But now Kat was almost certain she was holding the answer in her hand in the form of the four-step chemical equation she’d written out on a sheet of paper. In a little while, she would know.
Kevin finally showed up at a little after ten, offering an excuse that he’d been called into consultation with his thesis professor. Kat brushed it aside and thrust the piece of paper into her assistant’s hands. She said, “Fine, fine. Now, take this and go down to Supplies and make sure we have the necessary chemicals to compound this formula.”
Kevin took the paper and walked toward the door, reading it. Kat got up from the computer desk and stretched her arms over her head. Kevin stopped at the door. He looked back at Kat, a funny look on his face. “Dr. Williams . . .”
Kat lowered her arms from their stretch and said, impatiently, “What’s the matter, Kevin, forget your way to the supply room?”
“No, ma’am.” He hesitated. “It’s just that this formula”—he motioned with the paper—“it’s acetylsalicylic acid.”
Kat wasn’t really listening. “So what? I didn’t ask you what it was. Just please get it.”
“But it’s aspirin, ma’am. I’ve got some in my desk if you need it.”
Kat stared at him blankly, her brain taking in the information but her mind not wanting to accept it. “It’s what?”
“Aspirin, ma’am. Plain old aspirin. The kind that Bayer claims nine out of ten doctors prefer.”
Kat felt her heart sink in her chest. Her stomach gave a flip, and she thought she was going to be sick. She’d been suckered—and not only suckered, but taken in by a silly little fat girl and a hulking oaf. They had deliberately let her into Ramsey’s computer, deliberately given her the password, and deliberately let her know that they knew she was trying to break in to Ramsey’s files. She sat down heavily in the stenographer’s chair.
At that instant Burton Ramsey suddenly appeared in the lab door. He said, “Why, hello, Doctor! Did my little prescription help your headache?”
And then he had disappeared down the hall, laughing wildly.
Kat put her head in both of her hands. She was defeated.
Sometime later, with the dying sun sending shadows through the windows of the cafeteria where Kat sat thinking over a cup of coffee, she finally reached a conclusion and an admission. The admission was that she had never planned to work with Ramsey. That she had intended to steal whatever data Ramsey had about whatever it was that had enhanced her serum, and then work alone, taking all the credit. She might have told Ramsey that they needed to talk, but what she’d meant was that Ramsey should talk and tell her all about his own serum. Never, never, had she intended to be put in a position of having a man like Ramsey as her scientific equal and partner. But now that had all changed.
The conclusion she’d reached was that she had to find some way to get Ramsey to work with her and share equally in the stupendous breakthrough her research was indicating. But that appeared as if it was going to be easier said than done. She had heard that there was only one person whom Burton Ramsey would listen to, and that was his ex-wife, Dr. Sheila Goodman.
Kat glanced out the window, watching the parking lot empty. She didn’t know much about Dr. Goodman. She could only hope she was nothing like Burton Ramsey, because, for all practical purposes, she was her last hope.
Kevin walked up and interrupted her reverie. “Dr. Williams, I’ve finished cleaning up the lab and I’ve put the rats in their cages. Everything is ready to shut down for the night.”
“Okay, Kevin, thank you.”
“Uh, Dr. Williams, do you mind if I ask what that asshole Ramsey meant when he taunted you from the door?”
She looked at him and couldn’t help it. She teared up and just shook her head.
Surprisingly, he moved to her, pulled her to her feet, and put his arms around her, squeezing gently. “Dr. Williams . . . Kat, I know something is going on that you’re not telling me about. I know the new test rats have been doing much better than ever before, and that you’ve had some sort of breakthrough. The rats act younger and smarter. Now, I know that I am only a lowly lab assistant, and if you don’t want to talk about this with me, just say so and I’ll go home and forget all about it.”
His kindness affected her in ways she couldn’t understand, but she did know his arms felt great around her, and so she sat him down and told him the entire story, up to her humiliation at being tricked by Ramsey’s computer joke.
