Vital Signs

14

Marissa woke up feeling exhausted. She had not had a good night's sleep. She had checked into a tidy motel in Charleville and, though her bed was comfortable, she'd hardly done more than doze. Every time she closed her eyes, she'd see that great white shark. The few times she managed to fall asleep, she'd be shocked awake by a nightmare vision of Wendy in the shark's jaws. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, she did sleep fitfully for almost three hours.

Although she wasn't hungry, Marissa forced herself to eat some breakfast before setting out for the car rental office.

As she walked down the street in Charleville, Marissa had the feeling she was in a time warp and was back in a Midwestern town in the United States fifty years previously. The quaint Victorian character that she'd expected to see in Brisbane was evident in some of the homes and office buildings. The air was clear and bright, and the streets were free of litter. And the early morning sun was hot enough to suggest what its noontime power would be.

At the car rental office in the Shell station, Marissa rented a Ford Falcon. She asked for a map, but the attendant didn't have one to offer.

"Where are you planning to go?" he asked in a slow Queenslander drawl.

Windorah," Marissa said.

The man looked at her as if she were crazy.

"What on earth for?" he asked.

"Do you know how far it is to Windorah?"

"Not exactly," Marissa admitted.

"It's over two hundred miles," the agent said.

"Two hundred miles of nothing but wallabies, koos, and lizards. Probably take you eight to ten hours. Better fill up that reserve tank in the trunk. There's also one for water. Fill that up just to be sure."

"What's the road like?" Marissa asked.

"Calling it a road is being generous," the agent said.

"There's a sealed strip, but there'll be a lot of bull dust Not much rain this season. Why don't you give me a ring tomorrow from Windorah?

If I don't hear from you I'll let the police know. There's not much traffic out there."

"Thank you," Marissa said.

"I'll do that."

Marissa drove the car back to her room. She found it awkward driving on the left. Once she was there she had the proprietor ring up the Royal Flying Doctor Service for her. She made sure there hadn't been any emergencies to interrupt Tristan Williams' schedule.

After filling her reserve gas and water tanks, Marissa drove straight through Charleville and picked up the road to Windorah.

As the agent had said, near the outskirts of town the paved road suddenly narrowed to a single lane.

At first Marissa somewhat enjoyed herself. The sun was behind her and not in her eyes, although she knew that would change as the day wore on. The solitude of the land was a good balm for her raw emotions.

The road was a sandy orange color and it sliced across the channel country, an arid, desertlike expanse of space cut by curious, narrow-ribbed valleys or arroyos that carried away the meager rainwater in the rainy season. Birds were everywhere, taking flight as she bore down on them. She even began to see the fauna that the agent had mentioned. Occasionally she passed a water hole ablaze with the color of hibiscus.

Despite the dramatic scenery, monotony soon set in. As the miles passed, Marissa began to be relieved that the car rental agent had agreed she would call when she got to Windorah.

Marissa had never traveled through a more desolate area in her life; the idea of the car breaking down was truly frightening.

The driving wasn't easy, either. The rough road meant she had to struggle with the steering wheel. The dust billowing in her wake eventually started to work its way into the car, covering everything with a fine layer.

By noon she was sure the temperature had climbed well over a hundred degrees. The beat created the illusion of rolling undulations.

There were other natural distractions as well; later in the afternoon she had to slam on the brakes, coming to a sliding stop to allow a pack of wild boar to continue to cross the road.

At a little past eight in the evening, after eleven hours of driving, Marissa began to see meager signs of civilization.

Twenty minutes later she pulled into Windorah. She was glad to be there, although the town was hardly a scenic oasis.

At the center of town stood a one-story green, clapboard pub cum hotel with a wooden veranda. A sign proclaimed it as the Western Star Hotel. Across the road from the Western Star was a general store. A little farther down the way was a gas station that looked like it was circa 1930.

Marissa entered the pub and endured the stares of its five male customers. They had paused in their dart game and were looking at her as if she were an apparition. The pub owner came over and asked if he could help her.

"I'd like a room for two nights," Marissa said.

"Do you have a reservation?" the man asked.

Marissa studied the man's broad face. She thought he had to be joking, but he didn't crack a smile. She admitted that she didn't have a reservation.

"There's a boxing troupe in town tonight," the man said.

"We're pretty busy, but let me check."

He went over to his cash register and checked a notebook.

Marissa glanced around the room. All the men were still staring at her. None of them moved or said a word. They didn't touch their bottles of beer.

