“David thinks it’s the mice themselves. He said he’s seen this before in large scale research studies with genetically modified animals.”
Just then, the door opened.
“What’s going on here?” Karl Muller asked, pointing at Terri. “Who is she and what’s she doing at PAT?”
“Excuse me, sir,” Terri said. “Will you identify yourself?”
Karl smirked. “I’m chief of security.”
“May I see some identification?” Terri asked.
He ignored her. “Who gave you permission to enter this lab?”
“My name is Dr. Teresa Powell,” she said, showing her UC identity card with her picture. “I’m principal investigator on the BCG study with PAT that we’re conducting in San Francisco.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, miss. I see no record granting you access to the lab.”
“Karl,” said Evan. “She worked with Lisa and me. She’s entitled to be here. I invited her.”
“We’ll talk about you in a minute, Doctor. Meanwhile,” he said reaching for Terri’s arm, “I want you out.”
Terri pulled away. “Don’t you dare touch me. I have every right to be here. If you want me out, call the police.”
When Karl reached for her arm, Terri pulled away.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, grabbing her thick briefcase. “I’m leaving, but you haven’t heard the last of this.”
Terri walked toward the elevator with Evan lumbering beside.
The three watched as the red numbers moved to the third floor.
Muller entered the elevator behind them and stood staring in silence as the car descended.
As they walked toward Terri’s car, Evan stopped to face her. “I’ll talk to Greg Wincott to make sure this never happens again.”
“Get moving,” Karl said as he pushed Terri ahead.
Terri boiled. “Keep your damn hands off me.”
When Terri arrived at her car, she opened the trunk to store her briefcase and saw Matt’s aluminum baseball. She grasped it and turned to face Muller.
“Entertaining, very entertaining,” Karl said. “But don’t be foolish. That’s not going to do you any good.”
“Just keep away from me,” she said, her pulse racing.
Evan stepped between them. “Stop this right now, Karl. She’s leaving. What more do you want?”
“She’s not leaving until I check what’s in her briefcase,” he said extending his arm to push Evan away.
Evan raised his palm in the stop gesture.
“You’re a stubborn little monkey,” Karl said as he reached for Evan who lifted his hand and sprayed something into the big man’s face.
Karl’s eyes were on fire from the pepper spray as he flayed around trying to grab one of them. By chance, he found Evan, brought the tiny man to his chest and squeezed.
When Evan gasped in pain, Terri raised the bat and delivered a center field shot to the side of Karl’s head. It resounded with a dull thud. He reared up, stared at Terri though bloody eyes, and collapsed to the floor.
Evan dialed the Emeryville Police who called an ambulance. They took Karl to Highland Hospital in Oakland.
“This is insanity,” Evan said. “I’ll talk with the Wincotts.” He paused, then continued, “Until we clear this up, Terri, don’t come anywhere near Karl Muller. He’s not the kind of man to forgive and forget.”
When Matt arrived for dinner, Abbie and Terri were sitting in the middle of the couch. Abbie was upset with her arms crossed and tears running down her cheeks.
He looked at Terri and knew something was wrong. “What in hell happened?”
“I’m fine,” Terri said, looking into his eyes for understanding. “Let me get her to sleep and we’ll talk.”
Matt stewed. He tried to watch the evening news, but couldn’t pay attention.
Terri hugged him when she returned and told him the story.
“I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bitch.”
“You’re not doing anything. He’s in Highland Hospital in the hands of the police.”
“You scare me,” Matt said clutching her hands.
“Me too. I’m fit and strong, and a martial arts expert, but that guy scares me. I know you want to protect me, but don’t go near that guy. He’s dangerous.”
They had a light dinner, talked for a while then went to bed. Matt held her in his arms as she fell into a deep sleep.
When Terri opened her eyes the next morning, she flashed on Lisa’s rabbit’s paw flash drive. She pulled it from her purse, booted her computer, and inserted the drive into her USB port. When she double clicked on the drive icon, the computer opened a screen box that said, “type in password and hit return”.
“Shit!” Terri said. “Who can I trust to hack me in?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’m Tracey,” said the bubbly nurse, as Jennifer Howe took her seat in the leather lounge chair in the oncology treatment room at UC.
I hate bubbly, Jennifer thought.
“You’ve been here before. I never forget a face.”
“I was here for interferon treatment about two years ago. If you’ll forgive me, this place is entirely forgettable.”
“I understand,” Tracey said as she scanned Jennifer’s chart. “I’m so sorry.”
“Let’s not be sorry. Let’s beat this thing.”
“Did Dr. Beckman explain his treatment plan?”
“He’s a good man. He told me that these were powerful drugs and that I should expect side effects, severe side effects. I really didn’t want to hear more detail.”
“Remind me to thank him,” Tracey said. “They call this a three drug cocktail—I hate that word. There’s nothing remotely festive about this treatment. I won’t kid you. Things will get a lot worse before they get better.”
As Tracey went over the medication, how they would give it, and especially their side-effects, Jennifer felt dizzy and weak. Her eyes filled. She grabbed a tissue and wiped the tears away.
