by M. G Scott
Guthrie chuckled. “Well, I’m sure that will all change after you meet him.” A pause. “To me, he’s a rock star for what he’s been able to accomplish.”
Gina couldn’t resist turning her head. “You can’t be serious,” she replied as she scanned him head to toe. She was right: He was a nerd.
“Completely serious. He’s been able to accomplish so much for so many.” Guthrie leaned in toward Gina and Helen. “Without him, hundreds would’ve died waiting for a traditional heart transplant.”
Then he added, “He’s a miracle worker.”
Chapter 10
In the cemetery clearing Mannheim knelt behind a large oak, his high-powered field binoculars trained on a funeral gathering a couple hundred feet ahead of him. Mourners, most dressed in black, had circled the burial site and were somberly saying their last goodbyes. Sanchez had been a fool, he thought. Scanning right, he focused on the sky blue convertible, and its female driver, inching along the gravel path toward the funeral. He crouched even further, his black T-shirt dusting the ground, eyes trained on the woman’s face. His mind was racing. As he stared at the young yet mature-looking face, and the closely cropped black hair, he thought for a moment about the mourners, and the fact that they were gathered here because of his work ten days ago.
The Sanchez operation was complete save one loose end—but it was a costly one. Evidence linking his contractor to the murder had leaked from the desk, and mind, of Sanchez. It was a little black book—a journal—that Sanchez had kept for months leading up to his death. His contractor found out about it after they started tracking Sanchez’s movements. The contractor had relayed that information so Mannheim could interrogate Sanchez about it. When confronted, Sanchez refused to acknowledge its existence, even through his untimely death.
Mannheim smiled from behind the binoculars. Reliving the terror on Sanchez’s face the moment he knew he was going to die made Mannheim fell tingly inside—probably as much from the rush of adrenaline watching someone die as to the six-figure payout he was promised after the kill. Sanchez’s death would’ve been the fifth such payout this year. Most people would be shocked at the amount of money he made, given his thrifty lifestyle. That is, until they spent a weekend at his Spanish-style villa on the Mexican peninsula. It was his one single splurge that gave him a place to relax and recharge after high-stress kills. Besides, keeping his luxuries out of sight from the simple lifestyle he enjoyed in a middle-class Seattle suburb dampened any suspicion one conjured up. For the sake of his reputation and career, he preferred to keep it that way.
The Sanchez job really bothered him.
He was supposed to receive five hundred thousand for the kill but only received half that to date. Although Sanchez’s death had been executed perfectly, his contractor refused to give him full payment until the journal was recovered. And just to emphasize how serious they were, they would give him a hefty bonus—double the original payout—if he eliminated the loose end. But there would be one catch: He would have to deliver the journal within the next five days to get the full payout. Otherwise, his contract called for splitting it with a partner—a woman with a long-standing relationship with the contractor.
A more pressing matter occupied his thoughts: What to do with the reporter? Mannheim zoomed in on the convertible as it pulled tentatively to a stop at the end of the funeral procession. The reporter was becoming more than just a nuisance. She was becoming a roadblock to his payout and that didn’t sit well with him at all. The beauty of it was, as a trained sharpshooter from his days as an Army Ranger, he could easily put a bullet between her eyes, even from this distance. But it wasn’t the right time. Today would be about gathering intelligence, trying to see what she knew and who she talked to.
So what was she up to?
She obviously sniffed something otherwise she wouldn’t be at the funeral. Being here made it clear to him the reporter felt a story was there—either about Sanchez’s murder, the journal, or both. He bit his lip. She was making things messy for him: messy to clean up, messy to explain, messy to his contractor.
He hated messy.
It was then he decided he would give her one warning: Get out of town or die. The reporter slipped out of the convertible and cautiously walked toward the gathering. Now was his moment. He pulled the binoculars away from his face and placed them back in their leather case. In a low crouch, Mannheim slithered toward the funeral procession.
