Natural Causes

CHAPTER 19

July 21

THE SHOP OF THE HERBALIST KWONG TIAN-WEN OCCUPIED the ground floor and basement of a dilapidated, four-story brick tenement. Sarah paid more than customary attention to her appearance and to selecting an outfit, then left her apartment at seven-fifteen and walked the few miles from the North End to Chinatown. She sensed some apprehension at having to deal with Jeremy Mallon, and was still bewildered by the frightened, stuttering man and by Rosa Suarez's strange warning. But the morning was bright and unusually clear, and she felt upbeat-about taking this step to eliminate her herbal supplement from suspicion and about seeing Matt Daniels again.

She had known Kwong from her days at the Ettinger Institute, and following her return from medical school, she had checked him out with several members of the Boston holistic community. He was still highly regarded. Nevertheless, she interviewed him twice before selecting him as her supplier. He spoke almost no English, but Sarah's once-decent Chinese was still good enough to conduct business with him. When she needed a translator, Kwong would rap his cane on the ceiling or strike it against a certain steam pipe. And within a minute or two, one of his American-born grandchildren would appear.

Sarah was impressed with the man's knowledge and drawn to his consistently optimistic outlook. And of course, there were the striking similarities-physical and metaphysical-between him and Louis Han. She could not help but believe that in Kwong, she was getting a glimpse of her mentor had he lived into his seventies.

Initially Sarah picked up her herbal orders herself. But as the pressures of her medical training mounted, she had begun having the mixture delivered. Now, perhaps for the first time, she realized how much she missed her visits to the shop. The frayed connection with Kwong was, she thought sadly, just another item on the list of casualties exacted by her residency.

The shop was on a narrow street, barely more than an alley, off Kneeland. As Sarah rounded the corner, she saw the old man and Debbie, one of his granddaughters, standing by the building. She was wondering why the two weren't inside when she noticed the yellow vinyl ribbon crisscrossing the doorway and windows. It pained her to think of Kwong's humiliation and confusion when some sheriff's deputy or constable showed up with a court order to seal off the place.

"Hello, Mr. Kwong," Sarah said in Cantonese. "Hello, Debbie. I'm sorry for this." She gestured toward the ribbons.

Kwong brushed off the apology with a gnarled hand, but Sarah could tell he was agitated. She suddenly realized that it had been perhaps a year since they had actually seen one another. His gray-white goatee was unkempt and stained with nicotine below his lip. His blue silk robe-possibly the only outfit she had ever seen him wear-was threadbare and frayed. Had he aged so? Or had she simply been viewing him through younger, more naive eyes?

"A man has been guarding the shop ever since they put up those ribbons," Debbie said. "He goes from the alley back around to here, and then to the alley again. He said he wants to make sure no one tampers with anything inside. What does he mean?"

"Nothing, Debbie," Sarah said. "Things will be back to normal for you before you know it. I'm just so sorry that you and your grandfather have to go through this at all."

The old man's frailty was striking. Sarah prayed that Mallon and his people would simply take whatever samples they wanted and leave. If they tried intimidating Kwong in any way, it would be up to Matt to protect him at all costs. She was about to try to explain the situation to Kwong through Debbie when Matt entered the street from the far end. Eli Blankenship was lumbering along beside him, gesticulating forcefully, as if to get across a difficult point. Sarah was relieved to have him along. There was no finer intellect at MCB, nor any more imposing physical presence, either. Matt was reasonably tall and well built, but next to the professor, he looked slight.

With Debbie's help, she introduced the men to Kwong. It seemed clear the herbalist had no interest in any of them beyond having them leave him alone.

Matt immediately excused Sarah, Blankenship, and himself and led them to the other side of the street.

"Does the old guy know what's happening?" he whispered.

Sarah shrugged.

"He's not addled by any stretch," she said. "I suspect he has a pretty good idea of what's going on. But I'm not sure he understands that it all has to do with me, and not with him."

"He looks like he's spent more than his share of time with his lips curled around the stem of an opium pipe."

"So what? Opium is part of his culture. Any idea where Mallon is?"

"Nope. I expected him to be late, though. It's an old legal ploy to unnerve and annoy the other side. It's survived in the law game over the ages mostly because it works." He motioned them back to Kwong and the girl. "Debbie," he said kindly, "please apologize to your grandfather for our imposing on him, and promise that we will compensate him for the trouble and inconvenience."

