Sara plunged her hand into her purse and felt the welcome sensation of cold steel beneath her fingers. Her thumb flipped the safety. No time to draw the gun. Just point and shoot through the purse. Words from her gun safety class came back to her as though the instructor, an ex-policeman, were by her side. "Aim for the middle of the body mass. Don't try to wound."
At the moment Sara pulled the trigger, she saw flame spout from the end of Resnick's gun. Glass shattered behind her. Something struck her left side like the charge of a bull rhinoceros, and in an instant Rip's body covered her. "Stay down," he whispered.
When Sara finally raised her head, the first thing she saw was Resnick sprawled on the floor, his gun still in his hand. Blood oozed from his chest. Sightless eyes stared without blinking into the lights above him.
"Nice shooting, Sara. Wonder which one of us hit him." Jack Ingersoll stood in the doorway of the lab, an automatic pistol still pointed at Resnick's body. "I trust you remembered our instructor's words and aimed for his central mass."
Sara had read about it in books, but never thought she'd have the experience. She and Rip were placed in separate rooms at the police station. At first the questions were simple. Soon they became more pointed, the next thrown at her almost before she could answer the last. When the detective in charge read her a Miranda warning, she decided she'd said too much already. She wanted a lawyer. The detective tossed his cell phone on the table. "Be my guest."
Sara knew only one lawyer. And for some reason, she trusted him in this situation. He was groggy when he answered, but as soon as she began to explain, he said, "Don't say a word. I'm on my way."
The sun was up by the time Sara and Rip headed for the front door of the police station alongside Mark Wilcox. John Ramsey was sitting on a bench in the lobby, and he rose to join them as they walked out.
On the sidewalk, Sara stopped and stifled a yawn. "I'm going to call Gloria and have her cancel my patients this morning. I'm getting too old to miss a night's sleep."
"Already done," John said. "I called Verna last night when Mark phoned me from the police station. She and Gloria are going to block you and me out all day."
Rip stretched. "I guess I'd better make rounds this morning, since Ingersoll is still at the police station. But after that, I'm headed for the on-call room and some sleep."
"Why don't we get breakfast first? I'll buy," Mark said. He looked at Sara. "I have some explaining of my own to do, things I didn't say at the police station."
Half an hour later, they sat in a corner booth in the Renaissance Hotel's coffee shop, with steaming cups of coffee in front of them. Mark raised his cup in a silent toast.
Sara touched her cup to the others and drank deeply. She hadn't been this punch-drunk since pulling an all-nighter to study for the junior medicine final.
"Mark," John said, "since I wasn't in the rooms where the questioning was going on, can you fill me in? That is if it's okay with Sara and Rip."
"That would be fine with me," Rip said.
Sara nodded, too tired to speak.
Mark drained his cup and shoved it aside. "You already know that Resnick is dead. Two bullet wounds in his chest. The autopsy hasn't been done yet, but the medical examiner guessed that one of the shots severed the aorta. Resnick was dead by the time he hit the floor."
"I can't say I'm sorry," John said. The others yawned.
"Since Resnick was found with a gun still in his hand, and three witnesses agree that he was about to shoot Sara and Rip, there's no real question this was anything but self-defense." Mark waited while a waitress topped offtheir cups. "It just took a long time for the interviews. That's typical in a case like this—separate the witnesses, make sure their stories jibe. But I don't think my clients—" He looked from Sara to Rip. "I don't think they were ever in danger of being charged with anything. This may go to a grand jury, but if it does, it'll be a slam dunk to get a no-bill."
"I can't understand how Ingersoll knew to be there at the lab," Rip said. "Unless he was the one who had Resnick set up the meeting in the first place."
"As I understand it, he told the police he'd thought of a modification of Jandramycin that would 'make it more effective,' and he needed to see the journals and records Resnick kept under lock and key in the lab. He showed up, saw Resnick holding you all at gunpoint, and used the gun he was carrying." Mark shrugged. "The story's thin, but he's sticking with it, and I think they'll buy it."
"I still think Ingersoll set it all up as an opportunity to shoot Resnick. The lab assistant would be the only one who knew his boss had sanitized the Jandramycin data," Rip said. "And if Ingersoll was a little late shooting Resnick . . . well, that would get rid of two people who'd become a threat."
Sara shuddered at the thought. "I'm surprised he had the gun. I thought he'd stopped carrying it," she said.
Mark shrugged. "His story is that since he developed Jandramycin, he's received death threats from people who accuse him of 'tampering with nature.' So he strapped on his ankle holster, loaded his Glock 30, and started carrying it."
"Resnick mentioned his 'contact at Jandra.' But he'd never say who it was," Rip said. "So whoever was using Resnick as their pawn is still out there, still after Sara and me. What can we do about that?"
"I wish I knew," Mark said. He turned to Sara. "I don't have any contacts at Jandra any more. I used to be a consultant for that company, but I resigned the day after I was at your house."
