequence information carefully. He murmured, “So the extra DNA is confined to a single insertion.”

“Yes,” Beryl said. “The G1-N and G1-C segments add together to make one normal G protein sequence, and the inserted sequence is spliced right in the middle of it.”

“An unusual placement,” McKean said. “But not entirely unheard of. Anything remarkable about the inserted sequence?”

Beryl shook her head. “I ran a DNA comparison of the insertion versus the entire viral-genome databank and got no matches. It’s not related to any viral gene that’s ever been sequenced.”

“Human, animal, or plant genes?”

“I’m still checking.”

“I’d like to take a look at it myself - only as a matter of curiosity, I suppose, now that Holloman and Curman are having their way. When you have a minute, please email it to Kay Erwin. She should have a copy. And perhaps I will have a look over her shoulder, so to speak. That way you won’t commit the sin of email communication with me, which I assume will be forbidden by tomorrow.”

Beryl looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s been fired for insubordination,” I said for McKean, who seemed disinclined to say it.

“Is that true?” she asked, her eyes widening.

McKean nodded. “Please don’t let it slow down your efforts with this virus. Your work is too important.”

A minute after Beryl went back into the lab, Janet appeared at the door looking even more stricken than Beryl. Tears over-brimmed her eyes. “How can I work for Holloman or Curman?” she quavered, dobbing her eyes with a tissue from McKean’s desktop Kleenex box. “I hate them both.”

“Of course you can work for them, Janet. Your part in the fight against this virus is too vital to stop now. Just find the time to do the odd experiment for me in between what they ask of you. That way, things we’ve been working on will still move forward.”

“But what about you, Peyton? What will you do?”

“I’ll think of something. That’s my forte, coming up with the unanticipated.” He patted her on the shoulder and she seemed to take heart.

She took a deep breath and said, “Okay. I’m all right now. We’ll muddle through, won’t we?”

“As always,” McKean replied.

She had brought a handful of computer printout pages with her. She held them out and said, “I’ve got the first results from that other experiment you requested - “

“The last experiment you’ll request!” a snide voice interrupted. All three of us turned to find David Curman at the door. He had recovered his color and now looked red-faced. He went straight for the papers and snatched them from Janet’s hand. “What sort of skunkworks are these?” He briefly shuffled through them and then cast them down on the computer desk without interest. “Janet,” he warned, “if I see any more work on this subject, you’ll be put on indefinite leave. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He turned to McKean. “You’re finished.” He said this with a note of perverse pride, and a self-righteous look on his boyish face that made me want to leap up from my chair and strike him. Instead, I sat still and watched him gloat. “So, the great Dr. McKean is done lording it over every other scientist at ImCo.”

McKean looked disgusted. “You’ve got what you wanted,” he muttered. “My team, my project, my labs, everything. This must be a dream come true for you.”

“You’re a colossal egotist,” Curman said with a vindictive grin. “I overheard you from my office and I knew I’d better come and see what trouble you were stirring up. Now, you’d better face the fact that I’ve beaten you, Peyton McKean, and leave - before I call security.”

McKean simmered but said nothing. He rose and put on his green field coat and hat. As he did, Curman gloated, “I’ve waited a long time for this day, Peyton McKean.”

As McKean stepped out his door, he paused and asked Curman, “How does that injection site feel?”

Curman touched his shoulder gingerly. “Just fine,” he said.

I followed McKean to the elevator and down to the underground parking garage where his silver Volvo station wagon was parked. McKean was grim-faced and silent as he got in and closed his door. I got in the passenger side and he fired the ignition. He said, philosophically, “I’ll tell you this, Fin. Don’t ever come off as being smarter than the man who employs you. Of course, I suppose I have been guilty of a lack of humility.”

“What do you mean?”

“I confronted Holloman without trying to cultivate a positive reaction first. I should have been more diplomatic.”

I laughed. “It’s not your style, Peyton. And you didn’t exactly have a lot of time for diplomacy.”

“I suppose not,” he agreed. “The pace of events limited my options. But look what I’ve gotten for my aggressive stance. Nothing left for me to do but watch Holloman and his lap dog Curman release an untested vaccine.”

“Whatever happens won’t be your fault.”

“But if there is a catastrophe, I’ll feel personally responsible. The Holloman vaccine was originally my idea, but I let it get out of my control.”

He drove up the ramp and exited onto the street, intending to drop me at my apartment on his way home. However, as he turned in that direction, people milling in the middle of University Street blocked our way. Across the street in the empty paved spaces of a parking lot, a crowd had gathered around a long white banner with black lettering that read, “Vaccine now!” The crowd had overflowed the curb and spilled into the street. McKean rolled a window down to listen to them chant. “Vaccine now! Vaccine now!”

“I suspect Stuart Holloman is behind this somehow,” McKean muttered. He called out his window, “You idiots!” But his voice was lost in their chant. “Vaccine now! Vaccine now!”

“This vaccine has become a juggernaut,” he muttered. “It’s just about unstoppable by me or anyone else.”

“You must be able to do something, Peyton. People will listen to you.”

“Like they listened in there? Like they’re listening out here? I’m just one person. This rush to the Holloman vaccine is becoming a social phenomenon. I don’t see how I can stop it.” He eyed the crowd disgustedly as he nosed his car in among them and they parted to let him pass. “I’m going home,” he murmured, sounding depressed, as he turned the corner and headed north to deliver me to my apartment. “Maybe I’ll just wait this thing out. I’m getting to where I don’t give a damn any more.”

“Peyton!” I exclaimed. But there was nothing else I could say.

Behind us the crowd chanted on. “Vaccine now! Vaccine now!”

Chapter 19

That evening as I sat at my kitchenette counter eating dinner, listening to the Early Mozart Channel on Apple TV and thinking over the day’s events, Penny Worthe knocked at the door. I opened it to find her in her usual state of half-dress. “Have you seen what’s on the evening news?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well turn it on, quickly!”

I went for the channel clicker, tuned in the news and sat on the couch with Penny. “It’s so terrible,” she said, prefacing a news report that was just starting. A Northwest Cable News team was on location on a street corner in Port Angeles. An ominous cloud of black smoke rolled across a twilight sky. Arran Fisk began, “We are witnessing a town that has literally gone mad. Behind me, you see the smoke of multiple burning buildings. We don’t know who set the fires, but the central business district of Port Angeles has descended into chaos. There are literally scores of zombie-like disease victims rampaging in the streets. It looks a like a scene from Night of the Living Dead.”

Meg Kale, the Seattle anchor asked, “Are these people who have escaped from the isolation wards at Olympic Medical Center?”

“No Megan. From what we’ve learned, all cases admitted to the hospital are still there, and quite a few of them have died from fevers and convulsions. These seem to be new victims who have just come from…well, they have just come from everywhere.”

“It sounds terribly frightening, Arran. Is the epidemic out of control?”

“Meg, I think it’s safe to say, at least here in Port Angeles, it is definitely out of control.”

She replied, “All of us here at the station wish you the best of luck in getting out of there safely, Arran.”

“I certainly would like to,” he said. “But the authorities have roadblocks on all sides of town. They’ve given orders to shoot to kill, no matter whether people are trying to enter or leave. They are not allowing anyone to go anywhere. We’ll try to ride things out at the local TV station.”

“Please Arran, be careful. Get yourself back to us safely as soon as you can.”

“I’ll try.”

“Next,” Meg continued, “we’ll go to a live interview at Immune Corporation, already in progress.”

A group of reporters had circled Dr. Holloman on the sidewalk outside ImCo and were shoving microphones in his face. One asked, “How do you respond to the views Dr. McKean brought up today about the danger of moving too rapidly with the vaccine?”

“The colleague you refer to,” Holloman replied coolly, “has some personal problems, including a colossal ego. Suffice it to say he is no longer with the company.”

As quickly as the news segment had begun, it ended when Meg cut in. “We take you now to the White House for a special announcement from the President.” The screen cut to the President’s desk. He sat there with a grim expression, flanked by the presidential and U.S. flags.

“Good evening fellow Americans,” he began. “By now, many of you have heard that the news from Washington State is not good. There are reports of a growing number of cases of the disease we now call the Neah virus. In response, I’m taking further steps to assure public safety. I’ve placed the entire Olympic Peninsula under quarantine and martial law. Everyone there is to remain in his or her home. I’ve mobilized additional National Guard units to establish more checkpoints intended to stop the spread of the disease. Effective immediately, I am imposing a shutdown of all airports in the Pacific Northwest. Furthermore, interstate road travel in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho will be halted for a period of at least two weeks. The people of the Pacific Northwest are urged to stay in or near their homes at all times. The Army and National Guard will set up distribution lines for food and medicine, and deliver these supplies directly to neighborhoods. They will feed and support the population until the emergency is over. Let me assure you that the U.S. Government and the Centers for Disease Control are prepared for every eventuality, including this one. Everyone’s needs will be met, and there is no cause for alarm.”

“Boy, I wish I believed him,” I whispered.

“Me too,” Penny agreed, twining an arm around mine for comfort.

“Secondly,” the President went on, “I am pleased to announce that the U.S. Government will throw its full weight behind two existing programs to combat the Neah virus. Seattle’s Immune Corporation and Virogen in Bethesda already have vaccines under development, and I’ve called on the National Institutes of Health and the National Guard to assist them in producing more vaccine and distributing it to the public as quickly as possible.”

He finished his speech and pundits came on to analyze it. I shut off the set and we sat in stunned silence for a moment. “This was just what Peyton McKean warned against,” I said. “They’re rushing an untested vaccine forward without proof it’s safe.”

“Maybe that’s the best thing to do,” Penny said. “I know I want to get a dose.”

I shook my head. “If Peyton McKean’s hunch is right and something is wrong with the G1 protein, then the President could be declaring a death sentence on the whole population of the state.”

“That’s impossible, isn’t it?”

“I wish. But I can’t stop thinking of McKean’s absolute certainty that there is something odd about G1.”

“Aren’t you scared, Fin?”

“Well, I suppose I am.” I gave her what I hoped was a brave and reassuring smile. I had always thought Penny too plain and tastelessly dressed to make an adequate target for my affection. But somehow, on this evening and under these circumstances, her fear and need for comfort touched me. I put a soothing hand on her shoulder and she turned to me. We embraced and she held me tightly.

After a long moment I disengaged her and led her to the door. “I’ll see you,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up on the news.”

She said goodnight and went across the landing to her apartment.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late the next morning I paid a call on Peyton McKean at his home. He and his wife and son live in a lovely large house in West Seattle, a two-story white Victorian on a wide bluff-top lot with a sweeping view over Puget Sound to the Olympic Mountains. I parked on the semicircular drive, climbed the steps of the colonnaded porch, and rang the doorbell. I rang several times before he answered.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was playing hide-and-seek with Sean. Come along Fin, let’s go up to my office.”

He led the way through a finely furnished great room and up a tall, wide staircase and into a spacious office that faced the sound-and-mountain view. He sat at his desk, which, unlike his ImCo desk, was large and made from finely crafted oak. Like his ImCo desk, a pile of papers cluttered its surface. He turned on his desktop computer as I sat down in a guest chair on his right. He clicked his mouse a few times and then sat back in his high-backed green leather chair and motioned for me to come close so I could look at the screen. “As you heard yesterday, Beryl emailed the G1 sequence to Kay Erwin, who passed it along to me. And I have been puzzling over it most of the morning. I am still not certain what to make of its unusual structure.”

“The inserted sequence?”

“Exactly. I’ve turned up something most peculiar. It’s closest sequence match among all known animals is with a portion of the chicken genome.”

“Chicken? That’s out of the blue.”

“But perhaps not too farfetched. Remember, Avian flu spread from chickens to humans.”

“So this virus has some connection to the poultry industry?”

“Perhaps, but there are other possibilities. Wild birds, perhaps. However, the genomes of the many non-domesticated birds have never been sequenced, so we remain in the dark as to an exact match. But the partial match has given me much to think about.”

“Which protein is it?”

“Not a single protein, but rather a large family of related cell-to-cell contact molecules called cell-adhesion molecules, or CAMs for short. One or another of them would be a logical DNA segment for a virus to capture into its own genome - giving it a good way for attaching to its target cells in the bird - or human - it infects.”

“Scary,” I said.

“And I was just about to turn my attention to that issue of human infections.” He typed a few commands and the screen presented Beryl’s DNA sequence data: countless A, T, G, and C code letters in seemingly random order, in a series of horizontal lines arranged from the top to the bottom of the screen like long strings of text.

“Now, let’s see…” He typed a command into a text box at the bottom of the screen:

homology search versus entire human genome

He punched the return key and turned to me. “I’ve asked the National Library of Medicine’s mainframe computer to check every code letter in the inserted segment against every code letter in the human genome. It will take a minute or two.”

“So, what’s the mainframe looking for?”

“Sequence matches. Places where the viral sequence is identical with human DNA.”

“Is that likely?”

“Answer: no. But if it occurs, it means real trouble in a vaccine that stimulates immunity against G1, because antibodies from that response might cross-react with both the bird protein and with a human protein, thereby attacking the human body that made them. It’s a rare but not unheard of thing. A match in my search would identify the CAM protein in the human body that would be attacked by those antibodies.”

After a moment, the line at the bottom of the screen changed to:

NO MATCHES FOUND

“Whew,” I exhaled. “I was holding my breath on that one.”

McKean sat back in his chair and stared at the line for a moment. “That’s what Beryl told me,” he said. “No matches. And so far, that’s what I have found with every query I’ve made to the NLM computer.”

“So there’s nothing to worry about.” I felt greatly relieved. “Holloman’s right. The vaccine is safe.”

“Normally, I would agree,” said McKean. “But I can’t help worrying. The sequence contains three segments that don’t match the bird sequences. In fact, they don’t match anything at all. It’s unusual to find something truly new under the sun. It remains possible there is a hidden relationship of the G1 insertion with yet another protein molecule. That’s why I want to try a few unusual tricks to tease out an answer.”

He typed a new line:

protein translation

He pressed the enter key and the sequence lines immediately altered. Beneath each DNA code line, a new line of three-letter codes appeared.

“Remember protein code?” he asked. “Cells convert the DNA code to an RNA copy and then read it by stringing amino acids together like beads according to the RNA sequence. They incorporate only one amino acid for every three RNA code letters. And proteins are very different beasts from DNA or RNA molecules. Where DNA exists as long double helix strands of millions of code letters, proteins are much shorter strands - one or several hundred amino acids - that jumble up as if you had wadded up a string of beads. Proteins take on shapes and corresponding functions dictated by their amino acid sequences. They are the workhorses of the cell. Protein enzymes burn sugar for fuel, chop up other molecules in the digestive process, or in the case of CAMs, cover the surfaces of cells.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“Now, there are ways of telling which parts of a protein are exposed at its surface and therefore are targets for attachment of our immune system’s antibodies. And what I’m after right now are the surface portions of the G1 insertion.”

He typed another line:

hopp and woods analysis

“This,” he said as the computer worked, “is a tried-and-true method of identifying surface portions of proteins. Antibodies stick to these portions and trigger white blood cells to attack intruders like the Neah virus. Ahh.” He leaned forward and looked at the screen as it changed to a new, simplified display with three rows of six amino acid codes each:

Glu-Val-Lys-Ser-Glu-Arg

Ser-Arg-Arg-Gly-Glu-Asn

His-Gly-Asp-Arg-Ile-Glu

“These are the top picks of the Hopp and Woods algorithm for the G1 insertion,” he said. “The most surface-exposed parts of the protein.”

“The antibody attachment-points?”

“Exactly. And I notice they are also the segments that do not match the bird sequences.”

“So Holloman vaccine immunizes against the unknown parts, not the bird parts?”

“Very good, Fin. Now, I’m going to play a hunch.”

He typed:

protein match versus human proteome

As the computer worked again, he explained. “This time, I’m not asking the computer to try to match DNA to DNA. That’s what Beryl tried, and she failed to find anything. Sometimes, however, a direct protein-to-protein match can find similarities that might otherwise be missed. The computer is checking the antigenic sites against every protein in the human genome. That’s about 30,000 proteins, so give it a while.”

“I’m confused,” I said. How can the DNA codes not match, but the protein codes match? Don’t DNA and RNA code for protein?”

“Answer: yes,” McKean replied. “But DNA encodes proteins in a redundant way. Multiple DNA codes exist for each amino acid. For instance, the amino acid valine is encoded in DNA by any of four triple-letter sequences: GTT, GTC, GTA or GTG. The amino acid serine is encoded by any of six different triplets. So, you see, any given amino acid can be specified by entirely different DNA sequences.”

We waited for several minutes until the screen display changed. Now the three original antigenic segments were aligned with three more:

MATCHES FOUND WITH P410:1910

GluValLysSerGluArg 5 of 6 amino acids match

GluValLysSerThrArg

SerArgArgGlyGluAsn 5 of 6 amino acids match

SerArgArgAlaGluAsn

HisGlyAspArgIleGlu 4 of 6 amino acids match

HisGlyAspArgLeuGln

“Hah!” McKean exclaimed with a bright smile. “I knew it. Look carefully, Fin. Only one amino acid is different between each of those sequence pairs - except the third pair, which has two amino acid differences.”

I scratched my head. “So, are they the same, or different?”

McKean grinned with the pleasure of scientific discovery. “I assure you, although they differ slightly, we have got a solid antigenic match. Antibodies against the first member of each pair will most assuredly cross-react and bind the second. But let’s see why the DNA searches didn’t pick this up.”

He keyed in:

dna code

The display quickly altered to show the DNA that had encoded the protein segments:

GAAGTTAAATCCGAACGT 7 of 18 code letters match

GAGGTAAAGATTACCAGG

TCAAGACGCGGTGAAAAC 6 of 18 code letters match

AGTCGTAGGCAAGAGAAT

AGTGGAGATCGCATTGAG 8 of 18 code letters match

TCCGGTGACAGACTGGAA

“See that?” McKean said with pride. “Much less DNA match, compared to the strong amino-acid matches. The DNA code letters are identical less than half the time in all cases, and only one-third of the time in the second pair of sequences. In DNA searching, a one-quarter match happens by random chance, so these weak matches are not far above random. On the other hand, the amino-acid matches are almost perfect in two cases and no worse than three-quarters in the other case. That’s quite high. So what we have is an example of weak DNA matches coding strong amino-acid matches.”

“It’s almost as if the virus wanted to trick the computers.” I remarked.

“An interesting concept,” McKean said with the forbearing smile he wears when I overinterpret scientific data. “But viruses aren’t capable of wanting or tricking. And now we know the truth. G1’s inserted sequence is definitely related to a human protein even though its DNA code has shifted until it can’t be computer-matched.”

“And can only be McKean-matched?” I asked.

He smiled the subdued smile he wears when flattered. “Think of it that way if you like, Fin. And now let’s see which protein we’ve matched up with.” He keyed:

abstract P410:1910

The screen quickly changed to give details of the protein in question:

Human brain protein gp91

Protein Family: NCAM related

Tissue distribution: Frontal cortex and hypothalamus

Cellular location: neuron cell surface

McKean’s smile faded. “My God!” he murmured. “An antibody attack on that would be…”

“Fatal?”

“Answer: yes!”

Within a minute, McKean had reached Kay Erwin at her office on a video call.

She said, “I was just going to call you. We’ve got the results from the Pathology Department for Pete Whitehall’s brain.”

McKean immediately said, “Severe damage to the frontal cortex and hypothalamus.”

“How could you know that?” Erwin asked, astonished. “I just got the results myself.”

“Ever heard of gp91?” McKean asked her.

“You’re the protein expert.”

“Gp91 has me quite worried,” he said. “It’s found in the human frontal cortex and the hypothalamus, and as we have just discovered, the Holloman vaccine carries a copy of something like it in its G1 protein component.”

“You’re making me nervous, Peyton. What are you getting at?”

“I just figured out that the G1 insertion is related to the NCAM family of proteins. The acronym stands for Neural Cell Adhesion Molecule. If you need a way to stick a virus to cells of the nervous system, look no further. Binding to nerve cells is what that molecule is all about. Furthermore, NCAM proteins tend to form homodimers.”

“Homo - ?”

“Homodimers are a way of binding that depends on two identical molecules attaching to each other, as opposed to heterodimers, where two non-identical molecules combine. NCAM forms homodimers, that is, NCAM-to-NCAM connections. Apparently this virus has coopted a piece of an NCAM protein to enable its nerve cell binding.”

“Now you’re terrifying me, Peyton. A virus that’s using a part of ourselves against us?”

“Precisely. Now, let’s consider what may happen when we immunize with a vaccine containing the G1 protein’s NCAM portion. The patients’ immune responses may include antibodies that target not only the viral NCAM, but also the normal gp91 NCAM in their own brains.”

“Tell me it isn’t true, Peyton.”

“I wish I could.”

Kay wore as bleak an expression as I have ever seen on her. She asked, “What’s the worst-case scenario for that sort of cross-reaction?”

McKean leaned back, knit his fingers behind his head, unfocussed his eyes, and allowed his prodigious imagination to run along the path of his logic. “The antibodies that cross-react with gp91 might destroy exactly the same portions of the brain that the virus destroys. In that case, you would expect - ” A horrified look came across even his normally cool face. “You would expect a vaccinated subject to exhibit the very same symptoms that the virus causes!”

“Oh, my God!” Erwin gasped. “The Holloman vaccine is already being mass-produced. What percentage of people might get the disease from it?”

McKean leaned forward with his expression settling back into its dispassionate, calculating mode. “It all depends,” he said. “If the vaccine-to-brain cross-reaction is weak, perhaps few or none at all. But if the cross-reaction is strong, then conceivably every person who gets a dose might come down with the mania.”

“But I just got confirmation this morning from the CDC that over a million doses are in the works at ImCo and Virogen!”

“I urge you to use every means at your disposal to stop the vaccine before it’s too late. Insist they recall the product and shift to a G2-only vaccine. I’m sure G2 will provide a sufficient immunization. And I’ve just confirmed what I feared all along - that going ahead when G1’s structure was unknown was foolish.”

“How will I ever convince them in time? There are dozens of new cases at Olympic Medical Center this morning, including some of the staff. We need a vaccine desperately. There’s no time to start over.”

“Nevertheless, a mass immunization with G1 could create a plague of madness much greater than the one you’re trying to stop.”

Erwin put a hand to her chest. She looked as panicky as I felt. “I’ll fight whatever battles I can,” she said. “But things have gone too far down the wrong path.”

“Thanks to unscientific fools like Holloman and his lapdog, Curman,” McKean muttered bitterly.

“I’d better get on the phone to Atlanta,” said Erwin. “And ImCo, and Virogen.”

After hasty goodbyes, McKean switched off the video connection. He turned to me with a morose look on his long face. “When science takes a back seat to politics and money, any horror is possible.”

“Is there nothing you can do?”

He shrugged. “I’m banished from my own laboratory. What can I do except watch from the sidelines? What about you, Fin? You still have your ways and means. Why don’t you publish an article against the Holloman vaccine online or in the local media? Admittedly, at this eleventh hour, it might be nothing more than Washington State’s epitaph.”

A deep chill ran through me. “That’s exactly what Gordon Steel said - that I would chronicle the end of our society!”

* * * * * * * * * *

Driving home, my way led past ImCo on Western Avenue. The sound of voices massed in protest caused me to pull into a load-zone parking spot and then walk to the front of ImCo. I was dismayed to see the number of pro-vaccine demonstrators had grown to several hundred.

“Vaccine now! Vaccine now!” they chanted.

“You’ve got to stop!” I shouted against the roar of their chant without much effect. “The vaccine is more dangerous than the virus!”

The crowd chanted on and only the few people nearest me even noticed. They gave me irritated glances that suggested my opposition was not welcome. Desperate to cause a greater reaction, I went after several of the signs people were carrying. I knocked one that read, “Vaccinate The People Now!” out of the hands of its carrier and went after another that read, “Vaccinate Workers, Not Execs.” When that sign was on the pavement I went after a third. But the next man was prepared for me. He drew his sign back like a baseball bat. Just as I noticed the sign’s post was made from a heavy closet dowel, he swung it hard at my head. I raised an arm to parry but the deflected post struck my forehead anyway. I went down. When I came to my senses I was sprawled on the pavement between the crowd and ImCo. The crowd continued chanting, “Vaccine now!” disdaining to help me. Slowly, groggily, I got to my knees. Then I rose unsteadily to my feet. I daubed my fingertips in a red trickle that flowed from my forehead.

The chanting paused, and someone shouted up at ImCo’s windows, “Vaccine for everyone! Not just the executive elite!”

