“It’s bad enough to be second-guessed at work, but at home, where I’m ‘king’ of my own castle,” Jack smiled, “I feel like Rodney Dangerfield: I don’t get no respect!”
Beth stood beside Jack caressing his hair. “That’s the problem when you keep your queen working.”
Since they both worked in ICU, shoptalk was inevitable, but with Rachel’s startling rebirth and the uncertainty about what happened, they couldn’t let go of the subject.
“Harmony Lane must have given Rachel something,” Jack said, “and since she’s working with DNA viruses and gene therapy that’s the logical answer.”
“Deliberately infecting someone with a virus designed to spread throughout the body and infect every cell...that scares the hell out of me, Jack. I know it’s supposed to deliver genes created to help, but the thought freaks me out.”
“That this could happen in a hospital like Brier, says a lot about the company that would make such a drug available and even more about the physician who’d willingly administrate it to a patient. Since Rachel’s case couldn’t have fit into any study design, it’s about the most irresponsible thing I have ever seen a physician do.”
“Can she get away with it?”
“Harmony obviously has the full support of Rachel’s family, and though I hate to admit it, she may have saved Rachel’s life. I know Harmony; at least I thought I did. I knew when we put her on staff that she was willing to go to any lengths to help her patients, but I never anticipated this.”
“Jack, what are you saying? What did you know and how could you have let her on staff?”
“When you have an open staff as we do at Brier, it’s almost impossible to exclude a qualified physician.”
He told Beth about Harmony’s previous run-ins with physicians in her training program and her intransigence. “The head of her program, Alice Hoffman is a woman I trust. She signed off on Harmony, and after reviewing everything we had on her, so did I. We can’t predict the future. We make the best guess we can, and hope we’re right.”
Beth was silent for a moment then stood. “What’s going to happen with Rachel, and,” she paused, “what’s going to happen to patients in Harmony’s office? What’s going to happen to Sandy?”
“God only knows, but as far as I’ve heard, all her patients are doing well and she assured me that the research studies have shown no complications, meaning the only thing to be concerned about is that the treatment might not work.”
“That doesn’t make me feel much better.”
“I have to see you, sir,” Raymond Ames said when he got Archie Blake on the phone.
“What is it, Ray?”
“Can I come out? Do you have time today? I have some data that you must see at once.”
“PAT data?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t do anything that might compromise your position with PAT.”
“I don’t have a choice…not if I want to look at myself in the mirror again.”
As Ray drove toward Davis, he thought, I knew it was a mistake, leaving the university and casting my lot with Andre Keller.
When Ray arrived at the Molecular Research Center, he entered Archie’s office. Archie cleared space on his desk, moving stacks of reports and compiled data forms to the side.
Ray sat before Archie’s desk with a faded leather briefcase on his lap.
“Well, Ray, you have my attention. What’s up?”
He hesitated. “I’m very uncomfortable being here sir, but certain things are going on at PAT with Dr. Keller’s research that you need to know. I understand that you’re on the board of directors, but I suspect that I’ve already compromised the confidentiality agreement I signed with PAT by just being here.”
“Look, Ray, I know you’re an honorable man. You wouldn’t be here if you had another choice. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t feel so honorable sir. Similar things happened when I was at Davis with Andre’s analysis of his research data. Andre had felt comfortable in casting aside data that didn’t agree with the major thrust of his findings. He convinced me that this was standard operating procedure in all research labs, so I let it go. Now, with the DNA vector studies and clinical trials...I mean patients are receiving these viruses, I can’t, in conscience, remain silent.”
Archie caught Ray’s anxiety. “What is it?”
Ray was on the verge of tears. “I’m only a technician, sir. You can’t expect me to understand complex data like you or Andre, but Dr. Keller asked me to toss out some data that shows alarming complications to certain groups of mice late in their lives. This included reversal of the benefits seen following initiation of treatment, and of most concern to me, rapid aging near the end of the group’s lifespan. I can’t imagine what that might mean if it should occur in our Phase II patients.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the data was no good, that I should toss it. But,” he paused, “I didn’t, and it’s all here for your analysis. I’ve been pacing the floor every night since this whole thing began. I’m passing the buck to you, sir,” Ray said as he grabbed the three-inch thick data folder and placed it on Archie’s desk.
“I’ll look at it tonight. God help us if your concerns are valid.”
Ray stood to leave, then turned to Archie. “Oh, another thing, Dr. Blake; one dose of PAT0075 is missing and I’m pretty sure where it went.”
Each Thursday for the past three weeks when Beth went to Planned Parenthood, the demonstrators from Evangelicals for Life were on the street protesting. They’d subjected her repeatedly to jibes, pleas, and religious admonitions that she shook off as part of their political game.
If this is the price for a woman’s ability to control her body, it’s okay by me, she thought.
The EFL group had taken their opposition to new highs, and for the first time Beth felt uncomfortable—no, physically threatened by their most vitriolic members. She’d taken the step of parking four or more blocks away to avoid confrontation.
