A Simple Cure

by Lawrence Gold

  “How good are they?”

  “Very good. One or both will be on the market in the next few years.”

  “This is a big project, Henri.”

  “I know. I’m opening the old bacteriology lab on the third floor for you and the staff you’re going to hire, steal, or whatever. You’re going to test every batch of material that Laval sends out and anything we used to grow or augment the growth of biological material. We’re out of business until we clarify what’s contaminated and how it happened.”

  Denise stood. “What’s happening with the Cambridge patients?”

  “I’ve seen irony before in my life, but nothing like this. The advanced lung cancer patients at Cambridge are doing great with most showing no further evidence of the disease. Incredible results, yet they have no choice, but to stop the study. That’s like the drowning man. He needs a life preserver; instead, we throw him an anchor.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  At first, Terri didn’t know what it meant. She had the sensation that people were looking at her differently. She was on edge.

  Yesterday when a nurse stared at Terri, she lost it. “Can I help you?”

  When the nurse blushed and walked away, Terri felt even worse.

  Those phone calls—Lisa’s death—they’re driving me nuts, she thought.

  Then Terri had the more specific sense that someone was following her. She tried stopping suddenly and turning like she saw on TV. She tried looking into the reflection of storefront windows and mirrors, but she never saw a thing.

  I’m just being foolish and paranoid, she thought, but then she remembered the work of the psychologist Malcolm Gladwell on the ability of the brain to make accurate judgments without thought. Perhaps this ‘rapid cognition’ was telling her something she shouldn’t ignore.

  “We’ve all had it,” Matt said after dinner that night. “Sometimes I wish we had more of it, especially when you’re on patrol. I wish we had it that night when...”

  “When Ronnie died?”

  “Yes.”

  “You never talk about him.”

  “It’s too painful. I just wish it had been me up front at that apartment.”

  “Ronnie chose your path, and his own, too.”

  “It was my job to protect him. I knew he was an equal and so did Ronnie, but he also knew that you can’t undo millennia of evolution. Men, especially cops are taught to be aggressive, to take the lead. He was the one with a wife and kids. I should have gone first. Now he’s dead.”

  “But...”

  “Don’t Terri. I understand reality, the vagaries of luck, and I appreciate the support of everyone who told me it wasn’t my fault, yet I feel guilty.”

  “What did Ronnie’s wife say?”

  “Ellie and I tried to talk, but all we could manage was a good cry together. Then she did the worst thing possible; she tried to make me feel better. I could have dealt with anything but that.”

  Terri squeezed his hand. “You can’t get over that kind of loss. It’s part of your being. I’ll never really get over losing Richie, but I’ve moved on.”

  “If you have the sense of being followed for the next few days, you’ll be right. It’ll be me watching your pretty ass.”

  The next morning, Matt followed Terri’s BMW to work. He stayed eight to ten car lengths behind since he knew where she was going and wanted to see if anyone else had followed. He saw nothing.

  Matt returned to San Francisco General at 6 p.m. and waited to follow her home. When she pulled out, a black Lexus SUV followed. He was about to follow when another car, a Toyota Camry, slipped in behind the Lexus.

  What in hell is going on? Matt thought.

  It came as a surprise to Matt when Terri turned north on 880 and got off at the Marina in Emeryville. She turned left and headed out toward the San Francisco Bay. The Lexus followed. The Toyota continued straight back onto the Freeway.

  When Terri reached the turnaround at the end, she parked, walked to the breakwater, and sat on a bench staring at the lights of San Francisco.

  The Lexus parked in the most-distant lot.

  As Matt drove around the circle, he saw the flare of a match that illuminated the ugly face of Karl Muller.

  Matt pulled his car across the back of the Lexus, grabbed his Mag-Lite and his Sig P-229, and walked to the driver’s side door. He rapped on the window with his heavy metal flashlight until Karl lowered it.

  With Matt’s light in his eyes, Karl said, “Can I help you, officer?”

  Matt let the light sweep up to his face and on his pistol.

  “Oh, you again. What the fuck do you want?”

  “Put your damn hands on the wheel where I can see them,” Matt shouted.

  When Karl didn’t respond, Matt rammed the Mag-Lite into Karl’s ear. “I said put them on the steering wheel.”

  Karl reddened. His hands grasped the wheel so tightly that they turned white.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  Matt pointed the gun at Karl’s head. “Okay, play it that way. I warned you, now get out.”

  “Wait just a minute. I’m just doing my job.”

  “Your job. Right. Stalking a private citizen is a crime. You and your bosses will be hearing about it.”

  “Following Dr. Powell is part of my job. My boss wants to know what’s going on at PAT and who’s leaking, stealing emails, and if we’re lucky, who killed Lisa Gomez.”

  “You’re so full of shit, Karl. As far as I’m concerned, you’re suspect number one.”

  “Prove it. Who are you to roust me? Are you a cop, a writer, or a boyfriend?”

  “We’re onto you. Stupid people make mistakes. Meanwhile, if I see you anywhere near Dr. Powell again, you won’t have to worry about being arrested.”

