Die Before Your Time (Elia Christie / Luis Echevarria medical mysteries)

by Polonus Mucha, Susan

  As he turned the page of a report and again put the pencil to his head, he stopped suddenly and looked at it. He smiled sheepishly and again looked around the room. He put the pencil down and continued reading.

  He found the drug Abecour, and sat up straight in his chair. Indeed it had been given to quadriplegics during the Vietnam War to lessen spasticity. He read the indications and contraindications. Nothing was written about liver disease or deaths from liver failure.

  After several hours of research, he found what he was looking for — a report coming out of the VA hospital in New Orleans.

  Millen felt a tightening in his chest as he read. He closed his eyes and thought of the black granite wall in Washington. “So many names and some are there because of a drug.” When he realized he had spoken aloud, he quickly looked around the room to see if anyone heard him. He was alone.

  Just as quickly, he began comparing Abecour's components with those of Cyptolis's. He nodded. They were the same — almost.

  He checked his watch. Not yet five. He pulled out his Blackberry and found the number he was looking for.

  “Pete? Harry Millen. I'm coming down. I have some questions.” He paused. “Pete? See what you have in your files about Abecour.”

  Dr. Pete Archer had turned off his computer and was packing up his briefcase when he got his boss's call. Archer was a scientist who was on the team that evaluated data submitted by Pavnor's laboratory. He had heard the scuttlebutt about Cyptolis and wondered when his turn would come for questions, or blame. He took a breath and pushed it out of puffed up cheeks.

  He went through the routine of booting up his computer. “So much for an early night,” he said under his breath. He adjusted his black horn-rimmed glasses and did a little dance with his shoulders, an idiosyncratic thing he performed each and every time he turned on his computer. His co-workers talked behind his back, wondering what he would do if he were up at bat at a World Series game.

  He pulled up Cyptolis data and reread what he had read a dozen times since trouble was brought to light. There had been a glitch in communication, he knew. Otherwise, the side effects would have been reported to him and his team. Reported before people died.

  He found Abecour far quicker than Millen had. He scanned the data, studied the components and let out another deep breath.

  Frowning, he kept reading and compared Abecour's side effects with those of Cyptolis. Components or radicals were identical except for a couple.

  There is intense competition in the pharmaceutical industry. When one drug is doing a good job other companies jump on the bandwagon. They don't have to research from the beginning; that was done by the original producer. They need only look at side effects, for example, and add or change radicals to expunge or at least alleviate them.

  Pavnor took Abecour and did change some radicals, but something went wrong. “How the hell did this slip past us?” In addition to the attack on the liver, there was another problem. Hemorrhaging.

  He chewed on his lip and waited for Millen.

  Chapter 67

  They got off at the Newport, Rhode Island, exit and followed the signs to the center of town. The Welcome Center was adjacent to the Marriott. They parked and looked toward the harbor.

  “Vamos.” Luis took Elia's hand. “I promise I won't stop to eat.”

  “Good, because we're going to Cape Cod, my love, today.”

  “Let's see what Newport looks like, first.”

  It was at least ten degrees cooler than Greenwich. Luis kept his arm around Elia to fend off the chill. And he continued his watchfulness, looking behind them every few minutes.

  “Honey, no one knows we're here. Come on.” She pulled him by the hand toward the wooden walkway that ran perpendicular to the water. The walk was lined with shops and restaurants, some not opened yet for the summer season.

  An outdoor café, though, was open, and many of the tables were occupied with sweatshirt-wearing visitors.

  They strolled to the end of the walkway looking into shop windows. At the end of the walk, at the railing overlooking the water, they looked across to the Hyatt sitting on a tiny island.

  “I spotted something in one of the shops,” Luis said, turning back the way they had come. “I'm buying my bride a present.”

  He guided her to the jewelry displayed on the front counter of a small store. “Do you like this?” He held up a necklace of white pearlized shells. “A remembrance of our ten minutes in Newport.”

