The Pinocchio Syndrome

He stood up. ‘Want to see it?’

‘Absolutely.’ Karen got up to follow him.

‘You’re not squeamish about bodies, are you?’ he asked.

‘No problem.’

He took her to one of the autopsy rooms. He left her to wait alone while he went to find the body. He returned with an assistant who was pushing a gurney.

The assistant unzipped the body bag. Thankfully, the smell that emerged from the corpse when he pulled down the zipper was essentially formaldehyde, reminding her of her lab days at college.

The face of the body was like that of any cadaver, gray and expressionless, the features slack.

‘Caucasian male, about forty,’ Dr Waterman said.

As he pulled the bag aside, Karen saw the distorted hands.

‘Hardened, fused,’ she said.

‘Correct. More like modified cartilage than skin.’ The doctor picked up one of the hands. ‘I’ve never seen anything remotely like it.’

I have. Karen was thinking that the corpse’s hands were almost identical in appearance to the hands of the victims in Australia. She did not volunteer what she knew.

‘Have you done tissue studies?’ she asked.

‘Informally, on my own, yes. I probably shouldn’t have – the big shots in Atlanta will want complete control – but I couldn’t resist. It’s not normal tissue. I’m not enough of a cell biologist to understand it, but I do know that in all my years of tissue biopsies I’ve never seen changes like this.’

He showed her the feet. Just as in Australia, the digits were distorted and partially fused, and the heel and sole had pulled together in a hooflike shape. Death had done nothing to alter the distinctive, troubling look of the foot.

‘I’ve checked my medical books,’ he said. ‘No luck. I can’t find a disease, no matter how rare, that has this feature.’

Karen felt a suspicious throb of lightheadedness as she studied the corpse. It occurred to her rather remotely that she hadn’t had much to eat in the last three days.

Before she could complete the thought her eyes began to roll up in her head. Her lips and hands tingled. She tried to steady herself against the gurney, but failed.

The doctor caught her before she could fall to the floor.

She came to in his office, lying on a deep leather couch. He was standing over her with a glass of water in his hand. She felt horrible. Her head ached intensely, her stomach was queasy, and she felt too dizzy to sit up.

‘I’m embarrassed,’ she said.

‘Don’t be,’ he smiled. ‘It happens all the time here.’

‘It really wasn’t the body, so much,’ she said weakly. ‘I’ve been on airplanes for the last three or four days. I’m jet-lagged.’

He smiled indulgently. ‘Yes, that would do it too.’

He revived her with water followed by strong coffee. He insisted that she remain lying on the couch. He was surprised to see her pursue her story even in her weakened state.

‘You reported this to the state health authorities?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘I copied my e-mail to the CDC in Atlanta. Nobody got back to me. Either they’re swamped, or it’s a bureaucratic thing. A snafu.’

‘I’d like to ask you to do me a favor,’ Karen said. ‘Can you keep a lid on this for another twenty-four hours while I check out a couple of things?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ the doctor said. ‘We’re supposed to report anything out of the ordinary.’

‘You’ve already reported it,’ Karen said. ‘All I’m asking is that you sit tight for one day. There are people at the federal level who need to know about this.’

‘Which people?’

Karen was thinking of Joseph Kraig. But she didn’t want to mention any names. She knew this story was in danger of being classified within hours. She needed to get to the core of it before that happened.

‘I’d better not mention any names,’ she said. ‘But I promise to get back to you by tomorrow at this time.’

He shrugged. ‘All right. I can wait.’

‘And put this body somewhere safe,’ Karen said. ‘Don’t let it disappear.’

‘Aren’t you being a little paranoid?’ he asked.

Karen smiled. ‘Humor me. There may be aspects of this thing that could be embarrassing to some people. You never know.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll put it somewhere safe.’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Karen said. ‘I promise. Right now I have to fly back to Washington.’

‘Are you sure you’re well enough?’ the doctor asked. ‘You look like you could use a night’s sleep.’

‘I’ll sleep on the plane.’

