A Simple Cure

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A Simple Cure Page 4

by Lawrence Gold


  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Let’s close this deal with a toast. I have The Macallan, a sixty-year-old unblended scotch. Have you heard of it?”

  “No. I suspect we shop in very different areas of the package store.”

  “Package store...” Richard laughed. He filled two shot glasses. “Soon you’ll be able to indulge yourself in any way you see fit.”

  They raised their glasses and downed the whiskey.

  Afterward, Hawkins joined Eddie Macy at the apartment they shared.

  “How did it go, Colonel?”

  “You remember that Mercedes-SL convertible you’re crazy about, Master Sergeant?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s go down to the dealership. You can drive it home.”

  Eddie Macy smiled. “Who do we have to kill?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  Chapter Seven

  Terri Powell hauled Abbie out of bed and they headed for her Piedmont gym in the pouring rain. Abbie slept as Terri drove.

  Well into her zone on the treadmill, Terri didn’t notice anything until she felt someone tugging on her arm. She opened her eyes, pulled the noise-cancelling headphones from her head, and turned the IPod off.

  “Terri,” said one of the trainers, “it’s Abbie.”

  Terri had that hollow feeling in her abdomen as she jumped off the treadmill and ran to the child care section of the gym. She pushed her way through the crowd at the door and heard Abbie’s cry.

  “Abbie...Abbie. It’s Mommy. Are you okay?”

  When Terri broke through the last pair of onlookers, Abbie was crying and in the arms of Matt Hollis. She ran to her daughter who broke free of Matt and hugged her mother.

  Terri held Abbie away. Blood oozed from her nose. She blotted it with her towel and checked the nose for a break. “It’s going to be fine. What happened?”

  Abbie wiped her tears. “I tripped and bunked into the slide...I’m sorry...I didn’t mean anything.”

  Terri felt a shadow looming above her and turned to see Matt’s concerned face. His sweat-soaked shirt was stained with Abbie’s blood.

  “Let me check her for you. I have first-aid experience.”

  Terri smiled. “No, it’s okay. I’m a physician. Thanks for the thought.”

  “How is she?”

  “Nothing injured except her ego.”

  “Can I go back to play, Mommy?”

  “Not until I stop the bleeding, sweetheart.”

  She turned to Matt. “Can you fill a baggie with ice?”

  He returned in less than a minute, and she placed the ice on Abbie’s neck.

  “That’s cold, Mommy,” she said wriggling away.

  “Keep it there for a few minutes and the bleeding should stop.”

  “Teresa Powell,” she said extending her hand to Matt. “Everyone calls me Terri.”

  “I know,” he said, meeting her hand. “Matthew Hollis. Everyone calls me Matt.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The same way you knew my name,” she said smiling, and then hesitated. “We met before.”

  “Did we?”

  “You sure know how to make a girl feel good.”

  “Are you sure? I doubt that I could have forgotten you.”

  “Here’s a hint: Emeryville. Safeway parking lot. You had a beard then and curly thick hair. What happened to all that hair?”

  He stared at her with cool gray eyes. He brushed his hand over his scalp, his mind still a blank until Terri took the Tae Kwan Do ready position. “That was you? They’re still talking about you at the Emeryville P.D. You’re an urban legend.”

  “Hopefully, they’re saying nice things about me.”

  “They’re saying, come armed.”

  “Right.”

  After a few minutes, Terri turned to Abbie. “You can go back, but why don’t you play a quiet game or draw me a picture.”

  “Okay, Mommy.” Abbie looked up at Matt and extended her small hand. “Thank you Matthew. I’m sorry I got blood on your shirt.”

  “That’s okay. It’ll wash out.”

  Matt turned to Terri. “She’s a beautiful child. She looks just like you.”

  Terri smiled. “Praise the dog or the child. That’s the best way to a woman’s pants.”

  “You’re not really that cynical, are you?”

  Terri blushed.

  I am an idiot.

