Weapon of Choice (24 page)

“Charles, I need to talk to you,” Stan said as they traversed the spacious entry hall leading to his luxurious living room.

Charles stood silent as Stan gazed around the room, taking in the expensive artwork. All he said was, “Nice place.”

Charles gestured for him to sit on one of the two matching love seats. “Can I get you something to drink?” He almost said, “My housekeeper left for the day,” then he realized how pretentious his lifestyle must seem to Stan who he knew had grown up in a blue-collar family.

“No time,” Stan said. “I understand you went home sick today.”

Shit. He'd forgotten all about that ruse. Had that been only this morning?

“I had severe flu symptoms,” Charles said. “Better now, but I haven't been able to keep down any food.” Good thing he'd not taken him into the den where the telltale leftovers of his late lunch sat on a tray.

“There's an emergency, Charles, and I need your help.”

How in the hell could he know that the cultures were gone? And he wants my help?

“What's going on? Sorry I didn't answer my phone today, I just felt too weak.” They all thought he was a wimp anyway. Now Stan would go back and report, “Guess what he said? ‘I was just too weak.' ” So what? After tomorrow he'd never have to face Stan Proctor or anyone else at the lab again.

“There's a developing situation with a staphylococcal outbreak in Tampa, Florida. We're sending down an EOIP team.”

What did that have to do with him and the cultures?
Charles sat down in the nearest armchair.

As relief replaced panic, Charles's attention lapsed. When he tuned in again to whatever Stan was saying, he heard, “We want Stacy to stay in Tampa to support the team. She discovered it and—”

Stan continued talking without a pause as Charles tried to make sense of what he was saying. He'd told her that he was too ill to
change out the cultures tomorrow. She said she'd come in to do it. And now—

“It started in the ICU,” Stan's voice intruded once more. “Two dead there, and it's spreading to the staff. A medical resident—”

So the boss had come here about Stacy. The visit had nothing to do with Charles or his pilfered staph.

Relieved, yet angry, Charles worked to keep his tone neutral, “Stacy? How's she involved?”

“She got a call from an infectious disease doctor at Tampa City Hospital,” Stan said. “Called her at home, and she responded. Not exactly protocol, but good thing she did. The bottom line is that she can't fly back now, so you need to replate the cultures, and you don't look too sick to do so.”

Screw you
, Charles wanted to respond. Instead, he inquired about the staph in Tampa, surprised that it was so virulent, resistant to all antibiotics, that it shared so many characteristics of the strain that they were developing at the CDC. How convenient, he said to himself, that Stacy was involved. Could she have had something to do with this? Could she have taken a culture, too?
That bitch
.

“Stan, from what you know, how similar is the infectious organism there to what we'd expect from our staph?”

“Confirmed staph; unidentifiable strain; either wild or experimental, we don't know; resistant to methicillin and vancomycin and everything else; site of inoculation unknown; rapid onset of shock and multiorgan shutdown, disseminated intravascular coagulation; the works.”

“Skin lesions?” Charles held his breath as Stan responded. His bacteria had been engineered to cause necrotizing fasciitis. That's why they called it “flesh-eating.”

“A mottled rash on the trunk, but no bullae or pustules.”

So the staph is not the same. Where had it come from? A spontaneous mutation? How strange that the only connection between this epidemic in Tampa and what was about to happen in Atlanta tomorrow night was—Stacy Jones? A coincidence? Maybe not.

Charles certainly was not about to let Jones off the hook so she
could go right on playing prima donna expert in Tampa. She'd have to come back to Atlanta and take care of business in the lab. Now, wouldn't it be too perfect if she could join her people at the Palace tomorrow night for dessert?

“No.” Charles stood up. “I cannot make it into the lab tomorrow. I am too ill. Now, Stan, I must ask you to leave.”

F
RIDAY
, N
OVEMBER
29

The shrill ring of the bedside phone jarred Victor out of a deep, delicious sleep. For a futile moment, he ignored the interruption, but knew that he'd not be able to recover the emotion-filled dream. He and Cindy and a little boy romped through a field of wild flowers, holding hands, and singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.”