The man came back.

"I'll give you number four," he said.

"It was reserved, but they were supposed to check in by six."

Marissa paid for a night's lodging, took the key, and asked about food.

"We'll fix you up something here in the pub," the man said.

"As soon as you freshen up, come on back."

"One other question," Marissa asked.

"Is the Wilmington Station close to town?"

"Tis," the man said.

"Quite close. Less than three hours' drive due west."

Marissa wondered how many hours it would take to get to a distant station if it took three to get to a close one. Before she went to her room, Marissa used a public phone to ring the car rental agent to say that she had made it.

She was pleased to discover that her room was reasonably clean. She was surprised to see mosquito netting draped over the bed. Only later would she learn how important it was.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. She wasn't very hungry and barely touched her food. She did enjoy the ice cold beer.

Eventually she found herself in friendly conversation with the men in the bar.

She was even persuaded to join them at the boxing show, which turned out to be an opportunity for the locals to box with professionals. The ranchers would win twenty dollars if they were able to last three one-minute rounds, but none of them ever did.

Marissa left before it was over, appalled by the violence the drunken men subjected themselves to.

The night was terrible. Marissa was again bothered by horrid dreams of sharks and Wendy being eaten. On top of that, she was tormented by drunken shouts and fights outside her door. She also had to do battle with all manner of insects that somehow managed to penetrate the netting around her bed.

By morning, Marissa was even more tired than she'd been the day before. But after a shower and some strong coffee, she thought she could face the day. Armed with directions from the hotel owner, she drove out of Windorah and headed to the Wilmington Station on a dusty dirt road.

The cattle ranch looked just as she imagined it would, consisting of a series of low-slung wooden sheds, white clapboard houses with sheet-metal roofs, and lots of fencing. Many dogs, horses, and cowboys were in evidence. Over the scene hung the unpleasant but not unbearable ripe, musty odor of cow dung.

In contrast to the staring disbelief her arrival caused in the pub in Windorah, Marissa was shown every possible hospitality at the cattle station. The cowboys, referred to as stock men literally fell over each other trying to help her, getting her a beer and offering to take her to the makeshift airstrip for the doctor's scheduled noon arrival. One of the stock men explained their behavior by telling her that an attractive unaccompanied female showed up at a cattle station about once every hundred years.

By eleven-thirty Marissa was out at the airstrip, sitting in her Ford Falcon under a lone gum tree. Out in the sunlight closer to the strip was the Wilmington Station Land-Rover. Just before twelve, she got out of the car and left the tree's shade. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she searched the pale blue sky for a plane.

The day was just as hot as the previous one and just as cloudless.

Nowhere could she see a plane. She listened hard but the only thing she heard was the breeze through the acacia.

After ten minutes Marissa was about to get back into the car when she heard the faint drone of an airplane engine. Raising her eyes to the sky again, she searched for the source of the sound.

She didn't spot it until it was almost on top of her.

The plane banked around the airstrip. The pilot seemed to be deciding whether or not he wished to land. At last, after a second pass, he brought the plane down.

The Beechcraft King Air taxied toward the Land-Rover, then pulled around into the wind. The pilot feathered the engines and prepared to deplane.

Marissa walked briskly toward the plane as the pilot was opening the cabin door. The man who had been sitting in the Land Rover stepped out into the sunlight, flicking a cigarette butt into the dust.

"Dr. Williams!" Marissa called.

The pilot stopped just beside his plane. He looked in Marissa's direction. He was carrying an old-fashioned doctor's bag with brass trim.

"Dr. Williams!" Marissa repeated.

"Yes?" Tristan said warily. He eyed Marissa from head to toe.

"I'm Dr. Marissa Blumenthal," Marissa said. She stuck her hand out. Tristan shook it hesitantly.

"Glad to know you," he said. He didn't sound as if he was sure.

Marissa was mildly surprised at the man's appearance. He didn't look like a pathologist, at least not like any of the pathologists she knew. His face was heavily tanned and he was sporting about a three-day growth of beard. He was wearing a beat-up, classic, wide-brimmed Australian outback hat tacked up on the side.

Instead of a doctor, Tristan Williams looked more an outdoorsman, a stockman perhaps. He had rugged good looks and sandy-colored hair a shade lighter than Robert's. He had an angular jaw like Robert's, but that's where the similarities ended.

