Bad Medicine (40 page)

"He comes in downstairs sometimes. He's a really nice guy. Harmless."

That the nurse responded to. "He does apologize when he's spitting on us," she admitted as she pulled a roll of two-inch surgical tape from her pocket.

Pulling out a marker, she wrote J-O-E-Y in big letters across the tape to be put on the headboard where everybody could see it.

"You might also try Sarge. That's what the other guys call him."

"Thanks."

Molly nodded, not sure what she'd accomplished, not even sure anymore what she'd wanted here. She was walking out of the unit when she saw Frank getting off the elevators.

"Out performing your corporal works of mercy, I see," he greeted her.

From anybody else, that line would have been offensive. When Frank said it, though, he smiled that outrageous smile that sapped all insult.

For the first time since Molly had known him, he looked tired. Molly knew the feeling. Cocking her head to consider this new Frank Patterson, she shoved her hands in her pockets so she could feel the disk safe in her fingers. "Corporal works of mercy are my job, Frank. You're the one out of your environment."

"I was here last night."

"Yes," Molly answered. "You were. I remember because you said something that didn't make much sense at the time. Funny how that all changes."

Oddly enough, that seemed to take even more out of Frank. "You found it, then."

"I found it. Wanna know what it says?"

He raised a hand. "No. Not in my lifetime. I also have a feeling that this is a personal effect you won't want to share with Peg's mother."

"We may not have a choice."

A dull flush crept up Frank's neck. "You're not going to hurt those people again."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Really? You think Mrs. Ryan would prefer to risk a lot of lives than find out that her daughter wasn't what she thought? But then, she's already sacrificed her son for the same reason, hasn't she?"

Now it was Frank who shoved hands in pockets, into the slacks of his Armani suit. Some things, it seemed, never changed. "There's very little in this world I respect, Saint Molly..."

"That I'll swear to."

He shifted on his feet, changed tack. "You could at least wait a while."

"Those tests are just about finished, Frank, which means the drug's about ready to go out onto the market. Exactly what would you like me to wait for?"

That was when she got the smile. "I know it's something we can work out, Saint Molly."

Molly's expression was dust dry. "So, you're telling me once again that you've asked me to do something you really didn't want me to do in the first place."

One hand came out of a pocket to be leveled at her as if she were a hostile witness. "I did
not
ask you to do anything," he informed her quite clearly, even though the edges of his mouth were suspiciously crooked. "Am I clear about this?"

Molly crooked her lips right back at him. "You didn't give me the answer to a riddle last night?"

"Not under any circumstance. That kind of behavior might violate my attorney-client relationship, of which I'm very fond."

"And you want me to wait before I don't do anything about this riddle you didn't give me that has to do with a request you know nothing about."

He beamed like a teacher who'd just found the one child who really understands algebra. "Exactly."

Molly nodded to herself. What a frustrating, obtuse, obstinate... frustrating man. How the hell could he keep making her smile, just so he could ambush her all over again? How the hell could she keep letting him get away with it?

"Tell you what, Frank," she finally said, not having the guts to look him in the face for fear of wanting to smile again. "I have someone to see right now. I think it's going to be a long appointment. Then I have some... reading to do, which will probably last until tomorrow, after which I have to pull a late shift. I still have some people to call for proof to back up my... reading. Only then will I be able to let you know when I'm going to do what you didn't ask me to do."

"You're going to be home tonight?"

Molly's head shot up. The topic of conversation had just made a major shift. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Molly could tell just by the look on Frank's face what it had to do with, and she was definitely not in the mood for that. Even if she'd been interested. Which she wasn't. Not as long as he had been the Wiedemans' lawyer. Not as long as he was Frank Patterson.

"We can talk about it then," he offered.

"Sure, Frank. Just remember that I carry my stun gun with me at all times to ward off people I don't want in my house. Go visit your friend. Then go home and figure out what you're going to do about your attorney-client relationship."

"Do?" he retorted with delight. "Don't be ridiculous, Saint Molly. I'm not going to do anything. Do you realize what kind of legal fees we're going to start amassing the minute you put on your Joan of Arc outfit? I'll invite you to the weekend home on the coast."

And then, before she could react, he turned for the intensive care unit. "Oh, Saint Molly," he called over his shoulder, "exactly when was it that you were going to quit?"

Molly didn't deign to answer him. She had a pharmacist to see.

* * *

The main hospital pharmacy was located as far away from the front door as possible, the idea being that impulsive gang-bangers couldn't accidentally trip over it and cause mayhem trying to get what was inside. The hospital had done such a good job of hiding it, however, that new staff took an average of four months to be able to find it when they did need it.

Molly got off in the sub-subbasement level and passed the morgue, purchasing, a now-defunct laundry, and the boiler room. She knew she was nearing home when she heard the infectious rhythm of Hob Marley and smelled the coffee. The pharmacy was also far enough out of the way that supervisors wouldn't be inclined to visit and crack down on rule violations.

"James," she called into the little metallic speaker set into the wall that reminded her of the one at Jack-in-the-Box. "Can I talk to you?"

"What's the password, babe?"

Suddenly there were passwords everywhere, Molly thought. "The password is, 'I, James, would like to know that I will be cared for if I'm ever unfortunate enough to need emergency care in this hospital.'"

The door buzzed and Molly walked in.

James grinned, exposing his prize gold crown. "Oh, it's you, Miss Molly. Whatchyou need?"

