Adopted Son Read online

  The child lay in the swaddling, kicking instinctively. There wasn’t much air. But it had made it this far, it had pushed its way into life, and it wasn’t going to go back to the void so quickly. On some instinctive, fundamental level, it knew that it needed to extricate itself. It pushed and pulled, testing its new limbs. It began to cry. Although muffled, the cries would eventually attract the attention of a passing police officer. The child would survive.

  Five months after Lorraine Miller took her child home from the hospital, inside a BL-4 Laboratory at the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, Ft. Deitrich, MD

  Colin Hayes worked furiously over the samples he had prepared. He was transferring liquid from one vial to another with a pipette. It was slow going, even with all the advanced equipment available. There were a lot of samples to run. He didn’t like working in the BL-4 lab. BL-4 was where the most infectious and dangerous diseases were kept– maximum safety protocols. That meant respirators, full body suits, and other safety equipment that made him uncomfortable. There were no chairs in the room, but you couldn’t sit down in the suit anyway. Strangely, Colin found the discomfort of the safety equipment more distressing than the prospect of catching a deadly disease. He was pretty nonchalant about working with deadly diseases. He had been employed here for almost ten years. He had done work with everything from Marburg to H5N1 influenza to moon dust. Any fear he had about catching something had gone away years ago. The excitement he had when he was just a grad student had also diminished for the most part. The novelty was gone for him. At this point, working with deadly diseases was as routine for him as tightening screws was as routine for the people who work on automobile assembly lines. It was just a job.

  He wasn’t even sure exactly what agent he was dealing with. He just knew that it was important and that it was supposed to be dangerous. He had been given this assignment by none other than the head of USAMRIID herself. The task was to figure out what the function of this virus was. Viruses are very specific; they attack only a particular type of cell. Knowing what cells a virus attacks is the first step in finding a vaccine. He looked around to the other side of the lab, where the metal cylinders lay. He hadn’t been given much information, only that there was a virus located in these cylinders and that some important people needed to know the answers. He was used to working in an intelligence vacuum. He often worked with samples that came from “somewhere.” He didn’t need to know where the cylinders came from. What was unusual was the lack of any supporting information on what they suspected the cylinders to contain. He first figured this was some sort of a blind test, to see if he could identify a virus properly with no information.

  Colin had already done all of the standard assays and proved that the virus wasn’t similar to any of the well-known bioweapon agents. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something typical enough to have a standard assay procedure made for it. The next step in the process had been to do a DNA breakdown of the virus to see if it was close to any known species. It had actually taken him a while just to isolate the virus DNA. It wasn’t quite like any he had seen. It had a protein coat that was different somehow and that made it hard to detect. It was certainly a new class of virus. It had some similarities to a retrovirus but not quite. It was exciting and frustrating to work with. He was now trying to find out what sort of cell it attacked. He had been told by the person who had brought in the cylinders that it was probably a human phage, and that he should start there, but Colin was having trouble activating it.

  He had some suspicions about the bug that he hadn’t shared with anyone yet. He thought that it looked manipulated. He wasn’t a bioweapons expert, but he could guess that from the cylinders he scraped it out of and the hush-hush secrecy of the whole operation that it was some sort of genetically manipulated virus. He had heard of these things before. There were all sorts of rumors about what the Russians had been producing during the Cold War (not to mention what was going on in other parts of this very facility). It was probably something that they had dug up in a field in Kazakhstan. Colin would never know. He had been hired as a researcher, he wasn’t privy to any of the secrets they kept around here, and there were a lot of secrets.

  He eludicated the final sample for the day. He was mixing viral samples with different types of human cells to see if he could find a substrate that the virus would grow on. That would give him some idea of what sort of infection it caused. He was anxious to get finished. He didn’t like being in all this protective gear. Besides, his wife was now pregnant, and he needed to get home to help fix up the baby’s room. The child was due in three months.

  He looked up at the double reinforced glass window that separated the BL-4 from the rest of the Institute. Looking through the window back at him was a man that he only knew as Ray. A bead of sweat ran down Colin’s temple. He really wanted to be done for the day and get out of that damned suit.