The girl, dressed in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, was perhaps thirteen. She had a plain face and short, jet hair. Sarah was about to suggest that Matt choose words she was more likely to understand than impose and compensate, when the teen rattled off a translation to Kwong. The old man responded with no more than a grunt and a dismissive wave of his hand.

"He says that it is his pleasure to serve you, and that you need not think about paying him," Debbie said.

At that moment, a Lincoln Town Car pulled up at the end of the street. Sarah turned to Kwong to reassure him about the new arrivals.

"The pudgy guy's Sheriff Mooney," she heard Matt say to Eli, "and that tall guy-isn't he the one from the weight loss shows on TV?"

She groaned softly and looked back at the Lincoln. Peter Ettinger, ramrod straight, towering above Mallon and the sheriff, was staring down the narrow street, straight at her. Even in the pale, indirect morning sun, his silver hair looked almost phosphorescent.

"You bastard," she muttered to herself. This must be Mallon's expert witness.

She gave Kwong, who now looked somewhat confused, a gentle touch. Then she stood back and watched as the two groups of men, like combatants in some macabre sport, approached one another for introductions. She took the moment when Matt reached across to shake Peter's hand and froze it in her mind for future reference.

The county sheriff, the MCB chief of medicine, Peter, Matt, a bewildered old Chinese man, a precocious teen. The whole affair was suddenly taking on a carnival atmosphere. In just a few minutes, when the eight of them worked their way inside, things were bound to get even more bizarre. Kwong's shop was an impressive hodgepodge, with no clearly defined aisles. Eight people would be well beyond its critical mass.

Matt led the opposition back to where she was standing. Peter allowed himself to be introduced to her. He reached out his hand, but Sarah refused to take it.

"So," he said. "It appears we've gotten ourselves in a wee bit o' trouble." His smug expression was close to the one Sarah remembered from that last horrid day in his office.

"And it appears we've become even more overbearing and unpleasant than we used to be," she replied.

This isn't the wide-eyed earth child you brought back from the jungle, Peter, she was thinking. If it's a fight you're spoiling for, you're not going to be disappointed.

"You two know each other?" Matt said.

"Dr. Baldwin once did some work for me," Ettinger said quickly.

"Hard labor would be a more descriptive term, Matt. I'm not proud of it, but we lived together for three years before I woke up and jumped the wall."

"Lived together!" Matt exclaimed. "Mallon, what in the hell?"

In the second or two before Mallon responded, Sarah could see the confusion in his eyes. Peter hadn't told him! The bastard wanted to get back at her so badly, he hadn't said a word about their past.

"He-um-Mr. Ettinger is being used to help us organize our case," Mallon said, blustering. "We-we certainly never intended having him appear in court. He is serving us strictly in an advisory capacity."

"Well, I would certainly hope you can do better than a rebuffed suitor for your expert witness," Matt said. "I'd hate to have my job made that easy. Shall we go in and get this over with?"

Mallon said nothing. But it was clear from his stony expression that Matt had drawn blood, if only a drop or two.

"Nice going," Sarah whispered. "Now please, just make sure Mallon doesn't take it out on Mr. Kwong."

The vinyl ribbons were cut away, and the combatants, led by Kwong Tian-Wen and his granddaughter, filed into the herbalist's shop. Carnivale de Baldwina, Sarah mused. Sheriff Mooney, the ringmaster, in his white seersucker suit. Jeremy Mallon, snake and charmer in one. Eli Blankenship sans leopard skin, nearly spanning the narrow doorway. Peter Ettinger, the Human Stilt, ducking to enter. Carnivale de Baldwina. Once inside, Sarah noted with some pleasure that the protruding rafters kept The Stilt in a persistent hunch.

The shop was more cluttered and more fragrant than Sarah remembered. Stalks of wild reeds and dried flowers were everywhere, interspersed with barrels of roots, various ground flours, rice, and leaves. The old glass-front counter and the shelves behind it were packed with jars of widely varying sizes, shapes, and contents. One contained desiccated scorpions; another, huge beetles; still another, an eel in preservative. A few of the jars had labels handwritten in Chinese, but many of them had none.

