by Tiana Cole
Ah. Details clicked into place as I ran my hand along my jaw. Some big pharmaceutical company had gotten wind of my research. I suppose it was only a matter of time.
“Well, that’s a generous offer, Mr.…” I trailed off in hopes he’d introduce himself, but he only chuckled in response. “I think for now I’d like to keep my research to myself, though,” I finished.
The silence immediately felt charged. Finally, he spoke through in a strangled whisper. “You could stand to make a lot of money, Dr. Johnson.”
“You mean you could make a lot of money,” I retorted. “I already have more money than I know what to do with, and anything I’ve found I want to keep control of, thanks.”
“You’ll change your mind. We’ll see to it.” His tone held a threat and I swallowed hard.
“I doubt it.” I slammed the phone down. Sure, my voice held enough confidence and conviction to get me through one conversation, but I was shaking. Big Pharma meant big problems. Those guys had a lot of money in the game, and they generally got exactly what they wanted.
Twenty minutes ticked by as I stared at the wall and weighed my options. The upside of turning over my lab to whichever company had called—and I would be certain to find out who it was—was exactly what the man said: the resources. The money. The staff. That company would have dozens of doctors doing the work that Logan and I had been shouldering for months. It was tempting to think that I could off-load some of my burden to somebody I trusted. However, pharma companies generally weren’t trustworthy. Yes, they had staff and resources, but once I signed over there would be no way for me to ensure that they were using safe practices and legal testing protocols. Many of those outfits had so much money they were above the law, and certainly above me.
Moreover, I had a dream of fabricating a cancer treatment that would be accessible to everyone—not just folks with deep pockets and triple care insurance. When I pondered how Maria contracted such a rare strain from her work in the slums, I always wondered if the disease was slowly making its way across the poorest sectors of the city. If it was, I wanted to do my part to keep those people healthy and part of that meant finding medicine that I would distribute. If I sold my product to a pharma company, it would never make it to the little guy.
My musing ended with a firm shake of my head. No, I would not sell out. And what’s more, I should get my locks and phone numbers changed. I wasn't taking any chances when it came to mysterious callers with big bankrolls. As I went about the rest of my day I felt the burden of the phone call so much that it was hard to concentrate. I’d started the week distracted by Denise, but she had been replaced by a ghostly pharmaceutical company staring over my shoulder. Her form of distraction was much more pleasant by comparison.
Chapter 12
Denise
The best thing about being a journalist is the ability to work remotely. Even more, when you've reached a level of trust with your boss that you can disappear for several days due to a “travel need” that the company will pay for, you should latch on to that job for life.
Which I was trying to do with all of my energy.
The weeks following my visit to Derek’s lab, I had to go dark. It was imperative to get away from both Derek and Skip so I could field my way through what was an amassing amount of pressure to not only write, but to write the right thing. I called in to the office every day and texted with Derek several times morning and night. Because we were both so busy, we chatted about nonsensical things like books, movies, and the weather; by silent admission we stopped talking about work.
Macon’s County Commissioner problem played right into my hands; the county court revisited the impeachment charges and recommended to go through with arresting Tubby and his friends. That news came through just in time for me to scurry around in a rushed flurry of activity, telling Skip, “Can’t deal with Dr. Johnson just yet—dealing with the City of Decatur right now.”
Thank God for that man’s arrest. That’s all there was to it. If that was inhumane of me, well, I was an inhumane person. He did commit several crimes, after all, and he was a terrible person, while I was just trying to avoid getting fired and losing my new man.
A week after my visit to Derek’s lab I was sitting in my apartment, my floor littered with notes on the city of Decatur and on Derek. I had long abandoned the story on Derek that skirted the truth, and had instead continued working on the longer, fully truthful version of his life and his work. Where it would end up, I had no idea.
I heard a knock on my door and called out, “Come on in,” without thinking. Any good Chicago girl should remember to both bolt her door and to not call out blanket invitations to whomever came knocking, but I was so engrossed in my work that I’d failed on both counts.
The front door to my apartment closed with a soft click as Skip made his way across my foyer. “Hello, Denise.”
At the sound of his voice my head shot up from my computer. I’d been there all day and had no idea what I looked like, smelled like, or when I’d last eaten. A pen hung from between my teeth, but it littered to the floor when I spoke. “Oh, Skip. Hey, there. You found me.”
Skip always knew how to dress well; he was outfitted like he’d just left London’s best haberdashery. His pinpoint oxford was striped and tucked neatly into slim-cut trousers. His cordovan shoes gleamed as if freshly polished and, if it could be believed, a baby blue bow-tie encircled his neck.
He leaned a slim hip against my sofa table as his eyes took in the scene my living room offered. “So, you look busy.”
“I am,” I replied as I gestured to the computer. “Since the county gave the green light on Tubby’s arrest, things have gone wild down there. It was zoo when I was there, um, yesterday.”
Skip’s eyebrows went up. “So you’re busy on that story?”
My tone cooled as I watched him studying me. “I’m doing the fact checking. Dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t,’ you know. Doing my best work.”
