The Delta Factor (24 page)

They sat on the front porch, coffee at their elbows, hands touching, sharing the night. After dinner Miss Sadie had smiled and said the night was meant for those younger than she. They had shared a shy look and not urged her to stay.

Lightning bugs illuminated the darkness, fairy lights that danced to the music of night breeze through pines. Their flickering ballet accentuated the heat and the humidity. The incense of honeysuckle and freshly watered roses invited him to sit, relax, and savor a quiet country evening.

Blair pulled from him the worries which had driven him south, listening with a quiet intensity that made the memories come alive. Perhaps it was another gift of a Southern upbringing, Cliff reflected as he spoke, this ability to listen and share in more than the words.

Blair asked, “So do you see a lot of this sort of injustice in your work?”

He laughed. “Are you really sure you want to get me started on this?”

“Did I just uncover a raw nerve?”

“You could say that.”

“Oh goody.” She reached over and stroked the hairs on his arm. “So tell me what it is that ruffles your feathers.”

He sighed and struggled to focus beyond her touch. “Pharmaceutical companies are running ads on television, saying how all they really want to do is find the cure for whatever ails you. At the same time, their industry body is lobbying Washington, warning how devastating it would be to have price controls on drugs. We are professionally responsible companies, they say. We can police ourselves just fine, thank you.”

“I take it you disagree.”

“Here's one case from a hundred. I know because I try to keep track of the worst examples of profit gouging in the drug industry. There's this salve used for people who suffer from skin viruses like shingles and cold sores. It doesn't cure the illness, just suppresses symptoms. Which means that patients have to buy more of the stuff every time there's an outbreak. The ointment appeared about eight years ago, and it cost twenty-five dollars for a tube about half the size of my little finger.”

“Wow, that's pretty steep.”

“Wait, it gets better. Since then, the price of this stuff has risen at
twenty times
the rate of inflation. To make it worse, the company's British operation successfully lobbied to have it declared an over-the-counter drug in England. Doctors over there were reluctant to prescribe it, both because of the price and because less expensive salves did almost as well. The company decided they could sell more by lowering the price and advertising directly to the public. So overnight the price dropped to
one-third
what it cost in the United States. Now in a couple of years the patent is going to run out here, and what do you think will happen?”

“Others will start producing it,” she said, “and the price will drop like a stone.”

That gave him pause. “You're a quick study.”

“There's more in this pretty head than just a pretty head,” she replied. “Tell me more.”

“Okay, here's one closer to home. A company here in North Carolina recently went to court, trying to extend the patent on its ulcer drug. What they did was, they took the original formula for this stuff, and they shifted around a couple of molecules. They then went up to the patent office and said, Ta-da, lookee here, we've got a whole new drug. Somehow they got those jokers to swallow it, and so they've wound up with a new patent, one that doesn't run out until the year 2002. The original patent would have expired in 1995. Which means they get another seven years to charge whatever the market will bear.”

“Which is a lot, right?”

“Enough for them to make over two billion dollars a year from this drug.”

Blair hummed an impressed note.

“Another company, one that makes generic drugs, has taken them to court, claiming that the pharmaceutical giant is trying to pull a fast one. If they win, you'll see the price of the ulcer drug plummet.”

“We're talking about people's lives here,” Blair said, sensing his concern.

“The drug companies are big businesses,” Cliff replied. “They're out chasing the almighty dollar as hard as they can, just like any other business. And all that hokum they're throwing at the people on television is nothing but advertising copy.”

She stood up and pulled him to his feet. “Mind taking me for a walk?”

“Of course not.”

They crossed the street and took the sidewalk lining the bayside. A warm breeze caressed their faces, pushing fat, silver-white clouds across a star-streaked sky. Blair moved up close to him, sliding her arm around his waist. Her body felt lithe and beckoning against his.

