by Harry Stein
He did know it. “I’ll take it,” he said blithely. “As a start. I haven’t heard anything better coming from your man Stillman’s trial.”
“Don’t worry about Dr. Stillman, he’s doing fine.” A sudden grin. “He also sends you his regrets about Mrs. Byrne. He knows her, you know.”
“I heard. She turned you guys down flat.”
“Is that what she told you, she turned us down?”
Logan looked at him.
“Logan, you’re even more gullible than I thought. The woman has a borderline personality disorder. It was in her file. Stillman took one look at it and sent her packing.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Have it your way.”
But of course he did—it explained everything. Classically, a borderline sees others in the starkest of terms—good or bad, black or white; and when such an individual’s expectations go unmet, no matter how wildly unrealistic they are, good can turn into bad in a nanosecond. The way Faith Byrne had transformed him from hero to villain.
No one would ever knowingly include a borderline in a drug trial. Almost by definition, she’ll create havoc in a medical setting; dividing staff, playing one off against the other.
“I didn’t see any report like that in her file,” Logan tried again, lamely.
“Oh, no?” Atlas smiled, even more broadly. “Maybe that part of it didn’t get sent along. These things happen.”
If he’d expected any sympathy from Shein, coming across the senior man in the cafeteria the next afternoon quickly put that notion to rest.
“The bastards slipped a poison pill into your protocol?!” exclaimed Shein, wide-eyed.
Logan nodded. “I guess you could put it that way.”
“How much damage you think she can do?”
He’d been thinking about that himself. “To the protocol data? None—she’s still a viable candidate. My only concern is that—”
Suddenly Shein burst out laughing. “That’s not bad, I gotta try it myself sometime!” He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “God, Logan, you must feel like a fuckin’ jerk!”
“There was no way I could’ve caught it, they didn’t send the paperwork.”
“You examined her, didn’t you? You got eyes and ears, don’t you?” He laughed again. “Ah, it’s no big deal. Learn from it.”
“Learn what—that people’ll screw around with your work?”
“In small ways? Sure, all the time.” He picked up his fork and held it, poised in midair. “Lighten up, Logan. This is a tough business, get used to it.”
“Do you hear me complaining?”
“I don’t have to hear the words.” He jabbed a forkful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth. “In my book, this falls into the ‘acceptable’ category. They pushed you into a rookie’s mistake—but there’s no lasting damage.”
Logan, insides churning, hoped he looked half as calm as Shein. Mistake? What the hell was he talking about now?
“You were just a little too eager to stick it to Stillman, weren’t you?” noted Shein. “So maybe you let down your guard a little with Mrs.… what’s her name?”
“Faith Byrne.”
“In your mind, she became a prize catch. You wanted her so bad, you were ready to suspend good judgment.” He paused, took another bite. “Stillman can’t read people like I can, but he’ll beat an amateur any day of the week.”
Logan had entertained the vague hope that Shein would help him find a way out of this; maybe tell him a way he might have Byrne replaced on the protocol by a less troublesome patient; or, at the very least, arrange to have Marion Winston kept at a greater distance from the program. But it was clear now that none of that was going to happen.
“Well,” he said blithely, turning away, “just thought you’d want to know.”
“Hey, Logan, wait a sec.”
The younger man turned, surprised by the new note in Shein’s tone—something uncannily like sympathy. “Yes?”
“I just wanna tell you: Hang in there, you’re a good man.”
As he walked off, Logan, once again, didn’t know whether he’d just been flattered or humiliated.
The surest solace, of course, was in the work, and fortunately there was more than enough of it to keep Logan from dwelling on very much else. The next ten days proved particularly arduous. New patients were now being eased onto the protocol at the accelerated rate of three per week, which meant that in short order fifteen women would be receiving Compound J. Already, half the protocol patients were reporting to the ACF semiweekly on an outpatient basis, arriving after lunch and remaining until early evening. Though the actual administration of the drug took less than an hour, each visit also included a thorough examination (including the taking of blood samples and X rays) and a consultation with one of the three young physicians supervising the protocol.
On top of which, Logan, Sabrina, and Reston had their obligations at the hospital.
Under the circumstances, their workdays often continued past midnight—with conversations about the protocol usually left for last. Thus it was that one Thursday night the phone rang in Logan’s place just as he was turning off David Letterman: Sabrina needed to compare notes on a patient named Sharon Williams. A black schoolteacher from Baltimore, thirty-eight and married, Williams seemed a promising candidate. But there was something about the case that bothered Sabrina. Her cancer had been diagnosed following a long siege of back pain, tests having revealed a malignant lesion in the fourth lumbar vertebra.
“It is a very interesting case,” noted Sabrina. “The problem is that it’s in the bone—she has no lumps. This will make it hard for us to measure changes in the tumor.”
“That’s true,” he agreed. In fact, in such a malignancy, tumors are seen only as shadows on a bone scan—and these can remain for months even if a drug is working.
“One must ask: What is the point to have a patient on the protocol if we can’t see the results?”
