Gabriel's Stand (3 page)

At Sea-Tac Airport early the next morning, John stood in line to board the first flight to LA, arms folded, staring straight ahead.
Such a waste of time
, he thought:
The annual brunch gathering of the Platinum Level contributors to the Fowler's Earth Fund.
Gabriel, what the hell was I thinking?

“Are you all right?” The gate attendant was staring at him with concern. Dr. Owen quickly pulled out his phone to display the boarding code, and watched, bemused, as the invitation from Knight Fowler fluttered to the floor. “Damn,” he said, hesitating to pick it up. When the young man next in line deftly scooped it up, John smiled. “Thanks!” he said, while privately wondering if he had subconsciously dropped the damned thing on purpose.

When the plane had finished its taxi, John sank back in his seat to the familiar, comfortable G-force of a takeoff. He crumpled Fowler's invitation and shoved it deep into the seat webbing.
Screw it. Maybe they'll turn me away.
Puget Sound fell away below, and John Owen closed his eyes, thinking of Rachael.

——

Fowler's event was held in the Los Angeles Hilton. The private dining room accommodated twenty top donors, none of whom had written checks below the mid-six-figure level. The meal itself, was uneventful: a couple of speakers, the usual congratulations and thanks. Then the atmosphere sharply chilled when Rex Longworthy, the lawyer for the Greenspike Coalition, began to monopolize the conversation at John's end of the table. Fowler, a bored billionaire, had embraced environmentalism with all the enthusiasm of a late convert. As a result, his foundation, the Earth Fund, had quickly been taken over by ideologues so radical that their rhetoric had to be kept within a trusted circle. This radical element was toxic to ordinary politicians like Gabriel, who had kept his distance for good reason. The Greenspike Coalition operated on the fringe of the law by providing free legal defense services for environmental activists who were arrested for vandalism and violence, while pretending to oppose their methods.

Rex Longworthy picked up a glass of wine. “The human race has completely failed,” he said. “A toast to our comeuppance!”

John smiled, assuming it was a joke. “Seriously, Rex. I think we humans have been doing pretty well lately. The greenhouse load in the atmosphere is now lower than it was ten years ago. All greenhouse emissions are actually going down across the board, even in the new industrial economies like China.”

“At the expense of coal strip-mining, nuclear power, and those bird-killing windmills!”

“What would you have people do? Shiver in the cold? Swelter in the heat? Technology is solving each problem as it comes up.”

“Technology doesn't ever solve the problems technology creates. Global climate change hasn't stopped.”

“Are you talking about warming, cooling or both? Maybe, just maybe there are natural forces at work.” John could hear the phantom Rachael at his side, saying, “Slow down, tiger, it's just a meal.”

“We finally agree. Gaia was wounded and now there is an immune response.”

John was momentarily stunned into silence.
My God
,
did he just say Gaia
? Surely Rex Longworthy is just spouting this New Age rhetoric for fun. “Seriously, what kind of crap is that? Are you suggesting that the core problem is humanity?”

“Exactly.”

“You're kidding. You
are
kidding, right?”

“I'm very serious Dr. Owen. The core problem is that there are far too many people on this planet, present company excepted, of course,” Rex said.

“Hear, hear,” someone else said.

“The real question is what to do about it,” Knight Fowler added. Longworthy affected a kind of tweedy aristocracy and Fowler reeked of unearned money; the two men were sitting next to each other. John Owen was acutely uncomfortable. He vastly preferred the intelligent, common sense company and easy banter of the engineers and scientists who worked for Vector Pharmaceutical. John began looking at these two with his best poker face.

“Let me be the first to propose the unthinkable,” Rex Longworthy said.

“You always were the first, Rex,” Fowler said.

“Hear, hear,” someone said.

Longworthy continued. “Now seriously, boys and girls. I think, as a society, we are doing far too effective job in preventing and curing disease. Think about it. The planet is carrying one billion too many people, at least that. There are food issues, destruction of habitat issues, global climate change driven by human activities, species extinction, you all know the scenario. This is a bad record, and it is a direct outcome of population growth. We talk and talk and talk and nothing is happening. So what would be wrong, really, with cutting back on medicine for a while?”

“Actually, Rex, that is not so outrageous as it first sounds,” Fowler said. “In a way, it will seem less drastic than trying to control people's reproductive behavior, which has failed everywhere it was tried.”

John was paying full attention.