Tristan's eyes were deeper set, though Marissa could not tell their color since he was squinting in the glare. And his lips weren't narrow like Robert's. They were full and expressive.

"Would it be possible to talk to you for a moment?" Marissa asked.

"I've been waiting for you to come. I've driven all the way from Charleville."

"My word!" Tristan said.

"It's not very often I get met out here by a good-looking sheila. I'm sure the folks at Wilmington Station can wait for a few minutes. Let me tell the driver."

Tristan walked over to the Land-Rover, storing the doctor's bag in the back seat of the vehicle. Marissa noticed that he was slightly taller than Robert, well over six feet.

When he returned, Marissa suggested they sit in her car in the shade. Tristan agreed.

"I've come all the way from Boston to talk with you," she said once they were in the car.

"You've not been easy to find."

"All of a sudden I'm not sure I'm going to like this," Tristan said, eyeing Marissa.

"Being found hasn't been something I've been interested in."

"I want to talk to you about a paper you wrote," Marissa said.

"It was about tuberculous salpingitis."

"Now I know I'm not going to like this," Tristan said.

"If you'll excuse me, I have patients to see." He put his hand on the door handle.

Marissa reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Please," she said.

"I have to talk to you."

"I knew you were too good to be true," he said. He pulled away from her grip and got out of the car. Without looking back, he walked over to the Land-Rover, got in, and drove away.

Marissa was stunned. She didn't know whether to be hurt or angry. After all the effort she'd gone through to find him, she couldn't believe he wouldn't give her more time than that. For a moment, Marissa sat in her car watching the dust from the Land Rover billow in the air. Then, hastily, she started the Ford Falcon, put it in gear, and gave chase.

By the time Marissa arrived at the Wilmington Station, she was covered with dust. The entire drive she'd been enveloped in the wake of the Land-Rover. Even her mouth felt gritty.

Tristan had already gotten out of the Land-Rover. He was heading up the long walkway toward a small house, medical bag in hand. Marissa ran to catch up to him. Falling in step alongside him, she tried to catch his eye. She had to take five steps to keep up with his every three.

"You have to talk with me," she said when it became clear he intended to ignore her.

"It's very important."

Tristan stopped short, "I'm not interested in talking with you," he said.

"Besides, I'm busy. I've got patients to see, including a very sick little girl, and I hate pediatrics."

Marissa brushed her dusty hair from her forehead and squinted up at Tristan. Even though his eyes were deeply set, she could now see they were blue.

"I'm a pediatrician," she said.

"Maybe I could help."

Tristan studied her face as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"A pediatrician, eh?" he said.

"That's mighty convenient." His eyes strayed to the front door of the house. When he looked back at Marissa, he said: "I can't turn that down, not with what I know about pediatrics."

The patient turned out to be an eight-month-old baby girl who was acutely ill. She had a high fever, a cough, and a runny nose.

The child was crying when Marissa and Tristan entered her room.

Marissa examined the infant while Tristan and the anxious mother watched. After a few minutes, Marissa straightened up and said: "It's measles, without doubt."

"How can you tell?" Tristan asked.

Marissa showed him the small white spots inside the infant's mouth, the reddened eyes, and the faint rash just beginning to appear on the forehead.

"What should we do?" he asked.

"Just get the fever down," Marissa said.

"But if complications occur, the child should be hospitalized. Is that possible?"

"Certainly," Tristan said.

"We can airlift her to Charleville, or even Brisbane if necessary."

For the next few minutes Marissa discussed the situation with the mother, describing the telltale signs of trouble. Then they discussed where the child could have picked up the virus. It turned out that two weeks previously, the family had visited relatives in Longreach, where there had been a sick child.

After discussing prophylaxis for the other children at the station,

Marissa and Tristan left the mother and walked toward the next house on Tristan's list.

"Thank you for helping," Tristan said as they mounted the stairs to the second porch.

"I think you could have handled it without me," Marissa said.

She was tempted to say more, but her intuition told her to wait.

Marissa stayed with Tristan and helped see the rest of the patients at the station. All were routine except for an old woman of ninety-three who was dying of cancer but refused to be taken to a hospital. Tristan respected her wishes and simply provided for her pain.

Walking out of the last house, it was Tristan who brought up the paper.

"I guess my curiosity has gotten the best of me," he said.

"What possibly could have motivated you to come all the way out here to ask me about a journal article that was discredited?"

"Because I'm suffering from the syndrome you described," Marissa said, keeping pace with him. They were heading toward the communal food-service area.

