The Plague Within (Brier Hospital Series)

by Lawrence Gold

  Arnie closed Harmony’s folder. “What happens to her legally is in the hands of the police and the Bureau of Medical Quality Assurance (BMQA). It’s out of our control. Nobody’s going to agree to a slap on the wrist because if we don’t deal with her severely, we’ll be condoning her behavior.”

  “This is crap!” Sharon shouted. “We have standards of care to protect our patients. Harmony Lane is nothing but a medical anarchist.”

  “What do you think, Jack?” Arnie asked.

  “I’ve talked this over with Ben and given the facts, this is what I’m recommending: first, suspend her privileges for six months at once; second, require her to undergo psychiatric counseling to the point where she recognizes and accepts the limitations of practice as we all do; and third, bring her back on the staff in a controlled way with concurrent monitoring of her work for at least a year.”

  Sharon turned to Jack. “What’s the matter with you? At the very least, she’s guilty of involuntary manslaughter. It’s only luck that she didn’t give Rachel the PAT0075.”

  “I agree with you completely, Sharon. Harmony will have to deal with the legal system. Give me some alternative between what I’m recommending and Harmony’s total professional destruction. I’ll consider it.”

  “What about her office practice?” Sharon asked.

  “We have no legal way of dealing with that, but we should demand that she close her office for six months as well. I suspect that if she makes an agreement with us, it may serve her well when she deals with BMQA and may help with her legal problems. I don’t think BMQA and the law may be as generous.”

  After more discussion, the committee finally agreed with Jack’s recommendations and demanded that every detail should go to the hospital’s risk assessment manager and to the police.

  That evening Jack sat with Beth. He shook his head. “I must have been in a dream world.”

  “You’re the realist, Jack. I can’t believe that you’re surprised.”

  “I’m more than surprised; I’m shocked and embarrassed by members of our medical staff. They’re screaming for Harmony’s blood, yet when we’ve had the incompetent, the drug addicted, the alcoholic and the surgeon who couldn’t unzip his fly with two hands, they were satisfied with a token punishment.”

  “I love you, Jack, but you’re willfully blind when it comes to some of your colleagues... your male colleagues. You play the cynic and you may deceive most, but you don’t fool me. I’m a woman and I see it every day. Harmony is just a glaring example.”

  “Example of what?”

  “Let’s ignore the fact that Harmony is responsible for at least one death, and deserves punishment, that’s not what I’m talking about. Harmony’s real mistake was being a woman in a man’s world who didn’t abide by the rules.”

  “Let me brace myself for the feminist rhetoric...”

  “Don’t give me that, sweetie. I know this is exactly what you believe, and what you’d say if you were a woman.”

  “If I were a woman, I’d be in the spa having a manicure, a pedicure, and a facial.”

  Beth laughed. “I’d pay to see that.”

  Jack got serious again. “You were saying?”

  “Harmony committed the cardinal sin. She was successful in a man’s world practicing her own kind of medicine. She went her own way tolerating the dismissive attitudes of some who thought and said aloud that she was a kook, a fool, and an incompetent. Worse still, and unforgivable, was the fact that women chose to leave male physician’s practices for Harmony’s. The demands for extreme sanctions on Harmony, for her ass, are payback. They’re ‘let’s put the bitch in her place,’ payback.”

  Beth’s eyes were full as Jack pulled her into his arms. She resisted for a moment then came to him. “You’re correct, of course. It’s right there, isn’t it—just below the surface?” He paused for a moment, holding his wife, his love, his life, and then whispered, “If we didn’t have such high hopes about people, maybe we wouldn’t set ourselves up for disappointment.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Andre Keller, Ray Ames, and Archie Blake sat around the research lab’s conference table. They’d stacked data reports next to piles of two-inch thick research proposals received from around the world. Even the conservatives in academia, after venting their rage at the irresponsibility of PAT and its investigators, put their philosophical and scientific outrage aside in an attempt to be helpful.

  The circumstances surrounding the death of Zoe Sims and a few others across the country, had raised red flags in the scientific community, but so far, nobody in popular media had made the connection. They knew it would come, but for now, they could spend their time focusing on trying to understand the basic biology involved, the first step in finding a cure.

  What a time to be combining basic science research with the urgent need for a cure, Archie thought. It’s like combining random notes and expecting to produce a symphony.

  Andre held the latest reports. “The reactions to repeated doses are severe and immediate. If we can’t overcome these reactions, I don’t see how we can reverse the processes.”

  Archie thumbed through the summary data sheets. “All the animals receiving the DNA vector acted as if they’d been immunized, like they’d received a flu shot. The reactions to subsequent doses fell into two categories; first, within days to weeks, some developed a mild to moderate reaction with slight fever, swollen glands, and skin and joint problems. I call that a serum sickness-type reaction. Others began reacting to the adenovirus like they’d become highly allergic, like a child sensitized to bee venom; they died within minutes.”

  Andre shook his head. “Every time we tried to premedicate these animals with antihistamines or cortisone they still died, but at a slower pace.”

  “This is a total waste of time,” Archie said. “We’ve tried everything from higher doses of the viral vector, to antiviral medication, to combinations with drugs targeted against the immune system. Nothing works.”