He smiled. A huge payout was knocking on his door.
Life doesn’t get any better than this.
Chapter 11
Dr. Steven Vua stood just off stage right and eyed the thirty-five sets of eyes awaiting his opening remarks. His left eye twitched rapidly, the only sign of nervousness he showed. He knew it was ridiculous, but stage fright was never something he fully conquered in all the years of being founder and CEO of BioHumanity.
The chatter of the audience within the Welcome Center floated toward him. What would he say? It was something he agonized over no matter how many times he delivered his speech. Of course he would tell the donors how dramatically their lives would change from the experience. And it wasn’t just the audience that would change. It would be the lives saved through their generous donations.
Little by little, day by day, his dream was becoming a reality—like a skyscraper going up beam by beam. The business plan he had put together was working.
It was almost sick it was so easy.
He counted the revenue in his head. Every month brought in four million dollars, give or take a few hundred thousand. If he were able to increase the volume, to say, eight million a month, the Heart Center would be well on its way to becoming a hundred million dollar business unit. If he played his cards right, he should be able to increase that tenfold within five to seven years. That meant his dream of achieving a billion dollar business would be complete.
The lights dimmed, causing the audience’s voices to fall into a shallow murmur.
“Dr. Vua? They’re waiting for you,” an event coordinator said from behind him.
The voice startled him. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready,” he hissed.
“I’m … I’m sorry, sir,” the shy, boyish voice replied—seemingly unsure of what to say next. “When … when should I come back?”
“Just cue the intro,” Vua demanded. “And leave me alone.”
“Yes, of course.” The coordinator held out his hand. “Here’s the headset you’ll be speaking into for your speech.” He then quietly backed away.
The stage lights flipped on and focused on the empty podium. Another smile, this time more sly, crossed Vua’s face.
It was time to mesmerize his audience.
A video montage introducing Vua began playing. “Ten years ago, a mission was born by Dr. Steven Vua,” the narrator said. “It was a mission to find a lifesaving alternative to traditional heart transplants—one that would save thousands of patients who would otherwise die waiting for that precious organ to arrive. What he discovered was a true medical miracle—a way to mold stems cells from the placenta into heart-saving organs … in a matter of weeks.”
That was the cue. Vua moved briskly across the stage toward the podium as the audience erupted with applause. He looked up, toward the lights, his brother never far from his mind. I owe all of this to you my brother, he thought.
* * * * *
Any sibling would feel traumatized and utterly hopeless as they watched a dying brother or sister take their last breaths.
But Steven Vua wasn’t one of them.
At that moment, while his brother lie powerless and clinging to life, all he could think about was his company: Somehow, somewhere, he needed revenue growth.
A doctor came in, interrupting Vua. In a low voice, the doctor told him that, unfortunately, a donor’s heart had been found but it was the wrong match. And so the lifesaving heart would be given to the next in line.
As his shoulders slumped with despair, Vua turned back toward his brother,
floating in and out of consciousness, and wondered if he already knew he wasn’t going to make it. He leaned over the bed and waved a hand back and forth across his face. No reaction. He eyed the defibrillator keeping him alive. As he watched the air compress in and out, an idea came to him. At first, he thought it was too far-fetched to seriously consider, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized the idea had the potential to be something big: What if he could reverse the fortunes of thousands of heart patients who would otherwise die?
He knew it would take investment and a lot of R&D to make it happen, but at that moment, it suddenly seemed plausible. It was simple economics: He would radically change, and control, the supply for heart transplants, driving the cost up. He would then become the financial beneficiary. Vua’s thoughts were interrupted by an alarm screeching from his brother’s heart monitor. Looking up, he saw nothing but a flat line.
He was dead.
Chapter 12
Soothing, new age music filled the small auditorium from the loudspeakers. “Here we go,” Guthrie whispered to Helen and Gina.