“Hear, hear!”

“Exactly. In effect, nature takes care of the problem itself,” Rex said.

“About time!” another voice said.

John's temper finally got the better of him. “Did I get invited to the wrong meeting?” he asked, using an icy calm voice that barely concealed his rage. “Or did I accept the wrong invitation? I don't believe what I'm hearing from you. Of course, the population load on the planet's resources is somewhat too high. But computer projections show global population has peaked. The birthrate has been below replacement in the developed world for decades. The developing world is now headed in the same direction. China is actually experiencing a population implosion. Given our ability to avert the pandemics, withholding treatment would be a form of murder. So, why are you talking about large scale homicide now?”

“Now, now,” Fowler chided.

“And why
now
, when the population numbers are getting better?”

“The numbers are skewed. After all, India had help from the plague.” It was the obnoxious young man with the denim shirt, sitting on the end.

“My God, you call that
help
!” John carefully folded his napkin.

“I don't know where you're getting your information, John,” Fowler said, his tone patronizing.

“Sounds like drug company research to me,” the young man again piped up.

Laughter erupted at the table.

Who are these people?
“I would be more than happy to send you the research,” John said evenly. “The medical and pharmaceutical industries had nothing to do with it. These are unbiased facts.”

“Facts are beside the point,” Rex said.

John could almost feel Rachael's restraining hand on his shoulder.

“I agree,” Fowler said. “Let's take these developing countries. How much damage can they do before they move into our column? If they ever can. Seriously, John, if, as you say, this problem is solving itself; it's happening too damn slowly.”

“Quite so. Much too little, much too late,” Rex said.

“India is an excellent model,” someone said.

“Yes. What we need is an accelerant!”
That was that young asshole.
Laughter. “A
new
plague!”
It's somebody's son,
John thought.
I've met him, What's his name?
John Owen was deeply regretting the whole trip.

“John,” Fowler said, “maybe we should restrict these high tech medical advances to the developed countries, the ones where the birthrate is low.”

“Now there's a promising idea,” Rex said. “Just price them out. Aren't you doing that anyway?”

Laughter.

“As a matter of fact, we are not,” John said.

“Maybe it's time to stop all that,” Rex said. “One way or the other. I think we should selectively ban some of these medicines altogether on a regional basis.”

“You—you're not serious. And who is this ‘we'? Maybe you should just kill these people outright.”

“A swell idea!”
I do know that kid,
John thought
.
“Pest control!” John turned and gave the kid a hard stare.
My God, that is Ed Gosli's kid.

“Do the first born,” a female voice said.

Laughter.

“Look, my good fellow,” Rex said smoothly, “I understand that your profits are at stake.”

“And I, for one, am not unsympathetic about profits,” Fowler added.

John finally let his fury show. “
Profits
?” He had spoken coolly, forcefully, and there was steel in his gaze. Fowler actually flinched. Then John dropped his voice to a light, conversational level. The room was totally silent. “You don't have a clue what motivates someone who makes his own money.”

Fowler sniffed. “Yes, I am fortunate to have certain financial resources at my disposal. And my mission is to make the world a better place with them.”

John just sat, poised, his jaw muscles knotted, staring the other man down.

“Now, now gentlemen,” Rex said. “Maybe we should just slow down a bit with this high-tech medicine everywhere. Treat everyone equally. Common sacrifice for the common good.”

John meticulously placed his napkin in the middle of his mashed potatoes. “I see we have very different motivations,” he said softly.

As Dr. John Owen got up from the table, the silence that followed among those left sitting at the table was reminiscent of the time an unwashed homeless man found his way into the exclusive bathroom in Fowler's favorite club. John turned his back on them and left the room. The door closed slowly behind him, allowing the next few comments to leak into the hallway.

“What was
that
about?” A female voice.

“His wife got sick in India. That plague. His own labs are still unable to find a cure.”

“That explains it. He's unhinged.”

“Rex, you should watch the guest list more closely. I thought that Gabriel fellow, the one with the Indian name, the Senator from Iowa or Idaho, was finally coming this time. That nice Indian.”

“Naughty, naughty.”

The door finally closed and Dr. Owen strode down the hall. He could hear Rachael's voice beside him.
Forget it, John, the world is full of assholes.

——

Seven hours later John eagerly headed to the sealed door to Rachael's bubble room. When he was met by Dr. Weintraub, John stopped cold. The attending physician's face was grave. “John, I'm so sorry. I tried to reach you,” he said.

