Robert Wilson - Vortex

Allison hugged me and said good-bye. “Come back,” she said, and then, recklessly, she whispered into my ear: “Soon.”

Uttering even that single word was a risk. She must have hoped the Network wouldn’t hear her; or, if it did, that the word would sound like a lover’s appeal to a man who was beginning to edge out of her grasp.

But that wasn’t what she meant. What she meant was, We have to act soon or we’ll lose our best shot at escape.

She meant, We could be exposed at any time.

“I will,” I whispered back.

Meaning: I know.

It was past ten by the time Sandra finally managed to get hold of Bose. When she explained what had happened he told her to sit tight, he’d be there as soon as he could. Less than half an hour passed before he buzzed her from the security gate in the lobby. She let him in and listened until she heard the sound of the elevator opening in the hall. She waited for his knock before she unhooked the latch and opened the door.

He was in his off-duty gear, jeans and a white T-shirt. He apologized for not returning her calls sooner. She asked if he wanted coffee: she had put on a fresh pot. He shook his head. “Just tell me what the guy said. Best you can remember it.”

The voice had been gruff and a little nasal, an older man’s voice. It was the insinuating familiarity of it that had first made her afraid. Someone with your best interests at heart, the caller had said. No, not likely.

“Is this about Kyle? Is he okay?”

“No more or less okay than ever,” the caller said. “Brain damage, right? Which is why he’s stored in that vegetable locker for the rest of his life.”

“Tell me who you are or I’m going to hang up.”

“That’s your prerogative, Dr. Cole, but again, I’m trying to help you, so don’t be in a hurry about it. I know you were visiting your brother today, and I know a couple of other things about you. I know you work at State Care. I know you took an interest in a patient there, Orrin Mather. And I know about Jefferson Bose. You took an interest in Officer Bose, too.”

She gripped the phone but didn’t answer.

“Not that I’m saying you’re fucking him, necessarily. But you’ve been spending a lot of time with the guy, considering you only met him a couple of days ago. How well do you really know him? You might want to ask yourself that.”

Just hang up, she thought. Or maybe she ought to listen—it might be important to be able to tell Bose what the caller wanted. She felt invaded, but she tried to muster her thoughts. “If you’re trying to threaten me—”

“Pay attention! I want to help you. And you need a little help. You have no idea what you wandered into here. How much did Bose tell you about himself, Dr. Cole? Did he tell you he’s the only honest cop on the Houston payroll? Tell you he’s interested in busting a life-drug ring? Well, let me paint you another picture of Jefferson Bose. Something maybe a little less flattering. A man with a failing police career and shitty prospects for promotion. A man who’s been trying unsuccessfully to interest the Federal Bureau of Investigation in his theory about controlled chemicals coming into the country through a local importer. A man who has fuck-all evidence to support that theory, and is reduced to trying to depose a mentally retarded night watchman. Let me add, a man who’s not above seducing a female State Care worker in order to get that deposition. You’ve been taken advantage of here, and you have to start facing up to the truth.”

“Go to hell.”

“Okay, you don’t believe me. Fair enough. Why should you? We could argue all night. But I said I wanted to help you. Or to help you help your brother Kyle, if you prefer. Now, I have to give Officer Bose his due—he’s not completely full of shit. There are folks in Houston who are involved with the life-drug trade, that’s a fact. And yes, the trade is illegal. But ask yourself—maybe you have asked yourself—is it such a bad thing, what they’re doing? A treatment that can add thirty or forty years to a person’s life, what’s so sinful about that? What gives the government the right to keep it from us? Because it’s bad for their, what, social planning ?”

“If you’re trying to make a point—”

“I’m asking you to think outside the box, Dr. Cole. You’re young, you’re healthy, you don’t need the Martian treatment—that’s fine. You might feel different when that pretty skin starts to sag, when you come to the time of life when there’s nothing to look forward to but a hospital bed or a grave. Okay, not yet and probably not for a long time. But things happen. Suppose you get a bad diagnosis—not years from now but next week—stage four cancer, nothing they can do for you with ordinary medicine. Well, the life drug isn’t just for what they call longevity. You live longer because it’s inside you, patrolling your body for bad cells, tumors, all that filth. It’ll cure your cancer. You still want to keep that drug locked up? Condemn yourself to death for the sake of what they call genomic security ? Pardon me if I call that bullshit.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

“I’m saying, okay, you’re not in a position right now where you need this treatment for yourself. And maybe you’re such a staunch advocate of whatever-the-fuck principle is involved you never will want it, at least for yourself. But I want to remind you again, it’s a cure . It’s a cure for things there’s no other cure for. Diseases of the body. Also of the brain.”

She managed to say, a little breathlessly, “This is absurd.”

“On the contrary. I’ve seen it happen.”

“You’re talking about a criminal act.”

“I’m talking about a bottle the size of your index finger with a colorless liquid inside. Consider what it could do for Kyle. You take your brother out of Live Oaks and you administer this drug. He’ll run a fever for a while but after a couple of weeks he’s good as new, all that damaged brain tissue completely restored… or close enough that you can help him get his life back. Think about your responsibility as a doctor and as a sister. Even with the best therapy money can buy, Kyle’s wasting away—he’s half dead already, he’s dying by inches, you know that. So what do you? Do you let him go? Or do you do this one thing, this simple thing, this thing other people are doing every day for far more selfish reasons? Ask yourself. It’s a practical proposition. The bottle I’m talking about, I’m holding it in my hand right now. I can get it to you anonymously and safely. No one will know anything about it but you and me. All that has to happen is, you stop interfering with Dr. Congreve’s business. Tomorrow morning you get up, you drive to State, you apologize to Congreve, and you sign a document recusing yourself from Orrin’s case for conflict of interest.”

Despite the heat, despite the sweat trickling down her cheek, Sandra felt cold. The window curtains rose and fell in a fitful breeze. At the other end of the room the video screen flickered in mute hysteria.

“I won’t sacrifice Orrin Mather.”

“Who said anything about sacrifice ? So Orrin goes into State Care. Is that so awful? A clean place to live and some daily supervision, no more sleeping on the street—it sounds like a decent outcome to me, taking the long view. Or don’t you have any faith in the system you work for? If State’s such a bad deal, maybe you should reconsider your choice of career.”