  “Beautiful. But what can we get for you?”

  “Dinner?”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding.” He paid for her gift, helped her put it on, and hand-in-hand they headed back to their car, their sojourn in Newport over.

  “You know what, honey?” Elia was now behind the wheel. “It's a nice feeling when no one knows where we are.”

  He reached over and massaged her neck. He didn't share her feeling.

  Chapter 68

  It took less than two hours to reach the Bourne Bridge crossing into Cape Cod. Native Cape Codders called the bridge the “most beautiful sight in the world,” because it meant they were home.

  Elia followed directions as the GPS ticked off turns. Circling two rotaries, something Bermudians called roundabouts, she was soon on the right track to Mashpee.

  When they arrived in Mashpee Commons, they felt as though they were in old New England. This was a planned business venture after the citizens got tired and disgusted with the strip mall theory. Now the area was a walker's paradise. Shops, some with apartments above, restaurants, homes, all within walking distance. No more reliance on the automobile, for these forward-thinking people.

  They easily found the Paul Revere and checked in. They walked with the clerk outside and around the corner of the building.

  “You can go through the building, but this is your private entrance.” He led the way up a flight of stairs, slipped a skeleton key in the lock. He opened the door to a peaceful-looking room furnished in eighteenth century furniture decorated in soft blues and creams. He handed Luis the key, with a red, white, and blue ribbon key chain, and held out his hand.

  After he left, Elia had a confused look on her face. “I don't know why we're here after your concern that someone would know where we are.”

  “The train; remember?” He took her hand. “Come on; let's take a look around Mashpee; I hear it's a genuine Indian village.”

  “Our luggage. Shouldn't we unload the car?”

  “It's early. We can do that later.” Luis pulled the door shut and they started down the stairs. “Wait here, let me see if there're any brochures in the room.”

  When he returned, he had a determined look on his face.

  “Any?”

  “Any what?”

  “Brochures.”

  “Oh, uh, no.”

  Before they pulled away, this time with Luis behind the wheel, he opened the map. “Just in case we decide to go to Martha's Vineyard, let's check out Falmouth. Looks like…” He paused a moment, studying the map. “Here we go. If we decide to go to Martha's Vineyard, we'd catch the ferry out of Woods Hole.” Again he was silent. “That's if we take the car over. No car, we'd catch it — here's the name — The Island Queen — at Falmouth Harbor.”

  “Are we even going to Martha's Vineyard? Which one of our so-called friends suggested that trip?”

  Luis nodded. “Good point. Just in case. Falmouth. We stay on 28.”

  Twenty minutes later they drove slowly through the quintessential New England village. A statue of Falmouth native, Katherine Lee Bates, who wrote America the Beautiful, stands guard over children playing on the expansive library lawn in the middle of town, the freshly-mown grass giving off a scent of summer. Past the library, the shops throughout the village begin to awaken from their winter's nap.

  “Let's stop here.” Luis pulled into a parallel parking space between a pick-up truck and a VW. “Looks like a place we should visit.”

  Elia looked out the
window at the shop. “Ice cream. I could go for that.”

  They ordered cones and sat at a sidewalk table. From their vantage point they checked out the shops lining the street and the tourists gazing in store windows.

  “Hold on. Be right back.” He disappeared into the ice cream shop. A few minutes later he returned with a few brochures in hand.

  “Ever have dessert first, then your supper?” Luis took his seat at the table and spoke through a mouthful of ice cream.

  “As a matter of fact I have. On our birthdays. Mom served us our cake and ice cream first. A special treat.” She looked at her cone and sighed.

  Luis reached for her hand. “In memory of your mother, let's pretend today is your birthday.” He waved the brochures like a fan. “We are going to eat fabulous lobster, and then we'll get settled for the night.”

