The Paladin Prophecy

#60: IF YOU DON’T LIKE THE ANSWER YOU GET, YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE ASKED THE QUESTION.

They arrived at the medical center without another word. Set apart from the quad, it was the most modern building on campus—a six-story tower of blue-tinted glass and steel. Some donor had written a large check to put their name here: Large brushed silver letters identified it as the Haxley Medical Center.

They took an elevator to the fifth floor. Dr. Kujawa welcomed them and led them to an adjacent exam room. He wore a white lab coat with DR. KEN KUJAWA embroidered on the upper left chest. Kujawa looked trim and fit—early forties, Will guessed—with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper brush cut and a brusque, no-nonsense manner.

“Have a seat right there, Mr. West,” said Dr. Kujawa, nodding to a table. “How’s your head feeling?”

“Right now it feels fine,” said Will.

“Let’s have a look.”

Kujawa bent over him, parted Will’s hair, and examined the wound. “That’s what I thought,” he said cryptically. He waved Robbins over to see it; then they looked at each other.

“What’s the problem?” asked Will.

“Come into my office,” said Dr. Kujawa.

They followed him into his office, where Kujawa took a seat at his desk and punched up data on a sleek desktop version of a Center tablet.

“Your transcript said you’re a runner. Is that right, Mr. West?” he asked.

“Yes. Cross-country.”

“Have you ever, to your knowledge, taken, used, or been given any performance-enhancing drugs?”

“What?”

“They would have been classified as an ESA, or erythropoiesis-stimulating agent. Pharmaceutical product. Administered by injection.”

“No,” said Will, looking at Robbins with alarm. “Never. Absolutely not.”

Kujawa continued matter-of-factly. “They stimulate the body’s production of a hormone called erythropoietin. EPO substantially increases production of red blood cells, which radically increases the amount of oxygen carried to your muscles. Enables athletes to perform at a premium in sports demanding high endurance, like biking, rowing, or running.”

Will’s anger built steadily. “That’s called blood doping.”

“Have you heard of HGH or human growth hormone? Because your blood levels are also nearly double the average for your age and size—”

“If you’re accusing me of taking drugs, I swear to you that has never happened.”

Kujawa didn’t react, just looked at him, neutral, appraising. Waiting.

“It’s not that he doesn’t believe you, Will,” said Robbins calmly. “Go on, Ken.”

“EPO and HGH also enhance the body’s ability to heal, from life-threatening wounds down to micro-tears in muscle fibers. The obvious value to athletes is it speeds recovery. Not just from injuries but also from routine training.”

Kujawa pulled a mirror from the top drawer of his desk and a smaller hand mirror from his coat. He walked over to Will. “You suffered a gash in your scalp that was an inch long. I needed six stitches to close it. Roughly twenty-four hours ago. Take a look at it now.”

Kujawa positioned one mirror above Will’s scalp and gave the other to Will to hold in front of his eyes. Then he moved Will’s hair to the side so he could see the site.

The wound was gone. No scar, no scab, not even any stitches. Just a slight white discoloration.

“Not only is the wound healed, but your body’s already assimilated the dissolving stitches, which normally takes more than a week. This, to put it mildly, is more than a little unusual.” Kujawa put the mirrors away, took some printed pages off his desk, and handed them to Dr. Robbins.

“I ran a panel of routine tests with the blood I drew yesterday,” he said. “The oxygen-binding capacity of your blood is off the charts, over three times the high end of normal. You’d make Lance Armstrong in his prime look like an invalid.”

“I don’t understand this,” said Will. “It’s not possible. This has to be some kind of crazy mistake.”

Robbins was still staring at the results, pale, brow furrowed, deep in thought.

“I don’t think so,” said Kujawa. “To that end I’d like to run more tests, to determine whether your body produced these levels on its own or if they were synthetically created and, maybe by some method unknown to you, introduced into your system. Have you ever been given any injections?”

“No.”

“What about any unusual vitamins or supplements?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Will.

“It would be helpful to see your medical records. Yearly physicals, vaccinations, that sort of thing. Could you ask your parents to send them to me?”

“Of course,” said Will.

The truth was a lot more awkward: He couldn’t remember ever visiting a doctor. His father kept a weathered black leather bag in their bedroom closet that contained a stethoscope; exam instruments for ears, nose, and throat; a blood pressure cuff; and syringes for drawing blood. He used them to give Will a comprehensive checkup twice a year. For the longest time, Will had assumed that’s what every family did. But there was another factor in this unusual routine: Will had never needed a doctor. Because as far back as he could remember—his entire life—he’d never been sick. Not once.

“Rather than have you worry, I want a more complete picture,” said Kujawa. “Run more tests, cover all the angles, and see what they tell us.”

“We’d need your consent, of course,” said Robbins. “And your parents’ as well. Would you ask them to okay this?”

“I’ll call them today,” said Will.

“The sooner the better,” said Dr. Kujawa. “Use my phone if you like.”

“They wouldn’t be reachable now. I’ll try later,” said Will. “Does this mean it’s okay for me to work with the cross-country team?”

“Mr. West, based on what I’ve seen, you could run from here to the border of Canada without even breathing hard.”

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