  When Terri started her BMW, Matt turned as she drove back toward the Freeway. As he turned for that second, Karl grabbed the barrel of the Sig and tried to pull it away. The man was incredibly strong and was about to break the gun free when Matt smashed the base of the Mag-Lite into his nose. Blood spurted all over Karl’s face and the steering wheel.

  Karl held his bloody nose. “I’m going to kill you, you son-of-at-bitch. I’ve had enough of your shit.”

  Matt reached in and grabbed the ignition keys. He turned toward the breakwater and threw them into the dark cold waters of the bay.

  As Matt pulled away, he thought, Who was in the Toyota? How do they fit into the picture? What in hell is going on?

  When Matt reached Terri’s home, she gave him a playful kiss and a hug.

  “If you followed me, I didn’t see it. You must be pretty good.”

  “I was there, and so was our friend Karl Muller.”

  Terri paled and sat. “What happened?”

  “He said it was security related surveillance, but I think he’s full of it.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s a dangerous man. Is there anywhere you can send Abbie for a while?”

  “You don’t think they’d hurt her, do you?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s not take any chances.”

  “I can send her to stay with Kevin, my brother.”

  “Will she be safe with him?”

  “He lives next to the Klamath National Forest where no stranger passing over the roads goes unnoticed by the local pot growers.”

  “Your brother grows pot?”

  “I think of him as a lover of nature, especially green plants with hairy leaves and serrated leaflets.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Mickey placed a cool wash cloth against Jennifer’s forehead as she raised her head from vomiting in the toilet. “I can’t stand to see you this way.”

  “You can’t stand it. What about me?” she said, then grabbed her toothbrush. Afterward, she took a large swig of mouthwash, walked back into their bedroom, and removed her sweat-stained tee-shirt for a fresh one.

  “How much more?
” Mickey asked.

  “A month, that is if my kidneys hold up. Jason has reduced the dose of platinum as much as he can without making it useless.”

  “When’s your next treatment?”

  Jennifer reached into her purse for her pocket calendar. “Who can remember? Two days, Friday. That insures me a delightful weekend bent over the sink or the toilet.”

  Mickey hugged Jennifer. “I’m running out of things to say. I hear myself repeating the encouraging phrases over and over again. They’re beginning to sound hollow even to me.”

  “You don’t need a writing staff, sweetheart. I know how you feel by how you look at me. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.”

  Friday morning, Jennifer drove to UC. It was a bright windless day with gray-brown smog overlying the city. She coughed when she exited her car and breathed the murky air.

  Jennifer adjusted her position in the now all too familiar lounger awaiting her next chemotherapy treatment.

  Chemotherapy, that’s a euphemism for lethal injection, she thought.

  “How’s it going?” Jason Beckman said, as he approached with her chart.

  “Too much smog today. It’s got me coughing.”

  Jason stared at Jennifer, and then said, “Sit up. I’ll take a listen.”

  Jennifer leaned forward. He lifted her gown and placed the cold head of his stethoscope against her back. “Take a deep breath.”

  She did and coughed again.

  “One more breath.”

  “Is everything okay?” Jennifer asked looking into his eyes.

  “Probably. When we get days without our usual sea breeze, we get lots of coughing and wheezing. Just to be sure, let’s get an x-ray after you finish today.”

  “I need to check your films,” the x-ray tech said, “before I let you go.

  Jennifer waited on a bench outside the x-ray room. She looked through the small collection of aging magazines either Car and Driver or Guns and Ammo, and decided to pass.

  After fifteen minutes, the tech returned. “I need to shoot more films.”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “Doctor wants me to check on something.”

  When the tech took six more films at different angles, Jennifer began to sweat. Her mouth became dry and she could feel her heart pounding.

  Don’t do this to yourself, she thought.

  Twenty minutes later, the tech returned with a thick x-ray folder labeled Jennifer Howe. “Take these with you. Dr. Beckman would like to see you in his office.”

  “What’s wrong?” Jennifer pleaded.

  When the tech looked away, and failed to meet Jennifer’s gray eyes, she knew.

  “Go right in,” Jason’s receptionist said.

  That’s another foreboding first, she thought.

  Jason walked up to her. He took the x-ray folder and pulled out five films that he placed on his x-ray viewing box.

  “Come here, Jennifer,” he said pointing to the x-rays.

  Jennifer froze—she knew for the first time the true meaning of the familiar cliché, paralyzed with fear. She forced her body out of the chair then strained to lift her heavy legs to walk.

  “Take a look at these with me, Jennifer,” he said. “These are front and side views of your lungs.”

  Jennifer stared and although the images entered her eyes, she knew that they had never reached her consciousness.

  His next words brought everything into focus. “This is the shadow of your heart,” he said pointing to the middle of the film. “These broad clear areas are your lungs.”

  “Yes.”

  “At first, everything looked fine, but thanks to that alert radiologist, it’s clear that it’s not okay.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Jason grabbed a magnifying glass four inches in diameter, placed it over the left side of her x-ray, her right lung. “Look here.”