It was dark and drizzling when Beth finished her early evening session, training other volunteers and nurses in the Nobody’s Fool Program. It had become so successful that they planned a wider series of presentations throughout Northern California. She felt relieved as she exited and saw that the demonstrators were gone. She strolled the street heading north, peering over her shoulder from time to time.
Something’s not quite right.
When she reached her car, Beth could see immediately that something was wrong. The car listed severely toward the curb. She knelt to inspect her car and one glance brought the explanation. Somebody had slashed both curbside tires. Somebody had tied a package to her windshield wipers. Beth loosened the package, feeling its weigh and texture and was about to open it when her heart began pounding as she heard footsteps from behind. She stood and backed into the side of her car in near panic shouting, “Who is it? What do you want?”
Two figures approached, a tall man, and a small woman. She could not make out their features, because they were backlit by the bright neon signage of the 7-11 across the street.
Beth looked both ways, searching for the clearest path for escape. She began to perspire and shake.
“I’m sorry we frightened you Beth,” came a familiar voice.
“Who is it? What do you want?”
“We just want the opportunity to talk with you,” came from the faces Beth recognized instantly, Reuben Trask and his sweet friend, Melanie Harper.
Pointing to her tires, Beth said, “Did you have anything to do with this?”
Melanie looked at the slashed tires. “We haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“You or one of your fanatics did this.”
Reuben smiled. “How terrible. Can we offer you a ride?”
“No thank you. I’ll use my cell to call triple A.”
Melanie extended her hand to grasp the package. “I’ll hold that package while you dial.”
B
eth shook her head. “No thanks.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Reuben, “what’s in that package?”
Beth suddenly became even more concerned, anxious.
Reuben grabbed the package from Beth’s hands. “Why don’t we open it?”
Reuben held the package on his outstretched palms while Melanie began slowly to remove the twine and unwrap it.
When the third layer of wrapping came off, Beth saw a small white plastic container the size and dimensions of a shoebox. When Melanie removed the lid, Reuben slowly and dramatically turned to expose its contents to Beth.
These people are totally wacko, Beth thought as she peered into the box. At first, due to the poor lighting she did not recognize its contents. She looked up at Reuben and Melanie as they awaited her reaction. When she turned the box to improve the lighting, she saw the mummified remains of a fetus. She stared into the box while watching their reactions. Melanie was smiling in anticipation.
Suddenly, Beth began laughing. She continued to laugh as Melanie and Reuben looked at each other in disbelief.
“You morons. You believed that this stupid, cruel, and juvenile prank would somehow affect me...shake me from my fundamental beliefs...punish me for supporting a woman’s right to choose. I can’t believe that you two can dress and feed yourselves.”
“You bitch!” shouted Melanie as she lunged forward swinging her fist toward Beth’s face.
“No,” shouted Reuben as he tried to move between the women.
Beth ducked Melanie’s wild swing and drove her fist directly into Melanie’s nose, noting a delicious crunching sound as her attacker’s nose broke and her face flooded with bright red blood that dripped onto her yellow dress.
As Reuben saw to his partner’s injury with pressure from his now bloodstained handkerchief, Beth faced them. “I can’t thank you two enough. More than ever I understand the value of what we’re doing at Planned Parenthood and what kind of world we’d have if the likes of you were ever to get into power.”
When Beth reached home, she was still fuming, and Jack noticed that something was wrong immediately.
As he approached her for a hug, he saw her green scrub shirt stained with blood and that she was opening and closing her fist.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
“You should see the other guy,” she replied, smiling and rubbing her hand.
“I told you, Beth, no more fighting or you’re grounded.”
“Please do it...please, Jack.”
“No, really, what happened?”
“It was those damned right-to-lifers, this time the Evangelicals for Life, who find Biblical justification for everything, every act of cruelty. How they call themselves Christian is beyond me.”
“What happened?”
“They slashed my tires...yes, I reported it to the police for all the good it will do, and then they presented to me a mummified fetus...that was supposed to shock me, and when I laughed in their faces, probably not a smart move on my part, a young woman, one of their devout Christians, tried to assault me. When she missed, I broke her nose. She won’t be smelling much for a while.”
Jack hugged Beth. “You must be careful with these people. There’s no limit to what they might try. They’re exactly the kind of extremist group that’s been responsible for the bombing of women’s clinics and the killing of abortion providers.”
“Don’t blame me this time. I’ve put myself on the line at demonstrations before, but they followed me to my car. I had no choice.”
Jack pulled her close. “I’m not blaming you. This is a sensitive subject and it evokes strong emotions on both sides of the issue.”
“I hate to say this, but they scare me, Jack. I can abide differences of opinion. I can even understand what motivates them, but what I can’t tolerate is violence, threats, and intimidation as political strategy.”
Chapter Thirty -Two
Patrolman Jeffrey Bridges always insisted everyone use his full given name. He’d tired of the movie star references to Jeff Bridges and the jokes at his expense. He and his partner, Cyrus Brand were nearing the midpoint on their night patrol. They drove the Oakland Police Department’s black and white down shiny-wet College Avenue toward the Rockridge Bart Station, heading for a small all-night coffee shop. The darkness of the overcast night yielded to the fluorescent glare of the now-closed Bart station’s platform. As they turned left to cross the empty parking lot, Cy turned to Jeffrey. “Slow down. There’s something over there.” He pointed to his right.