It was a valid question, and hearing Sabrina raise it, Logan realized how much more pragmatic she’d grown in the several months they’d been at this. “You’re right. Especially since we have only one place left.”
She hesitated. “Still, I found her a lovely woman.”
“I know,” he conceded. “So did I.”
“Who knows,” she began arguing with herself, “maybe it is wrong to see the bone malignancy just as a problem. Why not look at it as an opportunity? This is a different form of breast malignancy, a different kind of test for the drug.”
“That could be. I think—”
Abruptly, there came a beep on her end of the line—call waiting.
“Who could it be at this hour?” she wondered. “Hold a second, Logan.”
A moment later she was back. “I must take this. It is Marion Winston. Something has happened to Judith Novick. I will call you back.”
Logan’s wait was probably less than three minutes, but it felt like a decade.
“What is it?” he demanded, snatching up the phone before the end of the first ring.
“It is terrible news. She had a bad fall.”
“How bad?”
“A fractured skull. She is in a coma.”
“Where is she?”
“At Bedford General Hospital. In Pennsylvania, where she lives.”
Logan was numb. “What’s Winston doing in the middle of it?”
Sabrina knew better than anyone how sensitive the topic was. “She is the patient care representative, Dan,” she said gently. “Her family gave the hospital her name.”
But beyond shock, concern, and empathy, both of them were already starting to think about something else: the impact on the protocol. Which was only part of why Logan found himself irked that Winston hadn’t seen fit to notify him, the head of the Compound J team.
“I think I should call her husband,” said Sabrina suddenly.
“At this hour?”
“Winston says she just talked to
him. He is at the hospital.”
“Tell him how much we’re all pulling for her.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Thirty seconds later, Logan had Winston on the line.
He could almost see her stiffen at the sound of his voice. “Dr. Logan, it’s late. I’ve already passed on all the pertinent information to Dr. Como.”
“Please bear with me, I just have a few more questions. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
“She fell. That’s all we know.”
“At home?”
“No, it was at a mall.”
“A mall?”
“On some steps by the parking lot.”
“Jesus,” he exclaimed softly. What the hell was WRONG with her, shopping at that hour? Her balance was off! Shit, I WARNED her to take it easy!
“Is that all, Doctor? Think you’ll be able to save your protocol?”
Logan ignored the unmistakable note of contempt. “Ms. Winston, my primary concern is her condition.”
“No, I think your primary concern is keeping her on the protocol. But, obviously, that is now out of the question.”
“Of course.” Even if such a thing were plausible medically, it would be unthinkable to continue dosing a comatose patient. “I’ll be keeping close tabs on her condition. Perhaps if she recovers soon enough—”
“I meant permanently out of the question.”
Since the matter was almost entirely theoretical, Logan was surprised by the adamant nature of the response. “Why? She seems to have had some response to the drug already.”
“Because, Doctor, some of us don’t take those kinds of risks. We don’t know what happened to Mrs. Novick—but it could be your drug caused her to black out.” She paused, letting it sink in. “In my view, this must be regarded as a possible drug-related toxicity.”
The next morning, in Shein’s office, Logan didn’t bother with the niceties. “Something has to be done about Marion Winston,” he announced flatly. “The woman’s hostility toward this protocol is pathological.”
Shein stared at him evenly across his cluttered desk. “Toward the protocol or toward you?”
“Both. It doesn’t matter, the result’s the same. Can you believe it, she’s going to try to pass this off as a toxicity problem?”
When Shein made no response, he pressed on. “That’s bullshit and you know it! The odds are one in a thousand that the drug had anything to do with it. Ten thousand.”
“Forget it, Logan,” spoke up Shein. “I’m not gonna buy a piece of that problem. No way I’m gonna put restrictions on her.”
“Look,” pressed Logan, “all I want is enforcement of the existing regulations limiting laypersons’ access to—”
“I told you, Logan, enough!” Shein’s hand came crashing down, sending papers flying. “What the hell’s wrong with you, whining at me like some kid starting med school? You think you’re the first doctor who ever had some nasty little bureaucrat up his ass? Deal with it!”
Logan was bristling, but he tried hard not to let it show. “Don’t worry. I will.”
“Good. Now get out. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a whiner.”
The younger man was stunned. Erratic as he was, Shein had never before addressed with him such frank contempt. He turned to leave, then stopped at the door. “I really don’t know what your problem is.”
“My problem? Lemme tell you something, Logan. You show me some results—then maybe you can ask me for favors.”
“What are you talking about? We only started administering the drug five weeks ago! Judy Novick was—”
“Forget her, the woman’s a goner! What’re you gonna do, haul her corpse around to show what a great job you’re doing?”
“Dr. Shein, that’s not—”
“How much time you think you got? In case you haven’t heard, people around this place aren’t known for their patience. A lotta drugs, they would’ve shown activity by now. Convincing activity.”
“We’re exactly at the same stage as Stillman’s protocol.”
“You think you’re Stillman? You think you got his options? Or his friends?”
Logan stared at him. So that was it—Shein wanted it both ways: credit if Compound J succeeded, but an escape hatch if it bombed out. He’d of course always known that, much as he relished the role of unbridled maverick, Shein was nearly as political as the rest. Yet never before had the fact been so nakedly obvious.