Gradually, the music reached a crescendo. And then everything went quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” an unseen announcer said through the speakers. “Welcome to the Acapulco Heart and Donor Center. Your commitment and time to helping save the lives of eventually thousands of heart patients does not go unnoticed to the patients themselves, the staff, or our founder, Dr. Steven Vua—the CEO and Founder of BioHumanity. To show his gratitude to you, the donors, he would like to say a few words as you begin your journey into saving the lives of those that are less fortunate as yours or mine.” A pause. “Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce Dr. Steven Vua.”
The audience began applauding. Gina and Helen looked around and then joined in. Everybody rose to their feet as Vua entered the brightly lit stage from stage right. He waved briefly to the audience as he walked toward the podium. He then motioned with his hands for everybody to sit. The room quickly quieted down with everybody settling back into their chairs, their attention focused on what Vua was going to say.
“Let me be the first to welcome you to Acapulco,” he began.
Gina leaned back in her chair and studied his features, wondering why people thought he was a rock star. He wore a black suit over a gray shirt; he was medium-built, dark-skinned, with a hint of Asian influence. As he spoke, his eyebrows creased downward, as if he was determined to instill his thoughts into the audience.
“Your donation to the forefront of science is allowing you and BioHumanity to save hundreds and eventually thousands of lives. I am proud of your commitment and look forward to meeting every one of you as we embark on this journey together.” Suddenly the lights dimmed and a batter of drums echoed throughout the auditorium. The sacrifice you are making will not go unnoticed. The placenta from your aborted fetus contains some of the richest stem cells available anywhere. It is this rich biology that will save the lives of heart patients who normally wouldn’t get a second chance at life, one they surely deserve.”
The tempo of the drumbeat picked up. Vua took a breath. “It’s hard to envision a genetically focused heart center being successful without its greatest resource: its donors. People like you, who are sacrificing your time and your own genetic future, in the name of helping others. You are the ones that deserve the applause.” Vua started clapping and his staff quickly joined in.
“That’s what I mean. … He’s the real deal,” Guthrie whispered.
Motioning with his hands, the crowd quieted and Vua continued, “We are at the crossroads of revolutionizing how we regenerate our own organs. It is your volunteerism that we’re laying the groundwork for saving lives who ordinarily wouldn’t be saved with traditional procedures.”
“How are you doing it?” someone yelled from audience.
A chuckle rolled through the crowd as Vua put up his hand. “That is a very good question, my friend.” Gina rolled her eyes, as it seemed to be a planted question from one of his staff, and a cue to the next part of his speech. But to his credit, she was interested in what he had to say.
“As I mentioned before, each one of you is carrying a valuable resource for the regeneration of the heart. The placenta that your fetus is using for nutrients and protection contains one of nature’s richest sources of mesenchymal stem cells, or MSCs as we like to call them. These MSCs are normally used to repair damaged cartilage, heart muscle and other damage to the heart organ, which allow it to reconstruct into a normal functioning heart.”
“We will be using the placenta from your aborted fetus to save lives by building new hearts from the very same stem cells inside the placenta. We have discovered a revolutionary new way to use these MSCs to develop new hearts. The beauty of it is, because of the MSCs we’ll be using, there will be no chance of rejection by the heart recipient—a complication more traditional procedures have never been able to solve.”
A murmur of excitement rippled through the audience.
“This is going to save lives, by the hundreds today and the thousands tomorrow!” Vua said, raising his voice with each word. “And it is all because of you!” he shouted as he pointed to the audience.
The lights then went down and the music stopped.
Chapter 13
Sabrina tapped lightly on the brake as she crept along the gravel path in her convertible. With every crunch of the stone beneath the tires, she gritted her teeth a little tighter. She needed to slip in—make a quiet entrance, not be a distraction.
