Stevenson glowered at the cardiologist, then made one last attempt to save face.
"Perhaps you'd like to think over our offer for a few days," he said, his smile now tight-lipped, his eyes darkened.
Matt shook his head.
"What I want is free rein to bring in a group of my choosing to inspect conditions in the plant and the mine, including a review of your records of how and where every drop of toxic waste is disposed of. What I want is for you to step back and stop paying off whoever you do at MSHA and EPA."
"You're out of your mind!" LeBlanc shot out.
"No, you're out of your mind!" Matt could feel the blood rushing into his face. He usually had a fairly long fuse, but at the end of it was an explosive temper. "You're out of your mind to think that any decent doctor" — he punctuated the words with a glare at Crook — "would turn his back on cases like Darryl Teague and Teddy Rideout."
"Tell me, Dr. Rutledge," Stevenson asked, now clearly peeved, "is it your wife's death that makes you so vindictive? Do you blame us for her as well?"
Matt went off like a Roman candle.
"As a matter of fact, I do!" he shouted, "You're damn right I do! Lung cancer. You should try living with someone who's dying of it sometime! Yes, I blame you. I blame you for every single thing that's bad and sick around here! You're a sleazebag, LeBlanc! And you, Crook. Christ, how can you call yourself a doctor when you turn your back on death and pain? Screw you! Screw you all and your goddamn bribe!"
Armand Stevenson must have pressed a button beneath the table, because in seconds, two mammoth security men in BC amp;C-monogrammed sport coats and ties were in the room. Stevenson's order was a nod of the head. One of the behemoths took hold of Matt's arm.
"Let go of me, jerk!" Matt screamed. He wrenched away and grabbed his gym bag. "Touch me again and you'd better have a spare set of nuts!"
In spite of himself, the guard checked out Matt's heavy motorcycle boots. Armand Stevenson saved him from having to find a way around them.
"Follow him outside and make sure he's off the property," he said. "You've made your choice, Doctor. Now you'll have to deal with the consequences. You're threatening to take jobs away from folks. That sort of thing isn't looked on very kindly around here. Not kindly at all. Now, get out!"
CHAPTER 6
Ellen Kroft knelt beside her granddaughter and held the girl tightly by her shoulders, trying to force even a moment of eye contact — of connection of any kind.
"Grandma loves you, Lucy," she said, carefully enunciating every word as she would to a three-year-old. "Have a wonderful day at school."
The girl, now nearly eight, contorted her face into something of a grimace, then twisted her neck so that she was looking upward past Ellen, at the sky. Not a word. Nearly five years of expensive schooling at the best special-needs facility around, and there still were almost never any words.
"Lucy Goosey, are you ready for school?"
The teacher of Lucy's small class at the Remlinger Institute in Alexandria, Virginia, was named Gayle. She was in her twenties and new to the school, but she had the youthful exuberance, upbeat demeanor, and saintly patience required for a life of trying to reach and teach severely autistic children. Gayle held out her hand. Lucy's head kept swinging rhythmically from side to side like the switching of a horse's tail. She neither avoided the proffered hand
nor reached for it. Only if it were something spinning, flashing, or brightly colored would she have reacted.
Eight years old.
It had been five years since the diagnosis of profound autism was made on the girl and nearly four since Ellen began bringing her to school so that her daughter, Beth, could get to work.
"Come on, Lucy," Gayle sang, leading her off. "Say good-bye to Grandma."
Say good-bye to Grandma. Ellen laughed to herself sardonically. There had been a time when Lucy Kroft-Garland could do just that. Well, not anymore. She turned and was opening the door of her six-year-old Taurus when Gayle cried out. Lucy, her back arched inward to an extent that seemed anatomically impossible, was on the lawn in the throes of a violent grand mal seizure.
Quickly, but with businesslike calm, Ellen reached in the glove compartment of her car, withdrew four wooden tongue depressors bound together at the end with adhesive tape, and then hurried over. Lucy's teeth were snapping together like a jackhammer, threatening damage to her lips and tongue. Saliva was frothing out of the corner of her mouth.
"What should I do?" Gayle asked. "I've seen some of the children have seizures, but never Lucy."
"Well, I have," Ellen said, rolling her grandchild onto her side so that, should she vomit, she wouldn't aspirate her stomach contents. Next she squeezed her thumb and third finger forcefully into the angle of the child's jaw. Bit by bit, the pressure overcame the spasm in Lucy's muscles. A small gap opened up between her teeth, and Ellen expertly inserted the makeshift tongue blade device. With one hand holding the blades in place, and the other maintaining Lucy on her side, she nodded to Gayle that matters were under control.
"Should I have Mr. Donnegan call nine-one-one?" Gayle asked.
"No, dear. Lucy will be fine. We just need a little time here."
"I'll go get Mr. Donnegan anyway."
"Do that."
The violent seizure had largely abated when the headmaster arrived. Ellen was sitting on the grass, Lucy's head cradled in her lap. The girl was unconscious now — "post ictal," the doctors called the condition. Ellen checked that Lucy hadn't soiled or wet herself, then looked up at the headmaster and shrugged.
"Should we send for an ambulance?" he asked.
"She'll be fine in twenty minutes. This hasn't happened for a while. Her medication may have to be tweaked. If it's okay with you, I'd just as soon she stay in school if possible. Just leave us right here for a bit. If she's not up and about in twenty minutes I'll take her home. But she's better off here with the other children. Much better."
Donnegan looked for a moment as if he was going to object, but instead reached down and patted Ellen on the shoulder.
"Whatever you say, Mrs. Kroft," he said. "You know this kid best."
Ellen sat on the newly mowed lawn, staring off at nothing in particular, rocking Lucy gently in her arms, and making no attempt to stem the steady flow of tears from her own eyes. Minutes later, the girl began to come around.
Ellen slid behind the wheel of the Taurus and headed north. In moments, in spite of herself, she was reliving the horrible sequence of phone calls that had signaled the start of it all.
"Mom, something's wrong with Lucy. I took her to the pediatrician this morning. He said she was in terrific shape. Fiftieth percentile in height and weight, way ahead of most three-year-olds in speech and hand-eye coordination. Then he gave her two shots — a DPT and an MMR. That was about eight hours ago. Now she's screaming. Mom, her temperature is one-oh-three-and-a-half and she won't stop screaming no matter what. What should I do?…"
"… I called the doctor. He says not to worry. Lots of kids get irritable after their vaccinations. Just give her Tylenol…"
"… Mom, I'm frightened, really frightened. She's not screaming anymore, lout she's completely out of it. Her eyes keep rolling hack into her head and she doesn't respond to anything I say. Nothing. She's, like, limp. Dick is getting the car right now. We're going to bring her to the emergency room…"
"… They're going to keep Lucy in the hospital. They don't know what's wrong with her. Maybe a seizure of some sort, the doctor says. Mommy, it's bad, I'm so scared. It's bad. I know it is. Oh, Jesus, what am I going to do? My baby…"
What am I going to do?
Beth's panicked words echoed in Ellen's thoughts as they did almost every school day after drop-off. With effort, she forced them to the background. There were other things to focus on this day, most notably a strategy meeting across the Potomac at the headquarters of PAVE — Parents Advocating Vaccine Education.