that Dicken had been tracking for the past three years. The disease had already received an in-house name at the CDC: Herod’s influenza.
With the mix of brilliance and luck that characterized most great scientific careers, Lang had precisely pegged the locations of the genes that were now apparently causing Herod’s influenza. But she did not yet have a clue what had happened; he could tell that in her eyes in Tbilisi.
Something more besides had drawn Dicken to Kaye Lang’s work. With her husband, she had written papers on the evolutionary significance of transposable genetic elements, so-called jumping genes: transposons, retrotransposons, and even HERV. Transposable elements could change when, where, and how often genes expressed, causing mutations, ultimately altering the physical nature of an organism.
Transposable elements had very likely once been the precusors of viruses; some had mutated and learned how to exit the cell, wrapped in protective capsids and envelopes, the genetic equivalents of space suits. A few had later returned as retrovirus, like prodigal sons; some of those, over the millennia, had infected germ-line cells – eggs or sperm or their precursors – and had somehow lost their potency. These had become HERV.
In his travels, Dicken had heard from reliable sources in Ukraine of women bearing subtly and not-so-subtly different children, of children immaculately conceived, of entire villages being razed and sterilized … In the wake of a plague of miscarriages.
All rumors, but to Dicken evocative, even compelling. In his hunting, he relied on well-honed instincts. The stories resonated with something he had been thinking about for over a year.
Perhaps there had been a conspiracy of mutagens. Perhaps Chernobyl or some other Soviet-era radiation disaster had triggered the release of the endogenous retrovirus that caused Herod’s flu. So far, he had mentioned this theory to no one, however.
In the Midtown Tunnel, a big panel truck decorated with happy dancing cows swerved and nearly hit him. He stood on the Dodge’s brakes. Squealing tires and a miss of mere inches brought sweat to his brow and unleashed all his anger and frustration. ‘Fuck you!’ he shouted at the unseen driver. ‘Next time I’ll carry Ebola!’
He was feeling less than charitable. The CDC would have to go public, perhaps in a few weeks. By that time, if the charts were accurate, there would be well over five thousand cases of Herod’s influenza in the United States alone.
And Christopher Dicken would be credited with little more than a good soldier’s footwork.
CHAPTER EIGHT Long Island, New York
The green and white house stood on top of a low hill, medium in size but stately, 1940s colonial, surrounded by old oaks and poplars, as well as rhododendrons she had planted three years ago.
Kaye had called from the airport and picked up a message from Saul. He was at a client lab in Philadelphia and would be back later in the evening. It was seven now and the long twilight sky over Long Island was glorious. Fluffy clouds broke free from a dissipating mass of ominous gray. Starlings made the oaks noisy as a nursery.
She unlocked the door, pushed her bags through, and deactivated the alarm. The house smelled musty. She put down her bags as one of their two cats, an orange tabby named Crickson, sallied into the hallway from the living room, claws ticking faintly on the warm teak floor. Kaye picked him up and skritched him under the neck and he purred and mewed like a sick calf. The other cat, Temin, was nowhere in sight. She guessed he was outside, hunting.
The living room made her heart sag. Dirty clothes had been scattered everywhere. Microwave cardboard dishes lay scattered on the coffee table and oriental rug before the couch. Books and newspapers and yellow pages torn from an old phone book sprawled over the dining table. The musty smell came from the kitchen: rotten vegetables, stale coffee grounds, plastic food wrappers.
Saul had had a bad time of it. As usual, she had returned just in time to clean up.
Kaye opened the front door and all the windows.
She fried herself a small steak and made a green salad with bottled dressing. As she opened a bottle of pinot noir, Kaye noticed an envelope on the white tile counter near the espresso maker. She set the wine out to breathe, then tore open the envelope. Inside was a flowery greeting card with a scrawled note from Saul:
Kaye.
Sweetest Kaye, love love love I am so sorry. I missed you and this time it shows, all over the house. Don’t clean up. I’ll have Caddy do it tomorrow and pay her extra. Just relax. The bedroom is spotless. I made sure of that.
Crazy old Saul
Kaye folded the note with an unmollified sniff and stared at the counter and cabinets. Her eye fell on a neat stack of old journals and magazines, out of place on the butcher block table. She lifted the magazines. Underneath, she found a dozen or so printouts, and another note. She turned off the heat on the stove and put a lid over the pan to keep the steak warm, then picked up the pile and read the first sheet.
Kaye …
You peeked! This stack by way of apology. Very exciting. Got it off Virion and asked Ferris and Farrakhan Mkebe at UCI what they know. They wouldn’t tell me everything, but I think It’s here, just like we predicted. They call it SHERVA – Scattered Human Endogenous Retrovirus Activation. There’s very little useful on the web sites, but here’s the discussion.
Love and admiration. Saul.
Kaye did not know quite why, but this made her cry. Through a film of tears, she flipped through the papers, then put them on the tray beside her steak and salad. She was tired and overwrought. She carried the tray into the den to eat and watch television.
Saul had made a small fortune patenting a special variety of transgenic mouse six years ago; he had met and married Kaye the year after that, and immediately he had put most of his fortune into EcoBacter. Kaye’s parents had contributed a substantial amount as well, just before their death in an auto accident. Thirty workers and five staff filled the rectangular gray and blue building in a Long Island industrial park, cheek-by-jowl with half a dozen other biotech companies. The park was four miles from their house.
She wasn’t due at EcoBacter until noon tomorrow. She hoped that something would delay Saul and she would have more time by herself, to think and prepare, but this wish made her choke up again. She tossed her head in disgust at her rampant emotions and drank her wine through dripping, salty lips.
All she really wanted was for Saul to be healthy, to get better. She wanted her husband back, the man who had changed her perspective on life, her inspiration and partner and stable center in a rapidly spinning world.
As she chewed small bites of steak, she read the messages from the Virion discussion group. There were over a hundred, several from scientists, most from dilettantes and students, rehashing and speculating upon the spotty news.
She sprinkled A-I sauce over the last of the meat and took a deep breath.
This could be important stuff. Saul had a right to be excited. There were so few specifics, however, and not a clue as to where the work had been done, or where it was going to be published, or who had leaked the news.
She took her tray into the kitchen just as the phone rang. With a little pirouette in her stocking feet, she balanced the
