Peril (16 page)

Reeves inhaled and held his breath, his face reddening. Then he released it audibly. “Although young, these were already neural cells. We didn't make them from scratch from fetal stem cells. What do you want me to do?”

“Until we know what's happened to this participant, I'd recommend we hold off on the other surgeries. No more grafts until we get this figured out.”

Reeves closed the distance between them. “I liked you . . . in the beginning. But now you are losing sight of the game plan here. We have a contract to fulfill—”

“Respectfully, sir, it's not a contract to produce a certain number of viable specimens. It's a research study that has military implications funded by a private security firm. But you don't want that to get out, right? The military part . . . that's really who's using these men. All the other is just cover.”

Reeves seethed. “Fortunately or otherwise, our first few subjects performed markedly well. More than any of us thought possible. In light
of that, do you think we can just stop?” Reeves tapped at the screen images. “Right now, we don't know what that is. Everyone sees a big, white something in someone's head and automatically assumes the worst-case scenario. You and I both know that it could be a dozen other things, and I am not going to end a successful study on the assumption that we have a man with a malignant tumor in his head until I have solid facts.”

Tyler stepped back and crossed his arms. “This finding isn't my only concern. The morale among the subjects is beginning to drop. It's not just this mass. Others have been suffering seizures, nightmares, and heightened sensitivity to noise. I alerted you to this.”

“You said to not be concerned, yet. Plus, that could all be battle related.”

“Except not all of the patients having these symtpoms have experienced battle, sir. For those who haven't, there would be no reason for them to experience symptoms that are akin to PTSD without having suffered a traumatic event.”

“Well, maybe we just need to start them on the first drug I invented. See if that clears the issue up.”

Tyler shook his head. “No, that operates outside the protocol. We can't do that. I'm just asking for a day. Let the pathologist type whatever this is and we'll move on from there. You don't want it to leak out that you willfully disregarded the health of these men, even if they volunteered for the surgery.”

“Are you threatening me?” Reeves asked, his eyes narrowed, as he leaned into the gap between them.

Tyler held firm. “No sir, just trying to ensure nothing sullies your reputation for ensuring that the US military, or this private security firm, or whoever, retains the best fighting men there are worldwide.”

The man eased back, his face softening. Ultimately, stroking the tiger by massaging his ego was the best medicine Tyler had found.

“Very well. We'll go with your plan. By the way, are you aware of the happy news?”

The words did little to ease Tyler's tension. Normally, when good news was shared, there wasn't a look of utter distaste plastered on the announcer's face.

“Sir?”

“About your dear wife, Morgan.”

Cold spindles spread down Tyler's arms and he began to wonder if
there was a threat of him turning up pleasantly missing someday. “Not sure what you're referring to.”

“That I'm her father?”

“Yes, I did hear that piece of news.”

“There's nothing you want to say to me?”

Tyler remained silent. These exchanges with Reeves could go either way. More often than not, they were bait at the mouth of a steel trap.

Reeves continued. “About my refusal to be tested as a donor?”

Cold vapor from the air-conditioning evaporated the tiny rivulets of worry that flowed down Tyler's neck. “It's a personal decision, sir. You need to do what's best for you.”

Reeves twiddled his thumbs. “What if she dies? Will you still feel the same way?”

Could you loathe and respect a man at the same time? In Tyler's mind, one was beginning to outweigh the other. Had success and wealth eroded what little humanity Thomas Reeves had, if any?

“I hope that doesn't happen. We haven't exhausted all our options yet.”

Tyler looked down, away from the intense glare Reeves used to annihilate others from questioning his actions. His rapid heartbeat measured the minutes and he looked up, trying to match the gaze.

“Are you happy?”

Reeves snorted at the question. “Of course.”

“Really? Who is there for you at night? What do you do when you're alone? There isn't a single person you can turn to who hasn't bought your attention with the promise of some artificial, ego-boosting payment. Once you stop delivering the goods, they're out of your life, and when all this”—Tyler flung his arms wide—“begins to disappear . . . there won't be anyone to help you pick up the pieces.”

“Even you, Tyler? You won't be there either?”

What was it about the change in his voice? A sadness at the realization of the truth Tyler spoke? Or a hardness that said Reeves was completely fine going it alone? He'd started from scratch before. Why not do it again?

Tyler squared his shoulders. “If you allow my wife to die when you had the power to save her . . . why would I offer a hand to help save you?”

Thomas Reeves said nothing as he walked away, leaving Tyler alone to grapple with his thoughts.

Is that truly the type of man I want to be?

The confrontation with Dr. Reeves had Tyler still seething when he left the NeuroGenics facility. He nearly jumped out of his shoes when he heard his name called from across the parking lot. He was even more shocked when Detective Sawyer began walking the distance between them.

Tyler faced him squarely. “Are you following me?”

Sawyer pushed his hands into his pockets. “I have a few questions for you.”

“They can't wait until business hours? It's the middle of the night.”

“You're a busy man, Dr. Adams. I have to take these opportunities as I can—especially when I'm trying to find a child murderer.”

“I thought you were satisfied with my alibi.”

The parking lot lights brightened the detective's face as he neared. “This visit isn't about you. It's about one of your research subjects.”