  Chapter 69

  Pete Archer was taking notes when Millen walked into the office. He stopped writing and sat perfectly still while Millen took a seat. He had never seen him look so worn. Of course his wife was ill, but that's been an ongoing, off-and-on distraction for years. I guess the end is near, he mused. Distraction? I can't believe I called his wife's cancer a distraction.

  Millen carried his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair in precise movements, and sat. “What's going on?”

  “I'm looking, Harry.” He tapped his notes. “About Abecour. The drug was good — except for the side effects. It was taken off the market thirty years ago. But now it seems Cyptolis is almost the same drug.” He frowned as he was talking.

  “I know all that. And it has the same side effects.”

  “It needs the black box. It does a terrific job. It's prescribed to alleviate spasticity associated with paralysis, and it does that.”

  “How did we put the same drug out there?”

  “I can't answer that, but Harry, there's something else I can't answer.” He held up his notes. “Yes, we had liver involvement, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But, I don't know why, if this is the same drug, why there is such a great incidence of hemorrhaging.”

  “I've been thinking about that. You said almost the same drug. I've been doing my own research. Some radicals were changed. Didn't seem to help the liver involvement. Do you think the change in radicals causes the hemorrhaging?”

  “Could be. I'll have to go over all the components to rule that out.”

  “Something else, Pete. Could it be in the production process?”

  “Could be.” Pete sounded hopeful at this idea. It would certainly make him look better.

  And it would certainly help Millen's cause.

  Chapter 70

  Luis and Elia pulled their plastic lobster emblazoned bibs off, opened the tiny packs of moistened wipes, and tried in vain to clean all remnants of their lobster dinners off their sticky fingers.

  “A stroll before we go to bed?” Luis spoke as he held the door for his wife. Outside he took his thumb and wiped away a smudge on Elia's cheek. “I'd lick it off if we weren't in public.”

  They crossed the street to look into the window of Eight Cousins Children's Books and saw what looked like a family of five gathered around one of the clerks.

  They continued down the street and stopped at another bookstore. Peeking in the window at the Inkwell they saw a table set up in the middle of the shop. “A book signing. Let's go in and get an autographed book.” Elia tugged on Luis's hand. As they entered, she whispered. “There's no one in line; let's see what she's written.”

  Five minutes later, autographed book in hand, they spotted a cluster of people in the back of the shop. They joined the group as they listened to the speaker. Gerry Munroe was animatedly talking about her collection of vintage books and how she spent many happy hours scouring antique shops in search of books. “My rule: if published before 1899, I might be interested, after that — too new.”

  She held up several small books. “You'll see a lot this size in my collection. I do love my small books best. And to answer a question I get a lot; why are so many small. I always say, hmmmm, good question. I think they're small for several reasons — they could be carried in pockets, maybe they were cheaper to produce, and perhaps it was just the style of the time.”

  She pointed to a corner bookcase, just three-feet tall. “This is just one of the bookcases my husband, Bob, built to accommodate the small-sized books.”

  She was still answering questions when Elia and Luis slipped away. They drove to their bed and breakfast, got their luggage out of the car, and settled in for the night.

  “My husband is full of surprises.”

  Chapter 71

  Lorraine Fegan was in her car crossing over the Bourne Bridge onto Cape Cod, her headlights doing little to illuminate the dark road. She was on her cell calling Massachusetts information. When she got the number, she dialed the Paul Revere and asked for Dr. Echevarria. She was told he had checked in. She declined the offer to be put through to his room.

  It was past midnight when she arrived at the Paul Revere. She tore out a sheet of paper from a notepad, folded it in half and wrote “Dr. Echevarria” on one of its halves. She combed her hair, put on fresh lipstick, stepped out of the car, and quietly closed the door. She held the note in her hand and walked into the B&B exuding confidence: spine straight, shoulders back, her height accentuated by her erect posture.

  The clerk behind the counter had his head in his hands and looked as though he had been napping when Fegan tapped her fingernails on the polished wooden counter. He jumped. She smiled.