  “If we had a year or two, maybe we could come up with something for these patients,” Andre said.

  Archie scanned the group.“We have a week to ten days with these women. Beyond that, the problem will be academic.”

  The changes were subtle at first. Angela’s energy level had declined. She’d been dating Richard Cooper, a point guard for the Houston Rockets and attributed her fatigue to overindulging herself in bed with the endless energy of this well-trained athlete. She’d become a regular at the Toyota Center, sitting with the basketball players’ wives and girlfriends.

  Their lovemaking had the flavor of a competition between a woman of forty-three and an athlete of twenty-eight. It had been an even match.

  “It must be true,” Richard said, “what they say about women reaching their prime later than men. If you haven’t reached yours yet, Angela, I’m going to need help.”

  “Without putting my reputation at risk, Richard, let’s call it a night. I’ve been working too hard lately and you...”

  “You do look a little tired, Angela. Are you getting enough sleep?”

  What’s he talking about?

  “I’m sure I’m getting enough bed. I’m not sure I’m getting enough sleep.”

  Each morning over the next three days, Angela studied her face in the mirror. Denial worked well for days one and two, but by day three, she had to accept the fact that she looked older; her skin was drier, the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes had returned, along with the all too familiar achy joints.

  As Angela stared into the mirror, she felt the first tinge of panic. She recalled what Andre Keller had said. Could this be happening to her?

  She left messages for Andre, each more frantic than the one before. It took a day and a half before he returned her call.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she screamed.

  “Angela, I’ve been busy. What’s so important anyway?”

  “I’m back to where I was before you gave me the PAT0075. Where is this th
ing going?”

  “I don’t know. If you’re lucky, the process, the virus, has just run its course.”

  “And if I’m not lucky?”

  “I can’t get into that now. We’re spending twenty hours a day searching for a way to control the accelerated aging. Hopefully, we’ll have the answer soon.”

  “Goddamn it, Andre, that’s not good enough. You told me this stuff was safe, that all I need be concerned about is that it wouldn’t work. You should see me,” she said panic rising in her voice. “There’s going to be hell to pay if you don’t fix this.”

  “Angela, you insisted. I warned you. You wouldn’t listen. You can’t do anything to me that I haven’t done to myself. Maybe I can fix this...maybe I can’t.”

  “Andre,” she pleaded, but the line went dead.

  Chapter Forty-F ive

  Ritchie Porter sat in his Porsche Carrera parked outside Harmony Lane’s apartment. He’d followed her home from the office. Wisps of bay fog streaked down the street.

  She won’t get away with it.

  He’d tried again to see her in the office, but he couldn’t get by Shelley Stillwell.

  “How often do we have to say it? You’re not welcome here. We have nothing to say to you.”

  When he tried to push his way through, Shelley taller and heavier, grabbed him by the nape of his neck and threw him into the hall. “We’ll have a restraining order by the end of the day, Mr. Porter. Come near any of us again, and it will become a police problem.”

  If the office hadn’t been filled with patients, he would have extracted the Colt .45 ACP Model 1911 automatic tucked into the small of his back.

  He caressed the shiny blue automatic as he waited.

  At 8:30 in the evening, while Harmony was trying to maintain an interest in a Law and Order rerun, the intercom buzzed.

  Who could that be at this hour?

  “Can I help you?”

  “Dr. Lane, it’s Ritchie Porter, and I need to see you right away.”

  She shuddered, remembering the incident this afternoon and the police warning.

  “You’re not welcome here, Mr. Porter. If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”

  “Please, just for a moment. I need to speak with you.”

  “I’m sorry. Call me in the office tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Fifteen minutes later, her doorbell rang. She tensed immediately. “Who is it?”

  The bell sounded again.

  Harmony looked through the security wide-angle peephole viewer. It was Ritchie Porter. Suddenly the door shook with two shots that pierced her heavy wood door. She felt a strong blow to her abdomen and staggered back. Blood dripped from her side, down her leg and onto the entryway tile floor. She next heard the sound of running feet and the stirring within other apartments. She grasped her side and then started for the kitchen. As she reached for the wall-mounted phone, she felt dizzy and slumped to the floor. Harmony pulled a kitchen chair to her side, and with its support, she strained to the standing position, and dialed 911.

  Andre Keller had returned to his home at two in the morning. He couldn’t go on without sleep. Each day had been more frustrating than the last. They were getting nowhere and it seemed the harder they worked, the less progress they made. He’d tried to read the latest edition of Genetic Engineering News, but he was too tired to concentrate. He soon discovered he couldn’t sleep, as his mind agonized over insurmountable problems. Somewhere between sleep and awareness, it hit him. He sat up in bed, smiled, and then shook his head.

  My God, that’s it!

  Andre picked up his phone and dialed Archie Blake.

  After eight rings, Archie finally answered. “Dr. Blake. What is it?”

  “Archie, it’s Andre. I have the answer. I’m on my way to the lab. I should be there by 4 a.m. Meet me. I’m calling Raymond to meet us there as well.”

  “Andre, what is it?” The line was dead.