He took her hands in his. “If you want, Kat, I’ll go and beat the truth out of him.”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary, Kevin. I’ve got something else in mind.”
He nodded. “Okay, but from now on, will you promise to tell me everything and let me help you?”
Touched, she nodded. “Of course.”
CHAPTER 11
It took Dr. Williams two days of discreet inquiries to learn Sheila Goodman’s schedule well enough to drop in on her unannounced. She had not wanted to call her in advance, for fear that she would discuss it with Burton Ramsey first and either refuse to see her or have her mind already fixed against her before she could say her first word.
Sheila received her in her consulting office in the Methodist hospital. Sheila’s first knowledge that the doctor in the lab next to her soon-to-be ex-husband’s was coming to visit her had come when her assistant had buzzed to say there was a Dr. Williams to see her, and that she only needed a moment of her time. Her first inclination had been to say no, for fear of angering Burton by appearing to be interfering in his business. But then curiosity got the better of her and she told her assistant to send the doctor in.
Sheila’s first impression of Williams as she came through the door was that she could certainly see why she and Burton didn’t get along. They were very unalike in both speech and in mannerisms. Where Burton was brusque and abrasive to most people, Dr. Williams was quiet and self-effacing . . . almost shy. She was the complete opposite of Burton Ramsey, and this was a case where opposites most certainly didn’t attract.
She walked into the room, took a second to look around, and then stuck out her hand to Sheila. “Hello, Dr. Goodman. I am Dr. Kaitlyn Williams, but I hope you’ll call me Kat like all of my friends do.”
Sheila grinned as she shook the doctor’s hand. “And are we to be friends, Kat?” she asked with raised eyebrows.
Kat shrugged, blushing. “I sincerely hope so, Dr. Goodman.”
Sheila waved her to a seat. “Come now, Kat. If we are to be friends, you must learn to call me Sheila.”
“Okay, Sheila,” Kat said hesitantly.
“Good. Now that we’ve got that settled, would you like some coffee, tea, or perhaps a soft drink?”
Kat smiled ruefully. “Some coffee would be great. I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately.”
Sheila punched a button on her intercom and asked her assistant if she would bring them both coffee, then she looked up at Kat. “Working late on something earth-shattering in your lab, I suppose?”
Kat looked surprised. “Has Dr. Ramsey said anything to you about my work?”
Sheila hesitated, then she shook her head, not wanting to repeat what Burton had told her about Kat trying to steal his formula. “No, not really. I just assumed that if you’ve been missing sleep over it, then it must be very important to you.” But that wasn’t what you wanted to see me about.”
Before Kat could answer, Sheila’s assistant came in with a carafe of coffee, two cups, and a small bowl of packets of creamer, sugar, and artificial sweetener.
After she put the tray down on Sheila’s desk, Sheila poured them both cups and gestured toward the bowl on the tray.
Her eyebrows raised and she grinned when she saw Kat add four packets of sugar to her cup.
After Kat took a deep draught of the coffee and sighed contentedly, she glanced up at Sheila. “You are right, of course, Sheila. I didn’t come here to talk about Dr. Ramsey, but about what I think we have stumbled upon.�
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Sheila pursed her lips. “And that is . . . ?”
“Of course, it’s much too early to tell, but I believe we’re on to one of the most important discoveries in medical history.”
Sheila looked at her blandly, with a slightly skeptical expression on her face. “Then, what is the trouble?”
Kat swallowed, then she drank down the rest of her coffee in one long gulp, as if to give herself courage to go on. “There seems to be a personality conflict between your husband and myself. In fact, he refuses to even discuss the matter with me.”
“Do you blame him?”
She shook her head. “No, not really. I’m afraid I abrade Dr. Ramsey. And I haven’t been particularly honest with him. We got off to a very bad start, most of which was my fault.”
She looked up, locking her eyes with Sheila’s. “But, Sheila, I cannot overemphasize the importance that Dr. Ramsey and I reach some degree of cooperation. The combined results of our serums could be stupendous.”
