Blood Brothers (41 page)

Gunnar awoke to the sound of sirens. He opened his eyes and saw a confusing blur of moving lights. He blinked and squinted, and his vision cleared a bit, but he couldn’t quite focus. He could discern, however, that a fire truck had stopped a few yards away, and could see men jumping off of it.

He tried to stand, but got no further than his hands and knees. His head pounded and spun, and sharp bolts of pain tore through his body. He heard running steps, and a man’s voice asked, “Are you okay?”

Gunnar lifted his head and looked up into the face of a young man in firefighting gear who squatted down beside him, his face bathed in orange and yellow light. Gunnar was dimly aware of other figures running and shouting in the background. “I . . . I’m . . .” he began, but he had trouble finding words.

The firefighter turned and yelled over his shoulder, “EMT!” He turned back to Gunnar. “Don’t try to get up. Just lie down and relax.” He gently maneuvered Gunnar back to the ground. “Good, good. Now I need you to tell me if there’s anyone left in the building.”

“Building?” Gunnar replied groggily. He couldn’t remember any particular building.

“That building right there.” The firefighter pointed, and Gunnar’s eyes followed. He saw a massive building half-engulfed in flames. The company’s main building.

Sheets of fire spread up two sides of the building and sent streams of sparks and cinders into the night sky. Fire poured out of the lab windows where he had spent thousands of hours developing and testing new products. Long scorch marks already discolored what was left of the limestone cladding he and Karl had argued over when the building went up nearly twenty years ago.

“That’s . . . It’s the company,” he said weakly. “Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals.”

“I know,” said the firefighter. “I need you to tell me if there are any people inside.”

“It’s burning!” Gunnar exclaimed in panic. “Stop it! Put it out!”

“We’re doing everything we can, but right now I need you to focus,” the firefighter said urgently. “Is anyone in there?”

Gunnar’s head pounded and felt like it was full of cotton gauze, but he tried to concentrate. “Security guard . . . ground floor,” he forced out. “Desk just inside . . . near some candy machines.”

The firefighter turned and shouted, “Check for a security guard just inside on the ground floor!” He turned back to Gunnar. “Okay, is there anyone else?”

Gunnar looked back at the burning building, trying to remember. He noticed Karl’s empty car parked on the path leading to the building entrance. That meant something, but he couldn’t remember what. Something. “I don’t know.”

Two paramedics arrived, and the firefighter jogged back to the truck. One man put a neck-immobilization collar on Gunnar and carefully slid a flat backboard under him while another checked his extremities for sensation, flashed a light in his pupils, and asked him who he was, where he was, what day it was, and so on. Gunnar could remember his name and recognized the burning building, but that was all.

As the paramedics worked on him, Gunnar helplessly watched the fire. More fire trucks arrived, and their crews poured streams of water into the blaze, but still it grew. His shock and panic faded into despair and emptiness as the flames ate away more and more of his life’s work. He tried to look away and slip back into the thick fog that enshrouded his mind, but his eyes kept coming back to Karl’s car. Why was it there? Where was Karl? Finally, it dawned on him: Karl might be in the building. He grabbed the arm of the nearest paramedic. “The president’s office . . . top floor.”

The paramedic looked up doubtfully at the towering flames. “Is someone up there?”

“I think . . . I think my brother is.”

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

A
FTER THE WORLD
’
S
R
UIN

Gunnar woke in the hospital the next morning, remembering nothing that had happened after the end of the board meeting. A staff doctor told him it was the result of a concussion, one of a catalog of injuries that would keep him in the hospital for some time. He had three cracked ribs, two missing teeth, hairline fractures in his right hand and femur, a bruised spleen, a fractured eye socket, a broken leg, and dozens of bruises and abrasions. The doctor commented that if he hadn’t known better, he would have assumed Gunnar had been hit by a truck.

Karl was in the intensive-care unit of the same hospital. The firefighters had found him in the president’s office, sitting in the president’s chair, behind the president’s desk. He was unconscious by the time the firefighters found him, and the office was filled with smoke and toxic fumes. They had managed to drag him out and carry him down a fire escape moments before the building collapsed. He had been in a coma ever since.

