Death Spiral (23 page)

“‘Five people in group A,'” I say, reading out loud. “Each person started RNA 120 in August, then started PL44 in either October or November and received it in different time intervals, some got it every week, others got it every two or three weeks. The common denominator was that they got clean, then got wheezing and scabs.”

I finish reading and turn to the next page where all the patients are in a B group.

“Remission, every one of them but B5,” Jesse says, running his finger down the Outcome column.

“And the wheezing and skin lesions went away when they started getting this PL45 thing,” Anj says, glancing back and forth between the dates and the treatment, then turning to the C group on the third page.

“Nobody in the C group got treated with PL44 or PL45, and none of them ever got sick to begin with,” Jesse says.

I flip back to the A and B groups and study the dates and notes. “People getting PL44 get sick unless they get PL45.”

“And people who were only given RNA 120 never got sick to begin with.” Jesse picks up a loose paper I'd clipped to the notes, but been too tired to read. “What's this?”

Anj grabs the paper and reads it out loud. “‘Administer PL44 to patients in groups A and B. (Refer to addendum for specific time intervals.) Administer PL45 to patients in group B if skin lesions and respiratory problems develop.'”

She turns the page and shows it to us. At the bottom of the note is a signature: Dr. Steven Glass.

It's too awful to imagine, but I force the next words from my lips. “Glass is making people sick on purpose.”

Anj drops the paper and stares at me, her blue eyes wide. “Why would he do that?”

I storm to the desk and wake up the computer where the biotech rumor mill site is still on the screen and read the IPF article again. “‘The funding for his treatment's being pulled because it doesn't have a wide enough application, hundreds of positions are being cut, and Glass is bankrupt,'” I read more to myself than to anyone else. I don't have to say the next part, the horrible thing I finally understand. Jesse says it for me.

“The cocksucker's making people sick, so he can sell his treatment.”

I stare at my mother's data, the scribbled notes about another dead junkie, a number, a test rat and nothing more. “I don't get it,” I whisper, hardly able to speak. “So Glass sells his drug to a methadone clinic for a few people who think they're there for a heroin addiction treatment, and then what? He's not exactly going to get rich off that. There must be something more.”

For the first time since I've met Jesse, he has nothing to say. He stares at me with a helpless expression, unable to dig up a conspiracy theory sick enough to answer the question.

“Okay, you guys,” Anj says with a nervous laugh. “Time out. How would he make people sick?”

“If you can have a gene therapy to make people better, why not one to make them sick?” Jesse says without taking his eyes off me.

“That is totally crazy. If what you're saying is true I'm getting dressed and we're going straight to the police.”

“We can't, Anj,” I say.

She goes to the closet and yanks a blouse off a hangar. “Of course we can.”

“Trust me. The police will just put us in some back room with some junior donut eater who rolls his eyes at us. They won't listen. It'll be a total waste of time. Believe me. Not to mention the fact I was at a methadone clinic during a murder and then took off. How's
that
going to look?” I swallow and take a deep breath. “Look, if what we think is true, PL45 is the treatment, right?”

“Right,” Anj says, unbuttoning the blouse.

“And if you get PL44, whatever that is, without PL45 you die, right?”

She nods.

I go the bed, pick up the group A data table, and point at patients numbers three through five. “These are real people, Anj,” I say, sick inside as I watch her face fall and her world, just moments ago a safe and ordered place, shatters. “For whatever reason not everyone's getting the treatment, those three people have been given PL44 and not PL45.” I let the words sink in and then say, “ If Glass is really doing what we think he is and those people don't get their treatment, while the police sit around and laugh at us, they're going to die.”

“Fine,” she says, without budging. “Then maybe your professor friend can help us.”

I close my eyes and picture Dr. Monroe in her tenure-seeking frenzy, locked in her office, boxes of takeout food littering the tables, packs of students banging on her door. “Forget it. She can't help until her genetics conference is over and she's passed tenure review and…wait a minute…the genetics conference…it starts today.”

“What genetics conference?” Anj asks as she goes to her dresser and pulls out a pair of socks.

I ignore her question and instead rush back to the computer and type in the name of the conference I remember seeing on the poster outside Dr. Monroe's office:
The American Society of Human Genetics.
I click on the link that says annual meeting and go to the schedule and look up the presenters. “Glass is the keynote speaker. He's presenting the RNA 120 clinical trial. He's on this morning at nine.”

