Lethal Remedy (27 page)

"Yes. And some of our patients have had problems several weeks after they received Jandramycin. These are autoimmune

"It is the same. And I have in turn a question for you. Why are you calling me when you have there Herr Professor Ingersoll?"

How much could she tell him? She decided to try to finesse the situation. "I've mentioned it to him, and he seems to think there's no such problem. But I thought that perhaps your experience might be different."

Gruber cleared his throat. When he spoke, the words were wooden and without inflection, as though he was reciting a prepared statement. "I know of no such problems with the drug."

"Then perhaps you can clarify for me the mechanism of action of Jandramycin. We think it might be an immunologic stimulus of the host to make antibodies against—"

"You must also ask that question of Professor Ingersoll. I have nothing to say."

There was a click, followed by the electronic hum of an empty line. Sara hung up and waited until Rip reappeared and settled into the chair opposite her. "What do you think?" she asked.

"I think he's been programmed to keep quiet. We're not going to get anything from him, and I doubt that we'll have any luck with his colleague, either."

"Nevertheless, I'm going to try it." Sara rummaged through the papers on her desk until she found a printed abstract of a paper. She jotted a note on a Post-It and centered it on her desk. "Maybe Dr. Rohde will be more forthcoming than his co-author, Dr. Gruber."

"Want me on the other line?"

"I don't think the department administrator would take too kindly to my making a transatlantic call from this phone," Sara said. "I guess I'll have to wait until I get home."

"No problem," Rip said. "Let's use my cell phone. We can put it on speaker and both hear."

"Won't that show up on the bill?"

"This is my private phone. I pay the bills, and it's nobody's business who I call."

"Even an international call?"

"I set it up a while back. Never know when I might need it, and sure enough, now I do. What's that number?"

"All I have is the internal medicine clinic number." She dug into her purse and pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper.

"Good enough. I just dial 011, then the country code— 49—and the number." He held up a finger. "Okay, it's ringing.

I'll put it on speaker and you can talk."

"
Klinik. Darf ich Ihnen helfen?"

Sara gave a "here we go again" shrug. "Do you speak English?"

"
Bitte, Ich verstehe Sie nicht."

Sara was about to go into her raise-your-voice-to-beunderstood act when Rip said, "
Wir wollen mit Herr Dr. Rohde sprechen."

"
Ja, ein minuten."

In the silence that followed, Sara looked at Rip in amazement. "When did you learn to speak German?"

"A product of my Ivy League education. Had two years of it in college. Spent a month in Germany between college and med school. Guess I still remember it."

"I wish I'd known that when I made my original call to Gruber," Sara said.

"
Ja, hier ist Rohde."

Sara felt her pulse quicken. Maybe she could convince this doctor to open up. "Doctor, do you speak English? This is Dr. Sara Miles in the U.S."

"Yes, I speak a little. What would you like?"

Sara went through the same speech that she'd given Gruber. This time the response was a full minute in coming, and she feared she'd lost the connection. She was about to hang up when Rohde said, "I have been warned not to discuss our research with anyone. And I would advise you to stop asking these questions."

This time there was a discernible click, and the cell phone screen showed the words, "Call Ended."

"I'm more convinced than ever that there's a cover-up in place," Sara said. "I guess we'll have to depend on Resnick. He's our last hope."

The voices captured his attention, so the man stopped in the hall and leaned closer to the closed door.

The first man spoke in a voice that was guttural and low, spitting sibilants like machine gun bullets as the words tumbled out. "How many times must I tell you? Only you and I know this. And the proof has already been destroyed. No one can resurrect a pile of ashes into a document."

The second voice also belonged to a man, but where the first was bold, this one was tentative, the words hesitant. "There are too many people asking questions about the matter, and I'm afraid what we did is going to come to light. Perhaps if we—"

"We will do nothing. We remain silent, let the scenario play out, and reap the rewards." The words rumbled like far-off artillery fire and carried the same hint of danger. "When you burned that paper, you ended the trail that could lead back to us. You
did
burn it, didn't you?"

The second voice was less timid now. "Of course . . . but how do you know I didn't keep a copy somewhere? If I came forward with the information now, perhaps I could escape any penalties. I can't stand the thought of being disgraced, of losing everything I've worked for. I couldn't live with that."

The first speaker's voice was full of menace. "Perhaps you won't have to live—with that or anything else."

"Don't think about it. If something happens to me, I have made arrangements for some very interesting documents to go to the right people." The second man's tone became placating.

"You need me alive."

"I think you're bluffing."

"There's no reason for you to find out, is there? We can work this out."

A chair scraped back. "No, you've shown your true colors now. You'd throw me to the wolves to save your own worthless skin, wouldn't you?" The next words came out in a rush. "I guess there's only one thing to do to keep you muzzled."

The sounds of the argument were replaced by the thumps and groans of a struggle. The man in the hall tried the door, but it was locked. He pounded on it. "What's going on in there? Open up."

Glass shattered. The man's imagination supplied mental pictures as the noise intensified. A chair or perhaps even a desk was overturned.

