The Proteus Cure Page 5

  “Really, Abra—”

  She laughed. “Only teasing, Billy.”

  “Why do you feel compelled to make a suggestive comment every time she’s mentioned?”

  “Because her infatuation is so obvious.”

  “It’s mutual respect.”

  “And indebtedness. At a low point in her life you plucked her out of residency and placed her in a plum position.”

  Bill thought on that. Yes, that was how it looked to Abra and to Sheila. He’d done a good job masking the real reason: That he’d hired Sheila only to observe her after her husband’s “untimely death.” He flinched at the memory of how close Dek Takamura had come to exposing Proteus.

  “You’re a brilliant, good-looking man who did her a big favor. She’s a young, attractive widow. A lonely widow. That’s a combustible mixture.”

  Don’t I know it, Bill thought.

  But Bill did not fool around—never had and wasn’t about to start now. Though he and Elise didn’t always get along, they trusted each other. And Robbie and April, what would they think of him if …

  None of that stopped the fantasies, though … getting Sheila’s tight little body between the sheets and …

  “I know you and Elise are having your troubles,” Abra was saying.

  He shook off the images of Sheila’s velvet skin, her tender flesh, of touching her all over …

  “No more than any other married couple. The friction revolves around the time I spend at home—or lack of it. I give her and the kids my every spare moment, but to her it’s never enough. We’ll work it out.”

  “I’m sure you will. But if you don’t, and Sheila and you got together …” She winked at him. “Well, now is not a time for distractions.” She sipped her wine. “Is Sheila going to pursue the Kelly Slade case?”

  “She can’t. I’ve sequestered the medical records, and the body has been cremated.”

  “Then she’s got nothing to work with.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You know, we could just tell her what’s going on. Bring her into the fold.”

  Bill shook his head. They’d discussed this dozens of times.

  “I’d like her to be a part of this too, Abra, but it’s too soon. Just trust me on the timing of this, okay?”

  “It’s killing me being so close to her and holding back the truth about our therapy. I just know she’d be as thrilled as we are.”

  Bill wasn’t so sure. He thought of Sheila’s photos of Slade, but no need to worry Abra with those. He’d take care of them.

  “How’s the fertility clinic these days?”

  Abra’s eyes lit. Seeing that joy always reassured Bill. It made up for all the shit he had to handle. The Tethys Birthing Center was her life.

  “It’s wonderful. We’ve got that new staining technique and can check the DNA on the embryos at the eight-cell stage.”

  He felt so proud of her. Most anyone else with her disease would have given up. But Abra never let her handicap hold her back. Eight thousand successful IVFs in four years with seventy-percent births. No one else had that percentage. Abra called them her “perfect little angels.”

  “Another drink?”

  She shook her head. “Have you talked to Mama?”

  “Yes. You should call her.”

  Abra shook her head. “Why can’t she call me?”

  He sipped his freshened drink and held off. Abra and Mama had had ongoing battles about the goals of Proteus. They’d both urged Abra to go wider with VG723—supply it to cancer centers all over the world, concealing their findings. Distribute millions of doses simultaneously over the course of a couple of years. Cure as many people as possible before the survivors started showing changes, before anyone figured out what was happening. Then they’d plead ignorance.

  But Abra had refused to supply it to any other hospitals without full disclosure to the doctors and patients. Mama had raged off to Europe saying she would stay there and work on her own projects until Abra came to her senses. She’d bought controlling interest in Schelling Pharma, a failing Swiss pharmaceutical concern, and had turned it around.

  Abra had felt betrayed. It wasn’t that they didn’t speak—nothing like that. Mama flew over for holidays and birthdays, but their close rapport had faded.

  Bill called Mama frequently. But he had reason to. They were working on their own project that Abra wasn’t privy to.

  “You’re just being spiteful, Abra. Mama’s an old woman. Who knows how long before you won’t be able to call her.”

  Abra laughed, not unkindly. “Don’t go playing the age card. That’s her game.”