  Matt smiled. “Maybe I should do a follow-up on Abbie...just to make sure she’s okay.”

  She returned his smile.

  “Pretty lame, eh?”

  Terri grabbed a Post-It pad and scribbled her address and phone number. “We’ll expect you for dinner at six tomorrow night.”

  When Matt returned to his home in the Piedmont area that overlooked North Oakland, he removed his shirt and placed it in the sink with cold water.

  He showered, shaved, and used his Senseo coffee maker to brew a fresh cup of Major Dickinson’s blend.

  After scanning the San Francisco Chronicle, and completing the crossword puzzle, he walked into his home office and settled into his plush leather desk chair. He leaned forward and straightened his desk while connecting to his web mail site.

  Matt jumped when his phone rang. It was his agent.

  “How’s it going, Matt?”

  “Is that a casual conversation starter, or do you have something specific in mind?”

  “The publisher’s pushing me for the manuscript. What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them they’ll have it when it’s done.”

  Matt smiled to himself when he reflected on the changes in his relationship with his agent and with publishers that came with having a bestseller. After years of oblique rejections: not right for our list, too busy to take on new clients, and his all time favorite, too literary or too commercial, it did feel great to be in control.

  He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t writing.

  His father taught high school English and his mother was an accountant. Books overflowed from shelves and stood in piles against the walls of their den. Matt rarely saw his two sisters and his parents without a book in their hands, and dinner conversation usually involved their reactions to what they were reading. Matt got hooked early on crime novels and police procedurals, so when he announced, “I’m applying to the police academy,” it surprised nobody.

  “Are you sure?” asked his mother. “It’s dangerous work.”

  “I know, but I’ll be careful. You know me. I have nothing to prove, thanks to you guys.”

  Throughout school and into the police academy, Matt had a notepad at his side. The pad was his constant companion on patrol and ultimately provided the material for his books. He recalled those days in the squad car...

  Ronnie Hart, Matt’s partner was driving toward the Emeryville Marine to check out a prowler call. Matt had the dashboard light bent over his pad as he wrote.

  “I want a percent of the action when you publish that crap,” Ronnie said.

  “Sure. I’ll give you a big share of nothing—that’s what’s likely to become of this.”

  Ronnie pulled a small photo album from his side and handed it to Matt. “Here’s the latest of Ellie and the boys.”

  Matt thumbed through the smiling faces, the beautiful wife, and innocent children. “You’re one lucky guy, Ronnie. Don’t know how you did it—it sure wasn’t good looks or intelligence.”

  Ronnie laughed. “No arguments from me, Matt. I’m one lucky guy. Some day, I know, it will happen for you.”

  “It’ll happen when I’m ready.”

  “Ellie says that you’re ready. You just don’t know it.”

  “I’m not going to argue with Ellie. Just tell her that the last thing I need is another woman with a fixation on her biological clock. I don’t need that kind of desperation.”

  “She’s not going to give up, Matt. Matchmaking’s in her DNA.”

  Matt smiled at the memory, and then spen
t the next few minutes daydreaming about Terri. When reality intervened, he grabbed his notes and the outline of his new novel and got to work.

  Chapter Eight

  Eddie Macy sat in his office on the thirty-seventh floor of Kendall Laboratories and stared out across a hazy Lake Michigan.

  “Mr. Muller’s here,” said Eddie’s secretary.

  “Send him in.”

  Karl Muller strode in, scanned the office and the view and whistled. “You’ve got it made, Sarge.”

  Eddie pointed to the chair in front of his desk and said, “I’m a busy man, Karl. What can I do for you?”

  “Get me a piece of this,” Karl said sweeping his arm across the office.

  “I don’t have time for this crap.”

  “You owe me, Eddie.”

  “I don’t owe you shit. You sure have balls coming here for a handout.”

  “I ain’t looking for no handout. I want a job. Remember who had your back in when we were in jail together at Fort Sill in Oklahoma. I saved your ass more than once.”