“I'm not going to be able to discuss any part of that and you should know it. Unless you happen to have a warrant on your hands.”

Sawyer stopped a few yards short of his position. “I think we can talk without your disclosing any private information. I'm looking for the whereabouts of a Dylan Worthy.”

Why is that name familiar?
Tyler adjusted his satchel to his other shoulder.

“I'm sorry . . . I don't know anyone by that name.”

“Are you sure? Sources I've interviewed tie him to this institution.”

And then it struck Tyler dead center.
Scott Clarke's mysterious friend
.

Detective Sawyer continued on. “Tied to whatever is going on here. They say he came to NeuroGenics for medical appointments. I believe that's why your name was found at the Zoe Martin crime scene. And why you use your Children's hospital cards with all your patients. You don't want anything to point this direction.” Sawyer paused, apparently trying to gauge Tyler's reaction. “I can't imagine Sacred Heart is going to be very happy to hear about that. You using them as cover for something nefarious, I mean.”

Tyler swallowed hard. “Why are you interested in finding this man?”

“I'm going to say this to you in confidence. We found a set of dog tags with Dylan Worthy's name on them. They are associated with the murder
of Zoe Martin. I'm sure you don't want a child killer running lose, do you?”

“Of course not.”

Sawyer nodded comfortably. Tyler turned away from him.

Did Dylan Worthy do this? Was Scott Clarke involved? And what will the media do when they found out Reeves might be creating murderers here at NeuroGenics?

Chapter 18

Morning, Friday, August 10

E
VERYTHING ABOUT THE
dialysis room at Blue Ridge Medical Center attempted, somewhat in vain, to make an unnatural process feel totally normal.

The room was painted off-white with lots of natural light from the open blinds. Cozy, cobalt-blue recliners were fashioned in a circle. Beside each chair sat a behemoth machine that replaced the function of her fist-sized kidneys that no longer worked. It was one thing that marveled Morgan about the human body; its utter efficiency when it was well, and how big the technological replacement was when it malfunctioned.

A ventilator for the lungs. An ECMO machine, which functioned as long-term bypass, to let the heart rest. A dialysis machine.

Was this how life was intended to be at the end?

Morgan's left arm rested on the cool vinyl. Two large needles accessed the fistula in her lower arm where a surgeon had cut into her flesh and used one of her veins as a conduit between an artery and another vein. It had taken time for the fistula to be able to withstand the pressure of the treatment, but for her, having a belly full of dialysis fluid and carrying it around for several hours only reminded her of the infant she had lost. And of those children she would never be able to carry.

From the large-bore metal needles, her blood coursed to and from the machine, the fine whine of the gears turning incessantly over the hours, sapping her strength as the natural hypnotic churning lulled her heavy eyelids closed. The more hours she was into the treatment, the heavier her eyelids became.

A drab cotton blanket draped over her legs. A two-week-old
People
magazine lay on her lap, opened to the latest news about whether Brangelina were or were not getting married. Whether she was pregnant. Was it twins again?

Morgan flipped the page.
Why does life come so easy for some people? Money. Fame
.
And why couldn't I do the one thing I know how to do best for my own daughter?

Save her life.

A cacophony of raised voices drew her attention away from the recent plights of the various Kardashian sisters to the check-in desk of the dialysis unit. A woman in a full-length lab coat was arguing with the charge nurse.
A doctor-nurse disagreement
, she supposed.

Morgan smiled to herself and eased back, thankful not to be in the thick of a physician dispute. Some days, dialysis was worth it to stay out of the fray. Morgan sneaked another peek at the new doctor.
How does she keep the lint off that beautiful black dress? And stay comfortable in those high heels all day seeing patients?
Morgan needed flat-to-the-floor tennis shoes to keep her feet happy.

The voices grew louder—the conversation easily overheard by the patients.

The nurse's shoulders rose and she fisted her hand, holding it tight with the other as if to remind herself she was never to intentionally harm another individual.

“I don't care who you are,” the nurse said. “You don't have unrestricted access to this unit and to the patients unless you have some direct reason to visit, like you're managing her case or are family!”

The woman edged back, slipped a finger through the loose waves of her hair and tucked them behind her ear. She turned Morgan's direction, her eyes as deep and bright a blue as Morgan had ever seen. Without turning back to the nurse she said, “I
am
family. I'm her sister.”

A full inhalation caught in Morgan's chest. Not until her lungs begged for fresh air did she exhale in a ragged, shuddering staccato. Her pulse hammered in her ears.
Is it possible? This is my sister? Why come to see me? Why here?

Morgan laid the magazine down on her lap and waved the nurse's direction. “It's okay. I asked her to be here.”

The nurse swooped her hand Morgan's direction with all the flair of a put out maître d'.

The woman's heels tapped against the tile, a light clicking that drew several pairs of eyes Morgan's direction. What else was there to do but watch the action unfold? All Morgan could think to do was tug the
blanket up over her head and hide. What kept her from tunneling under was just how starkly beautiful the woman was, pale skin tinged with a light pink hue to her cheeks. Her only makeup a hint of black mascara and red lipstick.