by Thomas Locke
Monday afternoon Cliff had found himself not only reinstated, but promoted. His victory was sweetened by the news that his former boss, Sandra Walters, had been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation of her role in the affair.
Cliff’s new title was to be Assistant Director for Consumer Affairs, but first he was to complete a temporary assignment as the FDA onsite controller at Pharmacon’s Edenton facility. He had traveled back down to Edenton with Deborah and Cochise and Blair, a very bemused young man. What’s the matter? Deborah had demanded during the journey, isn’t this what you want? Cliff had replied with a shrug and the words, I suppose so. Deborah had grinned and said, better watch out, Junior, or you might get what you wish for.
The condition of her legs had not improved. From time to time there had been occasional tingles, enough to have her holding her breath and hoping that the feeling was about to return. But nothing more. Yet. Deborah was nothing if not determined. She had refused to give in to the dark despair of resignation.
Ralph Summers’ renewed backing had been sufficient to obtain a court order, and on Tuesday the sheriff’s department and the Highway Patrol had mounted a raid and cleared out the hippie camp. The court order had stipulated that all law enforcement officers were to wear protective gear and take every possible caution. Still two of the officers had been dumb enough to pluck off their masks and wipe at sweat; the result had been enough to sober up all of their company. The camp had been deserted by midnight.
Wednesday the fields had been doused with kerosene, set alight, then bulldozed under—all but a dozen bags of samples. Deborah had then stopped by the Jones homestead. She had explained what had happened, apologized, and promised that they would be compensated for all their troubles. She had left them both troubled and relieved.
Thursday the first series of tests came back. The entire lab resources of Pharmacon were now at her disposal, and things moved faster than even she would have thought possible. Friday the initial results were confirmed. The genetically altered pollen was not regenerative. The hallucinogenic effect was restricted to that generation of plants and could not spread beyond plants actually brought into contact with the altered viroid.
With that verdict, Deborah had felt as though a thousand-pound load had been lifted from her shoulders. She had slept through the entire night for the first time in a week and awakened with the feeling that there might really be light at the end of the tunnel.
She had deliberated about what to do personally, and had finally come to the decision that she would stay at Pharmacon. The drug remained a good one—great, in fact. Anything that could assist the body in fighting off viral infection was a major step forward.
Even Harvey Cofield had asked her to stay, and had promised her everything except his own job.
The key now was to find a way to produce the compound synthetically, so that there was no possibility of further harm to the environment. Deborah sat and reflected on the peace that filled the little church and corrected herself. No, that was just the external key.
The internal key proved harder to grasp, yet equally vital. But she began to get a glimpse of it now, sitting here in her wheelchair, drawn up in the aisle beside Cochise.
The big man looked uncomfortable in the way of one not accustomed to wearing a tie. But he had remained by her side throughout the entire period, silent and solid and always ready for her to draw from his incredible strength. In those long and tiring days, Deborah had grown very close to the quiet man and his steady ways.
Beyond Cochise sat Blair and Cliff, the pair so wrapped up in their newfound love that the rest of the world might as well disappear. Her gaze returned to Cochise. The man loomed tall and utterly still, his brow furrowed with concentration as he listened to the sermon. Deborah felt a flood of tenderness wash over her. She reached over and settled her hand into one of his.
The big man started, utterly surprised by the action. He glanced down at her fingers, then his dark eyes turned toward her face. He studied her a long moment. Deborah did not flinch. There was no need. She held his gaze and let her heart show through her eyes.
A tension flowed out of the big man, one there so long she did not truly recognize it until she watched it dissolve. His features relaxed, then relaxed some more. Eyes the color of agate looked at her with such tenderness she felt as though her heart was going to burst. He swallowed her fingers within a grasp as gentle as his gaze.
Deborah turned back toward the front, her world complete.
Yes, the internal key. She as a scientist was tapping into God’s creation, she saw that now. It was her gift, this ability to fathom some of the depths of the invisible universe. But she was also human, finite, fallible. She had to take care, great care, greater care than ever as she launched herself farther and farther into the unknown. She had to ask for help and guidance at every step.
The realization that she had both understood and accepted the responsibility filled her with such a feeling of lightness and well-being that for a moment she lost contact with where she was. Then the service was over, and Cliff was standing and stepping behind her chair and reaching for the handles to steer her out. But the intimate peace and power stayed with her, and strengthened, then strengthened even more.