"And because the syndrome has been appearing around the United States and even in Europe."

She wanted to ask straight off why he'd made up cases, but she was afraid such a question would end the conversation.

Tristan stopped and studied Marissa.

"You had tuberculous salpingitis yourself?" he asked.

"Confirmed by biopsy," Marissa said.

"I never knew I'd had it. If I hadn't tried to get pregnant, I probably never would have known."

Tristan seemed deep in thought.

"I've been trying to learn something about it," Marissa continued, "but it's been difficult. In fact, it's been a disaster. I've just lost a friend. I'm even wondering if she was killed."

Tristan stared at her.

"What are you talking about?"

"I came to Australia with a friend," Marissa explained.

"A woman suffering from the TB salpingitis just like me. We came because of your article, and inquired about you at FCA in Brisbane.

They were less than helpful there."

Marissa went on to describe what had happened out on the reef, saying that she felt that Wendy's death might not have been accidental.

"And I'm beginning to think that my own life may be in jeopardy," she added.

"But I really can't say I have any evidence of that."

Tristan sighed.

"This all brings back bad memories," he said with a shake of his head. He tilted his hat back and scratched his forehead.

"But maybe I'd better tell you my story so that you have some idea what you are up against. Maybe then you'll go home and live your life. But the telling will take a while. And it's for your ears only. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Marissa said.

"All right," Tristan said.

"Let's go inside and get a couple of stubbies."

Tristan went into the canteen and walked directly into the kitchen. The crew were busy cleaning up from the noonday meal, From the fridge he got two ice cold beers and carried them into the empty dining room. Motioning toward one of the picnic like tables, he popped the tops of the beers and handed one to Marissa.

She sat down facing him.

"I was employed by FCA directly from my specialty training in pathology," he said after a long pull on his beer.

"I was impressed by the organization. It was expanding. Right after I was hired, the chief of the department, that's what he called himself, came down with hepatitis and had to take an extended leave. Since there were only two of us in the department back then, I found myself the chief." Tristan chuckled.

"Almost immediately," he continued, "I started seeing these cases of granulomatous salpingitis, one after another. I knew it was unique, and having just come from training, the possibility of making some kind of academic discovery held great appeal. I have to admit I also liked the idea of getting a paper in one of the journals. So entirely on my own, I decided to write the cases up.

"My first suspicion was tuberculosis, despite TB being rare here in Australia. But since we'd been having a recent increase in immigration from Southeast Asia, where TB is still endemic, I thought it was possible.

"But I had to be sure it was TB. I ruled out fungi through elaborate stains. It definitely wasn't fungi. I looked exhaustively for organisms, but could never find any. But still I was sure it was TB."

"What about sarcoid?" Marissa questioned.

Tristan shook his head.

"It wasn't sarcoid," he said.

"The chest X-rays were all normal and none of the patients had swollen glands or eye problems.

"So I was confident that it was TB although I had no idea how it was spread. But then I made an association with something else that was going on at the clinic. About a year before I began seeing these cases, the clinic had started having Chinese technicians and security people rotate through some sort of fellowship program.

I thought that the clinic was training the technicians in in vitro fertilization to go back to Hong Kong where they'd come from.

But I wasn't sure. They always came in pairs and didn't stay long.

Only for a few months. Many didn't even speak English. But the fact that they were coming from Hong Kong, where there had been a significant influx of Southeast Asian boat people, made me think they might have had something to do with the rash of TB salpingitis."

"Where did they go after their fellowships?" Marissa asked, recalling the pair of Chinese at the Women's Clinic.

"I had no idea," Tristan admitted.

"I assumed back to Hong Kong. I had never been interested, at least not until I started looking into the TB cases. Then I became curious. So I scheduled a meeting with Charles Lester, the director of the clinic, and I asked him about the Chinese. But he told me it was classified information. All he would say was that it had something to do with the government!"

Tristan shrugged.

"What could I do? I asked a few other people, but no one seemed to want to talk about it. But then a pair of Chinese got in a bad car accident. Bad enough to kill one and hospitalize the other. They hospitalized him in the FCA facility. He was the only male patient they'd ever had.

"I made it a point to visit the bloke, just about every day. He was tight-lipped but could speak English. Not a lot, but enough.