"Did you—?"
"Did I ever give them any information about your hunt for their secrets? No. Never. But I couldn't work for a company that would lie, cover up, and even try to harm others. So I quit."
The waitress deposited a large tray beside their table, served their breakfasts, and replenished coffee. When she was gone, Rip said, "So Resnick was the conduit to Jandra? Then why did he feed me information about how two-faced Ingersoll was?"
John followed a forkful of eggs with a bite of toast, chewed, and swallowed. "I have a theory about that. Resnick was playing both ends against the middle. He was following orders from someone at Jandra, probably in return for money under the table and the promise of a position with them. But he was also engaged in a bit of back-stabbing, hoping that if he could make Ingersoll go down he'd be chosen to take over the Jandramycin study." John sipped coffee and wiped his lips with a napkin. "Since he was so deeply involved in the project, in his twisted logic he was the person who'd become the senior investigator, not Rip."
Sara pushed her plate away, unable to eat any more. She picked up her coffee cup and set it down without drinking. Her stomach felt queasy. Her head hurt. She wanted to awaken to find this was all a bad dream. "Do you think there's any chance the person behind this will be caught?" she asked of the table at large.
"What we've told the police should help point them in the right direction. And Resnick's phone records should lead them to Jandra." Mark made a writing-in-air gesture to call for the check. "There are a couple of people in the police department who might keep me posted on their investigation. If I can find out, I'll let everyone know."
"One question," Sara said. "I called you last night because you were the only lawyer I could think of. I expected you to say something like, 'I'll contact a criminal attorney to represent you.' Why did you come yourself?"
"Because two of my friends were in trouble, and I wanted to help." He pulled a dog-eared piece of cardboard from his breast pocket. "I brought the card of a criminal attorney with me." He smiled at Sara. "But I'm glad I didn't need to use it."
Sara eased into her seat, the last of the group to arrive. She had no idea why Rip asked them to gather, but she could guess. And she could hardly wait to hear the news.
"If this were an Agatha Christie novel, I'd say, 'I suppose you're wondering why I called you together.'" Rip looked around the room and relaxed when he saw a few smiles.
The meeting place was a conference room down the hall from the cubbyhole that served as Rip's office in the Internal
"Is this about Jandramycin?" Sara asked.
"Sort of. We can update everyone on the clinical developments first. Sara, tell them about Chelsea."
Sara cleared her throat. "Chelsea Ferguson, the little girl with progressive paralysis from Guillain-Barrè syndrome after receiving Jandramycin, is recovering nicely after she received a second dose of OMAL. She's getting some physical therapy to strengthen her muscles, and she'll be going home soon."
"Me next, I guess," John said. "It's been a month since I had my Jandramycin, followed by a dose of OMAL. I've had no recurrence of the Staph luciferus infection of my hand. There's been no sign of any autoimmune complication from the antibiotic."
"And John gave me permission to tell you his labs continue to be negative for HIV after the needle-stick that started all this," Rip added. "I think you can stop worrying now, John . . . for several reasons."
"What other reasons?" John asked.
"I'll get to that. First, Sara and I are once more caring for Randall Moore." Rip waited to be sure John recognized the name. Mark Wilcox obviously did, as he leaned forward in his chair. "He was treated with Jandramycin, and his Staph luciferus pneumonia cleared. Sara and I had a long talk with him about the risks of the drug, and he elected to receive OMAL. Thus far, he's doing well. He's pleased enough with the care he's received at the medical center that he's dropping his lawsuit."
Sara kept her eyes on John, and when the import of the news hit him, he relaxed and let out a deep breath. She knew the feeling.
"Why are you and Sara back on that case?" Lillian asked. "I thought the department chair asked Ingersoll to take over."
"He did," Rip said, "but after the shooting, Dr. Schaeffer decided that perhaps it was best for Ingersoll to keep a low profile for a while."
"He must be doing that, all right," John said. "I usually pass him in the hall at least once a day, but haven't seen him recently."
"It gets better," Rip said. "On Monday, Ingersoll didn't show up at his office. His secretary was worried when he didn't respond to a page or phone messages. She let the chairman know, but he elected to sit on the news. This morning, the dean received a faxed letter of resignation. Ingersoll apparently packed up and left, and no one has any idea where he is."
Sara opened her purse and pulled out a wrinkled envelope bearing a strange-looking postage stamp. "I guess it's my turn now. This came to my home yesterday. It's from Jack."
She pulled a single page from the envelope. "Once he realized his professional reputation was down the tubes, he packed his bags, grabbed his passport, and caught a flight to Belize. He says he's got four million dollars in an offshore account 'thanks to Jandramycin's flaws,' whatever that means. Apparently, he's gone for good."
She handed the letter to Rip.
"So what happens now?" John asked.
