“Forget about it?” Tom sounded shocked. “Of course not. What sort of doctor do you think I am? I want to send you to a specialist,”

“Of course.” Ana’s tone was teasing. She and Tom had had the argument before. “Today’s typical physician: can’t possibly tell you what’s wrong with you unless you see at least four other doctors — who of course all get their fees. If you people were musicians, nothing would be written for anything less than a quintet.”

“Sure. And if you people were doctors, you’d only perform with hundreds of people watching. Anyway, don’t change the subject. I want you to see a specialist. I’m going to make an appointment for you to see Dr. Kevin Williams.”

“But if you don’t know what it is,” Drake protested, “how do you know what sort of specialist she needs?”

Tom Lambert seemed slightly embarrassed. “I said I’d never seen anything like this, in my own practice. But it doesn’t mean I don’t have ideas. Kevin Williams specializes in diseases of the blood and lymph systems. He’s head of a group at NIH. He’s a friend of mine, and he’s damned good. Don’t worry, Ana.”

“I wasn’t going to. I don’t believe in it. Drake’s the worrier in the family.”

“Then don’t you worry, either, Drake. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Tom nodded, and when he spoke again it was as though he was talking to himself. “Yes, we will. And we’ll do it quickly.”

Tom did his best. Drake never doubted that for a moment. Ana saw Dr. Williams the next day, then there came a bewildering succession of other doctors and tests in the following two weeks. Ana’s teasing remark to Tom was an understatement. Drake counted twelve different physicians, not counting the individuals, many of them also MDs, who administered the MRIs, IVPs, myelograms, and multiple blood workups.

Tom said little, but Drake knew in his heart that there was a big problem.