  “Listen, Karl. Muscle like you is a dime a dozen. I need someone with smarts and toughness.”

  Karl Muller had come a long way from the spit and polish corporal, a onetime M.P., who’d advanced to master sergeant twice only to be busted back to private for assault. A big man, almost six feet, he’d once been a solid two hundred thirty pounds. Now he’d reached two hundred fifty pounds, and except for his head, nothing was solid. He wore jeans, ripped at the knees—not by stylish intention—and a too-short tan jacket.

  “You don’t look too good, Karl. Still hitting the bottle, are ya?”

  “I ain’t had a drink in nine months,” he said stroking his ragged beard. “I go to meetings, got a sponsor, and everything. I sure could use a job, Sergeant, especially something in the field. You know me, I like action.”

  Eddie looked at Karl’s belly. “If we put you in the field now, buddy, we’d have to carry you back.”

  “I need something. Please, Sarge, I’ll take anything.”

  Eddie opened his thick assignment book and thumbed through several pages. “You like Northern California?”

  “San Francisco, you got to be kidding. I love it there, especially the homos. Me and them get along real good.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Karl. We run the security for a multimillion dollar international company. If you work for us, you gotta stay clean.”

  “What ya got?”

  “Security at a company called PAT in Emeryville, right across from Frisco.”

  “I owe you, Sarge. You won’t regret it.”

  “I hope not. One thing more, Karl. Beyond security, you’ll be my eyes and ears at PAT. This is a tough business. In industrial espionage, anything goes. Watch out for anything that might compromise their research, especially their BCG studies.”

  “BC what?”

  “I’ll get you some reading about their research. You do read, don’t you?”

  Karl rented a studio apartment in the Watergate Complex near the Emeryville Marina. He walked seven minutes to work at PAT.

  Karl’s buzz cut and his belly hanging over his belt, did not thrill Amanda Wincott, but he was clean and polite, especially with his ma’ams and sirs. He impressed everyone with his background in Special Forces.

  Karl kept his mouth open as Greg Wincott showed him through the gleaming modern laboratories. He growled when he had to change clothes to enter specialty areas. “Is this really necessary, Doc?”

  “I’m not a doctor, Karl, I run the place, and yes, you need to change. You enter a secure area once without changing into protective clothing, you’re finished.”

  “Yes, sir. Don’t have to tell me more than once.”

  When they got to the molecular biology lab, Karl looked in. Evan Klack and Lisa Gomez were deep in conversation before a computer.

  “Who’s the creepy woman?” he said pointing to Lisa.

  Greg rolled his eyes, then said, “That’s Dr. Gomez, and you’ll address her with respect.”

  “And what’s that midget doing there?”

  Greg shook his head. “That’s Dr. Evan Klack. He’s the director of the molecular biology laboratory.”

  Greg pulled Karl’s arm so they could face each other.

  “Don’t do that, Mr. Wincott,” Karl said turning red. “I don’t let no one touch me.”

  Greg stepped back. “I’m telling you that we expect the highest level of courtesy toward all our employees. I hope you understand.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Wincott. I’m a little rough at the edges...you know, too used to the military, but I’ll learn.”

  When they changed and entered the lab, Greg said, “Dr. Gomez, this is Karl Muller. He’ll be joining our security team.”

  Karl extended his hand to Lisa. She stared at the dark hair on his hands and fingers like it was the hand of a leper. She hesitated a moment, then shook it.

  He smiled as he held her skinny hand a second too long.

  She pulled her hand away and turned so he didn’t see her wipe his sweat on her lab coat.

  Greg turned to Evan Klack. “This is Dr. Klack.”

  Evan continued peering through the microscope and failed to acknowledge their presence.

  As they were leaving, Karl said, “What’s with that guy...is he too good just to say hello to a new employee?”

  “It’s not personal, Karl. He’s that way with everyone.”

  Karl managed to glance back at Lisa and thought, I can show you a hell of a time. It looks like you could use one.