“You got yours, Holloman,” cried another. “When do we get ours?”

A young man in a black T shirt with a red anarchist A printed on the front cried, “No more government control! Release the vaccine now!”

A bearded and disheveled man wearing a cardboard sandwich sign jostled against me. His board was covered in marking-pen drawings of crosses, crescent moons, and other religious symbols surrounding a central script: SAVE OUR SOULS FROM GOD’S WRATH! He shouted, “And He shall smite your mightiest warriors, and your smallest babes, and who shall be safe from the hand of God?”

A hysterical, weeping woman shouted at ImCo, “Why won’t you help us?”

A thin black man hollered, “Is the vaccine for whites only?”

A young white man beside him, wearing a pink ribbon on his lapel cried, “Homophobes!”

Another black-clad anarchist shouted, “The government made the virus to kill us all!”

As they resumed their chant, I glanced above the crowd. Behind them, lining the roof of a two-story power plant building, was a gathering of - “Crows!” I shouted, pointing over the crowd’s heads. More crows were flying in from the west to join a large aggregation already present. They were watching the crowd with great interest. “Look at all the crows, people!”

Some protestors turned their heads, but then shot me irritated looks because the significance of my concern was lost on them. The bulk of the crowd continued their chant, unaware.

Still feeling woozy from the blow to my head, I decided I had had enough. I walked back toward my car, but noticed the dark form of a large bird lying on the sidewalk. It flopped spasmodically, and the sight of it froze me in my tracks. It was a raven! Horrified, I watched it convulse in the throes of a fatal disease, the nature of which I had little doubt. I gaped at it for a moment, shaken by the notion that it must have flown across Puget Sound with the disease in its body, perhaps along with the crows now sitting on the building or flying over the crowd. Here was Gordon Steel’s death on the wing!

The raven stopped moving. As it settled flat on the concrete in death, I called Seattle Public Health Hospital and asked to speak with Kay Erwin. I explained about the raven and she replied, “By all means, bring it here. I’ll have someone waiting at the emergency entrance with a sterile containment box. You just be careful not to touch it yourself.”

I clicked off the phone and went to a newspaper stand, where I bought a singles newspaper and used it to carefully pick up and wrap the animal, which I put into the trunk of my car. I drove to the hospital where a staffer with a sterile mask and purple gloves waited at the curb. I got out and opened my trunk and the man took the raven, newspaper and all, and put it into a white box with biohazard symbols on its sides. He hurried back into the hospital and I drove home.

Chapter 20

At home, I checked the welt on my forehead in the bathroom mirror. It had quit bleeding but had swollen to an impressive size and was giving me a headache. I daubed away dried blood with a washcloth, took some ibuprofen and went to bed early after eating a few bites of dinner. I slept poorly, tossing and turning for hours, dreadfully afraid of the pestilence that seemed at hand. I mulled over every incident a hundred times and wondered what McKean was doing. Was he awake like me, a thousand thoughts crowding his mind?

I got up early the next morning wondering if society were still functioning. I logged into my Seattle Post Intelligencer account on my iPhone and read it over coffee. Under the headline A MODERN PLAGUE, several articles described widespread outbreaks of the disease on the north shore of the Olympic Peninsula, as well as a new massive outbreak that had breached the quarantine lines south of Neah Bay and sent maniacs raging into the streets of Forks. Another article described the deployment of 10,000 National Guard troops on the peninsula wearing full biowarfare suits and carrying M-16s. A third article covered the Holloman vaccine with an estimate of only two more days before it would be administered to the public.

The article gave little indication whether larger American society was aware how imminent its collapse might be. Not until I read a fourth article did I find any mention of Peyton McKean. A brief report on his firing ran in a narrow column below a page-wide banner advertising ladies’ undergarments. Below the ad’s bold declaration, WOMEN’S BRAZIERS HALF-OFF, McKean’s outburst at the press conference and his termination from ImCo were ascribed by Holloman to his “obsession with petty worries about the vaccine.” A quote from Curman described McKean as “egotistical and deranged.” So much for the man I considered society’s only real hope.

I decided to do what Gordon Steel had suggested. I would spend my day writing down the epitaph of our times. I left home at about 10:00 am and walked past ImCo, seeing no sign of the demonstrators or the crows. In the Pioneer Square district, I stopped at Cafe Perugia, hoping a triple shot would inspire some thoughts worth writing about a doomed society. Before going upstairs, I sidetracked to watch a scene developing at the Ortman Gallery. Two police cars were stopped with their lights flashing. Glass was scattered on the sidewalk. I noticed with surprise that the harpoon was missing from its place in the broken window. A man inside was talking with two policemen and pantomiming the actions of a person who had smashed the window, snatched the harpoon, and run off down the alley.

Another surprise awaited me at my office building. The front door was ajar. I went in just as two police officers on foot rounded the corner, checking building fronts. Acting on a hunch, I went upstairs two steps at a time. As I reached the fifth floor, two things happened simultaneously. I saw that my office door had been jimmied, and one of the officers called from the first floor landing, “Hello, sir? We’d like to speak with you.”

The green enameled wooden frame of the door was split. It appeared to have been shouldered open. I guessed that this breakin was tied to the theft at the Ortman Gallery and knew the intruder’s identity when I saw his two-headed serpent sculpture sitting on my desk. As the officers’ foot scuffs started up the stairs, the lead cop called, “Police Officers, looking for a fugitive.” I stepped inside and a movement in a corner caught my eye. John Steel crouched there, peeking over the top of a five-drawer filing cabinet, holding the harpoon in one hand. He pressed a finger to his lips and tented his eyebrows imploringly.

The officer called again from the third floor landing, “Hello. Sir. Are you up there?” Only seconds remained before John Steel would be caught. I waved John down and he sank behind the cabinet again. As the first officer reached the top of the staircase and crossed the landing, I stepped into my open doorway, blocking his entry.

“Have you seen a tall Indian guy around here?” he asked.

“No.”

“Heard anything?”

“I just got here.”

He glanced around me to the right and left. Then he ran a hand along the split doorframe. “What’s this?”

“I…lost my key. I got mad and broke it a couple days ago.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, continuing to glance past me into the office. “I’ll bet your landlord’s not too pleased.”

“He’s not. He’ll be charging me for the repair.”

The officer eyed me carefully, but apparently bought my story as the second officer came scuffing slowly up the last flight. “We just wanted to make sure everyone was safe in here,” he said. The second officer, hefty, sweaty, and very winded, joined him.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Thanks for your concern.”

The first cop turned to the second. “Nothing here,” he said. “Let’s go.” He got no argument from the winded man, a slump-shouldered and pink-cheeked fellow who immediately turned and started back down the stairs, glad to be going. The first followed the second but called back, “Have a nice day sir. Sorry to disturb you. Please call the precinct if you see anyone suspicious around here.”

“I will.” I breathed a deep sigh of relief as their footsteps receded down the stairs. John Steel rose from his hiding place and whispered, “Thanks man.”

“You’re welcome, I guess.”

He held up the harpoon. “I had to get it any way I could.”

“Well, I guess you got it,” I said irritably. I gestured for him to sit in my overstuffed guest chair. I took a seat at my desk. “Now, maybe you can explain why you took it.”

“The harpoon? It’s my mission, remember? My father says it’s the symbol of male power for Makahs. It’s the return of our traditional strength.”

I shook my head. “While you’re playing with your phallic symbol,” I grumbled, “our society is crumbling.”

“That’s too bad for you guys,” Steel said sincerely. “But this is a connection to our ancestors. Something Makahs lost.”

“A lot of good it will do the rest of us. Haven’t you heard what’s happening on the peninsula?”

“Yeah. People are going crazy everywhere with the Lost Souls disease. Just like old times.” Steel seemed more interested in his harpoon than my concerns. He admired it, running a fingertip along one edge of the mussel-shell point.

I used my desk telephone to call McKean at home. “Interesting,” he remarked when I told him about Steel. “Bring him here. I want to question everything he knows about his father’s recipe for sea spinach.”

“Sea spinach!” I exclaimed. “Have you come around to that again?”

“I left the jar you brought me in the hands of Janet and Robert. They’ve gotten some very interesting laboratory results. Get John Steel here quickly and I’ll explain.”

Given the presence of the police in the neighborhood, it was necessary to smuggle Steel out of the building. I left him in the office while I ran to get my car. A few minutes later I pulled the Mustang up in front of the office building and Steel scuttled out the doorway. He got in quickly and laid the harpoon on the back seat. As I drove off, he crouched down to avoid being spotted by cops swarming the neighborhood like angry hornets.

* * * * * * * * * *

We arrived at McKean’s home a few minutes later. I went to the door and rang the bell. Steel followed me carrying the harpoon, from which he was unwilling to be separated for even a short time. After a second ring, McKean answered the door. “Come in gentlemen,” he said, immediately turning and motioning for us to follow him upstairs. “I’m in the middle of a very interesting Skype video call.”

In his office, we took chairs as McKean sat at his desk and resumed a conversation with Janet Emerson and Robert Johnson, who were at a computer in his former laboratories. McKean introduced John Steel to them and then proceeded. “You see, Fin, Robert has been testing the effects of sea spinach on the Neah virus in cultures of human cells. He’s been able to demonstrate an antiviral effect that blocks the growth and spread of the virus.”

“That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed. “So you’ve found a better vaccine?”

“Not a vaccine,” McKean said. “But an interesting alternative.”

“If it’s not a vaccine,” I asked, “how does it kill the virus?”

“More like an antibiotic,” he replied. “It’s a substance with a direct virus-killing effect. No immunization needed.”

“That’s great! It’s an alternative to the Holloman vaccine!”

“Possibly,” said McKean.

“You don’t sound too certain,” I said. “It could cure the epidemic, couldn’t it?”

“Answer: unknown,” McKean replied. “It works on a small scale in tissue-culture flasks, but we don’t know if it’s potent enough to protect humans. And let’s not forget that the substance itself is still unknown.”

Steel said, “I’ll bet that’s why Makahs aren’t getting sick. My father’s been passing this stuff around ever since the last whale hunt.”

“I had begun to surmise as much,” McKean acknowledged. “And hence my assignment of Robert and Janet to begin the search for the active principle in your father’s recipe.”

“Couldn’t you just feed sea spinach to everyone who needs it?” I asked.

“And where would we get it from?”

“From Gordon Steel, I guess. He’s the only one who knows how to make it.”

“I see two problems there, Fin. First, old Steel has already made clear his lack of desire to help us. And second, Tleena Steel told us the mixture does indeed contain whale oil among a host of other ingredients. Given that the protesters have blocked Makahs from hunting any more whales, I doubt we can develop a medical product from it. We need a reliable source, or a way to identify what substance in the mixture is the active ingredient. Perhaps it’s not a component of the whale oil at all. One of the plants may be its source, or it may be a substance generated during the cooking process. There are too many possibilities. Without more material and more knowledge, I’m not certain how to proceed.”

“But it will take a long time to sort all that out.”

“Yes, of course,” said McKean. “Scientific research is always a slow and uncertain process. But we have made exemplary progress so far. Robert has developed an excellent bioassay for antiviral effects in the sea spinach, and Janet has begun an effort to isolate the active substance. Speaking of which, let’s continue with our discussion. Janet, why don’t you tell my guests what you were telling me before the interruption?”

“Like you suggested, Peyton, I made a chloroform-methanol extract of sea spinach and separated it by reversed-phase HPLC.”

“Good,” said McKean.

“Then I took the active fraction and saponified it with sodium hydroxide and Robert analyzed it on the mass spectrometer.”

“Good again. And what did you find?”

Janet held up a sheet of computer printout with an x-y plot of data on it, showing a large series of sharp, spiked peaks above a low, shaky baseline. “There are too many substances in the mix to get a simple answer.” She used a pen to point at a particularly tall spike near the center of the plot. “But we’ve got a good clean result for this substance. It’s an exact match to the mass of cetyl glyceryl ether.

“Ah!” McKean exclaimed. “Cetyl! The name suggests its source. Cetus, in Greek, means whale, and cetylol is a fatty oil that was first isolated from whale blubber. I think there’s little doubt about the source of that component.”

“And another component, here,” said Janet, pointing at a second tall peak. “It’s got the mass of DHA.”

“Docosahexaenoic acid?” McKean asked.

“That’s right.”

“And again a clear indication, not of its source this time, but of its function. DHA is the precursor molecule to resolvin and neuroprotectin, two substances that the body uses to fight inflammation. So we have a molecule from whale oil that contains a substance that might fight the brain inflammation associated with this disease. That’s extremely interesting.”

“The other peaks - ” Janet indicated more tall spikes to the right of the first two, ” - those are all still unknown and cross-contaminated.”

“So, there’s still more to the molecule,” McKean remarked.

“But there are so many other peaks on the data plot,” she said. “I’m not sure how we’ll ever sort it out.”

McKean thought a moment. “I see that your other mystery peaks all have greater molecular weights than the two components you’ve identified. It is therefore a good assumption that we’re looking at a complex lipid. Assuming it may be a ganglioside or an alkaloid, why don’t you try the hydrofluoric acid reaction next? And hydrolysis with hydrochloric acid as well. And permethylation.”

She made notes. “There’s one thing you should know, Peyton. We’re running out of sea spinach. Those experiments will finish off what we’ve got left.”

“That’s bad news,” McKean murmured. “But if my assumptions are correct, then you’ll get a definitive result from the last bit of material. If I’m wrong, then a precious sample will be wasted.”

“That makes me nervous,” Janet said.

“You’ve got to press on. Those procedures are my best guesses as to what will get the answer.”

McKean ended the Skype call after urging Robert and Janet to begin their work immediately.

“They’re shouldering a heavy burden,” I said.

McKean nodded. “They’re first-class researchers. I’ll be to blame if the experiments don’t succeed.” His expression blanked as if his mental wheels were spinning unsuccessfully in an effort to come up with a more satisfactory course of action.

John sat cradling his harpoon like a cherished child. He said, “I’m sure my father would give you more sea spinach.”

“I doubt it,” McKean replied. “He’s already refused to cooperate with us.”

“When I bring him this.” John patted the harpoon. “He’ll be proud of me. Then I’ll tell him he’s got to help you.”

“What do you say, Peyton?” I asked. “I’m willing to drive you there.”

There followed a lengthy debate about the wisdom of another trip to Neah Bay, in which McKean held the negative view and parried our reasons for going, one after another, citing the need for him to stay close to the action in the lab, the impossibility of crossing the quarantine lines, and the probability of the old man refusing us again regardless of John Steel’s intervention.

While the conversation carried on, some muffled noises arose outside McKean’s office. Eventually he held up a hand to silence the debate and went out the door. We followed him to an adjacent room, which was decked out in the boyish trappings of a child’s bedroom. The source of the noises, Sean McKean, lay belly-down on the floor half-hidden under his bed with his face obscured from us.

“Sean,” McKean called to the boy with a smile fading from his face. “What are you up to?”

When the child made no response, McKean’s smile faded further. “Sean?” He leaned his long body over the boy. Still no response. He touched the boy’s shoulder and got an immediate reaction. Uttering a growl like an enraged wildcat, the boy exploded into movement. Red-encircled eyes glaring, he lashed out at his father with clawed hands, one of which scratched McKean’s cheek. Before McKean had time to react, the boy went at him with a snarl and sank his teeth into McKean’s left hand.

McKean cried out and tried to withdraw his hand, but the boy had the fleshy part in his teeth, shaking it like a pit bull on the attack. McKean used his right hand to pry his left hand loose, shoving Sean away so roughly that the boy fell backward and rapped his head against the wall. The impact changed his expression from rage to pain. He burst into tears and keeled over sideways, taking a fetal posture and whimpering.

McKean stared at his son, his face taut with anguish, holding his bleeding left hand with his right. “My God,” he gasped. “He’s got the disease! But I brought him some sea spinach. I watched him put it in his mouth.”

“Did you watch him swallow it?” I asked. “Kids are notorious for not eating their vegetables.”

McKean thought for a long moment without answering my question. Then he murmured, “He seemed fine this morning. But he’s already reached stage two. It hit him quickly. Just like those children in Port Angeles.” He leaned near his son again to inspect the purplish circles around the boy’s eyes. The boy reacted to his nearness with an enraged hiss. He backed away and plunked down onto a child’s chair, sprawling his long arms and legs around him in devastation. “What am I gong to do?” he moaned. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet and hurried to his office. He had Janet on the phone within seconds, asking her whether there was any sea spinach left.

“Sorry,” she sympathized. “The last bits are already on the machines. I wish there was something I could do.”

“You’re not to blame,” he said. “It’s just the worst of bad luck.” He ended the call and sat at his desk, looking bleak and desperate. Sean could be heard moaning in the next room.

“The vaccine,” I said. “You’ve got to take a chance with it.”

“How can I?” He stared at the floor. “All my scientific training tells me no one should use the vaccine. But my heart says, ‘Just this once Peyton, relax your scientific scruples. This is your only child! Do whatever you can to save him.’ ‘

“I agree with your heart, Peyton. You can’t let science get in the way when it comes to your son.”

A look of agonized indecision came over his face. Then he resolutely shook his head no. “Don’t you see, Fin? It’s just the opposite. The scientist in me knows I can’t risk Sean’s life on the Holloman vaccine. My commitment to the scientific method isn’t something I can shed when it becomes inconvenient.”

“But you can’t just sit by and let this happen to him - “

“Nor can I quit being a scientist. I will not treat him with that vaccine.”

“What would your wife say?”

“She’s out of town on a business trip. She can’t get home because of the airport shutdown.”

“But don’t you think she would want to play it safe and get a dose of the vaccine Holloman took?”

“Maybe she would. But I can’t make myself ignore the gp91 threat.”

“You can’t just sit and watch him die.”

“No. Of course not. But - ” his voice broke off, choked with pain.

He returned to Sean’s room and stood silently watching his son, who had quieted into a limp and deathly looking sprawl. Observing Sean’s shallow, fevered breathing, McKean murmured, “Fin, do you think you can get through the blockade?”

“I can try, Peyton.”

McKean recovered from his funk quickly. He took a blanket from the bed and wrapped the boy, who had lapsed into unconsciousness. We went down and McKean got in the back seat of the Mustang cradling the boy in his arms. John Steel took the front passenger seat, cradling his precious harpoon. As I drove the Mustang out of McKean’s driveway, I said, “I’m not sure how we can get there from here. The quarantine will be in force any way we go.”

“Turn left,” said McKean with newfound resolution in his voice. “We’ll try the Fauntleroy ferry.”

PART FIVE: GOING TO THE SOURCE

Chapter 21

West Seattle’s Fauntleroy Ferry Terminal is not far from Peyton McKean’s home. Although smaller than the downtown docks, it nevertheless represents a good crossing to the Olympic Peninsula via Southworth, Bremerton, and the Hood Canal floating bridge. A ferry was inbound as I pulled my Mustang up to the ticket kiosk, which was dark and deserted. There was a cardboard sign taped in the window with a note scrawled in red marking pen: Closed Due To Quarantine.

“We’ll see about that.” I rolled the Mustang down onto the long pier, which jutted out a quarter mile into Puget Sound with the ferry slip at its end. All four waiting lanes and the single offloading lane were empty, except for five vehicles at the far end. Near a small cinderblock passenger-waiting building, four military supply trucks were lined up, and near them a police patrol car blocked the point where the pier narrowed into a two-lane passage to the ferry slip. The slip’s loading ramp, a short drawbridge of asphalt on steel between tall pilings and under a gantry superstructure, was raised for the incoming ferry.

I pulled up beside the police car and rolled down my window.

The officer rolled down his window and said sternly, “Terminal’s closed, folks. No traffic to or from the peninsula except government vehicles.”

McKean leaned forward between the front seats and explained, “We’ve got a sick child - “

“Move along!” the officer snapped. Grim-faced, he pointed back the way we had come. “Take him to a hospital.”

“We’ve got to get him to Neah Bay - ” McKean began again, but the cop cut him off again.

“You’ll all be going to jail if you don’t get moving!”

McKean was intent on pressing his case but I sensed nothing good would come of it. I pushed in the clutch and shifted into reverse.

“Hey, man, look!” Steel exclaimed, pointing over the top of the patrol car at the ferry, which had approached while we spoke to the officer. “She’s coming in way too fast!”

My jaw dropped. The three-deck-high green-and-white hulk loomed so near I had to crane my neck upward to take it in. Identifiable as the Issaquah by a wooden placard under her pilot-cabin windows, she came on at an alarming speed. Inside the windows, two men grappled with each other against the glass of the central windowpane. One, dressed in a captain’s white shirt and dark vest, was trying to pull a second, naked man away from the pilot wheel. The man flailed at the captain with one arm while grasping the wheel with the other hand. The captain struck back at him in an effort to regain the controls.

John grabbed my shoulder and cried, “Get us out of here!” His shout sent adrenaline surging through me. I stomped the accelerator and dumped the clutch. The Mustang’s tires squealed in reverse and we pulled away from the patrol car, leaving the officer gaping at death bearing down on him only a few yards away. I turned my head so I could glance at both the rearview mirror and the front windshield, simultaneously keeping an eye on where I was going and what was coming at us.

I heard the officer scream as the ferry rammed the slip and the end of the pier buckled. The impact sent a shudder through the dock, jolting the Mustang free of the road surface as we accelerated backward with tires screeching. The loading ramp flew into the air, a twenty-foot mass of twisted metal struts and plating that tumbled twice and then crashed down on the patrol car, crushing it. Simultaneously the captain and his adversary, propelled by their forward momentum, smashed through the pilothouse windows and plunged down onto the wreckage, disappearing into a pile of twisted metal and rubble churned up by the bow of the ferry.

“Keep it floored!” Steel cried. The metal slip gantry split apart and fell away to each side, as did the upright composite-log bumpers intended to absorb the much smaller impacts of ferries arriving at normal speeds. The bumpers, ineffectual against the Issaquah’s tremendous momentum, splayed outward and crashed into the water, raising walls of white spray on either side of the dock. Meanwhile, the Issaquah surged toward us with her engines roaring at full throttle and her speed almost unabated. I kept my foot down on the accelerator and the Mustang fishtailed backward toward the shore end of the pier, but the ferry moved faster, demolishing the dock as she came.

The pier crumpled section-by-section as the Issaquah pressed forward with engines thrumming at full power. The dock’s heaving motion made me wrench the steering wheel back and forth to compensate for the movement of the roadway. The Mustang failed to gain speed under the circumstances, and I helplessly watched out the front windshield as the patrol car vanished into the surging rubble heap and the military trucks were consumed one-by-one, their drivers leaping off the dock to uncertain fates in the water below. The flat rounded bow of the Issaquah’s car deck acted like a shovel spade, tearing through the support pilings under the dock and tossing timber crossbeams and road fragments high into the air. The heavy wooden beams erupted skyward one after another and descended like immense missiles. Some plunged into the water on either side of the dock. Others thundered down directly in front of us.

For a few heart-stopping seconds I was sure we would be crushed by the growing tangle of wreckage, but then the Issaquah’s momentum abated and she ground to a halt. As the last debris thundered down, I steered my Mustang away and stopped near the ticket kiosk, thankful to be back on solid ground.

The havoc of the ferry’s impact was astonishing. Nearly half the dock was gone. Masses of debris were piled on the half-eaten pier or floating in the shallows on either side, including some of the cars and trucks that had been aboard. People, too, were afloat on either side of the pier. Some flailed or swam toward shore. Others drifted, unmoving. In the center of the wreckage, the Issaquah herself lay heeled over on her side, her keel solidly grounded. Neither the police officer, nor the captain, nor the madman, were anywhere in sight. The Issaquah’s engines rumbled at maximum power, ineffectually churning the water behind her.

I turned the Mustang around outside the terminal and drove off, hurrying along neighborhood streets until I reached a freeway onramp. Soon we were hurtling southbound on Interstate 5 through sparse traffic, headed for the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. I kept the speedometer near eighty miles an hour and my fists clenched on the wheel. The radio delivered more bad news.

“The President has ordered a complete quarantine of the Olympic Peninsula. All points of entry and exit are now blockaded and movement to and from the peninsula is strictly forbidden. The National Guard and State Patrol have been directed to maintain order by any means necessary, including the use of lethal force. The public throughout Western Washington is advised to stay at home. Starting at midnight tonight, anyone on the streets will be subject to arrest. Anyone not obeying orders of the National Guard or police may be shot.”

The announcer began reading a list of emergency telephone numbers and web sites available for public assistance. I glanced at McKean in the rear view mirror. “It’s do or die, now,” I said. “We’ll talk our way through the roadblocks.”