He didn't move. In fact, he was so still that the air stilled with him; it literally froze in my apartment as we regarded each other.
“And Derek Johnson?”
I tapped my fingertip against my laptop. “That’s next. He’s not going anywhere, whereas I really need to stay on this County Commissioner story.”
Skip’s chin dipped in a slight nod. “Of course you do. I just hadn't seen you in a few days so I thought I’d stop by and see what keeping my star writer tucked away.”
“Thanks for checking on me.”
A slim, wool sports coat unfolded itself in Skip’s lean arms. “Sure. I'll leave you to it, Denise.”
I flicked my eyes back to my screen as if I were dying to get back to my hard work. In a way, I was… if it would get Skip out of my apartment. In a dismissive voice I said, “I'll catch you in a day or two, Skip.”
The door closed softly behind him, but his absence left a chill in the place where he’d stood. What on earth was he up to? In all the years I’d worked for Skip, I don’t know that I’d ever seen him do much… hovering. A chill snaked over my shoulders, but I shrugged it off and got back to work.
Days drifted by after that. Derek and I continued to text but were too busy to actually see each other. His excellent qualities, and there were many, had not faded—my mind as well as my body were aching to get back into his physical space again but it was literally impossible with the amount of work on both of our plates.
About four days after Skip’s unannounced visit, I unlocked my apartment door to a broad manila envelope shoved into the crevice between it and the trim. When the door opened, it fell into my hands. My name was scrawled across the front in broad letters, and my eyes immediately rolled to the ceiling.
“What the hell now?” I muttered as I waded across the stacks of mail, papers, and magazines that littered my wooden floor. It was late; I’d spent the day with Lucky on the Macon County Courthouse square with a dozen other journalists. We’d gotten a few minutes of good footage and tons of
great photos—many of me doing the latest teenage dance move. We couldn't use it in the paper, but it made a great social media profile picture.
By the time I offloaded my laptop and bag from my shoulder onto the crowded couch and snagged some food from my woefully sparse fridge, I’d nearly forgotten about the envelope. But when I fell into a heap onto my ottoman—one of the only uncluttered spaces in the living room—I saw it on top of my laptop bag and snatched it up.
The paper that fell out of the envelope was simple, white, and stark. In bold, black letters—probably a cheap Sharpie marker—the words, ‘Don’t trust Derek Johnson. You don’t want to know what goes on in that lab…’ screamed at me. It fluttered out of my fingers and floated to the floor as I stared into space for several long minutes.
I’d seen the lab. Derek showed me everything.
But, a small voice reminded me, did he?
The image of a dozen Petri dishes presented itself in my brain. There could have been illegally-gained human tissue in those dishes and I’d have had no idea.
No.
I couldn't reconcile such thoughts with the image of the kind, thoughtful man I’d been spending time with… been sleeping with… so I grabbed up my phone and texted him.
Need to see you right away.
It was late, but as I’d suspected, he was awake, probably in his lab staring at the mysterious and elusive cancer cells.
Now?
ASAP
Tomorrow?
Early. Coffee.
The next several texts hammered out a time and place. As eager as I was to see him, I knew the meeting would not be flowers and stars and romance. I would show him the stark, white paper and ask him what he was really up to.
Derek
“Dr. Johnson. Hey. Dr. Johnson.”
A hand shook my shoulder with slight force, like the owner of the hand wanted to shake me hard but couldn't. I could feel the smooth leather of the office sofa beneath me, and the hard seam where the sheets of leather met dug into my shoulder. Although I slept in my office plenty, I never did enjoy it.
“Dr. Johnson, you should come in here.”
Finally, the world zoomed in around me. The voice belonged to Logan and it was his hand resting on my shoulder. I sat up in a swift movement, squinting at the fluorescent lights with regret. “Okay, Logan. I’m awake.”
The boy stood before me looking as rumpled as I felt. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair stood up at all angles, indicating he’d probably slept with his head in his arms on the lab table. I was momentarily overcome by both a surge of pride at his dedication and the realization that we were both a little bit pathetic.
“Dr. Johnson, come look at the samples.”
I finally caught the note of urgency in Logan’s voice and rose from the couch. “Very well, let’s go.”
The lab was bathed in its nonstop fluorescent lights. No wonder neither of us could sleep anywhere else; our eyes were accustomed to the false glow of blue lights. Otherwise, it gave off its normal, unwelcoming glow as I followed Logan through the rows of tables to the current samples.
Honestly, if I was a researcher worth his salt, I would have started culling together another set of samples with another cure medium by now. It was good and proper research etiquette to always have the next round of cells ready to test in the event of failure, and what people didn’t know was that failure occurred a lot more often than success did. More often than not the cells destroyed themselves, or the cure medium destroyed the wrong cells, or both the good and the bad ones… a glimmer of success happened seldom. In the years I’d been chasing down Maria’s cancer, there had only been two rounds of testing that had made it as far as Logan and I already were; at that point, the cure had started attacking the cancer cells like it was supposed to. I had basically stayed at the lab for days, watching for the next sign.