  Like one of those optical illusion drawings, at first Jennifer saw nothing. Then the soft cotton-like balls came into view. “What are they?”

  “I’m so sorry, Jennifer. It’s the melanoma, and it’s spread into your lungs.”

  Jennifer managed to say, “Like before?”

  “No. These cotton ball shadows are what we see when the melanoma spreads all over the body. I’m so sorry.”

  Jennifer’s hands rose to her face. When her mouth stretched into the shape of an oval, her mind flashed to Edvard Munch’s The Scream, and like the painting, she too screamed in silence.

  When Jennifer drifted to the right, Jason caught her just before she fell.

  She pushed his hands away. “I’m all right, I tell you. I’ll be fine.”

  “Can I get you something? Can I call someone?”

  Jennifer straightened up. She stood and straightened her dress.

  “How long do I have?”

  “This isn’t the end. We have...”

  “How long,” she interrupted.

  “Untreated, maybe three to six months, but we’re going to try something else.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll check the availability of clinical trials in gene therapy and the use of special immune cells against melanomas.”

  “Have any of those produced a cure or even some degree of control over the cancer?”

  “No. Not yet, but all these studies employ treatments never used before.”

  “What about Teresa Powell’s S.F. General study using BCG?”

  “I’m sorry, Jennifer. That study is closed. They have all the patients they need.”

  Jennifer rose. In a monotone, she said, “Thank you for everything, Jason. I know you tried your best.” Her mind searched for an appropriate goodbye. Finding none, she said, “See you around, I guess.”

  “I’ll be in touch soon, Jennifer.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “What kind of shit is that,” Mickey said when she delivered the news. “We’ll go anywhere. Pay anything. We’re not giving up.”

  Jennifer caressed his cheek. She felt calm and in control for the first time since this whole thing began. “We can’t spend what’s left of my life in a futile search for something that doesn’t exist. I won’t spend my remaining time like the actor Steve McQueen who threw away the time he had for Mexican quack chemotherapy and destructive, worse than useless surgery.”

  “Please, no,” Mickey said, as he lowered his head into her lap and cried.

  After a moment, he lifted his head. “What about Terri Powell’s study?”

  “It’s closed,” Jennifer said. “She’s not accepting any new patients.”

  “Like hell she’s not.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Henri Charles’s secretary peered into his office. “I have Dr. Howard on the line. It’s the fifth time he’s called from Cambridge.”

  Henri stared out his window. He knew he couldn’t avoid the conversation any longer.

  “Good morning Philip, or should I say, good afternoon.”

  “I don’t know if this has reached the international press, but our local media has gone wild over the study’s cancellation.”

  “I’m sorry. It was bound to happen when early results have been so spectacular.”

  “We have protestors at our gates and TV specials with terminally ill lung cancer patients pleading for the vaccine. It’s a mess.”

  “What would you have me do? We can’t release a Phase I vaccine when we know it contains dangerous material.”

  “How sure are you that it’s dangerous? Have you any proof of adverse affects?”

  “All we know is that prions are present and that autopsied mice showed brain abnormalities like we see in Alzheimer’s and Mad Cow Disease.”

  “When we balance certain death against speculation that we’re administering something that may have adverse affects, it’s a...what’s that American phrase...oh yes, a no-brainer.”

  “This is difficult enough without you being disingenuous, Philip.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Hen
ri.”

  “What would have been your reaction to our BCG if I said, ‘by-the-way Philip, the vaccine’s contaminated with prions, those annoying little things that cause Mad Cow Disease?”

  “That doesn’t change reality. We used it. It works. Patients need it or they’ll die. There isn’t a one who will refuse to sign a hundred page release written by your best attorneys to protect Laval.”

  “No attorney has written a release that allows an individual to sign away his rights. When the first patient has some untoward event, related or not to our BCG, they will sue and we’ll have to defend.”

  “And, you’re going to let people die to prevent a law suit?”

  “Wait just a minute, Philip,” Henri growled. “You have enough BCG to treat perhaps up to eighty more patients. You don’t need me. Go ahead and use it.”

  “If you think you have administrative hurdles to the use of experimental medications, you should see what we have here in the U.K. I can’t do it by myself. They’d close me down, but if we do this together, maybe we can make it work.”

  “I’m not the villain here, Philip. I’ve spent my life trying to help people...”

  “I know. Let’s choose to give these patients their one chance at life.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Please Henri, if you ask your attorneys or administrators whose interests aren’t primarily oriented toward patients, you’ll know what they’ll say.”

  “Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Henri.”

  “One thing, Philip, whose jails serve the better food, the UK or those in French Canada?”

  After Henri hung up, his mind returned to Emile Gigot and the lost BCG. That too must have been contaminated.

  Is it at the bottom of the marina or did someone steal it? Where is it? How is someone using it?

  The thought made him tremble.

  At ten p.m., Matt kissed Terri goodnight. He’d be riding tonight on patrol with the Oakland P.D.

  She was brushing her teeth when the phone rang. Who’s calling at this hour?

  When Terri picked up the receiver and heard the deep breathing, she yelled, “Fuck you!” and hung up.