Over the next few days, Gunnar occasionally envied his unconscious brother. An unremitting tide of bad news threatened to overwhelm him. First, he learned that the company complex was nothing but a field of scorched rubble. Then came the fire inspector’s initial report finding clear signs of arson and noting that traces of diesel fuel, apparently from the building’s backup generator, had been found both around the building and on Karl’s clothes. The company’s insurance company struck next, denying coverage on the basis of the fire inspector’s report. Then the FDA announced that they were placing a hold on all Neurostim clinical trials until Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals could prove that the drug had not contributed to David Lee’s death—a task that became practically impossible the next day, when blood tests showed significant levels of Neurostim in Karl’s blood as well.

A week after the fire, the last straw broke the company: a major wholesaler announced that it was going to switch suppliers because of uncertainty over when—and if—Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals was going to resume production. Gunnar had a long conference call with Henrik Haugeland and Tim Hawkins, the company CFO. Both agreed that the company’s financial situation was untenable and was only likely to grow worse.

After the call ended, Gunnar lay back in his bed, physically and mentally exhausted. His body was a mass of aches, and the aftereffects of the concussion made focused thinking difficult. Still, it didn’t take much concentration to see the obvious next step. He called Ben Corbin and asked him to begin preparing a bankruptcy petition for Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals.

Detective Frank McCormick sat at his desk with his morning coffee, a Starbucks venti caramel macchiato. His wife, a dietician, regularly tried to convince him to give up his macchiatos, objecting that his favorite drink “isn’t even really coffee—it’s just a hot candy bar in a cup.” But then, she was in Burbank, and Starbucks was right on his way from the parking garage to the police station.

He worked through his in-box as he sipped from his cup. Near the bottom, he found a report from the fingerprint lab in the David Lee investigation. The lab had been able to compile several usable prints from the dozens of small partial prints on the Neurostim gelcaps found in Lee’s apartment. The prints belonged to two individuals, both of whom the lab had positively identified. One was David Lee, but the other—much to Detective McCormick’s surprise—was not Kim Young. It was someone named Dr. Daruka Reddy. The big detective raised his eyebrows and put down his coffee. “And who is Dr. Daruka Reddy?”

He reached into an overstuffed accordion folder and fished out his “Who’s Who” list for the investigation. There was no Dr. Reddy on it. Puzzled, he pulled out the fingerprint-request form he had sent to the lab. Stapled to the back of it was a long list of people for whom they had prints. Most of these were Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals employees who had access to controlled drugs and were therefore fingerprinted and given criminal-background checks before they were hired. Dr. Reddy was there, listed as a “senior research scientist, development.”

Detective McCormick didn’t see anything linking Dr. Reddy to David Lee, but that could change with more digging. He made a note on his calendar to get Dr. Reddy’s personnel file, phone records, and e-mail archive.

He sat back and smiled as he finished his coffee. He had liked Kim Young when he interviewed her, and he had wanted to believe her when she professed her innocence. That had just gotten easier.

Anne and Markus walked into Gunnar’s room as he was picking at an admirably healthy, but barely edible, hospital breakfast. Ten days had passed, and Gunnar was well enough to go home. “Good morning,” said Anne. “We’ve got the SUV downstairs. Are you ready to go?”

“I’ve done all the paperwork,” Gunnar replied, “but I still need to pack.” He glanced around his room, which had become something of a satellite office. A laptop computer and portable printer sat on two chairs, a tablet lay on the bedside table, and at least one document adorned each flat surface.

“I’ve got it covered,” replied Markus, lifting up a large wheeled bag, “I brought the big suitcase. I’ll start loading it up.”

“And I’ll help you get dressed,” said Anne. “I went shopping yesterday and found some sweats that should fit over your casts.”

“Good thinking,” said Gunnar. “Thanks.” He levered himself up using his one good arm and leg and, with the assistance of a crutch, was able to hobble over to the bathroom. Anne followed him in and helped him change out of his hospital gown and into a set of roomy blue-and-gray workout clothes that fit comfortably over both his leg cast and his wrist cast. He didn’t much like having someone help him dress, but it was an indignity he would have to learn to live with for the next several weeks.

When Anne opened the bathroom door again, Gunnar saw Markus standing by the half-packed suitcase, reading a document. He looked at his father. “Dad, this is a bankruptcy petition for the company.”

Gunnar’s mouth curled in irritation. “Just pack. Don’t read.”

“I—” began Markus. Then he shrugged and dropped the document into the suitcase. “Okay.”

Anne and Markus packed in silence for several minutes while Gunnar sat on the bed tapping out an e-mail on his tablet. “I don’t think we’re going to make it,” he said suddenly.

The other two stopped packing and looked at him. “What do you mean?” asked Anne.