  She rolled her chair to a terrarium and plucked out a small hermit crab, then returned and breathed on it.

  Bill tried to ignore its presence. “It’s true. Think about it.”

  Abra smiled as the crab crawled from its shell. She set it on her lap so it could walk. “I’m more interested in thinking about Kelly Slade’s counterpart, the other switched lab sample. Kelly was only the first shoe to drop. When will we hear the second?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  But it was coming. And he dreaded the prospect.

  SHEILA

  “Where’s that CAT report, damn it!”

  Sheila could barely contain her frustration. Tethys wasn’t set up for trauma—no emergency room, plus its staff was rarely called upon for acute care. Thank God the orderlies had found a backboard with a cervical immobilizer stowed in a closet.

  She had immediately taken charge, calling on the ER skills she’d learned in her moonlighting days.

  Paul had wanted to lift his unconscious son in his arms and carry him, but Sheila stopped him—Coog might have a cervical fracture. So he’d knelt beside him, wringing his hands—a big bear of a man looking terribly vulnerable. A pair of orderlies transferred Coog to the board and hurried him up to a treatment room.

  First she’d started an IV and began running fluids into him. Next—chest and pelvic x-rays, plus skull and cervical spine series. Thankfully the neck and skull showed no fractures, and so they took him off the board. No pelvic fracture either. The chest x-ray showed no hemo- or pnemothorax, and no air under the diaphragm. Good. That last meant no ruptured stomach or intestine. It did, however, show undisplaced fractures of three of his lower left ribs. That worried Sheila. That was spleen country. It might be ruptured.

  Thus the CAT scan.

  “I’ve got radiology on the phone,” said a black nurse whose nametag read J. Bradshaw, RN. “It’s Doctor Morten.”

  Sheila grabbed the receiver. “What’ve we got, Joe?”

  “Looks good. Liver, pancreas, and retroperitoneal space all okay on the scan. Not so sure about the spleen, though. Might have a hematoma.”

  “But no rupture?”

  “Nope. It’s intact.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. No surgery for Coog.

  As she glanced at him, Coog’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, obviously confused. His eyes widened when he recognized his surroundings.

  He stiffened. “Wha—?”

  Sheila patted his arm. “It’s all right, Coog. You had a little accident.”

  “I did?”

  “Yep.” She smiled and squeezed his arm. “But you’re going to be fine.”

  Now to tell Paul the good news.

  PAUL

  Paul sat in the waiting room, shaking, feeling as if someone had kicked him in the chest.

  Coog … knocked out … broken ribs. Thank God for Sheila. When she’d called to tell him no surgery, he’d almost lost it.

  Very lucky, she’d said.

  Yeah, right. Some strange kind of luck: First I almost lose him to leukemia, then this. One minute skateboarding, the next smashed on the pavement.

  Paul clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists. The chatty nurses had told him the driver was an investment counselor with a couple of Tethys doctors as clients. If Paul could get hold of that bastard—

  “Mr. Rosko, can I tal
k to you for a minute?”

  Paul looked up. A young doctor who looked about twelve was waving him to a curtained area in the hall.

  As he followed Doogie Hauser, he could feel his blood pressure rising along with his anxiety. Had something gone wrong?

  “Mr. Rosko …” Doogie said, then paused.

  “What?” Paul snapped.

  He’d kept his temper in check for years. Even when Rose had started screwing around on him, even then he’d kept it together. But now he could feel the rage taking over. He wanted to punch someone. Anyone.

  “As you know, your son won’t be needing a transfusion.”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  He realized he’d said that many times in the last hour.

  “I want to keep your blood for other patients who might need it.”

  Paul took a breath and smiled. “Great. If Coogan doesn’t need it, go ahead.” Paul felt self-control returning.

  “It didn’t match Coogan’s anyway and we don’t want to waste it.”

  A ball of ice formed in Paul’s chest.

  “Not compatible? You saying he’s not my son?”

  Knew it!

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Happens more than you expect. Nothing to concern yourself about, really.”