  Late morning. The Watley family residence, Tyler, TX

  Lorraine watched the wisps of steam rise from the coffee mug. The light streaming from the window made the vapor seem brighter, more three-dimensional. She wasn’t even listening to Joyce’s droning on and on as she fixed the muffins. She just stared as the steam played around in the light. It wasn’t the sound of Joyce’s voice, nor her sitting down at the kitchen table that brought Lorraine out of her self induced oblivion, it was the motion of air that Joyce made as she roughly lowered her bulk into her seat. It disrupted the steam. Lorraine shook her head and looked up.

  “Why Lorraine, I don’t think that you’ve heard a word I’ve been saying. This whole thing really has you torn up.” Joyce was Lorraine’s neighbor. Their houses sat reasonably close together, nestled between the fields of corn. Joyce’s husband was also a farmer, and the two men were out on their tractors, preparing the fields for the spring planting. Joyce was a big, wild Texan of a woman. She had always lived in Tyler. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. She couldn’t survive anywhere else.

  “I’m sorry Joyce,” Lorraine said apologetically, “It’s just kinda sad, you know. I thought that having a baby would give me what I wanted in life. It’s what I’ve been talking about ever since I was a little kid. But it’s not working out to be what I thought it would be.” Lorraine didn’t have many friends. She lived outside of town and had given up most of her previous world to helping her husband. She didn’t resent that her life turned out that way; in fact, it was what she wanted, but sometimes it got a little lonely, especially during planting season. She was glad that Joyce was just down the road to talk to. She came over here a lot, and not just for the fresh muffins.

  Joyce sipped her coffee. “That’s just new mother’s syndrome. All women get depressed after having a baby. It’s natural. Hell, you should have seen me after I spit Harry out. I didn’t want to have nothing to do with nobody. It gets better though.” She stopped talking momentarily to pick a bit of blueberry from between her teeth. “I can only guess how you feel having a deformed kid like that. I don’t know what I’d do if any of my kids turned out that way. I truly don’t.”

  “It’s not that. I mean, Jim isn’t that much more work than a normal baby.” She looked down at the child, sleeping in its tote. He still had the bottle of juice hanging out of his mouth. “I can deal with the HS. I’m worried about Tom though. Things have been so... strained since the baby.”

  “What do you mean sugar?” Joyce shifted her bulk around in the chair.

  “Well, he puts on a good front, but I don’t think that he is happy with Jim. It’s like he doesn’t even acknowledge him. I thought that having a child would bring us closer together, but it hasn’t done that at all. I hardly even see Tom anymore, he spends so much time out in the fields.”

  “Well, it is planting season. He’s probably just busy. You’re just feeling oversensitive because there’s so much extra work to do around the house.”

  “No, there’s more to it than that. It’s like he’s ignoring me. It’s like he doesn’t w
ant to be around the baby. He doesn’t want to face up to the HS. Ever since he got out of high school Tom has been talking about some football-star fantasy that he was going to live out through his child. Now that isn’t going to happen, and I don’t think that he knows how to react. I mean, he is doing his job as a parent and a husband, but it seems that he’s only staying around because he has a sense of duty, not because he wants to be a part of the family.”

  “Oh, stop talking like that. Tom’s a good man. He won’t turn his back on you because of this. It’s just going to take him a while to get used to the idea. I mean, look at him.” She pointed to Jim. “It takes a while to get used to that. The first time I came over after the birth I almost fainted dead away. I don’t think that you have anything to worry about.”

  “I guess you’re right Joyce.” Lorraine halfheartedly took a bite of muffin. “I just don’t know how to talk to him. You know how Tom is. I don’t want to make it seem like I’m accusing him of anything.”

  “Just give him time, he’ll come around on his own. And if he doesn’t, just slap him around some. That’s what I always do with Larry. You’ve got to make him understand who’s the boss. Man, I just put up a fist and he does whatever I say.” She held up a hammy, balled fist. “The little wimp. I love him.”