A hundred yards behind the procession, she stopped and pulled the rearview mirror toward her. She eyed her outfit. The top would work with the gray pencil skirt and knee-high boots, she thought. Not bad, considering how quickly she pulled it together. She pushed herself out of the car and clicked the door shut. A towering oak nearby seemed to offer some cover so she slid into its shadow.
Five couples stood arm in arm gathered in a circle around a decorated urn that sat on a nickel and gold pedestal near the gravesite. In the center of the circle, a pastor, fully cloaked in a rose-colored robe, was giving the final prayers.
A raindrop fell on Sabrina’s head. She looked up at the gray, churning clouds. Perfect, she thought, just what I need. She then started second-guessing herself. Being here was a brash move. Carla would feel it was tacky at best and offensive at worst. But how else could she find Carla in such short order? Eric Sanchez’s funeral was the only way, she kept telling herself.
The pastor’s words floated toward her: “Oh, Father, how art that we can go on, given this enormous burden we feel without our loved ones?” Sabrina spotted Carla weeping silently as she placed a hand on the urn. After a few more words, the pastor said, “Let us now have a moment of silence.”
The mourners’ circle grew tighter as they wrapped their arms around each other. After standing motionless for a minute, Carla stepped away from the group, knelt on her knees, and with her hand trembling, placed a single red rose on the urn’s pedestal. She then pushed her face into hands and started weeping. A man standing behind her began rubbing her back, gently comforting her. After a moment, clearly still struggling with her emotions, Carla wiped her face and slowly stood. The pastor closed his Bible. He nodded toward the small gathering, affirming the service was over.
Friends and family melted away, leaving Carla alone with her lifeless husband as she shared one last moment together. Sabrina eyed Carla nervously as she gathered the courage to walk up to her. This isn’t going to be easy, she thought. But now was the time get more information about Eric Sanchez’s death, she kept telling herself, even if there was little chance Carla would give it.
Sabrina took a breath and started walking along the line of trees. Carla stared at the urn for a few more minutes and then turned toward her waiting car. Jumping on the opportunity, Sabrina bolted from the darkness of the trees. When she was within a few yards of Carla, she said, “I offer my sincere condolences to you.” Sabrina intentionally tried to keep her voice as somber and caring as she could.
Carla opened a swollen eye and turned toward the voice. Her sad demeanor quickly morphed into anger. “How dare you come to my husband’s funeral?” she hissed beneath her breath.
Sabrina swallowed hard. “I completely understand what you may be thinking … but I’m only here to help and that’s it.”
Ignoring her, Carla wrapped the black shawl she was wearing tight around her shoulders and walked away.
“The other day … It wasn’t my intent to coerce anything from you,” Sabrina called after her. “I was there taking pictures for an article on the statue. That’s it.”
Carla stopped but didn’t turn around. “Then why are you here? Just to apologize? Then apology accepted. Now leave me alone.” She then continued walking up a berm, in the direction of her ride.
Sabrina trotted after her. “I think your husband got a horrible sendoff in the paper … and after listening to your story, I just think … well … that the life of Eric Sanchez should be told and celebrated.”
“This isn’t some reality TV series. This is my life,” she barked over her shoulder.
“It would be a feature celebrating his life. Nothing more.”
Carla stopped and turned. Smudged, black makeup had run down her face. “I’m not interested in publicizing my husband’s death anymore than it already has,” she replied, but this time her voice was calmer. A single tear slid down an eye. She dabbed at it with her handkerchief. “That’s the last thing I want.”
Sabrina reached out to her, hesitated, and then touched her arm. “I know. But think about our readers. All they know is what’s been published—that a body was discovered. They read it. They feel terrible. They move on with their lives. Don’t you think your husband deserves an honor more than that? He’s positively affected so many in his life that he deserves more.”
Carla’s eyes danced with every word, as if she were pondering what to do. Finally, in a jerk reaction, she pulled away. “Why are you bothering me? The last week and a half has been absolute hell, and now I have to relive that through some reporter that happened to stumble upon me while I’m grieving?”