Jesse grabs a handful of Lucky Charms and falls back onto the bed. “Yeah, and…?”

“We have to go.”

“Why?” Jesse and Anj blurt at the same time.

“What if we alter Glass' presentation?”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘alter'?” Anj says, giving me a suspicious look.

“Alter it. As in change it. As in make our own slides with what we know and put them into his talk.”

“Um, no offense, Faith,” Anj says, stealing a very conspicuous glance at Jesse. “But I think the stress of yesterday and last night is starting to get to you.”

“Not it's not. I'm serious. Think about it. You just made over a hundred PowerPoint slides for our Social Studies presentation, right? You're like a PowerPoint expert. How hard would it be to make a few graphs and copy a few photographs and turn them into a slide show?”

“Not very,” she admits, “but how in the world would we get these new slides to replace Glass' old ones?”

“Duncan,” I say, remembering Scottish Boy's brilliant performance in setting up the meeting with Dr. Carlisle and his mastery on the graphics tablet.

“Duncan? Seriously? That's your idea.” Anj crawls back into bed and buries herself under the covers. “How about we just sleep on this and decide what to do in the morning.”

“No! It is morning. We can't wait. I'm not kidding. Duncan can do all sorts of graphics. Why couldn't he make a fake badge and pretend he's part of the audiovisual crew and then sneak into the AV room and change the slides?”

“Why not? Well, let's see. To start with that would be illegal.”

“Oh come on. People are being killed and you're going to worry about doing something illegal?”

Anj doesn't say anything. I explain the rest of my idea, doing my best to make it sound like a tangible plan and not an exhaustion-induced delusion. My friends stare at me as I speak, and finally, after reminding me that I'm crazy, acknowledge that they don't have any better ideas and agree to go along with my mine.

“But I can't go wearing that,” I say, pointing to my clothes crumbled on the floor. As much as I hate sucking up to the conformist rules of societal fashion, I know one thing to be as true as the law of gravity: People judge a book by its cover. Always have. Always will. If I want to fit in, I need to look the part. I turn to Anj. “I need to look like you.”

Anj laughs and stares at me like I've completely lost it. “Okay, how are you supposed to look like me? I'm like so white I'm blue, and you have skin like some kind of Mayan princess. Not to mention, ahem, the fact we're not quite built the same.” Anj sticks out her chest when she says this to emphasize the difference in bra size, hers being on the larger end.

“It's not the twin thing I'm going for. It's subtler. Like I need to look, how do I say it, younger?”

“Younger? But we're both sixteen.”

I glance around her room at the framed photographs, the art museum posters, the lace-trimmed window, and bulletin boards filled with high school memorabilia.

“Not like age, like innocence. Like someone who didn't grow up with a heroin addict mother and no father. Someone who has a nice room and who didn't know what a tie off and gear were when she was ten. Someone who wears ballet flats instead of combat boots, you know what I mean?”

A smile of understanding creeps across Anj's lips. “You've come to the right place.” She makes an expansive sweep of her hands in front of her open closet. “My wardrobe at your service.”

Jesse tosses more Lucky Charms into his mouth. “Great. What are we waiting for?”

I stare at him until he apparently feels my eyes boring a hole in his skull and looks up. “What?”

“I need your help, too.”

“Totally,” he says, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I'm in, man. Hand me the computer and let's get this party started.”

I don't move or drop my eyes.

He shrugs. “C'mon what's the hold up? Clock's ticking.”

“Anj and I can handle the computer on our own.”

Jesse flaunts an exaggerated look of hurt. “So it's not my brains you're after. It's just my good looks?”

“I need something else from you.”

“Aye-aye captain,” he says, saluting. “What do you need?”

“Your father.”

Jesse sputters on the marshmallow piece he'd just stuffed into his mouth, then laughs. “Doc? Good one, Faith. I'm sure he has nothing better to do than join our little anarchist party and crash the convention center with us.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I. No way. Leave Doc out of this.”

“But he can help.”

“Okay, humor me. Just say it wasn't one in the morning and Doc wasn't asleep and I was willing to ask for his help, what exactly is it you want?”

“He'll understand the data,” I say, firing my attack.