Deborah reached a hand over her shoulder and stopped him. “Thank you, dear friend,” she said, rising to her feet. “But I think I will walk.”
Epilogue
Owen MacKenzie stood at the reception room’s solitary window and stared out over the sprawl of Sao Paulo. His face gave nothing away as he silently decided, this place is the eyesore capital of the globe.
The sound of a door opening spun him around. The slender man with the bandaged head said, “Mr. de Cunhor will see you now.”
“It’s about time,” Owen MacKenzie growled, reaching for his case. “I’ve been cooling my heels out here for almost an hour.”
The young man did not reply, merely stood by with eyes downcast. He seemed strangely subdued, this man. Probably still bothered by whatever it was knocked him upside the head.
As Owen passed, he gave the man a closer inspection. The bandage fit him like a turban, covering the entire top of his skull and fitting down over one ear. One eye was swollen shut. Yessir, whoever did that got in a couple of good ones.
* * *
Fernando de Cunhor played it hard and tight and tough, because that was what was expected. But both men knew the deal was done long before Owen MacKenzie arrived in Sao Paulo.
Fernando de Cunhor’s rigid negotiating tactics were as much show as MacKenzie’s anger over being made to wait. Show and not show. A weaker man would have been eaten alive, but not Owen MacKenzie. This American had proven himself to be a survivor. He knew when to cut his losses and retreat, to return and fight another day.
Yes. With such a man Fernando de Cunhor could definitely be partners.
So for him, this time, the cold ruthlessness was merely show. And a warning. And Owen MacKenzie’s seething rage was nothing more than a reply that he understood, that he accepted the challenge.
When the details were hammered out and the terms settled, both men relaxed as much as they could while still in the presence of a former adversary. Fernando de Cunhor sent Luis for an aperitif. Owen MacKenzie refused the liquor, but lit up a Havana cigar. The two men eyed each other with the calculating gaze of respectful enmity.
Owen MacKenzie asked, “How long before your men have the process up and running?”
When Luis had translated, Fernando de Cunhor replied in Portuguese. He understood English perfectly but preferred to use translators whenever dealing with foreigners. It permitted him an additional moment to think, and often allowed him to take advantage of slipups when the others became tired. “They say they can have the solution ready for spraying on the plants within three months. But you know scientists.”
“Yeah,” Owen MacKenzie growled. “I know scientists. Real well.”
“How long do you think it will
be before the synthesization process is worked out?”
Owen shrugged. “Coupla years, then maybe another couple before the FDA approval process is completed. You won’t have any of that kinda trouble down here, I take it.”
“No, poor countries such as my own cannot afford to waste time on disputing over fine points of biochemistry when tens of thousands die every day from viral-related illnesses.”
“Now that’s the kind of sense I’d like to see more of in my country.”
Fernando de Cunhor listened to Luis’s fluid translation and thought, what a waste. A fine young man with great potential, but flawed. Miserably flawed. And a failure. Fernando de Cunhor could not permit failure, especially not one as public as this.
No. Luis would not be with him long. A pity. He had such great hopes for the boy. But no matter. Because Luis was family, his departure would not be as public as his error. Instead, he would be kept here and treated well, so close to the Padron that none could think to accuse him of wrongdoing when the accident happened.
Look at the young man, all subdued and sorrowful, as though being apologetic would affect the outcome one iota. No, Luis was history. It was only a matter of time.
De Cunhor turned his attention back to the American. “Speaking of scientists, what of the woman, the troublemaker?”
“Yeah, she is that all right. But she’s also in the spotlight, and she’s got as good a chance as any of getting the synthesis process off the ground. We’ll make good money in the rest of the world with your production here, but to crack the American market we’ve got to sanitize things. So the scientist lady is gonna be staying with us at Pharmacon.” Owen MacKenzie puffed hard on his cigar, until the tip burned ruby red. Then he released a great cloud of smoke and the words, “For a while.”
Bethany House Publishers is proud to introduce The Delta Factor, the first book in the intriguing new THOMAS LOCKE MYSTERY series. In crafting this tale of suspense on the cutting edge of biotechnology, Thomas Locke draws on his professional experience with the international pharmaceutical industry.
Now a full-time writer, Locke has a passion for the mystery genre. He is pleased to bring his talent to contemporary thrillers on themes of good and evil, all told from a Christian worldview.
Books by Thomas Locke
THOMAS LOCKE MYSTERY Series
The Delta Factor
The Omega Network