He didn’t reply. I briefly looked at him cradling his son in his arms and caressing the boy’s sweaty hair. My heart broke for him. He was facing the greatest tragedy a father could imagine. Then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. He rubbed the corner of an eye with his knuckle. I recognized the same redness I had seen around Pete Whitehall’s and Leon Curtis’s eyes. My skin began to crawl as I noticed how beads of sweat had broken out on McKean’s brow, even though the car’s interior was cool. His cheeks looked more pale and gaunt than usual. His eyes had a vacant stare.

“Are you feeling all right, Peyton?” I asked.

McKean flinched a little at the sound of his name, but made no reply. The unavoidable, alarming conclusion sank in that Peyton McKean was coming down with the disease.

John Steel said, “He don’t look so good, Fin.”

“Not good at all,” I agreed. “His resistance has finally run out, just like your father said it would. And we’ve got more than two hundred miles to go.” I pushed the Mustang up over ninety and moved recklessly through the thinning traffic. A deep sense of dread grew in the pit of my gut as the miles flew by. I glanced at McKean from time to time, watching his stony expression. His eyes grew redder and more swollen. He constantly rubbed at one eye or the other. With more than four hours to go on the highway, I prayed we could reach the reservation before he developed a dangerous madness. His head twitched to one side. I tightened my grip on the wheel. There was nothing to do but drive hard while events took their course.

Traffic on the freeway dwindled as we moved south through Tacoma and turned onto westbound Highway 16 en route to the Kitsap Peninsula and ultimately the Olympic Peninsula. People were obeying the order to stay home and soon I was barreling down the center lane of an all but empty freeway. After five minutes on 16, the tall steel-and-concrete pylons of the Tacoma Narrows bridges loomed ahead of us. The two parallel spans, reminiscent of New York City’s George Washington bridge times two, arched across this mile-wide pinch point of Puget Sound. As I came down the hill approaching the bridges I had a good view of the roadblocks on both sides of the Narrows. On near and far sides, the medians between the two bridges are wide, paved, plaza-like spaces connecting the roadways, and these were being used to U-turn traffic to go back the way it had come. Long lines of orange-and-white jersey barriers cut diagonally across the freeway lanes and funneled traffic down to single lines, which were then directed across the median plazas and back the other way.

On our side, the westbound traffic funnel was empty. No one besides us, it seemed, was crazy enough to travel in that direction. However, the farside funnel held eastbound traffic in a massive three-lane jam, a backup that extended a mile or more to disappear around a forested bend. No vehicles whatsoever were being allowed across in the eastbound direction. Directed by hazmat-suited State Patrol officers whose cruisers sat behind the barricade with blue lights flashing, the would-be escapees in cars, trucks, and vacation vehicles were turned away one by one and sent across the median onto the westbound lanes to return to whatever fate awaited them on the peninsula. The whole process was slowed by the need of most drivers to plead with the troopers who steadfastly waved them on without much discussion. Supporting the troopers were two National Guard Humvees with .50 caliber machineguns and hazmat-suited gunners at the ready.

A separate line of orange-and-white jersey barriers had been set up at the midpoint of the eastbound span. This straight line of barriers was at a right angle to the roadway, and was open in the center with a checkpoint watched over by a Humvee and a group of guardsmen. There, a few westbound military vehicles waited to be cleared to cross onto the peninsula. There were supply trucks, Humvees, and a double-tank fuel truck, all in army-green camouflage paint. One by one, these official vehicles were being checked out and then waved forward to the far side of the bridge where they merged in the median with the line of turned-away vehicles heading back onto the peninsula.

I slowed as I approached the funneling barricade blocking our westbound course. Just as on the far side, a patrol car with lights flashing and an armed Humvee were stationed behind the barrier. A group of soldiers in hazmat suits with M-16s stood watch near the Humvee. One of two uniformed State Patrol officers waved me toward the turnaround route. I slowed and rolled down the passenger side window and called to the man. “We’ve got two sick people here who need to get to the other side.”

He stared at me grimly and said, “They’ll be a lot sicker if you get them over there.” He motioned for us to move along.

Suddenly, Peyton McKean addressed the trooper calmly but urgently. “Officer! I am a research scientist from Immune Corporation. I’m on a medical mission to Neah Bay, having to do with the virus. Please let us pass.” The disease had relinquished its hold on McKean temporarily, just as with Pete Whitehall. His eyes shown with their customary keen intelligence, although they were surrounded by puffy redness.

“Sorry, sir,” the trooper said firmly. “Orders are, no one but military gets through.” He put a hand on his holster to suggest that he would draw and use his pistol if necessary. At that moment, his fellow officer exclaimed, “Look at that!”

The cops turned to look at the bridge, and we followed their gazes to an incredible sight on the far side of the eastbound span. A large motor home had pulled out of the jammed traffic at the plaza and rammed through the jersey barriers. It roared up the span toward the center checkpoint with the crackle of M-16 fire following it. As it neared the checkpoint, the popping of additional gunfire and puffs of smoke erupted from a dozen guardsmen’s M-16s. Sparks and window-glass flew but motor home kept coming. As it neared the center-span barricade, the thudding of the Humvee’s .50 caliber machine gun joined the chorus M-16s. Heavy rounds rattled through the sheet metal of the motor home and by the time the big vehicle reached the barricades, it was swerving with its windshields shattered out and its driver no doubt already dead. It drifted sideways crazily with all tires screeching, knocked the barricades in all directions, and overturned. It slid into a fuel truck waiting at the checkpoint and the collision smashed the two vehicles into one merged mass of twisted metal, spinning them in a semicircular arc that rammed them against the bridge cables. The impact caused the roadway to writhe like a giant serpent. A moment after the wrecks came to rest, a small billow of orange flame rose from the space between them.

“Oh, my God,” the trooper nearest us called to his companion, “if that fuel truck - ” His words trailed off as the forward fuel tank ripped apart in an explosion that sent a colossal billow of orange flame high among the steel suspension cables overhead.

In this astonishing moment, McKean tapped me on the shoulder and whispered calmly, “Roll forward.” I did as he suggested, leaving behind the dumbstruck state troopers and guardsmen who had abandoned their roles as traffic cops to watch the horror on the bridge. When I reached the eastbound roadway at the end of the jersey barrier, McKean cried, “Turn right!”

“What?” I exclaimed. “They’ll shoot us if we go that way.”

“No they won’t. No one is watching us!”

I cranked the steering wheel hard right and pushed the accelerator down. We moved quickly around the end of the barrier and onto the span westbound.

“I’m no James Bond!” I protested. “I hope you know what you’re getting us into.”

“Of course I do, Fin. Look at the barricade.”

Ahead of us, the center barricade had been swept away by the skidding motor home. Furthermore, the fireball that had erupted from the fuel truck had sent the guardsmen diving for cover. The center lane ahead of us was wide open.

I floored the gas pedal and the Mustang hurtled up the span. As we neared the barricade, a soldier with an M-16 appeared from behind the Humvee, which had been deserted when its crew jumped down to escape the fireball. The foot soldier hesitated a moment, uncertain whether to shoot at us or not.

“Everybody get down!” I shouted. I leaned over to make myself a smaller target but kept the accelerator on the floor. The gap at the checkpoint was two lanes wide. I reached it at breakneck speed and raced between the blazing wreckage and the Humvee. The soldier raised his M 16 and stepped in front of us briefly, but leaped out of the way to save his own life. As we passed the checkpoint, he fired a single burst of bullets that went high. I kept the accelerator floored, my heart pounding in the expectation that the next bullet would rip through my chest. Instead, a new explosion erupted from the second fuel tank, sending out another huge ball of flame. The guardsmen dove for safety again. The concussion of the explosion made the Mustang fishtail as it hurtled down the far side of the span.

“Hoo-wee!” John Steel cried. “You made it!”

“Don’t be so sure,” I muttered as we raced toward the farside blockade. The gunners of the two Humvees stationed there tracked our approach with their weapons. I slowed, and slowed again. A state trooper dressed in a dayglo green tactical vest and black hazmat suit with plastic faceplate emerged from behind one of the patrol cars. He held up a gloved hand commanding us to stop. I heeded his order, understanding that to run this blockade with so much firepower trained on us was to face the same fate as the motor home driver. I halted near the officer with the nose of my Mustang aimed hopefully toward where the turnaround traffic re-entered the lanes of the westbound freeway.

The officer covered us with his pistol and called out, “You’ve gotta be nuts!”

“We’ve got to get through to Neah Bay!” I exclaimed, but he waved a hand to silence me as a radio call came in on a walkie-talkie microphone clipped to his shoulder.

“Direct them westbound,” the radio voice said. “Do not let them return eastbound.”

“Well, I guess it’s your lucky day,” he said to me sarcastically, waving us on. As I rolled forward to merge into the turn-away traffic, he called after us, “What the hell. You’ll get yourself killed anyway.”

Beyond the turnaround, we moved with sporadic westbound traffic that starkly contrasted with the stupendous jam across the median. I glanced at the bridge in my rearview mirror and saw a tremendous pyre of flaming wreckage at mid-span. The burning fuel from the tanker had flowed in both directions along the span’s gutters. The entire arch of the bridge was blazing like a hellish orange rainbow. Black smoke towered into the overcast sky. When a low forested hill intervened, I accelerating along the almost deserted westbound lanes of Highway 16.

John Steel said, “Man, that’s one hella big fireworks show. Talk about burning your bridges behind you!”

I glanced back at Peyton McKean. Slumped into the corner of his seat with his boy cradled across his body, he had gone silent again. His jaw was clenched shut. His red, puffy eyes had resumed their vacant stare. The disease had allowed him a moment of lucidity at the bridge but now it took him in its clutches again. His head twitched powerfully to the side.

Beyond the bridge chokepoint and its jammed traffic, the freeway quickly became deserted in both directions. Having entered the Kitsap Peninsula from the southeast, I followed the freeway past the darkened towns of Gig Harbor, Bremerton, Silverdale and Poulsbo, on a route paralleling Hood Canal and the east flank of the Olympic Mountains. We crossed the Hood Canal floating bridge at the north end of the Kitsap Peninsula and moved onto the Olympic Peninsula with no further incidents. I made good speed on the empty highways. The only police or army vehicles we saw were headed south, retreating to fallback positions in the towns we had passed. The road shrank to a two-laner as we raced past the Port Townsend turnoff and headed west along the north shore of the Olympic Peninsula.

As we skirted the south end of Sequim Bay, John Steel sat up and turned to look at me. “Why do you keep doing that?” he asked.

“Doing what?” I replied, but in an instant I knew what he meant. I had taken one hand off the steering wheel to rub a knuckle at the corner of an eye. A wave of adrenaline rolled through me. “Oh, my God,” I said. “I’ve got the disease. Your father knew this would happen. It got the boy, and then McKean, and now me, in the order of how much sea spinach we ate. I ate the most, and I’m the last to go.”

We said nothing more, but as I drove along the forest-lined highway I noticed other signs of the virus stirring in me. A splitting headache pounded inside my cranium. Bouts of blurred vision made it hard to concentrate on the highway.

“Watch out, man!” Steel shouted, grabbing the wheel and wrenching it sideways. I shook myself free of a trance-like state to discover that I had let the Mustang wander onto the gravel of the opposite shoulder. Steel held the wheel and steered us back to the right side of the road. Coming to my senses and spotting a driveway ahead, I took the wheel and swerved into it, letting the Mustang roll to a halt in a wide empty asphalt parking lot. I shut off the engine and got out. I wiped both hands over my face and tried to quell my pounding heart. My hands trembled. My senses reeled. The entire world seemed to whirl around me.

John Steel got out and joined me on my side of the car. “You okay?” he asked.

I shook my head negatively and closed my eyes until the sense of spinning subsided. After a moment, I glanced inside the car at McKean. He was a scary sight, slumped in the corner of the back seat, rigid and trembling. Sweat covered his brow. His eyes were open wide as if staring at some invisible horror. The boy looked comatose and almost peaceful, but also deathly pale.

A sudden loud cawing noise spun me around. A mob of crows was on the ground in front of a large building at the back of the parking lot.

“Well, well,” Steel remarked, looking at the facade of the building. “Look where you brought us, Fin. The Seven Cedars Casino.”

The casino was a large complex of peaked roofs fronted by seven huge totem poles. Behind the central trio of totems was the peak-roofed marquee of the main entrance. The crows were pecking at a dark form lying in the middle of the marquee drive.

“This is the S’Klallam tribal casino,” Steel said, walking toward the building. “It looks empty.”

I felt better for the moment. Glad to be out in the fresh air, I drew a deep breath and followed Steel toward the casino. As we approached, the crows took to the air, cawing loudly.

“Uh-oh,” Steel murmured, nearing the fallen form the crows had been picking over. It was a man’s body, lying in the center of the drive under the marquee. He was face-down on the asphalt, naked to the waist, and bloodied with scratches. Steel turned the corpse over with a foot. He looked into the fellow’s bloated, dead face for a moment. “I know this guy. He’s a Makah.”

“But if he’s Makah, why wasn’t he immune?”

“Don’t know. He lived here and worked at the casino. He got out of touch with life at Neah Bay. I guess when you live like a babalthud, you die like a babalthud.”

“But he’s an Indian.”

“Proves if you don’t eat sea spinach, you die no matter who you are.”

My mind boggled. “That means the Neah virus could kill everyone on earth sooner or later. It could wipe out humanity.”

“Come here, Fin. Look at this.” Steel went to a display window. Inside the glass stood a larger-than-life carved creature with the combined features of a man and a raven, with a long black beak protruding from its face. The spirit creature’s human hands held out a square bentwood box similar to the Spaniard’s coffin, decorated with carvings of animal heads. “Our legends say Raven brought light to the world. But to get it, he had to steal it. He took the sun from the Creator’s longhouse and brought it to the people in a wooden box. The Creator got even by making Raven’s feathers dark as night.”

“This time,” I said, “Raven has something else in his box. The Neah virus.”

“Raven is the trickiest spirit,” Steel said. “He can hurt you as easy as help you.” The crows cawed as if chorusing their agreement with Steel, who seemed to have inherited his father’s eerie sense of timing. A chill ran along my spine.

“Come on,” Steel touched my arm and made me jump. “Let’s get going.”

My feverishness had transformed into cold dread while I stood in the chilly air, but I felt revived as I accompanied Steel back to the car and got in on the driver’s side.

“You okay to drive?” he asked.

“I’ll do alright. My headache is better and the tremors - ” I held out my hands in front of me. ” - are gone.” I fired the engine and got onto the highway westbound again. The crows resumed pecking at the body.

Highway 101 skirted the town of Sequim on the south, but at Port Angeles it became a city thoroughfare. We moved through town for several miles flanked by storefronts, gas stations, burger joints, supermarkets and houses. My Mustang was the only vehicle moving on the streets but there were signs of life, most of which were disturbing. Columns of smoke rose from a dozen buildings. I rolled past a sporting goods store that was ablaze in huge orange sheets of flame with no one to fight the fire. Farther along, a house had been reduced to smoldering rubble.

“Where are all the people?” Steel asked, staring along a deserted side street as we passed it.

“Hiding in their houses?” I suggested.

“Maybe sick or dead,” said Steel.

We rolled past a now-familiar sight. A naked body, this time a woman’s, lay sprawled on the sidewalk. It was being investigated by a dozen crows. Overhead, more crows were on the wing.

I stopped rather pointlessly at a red traffic light. As I waited for it to change, a redheaded man appeared from behind a hedge, moving in a jerky Night-of-the-Living-Dead walk. He was stark naked and covered from head to foot in scratch marks. In places, his skin had detached in sagging sheets. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, but when his vacuous stare fell on us, he uttered a growl like Frankenstein’s monster. He lurched toward us with clutching, claw-like hands raised. I ran the light and left him to resume his aimless stiff-legged wanderings.

Following a Highway 101 directional sign, I turned left at the next intersection. We passed a silent Clallam County Courthouse where anti-whaling protesters had massed before. Some of their banners and signs on sticks leaned against the courthouse wall as if abandoned in haste. They looked rainwashed and sun-bleached. Farther on we passed another pedestrian, an East Asian man who stumbled along, bare-chested, scratched and bleeding. He too was wandering aimlessly on the sidewalk, but unlike the previous madman, seemed too mindless to even notice our passing.

“Chinese guy,” Steel said, looking carefully at the man. “Or maybe Korean.”

“Chalk up another billion people susceptible to the virus,” I said.

I turned right to follow the zigzagging thoroughfare out of town, and was surprised to find a state patrol car with blue lights flashing, parked across the roadway as a roadblock. There was no one near it and it seemed empty. I skirted it on the right, bumping two wheels up onto the sidewalk to do so. I passed slowly with my window rolled down, thinking it would be wise to talk with the officer if he appeared - and he did. He had sunk down in his seat and was half-hidden by the steering wheel but as I rolled past him he sat up. His patrol hat was off, his dark hair was tangled, and his eyes were surrounded by purplish flesh. His cheeks were wet with tears. When he saw me, his expression changed to horror. I stopped and stared at him. Suddenly and inexplicably he broke into demonic laughter and raised one hand, which held a pistol. A jolt of adrenaline rolled through me, but he made no threat. Rather, he simply waved the pistol around, pointing it this way and that as if he were not quite sure what to do with it.

I pressed the gas pedal and hurried to get as far from that pistol as possible. The officer uttered several lines of gibbering speech, but paid no further attention to us. I drove half on the sidewalk for a ways and then steered back onto the street. As I did so, a single gunshot cracked from the squad car. There was no sound after that. I muttered as I drove off, “The Neah virus has won the battle for Port Angeles.”

The drive westbound along the shore of Lake Crescent was uneventful, but the glorious vistas of forested mountains and shimmering lake waters only emphasized the distance we had come away from help and safety. After an hour on winding forest roads we entered Clallam Bay, which was devoid of life, like a smaller version of Port Angeles. Signs of death and destruction were plentiful, however. The gas station that had been the scene of our encounter with the madman was reduced to charred, twisted, rusted metal - both the gas island and the building itself. A trace of black ash and bones near the burnt-out gas pumps marked the spot where the maniac had immolated himself.

As I rolled westbound out of town I passed an old, homey-looking tavern. Its beer lights were dark and the place was empty. Its front door was open wide and a dead couple lay sprawled on the front porch steps. Her body lay across his as if he had been cradling her in his arms when he died. Both bodies were bloated and covered with buzzing flies. Any crows and ravens here had apparently moved on to the east. The stench of rotting flesh encouraged me to gain speed as I rolled out of town. I glanced back at McKean and the boy. They were slumped in positions reminiscent of the dead couple on the porch. I pressed the accelerator down harder.

Chapter 22

The first trip to Neah Bay had been one of positive anticipation. The second, one of deep concern. This third trip was one of abject terror. The sights and smells of Port Angeles and Clallam Bay made it clear the last vestiges of society on the peninsula were unraveling. The sky overhead filled with ragged clouds as I negotiated the serpent coils of the cliffside road with my teeth clenched and my hands tight on the wheel. Immense raindrops spattered the windshield like the bullets that had riddled the motor home at the Narrows Bridge. I squinted through the splatters while following the twisting curves, but a resurgent fever made me see faces in the rain spots - hallucinations of half-human, half-raven creatures and two-headed serpents. A sweat broke across my brow. The windshield fogged and I put the defroster on full, but it scarcely held off the haze closing in from the sides, constricting my view until I seemed to be driving through a tunnel.

Sheets of rain chased each other across the highway, driven by a stiff wind. Every gutter was swollen. Muddy floods crossed the road and drained on the ocean side. In places mud oozed like volcanic flows down the hillsides and into the ditches. At every turn the Mustang slid toward the ditch or the cliff but I kept the accelerator down.

Eventually we emerged from the serpentine road and I breathed easier driving the last stretch into town. The rain abated, but gloomy clouds hung low over Neah Bay. As we rolled along wet, deserted Bayview Avenue, lack of electric lighting in the homes and buildings confirmed the power was out here as it had been in Port Angles and Clallam Bay. Just as I began to anticipate a similar apocalypse, I spotted a reassuring sight. In the open shed outside the Makah Elder Center, the same chef in denim jeans and Pendleton shirt was tending his bonfire kitchen. A dozen salmon filets on sticks were roasting around the coals. In contrast to the wretched humanity we had seen along the way, the man looked chipper and tidy with his long gray hair braided and neatly hanging down his back. He smiled and waved at us as I pulled off the road and stopped beside the shed.

“First visitors in a long time,” he said to me when I rolled my window down. “Glad to see somebody’s still alive out there.” Then his face lit with recognition at my front-seat passenger. “John Steel!” he cried. “How you doing?”

John got out, holding the harpoon, and they embraced. The man stepped back and pointed at the weapon. “Ho ho!” he exulted. “You got it!”

“Sure did!” Steel exclaimed.

“Take it inside! Everyone will want to see it!”

John looked at me questioningly and I nodded. I got out, cinched my collar against a cold wind and followed him to the building. I glanced back at Peyton McKean and saw that he and his son hadn’t moved.

A near-capacity crowd of Makahs filled the elder center, sitting by the fireplace or at tables buzzing with conversation. There were no electric lights but the big room was day-lit by the tall windows overlooking the bay. Children played on the floor while elders held court at a dozen tables. There was a sense of warmth and calm despite the storm blustering outside. The room grew quiet when we walked in.

“Hey!” someone cried, “It’s John Steel, back from Seattle!” More than one voice called a cheery greeting. Then someone exclaimed, “He’s got it!”

John raised the harpoon high and shouted a victory whoop. The crowd broke into cheers and applause. Children crowded around Steel, wanting to see and touch the weapon. When they dispersed to run and play, John and I were surrounded by a dozen familiar old faces. Alma Kingfisher and Arnie and Ginny Musselshell and other old folks gathered to ooh and ahh at the harpoon or touch it as reverently as the children had.

John grinned. “Here it is, everybody. What do you think?” Arnie Musselshell patted the shaft with one hand. “Good work, Johnny,” he said. “Any trouble getting it?”

Steel shot me a grin. “Plenty of trouble. But Fin helped me get outta town.”

“That’s the way it is,” Arnie replied. “When something’s important, you gotta fight for it.” Ginny touched the shaft as well. She said, “Your daddy’s gonna be so proud, Johnny!”

Alma Kingfisher took a good look at me and her happy expression turned to one of concern. “Oh my,” she said. “You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” I admitted. And then a thought struck me. “Do you have any sea spinach?”

“Sea spinach?” Alma replied. “I suppose we might.”

“Haven’t you heard? It’s cures the disease.”

A murmur went through the crowd. Alma’s eyes widened and her penciled brows raised. “No one told us. We didn’t know…”

“For God’s sake,” I said, struggling against a tremor. “If you have any, get it quick!”

Ginny Musselshell brightened. “Yes! We’ve got two big five-gallon plastic bucketsful in the freezer. Gordon Steel brought it here because he didn’t have any way to keep it at his longhouse. The power has been out for a couple days, but it’s probably still cold.”

“I’ll get it,” Arnie said, hurrying for the kitchen door. Several other oldsters followed him to help.

As we waited, Alma said reassuringly, “Remember, Fin Morton, the name ‘Makah’ was given to us by our neighbors, the S’Klallams. It’s their word for ‘Generous with Food.’ ‘

“You are kind,” I replied. “I want to get some down Peyton McKean’s throat, and then his son. Then, we’ll try to get back to Seattle with as much as you can spare. If you have enough, I’m sure Peyton can isolate the active substance.”

Arnie Musselshell came back looking regretful. “It’s all been taken,” he said. “Both buckets are gone.”

“I know who took it!” Ginny Musselshell cried. “Dag Bukwatch was snooping around here the other day. I sent him packing, but I guess he got what he came for before I spotted him.”

My temporary revitalization faded. “Does anyone else around here have any?” I asked.

Arnie shook his head. “We ate the last of ours a couple days ago. Didn’t know it was so precious. We need another whale!”

Alma Kingfisher said, “Mine’s gone too. Those protesters stopped any hope of getting more.”

“We could go door to door,” Arnie suggested.

Alma shook her head. “Most folks probably wouldn’t give up what little they’ve got, knowing it fights the disease. Folks have got to think of themselves and their kids first.”

“Of course they do,” I murmured dejectedly. I drew a deep breath and summoned a last measure of resolve. “Back to our original plan, then, John? Ask your father?”

“Sure,” Steel replied. “Let’s go.”