  There was a loud crash from the other room. Joyce turned her head and shouted, “What the hell was that!” She turned back to Lorraine. “Hold on a sec Lor, I got to go deal with my brats.” She got up creakily and began walking down the hall. “What the hell are you kids doing in there, don’t you know I got company. I’m gonna beat you kids stupid. Where the hell did you go....” Her voice faded as she left the kitchen, chasing after the children. Lorraine put down the coffee and reached into the bassinet. She touched Jim lightly on the forehead. His skin was soft. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine that he was normal.

  A radio was humming softly on the windowsill. “Crazy, crazy for being without you....” This was a hard road that the Lord had put her down. It was going to take a lot of her inner strength to make it through. She just hoped that Tom had enough inner strength as well.

  Two months before Colin Hayes performed his viral assay, Saint Maria Inglasias Hospital, Bronx, NY

  The orderlies were at work cleaning the infant care ward. They moved furiously, with a drive that was seldom seen in this dreary place. Child Protective Services was coming today, and if the floor wasn’t clean, they would hear it from the nurses. They mopped all around the little cribs, being very careful. This was the ward for the sickest children. Incubators lined the walls. They had to be very cautious in here. All of these kids had problems. If they woke up even one, all the rest would soon join in a din of cries and screams. But the orderlies did their work gently, and all the children slept quietly, even the little freak that the cops had brought in three months ago.

  Two nameless CPS officers walked down the cold, tile hallway. You could hear the clack-clack of their heels all the way down the hall. It was an old hospital, built in an almost forgotten age when arches, wood stylings, and pressed tin ceiling tiles were in fashion. You could still barely make out the classic style as it attempted to get through the layer after layer of thick white paint that covered everything. The officers, one male and one female, were on their way to meet with the staff pediatrician, Dr. Julio Espisito. They took their job seriously, and this case would be difficult. “So, what are the special procedures for this kid again?” said the male CPS worker to his female colleague.

  “I’m not sure. This one has got...,” she flipped through her notepad to get the answer, “...Handel’s Syndrome. It says here that there are severe defects to the eyes and facial features. There is a discoloration of the skin. Hmmm, what else... There doesn’t appear to be any decline in motor skills or intelligence.”

  “Appears to be? What do you mean, appears to be?”

  “Whatever this disease is, it is pretty new. No one knows what causes it. The first known cases just started popping up about a year or two ago.”

  “So no one knows what the long lasting symptoms are?”

  “That’s right.”

  He sighed, “This is going to be a tough kid to place then isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I thought. I doubt that any foster parents will take someone with such a rare condition. And even if we did find a parent, would a judge allow it? The rules are more stringent for handicapped kids. The parents would have to show that they knew how to meet the child’s special needs, and that may not be possible since we don’t even know what those needs are.”

  The two officers arrived at Dr. Espisito’s door. It was made of old, cracked wood with a large glazed glass window set into it. The light was on inside. The agents opened without knocking. Dr. Espisito was sitting at his desk reading a trade magazine. He immediately recognized the agents and stood up to greet them. “Ah, you must be the people from CPS that called this morning. Agents Anderson and Davidson I presume.”

  The agents exchanged pleasantries with the doctor and sat down in threadbare but comfortable chairs. The doctor offered some coffee from a drip machine on a bookcase shelf, but the agents refused. “I assume that you are here about Baby Doe?” said Dr. Espisito as he sank back into his chair, steaming cup of coffee in hand.

  “That’s correct Doctor. We’ve just been assigned to the case.”

  “You know, he’s been here for almost three months now. You’ve taken your sweet time getting here. I haven’t heard a word from you guys since the police brought that child in.”

  “I’m sure that you can understand the workload we’re under. Sometimes things like this slip through the cracks for a while. Rest assured that the state is very interested in the welfare of this child, and we are going to do everything to make sure that he’s brought up in the best possible fashion.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. I’m not upset at you in particular, it’s just this city government we have. There aren’t enough people to do the job. I get cases all the time that require your attention, but all I hear about are waiting lists and need-based care.”

  “We can agree with you on that. We’re doing our best.”