“Okay,” she sighed. “Let's hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“All this is a little too good to be true. The looks, the car, the attitude, it's too much. I need to hear about a few warts to balance out the picture.”

“I don't have any.”

“Not wart warts,” she replied. “Habit warts. Thought warts. Things that you hide from the people you want to impress.”

Cliff mulled that one over.

“Well?”

“I don't want to tell you.”

“Of course you don't. That doesn't have a thing to do with it.” She pulled far enough away to be able to look up at his face. “You don't smoke, I take it.”

“No, never have.”

“Chew tobacco? I must warn you, there is positively nothing that would make me less inclined to offer my mouth for a kiss.”

He shook his head. “Tootsie Rolls.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I need something for my mouth to fiddle with when I'm working. I keep a bag of Tootsie Rolls and a jar of peanut butter in my desk drawer. Extra chunky.”

“And you just happened upon this,” she delicately chose the words, “this remarkable combination.”

“No, it took a while. I tried all kinds of stuff. But this really works.”

“I'm sure it must.”

“See, you unwrap the Tootsie Roll, then dig up this big gob of peanut butter and suck it off with some of the chocolate. Then, when the taste's back to all chocolate, you jam it back in for another load. Once you get the hang of it, you can make a Tootsie Roll last for hours.”

“How perfectly fascinating.”

Cliff turned toward her. As though of its own accord his hand rose from his side to touch her face, trace a finger's line across a soft cheek, around full lips, down to the delicately sculpted chin. Which he raised. Still he hesitated, drawn by the wells of loneliness, of hurting and the fear of being hurt again, of open yearning in those jade-green eyes.

Then he bent and kissed her, for a long time, for an instant, for a moment when the world began and ended in the span of a kiss.

Gently she drew her face from his, returned for another tiny taste, then laid her head on his shoulder.

And the night breeze sang a gentle melody to match the sound of her sigh.

16

Owen MacKenzie, Pharmacon's chairman, was greeted at the Washington airport Saturday morning by one of Congressman Larson's fresh-faced aides, who announced, “He's vanished.”

“Who has?”

“The FDA man we're supposed to be accusing of mishandling confidential information. We can't find him.”

“Well, he's bound to show up. How are the other things moving?”

The aide scampered alongside him, trying to match the chairman's lunging strides. “The congressman wishes to tell you that everything else is proceeding according to plan, sir.”

“Well, that's good. The news conference still on?”

“Yessir. But this Devon, we—”

“There's bound to be a hitch every now and then in something this big. Got to learn to move with the punches.”

The aide was finding it hard to talk and keep up and draw breath. “But sir, it may be that Devon is down at your North Carolina facility.”

Mackenzie swung around. “What's that you say?”

“His friend, Dr. Deborah Givens, yesterday went to the police in Norfolk and claimed that an industrial spy had tried to kidnap one of her patients from the veterans hospital. That's why Mr. Whitehurst isn't here. We heard about this early today, and he left immediately to try and straighten things out. It also appears that Dr. Givens is still trying to draw attention to this accusation of possible hidden dangers from the echin drug.”

“I've heard about all I want over this psychedelic nonsense,” the chairman snapped. “Some kind of New Age flower child stuck a load of flowers in her car window, isn't that right?”

“Yessir, something to that effect.”

“So what's to have kept them from spraying some junk on those posies, you know, one of those designer drugs?” The chairman was growing red in the face. “This is just like a scientist. The minute somebody starts talking profit, they dig their heads in the dirt, afraid of being contaminated.” Angrily he shifted his briefcase to his other hand, making an arc that almost took off the aide's left hip. “So what does this have to do with the Devon kid?”

“That's what worries us, sir. We don't know.”

“The sooner that blasted troublemaker's got the feel of asphalt under his britches, the better off we'll all be. And I've about had it up to my hind teeth with this scientist of mine. You got a number where I can reach Whitehurst?”