Alma and the others followed us to the door. She called after us, “Be careful. There’s been trouble out that way.”

“Uh-oh,” Steel said as we walked to the car. “Looks like we drew a crowd.”

A group of sullen-looking young Makah men had gathered near the Mustang. We hurried to the car and the group surrounded us as we got in. Steel rolled his window down and said, “Hi Donald.” A wiry fellow of about nineteen wearing baggy black jeans, a black leather coat and black tee shirt, whose long black hair hung loose over his shoulders, put his hands on the window frame and leaned in and looked me and McKean over. “How come you white guys ain’t dead?” he sneered.

John clapped me on the shoulder and grinned. “Comes from eating right, eh, Fin?”

“Truth is, I’m not feeling all that well.” A wave of feverish heat flushed my cheeks.

Another member of the group, big Eugene, whom we’d encountered at Dag Buckwatch’s compound, rapped a knuckle on my side window. I rolled it down and he leaned in to look at McKean and his boy. “The DNA man don’t look so good.”

“We’re taking him to see my father,” Steel explained.

“Spirit Cove’s a long way from here,” Eugene rumbled. “You won’t get these white guys past Cousin Dag - alive.” The others laughed maliciously.

“I guess we’ll see about that,” Steel muttered. “I don’t want no fight with Dag.”

“Yeah, but he wants a fight with you, if you take these guys out there.”

“What’s his problem - ?” Steel began, but Eugene cut him off with a growl.

“There’s quite a few Makahs, including me, who don’t want to help no white people at all. We say let ‘em die the way we died back in the 1850s. Maybe that’ll even the score. Let the protesters rot in hell!’

Steel shook his head slowly. “Everybody’s gone crazy.”

“Crazy, are we?” Eugene seethed. “You’re the crazy one, if you help these guys do anything but die. Cousin Dag’s declared the land around Spirit Cove a liberated zone. Says it’s sovereign Makah territory again. No white folks allowed. And your father has thrown in with him. He’s their spiritual leader on a new warpath. He’s like Crazy Horse and Dag’s like Sitting Bull. The Indian Wars ain’t over in Neah Bay. This time, we’re gonna win!”

“I don’t think so,” Steel resisted.

“Believe what you want. Cousin Dag sees these guys and - ” He made a throat slitting gesture.

“Let’s get going, Fin,” said Steel. “There’s no point in any more talk.”

I started the engine and backed out of the parking spot. The young men followed us onto the street and Donald called after us, “You go out there, you’re dead men!”

“We’ll take our chances!” Steel shouted.

I accelerated the Mustang quickly to put some distance between us and them. A thump on the back of the car made me check the rearview mirror. Beer bottle glass was scattering across the roadway. Another beer bottle smashed on the pavement beside us before I drove out of range. At the Spanish fort I turned southbound onto the road to Cape Flattery and pressed the pedal down farther. As I drove, my eyes began itching miserably. I stopped on the empty highway and rubbed them with both hands while a bout of dizziness washed over me.

“You okay?” Steel asked. “You don’t look too good.”

“I’m alright,” I lied. I took a deep breath and drove on just as a rusted gray sedan with a rumbling engine pulled up on my tail. Squinting through bleary eyes at the rearview mirror, I couldn’t make out the faces within the tinted windows.

“Donald at the wheel,” Steel said. “Eugene riding shotgun - literally. And the other boys are in the back.”

The gray car followed us closely but made no aggressive maneuvers. I drew my cell phone out of a coat pocket thinking I might need to call 911, but it displayed the message, “Out of coverage area.” I followed the winding road around the south coast of the cape until I came to the small opening Tleena had directed me into on our first visit. The gray car followed uncomfortably close as I entered and began negotiating the mud holes and rutted turns of the road.

After passing several jagged headlands and dark forests, we reached the clearing where Dag Bukwatch’s trailer home stood. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the home and the other trailers, but I saw no one out of doors. I drove quickly past the house but was forced to halt just beyond it, stopped short by a heavy chain stretched across the road between two huge stumps.

A man who had sat on the porch of the house unnoticed, stood up. He flicked a cigarette butt into the bushes and then opened the front door and called inside. A moment later, Dag Bukwatch and two other men dressed in camouflage military fatigues came out and hurried down the steps. They jogged in our direction as I nosed the Mustang up to the heavy-looking chain. The sedan halted just inches behind us, and its occupants got out to join Bukwatch and the others to surround us.

Steel rolled his window down and said half-humorously, “You don’t look too happy to see us.”

Bukwatch scowled silently back at him. He carried the wooden club he had put my headlight out with. Eugene walked past us on my side, checking the breach of his shotgun. He circled one of the stumps, walked in front of us on the far side of the chain, and snapped the breach shut. Holding the weapon at the ready, he gave Bukwatch a brutish smile.

“Look who’s back in town,” Bukwatch sneered at John. “The drunken Injun.”

“Drunk or not, I got this.” Steel held up the harpoon.

“Anybody could get that,” Bukwatch scoffed, “once the babalthuds are dead and gone. Why’d you bring these white men here?”

“They’re sick. Gotta see my father.”

“No white man’s gonna see your father,” Bukwatch growled. “Not now. Not ever!”

I had kept my foot on the clutch. Now, I slipped the shifter surreptitiously into first gear. The chain was no more than a foot off the front bumper. I gauged the strength of the chain and thought it might be strong enough to stop us.

Bukwatch came nearer Steel’s side of the car. He slapped the club onto an open palm. “Get out!” he demanded. “All of you!”

Steel leaned close to me and whispered, “If you’re gonna do something, do it now.”

That was all the prompting I needed. I jammed the gas pedal to the floor and let out the clutch. The engine roared and the wheels spun and dug into the muddy ground. The Mustang leaped forward.

“Shoot!” Bukwatch shouted. Eugene raised the shotgun as the bumper of the Mustang stretched the chain tight. The car bogged down momentarily but then the chain snapped and the car surged forward, reaching the big man’s knees quickly. He leaped to the side to save himself and simultaneously pulled both triggers. His hasty aim sent buckshot rattling across the top of the Mustang. With lead flying, the other men dove for safety. Eugene tumbled into a thicket of salmonberry brambles. The Mustang gained speed quickly and raced forward, splashing up fountains of dark muddy water on both sides.

Behind us, the engine of the big sedan roared to life.

“They’re coming!” Steel cried. “Drive hard. It’s not far to the trailhead.”

I piloted the Mustang through a wide puddle. Muck flew out on all sides and splashed over my windshield, painting it brown with slop. The tires spun in the middle of the wallow and the Mustang fishtailed and slowed. When the tires finally bit gravel and started moving us forward again, Donald’s sedan rounded a bend in the underbrush and plunged into the wallow, throwing out walls of muddy water ten feet high. I got the Mustang back up to speed, but Donald’s front bumper was now just a few feet behind us. I kept the accelerator floored and steered around rutted turns that threatened to tumble us over sideways into the brush. Try as I may, I couldn’t shake Donald, whose heavier rig got better traction than the Mustang. When we came to a straight stretch of graveled dry road, the Mustang’s big engine helped me pull away. I kept the gas pedal down hard as the road veered around a huge Sitka spruce trunk, knowing my only chance to reestablish a lead over our pursuers lay in the Mustang’s superior maneuverability. The stunt worked, and as we barreled down the next straightaway I glanced back to see the sedan lumber around the turn at a much slower speed. Momentarily feeling triumphant, I kept the accelerator floored and raced into the next turn. As I rounded another huge tree trunk at an almost impossible speed, Steel shouted, “Easy, Fin! The cove’s right ahead - “

His voice trailed away. We shot out from the forest cover into the glare of a sunset that stabbed my eyes with dazzling blood-red light. The sky opened to a wide expanse of ragged dark clouds with a gap at the horizon through which the sun shown with hellish intensity. My initial surprise turned to shock as I realized, too late, that we had already reached the parking area at the top of the bluff. The road cut sharply to the right but my speeding Mustang flew directly to the brink of the sea cliff. I slammed on the brakes and pulled the wheel hard to the right, but the tires skidded on the gravel rather than turning us. A moment later, the Mustang launched off the brink and flew into the air above the cove. We hurtled through space and the Mustang swiveled in the air as if it were a crazily thrown dart. Then it nosed down, hooked its left front tire on a rock, and tumbled over twice on a steep hillside. Airbags erupted around us. We were tossed inside the car like rag dolls. The Mustang smashed sidelong against a huge bolder and crunched to a bone-jarring halt. I was slammed against the side of my door and felt a jolt of pain like a rib had cracked. Somehow, miraculously, we stopped right-side-up and wedged against the immovable boulder that kept us from plunging off the full height of the cliff.

Stunned, I shook my head, trying to regain my orientation. Out the cracked front windshield, I saw that we hung over the brink of the cliff, which dropped eighty feet straight down to the roiling water where the narrow end of the cove was swept by huge breakers.

The Mustang was smashed all over and windows were broken out. My door was crushed shut against the boulder so I crawled out my shattered side window, clutching the branches of bushes that clung to the brink of the cliff. John Steel did the same on his side.

“Quick,” he called. “Get McKean out. The trail’s just ahead!”

I scrambled around to the passenger door and pulled it open with John’s assistance, and then helped my groggy friend get out. As McKean stood shakily, I heard vindictive laughter and looked up to see Dag Bukwatch standing at the edge of the parking area twenty feet above us. He smacked his club against his palm and sneered down at us. “Nice try.”

“Listen to me, Dag,” Steel pleaded. “My father can help these guys. You’ve got to let him decide if he will or he won’t. It’s not your call.”

“He ain’t helpin’ no one. Spirit Cove is my territory now and your father is gonna do what I tell him from now on. And I say these white men die.”

A noise made me turn. Peyton McKean, who had seemed barely mobile, had taken his bundled-up son from the car and begun to stagger up the rocky slope with the boy in his arms. He looked ashen white and his shaky long legs seemed about to give out at any moment. Somehow, he carried Sean up to where Dag Bukwatch stood waiting. John Steel and I followed and as we reached the level of the parking area, Bukwatch put a hand against McKean’s shoulder and stopped him. “Where you going, DNA man?” he taunted. “Don’t you know when to lay down and die?”

The boy moaned weakly. McKean, either oblivious to Bukwatch or trying to ignore him, turned and tottered toward the trail entrance. Bukwatch walked beside McKean and sneered, “So you’re the great white hope are you? I bet you’ll die as easy as any other babalthud.” He raised the club and swung it before John or I could shout a warning. The weapon smacked the back of McKean’s skull with a loud crack! McKean sprawled headlong onto the roadway, unconscious. His limp body covered his son. The boy moaned underneath him.

Maybe it was the injustice of Bukwatch’s action, or the disease taking me further in its grip, but whatever the cause, a red haze came over my eyes. I roared my outrage and rushed at Bukwatch, wanting to sink my teeth into his throat. Before I could reach him, I was intercepted by two of his henchmen who grabbed me and held me between them. I raged and gnashed at them until Eugene jabbed the end of his shotgun into my guts. “One barrel or two?” he yelled. I stopped struggling.

Meanwhile, McKean came around. Stunned, but driven by paternal instinct, he tried to rise. He got as far as his hands and knees but Bukwatch stood over him like an executioner. “It ends here,” Bukwatch muttered. He raised the club to deliver another blow to McKean’s head.

As the club came down, John Steel rushed past me and parried the strike with his harpoon, deflecting the club away from McKean. Then he leveled the harpoon tip at Bukwatch’s heart. “That’s enough!” he snarled. Bukwatch dodged to the side and aimed a sidearm swing of the club at Steel’s head. Steel once again parried the blow with the shaft of the harpoon. Then with what seemed like martial-arts precision, he swept the harpoon in an arc that came up under Bukwatch’s chin. Bukwatch staggered backward and the mussel-shell tip narrowly missed cutting his throat. Instead, it tore a bloody gash across his cheek.

The two men squared off, poised and motionless for a moment.

“Stop!” a female voice cried. Tleena Steel rushed toward the group, having emerged from the dark opening of the cove trailhead. She wore a horrified look on her face. Andy Archawat followed close on her heels, his jaw set grimly.

“Stop it! All of you!” she cried. “Have you all gone crazy?”

“Nobody move!” shouted Eugene, raising his shotgun to cover John Steel, Tleena, and Archawat, stopping the latter in their tracks.

Bukwatch aimed another fierce swing at Steel’s head. Steel dodged sideways but the blow came down on his shoulder, staggering him. Too close now to use the harpoon effectively, he clasped Bukwatch’s collar with one hand and pulled him sideways. The two men tumbled down the slope toward the brink of the cliff. They stood up and Steel swung the harpoon handle, catching Bukwatch’s club hand and knocking the weapon away. It spun through space and disappeared over the brink. Undaunted and growling like a mad beast, Bukwatch lunged and grappled with Steel for the harpoon.

The two men struggled off balance until Steel stumbled and almost fell. Bukwatch wrenched the harpoon from his grasp and thrust the tip at Steel, catching him at midsection. The weapon sliced into Steel’s ribcage and both men stopped. With a look of shock on his face, Steel teetered momentarily at the edge of the cliff. Then, seeming to know he was doomed, he grabbed Bukwatch’s coat collar with both hands and pulled him over the brink. Bukwatch’s cry of triumph changed to a terrified shriek as Steel launched them both out into the air over Spirit Cove.

I broke free of my restrainers and rushed to the edge in time to see the two men, still locked together, cartwheel into the face of a huge breaker. A final scream from Bukwatch merged into the roar of the wave as it thundered onto the base of the cliff.

Tleena was beside me as the wave withdrew. “John!” she screamed down at the frothing water. There was nothing below us but the churning surface illuminated in stark shades of sunset orange, red and purple. Both men were gone. “John!” she screamed a second time and her wailing cry echoed off the cliffs across the cove.

Archawat came down and took her in his arms. She buried her face against his neck, weeping and repeating, “Oh, no, no, no!”

Bukwatch’s henchmen stood above us looking on in disbelief. Near them, McKean struggled to his feet and picked up his boy. He began walking with unsteady, lurching movements in the direction of the cove trail. Eugene turned to intercept him but Tleena sprang from Archawat’s arms and scrambled up the slope roaring like a lioness, “Don’t you touch him!” She rushed between Eugene and McKean and shouted in the big man’s face, “Haven’t you done enough? Let him go. For God’s sake, let him go!”

Cowed by Tleena’s wildcat ferocity, Eugene backed up a step and bumped into Donald, who was close behind him. He lowered his shotgun, looking contrite. McKean staggered to the trailhead and I followed him. Tleena and Archawat came with us, leaving the renegades standing silent and stunned. When we reached the dark opening in the brush where the downhill trail started, Tleena led the way and McKean followed in ungainly motion, carrying Sean’s limp body horizontally across his arms.

I reached for Sean and said, “Let me help,” but McKean made an animal growl that warned me off. His eyes were vacant like Pete Whitehall’s had been when he fell under the deepest spell of the virus.

Tleena led the way down the gloomy trail and Archawat took the rear, watching for trouble behind us. We descended the steep switchbacks with great difficulty. Shadowed by dense foliage overhead, the weak evening light scarcely touched the forest floor. We stumbled over the roots of gigantic trees. McKean’s breath came in rasps from the exertion of carrying the limp boy. I gasped too, as fever gnawed at my equilibrium and blurred my vision.

Rustling noises came from the ink-black branches overhead and a faint cackling grew in volume until suddenly a deep voice called out, “Hrock! Hrock! Hrock!” Seeming as much human as animal, it was answered by a second voice on the other side of us, “Hrock! Hrock!”

“Ravens,” I muttered. “Gordon Steel said they can smell death on you before you die.”

“Don’t think about that, Fin,” Tleena urged. “Just keep moving.”

In my dizzy perception, the birds seemed to be discussing their chances of making a meal of us when we fell. Sporadically, the whup-whup of wing beats trailed us through the darkness as we stumbled down the path. My heart pounded in my chest until I thought it would burst. I was about to cry out for a rest when Tleena led us out onto the sandy trail through the dunes. As we hurried away from the dark forest, a raven taunted, “Hrock! Hrock! Hrock!”

Blood-red post-sunset light glowed on the horizon beneath ragged purple clouds moving over the cove on a stiff wind. I followed Tleena and poor, staggering Peyton McKean through the dunes beside the longhouse until we reached the front. Where the stream split the driftwood rampart, the shingle-stone beach opened before us. Surf rolled in from the mouth of the cove, rattling the shingle stones and sweeping on to the narrow end of the inlet where John Steel and Dag Bukwatch had disappeared. The froth was reddened by sky-glow and stained crimson by a ruddy taint in the water. It seemed as if the entire cove was awash in the blood of John Steel and Dag Bukwatch. But when I looked farther down the beach, I saw the true source of the discoloration.

“A whale!”

The dead leviathan had been pulled ashore by heavy ropes around its tail. Its lifeless flukes were high and dry above the wave wash but its head lay in the sea and was inundated by breakers. Incoming surges rushed around the carcass and drained fresh crimson floods from its gaping baleen-filled mouth.

Silhouetted against the glow of the horizon, a half dozen men were cutting blubber from the carcass using long poles with curved flensing knives at their ends. Busy at their task, they took little interest in us. Only pausing briefly to glance our way and exchange a few words, they turned their attention back to the whale. Billy Clayfoot, now rid of his cast, made a deep vertical slash with his flensing knife, and stout Jerry Tibbut pulled the long slice of blubber from the whale’s side. Raising it to his shoulder, he splashed ashore and walked up the beach toward us. He passed us with only a nod to Tleena, ignoring McKean and me as he went inside through the raven’s-beak doorway.

Another man came out as Jerry went in. Obscured in shadow beneath the raven’s beak with his small bent body wrapped in a bearskin cape, the man was nonetheless familiar - this shadowy apparition was Gordon Steel.

“Father!” Tleena called to him. “These men need your help.”

He stood silently for a moment and then stepped forward until the sky glow illuminated his scowling face in hellish red light. He approached McKean closely and muttered, “I told you once before you are not welcome here.”

“But, the child,” Tleena pleaded. “Dr. McKean’s son is sick - “

“McKean’s son?” Old Steel glowered. “McKean’s son? What about my son? Johnny’s lost in Seattle.”

Tleena tried to keep back tears but failed. “No, he’s not,” she sobbed.

“What do you know about Johnny? Tell me!”

She shook her head and stared at the ground. “He’s dead,” she murmured.

“What?” The anger on his face turned to horror. “How?”

Tleena hung her head and wept out loud. Archawat answered for her. “He fought with Dag Bukwatch to help these people. Now he and Bukwatch are both at the bottom of the cove.”

“Is this true?” Gordon asked, stepping near and staring into Tleena’s face. She nodded affirmatively. His scrawny shoulders slumped under the bear robe. He was silent for a long time, as if agonizing thoughts filled his mind to overflowing. Then he looked at Archawat hard. “Did my son bring the harpoon with him?”

“It fell in the cove, too.”

“Haiiiyee!” The old man cried out. “Haiiiyee!” He cast his eyes upward to the glowering skies and tugged his disheveled hair with one hand. “It was all for nothing!” he cried. “My son’s life was wasted!” Then he lowered his gaze to McKean and his eyes narrowed. “You outsiders brought this trouble here. You won’t get one bit of help from me!”

The last color had drained from McKean’s face. His legs buckled and he went to his knees in the sand, still cradling the boy in his arms.

“You’ve got to help them, Father!” Tleena cried. But her appeal only enraged the old man. Scowling down like a demon, he pointed a trembling finger at McKean’s almost-unseeing eyes.

“This is how my people died. Fathers watched their sons die and then laid down and died beside them. My great-grandfather saw all his brothers and sisters lying dead on the beach. Now it’s your turn, DNA man. Tell me how it feels when your own flesh and blood dies in your arms!”

“Please Father,” Tleena begged. “Stop - “

“Now you know how my ancestors felt!” Steel raged at McKean, ignoring his daughter’s plea. “They saw the smallpox eat their babies alive. And they could do nothing!”

“Father - ” Tleena tried again, but the old man interrupted her by pulling a raven-shaped rattle from under his cape and shaking it over McKean. Wide-eyed with rage, he sang a challenging angry chant, “Hey-ah-hey-yey-ah!” He leaned closely over McKean and hissed, “This is how it’s been for Indian people ever since babalthuds came here. Our children die from your diseases and your drugs and your alcohol. That’s what took my son from me, your big cities and your poisons and your damn money! Now it’s the babalthuds’ turn. You lie down on this beach like my ancestors did, and you die beside your boy. Then you’ll know why I hate you. Then you’ll know why I’ll never lift a finger to save you!”

He spun around and walked toward the longhouse. He muttered, “I’ve got blubber to salt and meat to dry. I’ve got no time for them.”

“Father!” Tleena called after him. “At least take them inside by the fire!”

He spun. “No! Take them to the beach and let them die there. Let the sea carry away their bodies. Let the crabs and gulls and ravens pick their bones clean. Let them die like Makahs did!”

McKean toppled over and lay stretched out beside his boy, motionless. Without so much as a glance at him, Steel turned and disappeared inside.

Tleena and Archawat conversed in urgent tones but their words faded into the roar of the surf as I stared down at my fallen friend. My heart was breaking for him. Spasmodic trembling set in along McKean’s long prostrate body. The boy was motionless, wrapped in his blanket. As I watched their physical life ebb with the infection and the numbing cold wind, a deep sense of pity welled up in my heart. Sprawled on the sand I saw, not the world-renowned scientist on a quest to cure the Neah virus, but a father who dearly loved his son and had done everything possible to save him. I realized tragedy would win this day. McKean’s exertions for his son had come to nothing. Here on this remote beach, the Neah virus, and the wind, and Gordon Steel’s hatred would prevail.

I felt myself going numb - not just my hands and feet, numbed by the chill of the wind, but something deep in my soul grew numb as well. I felt my willpower draining away and I knew I would soon join Peyton McKean and his boy on the sand. As Tleena and Archawat continued their concerned discussion, my mind reeled at the enormity of the situation. McKean and the boy and I were only the vanguard of millions - perhaps billions - who would die. Unlike old Gordon Steel, I couldn’t find a shred of justice in it.

Unable to bear the sight McKean and his boy any longer, I turned and staggered out onto the cobbles of the beach. The surf raged in front of me. Gloomy clouds raced above me. The stark headlands loomed at the mouth of Spirit Cove like the gateway to Hell. Somewhere high in the dark forest a raven taunted, “Hrock! Hrock!”

My senses reeled. I knew I had come to the end of my time on earth. Here in this cold northwest corner of the world, the Lost Souls disease would take me. I decided to hasten the end by wading into the ice-cold ocean. As my feet splashed into the frigid breaker wash, the deeply cutting chill roused me from my mental paralysis. I looked out across cove and the last red glow of daylight illuminated something riding on the chaotic waters. When I recognized it, my heart surged in my chest. I turned toward Tleena and Archawat and shouted, “The harpoon!”

Chapter 23

In the middle of the surf line, where the waves rose six feet high and spilled over, I saw the harpoon’s shaft ride up on the crest of one blood-red wave after another, fifty yards out from where I stood. It disappeared into the froth of a breaker and then reappeared. It surged forward with each wave front and then drew back in the undertow. Wave-by-wave, it was being carried toward the mouth of Spirit Cove and the open sea.

Tleena and Archawat stopped talking and stared at the harpoon. Before they reacted further, something changed inside me. Perhaps the mania overtook me, perhaps some other delirious madness, but without a thought I shed my coat, kicked off my shoes, and splashed deeper into the surf. I was suddenly determined to bring back Gordon Steel’s trophy - for the satisfaction of plunging it into his hate-filled heart if for no other reason.

A big breaker drenched my chest with water so frigid it seemed to scorch rather than chill. I forced myself out farther despite numbness creeping into my arms and legs. Another wave crashed completely over me, leaving me choking. None of this mattered. My mind was fixated on the harpoon. A wave picked it up and hurled it at me in a six-foot wall of water that crashed over my head, forcing me down and filling my ears with an apocalyptic roar. I tumbled over and over in the purple depths and then came up sputtering and gasping. I flailed around for the harpoon, but it had vanished. Another wave drove me down again, taking me deep and dragging me out along the rocky bottom in its undertow. I struggled to the surface, gasping for breath. Spotting the harpoon beside me in the froth, I grabbed it just as another wave roared over me. I went under with the prize in my grasp and struggled to the surface again. The cold water drained the last warmth from my arms. My legs moved stiffly as I swam to the surface and drew another ragged breath. Immediately, a new wave drove me down to the bottom. The impact forced the air from my tortured lungs. As the undertow dragged me outward, buffeting me across the stones of the dark seabed, I grew too numb to do more than flail weakly with the last strength in me. Above me, the undersurface of the ocean was lit by the purple glow of failing twilight. The ocean’s cold sank into my chest, and I realized I had no strength left to fight my way to the surface.