His name was Chan Ho. I tested him for TB without anyone else knowing, but was disappointed when he tested negative because it blew holes in my theory. Still in the process of stopping by every day I got to know the fellow a bit. I learned he was some kind of Buddhist monk. He'd learned Chinese martial arts as part of his studies. Now, that caught my attention; martial arts have been my sport since I've been knee-high to a wallaby. When the bloke got out of the hospital, I invited him to come to my gym.

He turned out to be unbelievable at kung fu."

Marissa remembered how the Chinese man in the gray suit had disarmed Paul Abrums with a deft kick.

"Then I learned something else: Chan loved beer. He'd never had any until he'd come to Australia, or so he said. I discovered that after a few good Australian beers he loosened up. That's when he really surprised me. I found out he wasn't from Hong Kong at all, he came from a town near Guangzhou in the People's Republic of China."

"He was from Communist China?" Marissa asked.

"That's what he told me," Tristan said.

"I was surprised too.

Apparently he'd just passed through Hong Kong-illegally, I might add. One night I managed to get him really pissed-" "You got him angry?" Marissa was confused.

"No! Drunk," Tristan said.

"Then he really opened up. He told me that in the PRC he'd been a member of a secret society, a martial arts organization called the White Lotus. He said that it was because of his martial arts ability that he'd been brought out of China by one of the Hong Kong triads called the Wing Sin.

Apparently the FCA footed the bill. He led me to believe that they paid big bucks for him and his companion to be smuggled here to Australia."

"But why?" Marissa asked. Tristan's story was going in directions she'd never anticipated. They seemed far afield from the issue of TB.

"I had no idea," Tristan admitted.

"But it all intrigued me.

Seemed like a weird kind of program, especially since it was supposed to involve the government. I started thinking all sorts of things, like maybe it had something to do with Hong Kong being turned over to the PRC in 1997."

"The last thing Communist China needs is in-vitro fertilization,"

Marissa said.

"Don't I know it," Tristan said.

"Nothing made sense to me.

So I tried quietly asking around the clinic again, but still I couldn't find anyone who would say anything about these visitors, especially anyone in administration. I talked to the director again, but he warned me to leave it alone. I should have taken his advice."

Tristan tipped his head back and finished his beer. Standing, he asked Marissa if she was ready for another. She shook her head.

She hadn't finished the one she had. While Tristan went back into the kitchen, she reviewed in her mind what he'd told her. it was certainly curious, but hardly what she'd come thousands of miles to hear.

Tristan came back with a new beer and reclaimed his seat.

"I know this all sounds weird," he admitted.

"But I was convinced that if I could figure out why the Chinese were there, then I'd be able to explain the salpingitis cases. That might sound strange, but they were happening at the same time, and I was convinced it couldn't have been by chance. And whether the PRC needed it or not, I thought that these Chinese technicians were being trained in in-vitro techniques. When they were at the clinic, they were always in the in-vitro lab."

"Do you think it could have been the other way around?"

Marissa asked.

"Maybe the Chinese were providing information rather than getting it."

"I doubt that," Tristan said.

"Modern technical medicine is not one of China's strong suits."

"Yet around the time you're talking about," Marissa said, "the FCA did start to show a rather sudden increase in overall efficiency with their in-vitro. I read about it in the medical school library."

"From having talked with Chan Ho for many hours, there's no way he'd be able to add to our technical knowledge."

What about his companion?" Marissa asked.

"The one who died."

""Chan refused to talk about him," Tristan said.

"I asked him on many occasions. All I learned was that he was not a martial arts expert like Chan."

"Maybe he was an acupuncturist," Marissa suggested.

"Or an herbalist."

"Possibly," Tristan said.

"But I can assure you that FCA did not start doing acupuncture as part of the in-vitro protocol. But Chan did lead me to believe that he had felt responsible for his companion since he was afraid he would be sent back to the PRC after the bloke died."

"Sounds like the companion was the more important of the two," Marissa said.

"Maybe he did provide some knowledge or skill."

"It would be tough to get me to believe that," Tristan said.

"They were all quite primitive fellows. What I started to think about was drugs."

"How so?" Marissa asked.

"Heroin smuggling," Tristan said.

"I know that Hong Kong has become the heroin capital for moving heroin from the Golden Triangle to the rest of the world. I came to think that the explanation for all this weird activity was the movement of heroin, especially since TB is endemic in the Golden Triangle."

"So these Chinese duos were couriers?" Marissa asked.

"That's what I was thinking," Tristan said.