When the first man spoke this time, it was as though he were reasoning with a recalcitrant child. "I didn't mean it. Put that away."

Now the second man's words were determined, as though he'd made up his mind to do something distasteful. "No. This is the best way . . . " The words trailed off. Two shots rang out—the flat cracks of a handgun.

There was a long pause, then the second man's words came out in a rush. "God, forgive me."

Another shot, a muffled thump, then silence as the smell of gun powder drifted under the locked door.

M
ARK SAT BEHIND HIS DESK, HIS HEAD IN HIS HANDS.
H
IS STAFF HAD LEFT
for the day. The office was dark except for one small lamp that burned on his desk. Only the tick of an antique clock in the corner broke the tomb-like silence.

He had one more call to make, one he'd dreaded since last night when the truth slapped him in the face.
Come on, there's no reason to be afraid. They can't climb through the phone lines and choke you. Just say what you have to say and hang up.
Easy to think it. Hard to do it.

Mark knew it had stared him in the face all along, but he refused to see. He'd been lied to from the beginning. He remembered the opening line of a John Grisham book, one that struck him as funny when he read it, but took on new meaning when he entered law practice: "Everybody lies." Maybe that was one of the reasons he'd chucked a thriving law practice and started over in medical school. He was tired of being lied to—by clients, witnesses, even other lawyers.

In law, there were always three sides—two attorneys and a judge—and the rules dictated an adversarial relationship between two of them. In medicine, the adversaries were disease and injuries. Mark took comfort in the knowledge that no one battled him to make sure the patient didn't recover. Everyone was on the same team. At least, that's what he'd thought. Now he knew better.

Mark swiveled to the bookshelf behind his desk and took down a thick volume. It had been there since the day he opened his office, and on days like today he reached for it like a drowning man for a life preserver. He opened the book and thumbed through the pages until he found the passage he wanted. "He has told you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you, but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?"
Do justice.
Even though he'd theoretically moved from law to medicine, the command was still in force. And he'd conveniently closed his eyes to it.

He closed the Bible, bowed his head, and tried to make his mind a complete blank. Sometimes this had worked—words that he was certain must have sprung from God came unbidden into his mind. Sometimes it didn't—his mind roiled with the emotions of the moment, and no guidance or comfort came to him. This was one of those times.

Finally, he looked up and said aloud, "Nothing for me today? Guess I have to go with what I just read."
Makes sense. Twentyseven hundred years shouldn't make good advice turn bad.

He scrolled through the memory of his cell phone and punched a button. The call rang five times before an android voice announced the numbers and invited the caller to leave a message.
Just as well. Makes it easier.
"This is Mark. I'm ending my relationship with Jandra Pharmaceuticals immediately, resigning from my position as adjunct counsel. I won't go into the reasons. I'm pretty sure you already know them."

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto his desk, where it skittered along and came to rest next to the Bible. Mark hit a key on his computer and the screen sprang to life. He opened a new Word document and began to type his letter of resignation. He already knew what it would say. Two or three sentences that would sever his relationship with the company, with no reference to his reasons. He'd fax it first thing in the morning, send a hard copy by express courier, and keep two copies in his safe. If things went as he thought they might, it would be helpful to show that he had distanced himself from the company.

He hoped it wasn't too late.

This part of Parkland Hospital was no longer a clinical ward. The hallway was dark and totally deserted. Nothing broke the silence. The patient rooms had been converted to various other uses: offices, storage, and in this case, Jack Ingersoll's ultrasecret research lab.

Sara consulted her watch. "Twelve oh five. Resnick's so compulsive, I can't believe he's late."

Rip shrugged. "Maybe he's already in the lab and expects us to meet him there."

Sara felt like hitting herself in the head, Three Stooges style. "I don't suppose you tried the door, did you?"

"Nope. He called you, not me. I figured I'd let you take the lead." His grin was almost lost in the shadows that covered his face. "I'm just the muscle."

"Okay, muscle. Stick close to me, would you?" She put her hand on the doorknob and twisted. It moved easily. "It's unlocked."

Sara took a deep breath and inched the door open. The lights were on in the room, but she couldn't see anyone in the area open to view.

"Want me to go in first?" Rip asked.

"No, he's expecting to see me. I can do it."

"I'll be right behind you."

She opened the door widely and entered on tiptoe.
Why am I trying to be quiet?
There was something weird and a bit scary about being here in Resnick and Ingersoll's inner sanctum after it had been declared off-limits for so long.

Sara took a full step inside and turned to scan the room. Lab counters contained a mixed array of equipment: computers, several machines she recognized as apparatus for doing blood analysis, and a profusion of glassware and bottles. Nothing here that wouldn't be found in a well-equipped hospital laboratory. No sinister machines labeled "Danger." No bottles marked with a skull and crossbones. None of the material in the room explained the feeling of unease she had. No, that came from the people who worked there.