Shein picked up the disillusionment in the younger man’s look and caught himself. “Look, Logan, it’s not that I don’t understand your problem. Sure, Winston’s out to get you. It’s a good bet every vicious little thought that crosses her brain goes straight to the bad guys.”
“I’ll bet,” Logan concurred, although, in fact, the thought had never before occurred to him.
“But what I’m telling you—and there’s no better advice I can give—is stay focused on the big picture. Get results and no one’ll be able to fuckin’ touch you!”
“I’ll bear it in mind. We cure cancer and we’re home free.”
“Screw that self-pitying crap! You’d better pick up a lot more arrogance if you’re gonna make it in this business.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Logan. “Whatever has to be done to protect this protocol, I’ll do myself.”
“Oh, yeah?” Shein was suddenly interested. “Like what?”
“I’ve already arranged that from now on all our contacts with Winston’s office will be through Dr. Como. Neither Reston nor I will be dealing at all with any patient in the program with whom that maniac has any influence.”
“How many is that?”
“At least half of them.”
Going in, he’d hoped this would force the senior man’s hand; since, in leaving Sabrina with a far heavier workload than either of her associates, such an arrangement could disrupt the mechanics of a protocol in which Shein too—or so he’d thought—had a proprietary interest.
But Shein only smiled. “That’s what really gets to you, isn’t it? That she shows you up in front of that hot little number of yours.”
Abruptly, Logan forgot about concealing his anger. “You know something, Dr. Shein—”
“Seth.”
“—Dr. Shein. Sometimes you’re as big an asshole as anyone around here!”
“Well, so much for all that famous gratitude of yours.” He grinned. “If I were you, Logan, I’d worry about keeping me your asshole.”
2 October 1930
Frankfurt
Version #452 of compound a terrible disappointment. A gray mass, unable to recrystallize. All modifications in length of molecule have also failed! Deeply frustrated. Fear Herr Thomas is losing patience with this work.
Could it be after all this time that synthetic approach is incorrect? Almost too horrifying to consider!
Emma supportive as ever, but my moods cannot be easy. So many detractors! So much pettiness among rivals! Where is the love of pure science?
Begin work tomorrow on version #453.
Logan chose not to share with his colleagues the specifics of his exchange with Shein. What would be the point? Wouldn’t it only threaten the stability of an already fractured team? Anyway, he reassured himself, it was clear the senior man was exaggerating his qualms about Compound J for dramatic effect. Wasn’t overstatement—hell, shock value—the very essence of Shein’s style? The truth seemed self-evident: Shein had committed himself to the protocol publicly—and his senior colleagues would never let him forget it even if he wanted to.
But why would he want to? It was still early. The drug’s promise, at least in Logan’s own willful estimation, was undiminished.
Still, he knew he was suddenly reduced to dealing in hunches and feelings and odds—for they were stuck with a sponsor whose behavior was as unpredictable as that of the most volatile compound. Is this what being in the big leagues was all about? Operating in a state of chronic insecurity, never sure that even a friend won’t give it to y
ou in the back?
He knew he couldn’t entirely hide his growing anxiety, at least not from Sabrina. He only hoped she would write it off to more mundane daily pressures, or to fatigue, or to a continuing reaction to the Judy Novick situation. After all, she had more than enough problems of her own. Suddenly saddled with exclusive responsibility for nearly half the protocol roster, Sabrina was overwhelmed with work.
For her part, Sabrina did not ask questions. But she sensed something was seriously wrong; and, more than that, regarded Logan’s clear unwillingness—or inability—to confide in her as potentially menacing as anything their enemies could throw at them. The fact was, their relationship, both in the personal and the professional realm, had always been an act of faith. Two strong personalities blessed with the good fortune to have different yet complementary strengths, they both had to overcome parts of themselves to fully trust each other. That’s what made their bond at once so precious and so fragile. And now, in her view, their private balancing act seemed at risk.
“Listen, Logan,” she put it to him late one Wednesday afternoon, “perhaps we can go away for this weekend. No Compound J—just Sabrina and Dan.”
“Have I told you lately I love the way you put things? But I’m on duty Sunday afternoon.”
“I know. I thought to leave on Friday and come back Sunday morning. Almost two days.”
“Where?”
“Do you know a place called Cooperstown? Near Albany, New York? There is a museum of baseball there.”
He smiled. “Yes, Sabrina, it’s called the Hall of Fame.” He paused, intrigued; after an endless winter, spring had never been more welcome—and being alone with Sabrina beyond the ACF orbit was virtually a revolutionary thought. “Let’s do it.”
The place itself helped put Logan at ease; less a traditional tourist town than an unspoiled nineteenth-century village on a lake. The first morning, after the obligatory visit to the baseball museum, they silently strolled hand in hand down a broad, tree-lined street, gazing at the gingerbread-trim houses, soaking up atmosphere.
“I was here once before,” said Logan suddenly. “I didn’t remember it being so beautiful.”