"Maybe the one who didn't know martial arts. But I wasn't sure. Yet it was the only thing that seemed to justify the money that had to be involved.

" "That means the FCA has to be in the drug business," Marissa said. In her mind's eye she remembered the surprising opulence of the clinic. That lent a certain credence to what Tristan was saying. But if that were the case, how did TB salpingitis fit in?

"I was planning on investigating it," Tristan said.

"I intended to use my next vacation to go to Hong Kong and trace the trail back to Guangzhou if necessary."

"What made you change your mind?" Marissa asked.

"Two things happened," Tristan said.

"First, the chief of pathology came back, and second, my paper came out in the Australian

Journal of Infectious Diseases. I thought I was about to become professionally famous for describing a new clinical syndrome.

Instead it turned out to be a king hit on me. As I said, I'd never cleared the paper with the administration. well, they went crazy. They wanted me to recant the paper, but I wouldn't. I got on my academic high horse and bucked the system."

"The cases in your paper were real patients?" Marissa finally asked.

"You didn't make them up?"

"Of course I didn't make them up," Tristan said indignantly.

"I'm not a complete alf. That's the story they put out. But it wasn't true."

"Charles Lester told us you'd made them up."

"That lying bastard!" Tristan hissed.

"All twenty-three cases in that paper were real patients. I guarantee it. But I'm not surprised he told you differently. They tried to force me to say the same. But I refused. There were even threats. Unfortunately, I ignored the threats, even when they were extended to my wife and my two-year-old son "Then Chan Ho disappeared and things got ugly. My pathology chief wrote to the journal and said I'd manufactured the data, so the paper was officially discredited. Then someone planted heroin in my car which the police found following an anonymous tip. My life became a living hell. I was indicted on drug charges. My family was intimidated and tormented. But like an idiot, I stood up to it all, challenging the clinic to deny the existence of the patients whose names I had saved. Drunk on idealism, I wasn't going to give up. At least not until my wife died."

Marissa's face went ashen.

"What happened?" she asked, afraid to hear the rest.

Tristan looked down at his beer for a moment, then took a swig. When he looked back at Marissa his eyes were filled with tears.

"It was supposedly a mugging," he said in a halting voice.

— Something that doesn't happen too often here in Australia. She was knocked down and her purse was taken. In the process, she broke her neck."

"Oh, no!" cried Marissa.

"Officially she broke her neck hitting the pavement," Tristan said.

"But I thought the fracture resulted from a kung fu kick although I couldn't prove it. But it made me terrified for my son's safety. Since I had a trial to face, I stayed, but I sent Chauncey to live with my in-laws in California. I knew I couldn't protect him."

"Your wife was American?" Marissa asked.

Tristan nodded.

"We met when I was doing a fellowship in San Francisco."

What happened at the trial?" Marissa asked. was acquitted of most of the criminal charges," Tristan said.

But not all. I served a short time in jail and had to do some community service. I got fired from FCA, obviously. I lost my specialty certification but managed to hold on to my medical license. And I fled out here to the outback."

"Your son is still in the States?" Marissa asked.

Tristan nodded.

"I wasn't about to bring him here until I was certain it was over."

"What an ordeal."

"I hope you will take it to heart," Tristan said.

"You are probably right about your friend's death not being accidental.

You're probably also right about your own life being in danger.

I think you'd better leave Australia."

"I don't know if I can at this point," Marissa said.

"Please don't be as foolish as I was," Tristan said.

"You've already lost a friend. Don't persist. Forget your idealism. All this represents something very big and very sinister. It probably involves organized Chinese crime and heroin, a deadly combination.

People always think of the Mafia when they think of organized crime, but the Mafia is a Girl-Scout operation compared to the Chinese syndicate. Whatever is at the bottom of it all, I realized I couldn't investigate it on my own. Nor should YOU."

"How could organized Chinese crime be associated with TB salpingitis?" Marissa asked.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Tristan said.

"I doubt there is a direct causal link. It has to be some unexpected side effect."

"Did you know that FCA is controlled by a holding company that also controls all the Women's Clinics in the States?"

"I do," Tristan said.

"That was part of the reason I went to work for FCA. I knew that they were planning to expand around the globe primarily because of their in-vitro fertilization technology.

Marissa touched Tristan's arm. Even though her loss was different, she felt the kinship of shared tragedy.

"Thank you for talking with me," she said softly.

"Thank you for being so open and trusting."