Although I was drowning, I felt no fear. I ceased struggling and a strange peace came over me. The water no longer choked me. The ocean no longer chilled me. I floated weightlessly in a space that was neither warm nor cold. As my consciousness faltered, a sound came from far out in the depths - a whale’s song, distant and hauntingly beautiful. Other whales joined in a chorus of chirps and squeals and rumbling bass notes, as if beckoning me to join them, beckoning me to swim serenely in the ocean’s depths. I sank deeper, yearning to join the whale chorus.

Then something grasped my shoulder as powerfully as Thunderbird’s talons clutching the whale on the Makah totem. Although I wanted to swim out and join my new friends, I felt myself drawn upward and away from them. I gave myself over to the force pulling me out of the depths, and was hauled roughly from the water and dragged through the shallows. Gasping and sputtering back to life, I gaped bleary-eyed at my rescuer. This was no legendary Thunderbird. It was Andy Archawat.

Stripped to the waist, Archawat pulled me ashore like a soggy rag doll, hauled me out of the surf and dragged me up the shingle stones until we were above the surf line. Then he wrapped an arm around my chest and helped me stagger back to the longhouse.

He dropped me beside McKean. While I coughed and sputtered, he took from my lax hand the harpoon I had nearly died for. Stony-faced, he turned and held it out to Gordon Steel, who had come out of the longhouse to watch with Tleena as the drama unfolded. The old man took the harpoon reverentially and looked it over like it was a divine gift.

Tleena said pointedly, “You have Fin Morton to thank for that, Father.”

Steel grunted and glanced at me, but said no more. He went back to admiring his prize.

Tleena knelt beside McKean and gently picked up the boy. She sat on a low dune and pulled the blankets covering Sean’s face away, holding him across her lap like Mary cradling Jesus in the Pieta. Sean’s face was ashen and his lips were blue. His eyes were closed peacefully, as if in sleep.

“Look at him, Father,” Tleena said. Gordon Steel glanced at the boy. “He’s innocent,” Tleena said. “He never hurt a Makah. He’s not responsible for John’s death. He looks like a little angel. How can you let him die?”

Old Steel’s face pinched with pain, but he said nothing.

Suddenly Tleena’s eyes flashed fire and she shouted angrily at him, “Is that what it’s all about, Father? Is that what you want for Makahs? To be crueler to them than they are to us?”

Steel grunted as if receiving a body blow. Slowly, his scowl turned into a tormented grimace. Tears ran from his half-closed eyes. He dropped to his knees between McKean’s unconscious body and the place where Tleena cradled the boy. A low and mournful cry tore from his throat, rising into a shrill agonized wail. “Ha-a-ahhh! I’ll never forgive them for what happened to John!”

“Father!” Tleena shouted as if trying to wake him from a bad dream. “What if this was John right here?”

Old Steel raised the harpoon in both hands and held it up to the dark sky as if supplicating a cruel deity. “Why did you take him from me?” he cried. “Why did you send these people to me instead? Why?”

Tleena didn’t let up. “Will it make you happy to see this boy die? Will it bring John back?”

“Haiiiyee!” Steel cried. He cast the harpoon aside and fell prostrate on the ground. Face down, he uttered horrific wailing cries, clenching fistfuls of sand and dumping them over his head. “I can’t forgive!” he raged. “No, Vi! No! Johnny! I won’t. I can’t…”

“You must forgive, Father! You’ll never heal yourself until you forgive! Hating babalthuds has ruined your life!”

Face down in the sand, old Steel wept like a child. He wept for a long time. McKean lay still, and I lay nearby, unable to rise. Eventually Steel’s cries subsided and I heard nothing but the roar of the surf. The whalers, alerted by the drama of my plunge into the ocean and the old man’s shouts, came and gathered around us. Without lifting his head from the sand, Gordon Steel said to them, “Take them inside. I’ll heal them.”

The chill had sunk so deeply into my skull that my vision faded almost to black, but when strong hands grasped my arms and hauled me up and forward with my feet dragging on the sand, I came partway to my senses. Half-carried through the raven doorway, I glanced back and saw McKean brought along by other young men. They were followed by Tleena, who carried Sean in her arms, and then by a silent and contrite Gordon Steel.

We were helped through the longhouse, passing two hot central fires, both of which hosted collections of kettles and cauldrons seething with blubber rendering into oil. In the walled-off living space at the far end, we were laid out on three cedar couches padded with woven cattail mats and warmed by a smaller hearth whose heat began to thaw my marrow bones. The square living space was crowded with even more totemic art than we had seen on our previous visit. Grotesque human statues, animal-human effigies, and gargoyle demons carved from cedar and painted red, black, and green, had been jammed into the space, while the carved image of the two-headed serpent dominated the wall above us. The four men who carried us in, including Andy Archawat and Billy Clayfoot, sat down in a corner on low seats around a large flat drum. They took up leather-headed mallets and began pounding a slow hypnotic rhythm - boom, buh-boom, buh-boom, buh-boom. Jerry Tibbut, wearing a headband of woven cedar bark fibers, led them in a droning incantation of strange, unintelligible words.

Gordon and Tleena moved around, gathering small bentwood boxes and packages of goods wrapped in buckskin, which they placed near the hearth. Old Steel vanished for a time and then reappeared in shamanistic regalia. His shoulders were covered by a black felt cape with a red-felt two-headed serpent design. The serpent’s body looped across the back of the cape and the necks came over the shoulders. The two heads filled the front with their fang-lined jaws gaping and their snakelike tongues touching where the cape was fastened with a rawhide cord over Steel’s heart. He wore an animal-fur headband from which bear claws projected upward in a crown-like ring, with two clusters of black raven feathers jutting from the sides. His scrawny bare chest was adorned with a dozen ivory amulets on rawhide-cord necklaces. Each amulet depicted a human or animal spirit. Bracelets with dozens of olive shells on rawhide tethers clattered noisily when he moved his wrists. Around his waist was a buckskin apron, fringed at the bottom with clattering shells and decorated on its front with more amulets hanging from leather ties. His thin legs and feet were bare except for anklets of olive shells.

Tleena left momentarily and returned in a ceremonial outfit as well. She wore a doeskin dress and a red felt button shawl with a black Thunderbird emblem on the back, and a leather headband decorated with porcupine-quill beadwork. A dozen tufts of white eagle down hung from the band, surrounding and highlighting her face, which shone in the firelight with the same great beauty that had mesmerized me when I’d first seen her. Haggard though I was, my heart thrilled when she leaned over me to fluff a pillow of animal fur under my head.

“Lie still, Fin,” she said. “Father is about to begin the tsayik.”

“The what?”

“The healing ceremony.”

“We don’t need a ceremony,” I murmured. “We need medicine.”

“You’ll get both.”

Gordon Steel examined Sean McKean closely. He felt the boy’s pulse and sweaty forehead. He said to Tleena, “The sickness has gone far in him. His soul is already in Pukwubis’ grasp. We’d better hurry.”

He went to another part of the longhouse and brought back a long strip of fresh blubber, which he coiled inside a bentwood cooking box about two-feet square and half filled with steaming water. Using a wetted, three-forked stick, he dug among the glowing coals in the hearth and came up with a red-hot, fist-sized stone. He dropped the rock to the cooking box and the water surged into a boil. He transferred more hot stones until the water was bubbling furiously. Thick steam wafted a muttony but not unpleasant aroma from the rendering blubber.

“You watch and learn,” he said to Tleena. He unrolled one of his buckskin bundles on the floor and gathered from it several handfuls of flattened, olive-green leafy material. “This is kakalaklokadub,” he said. “Dried crow-seaweed. It has the power to heal infections.” He dropped it into the cooking box and used a long, ornately carved wooden spoon to mix it with the blubber.

From a bentwood box, he picked up several long vines like dried sweet peas. He coiled these into the cooking box and stirred them in. “Klochtap, the beach clover vine,” he said. “It has the power to give visions and drive away evil spirits. Don’t use too much. It could kill them.”

He opened a second leather roll and took up handfuls of white roots with tan marks dotting their foot-long lengths. “Ba’akhbupt klupach,” he said. “Horsetail roots give strength.” He put them in the cooking box and stirred the mix awhile. He sniffed the rising steam. “It’s good sea spinach. Extra strong. It will summon the healing spirit, Quykatsayak.”

He stood and turned and bowed his head toward the image of the medicine snake on the wall. He shook his raven-shaped rattle in time to the slow beat of the drummers. And then, with great concentration, he began an invocation with an intricate native melody. “Hey-yey ee-yah hey, yah-yah hey-yah!” He shook his rattle to the side and in front and behind him as if driving back spirits that were crowding him, keeping time with the boom, buh-boom rhythm of the drummers.

“The fan,” he called softly to Tleena. She picked up a fan-shaped cluster of eagle feathers. Moving to Sean McKean first, she lightly brushed the fan over the boy’s cheeks, forehead, and upper body while Gordon sang his chant. She repeated the procedure over McKean and then over me.

“This will calm you,” she whispered, lightly whisking the fan over my skin. “It will prepare your spirit for healing.” Tleena’s gentle touch with the fan, Gordon’s droning song, and the slow drumming mesmerized me until my arms and legs felt warm and leaden.

Old Steel returned to the steaming box and set his rattle down. Still singing, he used a carved ladle to dip out a dark green, oily liquid that had gathered on top of the water seething in the box. Waving his free hand around himself as if fending off evil spirits, he took the ladleful to Sean, blowing on the liquid to cool it. He pulled the boy’s jaw open with a thumb and poured a hefty wash of the medicine into his mouth. Sean sputtered and gagged but Steel clamped his jaw shut, forcing him to swallow the dose.

Steel repeated the procedure on McKean, leaving him sputtering as well. Aware of what was coming, I opened my mouth compliantly and swallowed the potion in one gulp. It was much more bitter and saltier than the sea spinach I had tasted before. A strong muttony aftertaste made me gag. Gordon Steel watched me struggle to keep the stuff down with an amused expression. “It was sea spinach that kept you strong while others died, Fin Morton. This batch has a lot more klochtap in it.”

While the drummers continued their hypnotic beat, Steel made four rounds of the couches, administering additional doses to Sean, Peyton, and me. After the third dose, my body became numb all over. After the fourth, the effigies crowding the room began moving in time to the drumbeat. Old Steel took a portion for himself and then set the spoon aside. He watched my face for a moment. “You feel something?”

“Dizzy.”

“Good.”

As the drummers continued their rhythmic chant, he fetched a small bentwood box and took out a seven-inch-long piece of hollowed-out shank bone with a single eagle feather pendant from its middle. Intricate designs carved on the tube formed two serpent heads whose open jaws framed the opposite, open ends.

“A soul catcher,” Tleena whispered to me as her father knelt beside Sean. He made dramatic flourishes of his rattle around himself and the boy, and then placed one end of the pipe to his lips and the other near the boy’s mouth and nose. He inhaled deeply, drawing Sean’s fevered breath into his own lungs. Then he turned and exhaled forcefully through the soul catcher into the fire, which flared in reaction. He moved to McKean and repeated the process, and then did the same for me. I lay still as he performed his magic, unable to budge from my drug-induced paralysis. Steel repeated the ritual four times over each of us as if drawing out ethereal demons and exhaling them into the fire. Then he stood and approached the two-headed serpent on the wall, singing loudly in a thin, high-pitched voice. Tleena joined in with a harmony in a lower register. Continually shaking his raven rattle, old Steel sang for what seemed a very long time. As he did so, my hallucinations intensified. I became lost in a world of dancing effigies. The serpent, too, began writhing in time to Steel’s song.

Even old Steel became mesmerized. He seemed transfixed by the hypnotic stare of serpent’s abalone-shell eyes, just as I was. The drug effect deepened. A buzzing, electrical sensation rippled through my body, and I drifted in a world of reeling, dancing totem spirits.

Suddenly Steel shouted, “Haaiiiyeee!” He dropped his rattle and turned away from the serpent. He now wore the same look of abject horror I had seen on Pete Whitehall’s face. He ran from the serpent, which had begun to writhe powerfully in its place on the wall. In his panic, Steel collided with one totem effigy and stumbled into another, striking his forehead and stunning himself. His knees buckled and he fell into the firepit. I stared in horror as he fell flat-out on the coals, but I couldn’t move to help him. Shrieking in agony, he rolled across the coals and got up and rushed blindly toward the doorway, but instead struck another totem with his head. He collapsed to the floor and lay still.

“Father!” Tleena rushed to his side and tried to lift his limp body. The old man gasped and sputtered, frothing at the mouth. He stared toward the serpent with a terrified expression and unseeing eyes reminiscent of Leon Curtis in his hospital bed. “Hoo!” he cried in a ghostly, vacant voice. “Hoo! Hoo-oo-ooh!”

“Father!” Tleena cried. “Come back! Come back!” She turned and waved the drummers to her. “He’s lost in the spirit world!”

Andy Archawat stood and took a tentative step toward her.

“No! - Sit!” Jerry Tibbut commanded him. Archawat dutifully sat and took up his beater stick and rejoined the others, who hadn’t slackened their drumbeat, although each wore a look of concern for the old man.

As the father-daughter drama played out just beyond the light of the fire, I couldn’t keep their faces in focus. They seemed to vanish into darkness among the dancing effigies. I felt paralyzed and, now, neglected by them. Deathlike numbness began in my hands and feet and crept into my arms and legs. I got a panicky notion that my heart had stopped beating in my chest. Numbness spread into my torso as the relentless drumbeat droned on. And then a new horror riveted my attention. The serpent had taken on full three-dimensional form. It writhed on the wall with its scaly sides heaving, and powerful snorts of vapor bursting from the nostrils of its twin heads. Four unblinking, cold, reptilian eyes fixated on me. Two blood-red harpoon-like tongues darted out of the monster’s mouths. Coming completely free of the wall, the beast slithered to the floor and approached me in a sidewinder-like crawl. As Tleena tended her father and the drummers kept to their task, no one seemed to notice the monster but me. I tried to call for help, but managed only a choked gurgle. The serpent slithered to my couch and threw a python-like coil over my waist. Waves of shock rolled through me, but my muscles still failed to respond. The coils constricted around my midsection and stopped my breathing.

Hissing, the serpent reared its right head and sank its fangs into my belly. I wanted to shriek in agony, but I could not. Its pointed tongue stabbed into my flesh, injecting venom that felt like a hot iron lance piercing my guts. An instant later the left head bit my neck and thrust its tongue deep into my throat, injecting more searing-hot venom. The last of my strength drained. My vision clouded. But then the serpent released me. It slithered to McKean, entwined his body and bit his belly and throat as it had mine. McKean convulsed and then settled with an expiring gasp. As the beast moved to deliver the same fatal bites to Sean, the last flicker of consciousness left me. I fell into a black haze, from which I didn’t expect to return.

* * * * * * * * * *

But I did return. The shrill call of a seabird outside brought me around.

I opened my eyes. The interior of the longhouse was dim and silent. The serpent was back in its place on the wall. The drummers were gone. Gordon and Tleena Steel were gone. Someone had covered me with a thick bearskin blanket. The embers had rendered low, but still warmed me. The roof boards of the longhouse were illuminated by a soft morning glow through the chimney opening. I dozed momentarily, but reawakened when something softly touched my cheek. I opened my eyes and found that Tleena had come and settled on the floor beside me. She was lightly brushing my face with her eagle-feather fan.

“Did you rest well?” she asked.

“I did.” After a moment of sorting through memories, I said, “I thought I died.”

She smiled. “Father says you did. You all died. But his songs and his soul catcher stole you away from Pukwubis. And brought you back to the world of the living.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Why not? It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. It did.” I sat up slowly, with uncertain muscle control. I looked myself over. My clothes were dry but rumpled. My arms, legs, body - every part of me - was whole and in possession of its proper function. Neither the Neah virus nor the bizarre events of the healing ceremony had left a permanent trace on me. For a moment, I reveled in the simple joy of being alive.

Across the fire pit, Sean McKean had joined his father on his couch. They lay under a shared bearskin cover, facing each other with their foreheads touching. The sight of them restored to health and sleeping snugly choked me with emotion. “I could use a little fresh air,” I said.

“Come on, then,” said Tleena. “I’ll go out with you.” She fetched my shoes, which had been set near the fire to dry, and helped me put them on. She slipped on a heavy sable-collared coat and then helped me stand on shaky legs and put my coat on. She took my arm to steady me and we left McKean and the boy sleeping. In the dim but growing light within the longhouse, I could see that a tremendous work of rendering was still in progress. Every possible type of container from modern cauldrons to ancient bentwood boxes were filled with blubber, meat, or oil. Jerry Tibbut was stoking one of the two main fires with crackling cordwood. He smiled and nodded as we passed. Overhead, wooden racks that hung from the ceiling were draped heavily with strips of meat curing in the fire smoke. It was clear the longhouse occupants were letting no part of the whale go to waste.

We went out through the raven-mouth entrance into a dawn that was calm and free of the brutally cold wind of the night before. Gone too were the ragged clouds and rain. The sky was clear, although a thin ocean mist moved past us in soft white billows. The surface of Spirit Cove was as calm as it ever could be. The raging surf that had almost drowned me had settled down to a gentle wash of small waves. The tide was out and the low surf-line fifty yards away sounded a lulling rush, punctuated occasionally by the spill of a wave and the murmur of its outwash.

Arm in arm, Tleena and I strolled past the line of driftwood longs and onto the beach. The whalers were at their butchering duty again, and more Makahs had joined them. A sporadic procession of visitors came and went, each getting his or her share of the whale. Much of the animal had been cut away but more remained and the men with flensing knives worked steadfastly. The front part of the whale had been reduced to a gigantic skeleton, picked over now by a congregation of gulls, crows, and ravens. The ocean had swept away all traces of blood.

As Tleena and I walked past the busy scene I said, “It’s a shame they had to kill a whale, even though it saved our lives.”

She looked at me oddly. “Didn’t anyone tell you they didn’t hunt this whale?”

“But how, then - ?”

“It was struck yesterday by an Alaskan oil tanker bound for Anacortes. Look at the tail where they haven’t butchered it yet. Those big gashes down to the bone are from the tanker’s propeller. The deepest slice broke its tail. Our whalers were paddling on the straight and saw it happen. The tanker just kept on its way without even slowing. But our guys went out to the whale. The poor thing was in agony. It was thrashing. Without the use of its tail it could hardly get its blowhole up to take a breath. So they set a harpoon into it and killed it with a .50 caliber rifle. It died instantly, instead of bleeding to death or drowning. Now it’s food for our people.”

“Incredible,” I murmured. “Tragic for the whale, but lucky for Peyton and Sean and me.”

“It isn’t the first whale we’ve salvaged, you know. Oil tankers and warships and pleasure boats and fishing boats hit whales all the time. That’s how my father perfected his medicine. He got blubber and meat from other whales that died this way. At least those whales gave themselves for a better purpose. They weren’t just victims of modern society.”

Among the visitors on the beach were Arnie and Ginny Musselshell, bundled up against the cool air. They greeted us with smiles as they came away from the whale with their shares. Each carried a pair of one-gallon white plastic buckets overtopped with blubber and meat.

“Everybody’s coming out here today,” Ginny said. “We’re all smuggling it home to load our fridges and freezers. There’s enough to last for years.”

“We have to do it in secret,” Arnie added, “because the Coast Guard would be duty-bound to confiscate it if they knew. They have to enforce the MMPA even if they don’t want to.” Then he grinned. “We’ll even let them eat some, like we’ve done before. Once we’ve got it safely stashed at home, that is.”

“That’s why the Coast Guardsmen didn’t get sick!” I said.

“You’ve got that right,” Arnie smiled. “Most of them have tried some whale.”

“We’ve got to go,” said Ginny. “These tubs are heavy and it’s a long walk up to the car.”

After goodbyes, they joined other Makahs coming and going on the trail up the bluff.

“Come, Fin,” Tleena said, pulling on my elbow. “I’ve got something to show you.” She led me along the beach until the hubbub around the whale was behind us. Near the mouth of the cove, an immense driftwood log rested against the rampart of other logs and stumps that lined the shore. She sat down on the narrow end of the whitened giant, which was more than a hundred feet long and terminated at its far end with a tangle of roots rising twenty feet above the black shingle stones of the beach. She patted the log and I sat next to her, humbled by the grandeur of our surroundings and all the more aware of the great beauty of the woman beside me.

“I love this end of the cove,” she said. “Look at the other side.”

Across Spirit Cove, jagged sea stacks were silhouetted against a bright morning horizon of pastel oranges and purples. On one stack directly opposite us, the snag of a twisted Sitka spruce was lit with the orange light of the rising sun. A bald eagle perched on a gnarled branch. Finely feathered with a dark brown body and white head and tail, it cocked its head to observe us.

“That’s his favorite perch,” Tleena murmured. “I see him there all the time. He comes here to fish and watch the odd things people do.”

We sat silently for a while. I pulled my coat collar together to keep warm and let my mind play over the astonishing events that brought me to this time and place. I was ecstatic to be alive, after facing death at the hands of the Neah virus, Dag Bukwatch, and the ocean. Waves of joy washed over me. And sharing this glorious morning with Tleena Steel made my rapture complete.

A big brown-and-white spotted dog wandered up and eyed us as if hoping for a handout. Seeing no such favor coming, it lay down on the cobbles near Tleena’s feet and rolled onto its side. She gave it a pat on its flank. “Hi there, Harry,” she said. The dog wagged its tail lazily, flopping it on the cobbles as if the effort tested its willpower.

“What a mellow looking mongrel,” I remarked.

“Don’t let Father hear you call him a mongrel,” Tleena replied. “He’s as close to a purebred as we’ve got.”

“Purebred what?”

“Wool dog. Father is trying to recreate the breed.”

“Wool dog,” I repeated. “He does have a pretty thick coat.”

“Before Europeans came,” said Tleena, “Makahs got their wool for blankets and clothing from wool dogs. We plucked it off them when they shed their winter coats. We kept the brown and white separate so we could weave it into patterns. They were a special breed. Never barked at anything. Most dogs stink when they get wet, but not wool dogs. They smelled good, wet or dry. When Europeans brought their smelly, barking dogs, they bred with our dogs until our breed was lost. Father’s been trying to back-breed some of the local dogs until he gets a wool dog again. I think he’s close. Harry smells pretty good and he never seems to want to bark at anything.”

I took a sniff in the dog’s direction but didn’t catch much, other than the fresh smell of the sea air.

Tleena pointed in the direction of the whale carcass. “Look at Andy,” she said with a fond smile. Archawat’s tall figure was easy to pick out among the people gathered at the whale. He had climbed onto the whale’s tail to give instructions to the men with the flensing knives. Tleena sighed proudly. “He cast the harpoon that caught the whale, so he has the honor of dividing it among our people.”

Watching Andy work, I sighed resignedly. “I can see why you’re proud of your man.”

“My man?” She turned to me with a mystified expression. “You mean Andy?” Then her face lit with realization. She slipped off the log, looked me closely in the face, and then broke into a grin. “Fin Morton!” she exclaimed. “Are you jealous of cousin Andy?”

“Jealous?” I sputtered. “Cousin?”

She easily read my expression and came to an understanding of things not said. She smiled and murmured, “What a fool you are, Phineus Morton.” She grasped the collars of my coat, pulled me gently toward her and placed a small modest kiss on my lips. In response, I threw my arms around her and drew her to me tightly. I kissed her long and hard on the mouth, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me back.

After a time I released her and she stepped back, fussing with my collar and smiling into my face. I wanted to confess the depth of my affection for her. But a shout from down the beach interrupted. Andy Archawat was running toward us as fast as he could with his long hair streaming behind him in the wind. As he approached, even Harry got up to see what was the matter. Andy’s face showed such concern that I thought he was about to confront me over the liberties I’d taken with Tleena. Instead, he slowed and pointed behind himself.

“Theron Johnson just came down the hill,” he puffed. “He says Eugene and some of the others plan to ambush you guys when you leave here. They’ve all got guns and they’re gonna kill you and bury your bodies where nobody will ever find them.”

“Oh, my God,” I moaned. “We’re trapped!”

“Maybe not,” Archawat replied. “We’ve got the canoe.”

