Peter was sitting behind the wheel of the Rolls Royce Wraith, a beautiful and sleek two-door sedan—a gift from the Sultan of Brunei as a token of his appreciation for Peter’s efforts to protect the life of his niece not long ago. Although at first Peter had refused the automobile, the sultan was most persistent.
As the two-lane highway dropped from the high desert plateau down toward the Deschutes River, Mount Jefferson, still capped in snow, loomed ahead. The perfectly symmetrical volcanic peak dominated the skyline. Cliffs of igneous rock, the color of dark chocolate, loomed two hundred feet above the fast-flowing water. Above the cliffs, steep, grass-covered slopes were just beginning to green. Juniper trees dotted the sparse landscape.
The hour-long drive from Bend to the Warm Springs Reservation had passed quickly; Peter’s thoughts were preoccupied with why a tribal council member had contacted him and insisted on a face-to-face meeting.
He glanced at the GPS map shown on the in-dash display and signaled to turn right at the approaching intersection. A quarter mile ahead was his destination. He slowed the car to a stop in front of an old ranch-style house.
Paint was peeling from the trim, and the weathered and worn asphalt shingles cladding the roof were definitely at the end of their useful life. Around the spacious yard were rusted cars and pickups, all in various stages of disassembly. There was no landscaping to speak of, just a natural scattering of native rabbit brush and sage.
There was nothing exceptional about the house. The city of Warm Springs did not boast any high-end neighborhoods. There were no mini-mansions set back on well-manicured yards. If anything was remarkable about the community, it was the high unemployment rate and low standard of living, two facts which made Peter self-conscious of driving his luxury automobile to his appointment. He knew the Wraith cost more than most families in Warm Springs would earn in a decade, maybe two.
As he got out, he was greeted by a large man with raven-black hair braided in a ponytail that extended to the middle of his back. He was wearing worn blue jeans and a long-sleeve, salmon-colored western-style shirt beneath a leather vest. Around his neck was a black braided-leather bolo tie, adorned with a brown-and-black obsidian arrowhead. His tanned and weathered face hinted at his years.
The man said, “Nice car. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a Rolls Royce on the reservation before.”
Peter extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Peter Savage.”
“Lee Moses. I’m the Paiute chief and member of the tribal council.”
They walked inside and sat at the wooden kitchen table. It was also old and worn, in keeping with the house. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Lee said.
“I have to admit, you have piqued my curiosity. Your request sounded important.”
Lee nodded. “Coffee?”
Peter shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Well, Mr. Savage—”
“Please. Call me Peter.”
“Okay, Peter. I’ll get right to the point, the reason I contacted you. I know you’ve volunteered your time teaching our school children about science, and your donations have been used to purchase computers for the high school. Our teachers are so used to making do with worn textbooks and a lack of supplies, that many thought I was joking when I announced your gift. You’re a hero to them.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t care about our young people.” Lee shifted in his chair. “I’ve also read about you in the newspaper. Seems you have a habit of getting into trouble.”
Peter smiled at the understatement. Truth be told, his life seemed to be marked by one harrowing adventure after another. He didn’t seek out trouble, but invariably trouble found him. “I suppose I’d have to agree with you,” he said.
“And yet you always seem to be on the side of truth and honor.”
“I hope so. Those aren’t just words. They’re ideals that are very important to me. Call it my code of conduct, my moral compass.”
“I know,” Lee replied. “You know, we Indians have learned not to trust the white man. It’s not just a cliché. Of course, there are exceptions. But the history of relations is marked by lies, deceit, even murder. In the beginning, my ancestors signed treaties with the settlers, gave up our land in exchange for promises of peace. It was never long before the treaties were broken because the settlers wanted more land. The United States Army, in an act of biological warfare, even gave blankets infected with smallpox to Native Americans. The suffering was indescribable. Many died—mostly women, children, and our elders.
“Eventually, my people were pushed onto reservations—those that weren’t slaughtered by the army. On the reservation, the Bureau of Indian Affairs was supposed to look after our natural resources. But being as the BIA is part of the United States federal government, they did not care about being fair to my people, and we were cheated out of hundreds of millions of dollars in timber and mineral wealth.”
“I regret the way the indigenous tribes have been treated,” Peter said. “It was wrong, a tremendous injustice that Washington has not adequately acknowledged, or apologized for.”
“Believe me when I say that an apology is not what my people want. But I want you to understand why trust in the government is still lacking.”