“Yessir.” The aide dug a slip from his pocket. “He asked you to call—”

Owen MacKenzie jerked the slip from the aide's hand, wheeled around and stomped down the corridor. “Come on, I've got to get to a phone.”

Luis de Cunhor had never known a fury as great as that moment's. Not from the humiliation of hearing his family whine and complain at never being given the wealth they deserved. Not from having to spend four endless years slaving away in a country he loathed and a language he detested, to earn a degree and a key to his own advancement. Not from waiting and sweating while his grandmother's aged sister, a crone with one foot in the grave, approached her own eldest son, Fernando de Cunhor, the Padron, and begged him to give Luis a chance.

No, nothing approached the frustration and fury he knew just then.

Just when he should have been basking in the praise of his Padron, when he should have been preparing for the receipt of his long-awaited reward, when the gates to his own office and power and wealth should have been opening, here he was. Stuck in an old rental boat stinking of fishbait and gasoline, tied to a stump rising from a fetid marshland, swatting at mosquitoes, waiting for a cursed doctor to return home.

The loose tongue at the FDA had been taken care of. The government's enquiry was set to explode at any moment. Samples of the genetically altered root had been obtained. The fake lobbyist Wendell Cooper had wisely decided to take a long vacation in Switzerland.

Luis had carefully used the FDA coordinator's desire for more research and his ongoing battles with the Walters woman. From what Tweedie had told him, the coordinator was a typically innocent and trusting American named Devon, a name that sounded like tasteless white cheese and probably fit the man perfectly. Devon's career had then been set up and shot down like the pigeon he was.

But this, this infuriating turn of twisted fate had to happen now.

Luis kicked angrily at one filth-encrusted gunnel. Who would have ever thought that the old man at the veterans hospital could be such a problem? Not to mention that cursed woman doctor. Luis planned to do away with her need for a wheelchair. Permanently. And the old man at the veterans hospital was not long for this earth.

Fernando de Cunhor had been his childhood idol. The Padron's story was told by all the family with envy and pride—the man who rose against all odds to become owner of Brazil's third largest pharmaceutical company. Rumors of illegal doings followed him like shadows and were whispered by people who feared him too much to speak them aloud. Luis had listened to them all, drinking in the tales made more dramatic with repeated telling, knowing that one day the world would grant him too the glorious mantle of fearful respect.

And now this.

He shifted to ease the gun's jamming presence in his waistband. The sudden movement caused the boat to rock. Luis grabbed the seat, steadied himself, then noticed how the scummy water in the boat's bottom had stained his ivory-colored shoes. He cursed the fate that had dragged him here, and he willed the doctor to hurry home.

He would not fail the Padron.

Luis stiffened and glanced over to his right. Something had shifted the plants bordering the bulkhead. Yes, there it was.

As stealthily as the unstable boat permitted, he reached for his gun.

But the plants did not move again.

“Whitehurst? This is Owen MacKenzie.”

“Mr. MacKenzie, good of you to call. I think I've managed—”

“Stow it,” the chairman barked. “Listen up. We've got us a problem here, mister. I want you to get rid of it.”

There was a long pause, then, “I'm not sure I understand.”

“You want to see the inside of the boardroom, don't you? Well, here's your chance. Get rid of the problem.”

“You mean—”

“I mean get rid of it.” MacKenzie looked over to where the aide stood, pretending not to be trying to hear. He swung his bulk around so that he was facing the swirling airport scene and lowered his voice. “These doggone shenanigans have got to stop.”

“But Dr. Givens—”

“That Givens gal is just like any other scientist. Get 'em within ten feet of a good idea and they'll do their dead-level best to mess it up. But Givens is only half of the problem.”

“You mean Devon.”

“That's right, I mean that FDA snit. Word is he's down there again, sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.” Owen MacKenzie bore down hard. “Now do you or do you not understand what I'm saying to you?”

Whitehurst picked his words as carefully as walking through a mine field. “And if I am able to eradicate this problem—”