Sheila sipped her coffee and stared at Kat for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me how you happened to come to this remarkable conclusion, Kat?”
Kat took a deep breath and began. “Some short time back, about ten days, I happened to come into possession of twelve of your husband’s rats that had been injected with a blood serum I believe he’s been working on.”
Sheila cocked her head to the side and raised her eyebrows. “‘Happened to come into possession of’?”
Kat bowed her head and blushed crimson. “Yes . . . I mean, no. My assistant forgot to order replacement rats for our lab, and since it was during the weekend, I borrowed some from Dr. Ramsey’s office without asking his permission, fully intending to replace them the following Monday. I knew he rarely worked on the weekends, and I didn’t think there would be any harm done.”
“But,” Sheila said, “Burton found out about your ‘borrowing’ his rats and if I know him, it infuriated him.”
Kat nodded quickly. “Exactly. And to make matters worse, not knowing Dr. Ramsey’s rats had been inoculated with his serum, I injected six of them with a neuron accelerator I’ve been researching for three years. The results have been nothing short of phenomenal.”
“Oh? How so?”
“It appears that there is a symbiotic relationship of a very positive kind between his serum and mine.”
Sheila leaned back, looking at the younger woman. She could see how Burton would take an immediate dislike to her, and she wondered if Kat was subduing her normal personality to gain her acceptance. Once a neurosurgeon, always a neurosurgeon. She doubted if Kat could maintain this humble approach very long if she was being dishonest. But Sheila didn’t have a cruel streak, and she could very easily guess why Kat had come to see her.
“And you want me to bring you together with Burton, is that it?”
Kat stared at Sheila for a moment. “I believe I read that you are a specialist in internal medicine?”
Sheila nodded. “With subspecialties in endocrinology and geriatrics.”
Kat reached into a leather portfolio she had in her lap. She withdrew a sheet of paper with a long list of names on it. She glanced at it, and then she handed it across to Sheila. “Dr. Goodman, if Dr. Ramsey and I could pool our research, I believe we have an excellent chance of curing every one of the previously incurable diseases on that list.”
Sheila read down the paper and handed it back, impressed in spite of herself. “That’s quite a page full.”
“There’s more.”
“More?”
Kat looked down at the floor. “All of the test results so far—and you realize we are talking about laboratory experiments only on rats—indicate that the dual serums seem capable of retarding aging.”
Sheila stared at her in disbelief. “What?”
Kat was still looking at the floor. “Perhaps even reversing it.”
She had spoken so softly Sheila wasn’t sure she’d heard her correctly. She leaned toward her across the desk. “Did you say ‘reversing’ aging?”
“Yes, I did.”
CHAPTER 12
John Palmer Ashby was as old as he was rich, and he was very rich. He had been born in a tar-paper shack in a small, dusty West Texas town in the shadow of the very oil derricks that would later make him one of the ten richest men in the United States.
From his earliest days, he had fought and clawed his way through life, expecting and giving no quarter. He quit school at the age of twelve to work the oil fields, and he surprised everyone by waiting until he was eighteen to kill his first man, and that by accident. He beat the man to death with a whiskey bottle after an argument over the number of spots showing on a pair of dice. Afterward, Ashby drained the whiskey bottle, picked up the cash from the floor, and went back to work like nothing had happened.
He had won his first oil lease in a stud poker game, and quickly parleyed that first strike into a dozen producing wells by the time he was twenty-two. He drove his men as hard as he drove himself, making many enemies and few friends on his road to riches. He was fond of saying that you couldn’t find oil without spilling some blood, and few of his wells came in without at least one unmarked grave near the sludge pool. He paid top dollar, and his foreman and top crewmen got a percentage of the wells. No one much cared one way or the other about the men who got in Ashby’s way and died for their trouble, as long as his checks cleared the bank.
When a young man, he had been called J.P., and even today, the initials alone were enough to tell anyone in the state whom was being referred to. Once barrel-chested with arms like tree limbs, age and illness had shrunken and withered his body—but not his spirit, or his temper.
