Chapter 62 A Curse Parasite?
A child’s piercing cries reached Ryan as soon as the door opened.
A little boy, barely over a year old, lay on the sofa, screaming and twisting from side to side. His face was scarlet with distress.
Something was clearly wrong.
A physician in his fifties was examining him. A beautiful young woman stood beside the sofa, watching the boy through swollen, red-rimmed eyes. His mother, Ryan assumed.
Lawrence Harrington sat nearby in grim silence, his jaw tight.
He stood when they entered.
“Dr. Whitmore. Dr. Harding is examining him now. I’d like you to take a look afterward.”
Dr. Harding?
So this was Charles Harding, the renowned physician who had a long-standing feud with Whitmore.
Whitmore nodded without speaking.
He’d come to repay a favor from years ago. Even if the visit proved unpleasant, he would have to endure it.
Ryan studied the boy’s face, then his body and hands. Finally, his gaze settled on one small arm.
His expression grew grave.
This is serious.
Who would do something so vicious to a child this young?
A moment later, Harding straightened. He was about to speak when Harrington raised a hand.
“Please hold your diagnosis for now, Dr. Harding. Dr. Whitmore, examine him first.”
Harding paused, then smiled.
“Go ahead, Arthur. We can compare our findings.”
Whitmore nodded and approached the sofa. As he carefully examined the boy, Ryan assisted, taking the opportunity to examine the signs that had caught his attention.
Harrington indicated a stack of documents on a nearby table.
“Those are the results of his full hospital workup. You’re welcome to review them.”
Whitmore did just that. He had completed his examination, but the test results would help him reach a more accurate conclusion.
Instead, the reports left him baffled.
The boy was plainly suffering. His constant screams left no doubt about that.
Yet the hospital results contradicted Whitmore’s initial assessment.
Yet the tests showed nothing that explained his symptoms.
When Whitmore finally set the reports down, Harrington spoke.
“Well, gentlemen? What’s wrong with my grandson?”
Harding turned to Whitmore, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Would you like to go first, Arthur?”
Whitmore hesitated.
“The symptoms suggest what traditional medicine calls excess heat in the blood, but the test results don’t support that diagnosis…”
Harrington frowned. “Your conclusion?”
After another moment of deliberation, Whitmore shook his head.
“I can’t give you a firm diagnosis. I could prescribe an herbal formula to reduce the internal heat, but I doubt it would do much good.”
Disappointment showed plainly in Harrington’s eyes.
He turned to Harding.
“And you, Doctor?”
Harding made little effort to hide his satisfaction at Whitmore’s uncertainty.
“You’re losing your touch, Arthur. You’re right about the excess heat. But your prescription wouldn’t just be of limited use. It would be useless.”
Whitmore flushed.
“Then you have a solution?”
“Of course.” Harding smiled smugly. “Bloodletting through the Spiral Needle Method will release the excess heat. That should resolve the condition.”
Hope brightened Harrington’s face.
“You can cure him?”
“If I say I can, Mr. Harrington, then I can.”
“Good!” Harrington exclaimed. “Cure my grandson completely, and I’ll pay you one and a half million dollars.”
Harding’s eyes lit up.
“Thank you, Mr. Harrington!”
Harrington’s smile vanished.
“I don’t understand your needle technique or the theory behind it. But this is my only grandson. Make him well, and you’ll be generously rewarded.”
His voice hardened.
“If you can’t help him and you’re simply bluffing, I assume you understand what will happen.”
Harding paled.
He knew exactly who Lawrence Harrington was. The man had started out dredging river sand, and there was no telling how many people had bled along his path to wealth.
Those weren’t empty threats.
Harding hesitated.
Then he remembered the money and squared his shoulders.
“I’m confident I can do it, Mr. Harrington.”
Harrington’s expression eased.
“Then begin. Whatever you need, just ask.”
He turned to Whitmore.
“Thank you for coming, Doctor. Mr. Brooks, please show him out.”
Whitmore sighed and prepared to leave.
Ryan caught his sleeve.
Whitmore looked back, then stopped short.
Ryan! How could I forget?
Between the examination and the contradictory test results, he had tied himself in knots. Harding’s taunts had only deepened his frustration. Somehow, he had forgotten the very reason he had brought Ryan along.
“One moment, please,” he told the secretary.
He moved a few steps aside with Ryan and lowered his voice.
“Forgive me, Mr. Carter. I got so caught up in the examination that I forgot to ask. What do you think?”
Ryan answered quietly.
“This isn’t an ordinary illness. Someone infected him with a curse parasite.”
Whitmore stared at him. His voice rose before he could stop it.
“A curse parasite?”
Everyone in the room turned.
Whitmore lowered his voice at once. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”
Harrington looked past him, fixing his eyes on Ryan.
“Young man,” he said heavily, “are you saying my grandson has… a curse parasite?”