“Hello,” he mumbled, resenting severance from the dream.

“Is this Dr. Victor Worth?” The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

“Yes, it is.” Victor checked the clock. Almost three in the afternoon. He'd slept for three hours. He needed to get back to the hospital. He felt his chest contract, realizing that he'd have to tell the little boy in his dream that he would die of AIDS.

“Dr. Fred Minn. Keystone Pharma. We spoke briefly when you were here earlier this week.”

“Yes.”
You're the prick who blew me off
.

“I am calling with a rather urgent request.”

How strange. Keystone Pharma calling me?

“I don't need your ticokellin,” Victor said. “But I am disappointed that you refused to help me.” He wanted to add, “And your company screwed up a drug that I was responsible for discovering.”

With a sly smile he thought of Norman Kantor. Was that traitor still among the living?

“There's been an outbreak of a virulent staph infection at a hospital in Florida,” Dr. Minn continued. “Resistant to methacillin and vancomycin. Two deaths already.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Victor interrupted, feeling paranoid. Keystone Pharma knew that he'd wanted ticokellin sent to Tampa.
Could they think I'm somehow involved
.

Dr. Minn avoided his question. “Dr. Worth, your former colleague at the NIH, Dr. Norman Kantor, was one of the victims. You spoke of Dr. Kantor when you were here, as I recall.”

“Norman's dead?” Victor tried to sound shocked.

“I'm afraid so. Full-blown staph sepsis. Poor guy.” There was a momentary pause, then Minn said, “Happened at the same hospital where you wanted the ticokellin.”

“Turns out I didn't need it,” Victor said, needing to distance himself from the Tampa location.

“I'm glad. But with this outbreak, we have a new situation. We've gotten calls from the CDC and the FDA to release the drug on an emergency compassionate basis, but that's not why I'm calling.”

Was this guy trying to connect the dots between Norman and Matthew?

Victor took a deep breath, held it, trying to think. Norman was dead; mission accomplished. And right now, Victor thanked God that he'd had the foresight to dismantle his lab and scour his basement of all traces of bacteria. Although he still had to make that trip to the landfill. “What does all this have to do with me? I've worked with staph, but my agency disbanded the staph research program.”

“Your name came up today. Next to Dr. Kantor, who developed the kellin line of antibiotics, you know more about resistant strains of staph than anybody except the CDC and USAMRIID scientists. Now that we're facing a real problem, we need your expertise to pursue sister compounds to ticokellin.”

“You may not know this, Dr. Minn, but it was I who developed the kellin line.”
Have to watch it here
. “And the wrong chemical from the series was taken to the clinic. You should have gone with biskellin, not ticokellin. I warned Norman about the propensity for side effects with the ticokellin's binding profile, but he capitulated to management when the manufacturing costs for biskellin were deemed too high.”

“Well, I can assure you, Dr. Worth, that manufacturing costs will no longer be an issue. We want to be back in the clinic with an effective kellin as soon as possible and we want you to lead the effort.”

For a moment, Victor thought that he was hallucinating. After all the wheedling he'd done to try to land a research job at Keystone Pharma when Norman was there, he gets a bizarre phone call on a Friday afternoon. He sat down, speechless.

Minn waited for a response that did not come, then went on, “I know this is sudden, but the situation is urgent. Our CEO, Paul Parnell, has already cleared your hire with the NIH. Realize that he has top-level contacts ever since Keystone Pharma developed the antidote to that mutated adenovirus causing hemorrhagic fever in Africa. As you must know, he got the Nobel Peace Prize for that.”

“You contacted my employer?” Norman asked, not knowing whether to be flattered or incensed.

“Just to clear the path. We'd like you to start immediately.”

“I don't see how I can do that,” Victor said. Even if I wanted to. And he did want to. He had to consider Matthew, who could be discharged on Monday.

“We'd like you to come in tomorrow, meet with the Human Resources vice president, get the paperwork cleared. We hope you can begin working on Monday, with the scientists on your team.”