“Certainly. And I do understand. But what does this have to do with me?”
“Exactly what I said. I think you are a man of truth and honor. A man who can be trusted. And my people need your help.”
“Help? With what?”
“I’ve read about you. Asked around to people who know you,” Lee explained. “You are an engineer, a scientist. You are very good at solving problems to get to the truth.”
Peter looked into Lee’s eyes. He didn’t see anything other than trust and humility. “What do you need my help with?”
Lee leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “The Tribal Committee on Health and Welfare keeps accurate records of illnesses contracted by residents of the reservation. For the most part, the types of illnesses and frequency of occurrence are statistically no different from other areas in Oregon and the Northwest. However, there is one alarming exception.”
“I don’t have a degree in medicine or molecular biology,” Peter said.
“I know. You have a degree in chemistry from the University of Oregon. And you own and operate EJ Enterprises, a small business in Bend that designs and manufactures special pistols for the military. I’ve read your biography.”
“Okay.”
“Over the last four days, the health clinic has reported a high number of cases of orchitis. Do you know what that is?”
Peter shook his head.
“It’s an inflammation of the testes. It’s a rather rare illness, which is why the anomaly was spotted so quickly. Ordinarily, it might take a few weeks to observe a statistical deviation for rates of infection from more common diseases such as the flu.”
“I assume you’ve already reported this to the Oregon Health Authority?”
“Yes. But they dismissed my concern and said I should wait two weeks, that it might be a short-term spike that goes away. They told me that the few cases we have seen are not statistically significant.” Lee paused while Peter ruminated over the choice of words. To say that disease on the reservation was not significant was a slap in the face, demonstrating ignorance or insensitivity—or both—to the history of relations between native Americans and the encroaching white settlers.
Lee continued. “Besides, they said they have no jurisdiction on the reservation, and told me I should call the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.”
“Did you?”
Lee nodded. “They were not helpful. They told me that if we still see a higher-than-normal number of cases after two to three weeks, then they will consider opening an investigation.”
“I’m assuming an infection of the testicles can be painful.”
“Very. I’ve learned that it’s an occasional complication of the mumps in post-pubescent males that may result in sterility. But with vaccinations against the mumps quite common and widespread, there hasn’t been a case reported on the reservation in more than six years. So, I am left to wonder, why a sudden spike in reported cases of orchitis? I’m asking for your help. I need you to use your knowledge of science to help us solve this problem. We can’t wait for the CDC to decide that we have an outbreak, and then who knows how long for them to do anything meaningful.”
“Well, I can’t fault your mistrust of the government. But why not just wait a couple weeks? I don’t understand the urgency.”
“Native Americans have always felt a spiritual relationship with Nature,” Lee said with a twinkle in his eye. “Maybe not so much anymore, but the elders still feel a connection to the natural order. Something is wrong—the balance in Nature is disturbed. I don’t know by what, but I fear that if we wait, the consequences will be severe.”
“And how many cases have been reported so far?”
“Fifteen. But I suspect the actual number is greater. It is difficult for young men to seek medical help for a disease that afflicts their genitals. Young men are very prideful.”
Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Maybe I’ll have that coffee now.”
Lee rose from the table and poured two mugs of steaming brew. “Sugar or cream?” he asked.
Peter declined both.
“So you’ll help me?” Lee asked.
He sipped from the mug before replying. “Yes. I’ll take a couple days off and do what I can. But understand that investigating the cause of an outbreak is something I haven’t done before. I can’t promise anything more than I will do all I can to help you.”
“How do we start?”
“The first step is always to examine the data for each person who has contracted the infection. I need everything you have. Name. Age. Where they live. What they ate and drank. Where they work. Everything. No detail is too small or insignificant.”
“I have asked the staff at the clinic to put everything we know into a spreadsheet.”
“Then that’s where we begin. Do you have a copy here?” Peter asked.
Lee shook his head. “It is only on the server at the clinic. We can go there. If you need a copy, I’ll make sure one is provided to you. We will have to remove the names of the patients, of course.”
“Well, let’s go. The sooner we start the better.”
“Okay. Just one more favor to ask.”
Peter raised his eyebrows.
“Can I ride with you in that fancy car of yours?”
Peter reached into his pocket for the keys. “Catch,” he said as he tossed the keys across the table. “Since you know where we’re going, I guess you might as well drive.”
Lee’s face split into a big grin.