  “He’s not my son,” he said in a soft, calm-before-the storm voice.

  “I didn’t say that Mister Rosko.”

  “I should have known. Doesn’t even look like me. Nothing like me.”

  He knew he was muttering like a sidewalk schizo but didn’t care. A red haze filled his vision. Didn’t know how much longer he could keep a lid on this.

  Goddamned Rose.

  Adrenaline raced through his system. He tried counting backward like he’d learned in anger management.

  10 … 9 … 8…

  “Hey, there you are.” Sheila was walking toward him with two steaming cups of coffee. “I’ve been looking you.” She frowned. His expression no doubt told her something. “Is everything okay?”

  “Ask the boy wonder,” Paul said.

  “What is it, Matt?”

  He shrugged. “Mister Rosko’s blood isn’t compatible with his son’s. And he just released it to the bank.”

  “Great.”

  As Matt turned and walked away, Sheila said, “Coog should be ready for visitors in about half an hour.”

  Paul took his coffee from Sheila. “He’s not my son.”

  “What?”

  “You heard him. He can’t take my blood. That says it all.”

  Sheila put a hand on his arm. “It says nothing of the sort. It’s not uncommon.”

  “I wish I could believe that—I want to believe that—but …”

  “Come by my office tomorrow and I’ll explain it to you. Right now you’re too upset about the accident.”

  She went to put her arm on his shoulder but he shrugged her off. He saw her recoil and felt bad right away, but he hated being patronized. That wasn’t what he needed. He needed to beat the shit out of someone.

  “Paul, calm down.” She didn’t try to touch him again. “This doesn’t mean anything. We can do a paternity test later okay? DNA. I’m sure he’s your son. He probably just looks more like your wife than you.”

  “Ex-wife. And you know what? He doesn’t. He doesn’t look anything like Rose. She was a blond—very, almost-white blond hair. Only thing about her that was real.”

  Screwing around on him the whole time—even before Coog. He balled his fists, crushing the cup in a blur of anger.

  “Paul?” he heard an alarmed voice say. “Are you okay?”

  Who was that? Focus, Paul. Focus. 10 … 9 … 8 …

  He saw the coffee on the floor. He saw his scalded fingers.

  “Aw, jeez, I’m sorry.”

  He looked around for a paper towel but froze when he saw a man walking down the hall, talking on a cell pone.

  Paul recognized him. The weasel-faced, Hummer-driving, son of a bitch who’d flattened Coog while yakking on the same goddam phone, and here he was strolling along as if he hadn’t nearly destroyed two lives.

  The air around Paul took on a red tinge. With a strangled cry he charged. The guy never saw it coming. Paul shoved him against the wall, then pushed him to the floor. He ripped the cell phone free and poised it over the bastard’s mouth.

  “You like this thing? You like talking when you should be watching out for kids? How about I shove it down your goddamn throat!”

  He raised the phone above the terrified face, winding up to smash in a few of the guy’s pretty caps—

  “Paul, no!” Sheila yelled.

  Paul heard her and stopped. He didn’t know how, but he stopped.

  He felt arms pull him off. Big arms. Security guards surrounded him. Where the hell had they come from?

  They lifted him to his feet.

  “He’s all right,” Sheila said. “His son was just hit by a car. By that driver. He’s not thinking clearly.”

  They let him go.

  He shook himself and looked at the shocked driver still cowering on the floor.

  No blood. Thank God Sheila had stopped him in time.

  He closed his eyes. It had passed. Now he was shaking.

  Sheila guided him to a chair in the waiting room. She wiped the coffee off his hands. He felt numb.

  “Why don’t I get you a tranquilizer? It will help. It’s been a hell of a day for you. Anyone would flip out.” She smiled. “I know you would have stopped before you hurt him. Right?”

  If she only knew.

  He glanced at her. Was that a trace of fear in her eyes? Fear for him, or fear of him? A world of difference. He liked Sheila—a lot. Looking at her, talking to her … had he just screwed that up?