"James." She greeted him with the best smile she could come up with. "I need some real skinny."

James grinned and danced back to where he'd been working with three other techs to fill stat orders, "You come to the right place. You got my askin' price?"

Without a word, Molly handed over three Ding Dongs and a Hostess Cupcake. James smiled and nodded and bounced to the beat. "I'm all yours, Miss Molly. What can I do?"

"Transcend," she said and waited for the moment of truth.

James laughed so hard she thought he was going to fall over. The other techs, protected from his music by earphones of their own, briefly looked up, then back to their work.

"You want some?" James asked.

"Can you get it for me?"

"Can I? Yes. Will I? No."

"Why not?"

"You don't need that shit, Miss Molly. You want a real buzz, you do Ding Dongs like you friend James."

"I'm not even up to Ding Dongs these days," she admitted, perching herself on a stool alongside his. "Tell me, though. If this stuff is on such a tight trial, how can you get it?"

"Not from here. From there."

"The company?"

"Sure. I hear it's some of the Argons theyselves."

Molly rubbed at her head. The sons and heirs, one of whom, evidently, was named Randy. She wanted to hurt the little bastards.

"What do you know about it, James?" she asked. "I want to know what the literature isn't telling me."

"You want to know that," he said, "call the FDA. They got all the reports of side effects."

"So do you."

James didn't even look up from where he was doling out Lasix ampules into packets that could be tubed up to the units. "Why you wanna know?" he asked.

"Because I think people are dying on this stuff, and if somebody doesn't do something, it's going to be the biggest seller on the market. Which means there are gonna be a lotta dead people."

James was nodding now, still counting and checking. "You know how trials are really run, Miss Molly?"

"Tell me."

"Well, first they screen patients for the healthiest sick people they can find to put on this stuff so they results look good. You seen the ads on TV for people needin' free medicine. That's you trial base. Okay, so they start testing. What they do is, if they come up with side effects in a preliminary trial, they just make sure they don't give the drug to anybody who might respond bad after that. Say, they got a heart medicine spikes blood pressures. Well, they make sure they don't give it after that in they trials to nobody with high blood pressure. Whammo! This stuff gets safer and safer until it's like givin' sugar water."

"And what are the restrictions on Transcend?"

James laughed again. Then he simply got off his stool and walked over to where the regulation binders were kept on the shelving by the wall. "Here," he said. "You read it yourself."

Molly received the trial instructions and began to read the list of contraindications for patient participation. In addition to the usual age, pregnancy, and heart and preexisting medical conditions, the following were included:

Bi-polar disorder.

Aggressive pathology.

Hormone-related pathology.

Organic Brain Syndrome with violent behavior.

"Aggression," Molly murmured. "Why aggression?"

James shrugged. "Who am I to ask?"

"I'm pretty sure there were five basically healthy people who killed themselves on this stuff. We got a whole series of trials where I hear that nothing like that ever happened. What was the difference?"

"Could be that healthy part. Like Haldol, you know. You give Haldol to a crazy and they get better. You give it to a healthy person, they see flying monkeys."

Molly nodded, even though she knew there had to be more. Because if there weren't more, there wouldn't be people attacking her.

"Of course," he said all on his own, "you gotta understand that drug studies are real good at finding preexisting conditions to blame stuff on. Like, Oh, did this poor man try and shoot up a post office on our antidepressant? Well, he had some alcohol on board. The alcohol done turned him bad. Or, this guy on the antihypertensive drug suddenly drops dead of an arrhythmia, well, he had a history of smoking. Probably that instead o' the medicine, and that's how it's put in the literature."

"I get the message."

"We also doin' a study on the new Alzheimer's prevention. Wan' me to tell you 'bout that one?"

Molly sighed. "No. I think I've had more than enough."

"One other thing you should know. This hospital ain' gonna sing you praises you get Argon in trouble. Those drug trials bring lots of money, ya know."

"I know. Thanks, James."

She was all set to head back upstairs.

"Not to mention everybody who's invested in the stock."

She paused. "Everybody?"

James bit into a Ding Dong and nodded. "Sure. It common knowledge this gonna be the windfall of the century. Lotsa people involved in the study goin' through Dr. Frost to get some stock. Ha'n't he asked you yet?"

"You're kidding. Who's invested?"

James wagged a half-eaten lunch treat at her. "You kiddin'? Pharmacy supervisor, psych supervisor—"

"Haldol Harlow?"

"Same same. Yours truly, Dr. Banerjee—he runnin' the study, ya know. I think he sank a big chunk in. Couple of the residents, Chernobyl up in you ER. Only one I heard for sure turned it down is old Clean Gene."

"What?" Molly was stunned. "Sasha invested in this?"

James was still on his earlier train of thought. "Folks think he a little too Robin Hood for this place, ya know? Don' seem to find a need to share in the profit. Happy enough bein' the boss, I guess."

"James," Molly persisted. "You said that Sasha Petrovich is investing with Lance Frost?"

James blinked as if coming up from underwater. "Tha's what I said, i'n't it?"

Molly opened her mouth to say something. She found she had nothing to say.

Sasha. She'd never said a word. Never even hinted at the fact that she might have a hell of a financial stake in this herself.

And not just Sasha. All kinds of people investing with Lance. Another whole layer of big business Molly hadn't even suspected. No wonder she'd spent all these years as a floor nurse. She just didn't have the Machiavellian bent to anticipate stuff like this. And if she couldn't do that, chances are, she never would have made a supervisor.