‘Let me get you something to eat before you go. Honestly, you look pretty weak. There’s a restaurant right in the next block.’

Karen realized he found her attractive. He was a young man, after all. No doubt her fainting spell had endeared her to him. In his specialty he would not often have the opportunity to take care of living people, much less young and attractive women.

If she agreed to go with him it would delay her departure for Washington by an hour. On the other hand, it might bind the handsome young doctor to her sufficiently to make him keep his word about the body.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘That’s nice of you.’

She felt a bit woozy as she got to her feet.

‘Careful,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Let me help you.’

18

Plainview, Texas

November 28

12:40 P.M.

The Reservoir was controversial.

Its maintenance was paid for by state taxes as well as local fees, but local residents felt the state could not be trusted to maintain it properly. Leaks had been discovered in some of the retaining walls since the last election, and the state had been slow to repair them. Experts hired by the county government determined that the purification equipment was out of date. The state sent in its own experts, who held that the equipment met all federal standards and would not need to be replaced for twenty years.

The reservoir was crucial to the community because rainfall was an irregular thing in these parts, and drought could hit when it was least expected. Farmers joined local homeowners in putting constant pressure on both the county and state to enlarge and modernize the reservoir.

Today three small boys, all fifth-graders, had climbed the fence and were sailing toy boats on the rippled surface of the water. They had observed the maintenance building long enough to determine that the staff was out for lunch.

The boats floated jerkily on the water, pushed this way and that by gusts of wind.

‘I dare you to jump in,’ said the tallest of the boys, whose name was Ethan.

‘You’re crazy,’ said the others. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘If I go first,’ Ethan said, ‘that means you two have to go too.’

‘Bullshit,’ said the boy named George. ‘Does not.’

‘Does too.’

‘Does not.’

The smallest boy seemed impressed by the dare, but not willing to jump into the frigid water.

‘There, look.’ Ethan was pointing at his sailboat, which was floating away toward the deep center of the reservoir. ‘If I jump in, you two have to go too.’

He pulled off his jacket, slipped out of his running shoes, and leaped into the water.

‘Jesus!’ he cried as the coldness enveloped him. But he began to swim toward the drifting boat, his arms flailing.

‘Get out of there!’ the other two shouted. ‘You’re crazy!’

‘You faggots!’ Ethan called. ‘You pussies! I’m gonna sink your boats.’

He had almost reached the boat when he saw the object.

It was transparent, a globe about eight inches in diameter. It was floating a few feet from him. It would have been invisible had he not chanced to come directly upon it. The blue sky was reflected on its upper surface.

‘Hey,’ he said, more to himself than to the others. He trod water, edging closer to the floating globe. The others, on shore, could not see it.

‘Hey, this is cool,’ he called, turning to look at his friends. ‘Hey, I found something.’

George and Andrew shouted in unison, ‘What?’

‘A thing – a globe.’ Ethan stretched out his right hand to touch the object, still treading water. His finger, already chilled by the water, touched the globe’s surface. It felt like plastic.

‘Hey, you guys,’ he called. ‘Wait till you see what I found. If you only had the guts …’

He swam behind the object and gave it a push toward shore, intending to guide it to his friends. To his surprise, the surface of the globe was brittle and seemed to crack at his touch.

‘Hey!’ He patted the globe again to push it toward shore. The outer surface crumbled like a layer of ice. For an instant he saw something inside and reached to touch it. It was a viscous mass, colorless. Even as he felt it on his hand it dissolved. The shards of the globe were nowhere to be found. They also had dissolved.

‘Damn it,’ Ethan said. ‘Fuck.’

‘What is it?’ called George. ‘What’s going on?’

Ethan now remembered his mission and made a show of sinking his friends’ boats. Claiming that he was used to the water, he swam around in front of his friends for a good five minutes, pushing the boats this way and that as he shouted insults at those less brave than he.

Then the chill of the water began to penetrate his young body, and he came in to shore.

‘There’s no towels or anything,’ said George. ‘You’re gonna get sick.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Ethan. ‘I’m not going to get sick.’