  “Well, now that you are here, let me take you to see little Mr. Doe.” The doctor stood up from his chair and guided the agents to the door. They walked a short way down the tile hallway to the maternity center. Inside were row after row of babies. All in little cribs, all identified only by small paper bracelets. Most were fidgety in their little beds. Some slept. A pair of ragged looking nurses were moving back and forth, trying to feed the hungry ones. “This is the intensive care part of the maternity ward,” said Dr. Espisito. “Mostly premature births and drug addictions.” Dr. Espisito looked downward, “We get a lot of drug addictions.”

  Dr. Espisito pointed at the child nearest to him. It was quite small, and shook quietly in its crib. “This one here had a mother who thought it was ok to use cocaine while pregnant as long as you chased it down with some depressants.”

  “What about baby Doe?”

  “Well, we tested the kid when he got here. He tested positive for cocaine as well as a few other drugs. We were expecting to have to deal with the addiction factor as well as the HS, but that hasn’t been a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let me show you.” They walked over to Baby Doe’s crib. The child was sleeping. Its large black eyes were closed into almost undetectable slits. The nurses had assumed that since he didn’t have hair he would be cold, so they had given him a rather funny looking cap to wear. It snuggled with a small stuffed bear, sucking its thumb. “He’s asleep. That’s unusual. He doesn’t sleep much.” The doctor grabbed the child’s chart and showed it to the two officers. “You see, we were expecting the child to have all sorts of medical problems stemming from the mother’s drug use, but we haven’t seen anything like that. The heartbeat, the growth rate, food intake; all normal, normal at least for a child with HS.”

  “Why do you
think that is?”

  “Well, it’s my guess that whatever genetic deformity causes HS is also somehow involved in brain chemistry. Somehow HS kids are not susceptible to cocaine addiction; maybe they’re missing the receptors? It could be a breakthrough for the drug addiction community. I’m writing a paper on it.”

  “Funny,” said the female agent.

  “What’s that?” said the doctor.

  “This kid has all these problems, he’s like the unluckiest kid in New York, but somehow all that bad luck cancels itself out. And he might be able to help millions of people break their drug addictions. It’s a funny world isn’t it?”

  The three people agreed. They continued standing over the child’s crib for a long time– just watching, and imagining. The child just slept.

  Excerpt from “The Reality Behind the Myth,” Published in Fortean Times Magazine, about six months after CPS finally came to see Baby Doe.

  “...and the phenomena of superstitious villagers turning deformity into myth has even continued to this day. In the past it was people with pygrophia being labeled ‘vampires’ or people with stunted growth being labeled ‘leprechauns.’ Today it is people with Handel’s Syndrome being labeled as ‘aliens.’ The evidence is clear that although Handel’s Syndrome was only recently ‘discovered’ in the Western Medical Literature, it has been with us for time immemorial. In the olden days, those with HS were labeled as ‘elves’ or ‘pixies.’ They were shunned by their families and forced to live in the forests, robbing and murdering for a living. Now, with our more ‘sophisticated’ society we have abandoned such notions of magic and fantasy, only to see them replaced by notions of alien encounters and flying saucers. As I’ve already shown, all so-called UFOs are easily explainable by a variety of naturally occurring and man-made phenomena. I now put it to the reader that the people who claim to have seen ‘aliens’ have instead seen nothing more than a person suffering from HS. Look at how similar the description of HS is to that of the so-called ‘grays.’ HS sufferers have bald heads, discolored skin. Their eyes are larger and different from ‘normal’ eyes. They have small noses and mouths, long fingers and spindly limbs. It’s clear from the description that we are talking about exactly the same thing here people! When will this lunatic fringe of society finally accept the fact that there are no aliens, that there are no pixies or vampires? As long as society continues to tolerate these myths, to enforce definitions of ‘normal’ then these unfortunate people will be forced to continue to eke out meager existences on the fringes of society, firmly convinced that they are some sort of creature of the night. Who knows how many lives have been lost, how many lives continue to be lost, as uneducated moralists take matters into their own hands and administer vigilante justice to these so-called monsters.”