“I hate this,” Tracey said, “but I know the treatment is going to help. I look young, but I’m twenty-eight and I’ve seen how well most of our patients do.”
“I’m ready,” Jennifer said extending her arm.
Tracey examined Jennifer’s arms then placed a tourniquet, asking her patient to squeeze hard. She found a vein and inserted a plastic catheter.
“They just used a butterfly needle before,” Jennifer said.
“We can’t take any chances with this medication. If any of it leaks into your arm, it can be very damaging to the tissues.”
Damaging? Jennifer thought. And they’re running it into me?
After Tracey began the infusion, she sat by Jennifer. “I have two concerns. One relates to all patients. The other is specific to you.”
“Shoot.”
“One medication called Cisplatin is, as the name suggests, related to the metal platinum. It’s especially toxic to the kidneys. We’ll monitor your kidney function closely and may need to adjust the dose or even stop it if your kidney function declines.”
“But, Dr. Beckman says I need that drug.”
“That’s why we need to be so careful with it.”
“What other good news do you have for me?”
“Your veins aren’t so great. That may be a problem eventually.”
“I had great veins. Everybody told me so.”
“I don’t know what happened. Over time with taking blood and IVs even the largest veins will yield to our repeated assaults.”
“What then?”
“Dr. Beckman will recommend a portacath. The word comes from portal and catheter. It’s a minor surgical procedure where they place a tube into a large vein under your collarbone and attach it to a quarter-size chamber buried under the skin in your upper chest. It becomes a cinch to take blood and to infuse medications. No more needle sticks, infiltrated IV, and much less worry on both our parts.”
“Whatever it takes.”
> Jennifer became deathly ill following each infusion. She’d vomit for hours afterward. Within a month she had so little hair left that she shaved the rest. When they placed the portacath, drawing blood and infusing chemotherapy became easy. Moreover, the devise eliminated the uncertainty that accompanied each visit—could they get the IV catheter in.
“I’m so frustrated,” Mickey said as they sat at the breakfast table. “I feel that I should be doing more. Helping in some way.”
She caressed his face. “You’re doing as much as you can. I couldn’t make it without you.”
“I wish it were me.”
“Don’t say that. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”
After completing her latest treatment, the nurse wheeled Jennifer into the waiting room. The emesis basin, the icon of chemotherapy, remained on her lap.
I don’t know how much more of this I can stand.
Jennifer’s determination to get well, no matter, crumbled. It was undermined by the erosive waves of nausea, weakness, and the overwhelming sense of powerlessness.
She looked at her watch. It read 2:30 p.m.
Mickey should be here soon.
She shifted in the chair. Her rear end was sore from the hours of sitting. She placed both hands on the wheelchair’s arms and pushed herself into the standing position. She swayed a moment, and then held onto the furniture as she made her way to the window that looked down upon the city, bright in the afternoon sun. She stood, looking but not really seeing, then turned back toward her wheelchair.
The bulletin board by the door contained postings and announcements of all kinds including information about cancer support groups, web sites, and schedules of upcoming meetings. An article from the San Francisco Chronicle caught her attention with an announcement: New phase I study in malignant melanoma begins. She stared at the woman’s picture in the corner...Was it? It can’t be. It is...I’m sure it’s Teresa Russo. Her heart raced as she read further: Dr. Terri Powell, the lead investigator, will begin Phase I trials with a new vaccine against advanced melanoma. The study is a joint effort between the University of California and People for Alternative Treatment, an Emeryville biotech. firm.
Jennifer wrote down the phone number.
Jennifer Whitman had roomed with Teresa Russo at Columbia University.
Terri came from Long Island.
Jennifer grew up in New Bern, North Carolina and was at Columbia on a full scholarship.
“I can listen to your drawl for hours,” Terri said. “And, I’ve been practicing.” She paused and batted her eye lashes. “Y’all think I could pass for a Southern belle?”
“Just don’t say draw for drawer...that outs you every time.”
Terri was the kind of sister Jennifer always wanted. They were inseparable until graduation when Terri stayed at Columbia for medical school and Jennifer moved three thousand miles away to UCLA graduate school. They stayed close for the first year, but gradually, with busy lives, they drifted apart.
Jennifer collapsed in exhaustion when Mickey brought her home. She tried to sip a cup of broth, but remained so nauseated, she gave up and went to bed.
The next morning, Jennifer staggered into the kitchen. For once, the smell of coffee didn’t make her sick.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Mickey asked.
“Like a truck ran over me, and that’s better than it’s been in a week.”
“You got sick during chemo?”
“Yes, I hate that. At least at home, I can vomit in private.”
“It won’t be that much longer,” he said.
“Six weeks. I can’t do six weeks.”
“You’ll make it.”
“Do you remember me telling you about Terri Russo?”
“You went to Columbia together.”
“We were roommates—sisters—hell she was closer than any sister I ever had.”
“Why do you mention her name after so many years?”
“I saw an article at the clinic. Terri is running a program at San Francisco General Hospital. It’s a Phase I study for treatment of advance melanoma.”
“Call her.”
Jennifer pulled out the folded fragment of paper and dialed the number for Terri.