A door at the far end of the room opened, and Carter Resnick walked in. "You're a few minutes late, but I'm glad you came." He had both hands in the pockets of a white lab coat. He removed the left one and pointed around the room. "I know you've both been anxious to see what's in here, and I can't fathom why that is. As you can see, there's nothing out of the ordinary in our setup."

"It's not the setup that worries us," Sara said. "It's what you do here. You have all the data about the Jandramycin study here, and that includes the actual mechanism by which it kills
Staph luciferus."
She held up a hand. "And don't give me that 'destroys the cell wall' stuff. We know better than that."

Rip stepped forward to stand beside Sara. "It's an immunologic process, isn't it?"

Resnick used his free hand to rub his head. "Bingo. How did you find that out?"

Rip shook his head. "Never mind. What we really need to know is how we can prevent patients who receive the drug from getting a late complication."

"I'm interested," Resnick said. "Do you know what percent that would be?"

"Among the patients treated here, 15 percent, now approaching 20."

"Bravo," Resnick said. "Why do you suppose that is?"

"Let's not be coy, Carter," Sara said. "We know that the response is autoimmune, and we're pretty sure the patients who get it are those with underlying allergies like hay fever and asthma. The question remains, how do we counter that?"

"Truthfully, we don't know," Resnick said. "The drug alters the patient's immune system so it produces antibodies specifi c for
Staph luciferus,
essentially making the patient his own source of antibiotics. Unfortunately, when it's given to a patient with an allergic predisposition, that little late effect comes into play."

Rip took a step forward. "That little late effect, as you called it, is destroying lives. It's already killed one patient we know about, and there will probably be more. Don't you have any idea how to prevent it?"

"You may be surprised to know that my contact at Jandra and I are well aware of that problem. He's been sending me other compounds, modifications of the EpAm848 structure, and I've tried them, but so far they've all had a flaw. A fatal flaw in one instance."

"Tried them how?" Sara asked.

Resnick smiled. "Mainly I used mice and hamsters, although I had one very fortuitous opportunity to test a compound on a homeless man in the ER. Unfortunately, that one caused anaphylaxis and he died."

Sara noticed that Resnick's right hand never left the pocket of his lab coat. She eased her own right hand down and began to slowly unzip her bag that hung from her shoulder.
Keep him
talking. Distract him.
"You said your 'contact at Jandra.' Who is that?"

"You don't really need to know." Resnick moved his hand slightly in his pocket. "And I'd appreciate it if you kept your hand out of your purse."

Sara let her hand rest lightly on top of the purse. "Did your contact at Jandra tell you to shoot at me?"

"And are you the one who tried to run my car into a concrete abutment?" Rip asked.

"Of course. And, before you ask, I'm the one who put the nitrogen triiodide on the floor of your office. It was all an effort to discourage you from prying. We've worked too hard keeping the side effects of Jandramycin hidden to let you spoil it for us. When the drug goes on the market, I'm going to share in the glory—and the profits."

"What about Jack?" Sara asked. "What was his role in all this?"

"No more questions. I have orders to put an end to your prying, no matter what it takes." He pulled a snub-nose revolver from the pocket of his lab coat and moved it back and forth between Sara and Rip. "So I'm going to shoot you."

"How are you going to explain this?" Sara asked.
As though it will matter to me, after I'm dead.
Her hand inched the zipper of her purse forward by millimeters. She had to keep Resnick talking.

"I've got it worked out. I have a gun locked in my desk drawer. I paid a hundred dollars for it one Saturday night at a bar in South Dallas, and it's untraceable. After I shoot you both, I'll put it in one of your hands."

"And what will you tell the police?" Sara's fingers moved with agonizing slowness. She felt the purse open. Just another inch or so.

"I came back here to work on some experiments, found that you two had broken in. You demanded information that Jandra deems proprietary. I refused. You pulled a gun on me, and I shot in self-defense." Resnick smirked. "It's perfect."

To her left, Sara sensed Rip shift his weight.
Don't do it Rip. Let me handle this.
"You didn't answer my question. What's Jack Ingersoll's role in all this?"

"Enough questions." Resnick leveled the gun at Rip, apparently thinking he represented the greater danger.

Sara plunged her hand into her purse and felt the welcome sensation of cold steel beneath her fingers. Her thumb flipped the safety. No time to draw the gun. Just point and shoot through the purse. Words from her gun safety class came back to her as though the instructor, an ex-policeman, were by her side. "Aim for the middle of the body mass. Don't try to wound."

At the moment Sara pulled the trigger, she saw flame spout from the end of Resnick's gun. Glass shattered behind her. Something struck her left side like the charge of a bull rhinoceros, and in an instant Rip's body covered her. "Stay down," he whispered.

When Sara finally raised her head, the first thing she saw was Resnick sprawled on the floor, his gun still in his hand. Blood oozed from his chest. Sightless eyes stared without blinking into the lights above him.

"Nice shooting, Sara. Wonder which one of us hit him." Jack Ingersoll stood in the doorway of the lab, an automatic pistol still pointed at Resnick's body. "I trust you remembered our instructor's words and aimed for his central mass."