Miracle Cure (34 page)

“I want to try and call Phil’s girlfriend at the hospital.”

Brian made the call, but hung up after a brief conversation.

“She’s on vacation for a week,” he said.

After Marguerite had left for work, the two men sat silently at the table. Then Sharpe sighed.

“It’s hard to remember sometimes that things have a way of working out the way they’re supposed to,” he said. “But they generally do.”

“Maybe. It’s just that at the moment, I feel like I’m stuck in a vise, and it’s getting tighter and tighter, and I don’t have a clue how to stop it.”

“You just got to put one foot in front of the other. You do have some options.”

“I thought about the police and rejected that possibility. Why in the world would they believe me? My connection at the FDA says they can’t make any move at all against Vasclear without absolute proof. I don’t know who at the hospital I can trust—or worse, who I could get hurt. I still don’t have anything concrete, so the newspapers are out of the question. Exactly what options are we talking about here?”

“Well, let’s see. You need to get some clothes. You need to rent a car. You need to report yours stolen to the insurance company. At some point you need to show up for work, assuming you’re going to do that. Or, you can just roll over and play dead until you actually are.”

“Point taken,” Brian said. “The truth is, I
am
feeling pretty sorry for myself right now. Jack would have kicked my butt for whining.”

“You can pretend he did.”

“They might be watching my house.”

“I’d be surprised if they weren’t.”

“Do you have time to help me get some stuff from my place?”

“No problem. And you can stay here until things settle down. Maybe after the President comes and makes their drug legal, they’ll leave you alone.”

“I hope so. Freeman, thank you. There’s one other thing. I’d like to try and speak with the guy Phil called me about.”

“Name?”

“Angus MacLanahan.”

Sharpe pulled a Boston phone directory from a drawer.

“Here he is,” he said. “Joy Street. That’s over on Beacon Hill.”

“Not too far from the hospital.”

Sharpe dialed MacLanahan’s number and handed the phone over.

“One step at a time,” he said.

“Out of order, no other information,” Brian said. “What do you make of that?”

“Typical phone company customer, I’d say. You want to go by there on the way to your place?”

“If you have the time. We’ve got to be careful, though. His name was on my answering machine. Somebody might be watching his place.”

“They may be looking for you,” Freeman said, “but they ain’t looking for me.”

Angus MacLanahan’s apartment was halfway up a narrow street on the side of Beacon Hill, not far from the State House. Freeman double-parked the van in front and was entering the building when Brian first noticed the plywood covering the windows of one of the apartments on the second floor. Sharpe was back in just a few minutes. He walked calmly to the van, then jumped in and sped away.

“MacLanahan’s dead,” he said grimly. “The lady in the apartment beneath his told me. That was his place up there on the second floor. There was a gas explosion three weeks ago.”

“I knew it,” Brian said. “The moment I saw those windows boarded up I knew it was his apartment.”

“And the other man you told me about, the concentration-camp survivor?”

“Shot to death in a convenience store holdup.”

Freeman pulled away from the curb and headed toward 1-93, the highway north to Reading.

“If those two men dying so violently is a coincidence, it’s a damn ugly one,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

Brian rubbed at the fatigue still stinging his eyes.

“After I get my stuff, I think I want to talk to Bill Elovitz’s wife,” he said.

Pat:
Boston has long been recognized as the mecca of medicine for the country, and indeed for the world. But never has there been so much focus on this city as during this week, when the President will travel to Boston in just two days to preside over ceremonies approving the Boston-developed and-tested drug Vasclear. In honor of that occasion, on today’s
Talk of the Town
, we’ll be speaking with Dr. Art Weber, Vasclear project director from Newbury Pharmaceuticals, based right here in Boston. But first, we have a very special guest, Mrs. Hermione Goodman, who is one of the lucky ones to have been part of the experimental group receiving Vasclear for the past year and a half. Mrs. Goodman, welcome to
Talk of the Town
. Tell us first how you came to be put on Vasclear.