Victor had never led a team before and just the sound of it unleashed a surge of self-importance. Trying to decide what to say, Victor almost missed the next part.

“Dr. Worth, here's the offer. You accept the position of director of research, Infectious Disease. Your executive compensation pack includes a starting salary of two hundred ten thousand dollars, a year-end bonus, stock, and stock options. Full health care, the usual perks for directors. Human Resources will go over this with you tomorrow. Can you do this?”

“I believe I can—that is, if you really need me.”

“We'll send the Keystone Pharma plane to pick you up tomorrow morning. And we have a spacious condo available for your immediate use in Philadelphia as well as a car. Of course, you'll have
access to our company planes and our apartments in Manhattan and D.C. And all your moving expenses will be covered.”

“I see,” Victor said. Matthew could be moved to the company condo. With that impressive compensation package, he could easily hire around-the-clock care.

“Thank you, Dr. Worth. I must admit that we were planning on bringing Dr. Kantor out of retirement until we heard that he was one of those stricken. God bless his soul.”

God damn the bastard's soul.

F
RIDAY
, N
OVEMBER
29

She looked small against the mound of pillows, her skin an ashen white, her hair damp with sweat. Tim sat beside her bed, wearing the protective clothing now mandatory for all members of the hospital staff entering all patient rooms. He and Natalie both looked up as Laura walked in. Tim's eyes tired and droopy; Natalie's sunken, listless, and scared.

Tim jumped up holding out his arms, then letting them drop. Refrain from unnecessary touching to limit cross contamination. “Laura, are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm okay.” Laura knew that she must look as awful as she felt. “How's Natalie?” She looked about for Natalie's chart, but then remembered that they'd removed all paperwork to the nursing station. She should have stopped there first.

“Mom, did you see Trey?” Natalie interrupted, her voice sounding stronger than Laura had expected. “Is he going to be okay?”

Laura wanted to take Natalie in her arms and hold her, to wipe away her tears, to tell her that her young man would be fine. But she had to maintain a physical distance, and, no, Trey was not okay.

“I need to see him, Mom,” Natalie pleaded.

“I'm sorry, sweetie. There's an infection going on in the ICU and nobody is allowed inside.”

“You mean Trey's all alone? Aren't his parents with him?”

Laura shook her head, no. “But I can still get inside. I'll tell him how badly you want to be with him.”

“Trey is such a wonderful person, Mom. I'm so sorry I didn't bring him home to meet you. That lawsuit thing—I didn't want you not to like him because his father is going against you in court.”

That wasn't exactly right; Laura was going against him. All that seemed so trivial now. “I'll talk to his parents if I can,” she promised. “And let them know how concerned you are.”

If Trey was still alive
, Laura thought. She knew about the lab report indicating disseminated intravascular coagulopathy, an ominous indicator in patients with septic shock.

“Let's talk about you. How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts and they say I have a fever. I keep throwing up. And I'm getting this pink rash on my stomach. I sort of ache all over, too. Like a really bad flu.”

“Tim?” Laura asked, needing an update on Natalie's clinical course.

“Natalie, do you mind if we talk doctor talk for a bit, about you and some of the other patients here?”

“No, but Mom, when you're done, I need to ask you a question.”

Tim might be exhausted, but he was up on Natalie's medical details. “With regard to vital signs: temp's the same, B.P.'s stable, heart rate a hundred ten. Labs: high white count, lots of bands. Liver and coagulation factors okay. BUN is rising a bit.”

“Azotemia.” Laura said under her breath. Kidney failure. Her mind raced to compare this finding with the lab results of the deteriorating patients in the ICU. She'd examine their charts for kidney function trends as soon as she got back up there.

“Could just be she needs more fluids,” Tim said, “but the creatinine is creeping up, just slightly above normal limits, so—”

“X-ray?” Laura asked.

“Her earlier one shows bilateral infiltrates, no consolidation. They've ordered a repeat, but now they're not taking any patient to radiology with infectious disease symptoms. I know they've requested a portable. With the staff down for the holiday and all the extra time spent gowning and ungowning, it'll probably be a while.”