Two somewhat mangy, long-haired cats, one pure white, the other black as chimney soot, huddled sleepily in one corner. And standing like a totem, or perhaps an exclamation point, in the center of the disarray, was a well-stocked wire display rack of Dr. Scholl's foot products.

"I don't think parading a jury into this place will help our cause too much," Blankenship whispered.

"Let's hope it never comes to that," Sarah said.

"Well, Counselor, how do you want to proceed?" Matt asked.

Mallon, apparently unaware that his Armani suit was backed up against a thick, dusty crop of dried sunflower stalks, made a visual survey of the shop that was theatrically slow and disparaging. Clearly, he was back on track.

"We have a list of the ingredients in Dr. Baldwin's supplement," he said finally. "One at a time, we'll ask for them. Mr. Kwong's granddaughter may translate if necessary. The sample will then be placed in two labeled evidence bags. The first will be sealed by Sheriff Mooney and the seal initialed by you or Dr. Baldwin. The second will be inspected by Mr. Ettinger, who will make what notes he wishes. Beginning later today, he will be working with a team of botanists and chemists to identify each component scientifically. Does that approach meet with your approval, Counselor?"

"Sarah, Eli, is that all right with you?" Matt asked.

"As a representative of the Medical Center of Boston, I would like to examine the specimens as well," Blankenship said.

"Do you know herbal medicine?" Sarah asked.

"Oh, a bit."

His half smile suggested that, as in many areas, what he considered a "bit" of knowledge made others experts.

She motioned Blankenship and Matt into a huddle.

"There's something I ought to explain," she whispered.

"To us or to everyone?"

"To everyone." She cleared some nervousness from her throat.

"Just be very careful," Blankenship warned. "Remember, they're the enemy."

"I understand. Mr. Mallon, before you start this process, I want to explain that I brought the composition of the mixture I use back with me from Southeast Asia. It was written out in Chinese by a brilliant herbalist and healer. I have a copy of that version here. It is this list Mr. Kwong has used to prepare the tea which I dispense. Some of the names on the list you have-the one I give to my patients-are my best guesses at the English equivalent of the roots and herbs he uses."

"As long as the two lists are in the same order, and you and Mr. Kwong concur that what he puts in these bags is what you gave to Lisa Grayson, I have no problem with what names you call things. In due time, Mr. Ettinger and his team will be providing us with scientific names and chemical compositions. I'd like a copy of that Chinese list, though."

Debbie translated what had been decided to Kwong and handed him the list. Sarah felt certain that the old man had the components of the mixture memorized. But sharing that information with Mallon would not serve their cause at all.

"Okay, then," Mallon said. "Number one is Oriental ginseng."

"Panax pseudoginseng," Sarah heard Blankenship whisper to himself.

Debbie told her grandfather to proceed. The herbalist nodded somewhat impatiently and, with only the briefest glance at the list, pulled a large jar of brown plant fragments from beneath the counter. Using a worn metal scoop, he filled a pair of plastic bags. Sarah authenticated the seal on one and gave it to Matt, who gave it to the sheriff. The other was passed first to Blankenship and then to Peter. Blankenship took only moments to assess the contents. Peter sniffed it, tasted it, and rolled a bit between his fingers. Then, after a few hmms, which Sarah felt certain were to irritate her, he placed specimen one in his briefcase.

The second item on the list, a gnarled root, was handled the same way, as was the third, which Sarah's list called moondragon.

"It's actually shavings of bark from the medarah tree," Sarah explained. "Endemic to Java, but also found in southern China. Wonderful for intestinal and stomach disorders. Great for morning sickness."

As she spoke, Sarah noticed that at the far right end of the counter, Sheriff Mooney had begun peering intently into one of the glass containers. It was on the topmost shelf, behind several larger jars. Sarah strained to see what the lawman was finding so interesting and was about to inform Matt, when Kwong began waving his arms wildly about and yelling.

"No, no, no!" he shouted, his expression a disconcerting mix of anger and bewilderment. "No, no, no!"

He was nearly hysterical as he railed at his granddaughter, gesticulating toward the five-gallon jar holding the sample he had just meted out-the fourth component on the list. Sarah had never before heard the man so much as raise his voice. But the frightened, frustrated look in his eyes was one she knew well. She had seen it often in the eyes of her mother as the woman's Alzheimer's disease inexorably progressed. Something had gone wrong-very wrong.