Hermione:
It all happened very rapidly, actually. I was never really sick until one day I began having pains right here under the base of my breastbone.

Pat:
What were the pains like?

Hermione:
They were sharp and sort of gassy. At first I thought it was indigestion. But I decided to see my doctor, just in case. Because I had a family history of heart trouble and some minor changes on my electrocardiogram, he sent me for a checkup by Dr. Jessup at White Memorial. I had a treadmill test, then a catheterization. I was real surprised to find that I had quite a serious heart condition.

Pat:
That’s when you were put on Vasclear.

Hermione:
Exactly.

Pat:
And how quickly did you respond?

Hermione:
Oh, it was just a few weeks. Maybe a month. My discomfort went away, and I’ve been fine ever since.

B
RIAN SAT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT OF THE VAN, HIS
feet up on the dashboard, a spiral notebook propped on his lap. Along the margin of the page, spliced among a dozen geometric shapes, were his trademark doodles—an Indian headdress, a speedboat, a pig face, a volcano, and a football, each of which looked remarkably like the others. In the center he had printed:

Underneath the list, he had sketched the words
Russians … Pharmaceutical House … Vitamins … Drug $$ Laundering …
and finally, beneath those, a single word:
Vasclear
.

“Freeman, I’m missing something,” he said. “It’s like you said before. I’m an ant, and yet they’re going after me with an elephant gun. And now Phil. God, I hope he’s all right.”

Suddenly, he cursed and pounded his fist.

“What is it?”

“Teri—the woman I told you about from the FDA. I spoke to her the night before last. If the Newbury people were listening in, she may be in trouble. I’ve got to call her and at least warn her to be careful.”

“Just don’t do it from your phone.”

They cruised off the interstate in Reading and made a slow pass of the streets for two blocks around the flat that would be Brian’s as soon as his father’s will was probated. In this quiet, residential neighborhood it would be difficult for strangers to remain unobserved while they kept up their surveillance.

“Duck down!” Freeman ordered as they finally cruised past the house.

Brian quickly folded himself on the floor and seat.

“Do you see something?” he asked.

“A gray sedan parked between two other cars half a block down and across the street. Just one man inside from what I can tell.”

Freeman kept driving, then pulled to the curbside several blocks away.

“How badly do you want to get inside your place?” he asked.

“Some clothes would help, but my briefcase is what I really need. It has my ID badge and a ton of papers from work in it, to say nothing of my stethoscope.”

“Then let’s do it.”

The plan they came up with was simple. Brian would be dropped off a block away and would approach the house from the rear through a neighbor’s yard, over a low fence, then across the backyard. Meanwhile, Freeman would pull up next to the driver’s-side window of the sedan to ask directions. He would then stall as long as he could, blocking the view from the car as he tried to learn something of the man inside. From what they could tell, the driver seemed to have a clear line of sight into the living and dining rooms on the street side of the house, so Brian had to stay away from those windows.

“How’re you gonna get inside?” Sharpe asked.

“There’s a spare key under a rock by the back porch.”

“Get in, get out. A rule to live by straight from Nam.”

“Get in, get out,” Brian echoed.

Freeman dropped him off, watched while Brian began cutting through a neighbor’s yard, then drove away. Brian leaped the low picket fence with ease and dropped to a crouch, pleased that his knee had handled the jolt. Through the space between houses, he could see Freeman approaching the gray sedan. He crossed the yard, located the key, crept onto the back porch, and quietly opened the back door. His briefcase with his hospital ID inside was right on the kitchen table where he had left it. He retrieved a nylon gym bag from beneath his bed and stuffed it with underwear, socks, T-shirts, jeans, and a pair of sneakers. Then he took a few hangers’ worth of dress clothes from the closet.