"I just came from a meeting with the department chair. Dr. Schaeffer asked me to take over all of Ingersoll's patients and to complete the Jandramycin study. He will act as division head for now. In a month, when my fellowship is over, he'll solicit applications for a new head of the division. He assures me I have the inside track for that appointment."
There were murmurs of approval. When the noise died down, Mark spoke up. "I doubt that my news can trump this, but I'll try." He waited until everyone was turned toward him. "I have a friend who's a criminal attorney, and I asked him to keep his ears open around police headquarters. This morning he called to tell me that agents of the FBI and representatives of the local police went to the offices of Jandra Pharmaceuticals and arrested . . . " He pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket and read from it. "Arrested Jandra's Chief Operating Officer, Dr. David Patel. They're certain he was behind the attacks on Sara and Rip."
"How did they get him?" Sara asked.
"The FBI received a packet of information from one of the doctors in Germany who were doing a parallel study of Jandramycin. It confirmed that Patel ordered them to hide the data that showed late complications from the drug. According to the letter that came with the packet, one of them apparently got an attack of conscience, fought with the other, and ended up killing him, then shooting himself." Mark folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. "But he left behind some 'in case of my death' instructions with his attorney. In this instance, the instructions were to mail the packets, containing information that incriminated Patel. It's only a matter of time before phone records tie him to Resnick. I predict his associates will rush to save their skins by testifying against him, and . . . you can guess the rest."
Sara looked around the room and saw the expressions of relief on every face. Across the table, John and Lillian allowed their hands to touch as they exchanged smiles. It was good to see John with someone who could help him through his loss. And Sara had no doubt that relationship would blossom after an appropriate time.
She looked from Rip to Mark and back again. Both men had stood by her through this trying time. Since she'd first met Rip, she'd been fond of him, but more like a brother than any thing else. After Jack had swept her offher feet, Rip had melted into the background, always there to talk to, never showing his true feelings. But those feelings had become clearer as they'd worked side by side to solve the Jandramycin problem. There was affection there, and she had to admit that she felt the same thing.
Mark had only been in Sara's life a short time, but he'd let her know clearly he wanted to be more than just a friend. She was no psychologist, but Sara recognized the likelihood that Mark's attraction to her was a reaction to his own loss in the death of his first wife. She hoped he'd find another woman to love, but she was certain it wouldn't be her. On the other hand, the possibility of a great friendship—with her and with Rip—was certainly there.
She'd have to deal with her feelings for both men in the days ahead, but that would come later. For now, she was overcome with relief that this ordeal was over.
Sara was no longer experiencing nighttime terrors. No one was trying to harm her anymore. And out of this terrible scenario had come the cure for a disease that would rival the pestilence and plague of the Old Testament.
Her mind went back to the words she'd read in her mother's Bible. "You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday."
Thank you, God, for that promise, and for fulfilling it in my life.
Author's Note
In my thirty-six years of medical practice I was privileged to serve as a consultant to a number of pharmaceutical companies, and I never encountered even a hint of actions such as those portrayed here. Jandra Pharmaceuticals and the characters in this book are products of my imagination, and have no basis in fact. The novel contains instances in which I exercise literary license and in those areas I ask my readers to extend the traditional "suspension of disbelief " that is a hallmark of some fiction. But this is not to suggest that the events described here could not take place. Given enough power, money, and selfcentered greed, I have no doubt that men and corporations could act in this way. We are fortunate that they do not.
I'd like to express my appreciation to the clinicians and researchers who work to develop and make available the medications we have come to take for granted. We've come a long way since Fleming accidentally discovered penicillin almost a century ago. Who can predict what frontiers medical research will conquer next? I can hardly wait.
Discussion Questions
One of the reasons for the increasing emergence of antibiotic-resistant bacteria is the use of antibiotics when they are not indicated. Has this ever affected your doctor's treatment decision? How did you react?
Do you believe that most researchers are ethical? Why or why not? Does this affect your confidence in medicat
ions your doctor prescribes?
Were you able to form a mental picture of John Ramsey's late wife, Beth? How would you characterize her? Do you think her advice to him was good?
Picture yourself as Sara Miles, forced to work closely with a man who has hurt you deeply. Could you maintain a professional relationship, or would your history color your actions? What if he held the only key to your patient's survival?
Did your concept of Rip Pearson change as the story progressed? Was there a point when you didn't trust him? What about Mark Wilcox?
What qualities did you find in Jack Ingersoll? What about Carter Resnick? What did you think their driving force was?
Contrast Sara's feelings toward Chelsea Ferguson and Randall Moore. What factors influenced her attitude?
Rip was faced with suggesting a treatment that would save a patient's life but might have late consequences that would be life changing and possibly fatal. Assume the patient was unable to make a decision and no family was available. What would you do?
Do you believe God should have punished Jack for his deeds? What do you think is the basis for bad things happening to people?
What did you take away from this novel? How will it affect the way you live your own life?
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