  “I’m okay now. I really don’t like to take pills.”

  “Okay. You want a new coffee?”

  “No, I’m revved enough. I’m really sorry you had to see me like that.”

  She swatted her hand at the air. “That’s nothing. You think I’ve never seen a parent go nuts? Happens all the time.”

  He hedged but finally admitted, “I’ve had my doubts for a while about Coog being my son.”

  “Do you really think he’s not yours?”

  “He used to look just like me. Same round face, same dark hair. A mini-me. That’s what the old photos show. But nowadays …” He shook his head. “You’ve seen him.”

  “Lots of children change as they mature.”

  “Yeah, well, when he got sick, Rose couldn’t deal with it. She stayed away from the hospital as much as she could. I was all he had. He was all I had. I didn’t realize until then how much he meant to me. I was with him day and night, treatment after treatment. They told me he was going to die and you know what I did?”

  She shook her head.

  “I went out and bought him spelling flashcards. I wasn’t going to let him just lie there and wait for death. It’s like that book, On the Beach by Nevil Shute. Ever read that?”

  She shook her head again.

  “All the countries blew each other up and the radiation killed everyone. Except in Australia. It was far enough away so they didn’t get sick for a while. They knew they’d die once the dust blew their way but they just kept on living their lives. They planted gardens and went to school and worked. They refused to lie down and wait for death. Because what kind of life is that?

  “So I bought him flashcards. We did spelling and writing and some math. I wasn’t going to give into death. Not in front of him. I’d go in the men’s room and cry my eyes out, because I knew the end was coming. But I kept making him live like he was going to be around forever.”

  “And he did live,” she said.

  “Yeah. He lived. Tethys stepped in with their miracle. Soon after that, Rose left us. So he’s all I’ve got. I don’t have the big life-altering job you do. I wish I did. I’m just a cable guy. I’ve made my whole life about that kid in there.” He pointed down the hall. “If Coogan’s not really my son, I ha
ve nothing.”

  “No, you still have a son. Remember, you’re all he has too. If he used to be a mini-you, then inside he still is. I really wouldn’t worry about your paternity, Paul. I’m sure he’s yours. We’ll run some tests, though. Okay?”

  He held her hand. A bold move, but he meant it as a friendly gesture. Just a friend. He squeezed.

  “Thank you so much. I don’t usually babble on like this, and I hardly know you. Sorry I got all emotional. You must think I’m a wimp.”

  She turned his hand over with her thin, manicured fingers.

  “With hands like these? Nothing wimpy here.” She rubbed his hand with her thumb. “Ready to see him?”

  “You bet.”

  They got up and started walking. She led the way.

  Quite a woman. He hoped, prayed, that she was right about Coogan. The DNA would prove it. He’d just have to keep his fingers crossed.

  KAPLAN

  Gerald Kaplan knew he was rip-roaring drunk. He sat on his tan recliner on his tan rug in his stupid neutral-colored living room. Except for the big, flat-screen TV, not one extravagance. Place had no character. Just like him. Mister Invisible. Except he had made the biggest medical discovery of all time! Of all time. Wished he hadn’t. It was blowing up in his face. Damn. He stared up at the stucco ceiling to stabilize himself, keep the room still.

  Hardly ever drank, and hadn’t been drunk since college. But tonight … exception. Big-time exception.

  Trouble was, the only booze in the house was scotch. Didn’t like scotch. Tasted medicinal. Kept it around for company. But he’d forced some down tonight. Hell, he’d forced down lots.

  Didn’t help in the way he’d hoped. No surprise about the queasy stomach. Couldn’t walk straight, couldn’t see straight. But he hadn’t been able to pickle his brain enough to blot out the memory of that lady in the examining room this morning, that Tanesha Green.

  Poor woman.

  Still felt the shock of seeing her bizarre pigment changes, hearing of her experimental cancer therapy, and knowing in a frightening and infuriating epiphany what had happened, and what was taking place inside her.