Cy drove toward the shadowed bushes alongside the stairs extending up to the station platform.
Jeffrey slowed the car. “It’s probably another drunk.”
Jeffrey turned the high intensity spotlight on the still figure. Three-inch red heels reflected in the bright light.
Cy clicked on the blue strobe lights and parked.
Death, while not a nightly event, was all too familiar to them. Yet as they followed Cy’s flashlight beam, they felt a primal dread, the awe, and the respect for the dead.
Cy stared at the body. It could be my wife, or my mother lying there alone in the darkness.
Jeffrey shook the body. It was stiff, cold…lifeless. He ran his Mag light upward until it reached the heavily made up face of a woman in her 70s or 80s. Her clothes, however, were those of a much younger woman.
“Call it in Cy. More damn forms to fill out tonight.”
Cy returned to the body. “They want us to wrap it up. I called for the Meat Wagon. They’ll pick up the body and transport it to the Coroner’s office in downtown Oakland. She’ll wait in the cut room refrigerator until the coroner gets to her in the morning.”
When Dr. Clarice Henson, the forensic pathologist, arrived later the next morning, she looked at her schedule of patients for the day. Only five on the list, a slow day in Oakland, a jungle where nighttime predators pursued the innocent and the damned alike. The police had killed three men following an attempted robbery, one was a self-inflicted-gunshot-wound, and the fifth was the elderly woman found at the Rockridge Bart station.
She needed a break from the daily superabundance of gunshot wounds, so she’d start with the old woman. Her assistant slid the body from the bank of refrigerated holding compartments onto the gurney. He then transferred her to the stainless steel autopsy table.
As Clarice uncovered the body, she noted at once that something was off—unusual. The woman appeared to be about eighty, but wore a DKNY dress and red pumps. Her ears showed multiple piercings with two gold rings in each scaly earlobe, and five additional diamond studs near the edges of both ears. Her hands were wrinkled, brown-spotted, but her nails had been finely manicured with bright red polish and rhinestone-centered flowers.
What’s going on here?
When they removed her dress, Clarice saw matching pink lace bra and panties, which they removed to complete the skin examination. They rolled her over and saw on the back of her right shoulder a three-inch tattoo of a green frog with a gold belly, red eyes, and red-tipped fingers. Clarice took a picture for the record.
The remainder of the autopsy was unrevealing except for the corpse’s teeth that looked like those of a much younger person, and some intact and partially digested yellow tablets in her stomach. She recognized the pills instantly, Valium, enough for a good night’s sleep, but not enough to explain the death. Blood levels confirmed the benign nature of the Valium usage.
Clarice placed a call to missing persons. “This is Dr. Henson, the medical examiner. I’m trying to get information on a missing elderly woman.”
The clerk said, “Just a minute, Doctor. I’ll get the report book.”
Minutes later, she picked up the phone. “Who are you looking for, Doctor?”
“That’s it. I don’t know. In the last few weeks have you had any inquiries for a woman in her late 70s or 80s.”
“No, Doctor, not for the past few months.”
“Thanks anyway. Listen, I’m sending over a phot
o of a tattoo on our Jane Doe. Look at it and call me if it rings a bell. I’m at extension 304.”
“Will do, Doc.”
Later that morning Clarice’s phone rang. It was missing persons.
“You know that tattoo you sent over, kinda unusual, the frog I mean? When I saw it, I remembered a report of a missing woman with that kind of tattoo, but she was only thirty-four. Her name was Zoe Sims and her friends reported her missing two weeks ago.”
Three days later, after comparison of dental x-rays, Jane Doe became Zoe Sims.
Clarice picked up the shiny autopsy photo, studied each carefully, and shook her head. What in the world happened to you, Zoe?
Shelley Stillwell came into Harmony’s office. “I have Dr. Clarice Henson, the Oakland medical examiner on the line. She wants information on Zoe Sims.”
Harmony Lane felt nauseated immediately. She picked up the receiver slowly. “Dr. Lane here. How can I help you?”
“Dr. Lane, do you have a patient named Zoe Sims?”
Harmony’s hands shook. “Of course I do, Zoe’s a patient and a friend. Why are you calling?”
“I don’t really know what’s happened, Dr. Lane, but could you come to the morgue on Washington Street in downtown Oakland?”
“Come down? Why?”
“I need you here. Can you come?”
Zoe’s pulse was increasing. She felt sweat erupting on her lip. “Can’t you tell me what’s this about?”
“Are you coming or not?”
“Of course I’ll come. I have to finish up here in the office. I won’t be through until about five. Can you wait?”
“I’ll be here. Just tell the guard that I’m expecting you. See you at 5:00.”
Harmony was unable to focus on work for the rest of the afternoon. Several patients, used to her full and sympathetic attention, asked, “Are you okay, Dr. Lane? You seem to be in another world.”
The Plague Within (Brier Hospital Series) Page 17