  “Dr. Echevarria is expecting this note in the morning, would you please see that he gets it?”

  “Sure. Do you want me to call his room?”

  “Don't disturb him.” She gestured to the cubbyhole behind the clerk. “Just put it in his box.” She waited and watched where he put the note. “Thank you.” With the room number now known, she looked like a canary-full cat.

  When she returned to her car, she wondered how she would get past the clerk to get to the room. As she sat there, she saw a couple walk past the front door and go around to the side. She waited a few minutes, got quietly out of her car, and followed their path. There she saw private entrances. And looking up, she saw the Echevarrias’ room. The light was off. She shook her head. “Honeymooners.” She spat out the word.

  She went to her car and carefully lifted a bag off the front seat. She returned to the side of the building.

  Quietly, so quietly, she climbed the steps. From her bag she removed a roll of cotton. Working in complete silence, she unwound the roll and pulled off a long strip and set it aside. Then out came a pair of goggles and thick leather gloves. Donning them, she reached into her bag for one more item.

  She gingerly pulled out a small lead-lined flask and carefully opened the lid exposing a long thin tube-like top with a plunger at the end. She took hold of the plunger and pulled it out of the flask. She now held a syringe. She inserted the needle under the door and pushed in the plunger and emptied the syringe into the room.

  Swiftly, she took the cotton and stuffed it around the opening at the bottom of the door. Leaving her gloves and goggles on, she put the syringe back into the flask, and carefully laid it in the bottom of her bag. She put the roll of cotton on top, and quietly left the scene, only removing her gloves and goggles when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  When she got to the car, she saw the clerk walk down a hall. She hurried inside and quickly walked behind the counter, retrieved the note she had left earlier, and just as quickly made it to her car before the clerk returned.

  She backed out of the parking lot with her lights off, turning them on a half block down the road. She started the long drive to Connecticut. She smiled. “One problem eliminated. Hah! Make that two.”

  She was entering the first rotary when she realized there hadn't been many cars in the parking lot at the Paul Revere. She wondered where the Echevarrias had parked. Her smile disappeared.

 
Police, ambulances, fire trucks, and Hazmet gathered in front of the Paul Revere shortly after ten a.m. One ambulance had already left for the hospital and the guys in white had entered the room, their faces and heads covered with E.T.-like helmets, their hands in protective gloves. News trucks were out front reporting what they thought they knew: a possible terrorist attack in peaceful, picturesque Mashpee, Massachusetts.

  Chapter 72

  The Clairedge House B&B on Cape Codder Road sat at the edge of Buzzard's Bay. Ten steps down from the rose-bordered manicured lawn, the rocky beach was lapped by icy water.

  They sat on the patio looking at seemingly endless water. Not far was a white-flecked rock extending four feet out of the water, a perch for cormorants as they fly over the Bay. They turned when Claire brought out afresh pot of coffee and French toast made with locally-baked Portuguese sweet bread.

  “We Portuguese are plentiful in Falmouth, so this bread is definitely authentic.” She gestured toward the house where her husband could be seen talking with another couple. “I didn't bake it. We have George to thank for picking it up this morning at the bakery.” She opened the screen door and was about to step into the house when she said, “The water's cold, but you have to put a toe in, at least.”

  Elia and Luis sat side-by-side gazing at the water while they ate their breakfast. “This place is a jewel, honey. I'm glad we decided not to stay in Mashpee after all.” She had a thought. “You did cancel that room, didn't you?”

  “Uh, no. Guess I paid for two rooms.”

  She shook her head. “Crazy guy.” She looked back at the house. “But it's worth it. Cape Cod personified — weathered wood, emerald green grass, fragrant flowers.” She held up her coffee cup and motioned toward the water. “The view.”

  Luis finished his French toast and eyed Elia's half-finished breakfast. She laughed and pushed her plate over to him.