Minutes later we stood in front of the longhouse with Peyton McKean and Gordon Steel, the former wearing his field coat and hat, and the latter in a black bearskin cape with his bare legs and feet marking him as the cold-impervious Northwest native. Sean raced to and fro on the beach chasing waves and throwing stones, heedless of our danger. In contrast to his happy peregrinations, our discussions turned somber when old Steel explained that he had fed us most of his new batch of sea spinach.

“Our mission could still end in failure,” said McKean. “I had hoped to get enough material to solve the chemical composition of the active principle. But we’ll need a large sample to have any hope of getting an answer before we run out of material.”

“I can make more,” said old Steel, “but it will take a couple hours.”

“Eugene and his henchmen may not give us that much time.”

“Oh, he’ll keep his distance all right. Last time he and Dag Bukwatch came snooping around here, asking if I could make some of their kind of drugs, I told them if they ever came down the bluff trail again I’d put a curse on them!”

“Gordon Steel!” The sharp call of a feminine voice turned our heads. Two women came toward us on the trail from the bluff, carrying a white five-gallon paint bucket with a lid on it between them.

“Denise Bukwatch,” Tleena murmured uneasily. I recognized one of the pair as the woman we’d seen smoking on the porch of the trailer house. She and the other woman approached us and set down their burden. Puffing from exertion, Bukwatch took two cigarettes from a pack and they both lit up, inhaling deeply.

“Eugene’s coming,” Denise rasped between puffs. “Eugene and Donald and Bryan and Jason. They’re all armed to the teeth!”

“Coming here?” old Steel asked as if the statement surprised him. “When?”

“As soon as they work up the courage with booze and meth.” She took another drag. “Your curse has them scared but it won’t stop them for long. They’ve gone crazy with Dag’s idea of getting rid of all the babalthuds.”

“What makes you come to warn us?” McKean asked. “You might be placing yourselves in danger as well.”

“I’ve got this.” She patted the butt of a pistol that she had thrust into the top of her blue jeans. “Besides, I’ve had enough of their bullcrap. I don’t want to see a lot of people die, no matter who they are.” She gestured at the bucket. “So we brought a peace offering. It’s the sea spinach Dag and Eugene stole from the elder center.”

“Incredible!” McKean exclaimed. “You are an angel of mercy!”

“Hah!” Bukwatch responded with a haggish rasp. “That’ll be the day. Now I gotta go before they miss me.” She and her companion turned and walked back along the path to the bluff, trailing thick puffs of cigarette smoke behind them.

Andy Archawat went into the longhouse and emerged with an armload of wooden paddles. “I’ll get the crew to pull the canoe down to the water,” he said. “You guys get ready to go.” He hurried onto the beach, calling to the men working on the whale.

McKean said to old Steel, “I wish I had time to learn exactly how you cook the recipe. I was in no condition last night.”

Steel flashed his whiskery, gap-toothed grin. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t show nobody how to make nothing, especially not a babalthud. But this time I’ll make an exception because you’re a medicine man like me. Come on. All the ingredients are right here.” He led us to the side of the building that faced the bluff. On a wide soggy slope where the stream trickled down, large horsetail rushes grew in profusion. “This is ba’akhbupt klupach.” He bent and pulled a stalk up from the muck with a section of root attached, dipped it in the stream to clean it, and then carried it to the bucket. Opening the lid, he tossed the root in on top of the sea spinach. “You have to skin the root before you cook it,” he explained.

“Next,” he said, wading across the little stream barefoot and heedless of the chilly water, “you’ll need some klochtap. Here it is.” He bent and plucked up some brown, dried vines that had grown on the sandy bank. “What you don’t smoke,” he said with a hoarse laugh, “you put in the recipe.” He came back across the stream and added the vine to the bucket. “Remember, yellow flowers. Pink flowers and you’re dead.”

“But there are no flowers on those vines,” McKean remarked. “They’ve all gone to seed pods. How can you be sure - ?”

“I planted it there myself. Trust me, it’s yellow.” He looked out over the beach and pointed to several rocky reefs exposed by the low tide. “See what’s growing on those rocks?”

“Seaweed?” I said.

“Bladderwrack,” to be exact,” McKean declared, eyeing the rocks and their olive green covering carefully. “A member of the kelp family.”

“That’s kakalaklokadub,” said Steel. “Crow seaweed. I’ve got some drying in the rafters.” He went in the raven door and came out a moment later with a handful of dried leaves in one hand and a piece of white blubber in the other. He put both in the bucket. Gesturing toward the whale, he said, “You know where the blubber comes from. And that’s all there is to it. Boil it till the blubber’s melted and the greens are soft, strain off the water, keep the greens and grease, and you’ve got sea spinach.” He pulled the ornate wooden spoon from under his cloak and held it up. “Give everybody about this much, or maybe two spoonfuls if they’re big.” He put the ladle in the bucket and put the lid back on.

“Thank you,” McKean said. “I’ll analyze everything to find where the active principle comes from.”

“You can’t figure out where anything comes from if you get yourself shot,” Steel responded. “You’d better get going.”

Archawat and his men had dragged the Makah Pride down to the water’s edge and placed her bow in the surf. McKean and I carried the heavy tub of sea spinach between us and Tleena and Gordon Steel followed us down to the canoe. McKean called to Sean, who threw one last rock and then raced to his father, hugging him by one lanky leg. McKean stroked the boy’s hair as we waited to get aboard, and said with profound sincerity to old Steel, “Thank you for saving my son.”

“Other way ‘round,’ Steel said with a grin. ‘You better thank him. He’s the one that saved you all.’

McKean raised a brow. “How do you figure?”

Steel shrugged. “I only helped you because of him. I saw you were a father grieving for a dying son. That’s exactly how I felt about Johnny. I saw what you and I shared was more important than what divided us.”

“My condolences about your son,” McKean began, but Steel waved off the expression of sympathy.

“I made peace with that before I cured you. I figured if John died trying to help you, then the least I could do was help you too. He was brave after all. He did what brave men do sometimes - he gave his life for what was right. I helped you in honor of his memory.” Steel choked a little on the last words.

Sean clambered over the gunwale and into the canoe with a look on his face like a child boarding a Disneyland ride. Archawat oversaw preparations, directing his men to load paddles, water flasks, and strips of raw blubber to stanch the hunger of a trip that was to begin without breakfast. Old Steel said, “They gotta balance the canoe carefully, otherwise she’ll tip on that rough ocean. That’s one thing Quykatsayak, the medicine snake, teaches. This world is only right when things are in balance.” He held his hands up like two serpent heads, fingers on top and thumbs below. “The two serpent heads gotta be in balance, or else something goes wrong. There is a balance between you and me, Peyton McKean. The new medicine and the old. What you don’t know is, I didn’t even know how to make the cure until you told me.”

“What?” McKean exclaimed. “I didn’t tell you anything about it.”

“Remember, you asked Tleena in Seattle, ‘What is klochtap?’ ‘

“I had read about it in the Spanish manuscript.”

“She told me that. And then I knew it was klochtap that made the cure work. That was the secret to making the medicine the way my ancestors did when they saved the last of the Spaniards. So I put extra klochtap in the cooking box last night.”

“And that’s what saved us?”

“Two minds in balance. Working together. Yours and mine.”

“Two heads are better than one!” I interjected. McKean and old Steel laughed.

Archawat called, “Everybody aboard that’s getting aboard!” McKean and I lifted the container of sea spinach into the waiting hands of crew members. Archawat placed the bucket on the floor in front of his skipper position at the stern of the canoe. McKean clambered over the gunwale and joined his son on a plank seat at the bow. As he settled his gangly form onto the seat and put an arm around his son, I turned to Tleena. I wanted to kiss her goodbye, but was inhibited by her father’s presence.

“Good luck, Fin,” she said.

“I’ll see you,” I said. Then I climbed aboard and went forward to take the remaining seat at the bow. Makahs on the shore pushed us into the surf while Archawat called commands directing the crew to paddle in unison and keep the bow into the breakers. A cresting wave surged into us and the bow rode up high and then plowed into the next trough. I held the seat plank tightly to keep from being vaulted out of the boat. The frigid spray reminded me of the preceding night’s nearly fatal encounter with the sea. Archawat called briskly from the stern, directing his crew to ply their paddles first on one side and then the other to keep the Makah Pride moving through the surf. Several more wave crests splashed over the bow, dowsing me and threatening to swamp the canoe. But, by dint of the paddlers’ strength and the skill of their skipper with his steering paddle, the canoe moved out beyond the break line. On smoother seas, several men pulled in their paddles and used wooden bailing scoops to empty water puddled in bottom of the canoe. Then the paddlers resumed their stroke in time to a chant. Archawat shouted “ah-hoo” and they shouted “wah-hoo” in response while simultaneously taking a stroke. Keeping tightly synchronized by this means, they drove us rapidly forward like a team of highly disciplined, bare-chested Marines chanting with their drill sergeant. In seconds, we moved out of the turbulent water of the cove and onto the open ocean, which was smooth except for a series of low rollers. As we left Spirit Cove behind, Tleena and Gordon intercepted a group of four men who arrived on the beach carrying rifles. Among them, big Eugene stood with his shotgun slung across his elbow, watching us move away and realizing his murderous plan had come to nothing.

Tleena watched us too. I raised a hand and waved at her unobtrusively. When she waved back, I forgot the chill of salt water on my neck and smiled. “Yes!” I said under my breath.

“What did you say?” McKean asked.

“Tleena…likes me. At least, I think so.”

He clucked his tongue. “It’s beyond me how romance could creep into your head at a time like this, Fin.”

I shrugged, and waved again at Tleena.

A loud call from Archawat caused the crew to shift all paddles to the left side and pull hard, moving us in an arcing turn around the north headland at the mouth of the cove. We went with such speed that it seemed like a motor was hidden somewhere within the canoe. Soon, the headland hid Tleena from my view.

Chapter 24

Two hours’ paddling northbound through the turbulent channel between Cape Flattery and Tatoosh Island and then eastward along the Straight of Juan de Fuca with a following wind brought us to Neah Bay. Passing small, tree-covered Wa’adah Island, we turned into the harbor and quickly reached the Coast Guard pier. A cutter was tied there with its interior lights and rotating radar reassuring us that at least some modern technology was still functional. We disembarked at a floating dock and climbed a ramp to the pier, where we were greeted by the base commander and two of his men. Although between them they were one Caucasian, one Hispanic and one African American, these men had obviously benefitted from sea spinach and were in fine health. Informed by sympathetic Makahs of our escape from Spirit Cove, they had a rescue helicopter waiting on the base’s helipad with its turbine engine idling.

“You’re already cleared for take off,” the commander said as we strapped ourselves into leather flight seats. He pointed at our helmeted pilot and copilot, who were busy in the cockpit, and said, “These boys are good airmen. I think we can trust them to get you home. Have a safe trip.” Andy and Billy put the bucket aboard and within minutes we were flying through clearing skies over the crags of the Olympic Mountains. McKean threw an arm around Sean to keep him warm while the boy excitedly watched the mountains moving below us. “So far, so good,” McKean shouted to me over the whine of the turbine and thump of the rotors. “I’ve got plans in my head for the first experiments as soon as we get back to Seattle.”

“Peyton,” I called back. “The little matter of your not having a job?”

“A minor inconvenience,” McKean replied with a grin. “If ImCo doesn’t give me my labs back, I’ll go to Virogen with this.” He patted the bucket.

Soon, the white Olympic crags fell behind and we chopped our way across the Puget Sound Basin. Over the towns of Paulsbo and Winslow, black columns of smoke rose from multiple buildings, suggesting the turmoil from Port Angeles was now visiting those streets. As we crossed the blue-green waters of Puget Sound, Seattle’s skyline looked intact, although a telltale trace of smoke in the Sodo district suggested all was not well. McKean questioned the pilot by shouting and learned that the first wave of cases had appeared on the city streets. The chopper set down on the circular helipad of Seattle’s Coast Guard pier and we stepped onto the asphalt and fetched out Sean and our precious bucket.

As we walked away, the chopper lifted off and headed back in the direction we had come.

Lugging the bucket between us, it took ten minutes to walk from the Coast Guard terminal to ImCo with Sean tagging along beside us. The waterfront, normally bustling with tourists and businesspeople, was nearly deserted. A police siren echoed among the skyscrapers. A wild-eyed derelict man wandered along the waterfront sidewalk gesturing and shouting, but we escaped his notice. We reached ImCo without incident, but as we rounded the corner of the building and went for the front entrance, we found ourselves mingling with several dozen people gathered around a VACCINE NOW banner.

“This crowd has thinned since we saw it last,” McKean said.

“Scared off by news of disease in the city,” I suggested.

A man shouted, “It’s the guy who discovered the virus!” The crowd converged on us and surrounded us just short of the door. A woman demanded to know when she would get a shot of vaccine and McKean replied undiplomatically, “Hopefully, never.”

This brought hoots from the crowd, who misunderstood McKean’s meaning. Suddenly a hefty young man made a grab for the bucket. “What’s in here?” he roared, starting a threeway tug-of-war for it with McKean and me. Fear of its contents spilling onto the street galvanized me into action. I doubled a fist and swung hard at the man’s face, catching him solidly on the jaw and knocking him down and out cold. Straddling him, I shouted in a rage, “Anyone else?” The crowd backed off a few steps. I rejoined McKean and we quickly lugged our cargo through ImCo’s main entrance. Sean scurried in behind us.

The crowd pressed after us, but suddenly parted like a school of fish fleeing a predator in its midst. In fact, that impression was not far off the mark. A naked man appeared from nowhere, voicing the all-too-familiar Frankenstein growl. He lurched after first one and then another of the protestors. His eyes, surrounded by purplish flesh, were wide with combined fear and rage. His skin was a welter of bleeding scratches and his mouth was contorted in a snarl.

“Lock the doors!” McKean called to the guard as we hurried to the elevator. “Don’t let anyone in.”

The guard rushed to set the top and bottom latches as a horrific scene played outside the glass doors. Bellowing, the madman seized an elderly woman too slow to get out of his way. She put up a hand to fend him off but he sank his teeth in just above the wrist. The woman shrieked and dropped to the ground. The maniac went down with her, biting and clawing her savagely. The crowd was dumbstruck until a man stepped forward and smashed the stick of his protest sign over the madman’s head. The maniac leaped up with a snarl and went for the man but another man brought his stick down across his neck from behind. Stunned, the maniac turned and ran away, howling like a hurt puppy.

We rode the elevator to the sixth floor, bypassing Peyton McKean’s third-floor labs in order to go straight to the man responsible for McKean’s exile. The elevator doors opened onto the penthouse executive office suite. We crossed the landing of polished green serpentine tiles under a dark cherry-wood wall emblazoned with IMMUNE CORPORATION in ostentatious polished-brass letters two feet tall. We entered the carpeted executive suite where Sally Ann Noonan, the receptionist with blond-rooted black hair and triple pierced ears, sat behind a high cherry-wood bureau desk. She wore a stricken look. When McKean asked to speak with Stuart Holloman, she burst into tears.

“Oh, my God,” she blubbered with tears streaking her mascara. “You don’t know, do you? It was horrible. Yesterday he came out of his office with half his clothes off, bleeding and roaring like a lion. I called 9-1-1 but before they got here, he bit me!” She raised her right hand to show us a white bandage where the fleshy side above the little finger had been bitten. Farther up her arm were bruise marks around her Celtic armband tattoo.

“They maced him and handcuffed him and then they took him to Seattle Public Health Hospital. That’s where he is now. He’s tied to a bed in the emergency ward. They took me there too, but Kay Erwin let me go with just five stitches. She said I wouldn’t catch the disease. Is that true, Dr. McKean?”

“Answer: yes,” McKean replied. “Stuart Holloman probably doesn’t have the virus at all. However, he has proven the vaccine causes the side-effect I feared most. It mimics the disease by damaging exactly the same parts of the brain as the virus. No, Sally, you have nothing to fear from a man who wasn’t even infected. However, just for good measure, why don’t you try a spoonful of sea spinach? We’ve got plenty here.”

McKean dosed Sally Ann with the protective elixir, and then we took the elevator to the third floor, assured now that Holloman’s stricture against McKean no longer applied. He called his coworkers to his office and, sitting in his desk chair, dosed them with sea spinach and gave rapid-fire instructions for the isolation of its active ingredient. Sean and I stood outside watching in silent admiration, until Sean turned and pointed down the hall.

“What’s wrong with that man?” he asked. I turned and saw David Curman standing in his office doorway. He stared in our direction angrily, as if the return of Peyton McKean suited him poorly. I glared back at him, remembering his role as the agent of so much trouble. Then something disturbing caught my attention. His eyes were reddened and surrounded by puffy purplish flesh.

I bent and whispered to Sean, “Why don’t you play with those atomic models?”

The boy scampered in among the scientists standing in his father’s office and knelt to open the favored drawer. I turned to confront David Curman - but he was gone.

The group in the office broke up. Robert and Janet went into the lab carrying the bucket between them, and Beryl followed. They were discussing the duties McKean had assigned them and planning the details of the isolation of the key ingredient. “Get a sample on the liquid chromatograph as quickly as possible,” McKean called after them. “But not before you eat a couple more spoonfuls yourselves. I don’t want anyone getting sick at this juncture.”

I stepped inside the office, intending to express my concerns about Curman. But McKean’s desktop computer made a tone and he pressed a key. Kay Erwin’s face came on the screen. “Thank God you’re there!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

“To the ends of the earth,” he replied. “How about an update on the epidemic?”

“Of course,” said Erwin. Her face looked haggard and her voice sounded as if she were in the depths of despair. “It’s all one great big horrible catastrophe. Both ImCo and Virogen have delivered their first vaccine batches ahead of schedule. Nearly three-hundred thousand doses are being distributed throughout Washington State as we speak. But…” Her voice broke and she burst into tears. “Oh Peyton. You were so right! We’ve just gotten the virology report on Stuart Holloman. There’s no virus in him at all. Plenty of G1 antibodies, though.”

“Just as I warned,” McKean muttered. “Vaccination causes a condition identical to the viral infection.”

“It does,” Erwin agreed. “I just got off a call to the CDC. I demanded an immediate halt to the vaccination plan, and they’re considering it. But there’s been no decision yet. Oh, Peyton. If they inject three-hundred thousand people - “

“They’ll have three-hundred thousand maniacs on their hands.”

“Even worse,” Erwin said, “if they don’t immunize, the virus will spread. It’s got a solid foothold on this side of the sound.”

“Flown here by crows,” McKean murmured.

“By this time next week, we’ll have a lot more than three-hundred thousand maniacs. I can’t bear it. The isolation ward is full and we’ve begun putting new arrivals on other wards. It’s the same thing that happened in Port Angeles.”

“What’s the news from there?”

“The staff began coming down with the infection. As of yesterday afternoon, we haven’t heard from them at all. They’ve been overwhelmed.”

“That’s horrible,” McKean murmured. “We saw the town in chaos.”

“We’re only a day or two from that in Seattle, Peyton. I’m at my wits’ end.”

“I’m not,” McKean reassured her.

“Why? How?”

“My coworkers made sufficient progress with the first batch of sea spinach to put them on the verge of identifying the active molecule. And I have just given them a fresh supply. None of us will be sleeping tonight. I expect tremendous progress by morning. A much better day may dawn tomorrow. Wish us luck.”

“I do wish you luck,” Erwin said, with her expression brightening. “I wish us all luck. If there is anything I can do to help…”

“There is,” McKean replied. “Call the CDC and tell them to maintain their preparedness to distribute a cure. Only this cure will be the real one!”

Sean McKean played with his father’s molecular models on the office floor, looking healthy and boyish in every way. The sea spinach had done its work well. Bubbling with energy, he constructed a complex molecule with hundreds of plastic ball-and-stick atoms in red, black, white and blue. It was clear that the father’s proclivity for molecular structures had been passed to the son.

We left the boy playing on the floor and went to the lab, were Janet and the others were already bustling around, carrying out McKean’s specified tasks. Near the back of the main lab there is a side room behind a glass wall with glass door. Inside, the walls were lined with banks of electronic equipment, and in the center a large mass spectroscopy machine stood on an isolated bench. As we entered, McKean said, “Robert is our mass spec specialist. He’s been making some remarkable headway.” Robert, seated at a desk with computer monitor near the mass spectrometer, nodded an acknowledgement of the compliment but kept at his task of entering commands on the keyboard. McKean explained, “His machine will give us the molecular masses of the sub-fragments of the molecule, once Janet and Beryl have purified them.”

Suddenly Sean McKean raced in, terror-stricken. “Daddy!” he cried, rushing to cling to McKean’s long legs.

“What is it - ?” McKean began, but he was answered by a loud crash from the main lab. “Dave Curman!” McKean shouted. We hurried back in, just as Curman, in the maniacal phase of the Lost Souls disease, swept an arm across a bench full of scientific apparatuses and glassware, which clattered down and shattered on the floor. “Wrroaaah!” he bellowed, and then staggered in a stiff-legged charge, straight for Janet. She screamed and dodged aside. But his real objective was instantly clear. He went after the machine on which she had been working. “The liquid chromatograph!” McKean cried with uncharacteristic panic in his voice.

Curman slammed both palms into the machine, which was about four times the size of a large microwave oven. It slid over the bench top on which it was stationed. But it stopped, teetering on the edge. “Wrro-aahh!” Curman bellowed again, circling the bench to get at the uncooperative machine, going for it with both hands. The others hesitated, but my military training had taught me to move toward the source of an attack. I was in motion after Curman’s first push and I reached him before his second had even connected with the machine. I swung my right fist with every ounce of momentum I could muster, catching him on the side of his jaw with a brutal blow. Without touching the machine, he sprawled on the floor unconscious.

Fifteen minutes later, while an ambulance crew in pressurized isolation suits collected the still-unconscious Curman, McKean’s team returned to their tasks. The attack hadn’t damaged the liquid chromatograph or any other essential equipment. I followed the EMTs and their strapped-down gurney passenger out to their emergency van waiting at the curb. As they loaded Curman into the back of the van, he revived and howled like a wolf at bay.

I asked one EMT, a fit-looking African-American woman with scared dark eyes, “How many cases like this have you had?”

“This is our fifth call today,” she said. “Three yesterday. And that’s just our unit. Things are getting worse.”

The Vaccine Now protesters watched somberly as Curman was loaded into the van. Suddenly, a beefy man came forward and jabbed a thick finger at my chest. “Hey,” he growled. “I’ve got a score to settle with you.” It was the man I had hit on the way into the building with McKean. He looked bigger than I remembered. He doubled a fist and hesitated as if deciding where to plant it.

I parried verbally. “You ought to thank me,” I said. “Dr. McKean can save you all by working on what was in that bucket.” I pointed at Curman hooting his forlorn wolf-wail as the EMTs rolled him inside the van. “Or would you rather have a dose of what that guy got?”

The big man shut up. I turned and walked back inside unmolested, while the crowd absorbed the full meaning of what I had said.

McKean was busy at his desk. After studying screen after screen of data he sighed and sat back. “Well, well,” he murmured. “It looks like we may have a thornier problem than I anticipated. The active principle is not present in any of the herbal medicines Gordon Steel sent back with us. Nor is it present in whale oil, except in trace quantities. Given its virtual absence in the source materials, I am quite baffled by its presence in sea spinach. This is an unanticipated wrinkle.”

“I thought it would be in the klochtap,” I said. “But how can a trace in the whale oil turn into a lot when you add something that doesn’t have it at all?”

“It must be created in the cooking process. Either that or I may have to admit the cure lies in that magic spoon Gordon Steel gave us.” He paused with his eyes blank, deep in thought. “Catalysis!” he murmured after a moment. “It must be catalysis. But that’s a whole other problem to solve.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something in the klochtap converts the whale oil into the active principle by acting as a catalyst, a chemical-conversion molecule. That’s why adding more klochtap increases the potency!”

He turned back to his desk and began studying several of his many photocopies, mumbling to himself in scientific jargon that escaped me. I settled into my chair as he keyed search terms into the Library of Congress website, looking for obscure references. He occasionally summoned Janet or Beryl to propose new experimental approaches. As the day’s laboratory exertions wore on I found myself marginalized, and I began to wonder whether even Peyton McKean’s prodigious mind could avert the looming apocalypse.

I excused myself and went out to take some fresh air on the waterfront. The day was sunny, rare for the time of year and in fact rare for any season in Seattle. Alone on a waterfront promenade that normally bustled with people, I strolled the length of the empty sidewalk, hearing only the occasional call of a seagull. People had deserted the city to keep to their homes as the authorities had admonished.