He was just glancing around for anything else he might need when the toilet in the hallway bathroom outside the kitchen flushed. He dropped the clothes on the bed and flattened himself against the wall, breathing deeply in an effort to overcome the burst of adrenaline
that had at least doubled his pulse. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opened. Brian glanced about for a weapon. The best he could find was a marble-based trophy on the bureau by his right hand—an overflow from Jack’s living-room collection, New England College Player of the Year.

He clutched the trophy with the stylized passer and watched as the intruder entered the living room. It was the thin man from Fulbrook. Clearly, the rock hadn’t injured him nearly as badly as Brian had believed. Beyond the man, through the living room window, Brian could actually make out Freeman’s van. There was no way his friend could stall much longer.

The intruder wore his shoulder holster over a plaid shirt. He paced around for a time, glanced out the window, and then used a two-way radio, presumably to call the car outside. The conversation was in rapid-fire Russian. Now, the man was no more than ten feet away. His back was to the bedroom and his concentration on the radio call, but Brian saw no chance of slipping past him to the kitchen. He tightened his grip on the trophy, took a single breath, held it, and charged. As the man turned and cried out, Brian could see that the rock had in fact done considerable damage to the side of his head and face. He brought the marble base down with as much force as he could muster, connecting squarely in the center of the massive, raw bruise. The man grunted and instantly went rag-doll limp.

Through the window, Brian could see Freeman’s van still parked by the sedan. He imagined the other thug now screaming for Freeman to pull forward so he could get out. The man at Brian’s feet was still breathing, but there was no way to tell if the wound oozing blood onto the oak floor was mortal or not.

Brian snatched the revolver from the man’s shoulder holster, threw it in the nylon bag, then raced with the bag and his briefcase out the back door. He was vaulting over the neighbor’s fence when he heard the squeal of Freeman’s tires as the van sped around the corner. Sharpe slowed, but didn’t come to a full stop. Brian dashed along the sidewalk, then out onto the road. He opened the van door, threw his things onto the floor, then scrambled onto the passenger seat as Sharpe accelerated. They were a mile away, approaching the interstate, before his breathing had calmed enough for him to speak.

“This is crazy,” he said. “The guy in the car outside, real big? Scarred face?”

Freeman shook his head.

“Squat, broad shoulders, mustache,” he said. “His English wasn’t that bad.”

“Jesus. Freeman, they’ve got a whole army. The guy I left bleeding on my living-room floor is the same one I hit with the rock in New York. This time I used one of my old trophies. I’m afraid I may have killed him.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Freeman said. “I hope you’re not feeling sorry for the guy. They’ve declared war on you, Doc, so you better be ready to do whatever it takes to survive. First thing is we’re gonna find a phone booth so I can make one of those anonymous calls to the Reading police and report suspicious activity around your address. With any luck, they’ll get there just as Trotsky is dragging Lenin out to the car. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Yeah, terrific. Freeman, I’m going crazy with this. I’m really not a baby, but these bastards are trying to kill me, and I don’t know why. Now the only guy I could trust at the hospital hasn’t shown up for work. Do you think I should go to the police and tell them what’s going on?”

“If you believe that will do you any good, that’s what you should do.”

Brian buried his face in his hands.

“I don’t see how I could do it without mentioning Vasclear, and at this point, I still don’t have anything that even resembles proof. No one would listen. Everyone would think I’m nuts, or back on drugs, or both. I’d get fired at work if I haven’t been already. And the Russians will probably still kill me.”

Freeman pulled up beside a pay phone and put a calming hand on Brian’s shoulder.

“Easy does it, pal,” he said. “Those banners you been looking at for the past year and a half at the meetings aren’t just words. Easy does it.”

“Maybe I should just go into hiding until the signing ceremony’s over and Vasclear’s on its way around the globe.”

“Hey, great idea. Not showing up for work should help your job situation a whole bunch.”

“At least I’d still be alive.” Brian managed a tense smile and then squeezed Freeman’s hand. “I’m okay. Scared is all. But I’m really okay. Go make your call, then I’ll make my two.”