  As Andre drove to the lab, his mind raced.

  It’s so obvious, maybe too obvious. I’m surprised Archie didn’t think of it himself. It’s right up his alley.

  He drove into the deserted parking lot at People for Alternative Treatment. Bright lights lit the entire campus except for the area surrounding Andre’s designated parking space. He exited his car, grabbed his heavy leather briefcase, and started toward the main entrance between well-developed and beautifully manicured hedges. Suddenly, he heard footsteps from behind and when he tried to turn, he felt something hard pushing into his back.

  “Don’t move. Don’t say a word. Don’t try to turn or you’re a dead man.”

  Andre reached for his wallet. “What is it?...here, take it all.”

  A black-gloved hand swatted away the wallet.

  He tried to turn again when he felt something hard crashing against the side of his head. He was stunned for a moment.

  “I said keep your eyes forward, you son-of-a-bitch. It’s time to pay up.”

  “Pay up? What are you talking about? You must want someone else. You’ve made a mistake.”

  “Dr. Keller?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Andre Keller?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you really think you could get away with it…taking my Zoe from me?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Zoe Sims. You don’t even remember the names of your victims, the pawns in your hideous research.”

  Before Andre could answer, he heard the blast, felt the heat and saw the white light, then oblivion.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Archie Blake and Ray Ames arrived at the lab’s parking lot at the same time. Andre’s car sat in its space, but the second floor lab lights, easily seen from the front, were off.

  “Where’s Andre?” Archie said, as they walked to the sidewalk turning on the cement walkway to the front entrance.

  “Maybe he just got here and didn’t go upstairs.”

  As they approached PAT’s brightly lit entrance, dark liquid covered the walkway. With the entrance now forty feet away, the dark liquid became bright red blood and it led to the still body lying fifteen feet before the glass and chrome doors.

  “My God, Archie, it’s Andre. He’s bleeding from his head. It looks like a gunshot wound.”

  “Does he have a pulse? Is he breathing? I’ll call 911.”

  Ray reached over the still body. It was warm to touch and blood gushed from the head wound. “You’re alive. Don’t let go, Andre. Not now when we need you the most.” He reached for Andre’s head, folded up his jacket, and placed it under his neck in a neutral position. He listened at Andre’s mouth for breathing.

  Archie returned. “They’re on their way. What do you think?”

  “He’s alive and breathing, but he’s been shot in the head. God knows the extent of brain injury.”

  Moments later the shrieking sirens shattered the quiet night. With smooth efficiency, the EMT’s evaluated Andre’s condition, found his vital signs stable, applied a pressure dressing to the head wound, and after stabilizing his head to the gurney with a neck brace, they moved him to the ambulance.

  As the ambulance roared away, Ray turned to Archie. “Did he tell you what he discovered?”

  “Only what he said on the phone, that he had the answer. My God. He has the answer.”

  Harmony applied a pressure dressing to her side and drove to Brier Emergency. They checked the grazing wound, cleaned it, and applied a bandage. The ER staff informed the police of the shooting and the shooter.

  The Berkeley Police, acting on Harmony Lane’s report, searched the Berkeley and adjacent Oakland streets. At 5:30 in the morning, they found Ritchie Porter’s car. It sat in the Grizzly Peak overlook area with the lights of the east bay shining below. With the Porsche Carrera’s engine running, he’d attached a hose to its flashy chrome exhaust and piped the fumes into the car. Blood covered Ritchie’s Armani suit. The suicide note hung from the viso
r. The note read, I could not go on without her. I loved Zoe and I’ll be with her soon.

  When the ambulance screeched to a halt at Brier Emergency, Curtis Brown, the neurosurgeon, was already on his way. After checking Andre into the ER, the surgeon’s examination revealed an entrance wound in the right occipital area and an exit wound just above the right eye. His neurological assessment by the Glasgow Coma Scale added up to a ten, slightly above the coma level and almost as good as it gets for a bullet to the brain. Andre’s right pupil was enlarged and did not constrict with light. He showed little spontaneous movement of the left side of his body and reflexes on the left indicated severe damage to the right side of his brain.

  When Andre was stable enough, they wheeled him to the radiology suite for an emergency CT brain scan. Moments later, Curtis Brown stood before the computer screen and said to the ER physician at his side, “It passed through part of the frontal lobe. Not too much damage there.” Pointing to the screen, he continued, “There’s a significant amount of blood accumulating between the brain and the skull, a subdural hematoma. We have to get it out if he’s to have a chance.”

  They immediately began cortisone and an infusion of Mannitol, a concentrated sugar that should reduce the pressure on Andre’s brain.

  Thirty minutes later, Andre was in the operating room. They shaved most of the right side of his head, and then made a curved incision through the scalp, creating a flap that they rotated forward over his face. When they removed a large chunk of the bony skull, they saw a thick membrane over the brain that bulged outward from the pressure of the blood underneath. Curtis made an incision in the membrane and blood and clots erupted from the incision site. He evacuated large blood clots, the hematoma and watched as the brain returned to its normal position. When he was sure he’d controlled the active bleeding, he closed the wound, replaced the skull flap and the scalp. The whole thing took ninety minutes.