I stopped for quite some time leaning on a concrete balustrade overlooking the green waters of Puget Sound. As the sun set beyond the Olympic Mountains, I pondered the uncertain future and thought about Tleena in Neah Bay. I wondered if she were still safe from maniacs. I wondered too, if I had crossed her mind.

As darkness fell, I returned to ImCo and went to the third floor. McKean sat in his office in chipper spirits.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed to Janet and Robert as I entered. When he saw me, he added, “And you are to be commended too, Fin.”

“For what? I missed the beginning of the conversation.”

“In your case, for having saved the liquid chromatograph from our mad colleague, David Curman. In Janet’s case, for having used that chromatograph to isolate sub-fragments of the substance that contains the active principle of sea spinach. And in Robert’s case, because he already has Janet’s material loaded on his mass spectrometer. We should know the molecule’s structure before dawn. We are running low on sea spinach again, but close enough to a solution to be optimistic.”

“That sounds fabulous!” I said. “I’m glad I could help.”

“Yes,” McKean said. “And you can help me with another problem, Fin.”

“Just ask.”

He pointed to a guest chair, where Sean sat with his head laid back and his eyelids fluttering.

“He needs dinner and some rest. I don’t trust the streets outside - but the cafeteria, perhaps?”

“I’m your man,” I replied. “I could use some food and rest myself.”

“There are vending machines and couches,” said McKean. “If you’ll look after Sean, I can make this an around-the-clock effort.”

I led Sean by the hand to the cafeteria on the second floor, which was deserted. I got us some sandwiches and soft drinks, and then bedded Sean down on a couch under a couple of clean white lab coats. I took two more and laid down on a couch near him like a watchdog protecting him against the unlikely appearance of another madman. While the lab team pressed on, the night passed without incident in what proved to be an almost deserted building - with the exception of the bustling experimenters on the third floor.

* * * * * * * * * *

When I awoke in the morning I got some yogurt and granola from the vending machines and fed myself and Sean after he awakened. We went to the third floor and found McKean in his office chatting with a visitor, Kay Erwin. She was eating some sea spinach from the otter-shaped spoon. “Ucch!” she complained. “You’re sure this is good for me?”

“You look a little purple around the eyes,” McKean replied. I could see he was right. Erwin was on the brink of the viral disease.

“Go ahead, Kay,” he encouraged. “Eat a couple more big mouthfuls and you’ll be safe against any level of viral contamination.”

Kay scooped a large gob of the remedy from a bowl and ate it with a wry face.

McKean explained, “It’s bitter because it contains a big dose of klochtap and probably more than is necessary. You might feel a little woozy from the psychotropic effects of the klochtap. But don’t worry, the inebriation will dissipate within hours and the antiviral effect will protect you for days. Now, tell me what’s happened since we spoke yesterday. I’m appalled by the prospect of mass immunizations with that foolhardy vaccine.”

Kay choked down the last of the dose and shook her head. “I spent a lot of time on the phone with the White House yesterday. But I didn’t get anywhere. The President is still committed to the Holloman vaccine.”

“Incredible!” McKean exclaimed. “Holloman himself is proof of its danger.”

“The President has personally authorized the National Guard to distribute doses to every public official in the state, including mayors, city councils, police, fire departments, and emergency response people.”

“Those are all the worst choices, of course,” McKean muttered. “Perfect choices if he wants to cripple the response to a catastrophe in the making.”

“It gets worse, Peyton. He’s directed the CDC to make a million more doses of Holloman vaccine, and Fort Detrick’s biowarfare division will make another million doses on top of that.”

McKean shook his head. “Two million doses in addition to ImCo’s and Virogen’s materials. That’s enough to annihilate the entire population of Seattle and half of Western Washington. Or make them into maniacs.”

Erwin said, “At this point it’s still just preparation and distribution of vaccine. But the clock is ticking, and we still don’t have an alternative.”

McKean shook his head. “How long have I got to come up with an alternative?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. How long can we expect the President to wait while things get worse on the streets?”

McKean changed the subject. “Tell me more about Stuart Holloman’s condition.”

“He’s restrained and raving, despite being sedated. We still can’t find a trace of the virus in his bloodstream. But it looks like the vaccine stimulated his immune system to attack his own brain tissues. Just like you said it would.”

“And Leon Curtis? How is he?”

“He’s recovering just fine. We’ve got him off sedation and resting comfortably.”

“Is his mind intact?”

“It appears to be. He’s one of a small group of patients who seem to be recovering.”

“Maybe he took more than just a taste of sea spinach after all,” I suggested.

“Whatever the reason,” Erwin said, “he’s recovering with a strong antibody response against the G2 protein.”

“But not G1?” McKean asked.

“Correct,” she replied. “What little G1 antibody there was, has faded as his G2 response grew. That’s exactly what you said would happen, Peyton. His anti-G1 response is almost undetectable now.”

“The correct and natural response to the virus,” McKean observed. “Not Holloman’s unnatural anti-G1 response. How many Holloman vaccine immunizations have already been given?”

“That first small batch Curman made for the press conference was the only one used so far. About a thousand doses. Five hundred are being held at ImCo for dosing the mayor, city council, and other public officials. The other five hundred doses were already dispensed to the public, right at the front doors of this building.”

“What?” McKean cried. “My God, how? And why? And who got them?”

“Holloman got FDA approval to open the doors of ImCo to the general public in response to a huge crowd of protesters. I believe he was hoping to get rid of them by giving them what they wanted. He asked them to line up, first-come, first-served.”

“How many doses were given?”

“All five hundred, in the space of a couple of hours.”

“So the protesters got what they were asking for,” McKean murmured. “A dose of an incompletely tested experimental vaccine.”

“Poor fools,” I said.

“Their ranks have thinned this morning,” McKean observed. “The small group out there now probably missed the first doses. They’re the lucky ones. Those who got a shot are already sick, I’m sure. So Holloman got rid of the protestors, but not in the way he intended. It’s always a poor idea to stage protests demanding early release of a vaccine.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Kay left for the hospital. The day was filled with unceasing efforts in the lab but, alarmingly, the amount of sea spinach dwindled as each new experiment consumed a portion of what remained. In the late afternoon, as Sean played with his molecules and McKean read at his desk, Janet brought some printout sheets from the lab and laid them in front of him. She and McKean leaned close together over a graph plot with dozens of spiky peaks on it. “That’s it!” McKean exclaimed. They both burst into triumphant smiles.

“Congratulate us, Fin,” McKean exulted. “We’ve identified the antiviral molecule!”

“That’s wonderful!” I cried. Joy welled in my chest to match that written on their faces.

“It’s definitely a component of whale oil,” said McKean. “A tri-glycosylated cetyl derivative of - ” He stopped. He cocked his head and regarded me thoughtfully.

“Go on,” I prompted, pulling a pen and a small writing tablet out of a coat pocket and beginning to scribble. “Aren’t you going to finish that sentence?”

“Answer: no.”

“Come on Peyton. You’re not worried I’ll report it inaccurately, are you?”

“Answer: no, again. You see, Fin, it’s exactly because you are such an accurate recorder of my discoveries that I can’t complete that statement.”

“This is unfair! Are you going to give the scoop to someone else?”

“Answer: no, again.” He looked at me sympathetically.

“But I’ll need the full name for completeness. Everyone will want to know.”

“Exactly. Everyone, including ImCo’s competitors.” He broke into a puckish smile.

“But this is too big a discovery to keep secret - “

“All will be revealed in good time. But not before ImCo’s intellectual property attorneys have staked a claim with the Patent Office. Remember, Fin, I work for ImCo and they own my discoveries.”

“And take credit for them, too!”

He shrugged his angular shoulders. “While you were out, I had a visit from James Scarborough, ImCo’s Chief Legal Counsel. He asked about my progress and then reminded me of my obligation to not let word out about what we’ve found. So, I’m sorry, but your story will have to wait until the patent is filed. ImCo’s legal beagles are wrapping this project in a veil of corporate secrecy.”

“At a time like this? You should shout it to the world!”

“I wish I could. But if I go up against them I’ll be fired again before I can come up with a procedure for mass-producing the stuff. Sorry.”

McKean could see the frustration on my face. He nodded sympathetically. “I’ll tell you a little, Fin. Enough to make an interesting story, but not enough information to help our competitors. It’s a complex fat, a glycoglycerolipid found only in gray whale blubber, as far as I know. It incorporates the cetylol substituent Janet identified, as well as glucose and two other very interesting hexose sugars. The role of klochtap is to provide an enzyme that removes a fourth sugar, sialic acid, from an inactive four-sugar form. That increases the amount of three-sugar, active substance above the levels whale oil normally contains.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is,” he agreed. And then he stopped.

“So, that’s all you can tell me?”

“All for now. But don’t worry, Fin. Our legal department will start writing a patent application today. After it’s done and the Patent Office confirms our filing has priority over our competitors, I’ll be free to give you a definitive structure.”

I sighed. “Okay. So, what’s your next step? There can’t be enough of it in an entire whale to treat millions of people.”

“No. Most certainly not. But knowing its structure, I can develop a way to make it synthetically using off-the-shelf chemical ingredients. However, the synthesis appears to be no trivial matter. If only I had several months to perfect a method, I could say with certainty we can provide the necessary doses. We’ll get started immediately, of course, but the timeframe is uncertain.”

“Then don’t let me hold you up. I’ll get out of your way and let you get to work.”

“Not likely,” he replied.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s already past 5 pm. I need some quiet time to reflect and come up with an effective synthesis protocol. I could batter my brain against the problem for hours in my current exhausted condition and get nowhere. Instead, I think I’ll declare a moratorium. Janet, tell Robert and Beryl that you all can go home and get a good night’s sleep. Come in by 6 am and we’ll start the day with fresh minds.”

“Gladly,” Janet said, rising to go to the lab.

“But Peyton,” I resisted, “matters are getting worse by the hour.”

“Indeed they are,” he agreed. “But scientific breakthroughs require quiet contemplation. Rushing into things and hitting dead ends is a way to waste precious time. We’ll all do our jobs better after some rest.”

As McKean made a few notes for the next morning’s experiments, I left him and went out ImCo’s front door with a small vial of sea spinach, which McKean had given me to protect my health, stashed in a coat pocket. The protesters were gone. Perhaps they had retreated to their homes in fear of attacks by maniacs, or perhaps the backfire of their pressure tactics had given them cause to think things over. Whatever the reason, their ill-advised meddling had ended.

I walked home through empty streets, missing my wrecked Mustang. I passed a man in a rumpled business suit who lay literally in a gutter, raving and snarling at me as I went by. Although he was too weak with the Neah virus to attack, the mad-dog look in his eyes suggested he would bite if I tried to help him. Farther along, I passed a barefoot woman in a camel-colored business skirt and nude-tone bra who wandered the sidewalks aimlessly, scratching her skin and tearing off the last tatters of her white blouse. Her reddened eyes stared at me starkly from puffy, purplish lids rimmed with smeared mascara, but she made no aggressive moves.

If I had any doubts the disease could spread as rapidly in Seattle as it had in Port Angeles, they were dispelled. There were no cars in motion on any street, but here and there wrecks or abandoned vehicles stood in the street at odd angles, most with their doors open, some with their windows shattered out. A column of black smoke rose off to the east but no sound of a siren was to be heard.

When I reached the Denny Heights Apartments and trudged up the stairs, Penny Worthe opened her door only as far as the chain would allow. She peered out with a spooked expression. “Fin!” she said frailly. “You’re not…sick, are you?”

In answer, I smiled and held up the vial of sea spinach. “Come on over,” I said. “I’m willing to share.” She followed me into my apartment and I took the vial to the counter and dished up two portions of sea spinach in bowls. It smelled especially rank after its unrefrigerated travels. While we choked the goo down I turned on my TV. The President was seated at his desk in the Oval Office, midway through a speech.

“Again,” he said, “I want to assure the public that the Holloman vaccine has been recalled, and not one single new dose will be given to anyone. I congratulate the scientists of Immune Corporation for having discovered an alternative treatment that blocks the progression of the disease. However, one significant problem remains. The substance exists nowhere in nature except in the oil of gray whales. This brings me to a sad announcement. Because of the lack of other sources, I have made a difficult but necessary decision. I have authorized the U.S. Navy to immediately begin hunting gray whales with every resource they possess. Based on our understanding of the required dose of the substance, and its limited presence in whale oil, it is likely that the whale population will be severely impacted. This is regrettable but necessary if human lives are to be saved. I have listened to the voices of concerned whale advocates but, given the choice of either whales or humanity, I have chosen humanity.”

I switched off the TV and Penny and I exchanged dumbfounded looks. I said, “I can’t believe it. Peyton McKean’s discovery will be the cause of a whale massacre!”

Penny’s eyes welled with tears. “I petted one from a boat in Baja California. It was such a peaceful creature - so serene, so intelligent. I even kissed it on the nose - ” Her voice broke. I put an arm around her and gave her a hug. She leaned her head against my shoulder and cried. After a while I took her to my door, kissed her on the forehead, bid her goodnight, and watched to see that she got safely across to her apartment.

I slept fitfully. In dreams, I remembered the whales beckoning me to join them under the waters of Spirit Cove. Now the memory of their calls seemed more like cries for help, given the slaughter that was coming.

Chapter 25

The next morning I walked back to ImCo about 8 am. The only people I saw along the way were a few wandering half-dressed souls too delirious to even notice me. At ImCo, the street was deserted except for a trio of curious crows. I found McKean in his office, leaning his lanky body over sheets of computer printout atop the pile of papers on his desk.

“Have you been working long?” I asked him.

“I came back at 3 am,” he said without looking up from his data sheets. “I left Sean with a neighbor. Evelyn is still held off by the quarantine.”

“Three am! But you told everyone to go home and get some rest!”

“I didn’t say how much rest. In this case, I had hardly gotten to sleep when inspiration struck.”

“But now you’ll be too exhausted to follow your own plan!”

“Hardly. After the inspiration, it’s easy to push through to the conclusion whether you’re tired or not. It’s the inventive insight that requires rest, not the labor of proving it out. All that’s needed now is the kind of routine drudgery most people spend their entire lives doing.”

I changed the subject. “The TV news last night was full of dire warnings. Did you see it?”

“I avoided it. I’m quite capable of making my own assumptions. For instance, I assume the sickness has a solid foothold in Seattle despite efforts to contain it on the Olympic Peninsula.”

“That’s right. But have you heard about the whales?”

“Whales?” McKean paused his reading and looked up at me with genuine interest. “What about them?”

I recapped the President’s call for whale hunting. McKean stared out at the brick wall opposite his window. “That’s horrendous,” he said. “I have every intention of developing a synthetic product, but even with my insight, it could take weeks to find the right procedure.”

“In the meantime, your discovery has put the gray whale back on the endangered species list!”

“Why is it,” McKean asked, “that every benefit to mankind comes at a cost to nature? The irony is breathtaking. My discovery will cause the slaughter of whales a thousand times worse than anything the Makahs ever contemplated. The warships are no doubt approaching the whaling grounds right now.”

“Maybe the virus will spread more slowly than people think. There may be time - “

“Precious little,” McKean said. “The situation looks pretty grave. I called Kay Erwin this morning.” He pointed at his computer monitor.

“She looked refreshed by her dose of sea spinach, I assume.”

“As a matter of fact, she did. But she said that, as of last count, hospitals in the Greater Seattle Area have reported a total of ninety-eight cases, with another seven cases elsewhere on this side of Puget Sound.”

“The crows and ravens are spreading it.”

“Agreed,” McKean replied. “I’m afraid this epidemic will explode in the next couple of days, just like in Port Angeles. The pattern is clear. But here comes Janet. Good news, I hope?”

“Yep!” She entered from the lab with a smile on her otherwise weary-looking face.

McKean explained, “Janet has been busy this morning.”

“Since 4 am when you called me in.”

“Yes, well, my inspiration of last night needed your attention. And your attention has been well invested.” He pointed at the sheets he had been studying. “An excellent first step. The mono-glycoconjugate came together in high yield, just as I hoped it would.”

For my benefit, he explained, “I realized we could carry out the entire synthesis using enzymes to assemble the active molecule.”

“Here’s the second step,” she said, handing him more computer printouts.

“Looking good, as well,” he murmured, glancing them over.

“Out of how many steps?” I asked, unwilling to let myself become too optimistic.

“Three,” McKean replied. “There is just one more step in the process, Fin. And Robert and Beryl are hard at work on it. We may see some progress by this afternoon. The timeline to a cure has shortened.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Given the urgency of the situation, I offered to help in the lab, but McKean declined. He explained that members of David Curman’s scientific staff had volunteered, and he was now leading a force of more than twenty scientists. ImCo had never struck me as a lazy place, but now people couldn’t take the time to walk from one lab to another. They rushed down the hallways, hurrying to complete duties Peyton McKean had assigned them. Despite the need for haste, McKean didn’t surrender his scientific scruples. He was particularly concerned that adequate safety testing be done before the new cure was made available to humans. Using fresh active material isolated from Gordon Steel’s batch of sea spinach, and with uncanny ability to foresee problems before they arose, he shepherded the safety-testing process as quickly as he had ramrodded the discovery of the synthesis method. Within hours he was putting a wrap on a highly successful testing regimen in which the oily material showed no trace of toxicity in any cell culture or animal tested. The substance seemed to reserve its toxic effects entirely for the Neah virus, which it proved capable of neutralizing with great efficiency.

Never in my life had I seen such phenomenal speed and effectiveness in scientific research. Janet tuned in the lab’s radio to a news station that gave frequent updates of the disease’s spread from downtown into the suburbs. There were reports of shopping mall-goers fleeing a zombie-like maniac, neighborhoods of people shuttered in their homes in fear of anyone roaming the streets, and even one blazing gas station in Burien reminiscent of my own experience. The news reports seemed to goad McKean’s team to even higher levels of performance.

As the combined workforce applied itself to every possible nuance of McKean’s scientific endeavor, I wandered the labs and halls aimlessly for a while. Passing David Curman’s office and finding it empty, I let myself in and sat at his desk. The room was small like McKean’s and furnished with an office desk, side computer desk, file cabinets, bookshelves, and guest chairs just like McKean’s. However, Dr. Curman had clearly possessed a different approach to organization. The surface of his desk was clean except for a blotter, a small clock, and a telephone. No chaotic strew of papers, no jumble of photocopies and books were to be found.

I appropriated a pad of paper from within Curman’s desk and began writing down my experiences. As I scribbled, I realized Gordon Steel had been wrong about one thing. I wasn’t writing the epitaph of American society. Instead I was chronicling the end of the Neah virus. In my notes, I keyed on the strange and wonderful interaction I had observed between Peyton McKean and Gordon Steel. Once past their initial conflict, their complex blend of old and new thought, of shamanism and medical research, was nothing short of miraculous. I pondered the medicine snake Quykatsayak on Steel’s longhouse wall, remembering how the creature had seemingly come to life and seized me during my hallucination. I thought too, how Steel had said the two heads represented a balance between two worlds of medicine, Steel’s shamanistic lore and McKean’s fastidious laboratory work. Now the two men were on the brink of accomplishing what neither one could have done alone.

I wandered back to the lab just after noon. McKean looked perplexed. “We’ve bogged down on the very last synthetic step,” he said. “The enzyme works less well than I hoped. We’re running out of it and I’ve begun to doubt we’ll get through the impasse without needing to order more. Unfortunately, the supplier is out-of-state. The quarantine might delay the delivery for weeks. If so, we may still have a catastrophe on our hands.”

Near us, one technician from Curman’s group, an East Indian fellow, did a simple thing that alarmed us both. He lifted a purple-gloved hand and rubbed a knuckle at the corner of one eye. McKean went to him immediately and looked into his face. “You’re Biff Sundaralingam, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the man.

“The vegetarian who declined sea spinach because it contains whale oil?”

“Yes, Dr. McKean. So sorry.”

“Just this once, Sundaralingam, I suggest you violate your dietary rules - and save your life.”

The man looked horrified. “Yes, of course - “

Janet interrupted. “But we used the last of the sea spinach on the toxicity tests. Scraped the bottom of the barrel, literally.”

McKean seemed at a loss. “We can’t risk having somebody else go berserk in this lab - ” His cell phone rang. He answered and briefly gave directions to ImCo from the ferry terminal. “See you in a few minutes,” he said to the caller. Slipping his phone into a lab coat pocket, he smiled. “Gordon Steel has just arrived in a pickup truck with two more buckets of sea spinach, enough to dose all of our workers - especially Biff.”

“Wonderful!” I exclaimed. “But how did he get past the quarantine?”

“Kay Erwin convinced the authorities to let him make a special ferry crossing.”

McKean sent Beryl Shum down to await Gordon Steel and arrange for the sea spinach to be brought in at the loading dock. A few minutes later, Beryl ushered two people into the lab: Gordon and Tleena Steel. Gordon’s traditional robes were replaced with blue jeans, a plaid shirt and denim coat. His gray hair was tamed in a thick braid hanging down his back. Tleena was dressed simply in jeans and a red hoody sweatshirt with a black Thunderbird logo on the front. Her unexpected arrival left me momentarily speechless.

McKean shook Gordon’s hand. I greeted Tleena with a hug.

Gordon crowed at McKean, “We’re here to save your white asses!”

“And our white asses thank you,” McKean replied.

“How’s your boy, Sean?”

“Fully recovered and playing with neighbor kids. The resilience of youth is impressive.” McKean’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out as well for your son.”

“What about my son?” Steel said, wearing an inscrutable expression.

“Er,” McKean balked. “His death.”

The old man broke into a gap-toothed grin. “That rumor was greatly exaggerated!”

McKean’s eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”

Steel called into the hallway, “John! Are you coming?”

The day had been full of surprises, but a greater one now walked into McKean’s laboratory. John Steel! He stood tall and straight, his face glowing in healthy contrast to the ruined man I had met in Pioneer Square. I rushed to hug him as tightly as I had hugged Tleena. McKean, overjoyed at the sight of a man he thought dead, shook John’s hand vigorously. John smiled at the astonishment on McKean’s and my faces. “I guess you weren’t expecting me, huh?”

“Not in a million years,” I said. “I remember the expression on your face when that harpoon went into you. You looked - “

“Like I’d been killed? No way! Dag Bukwatch always was a bad harpooner. He didn’t get a good stick. It just ran along the side of my ribcage. At first I thought he’d killed me, just like you thought. That’s why I pulled him off the cliff. I figured we’d both die together. And part of my plan worked. Dag’s still out there somewhere. He couldn’t swim any better than he could harpoon. Now he’s crab bait.”

“But you were wounded - !”

“That harpoon tore out of my side when I hit the water. I went under deep and I came up spouting like a whale, but I knew right where to swim. I told you about Serpent’s Cave.”

“Your failed spirit quest - “

“That’s the place. Right there at the head of Spirit Cove. Surf was roaring right into the cave mouth. But I didn’t fight it like Dag did. A big wave washed me inside. Tossed me up on the rocks. I crawled onto a ledge and stayed put, ‘cause there’s no way out when the tide’s high.’

“But why didn’t you die of exposure?” McKean asked. “Or blood loss?”

John smiled. “I already had a stash of firewood in there. And some fire-making tools. And cedar boughs for a bed. I had a pretty bad gash on my side, but I put some seaweed on it - you know, kakalaklokadub. That stopped the bleeding and kept it from getting infected. I laid by that fire for two days, feeding myself on mussels and goose barnacles I got off the rocks. Finally, the storm calmed down and the tides changed and the water got low enough so I could get out.”

“Amazing,” I said.

“And, you know what else?” John continued. “The first night I was in there I had a vision. Just like I hoped for the first time! Quykatsayak came to me. He crawled up out of the ocean and he hissed in two voices at once. ‘John Steel!’ he said. ‘You are ready to call yourself a man now. I give you a new Makah name. From now on you’ll be called…’” Steel paused and looked at McKean and me. “Well, you couldn’t pronounce it. But it translates to Heals-The-People.”

“Heals-The-People,” McKean said. “A great name for a descendent of Young Doctor and Devilfish.”

John swelled with pride. “That’ll be my new job, healing sick Makah people. I’ll learn from my father how to make the old cures and help our people face the future stronger - like Young Doctor did.”

“That’s a tall order,” said McKean. “But I’m sure you can handle it.”

Tleena wove an arm through his elbow and smiled at him proudly. “I’m going to help him study for his high-school equivalency,” she said to us.

“Then I’ll go college,” John added. “Maybe the University of Washington, if I can pass the entrance exams. And then medical school. I’ll combine modern medicine with traditional cures. I’ve got a vision now, and a mission in life, and the blessings of Quykatsayak. Nothing can stop me.”