A few moments later the boys were gone, their cries echoing over the water.

Cuernavaca, Mexico

6 P.M.

Stray dogs were everywhere.

They clustered around the tourist buses in packs, whimpering for a handout. The tourists, all Anglos, watched with distaste as ragged children kicked and punched at the dogs to get at the bus windows.

‘Señor, Señora, money, money, money!’

‘Amigos, bienvenidos!’

‘Layee, give me money!’

The contrast between the crisp mountain air of the town and the fetid odors of dirty children, pariah dogs, and cooking was bizarre. In the distance the snowcapped peak of Popocatépetl could be seen, pine forests gracing its slopes. The other volcano, Ixtacihuatl, was hidden by clouds.

The tour company had obviously picked one of the most squalid tourist areas to stop at first. One good-humored woman was pointing a video camera at the children, who laughed in delight and cut capers before her. The other tourists, tired from their voyage, sat dully, their eyes half closed.

The tour director made a halfhearted effort to shoo away the dogs and children, then began herding the tourists off the bus and toward the restaurant, which was incongruously named Le Café Américain.

The restaurant’s owner had come out to greet the tourists. A short, heavyset man wearing a white apron, he was the first to see the plane.

It was a small one-engine plane, apparently a crop duster. It was flying back and forth over the valley, the drone of its engine almost drowned out by the clamor of the children and the barking of the dogs.

A couple of the tourists followed the direction of his gaze and looked at the plane. Then, like the others, they were distracted by their own concern to get into the restaurant without being besieged by the children.

The driver, a mustachioed Mexican wearing a faded dungaree jacket despite the intense heat, waved the children away halfheartedly. He stood by the door of the bus, helping the female passengers down onto the dusty street. He kicked savagely at a stray dog, which yelped and limped away.

‘Watch your step, please.’

He noticed the plane, which, crisscrossing the valley, was now emitting a trail of spray that settled languidly onto the fields. He reached into his pocket reflexively for a cigarette, then remembered the passengers and waited until the bus was empty.

The driver and the restaurant owner fought off the dogs and children until the last of the tourists was inside the restaurant. Then the driver offered the other man a cigarette. They used the same match. For a moment they stood side by side in silence, gazing out over the valley.

‘Chingar,’ said the driver. ‘What’s with the plane?’

‘Government bullshit,’ replied the restaurant owner. ‘Trying to impress the gringos, something.’

‘Crop duster,’ the other man shook his head. ‘There are no crops where he is except cactus.’

‘And the arroyo.’

‘The last part of it, sí. Hardly more than a trickle at this time of year.’

‘Another way to waste our money.’ The restaurant owner took a long drag on his cigarette, then unwillingly threw it in the gutter. ‘Hasta luego, amigo. Have to feed the animals,’ referring to the tourists.

The driver watched the children converge noisily on the discarded cigarette. Then he climbed into the overheated tour bus to get out of the sun.

The plane had banked toward the town and now circled above the narrow streets in the thirsty dusk, occasionally trailing threads of mist.

19

Alexandria, Virginia

November 28

Karen got back to her apartment late in the evening. She had left her car in the long-term lot at the airport and driven home through light traffic.

She was drained. Her jet lag had reached incalculable proportions, and the mental exhaustion of pursuing such a difficult story was taking its toll.

She was beginning to wonder whether it was all real. Perhaps she was tilting at windmills again. True, a lot of people were sick, including the vice president of the United States. Others were dead. But were they all victims of the same disease?

The symptoms of the illness were bizarre. So was the pattern of the spread. It didn’t make much sense. But did that mean there was a conspiracy afoot? Perhaps there was a simple and logical explanation for everything.

Karen poured herself a drink – the first really stiff one she had had since she left home – and took a long swallow before peeling off her clothes. She left the drink on the kitchen counter and unpacked her suitcase. She emptied the hamper, threw all the dirty clothes into the washer, and started the cycle. She walked naked into the bedroom and looked in the drawer where she kept her bras and panties. No panties – they were all dirty.

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