“Oncology services,” said the receptionist.
“I’d like to speak with Dr. Powell.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Jennifer Howe...no say Whitman, Jennifer Whitman.”
“Can I tell her what this is about?”
“It’s personal, miss,” Jennifer said becoming agitated.
“Just one moment.”
Jennifer listened to relaxing mood music as she waited.
The music stopped. “Jen, is it you? I can’t believe it after all this time.”
“Yes. It’s great to hear your voice. I see you lost your faux Southern accent.”
“Are y’all in town? I’d love to see you. Are you married? Do you have kids? I have a thousand questions.”
“Married. Two kids. A great husband.” Jennifer hesitated. “I saw your picture in the paper about your study...”
“What is it?”
“I saw it at the Oncology clinic at UC. I go there for chemotherapy. Jason Beckman is taking care of me.”
Jennifer heard her friend’s gasp. “I’m so sorry. What’s your diagnosis?”
“Metastatic malignant melanoma.”
The line remained silent but for Terri’s sobs.
Terri blew her nose. “Can you come over today? I’ll make the time.”
“Can we meet somewhere else or can you come here?” Jennifer asked.
“Any place at any time,” Terri said. “Give me your address. I’ll meet you after work.”
“Are you married?”
“No,” Terri hesitated, “but I’m seeing someone.”
“Bring him along. We’ll have dinner.”
“No. That’s too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Jennifer said. “We have cold beer and I’ll call for ribs.”
“Same ole red neck. See you around seven.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Karl Muller awakened, he tried to move his aching head. The room spun and he couldn’t focus.
Shit, my head’s killing me.
He looked around to discover that he was in a hospital. He tried to sit, but found his left wrist cuffed to the bed rail. The last thing he remembered was the fight with Teresa Powell and the dwarf.
I’ll kill that bitch when I get my hands on her.
Karl pulled on the handcuff. The bed rattled. “Get me the fuck out of here,” he shouted.
An enormous uniformed policeman entered. “Take it easy, pal. You have a concussion.”
“Where the hell am I?”
“Highland Hospital, in Oakland.” He swung his arm in an arc. “You’re our guest in the jail ward. There’s going to be a full investigation of your assault, wise guy.”
“I want my attorney.”
“Sure, who is he or she?”
“I want my phone call.”
The officer grabbed a telephone from the table nearby, brought it to the bedside, and plugged it in. “Five minutes, then,” he smiled, “I’m pulling the plug on you.”
Karl placed a collect call to Eddie Macy in Chicago. He felt relieved when Eddie answered.
“You’re a one man disaster,” Eddie said after Karl told him where he was and why.
“We got problems at PAT, Eddie. I’m doing the best I can.”
“I’m sending Kendall’s lawyer to get you out. I want you on a plane to Chicago tomorrow morning, capeesh?”
“Yeah, Eddie. I get it.”
When the policeman in front of Karl’s room saw Matt, he said, “You’re not back on the job, are you?”
“Emeryville P.D. couldn’t afford me.”
He lifted his thumb toward the door. “You know that creep?”
“Dr. Powell...Terri, she’s my girl. I need a moment with Mr. Muller
.”
“Okay, Matt,” he said, looking up and down the hallway, “but don’t do something that I’ll need to explain.”
When Matt entered the room, Karl sat up, holding his bandaged head. “Who the fuck are you?”
Matt came to the bedside and thrust his arm against Karl’s chest. Karl’s upper body fell backwards, his head striking the headboard.
“Christ!” he said, clutching his head..., “you’re killing me. Who the hell are you, and what do you want with me?”
“I’m Matt Hollis, and if you go near Dr. Powell again, that’s the last thing you’ll ever do in your miserable life.”
Karl smirked. “She’s a pretty one—wild too. I wish I had more time with her.”
Karl tried to sit up, but Matt held him down.
“Some people have to learn the hard way,” Matt said as he grasped a pillow and pushed it against Karl’s battered face.
Karl struggled, twisting and turning his body and pushing with his one free hand.
God, he’s strong, thought Matt.
As Karl’s efforts weakened, Matt removed the pillow then held his breath until Karl took a deep one of his own.
When Matt left, the officer said, “He okay?”
“Sure. He’s just taking a nap.”
Two days later, Karl Muller stretched out in first class on his American Airlines flight to Chicago. His head ached and his sore left wrist was still red from the handcuffs.
Karl’s mind returned to Chicago. I knew these guys were trouble, he thought as he mentally prepared for his meeting with Eddie Macy. They told me to take care of it, and so I did.
No sooner had the office door closed when Eddie lit into him. “You must be out of your fuck’n mind. Assault, burglary, and murder? What’s the matter with you?”
Karl felt himself reddening. “Wait just one damn minute, Eddie. Is it what I did or how I did it that you’re bitching about? Anyway, it was an accident.”
“What are you talking about?”
“David Birch discovered that a vial of BCG was missing. We thought Lisa Gomez took it.”
“What the fuck is going on at that goddamn place? Where is the vial?”
“She died before I could find out.”
A Simple Cure Page 12