"I hope it has the desired effect of sending you home at once," Tristan said.

"You must give up this crusade you are on."

"I don't think I can," Marissa said.

"Not after Wendy's death, and not after all the suffering that the TB salpingitis has caused me and so many others. I've come this far and risked this much.

I have to find out what's going on."

"All I can tell you is that a similar compulsion ruined my life and killed my wife," Tristan said. He sounded almost angry. He wanted to talk her out of her foolishness, but seeing the glint of determination in her eyes, he knew it would be in vain. He sighed.

"I'm getting the idea that you are a hopeless cause.

"If you have to proceed, then I suggest that you contact the Wing Sin Triad in Hong Kong. Maybe they will be willing to help — for a price. That was what I was planning to do. But I have to warn you that it will be dangerous since the Hong Kong triads are notorious for violence, especially when heroin is involved; the amounts of money are astronomical. The heroin alone coming from the Golden Triangle is worth over a hundred billion dollars a year."

"Why don't you come with me?" Marissa said.

"Your son is safe in America. Why not follow up on what you had planned to do years ago? We can do it together."

Tristan laughed aloud.

"Absolutely not," he said.

"Don't even try to tempt me. I ran out of idealism two years ago."

"Why would FCA and the Women's Clinic be involved with drugs?" she asked.

"Just for the money'? Wouldn't they be risking too much?"

"That's a good question," Tristan said.

"I've asked it myself.

My guess is that they might be part of a money-laundering scheme. The clinic needs lots of capital for continued global expansion."

"So the Chinese coming from the PRC are couriers for money or drugs or both," Marissa said.

"That's my guess," Tristan said.

"But that brings me back to the tuberculosis," Marissa said.

"How does that fit in?"

Tristan shrugged.

"As I said, I don't have all the answers. I suppose it has to be an inadvertent effect. I don't have a clue as to how the women pick it up. TB is usually an airborne infection.

How it gets to the fallopian tubes is beyond me."

"That's not how you make a diagnosis in medicine," Marissa. said.

"All the symptoms and signs have to be related directly to the main diagnosis. Almost always it is one disease. I think TB has to be considered central to the problem."

"Then you're on your own," Tristan said.

"There's no way I can explain what's happened with that caveat."

"So come with me," Marissa begged.

"You certainly have as much at stake as I do in learning the truth."

"No!" Tristan said.

"I'm not getting involved. Not again.

Recently I've been thinking that enough time has passed and I've saved a lot of money, enough to take my son back and move someplace far away, maybe even the States."

"Okay," Marissa said.

"I guess I can understand." Her tone said she didn't understand at all.

"Thank you again for talking with me." The two stood up. Marissa stuck her hand out and Tristan shook it.

"Good luck," Tristan said.

Marissa squinted as she stepped outside into the blazing hot sun. She walked to her car and looked in at the dust. She was not relishing her ride back to Windorah, nor the odyssey back to Charleville the next day.

She got into the car as carefully as possible to avoid raising a dust cloud. After starting the engine, she drove out of the Wilmington

Station, waving to a few of the stock men working on a run of fence. She hung a left and started back toward Windorah.

As she drove through the forbidding countryside, she reviewed everything Tristan had told her. Although she hadn't found out anything new about the TB salpingitis, she'd learned much she'd never expected, all of it disturbing. Perhaps the most disturbing was the suggestion of foul play in Tristan's wife's death. If Tristan was right, Marissa felt that lent greater plausibility to the idea that the sharks had been deliberately attracted by the two men tossing the chum. And if that were the case, her own life was in jeopardy.

Marissa drove the car by reflex as she wondered what she could do to protect herself. Unfortunately she didn't have any particularly startling ideas. If people she didn't know wanted to kill her, how would she know who they were? It was hard to protect herself from the unexpected. Danger could come at any moment.

Just then, as if to prove her fears, she became aware of an odd vibration. At first she thought her car had been tampered with.

She glanced at the gauges and dials on the dashboard. All registered normal. Yet the vibration soon crescendoed to a roar.

In a panic, Marissa gripped the steering wheel. She knew she had to do something fast. In desperation she slammed on the brakes and threw the steering wheel hard to the left. The car skidded sideways. For an instant, Marissa felt it was about to roll over.

The instant Marissa came to a jolting halt, a plane thundered overhead, missing the top of her car by barely ten feet.

Marissa knew then that the people who had killed Wendy had somehow found her. Now they would concoct an accident to dispense with her.

