my best not to be too disruptive or contrary as we sifted through mountains of scientific and clinical data and reports. But I am the consumer representative on this panel, and despite knowing that our vote on Omnivax is a formality, I would feel remiss if I did not make one final plea on behalf of that group.
'It is far more difficult to stop a vaccination freight train once it has built a head of steam than it would be to keep it in the station until the clinical evidence supporting its safety and efficacy is overwhelming. Omnivax has only been followed in test subjects for six months or so, and many of its components have not been studied over an extended period, either.
'I know I have expressed my concerns in this area before, but I still remain uneasy about articles I have read — anecdotal, I grant you — hinting at an association between an increase in the number of vaccinations we give our children and an increase in immune-mediated diseases such as diabetes, asthma, and multiple sclerosis, to say nothing of the skyrocketing increase in conditions like ADD and autism. I can see a number of you itching to leap to your feet and refute my statement with your data. Well, if I have learned nothing else over the years we have worked together, I have learned how malleable statistics can be. The same data can be served up in any number of ways, sort of like chicken.'
There had been reasonably warm laughter from some around the table, but Ellen could tell by many expressions that she had already prattled on too long.
'So,' she had concluded, no longer at all nervous, 'while this will be our last meeting before we vote, I do intend to keep a close eye on Omnivax over the weeks, months, and years ahead. And perhaps sometime soon I can have all of you over to my place for dinner — chicken dinner, of course.'
Gradually, Ellen's attention drifted back from replaying her remarks in the final commission meeting to the business at hand. Steinman, flushed with the significance of the moment, finished introducing the most important of the luminaries. Then he paused, surveying the audience.
'And now, ladies and gentlemen,' he trumpeted finally, 'it gives me great pleasure to introduce the woman who has spearheaded this project with her caring and vision, the author of the landmark books Prevention Is the Strongest Medicine and Citizen Pioneers, the First Lady of the United States, Mrs. Lynette Lowry Marquand.'
The standing ovation lasted more than a minute. Marquand, dressed in a simple but stunning beige suit, motioned for all to be seated. Then, for fully fifteen silent seconds she stood there, surveying the audience and gazing into the cameras, emphasizing the significance of the occasion. She waited until the drama of silence was at its peak before she spoke.
'Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished scientists and healers, members of the press, citizens of this country and the world, it gives me great, great pleasure to introduce to you the real star of these proceedings.'
She hesitated just a beat, then whirled theatrically and tugged on a long, tasseled gold cord, releasing a three-foot-wide scroll that unraveled from the ceiling. Printed boldly on the scroll, beginning with DIPHTHERIA and proceeding down to JAPANESE ENCEPHALITIS, was a list of the thirty diseases that were about to be prevented if not eradicated by Omnivax. Third from the bottom of the list, just after CHOLERA and before SHIGELLOSIS, was LASSA FEVER.
Again, there was tumultuous applause.
In a dynamic, well-crafted speech, the First Lady went down the list one by one, saying just enough about each condition to personalize it for the audience and to have every parent across the country sighing in relief that their children would be spared its horrible consequences.
Ellen was impressed with the woman, even though she had voted against her husband in the last election and intended to do so again in this one. Still, with the end of almost three years of hard work at hand, and with Rudy still doing his research unaware that the vote had been moved up, she had trouble keeping her mind on the speech. In fact, she was so distracted that she very nearly missed the words from Lynette Marquand that would change her life forever.
'… The President, Secretary Bolton, and I,' Marquand was saying, 'are fully aware that there are those who are opposed to this project. Nothing of lasting value is ever accomplished without conflicting opinions and controversy. We are also aware of those who have tried to politicize this endeavor. Speaking for my husband and myself, I can say that is the last thing we wish to do. That is why the selection of the commission evaluating Omnivax was done with such care. In your programs is a list of the members of this commission and a few of the qualifications of each. I'm sure you'll agree that this is quite a remarkable, independent, and trustworthy team, and I want to take this opportunity to thank Dr. Steinman and each and every one of them for their hard work and devotion to this project.'
Marquand gestured to those commission members seated behind her, and also to those in the front row. Then she made them stand up as a group and led the audience in an enthusiastic round of applause. It was only as Ellen was settling back into her seat that her attention returned fully to the proceedings.
'For nearly three years,' Marquand went on, 'every single member of this august panel of world-renowned experts has studied Omnivax in detail from every angle. I have been briefed regularly on their progress. Soon they will be voting on whether or not to approve its distribution for general use. I promise you, the American public, that if even one, just one, of the twenty-three members of this commission votes against the release of Omnivax, we will hold up our inoculation program for as long as it takes to resolve any and all misgivings.'
The pronouncement, enunciated as energetically as any campaign rhetoric, was greeted with an immediate, boisterous standing ovation. Ellen sat dumbfounded, staring up at the First Lady until she realized that all the others in the hall were on their feet. Slowly, somewhat unsteadily, she rose and brought her hands together. It was then she noticed that, from his place just behind and to the right of Lynette Marquand, George Poulos was staring directly down at her.
CHAPTER 10
More keyed up than he had been in years, Matt rolled the Kawasaki out of his garage. His 250cc Honda was better in the woods and the Harley was without peer cruising the roads, but the Kawasaki had the power to carry two and the suspension to handle most of what the off-road trails had to offer. It was a 900cc Vulcan, ebony and silver, with a four-stroke, five-speed, V-twin engine, and it was to the Harley what a Corvette was to a Lexus sedan.
It was after one in the morning. There was a chill in the air dampened by a fine mist. The darkness was a good omen, Matt noted as he eased his bike down his gravel drive and onto the two-lane road. Somewhere beyond those dense clouds was a nearly full moon.
This would be his second trip today out to the Slocumbs' farm. The first was around four when he rode out to check on Kyle. After the youngest of the brothers had adamantly refused to allow the gastroenterologist to perform another rectal exam, it took some time for Matt to convince the specialist that it was still worth proceeding with a gastroscopy. The exam showed pretty much what Matt had expected, hemorrhagic gastritis, an erosive inflammation of the lining of Kyle's stomach. It was hardly the worst case of the condition he had ever seen, though, so when Kyle's vital signs and blood count had stabilized, he reluctantly agreed to discharge him on medication to block the production of acid, and antacids to soothe the damaged tissue. There was also a strict prohibition on alcohol of any kind, but especially the home-brewed, 150-proof rotgut produced by the brothers' still. Surprisingly, as far as Matt could tell, Kyle had followed every one of his orders, and was actually doing quite well.
Keeping his engine noise to a minimum, Matt slowly made his way along the last quarter mile of rutted road to the Slocumb farmhouse. Lewis was waiting on the porch. A grizzled, sinewy man in his early sixties, he was wearing denim overalls, a tattered black WVU sweatshirt, work boots, and a black watch cap. He had blackened his face and hands with some sort of greasepaint.
'Here,' he said, holding out a small jar of the stuff, 'lemme smear some a this on yer face.'
'What is it?'
'It's black/' Lewis said.
'Ugh! It smells like… Lewis?'
'Put some on yer hands, too.'
'I don't believe I let you do this,' Matt said. 'Are you expecting trouble? Is that why we're dressing up like