McKean turned to old Steel. “Speaking of healing people, let’s put that sea spinach of yours to use immediately. Tleena, would you be so kind as to dish up a dose for every one of my coworkers? There are plates and spoons in the cafeteria. And give the first dose to Biff, there.” He pointed to Sundaralingam, who was rubbing at his eye again.

I showed Tleena to the cafeteria, and we returned with paper plates and plastic spoons. We ladled out portions of sea spinach for everyone in the lab, including a double dose for Sundaralingam.

Back in his office and pouring over new computer printouts, McKean exulted, “Step three complete with a good yield of final product - now we’re in business! Our off-the-shelf chemical supplies are running low, but I’ve got Robert in his car right now making the rounds of labs at the University of Washington and Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center. He’ll bring back kilograms of every component.”

“Enough to make thousands and thousands of doses,” said Janet, who sat at the computer desk, glowing with triumph.

“Exactly,” McKean said. “And Kay has the National Guard preparing to resupply us on an even bigger scale. We can make traincar loads if needed.”

“You’re absolutely certain the Neah virus threat is history?” I asked.

“Answer: yes indeed!”

Gordon Steel came to the office doorway, flanked by Tleena and John.

“We owe you a lot,” McKean said to them.

“Maybe so,” old Steel replied. “But you taught me something, too. Your love for your son showed me I was no different from you in what really matters. I saw I had to forgive babalthuds before I could live with myself. Hating babalthuds for old wrongs was my worst enemy. Now my spirit is at peace. Maybe babalthuds brought diseases, drugs, and alcohol to Neah Bay - but the modern world was coming to Neah Bay anyway. You can’t stop history. I put all that hate behind. Now I face the future with a pure heart.”

McKean broke into a grin. “You were so angry, I thought at first you had created the Neah virus yourself.”

Steel grinned his own gap-toothed grin. “What, you think I got a DNA lab in my longhouse? We don’t even have indoor plumbing. No. It was Raven who made the Neah virus. Raven made the Neah virus to enlighten babalthuds, to show them they don’t know everything. He made it as a sign to say, ‘Don’t be so cocky. Don’t pick on Makahs. Respect the treaty you signed a hundred-and-fifty years ago. You babalthuds go chase after your money and leave the Makahs to chase after whales. Everybody’s okay then.’ And now it’s Makah traditions that’s saving your babalthud hides. But things are still out of balance. If babalthuds want the Makahs’ cure then they’ve got to accept Makahs’ whaling traditions too, right along with their cure.”

“When put that way,” McKean observed, “we have little choice. Either we respect you, or we die.”

“That’s the way babalthuds have always treated us.”

McKean stood and laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I promise you this. I’ll pass your demand along when I present this cure to the world. I’ll have ample opportunity at press conferences, news interviews, and scientific symposia.”

“And I’ll help you in that effort, Peyton,” I added. “I’ll write down this incredible story and publish it for all the world to read.”

McKean said, “I’ve learned something else, Gordon. You were right when you said the Indian Wars are still going on at Neah Bay. The protesters, for all their high ideals, have been depriving your children of food you consider essential to their health and growth.”

Steel grinned. “At last we understand each other.”

McKean nodded. “You could have turned the tables on us, Gordon. You had us at your mercy. But you didn’t condemn us to death.”

“I guess that makes me a nice guy,” Steel said with a wry smile. “Or a fool, depending on how things turn out.”

There was a pause. Then McKean said, “Speaking of Raven, I am reminded of one other mystery, which I had all but lost in the shuffle of activity. I have speculated this virus might first have infected a bird and picked up a portion of its DNA in the process.”

“And which bird might that be?” I asked, beginning to guess the answer.

“Precisely my question,” McKean remarked. “On a hunch, I asked Kay Erwin to send a blood sample from the dead raven you found, Fin. Beryl sequenced a portion of its DNA and found that the gp91 NCAM segment in the raven’s genome was an exact match to the majority of the G1 insertion DNA. However, there were three mutated segments, namely the sequences that cross-react with human NCAM. So we have found our source of the mysterious insertion - a raven!”

“Raven works in mysterious ways,” said old Steel.

“If I may be allowed to speculate,” McKean went on, “I think I can explain the mystery. It seems likely that sometime in the era of the Spanish colonists, a raven ate from the carcass of a dead rabid animal - a raccoon, perhaps - and then picked over a dead salmon washed up on the shore, thereby mixing rabies virus and VHSV virus within its body. Growing inside the raven, the two viruses may have recombined while also capturing a segment of the raven’s DNA to become the triple-recombinant monster that is the Neah virus - part rabies, part VHSV, and part raven. From there, the raven G1 DNA segment may have mutated to become more human-like, enabling its gp91 protein product to home in on the human brain and cause the Lost Souls disease.”

Old Steel nodded. “Transformations. Our legends talk about animals changing into humans and humans changing into animals. Raven knew what he was doing. He did all that on purpose. He’s trickier than a DNA scientist.”

We were all quiet for a moment, pondering the incredible revelations that had unfolded in the space of just a few days. Then Gordon Steel said to McKean, “It is done, then. Everything is in balance, like Quykatsayak teaches.”

“Now Makahs don’t even need to go whaling,” I pointed out.

“How do you figure that?” Steel asked.

“Peyton McKean has discovered a synthetic vitamin W, so your children can take it as a supplement. You won’t need to hunt whales.”

He thought a moment. “Maybe so, Fin Morton. But tell me this. What’s vitamin B12?”

McKean answered for me. “Decades ago, when medical researchers were discovering Vitamins A through E, they learned that there was not just one, but twelve different B vitamins.”

“Well,” Steel responded. “Maybe you’ve found vitamin W1 okay, and it’s good for saving babalthuds. But maybe our kids need vitamin W12. I think its going to take a while to figure that out. Meanwhile, we’ll keep an eye out for fresh whale meat, even if it’s just something your oil tankers killed.”

“You have my respect and sympathy in that endeavor,” McKean replied. “And somehow, some day, I believe all will work out well for whales, Makahs, and babalthuds alike.”

Steel nodded. “Some people think Makahs act like savages - that rich Captain Wayne MacGraw for instance, and his protesters and his movie star friends. But I think differently. I think maybe the next Albert Einstein could be a Makah, but only if he eats a proper diet with lots of vitamin W. Our kids’ immunity will be stronger if they get their vitamin W, and they’ll do better in school. Someday a Makah will win an Olympic gold medal or become a great doctor like you, Peyton McKean. Maybe someday there’ll be a Makah President of the United States. But if there is, I tell you he or she will be raised on a diet with lots of vitamin W. That’s why I’ve been feeding our people sea spinach. I knew those vitamin Ws were in it.”

McKean smiled. “I admire you, Gordon. And I admire the Makahs’ perseverance under pressure from a whole world of whale lovers.”

“Makahs love whales too,” Steel replied.

“Yeah. On the dinner table,” I joked.

Steel nodded his head. “Yes, but that’s not all. Our survival depends on whales, so no one on earth loves them more than us. You are what you eat. And so they are us, and we are them. No one will regret it more than us if many whales must die to keep babalthuds alive. That’s why I wish you success with your synthetic cure, Peyton McKean.”

“Duly noted,” McKean said.

“Just think,” Steel went on. “I had the whole babalthud world in my hands. If I had let you guys die, then that’s the end of the babalthuds - they all die with you. When I realized I could kill you just by keeping my secrets, that’s when I knew I didn’t have to. Makah people have their own destiny. It doesn’t depend on whether babalthuds live or die.”

“Or,” said McKean obliquely, “who is babalthud and who isn’t.”

Steel looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“You might be interested to know what the DNA tests have told us about the Spaniard. Remember him? He’s the one who started all this. As it turns out, he possessed an extremely rare DNA marker, HLA B-499, which occurs in some Spanish populations but is almost never found in other Europeans. And it’s certainly unheard of in Makahs - with two notable exceptions.”

“Two Makahs?” Steel puzzled. “Who?”

“John and Tleena Steel.”

The old man’s whiskery jaw dropped.

“You’ll recall that Kay Erwin’s people took blood samples from both of them,” McKean explained, “to study their immunity to the Neah virus. Knowing the Spaniard’s result, I asked Kay to check them for HLA B-499, just on a whim.”

“You’re saying my kids are babalthuds?”

“No,” McKean chuckled. “Not babalthuds. But not pure Makah, either. There’s at least a trace of the Spaniard in them.”

Steel said, “Now I understand something my grandfather once told me. He said Capitan Nuniez had a child by the Makah woman he raped.”

Tleena looked aghast. “You’re saying I’m descended from a Spanish rapist?”

“Answer, yes,” said McKean, “and Tleena’s father too, if I am not mistaken.”

A genuine look of shock came over Gordon Steel’s face, to match Tleena’s and John’s expressions. Steel resisted. “How sure are you that he’s our ancestor?”

“One chance in seven-point-four-five billion that he’s not,” McKean replied. “And, in genetic testing, that’s about as absolutely certain as you can be.”

“So, all right,” Steel acquiesced. “I believe we’re related to the Spaniard. But not everything can be explained scientifically.”

“Like what?” McKean asked.

“Like the fact you’re standing here alive, today. That’s not science. No medicine could have cured you at the longhouse. You were all too far gone. It was Quykatsayak that saved you. In my trance, I sang to him in the spirit world. I asked him to heal you - and he did.”

A loud cheer went up in the lab and we hurried over. On the laboratory radio, the President was making a public speech. “In conclusion,” he said, “based on news of the tremendous discoveries at Immune Corporation in Seattle, I hereby order the Navy to call off its whale hunt, and order the National Guard to stand by to deliver Dr. Peyton McKean’s treatment to all who need a dose. Thank you, good evening, and God bless America.”

Cheers and whistles and applause erupted all around us. Lab-coated researchers gathered to shake Peyton McKean’s hand. Loud, boisterous conversations filled the lab, which normally was a place of quiet and focused work.

After the congratulations were said and the technicians went back to their tasks, McKean took John and Gordon Steel into the mass-spectrometer room to show them the equipment used to discover the new medicine. Tleena and I watched the work ongoing in the lab for a while, and then went to McKean’s office. After some small talk, Tleena stepped near me. Her beauty made my pulse quicken. I acted, rather than spoke. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tightly. I drew back to look into her luminous dark-amber eyes, and she asked, “It’s not the end of our story, is it?”

I started to speak, but Gordon Steel came across the hall with Peyton and John behind him. The old man stared at me hard as he came into the office. But then his eyes sparkled humorously. “I warned you, Tleena, don’t get involved with any non-Indians.”

“No need to worry on that account,” McKean interjected. “Janet has analyzed the blood sample Kay Erwin’s people took from Fin. Your mongrel heritage, Fin, extends farther than just the European continent. Her tests confirmed the expected DNA markers for the Greek and English ancestors you claim via your given name and surname. But apparently you also have some other more obscure ancestry. Are you aware of any ancestors from New Orleans?”

“How could you know that from DNA?” I asked. “My mother’s side of the family came to Chicago from New Orleans. But you can’t see that in DNA - “

“A hotbed of hybridization, old New Orleans,” said McKean. “Apparently, you picked up some non-European ancestry there that you didn’t suspect.”

“Non-European? Look at me. Do you see anything here except an average middle-class white American? Medium height, medium build, dark blond hair, pale skin, hazel eyes. I’m vanilla through and through.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said McKean. “Looks can be deceiving. Extremely so. The great geneticist Gregor Mendel interbred red and white peas to get pink flowers. And then he bred red and white ones back out of the hybrid in just two generations.”

“Maybe that’s true for peas,” I resisted. “But people are more complicated.”

“Hardly,” McKean scoffed. “Peas have more DNA than humans. What’s true for them is true for us as well. The whiteness on your surface is just the temporary cloak of the current generation. In our mongrel nation, the surface is often less interesting than what lies hidden.”

“I’ve got to think that one over,” I said.

“You are a red-and-white hybrid, Fin. Despite your surface appearance, you’ve got a unique DNA marker from the New Orleans area. Ah. Here comes Janet. I’ll let her explain.”

Janet took on a mischievous grin. “While we were studying the Spaniard’s DNA, I tried to use your DNA for comparison, assuming that you were a typical white American. But your DNA shared some markers with Native Americans, so I ran another set of DNA probes on you and found several more, including one that is among the rarest of all. It’s called RFLP 1205 at the HB21 locus. Do you know what that means?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

“It’s a really special marker,” she said. “It’s from native people who supposedly vanished centuries ago. Ever heard of the Opelousas?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“The Opelousas were a tribe from the New Orleans area.”

“Long thought to be extinct,” McKean added.

“Extinct as a pure breed,” said Janet. “But archeologists found the DNA marker you possess in the bones in an Opelousa grave disturbed by a highway project.”

I was momentarily speechless. My brain was overloading on unfamiliar concepts, as often happens in the presence of my brilliant friend and his ultra-competent technician.

Gordon Steel broke the silence. “Welcome to Indian Country, Phineus Morton!”

“And as long as we’re clearing up mysteries,” said McKean, “let’s not rush to judge Capitan Nuniez a rapist. I have finished my translation of the parchment. The last passage suggests that it was the two clashing cultures, Makah and Spanish, that chose to see their love as a crime.”

He fished out a sheet of paper from the pile on his desk and read it.

“Mother of Jesus, pray for the lost soul of Capitan Nuniez. He had grown feverish, and he wandered outside the walls of our stockade. He was found in the forest by the natives. He died calling the name of the pregnant girl who remains hidden in her father’s longhouse. It is not true Nuniez took her against her will. He loved her and she loved him. And although his child will be born without the sanctity of Christian marriage, Mary please bless the mother and the child as well.

“Our other dead we have burnt, and scattered their ashes on the sea. But here we commit the bones of Capitan Nuniez, who is of royal blood, to rest in the safety of our gunpowder magazine. Tomorrow with the coming of the tide, we will burn the stockade and board the ship and abandon this accursed place forever, as Devilfish demands.

“On behalf of the twenty-four surviving members of the garrison we pray that God and Jesus grant us a safe return to Mexico and Madrid.

“Signed this 7th day of November, 1778, by Ernesto Clemencia, Vice-Comandante. Written and witnessed by Fernando Garcia, physician.”

“That’s good.” Gordon Steel chuckled when McKean finished. “You’re good with words, Peyton McKean.”

“Another mystery solved,” McKean replied. “But a blood sample from you, Gordon, would help nail things down.”

“No way,” said Steel. “But I’ll tell you what you can do. You can put that parchment back in the grave.”

McKean looked surprised. “Why?”

“You know that Indian Affairs agent, Grayson? He’s still on your case.”

“But he’s only concerned with artifacts from native graves,” McKean countered. “He’s probably seen the light by now about the parchment.”

“Other way round,” said Steel.

McKean’s dark brows knit and the old man laughed until he wheezed for breath. Then he explained, “Me and John and Tleena are enrolled as official members of the Makah Tribe. And now you’ve proved we have the blood of that Spaniard in us. So the parchment came out of a Makah ancestor’s grave after all!”

McKean smiled. “Once Leon is fully recovered, I’ll give him the parchment. He can take it back to Neah Bay and explain everything to Grayson. That ought to settle the matter.”

I accompanied Gordon, John and Tleena on a tour around ImCo’s production facility on the floor above McKean’s labs. McKean showed us how the large-scale manufacture of the cure would be done. Every stage of the synthetic process was shown to the old man, and he grunted approvingly at the stainless steel vats, mechanical stirring motors, fume hoods and electrical process-monitoring equipment in profusion, manned by a determined looking staff of dozens of scientists and technicians who were protected from the disease while they worked by his homemade remedy.

At the end of the tour, McKean asked Gordon to stay and see that things went smoothly.

“No,” said the old man. “I’m sure you can turn Devilfish’s cure into a babalthud chemical. All this modern technology’s just a bit beyond an old shaman like me. Besides, I can’t tolerate the big city for more than a day. Alcohol is too tempting. It’s illegal on the Rez. John will take me home. Gotta go pretty quick. The ferry’s only scheduled once this afternoon and we’re supposed to be on it.”

We went down to the street to say goodbye at the curb, where John had parked the pickup in front of ImCo. There, another shock awaited me. Parked at the curb just ahead of the pickup was -

“My Mustang!” I cried, moving to touch a fender like the shoulder of a dear friend I thought I had lost. The midnight blue paint-job was scraped and dented all over, but the car was intact. “How - ? Who?”

“We ran a cable down from the pickup,” John explained, slapping the roof of his own rig. “Pulled her right up to the road. No sweat. Tleena drove her here.”

My joy at having my beloved car back was tempered by distress at its barely drivable condition. I looked over the dents that covered it from top to bottom and side to side, grumbling to McKean, “No car chases this time. Do you remember telling me that?”

McKean replied, “I’ll try to get ImCo to cover the cost of repairs. After all, the damage occurred while discovering the company’s greatest new source of revenues.”

“Next time, we’ll take your car.”

“Perhaps.”

Gordon got in the passenger seat of the pickup and John sat behind the wheel.

“You know,” old Steel said. “It isn’t all about saving one whale or another, anyway. What’s important is saving all the whales. Saving all the different kinds of whales. But whales have no stronger allies than Makahs. We’re the ones whose lives depend on whales. Not the protesters. The protesters can take up a new cause any time they want. They can go off to Africa and protest starvation, or to the Middle East and protest war, and they can forget about whales any time they want. But a Makah can never change what he is. He’s a whale eater when he’s born and he’ll be a whale eater when he dies. A Makah is bound to whales like nobody else. If whales die off, then Makahs die off too. If Makahs were in charge of whales all over the world, don’t you think we’d make sure they were safe and healthy and strong? We’d make sure there was no pollution in their waters, no drift nets to trap them, no ships’ propellers chopping them up, no military sonar deafening them underwater. And then with solemn prayers for forgiveness, we would take one or two of them to feed our children. We would do it quickly and mercifully because they are us and we are them.”

John Steel cranked the ignition and the old truck rumbled to life. “We’d better go before we miss our ferry,” he said.

“Aren’t you going with them?” I asked Tleena, who remained with McKean and me on the curb.

“No,” she said, waving goodbye to John and Gordon as they pulled out and headed for the ferry terminal. “I told Father I’ll be staying with Aunt Edna for a while.”

McKean excused himself and returned to the lab, leaving me and Tleena standing on the sidewalk. I suggested we take a walk along the waterfront, given that the clouds had parted into an afternoon sunbreak. We strolled for quite some time, arm in arm, passing the fronts of piers and enjoying the fresh salt air. Near the Seattle Aquarium we paused at a balustrade overlooking the lively green waters of Puget Sound. The outbound ferry sounded its horn. Sunlight glinted off the waves and lit Tleena’s face with radiant, rippling light. Before I could speak, she said, “Father thinks I’ll be staying with Aunt Edna, but that’s not the whole truth.”

“It isn’t?” I puzzled.

A delicious smile came over her face. “I’ll go to Aunt Edna’s tomorrow. Tonight I’ll be with you, Phineus Morton, if you’ll have me.”

My heart leaped inside my chest. “Of course, Tleena! I’d be delighted!”

She wrapped her arms around my neck, and we kissed.

Epilogue

It has been quite a few months since Peyton McKean created his synthetic cure for the Neah virus. News media for a time touted Dr. McKean as “The Greatest Mind Since Sherlock Holmes’ for solving the mystery of the virus’s origins and its means of neutralization. The disease was attacked in a sweeping public-health offensive orchestrated by Kay Erwin and carried out by the CDC working with the National Guard. As soon as ImCo’s large-scale production facility was at full capacity, the drug, now dubbed “Imcoline,” was distributed by hazmat-suited soldiers moving in convoys of Humvees and trucks throughout Western Washington.

They delivered the cure to neighborhood after neighborhood until every resident got a dose. The virus’s inroads on the Seattle side of Puget Sound were eradicated before they could spread. Although urban centers on the Olympic Peninsula like Bremerton and Aberdeen had been deserted briefly in fear of the virus, life returned to normal once McKean’s medicine was circulating in their citizens’ bloodstreams.

The Guardsmen faced increasingly difficult situations as their two-pronged assault moved northbound up the Pacific coast and westbound on the Straight-of-Juan-de-Fuca shore. Nevertheless, small towns were rescued one by one. Only the towns nearest the outbreak’s origin were a challenge. Port Angeles on the east, and Forks on the south of Neah Bay, had descended into chaos. Even those towns, however, sheltered majorities of unharmed people who had heeded the calls to stay at home. Most had survived on stored food and emerged from hiding as the Guard restored power and moved through the streets bullhorning the call to get a dose of Dr. McKean’s chemical salvation.

Virogen produced an identical product under license from Immune Corporation and distributed it on the East Coast and in the Midwest. Small outbreaks occurred at or near airports in Denver, Chicago, and Miami, but these were quickly contained by feeding Imcoline to the victims and all their neighbors, coworkers, and other contacts.

Despite the Neah virus’s lethal nature, it claimed only 177 fatally-infected victims all told. A further 345 people recuperated with lasting sequelae including emotional and neurological disturbances. David Curman died from his exposure to the brain-killing effects of the Holloman vaccine. Stuart Holloman himself remains hospitalized long-term in a peculiar conscious-coma condition, in which he is unresponsive to the world although apparently wide awake. The production and further testing of Holloman vaccine is permanently banned by the FDA. However, a new vaccine engineered by Peyton McKean utilizing only the G2 proteinis making its way through careful preclinical testing in hope of developing a backup therapy for Imcoline. The new vaccine, given the trade name NeahVax, is set to become ImCo’s most successful product and has rocketed the company’s stock to all-time highs on the New York Stock Exchange.

Peyton McKean himself has been reinstated as an ImCo employee, although he has not been given any greater rank. On the contrary, another Holloman subordinate, Ronald Lindahl, a man McKean once described as Holloman’s greatest ass-kisser, has been elevated to replace the man he so often kowtowed to. Nonetheless, McKean has been recognized by scientists around the world for defeating the virus. His scientific credentials have advanced even if his seniority at ImCo has not.

Concerning the source of the epidemic, namely the Spaniard’s virus-contaminated coffin, the facts are obscure. A new house now stands on the spot where the tomb was discovered. The dark crypt itself was decontaminated with a flood of chlorine gas and then obliterated with a fill of muddy soil. Leon Curtis, now fully recovered and immune to the Neah virus, was bold enough to enter the crypt one last time before its destruction and remove the Spaniard’s sword and scabbard, which after sterilization have taken their place among the cultural artifacts housed at the Makah Museum in Neah Bay, including the now decontaminated parchment.

The exact fate of the bentwood cedar box and the bones of Capitan Nuniez are the subject of much speculation by Alma Kingfisher and others at the Makah Elder Center. It is known that federal agents swarmed the lot for two weeks overseen by the BIA man, Grayson. It is known that the coffin, removed before the crypt was gassed and filled, was put into a large military truck with biohazard insignia on its back doors. It is known that the truck left town eastbound under armed National Guard escort. Beyond that, all is guesswork. The most favored notion is that the coffin and its contents now reside in an isolation facility at the Biological Warfare Unit in Fort Detrick, Maryland. What will become of them next is anybody’s guess.

Sean McKean, with the vigor of youth, made a rapid recovery and was reunited with his mother after the quarantine lifted. He shows no lasting mental effects and, as before, evidences signs of possessing a full measure of his father’s vast mental capacity. My neighbor Penny Worthe narrowly missed a dose of the bad vaccine, but she is hale and hearty and as nosy as ever.

Even my peace lilies have prospered, as Penny pointed out they need standing water in the saucers under their pots. Since I adopted her method, their brown spots have gradually cleared up.

The bank towers and other money-making skyscrapers of Seattle were shut down for a few unforgettable days. Whether their normal denizens paused during that time to contemplate what is truly important in life, who knows?

The town of Neah Bay was never significantly threatened because most whale-eating residents were resistant to the virus. Today life there has resumed its charming tribal contrast to the bustling babalthud city of Seattle two-hundred miles and a few centuries to the east.

John Steel completed his high-school equivalency studies under Tleena’s tutelage and awaits word on his application to the University of Washington. Gordon Steel remains a mysterious figure, hidden away in his longhouse at Spirit Cove. He provides sea spinach for all in Neah Bay who have a taste for it, and that means most people. His source of blubber is obscure because Spirit Cove is remote from the prying eyes of babalthuds, but it seems likely no Makah child will ever again lack a serving of vitamin W.

As for Tleena Steel and me - well, that’s another story.