Her car had stalled. Frantically, she tried to restart it. Through the windshield she could see that the plane had looped up, banked, and was now coming back toward her. In the distance it looked no bigger than an insect, but already its sound was rattling the car.

With the engine going at last, Marissa put the car in gear. The plane was almost on her. Ahead was a lone acacia tree. For some crazy reason, Marissa thought that if she could get to the tree, it would provide a modicum of protection. She threw the wheel to the right to straighten the car, then gunned the engine. The car shot forward.

The plane was headed right for her. It had dropped to less than ten feet from the ground. It was roaring along the road directly at her. Behind the plane, the dust billowed hundreds of feet into the air.

Realizing she wasn't going to make it to the tree, Marissa slammed on the brakes again and raised her arms protectively in front of her eyes. With a thundering growl the plane came at her, then pulled up at the last second. The car shuddered as the plane screamed overhead.

Opening her eyes, Marissa floored the gas pedal again. Within seconds she had the car off the road and under the tree. Behind her she could hear the plane returning.

Twisting in her seat, she faced around, fully expecting to see the craft coming at her. But instead, it was paralleling the road.

As it passed by her, its wheels touched down. The high-pitched drone of its twin engines dropped to a deeper roar. That was when Marissa. recognized the plane. Inside was Tristan Williams.

Relief quickly changed to irritation as Marissa watched the plane slow to a near stop, turn, then taxi back. When it was alongside her car, it turned again, facing down the road. The engine was cut and Tristan jumped from the cabin.

He walked up to Marissa with his hat jauntily pushed back on his forehead.

"Marissa Blumenthal!" he quipped.

"Imagine meeting you out here!"

"You scared me to death," Marissa said hotly.

"And you deserved it," Tristan said with equal vehemence.

Then he smiled.

"Maybe I'm a little crazy, too. But I had to let you know that I've changed my mind. Maybe I owe it to my wife's memory. Maybe I owe it to myself. Whatever. I've got some holiday time and a lot of cash, so I'll go with you to Hongkers and we'll see if we can figure this thing out."

"Really?" Marissa asked.

"Are you sure?"

"Don't make me reexamine my decision," Tristan warned.

"But I couldn't let you wing off to Hong Kong by yourself under these circumstances. I'd feel guilty, and I've already experienced enough guilt for a lifetime."

"I'm so pleased," Marissa said.

"You have no idea."

"Don't be too pleased," Tristan said.

"Because it's not going to be any proper holiday, I can assure you of that. It's not going to be easy and it'll definitely be dangerous. Are you sure you want to go through with it?"

"No question," Marissa said.

"Especially now!"

"Where are you headed at the moment?" Tristan asked.

"I'm staying at the Western Star Hotel," Marissa said.

"I was planning on driving to Charleville in the morning."

"Here's my suggestion," he said.

"Go back to the Western Star and wait for me. I'll meet you there. I've got another station to visit. I can arrange to have this rental car driven back to Charleville if you have the fortitude to fly with me in my King Air

"I'd do anything to avoid that drive from Windorah to Charleville,"

Marissa said.

Tristan tipped his hat.

"See you at the Western Star." He turned and started back toward his plane.

"Tris!" Marissa called.

He turned.

Marissa blushed.

"Can I call you Tris?" she asked.

"You can call me anything you want," Tristan said.

"Here in the land of Oz, even Bastard is a term of endearment."

"I just wanted to thank you for volunteering to go with me to Hong Kong," Marissa said.

"Like I said, better hold back on your thanks until you see what we're getting ourselves into," Tristan said.

"Have you ever been to Hong Kong?"

"No," Marissa said.

"Well, hang on to your kookaburra. The outback of Australia is the absolute opposite of Hongkers. It's a city out of control, especially now that it's scheduled to be handed over to the PRC in '97. The place is a bit desperate, and it's always operated on money and money alone. Everything is for sale.in Hong Kong, even LIFE itself And, in Hong Kong life is cheap. I mean it. There it's not just a cliche.

I'm sure I wouldn't have been able to handle it on my own," Marissa. said.

Tristan eyed her.

"I'm not so sure of that," he said.

"You've given me the impression that you've got more than your share of pluck and determination." With a final smile, Tristan turned back to his plane.

Soon the engines were roaring again and the props were sending a torrent of dust into the air. With a final wave, Tristan released his brake and the King Air leaped forward, soaring off into the searing sun.