  Karl enjoyed his knack of making everyone feel uncomfortable. He used it. It wasn’t just his menacing appearance or his taciturn personality, but his dark-eyed stare and infrequent blinking made everybody anxious, especially women.

  “What you up to, Doc?” Karl said, when he entered the lab the first thing the next day.

  “Good morning, Karl,” Lisa said. “We’re working on a possible cure for some cancers.”

  He leaned over Lisa, pretending to look at the materials on her desk.

  Lisa moved away wrinkling her nose.

  This guy needs a bath, she thought.

  “I’m really busy, Karl,” Lisa said.

  “Okay, okay.” He looked across the lab at Evan and said, “What’s the runt doing?”

  Lisa put her pencil down, stood, and said, “Karl. Don’t use that kind of language in front of me. You’re new here, so I’ll let it go this time. Dr. Klack is...”

  What’s the use, she thought.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

  “Forget it. I must get back to work.”

  As Karl walked away, he mumbled, “I bet she thinks her shit don’t stink.”

  “Did you say something, Karl?”

  “No Ma’am. Have a good day.”

  Chapter Nine

  Lisa approached the security gate at PAT and turned off her windshield wipers. The guard saw her at least three times each week, still said, “May I see your ID, Ma’am?”

  She smiled. “Harry, if you don’t know me by now—well, that hurts a girl’s feelings.”

  Harry, a retired Bart Transit Cop in his 70s, smiled back, and pointed to the security camera. “Don’t have a choice, Doc. Not if I want to keep my job.”

  She pulled out her ID card from around her neck and showed it to him, then drove into the puddled lot at Building I.

  When she reached her laboratory, she hung her dripping umbrella and raincoat at its entrance.

  David Birch smiled. “I have a surprise for you, Lisa.”

  “I’m too old for surprises...all right, what is it?”

  “If you look in the receiving locker of the lab refrigerator, you’ll find we just received a supply of the new BCG, subtype five.”

  “That’s great. Now we can get going on our immunotherapy studies.”

  “See what we have and break it down for study. We’ll get together on the protocols this afternoon.”

  Lisa was exci
ted. They’d been studying the effects of BCG on melanoma and other cancer cells in tissue culture, but somehow their original strain had been contaminated, making it useless. They’d been searching for other BCG sources.

  “It’s the collision of academics and commerce, Lisa,” David said. “So much for the free exchange of information and source material in the university. Even academic institutions have relationships with specific pharmaceutical companies, and regard all the others as competitors. It’s disgusting.”

  Lisa suspected that much of this was talk as David found whatever research material he needed, one way or the other.

  Lisa entered the huge storage refrigerator and went to the arrivals area. She checked the sign-in sheet and found an entry for BCG. Neither the entry nor the label identified its source.

  That’s unusual, she thought. The lineage of biological material would be an essential part of any research publication.

  She examined the insulated chest with its biohazard stickers. Wedged neatly within were fifty small vials containing a hazy pink fluid. She checked each label that gave the date, volume and concentration of the BCG. The labels at the bottom, usually indicating the source were missing except for a partial that has the letters L and A...on it.

  What’s going on here?

  At their protocol meeting that afternoon with David, Lisa said, “The source of the BCG wasn’t identifiable on the sign-in sheet or on the specimens. We’re going to need that information.”

  David smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll look into it.”

  After three weeks of working with the BCG, Lisa asked David, “Do you have the documentation on the BCG?”

  “I told you, I’d look into it,” he snapped.

  What’s that all about?

  Later that day, David came up to her. “I’m sorry. I’m working too hard and my sleep isn’t worth a damn. I contacted Alamand Labs in France. They’ll email you the BCG reference information.”

  Later that evening, following the Kendall board meeting, Eddie Macy took a call from Karl Muller.

  “What’s up, Karl?”

  “It’s about that BGG stuff you told me to watch out for.”

 

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