“What's wrong?” Dr. Owen said, feeling suddenly dizzy. “I am so very sorry, John.” The rest of Weintraub's answer was unbearable. John's world began slipping away…

——

The next day, Alice Canyon Hawke took a call from Seattle in the Lakefront Lodge restaurant near Sandpoint, Idaho. She and Snowfeather were taking breakfast inside, while Gabriel stood on a dock, smoking a cigar and staring at the shimmering water, on fire with the morning sun. As Alice held the tiny phone, her face suddenly aged a decade. “Snowfeather…” Alice spoke with a quiet urgency that chilled her daughter's heart. “Get. Dad. Now.”

“What is it?”

“It's about Elisabeth's mother…” Alice sighed.

“Mom. What happened to Mrs. Owen?”

“She…died last night. Go get Dad…”

The day was typically Puget Sound overcast. With Rachael's funeral behind them, the old friends were together again, minus one. Once again, John Owen's boat was outfitted for a long run with lots of food and fuel. Just ahead of them a break in the clouds admitted a single shaft of sunlight, lancing down at the gray water like a searchlight.

“I'm still numb as a dead toe, Gabriel,” John said. “I turn around in the boat, expecting to see Rachael. And Elisabeth, well she…” His voice cracked and he let the sentence trail off. It was still too much to bear.

Gabriel was standing next to his old friend, as if to shelter him from grief; both were wearing yellow slickers. John was wearing his favorite crumpled fishing hat, while Gabriel's braids flapped in the wind. Newly-pregnant Elisabeth and Snowfeather sat talking softly at the stern of the boat. When Elisabeth slumped and began crying, she shook her head and turned to look out at the water. Snowfeather put her slender arm over her friend's shoulder.

Dr. Owen looked back at his daughter's husband. Josh was a tall, sturdy, thirty year-old man with clear, kind eyes, preoccupied with the tackle box. When Josh immediately got up to comfort his wife, John looked away. Alice, dressed in her favorite crimson parka, approached John and Gabriel with two steaming metal cups. She projected cheer, but her eyes were dark.

“It's very hot, guys. Strong coffee and trace amounts of cocoa.”

Gabriel kissed his wife on the cheek and John took a cup with one hand while still holding the wheel in the other. “Thank you, Alice,” he said. “It means everything to have friends here right now.”

“Ready for a break, Capt'n?” Alice asked. “I'd love to take the helm. This thingy
is
the helm, isn't it?” she added impishly. John's bleak solemnity gave way to a smile, his first in ten days. “Get ye aft Capt'n, and have a drink.”

“Yes'm,” John said. He yielded the wheel. As Alice steered and the Seattle skyline dropped below the horizon, the two men sat in a shelter near the stern, across from Josh and their daughters, and sipped from their battered metal cups. After several silent minutes, Owen slipped his empty mug into a holder. His movements were excessively careful, like in a dream. Then he bent forward and covered his face with his hands. “Damn, damn, damn,” he said, his voice muffled. “I
knew
Rachael shouldn't have ever gone into that godforsaken clinic. I knew it. I knew it…” He shook, trying futilely to hide the sounds of his sobbing. Gabriel reached out, patting John's back. Then John raised himself up, trying to smile. Tears were running freely. “God, I miss her.”

Gabriel started to say something, but held his silence. Moments passed, with John looking out at the water, Gabriel feeling helpless. A minute later, as if by unspoken agreement, Elisabeth and Snowfeather quietly joined them on either side, each young woman settling next to her father. Josh stood awkwardly at a distance. Dr. Owen had stopped shaking but Gabriel could see the tears still streaming, and he began rubbing his friend's shoulders. John eventually straightened, reached over and patted Gabriel. “I'll be okay,” he said, attempting a smile. Elisabeth leaned her head against her father and started crying softly. Josh approached, then, and patted Elisabeth.

Gabriel wanted to look directly at John, but forced himself to join him looking out at the distant water. Gabriel started to say something, but the words died.

“It hurts,” John whispered. “It hurts so damned much.”

Snowfeather squeezed her father's hand. The boat plowed on through the gray water, heading toward the column of sunlight. “I know,” Gabriel said, “I know.”

“In a way,
they
killed her,” John said.

“Who killed her, John?” Gabriel asked.

John Owen just stared ahead.