Logan stopped at our precious rack of Petri dishes. Not for the first time, I was struck by how much was riding on that simple tray of sixteen little glass saucers.
He handed me one of them. “Look, Dr. Johnson. Look at the healthy cells.”
The cancer cells were not gone, but they had gotten noticeably smaller. Supposedly, that was from the cure medium that I had injected into the dishes a few weeks before. What was very interesting, however, was that the healthy cells had formed a sort of thicker layer in the outside membrane, almost a protective layer of sorts. That made no sense.
“What is that?” I asked.
“That’s why I woke you up,” Logan was dancing back and forth on his feet. “I’m not certain I've seen that before.”
My tone was measured, my words coming forth slowly. “I don’t know that I have, either, Logan.”
I pulled away from the microscope and looked at my assistant. Our faces slowly broke into matching grins.
“Cancel my entire day,” I told him. “Call the secretary downstairs and tell her I can’t see patients today. Reschedule them for tomorrow, if they can. I'll work a double. The clinic, also. Call them.”
Logan grinned as if I’d suggested ice cream, and bolted from the room. I returned my attention to the cells. I would need to closely inspect each dish, obviously, then I’d need to describe the contents of each dish word by word since I had no idea whether or not all of them had changed so dramatically. It would take hours. A slight choke slid from my throat in excitement.
“And Logan,” I called over my shoulder. “Order up some breakfast, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” his response came from the front office.
In our excitement, and my haste, I forgot all about Denise and our coffee date.
Chapter 13
Denise
The coffee shop was slammed because it was a weekday morning in Chicago. I’d been there since they opened since I could work anywhere and I was too nervous to sleep. After a couple weeks away from it, I’d dug out my flash drive, the one I kept on me at all times, to look at what I’d written about Derek so far. However, I quickly found I couldn't concentrate.
A tired-looking waitress in her late teens stopped at my table. “Can I refill your coffee?”
My empty mug sat before me, filled and emptied twice already. “Er, no. I've probably had enough. Thank you.”
Her eyes swept over my table. Aside from my stacks of papers and slim laptop, the coffee mug sat alone. “Don’t you want any food?”
I laid a palm flat on my stomach. It was churning with nerves; in truth, it felt slightly nauseous. “I don’t think so, no. I’m not hungry. Thanks, though. I promise I'll leave you a good tip.”
A faint smile washed over her worn face as she turned from me to the next table.
The flash drive contained two different articles that were more than halfway complete. One of them was a completely honest story about Derek, Maria, and his quest to find the root of the aggressive cancer that took her so suddenly. The other was a faintly sensational article about his ‘secret’ lab, his endless funding, his odd obsession with the inner city poor, and a mysterious description of the inside of the lab. It made me slightly sick to even look at it. By my quick approximation, I guess it contained about 10% truth, the rest of which was smoke and mirrors. In my years as an investigative journalist, I’d both used and mastered the tactic, a fact about which I was none too proud. I seldom lied outright, but in my line of work, a bit of sleight of hand with the facts was common, and even expected.
Still, I’d never used my trickery with somebody I knew personally.
Knew, and liked.
Liked, and slept with.
The note in my hand screamed at me. ‘You don’t want to know what goes on in that lab.’
Actually, I did want to know. Very much.
The time that Derek was supposed to meet me came and went. Ordinarily, having a man—even a contact for a story—stand me up wouldn't bother me. I had a pretty healthy self-image, and at the end of the day it wasn't a big deal. However, something about Derek’s absence in light of the anonymous lett
er threw me; it heightened my suspicions in quite an unflattering way.
I texted him.
Hey, weren't we supposed to meet for coffee?
I tried to make my tone light, which my mood was anything but.
Minutes went by without his answer. I tried again.
You’re standing me up now?
Again, minutes ticked by without an answer from him. I tapped my pen, my finger, and my foot while my eyes went unfocused in front of me. Finally my phone buzzed and I jumped.
It wasn't Derek. It was Skip.
I haven’t seen you in here in a while. Can you stop in today and let me see what you have on Johnson?
Intrinsically I knew I wouldn't be able to put Skip off. I answered him.
Later today, yeah.
I gathered my things. If I was going to have something to show Skip, I would need to go see the good doctor first. He could be in one of three places, so I was going to visit all of them and hunt him down.
Derek
Four hours later, I had meticulously inspected and recorded the changes in all sixteen Petri dishes. They were, for the most part, universal across the sample. The cancer cells, while not gone altogether, were visibly smaller and all of the healthy cells were thicker in the surrounding membrane.
“What does that even mean? How did the cell reinforce itself?” I asked Logan for the hundredth time. We were both giddy like children, taking electronic photos of the cells and taking notes on Logan’s computer. It had been a joyous morning, almost like Christmas.
“I don’t know!” Logan answered for the hundredth time with laughter in his voice. “I’m just thrilled that it happened. And obviously your cure medium has some positive effect on the cancer cells. Look how much smaller they are. It’s over a 50% reduction.”