Beverly Luna, his day nurse, entered his room on tiptoe, hoping to check his IVs and escape without awakening him. She bent over the bed and tapped the clear plastic reservoir on the IV bottle with her index finger, checking the level of the fluid within.
“Goddamnit, Beverly! Don’t sneak around like that,” growled Ashby out of the side of his face that still worked. He scooted up in the bed and turned his head to look at her as he talked. “Walk in here with a little authority so a body can hear you coming, without being startled out of a sound sleep.”
Beverly started backing toward the door, mumbling, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”
As she turned and hurried out the door, Ashby just waved a limp hand at her in dismissal. He couldn’t tolerate anyone he could dominate, and that was just about everyone.
He lay there, eyes roaming the room that had become his prison since his stroke. It looked more like a hospital infirmary than a bedroom. There were IV bottles, medicine bottles, and several machines that beeped and wheezed and clicked as they went about their business of keeping J.P. Ashby alive.
He reached for the bell hung next to his bed to summon Beverly back, and he was still surprised when his left hand didn’t obey his command, even though it had been almost a year since the stroke that had robbed him of the use of the left side of his body.
Angry at his body’s refusal to obey his will, he rolled on his side and grabbed the bell with his right hand, ringing it furiously.
Beverly rushed into the room, breathless. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. What do you need, Mr. Ashby?”
“Unhook this goddamn oxygen. I want to have a cigar.”
“Now, Mr. Ashby, you know what the doctor said . . .”
Ashby jerked the oxygen tubes out of his nostrils and threw them at the terrified girl. “I don’t give a shit what that goddamn doctor said. I’m not going to lie here and waste away without even the comfort of a good smoke! Now, turn that blasted machine off and get me my cigar.”
At that moment, a man walked through the door, a lopsided grin on his face. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than most men made in a year, and had coal-black hair and a dark complexion.
“You’d better care what your ‘goddamn doctor said,’ you old reprobate, or I’m gonna quit coming around here trying to
keep your sorry ass alive,” the man said wryly.
One side of Ashby’s face turned up in a rare attempt at a smile. “Why, Dr. Tom, what the hell are you doing here?”
Dr. Tom Alexander glanced quickly at the nurse, Luna, and then he just shook his head. “I’ve been hearing reports from reliable sources that you’ve been a bad, bad boy and haven’t been taking the meds that I ordered.”
Ashby cut his eyes at the terrified nurse and pointed an index finger at her. “Goddamnit, Beverly, you’ve been talking out of school again. You’re fired! Now, get your bony ass out of my house!”
Alexander held up both hands, palms out. “Now, J.P., just cool your jets. The nurse is only doing what I told her to do . . . namely, trying to keep an ornery old fart alive so I can keep living in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed.”
He inclined his head at the nurse. “Go on now, Beverly, and don’t pay this grumpy old goat no nevermind. Maybe you could fix us both a cup of coffee—decaf for the grump and leaded for me.”
Ashby nodded his assent and Beverly scooted out of the room, her face flaming scarlet.
Alexander shook his head again at the old man in the bed. “Now, J.P., you’d better be nice to Beverly. She’s the third nurse I’ve had to hire this year, and with the word getting around, pretty soon we won’t be able to get anyone to take care of you.”
“Alright, alright,” Ashby grumbled. “I’ll try to take it easy, but damn it, what’s the use of staying alive if I can’t even enjoy an occasional cigar?”
“Occasional is okay. Ten a day is overdoing it,” Alexander replied with a smile.
As he took a seat next to Ashby’s bed, the doctor thought back to their first meeting two years previously. Alexander had been walking through the emergency room of the heart hospital in Corpus Christi when he heard a nurse shout, “Code blue! Code blue!”
He entered the nearest treatment room, where an elderly man on a stretcher was writhing, gasping for breath, and slowly turning blue.
Alexander, a cardiologist, quickly went to work, and after a touch-and-go thirty minutes had the man stabilized, though it was obvious that he had suffered a massive stroke.
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