“We haven’t filed that bankruptcy petition yet, but we probably will in a few days. We’ll try to reorganize and get back on our feet, but . . .” He gave a small shrug. “This is probably the end of the road.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” said Markus.

“It’s hard to believe,” continued Gunnar. “A week and a half ago, wealth beyond the dreams of avarice hung right in front of us.” He reached out as if to grab something invisible, then dropped his hand into his lap. “And now, it’s all gone. Not just the multibillion-dollar new drug—everything. Everything I’ve worked for over the past thirty years.”

Anne sat down next to him on the bed and took his hand. “I’m still rich beyond the dreams of avarice.”

Gunnar squeezed her hand. “I wish I could make that true.”

“Dad, do you know where that quote comes from?” asked Markus.

Gunnar looked at him uncomprehendingly. “What quote?”

“‘Rich beyond the dreams of avarice.’”

“Oh. I didn’t realize it was a quote from someone.”

Markus looked slightly annoyed, and Anne said, “It’s from
The Gamester
, a play Markus was in recently. Why don’t you explain it, Markus?”

“The play is about a gambler who loses everything,” said Markus. The irritation left his face as he spoke, and his voice took on some of the resonance that theater critics now noted in their reviews. “He goes to his wife and apologizes for ruining her, and she says—it wasn’t one of my lines, so I don’t remember exactly how it goes—but she says something like, ‘You have not ruined me. I have no wants when you are here, nor wishes in your absence, but to be blessed with your return. I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.’”

“I suppose I should . . .” Gunnar began. He meant to say, “I suppose I should get to the theater more,” but he was surprised to discover that he was crying too hard to finish the sentence.

Chicagoland had been blessed with warm, dry weather through most of October and into early November. The fall colors lingered on the trees for weeks longer than was typical, and restaurants kept their outdoor seating sections open past Election Day. And Bears fans—even sober ones—were going shirtless at Soldier Field.

But all that changed on the day after Gunnar came home from the hospital. A cold mass of air pushed down out of Canada, bringing with it a sharp wind and thick bands of clouds that alternately dropped sleet and cold, stinging rain. The storms stripped the autumn finery from the trees, leaving skeletal branches and clogging storm sewers with wads of dead leaves.

Markus had visited his parents earlier in the day and had built a fire before going back into Chicago to attend rehearsals for a new play. Anne made a pot of coffee, and she and Gunnar sat around the fire drinking Baileys and coffee as the wind rattled the windows and made them glad they were inside for the evening. Henrik was up in the guest bedroom, rescheduling his flight back to Norway, which he had delayed twice to help Gunnar deal with the crisis at Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals.

“It was good of Markus to come out today,” remarked Gunnar. “It’s too bad he couldn’t stay for dinner.”

“He came out most days while you were in the hospital,” said Anne. “He was the one who took care of getting the gutters cleaned and the furnace checked this year.”

“Did you lock the liquor cabinet while he was here?” asked Gunnar. Before Anne could answer, he said, “Forget I said that. This isn’t the time to talk about his faults.” He raised his mug. “To Markus.”

“To Markus,” replied Anne as she leaned forward and clinked her mug against his. “Actually, I haven’t seen him drink anything for at least a week. He and Tom and I went out to dinner one night, and he had nothing except water and coffee.”

Gunnar’s shaggy eyebrows went up in surprise. “Do you think he’s in Alcoholics Anonymous?”

“I wondered the same thing, but I didn’t ask him. If he wants to tell us, he will.”

Gunnar watched the fire and took a slow sip from his drink. “I wonder if he’s finally growing up.”

“I think he finally feels . . . significant,” Anne said thoughtfully. “He’s started to make a name for himself in the theater world. Since you went into the hospital, he’s also felt that we need him out here too. That reminds me, by the way—I’ve asked him to take care of the yard work while you’re recovering.”

“Why? We can hire someone to handle it. I only do it because it gives me an excuse to be outside for an hour or two.”

Anne reached over and patted her husband’s knee. “Let him help,” she said. “It’s good for him, and it might not be bad for you.”

They heard steps on the stairs and turned to see Henrik walk in. “Any luck?” asked Gunnar.

“Yes,” the accountant said as he sat down in an armchair and stretched his feet toward the fire. “SAS will let me use my original ticket to fly standby on the ten o’clock flight to Copenhagen tomorrow night. The flight is only half-full, so I should be able to find a seat.”