then came back with surprising heat. “I’m just trying to … What the hell do you think gives you the right to—”
“Look,” Reston cut him off. “I’m just saying I don’t need your pipe dreams right now. I’ve got my own problems.”
“Fine,” snapped Logan, his face flushed. “Forget it.”
Reston smiled. “Hey, don’t go away mad. I’m perfectly willing to talk—as soon as you’ve got something serious on the drawing board.”
I n fact, Logan had been toying with the beginnings of an idea for weeks—ever since the morning Larry Tilley had stepped into his examining room.
For Tilley was potentially one of Gregory Stillman’s famous secret-bearers: a patient in whom disease so defies expected patterns that his case forces a competent researcher to rethink old assumptions.
A Kansas City lawyer, thirty-four and gay, Tilley was on a Phase Two AIDS protocol for a drug called Compound J designed to interfere with viral reproduction—a protocol that seemed to be going nowhere. To date, Compound J appeared to be totally inactive.
No real news there. The AIDS virus had long been a particular source of frustration to ACF researchers, on a par with the most baffling cancers in its sinister complexity. AIDS protocols were notoriously ineffective in yielding practical results, and as Shein one day put it, with characteristic gallows humor, “when one of those mothers bites the dust, it takes a lot of people with it.”
As a protocol patient, Tilley was unaware of this, of course. He had come in from Kansas City for a series of tests. His numbers, like those of most on the protocol, were not good.
But within minutes of the start of the examination, he casually mentioned something that got Logan’s full attention: Though he’d been feeling dizzy and weak a lot lately, it had nothing to do with overactivity. “In fact, it usually happens when I’ve been resting. I get up from a chair and I feel like I’m going to faint.”
Logan, who’d been checking his lymph nodes, paused—whatcould
that
be about?—and momentarily excused himself. In the adjoining room he looked more closely at the paperwork forwarded by Tilley’s local hospital.
Unable to pinpoint a cause for the unusual course of events, his private physician had first put forth a likely diagnosis of pancreatitis—a simple inflammation of the pancreas. After a couple of days in the hospital, feeling better, Tilley had been sent home. But, literally within hours, the problem was back.
Logan returned to the patient. “You seem to have stumped your doctors back there.”
Tilley smiled. “They kind of threw up their hands and said I should come here to let you guys figure it out.”
Logan liked Tilley immediately. No self-pity, lots of fight.
“All right, let’s figure it out. Why don’t we start with an easy one? How do you feel when you stand up?”
Sure enough, Logan noted that every time Tilley rose to his feet, his blood pressure dropped precipitously and his heart rate increased.
“Well, we’ve established that the problem isn’t your imagination.”
“Great. Even the boobs out in K.C. knew that.”
Logan laughed. “Did the boobs ask if you’ve been thirsty a lot lately?”—worth asking, but just barely. From his days at Claremont, Logan recalled that such simultaneous changes in blood pressure and heart rate can be symptomatic of extreme dehydration; though on this cool fall day, it seemed almost impossible that a man not engaged in vigorous physical activity could become so seriously dehydrated.
To his surprise, Tilley nodded. “But that’s just something that comes from taking the drug, isn’t it?”
“Well, let’s see if this boob can clarify that a bit further. I’m going to want to run some tests.”
“Does that mean I have to go back in the hospital?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. We have contracts witha number of hotels in the D.C. area. Why don’t we just have the ACF give you a
“Look,” Reston cut him off. “I’m just saying I don’t need your pipe dreams right now. I’ve got my own problems.”
“Fine,” snapped Logan, his face flushed. “Forget it.”
Reston smiled. “Hey, don’t go away mad. I’m perfectly willing to talk—as soon as you’ve got something serious on the drawing board.”
I n fact, Logan had been toying with the beginnings of an idea for weeks—ever since the morning Larry Tilley had stepped into his examining room.
For Tilley was potentially one of Gregory Stillman’s famous secret-bearers: a patient in whom disease so defies expected patterns that his case forces a competent researcher to rethink old assumptions.
A Kansas City lawyer, thirty-four and gay, Tilley was on a Phase Two AIDS protocol for a drug called Compound J designed to interfere with viral reproduction—a protocol that seemed to be going nowhere. To date, Compound J appeared to be totally inactive.
No real news there. The AIDS virus had long been a particular source of frustration to ACF researchers, on a par with the most baffling cancers in its sinister complexity. AIDS protocols were notoriously ineffective in yielding practical results, and as Shein one day put it, with characteristic gallows humor, “when one of those mothers bites the dust, it takes a lot of people with it.”
As a protocol patient, Tilley was unaware of this, of course. He had come in from Kansas City for a series of tests. His numbers, like those of most on the protocol, were not good.
But within minutes of the start of the examination, he casually mentioned something that got Logan’s full attention: Though he’d been feeling dizzy and weak a lot lately, it had nothing to do with overactivity. “In fact, it usually happens when I’ve been resting. I get up from a chair and I feel like I’m going to faint.”
Logan, who’d been checking his lymph nodes, paused—whatcould
that
be about?—and momentarily excused himself. In the adjoining room he looked more closely at the paperwork forwarded by Tilley’s local hospital.
Unable to pinpoint a cause for the unusual course of events, his private physician had first put forth a likely diagnosis of pancreatitis—a simple inflammation of the pancreas. After a couple of days in the hospital, feeling better, Tilley had been sent home. But, literally within hours, the problem was back.
Logan returned to the patient. “You seem to have stumped your doctors back there.”
Tilley smiled. “They kind of threw up their hands and said I should come here to let you guys figure it out.”
Logan liked Tilley immediately. No self-pity, lots of fight.
“All right, let’s figure it out. Why don’t we start with an easy one? How do you feel when you stand up?”
Sure enough, Logan noted that every time Tilley rose to his feet, his blood pressure dropped precipitously and his heart rate increased.
“Well, we’ve established that the problem isn’t your imagination.”
“Great. Even the boobs out in K.C. knew that.”
Logan laughed. “Did the boobs ask if you’ve been thirsty a lot lately?”—worth asking, but just barely. From his days at Claremont, Logan recalled that such simultaneous changes in blood pressure and heart rate can be symptomatic of extreme dehydration; though on this cool fall day, it seemed almost impossible that a man not engaged in vigorous physical activity could become so seriously dehydrated.
To his surprise, Tilley nodded. “But that’s just something that comes from taking the drug, isn’t it?”
“Well, let’s see if this boob can clarify that a bit further. I’m going to want to run some tests.”
“Does that mean I have to go back in the hospital?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. We have contracts witha number of hotels in the D.C. area. Why don’t we just have the ACF give you a
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