Panacea by F. Paul Wilson Page B

as I get there I’ll clear you for a black account.”
    After all these years—a green light and a black fund. That was something he could report to his abbot. But instead of giving a mental cheer, he was thinking about the back of his neck.
    A “sketchy” mole? Really?

 
    2
    â€œThere’s a Helen Cochran on line three-two,” said the front desk receptionist. “Says she must speak to you. Very insistent.”
    Laura frowned. Helen Cochran? Who—oh, God. She jabbed the 32 button.
    â€œHello, Mrs. Cochran. I’m so sorry about Tommy.”
    â€œOh … yes.” A muffled sob. “Thank you. It’s been … hard.”
    â€œI can’t even imagine.”
    â€œAnd your daughter. Is she … okay?”
    â€œAs good as can be expected, thanks. She had a stem-cell transplant and so far so good. She’s still got a ways to go.”
    â€œWhy does God try parents like He does?”
    Parents? Laura thought. It’s not exactly a picnic for the kids.
    Mrs. Cochran heaved a sigh. “I won’t keep you. I—”
    â€œNo-no. I was going to call you.”
    â€œYou were?”
    â€œYes. I…” This was so hard to say to someone she knew. “I did the autopsy on Tommy.”
    â€œOh, I was hoping you would. I asked for you because you’d met Tommy a few times. You knew of his condition. Is that why you were going to call me? What did you find?”
    â€œOnly injuries from the accident. It was what I didn’t find…”
    â€œYou didn’t find any arthritis, did you.” A statement, not a question.
    â€œNo. Not a trace.”
    â€œThat’s why I’m calling you. I saw the article in the paper this morning with the picture of the unidentified dead man. I recognized him.”
    They’d published the photo? She must have missed it. Laura grabbed a pen, wondering how this middle-class woman from Mastic would know a member of a pot-growing gang. But this job had long since got her used to the weird connections between the most disparate individuals.
    â€œYou know his name?”
    â€œI do. He’s Chet Brody. He was helping with Tommy’s physical therapy.”
    A name … she finally had a name.
    But wait. A guy with a respectable day job didn’t jibe with Lawson’s drug gang theory.
    â€œHe’s a physical therapist?”
    â€œJust an assistant. And maybe more. He’s the one who cured Tommy’s arthritis.”
    What?
    â€œHow-how-how did he do that?” Listen to me—stuttering like Porky Pig.
    Mrs. Cochran told the story of Chet showing up at her door two days ago with a vial of strange fluid that she threw away but Tommy drank. The next morning, Tommy awoke arthritis free.
    â€œIt was a miracle,” she said. “That’s the only way I can explain it.”
    Dr. Sklar had called it impossible. But “miracle” and “impossible” were codependent, weren’t they. Couldn’t have one without the other.
    As Mrs. Cochran had been telling her story it slowly began to dawn on Laura that here was her fantasized connection between the arthritic child with perfect joints and the world’s healthiest ex–drug addict.
    â€œWhat did Chet say was in the vial?”
    â€œAll he said was that it was herbal.”
    Herbal … maybe he hadn’t been growing Cannabis . But if something else … what? What on Earth?
    â€œYou wouldn’t happen to have the vial it came in, would you?”
    â€œIt’s in the county dump, I’m afraid. I put the garbage out that night. After seeing Tommy the next morning I went to look for it but the truck had already come by.”
    Laura gave her desktop a quick double pound. Damn. She would love to know the chemical composition of that “miracle” potion.
    Laura extended her condolences again and thanked the woman for taking the time to call despite the