by Allen Wyler
“What?”
“Is he presently running a clinical trial on it?”
Tony answered promptly. “Not that I could find. Why?”
McCarthy’s suspicions snapped into place. “Could you dig a little deeper on that? Make sure to check clinical trials dot gov.”
“Sure, but enlighten me—why’s it important?”
“Because I think he’s conducting one. It’s the only way to explain the symptoms of some patients I’ve seen recently.”
“So what? Medical companies do medical research every day.”
“At the moment, there’s nothing more I can tell you.”
“Look, Tom, there’s obviously a story here. If you want more from me, you need to tell me why it’s so important.”
For a brief moment, McCarthy weighed telling him his suspicion. “I think Wyse is transplanting brain matter from one set of patients to another.”
“For God’s sake why?”
“I don’t know yet, but I plan to find out. So, now that that’s settled I can count on you to do some more digging?”
“Yeah, but have you talked to anyone else about this? In the press, I mean.”
“No. It’s yours. But I need to get off the phone and call my lawyer. I’ll call you the moment I find out anything more.”
“It’s a deal. Just be careful.”
51
SARAH SAID, “THAT story you just told Cassera is … unbelievable.”
McCarthy was having a hard time believing it himself, but it was the only way to account for what they’d seen. “I know, but it’s the only way to explain Baker’s and Russell’s problems. Bobbie has Nora Young’s memory of delivering Jordan and Charlie remembers a murder George Pickett committed.”
“Okay, I agree that it makes everything work, but man, that’s a stretch. And tell me this: Why would Wyse want to implant brain tissue? Okay, sure, I see the logic in removing memories if, in fact, they trigger PTSD, but implanting them in someone else … that stumps me.” She shook her head.
They crossed the imaginary line between Snohomish and King Counties, marked by a simple green sign with white lettering: ENTERING KING COUNTY.
She asked, “You understand that thing he said about MRIs?”
“Yes, why?”
“I never understood how MRIs work, much less how you can use one to pinpoint a memory.”
McCarthy laughed, because as medical students the joke had been that the ones who chose psychiatry where either the ones who didn’t grasp hard sciences, like physics and chemistry, or were so fucked up they hoped the training would help them get their shit together. Sarah didn’t seem to fit the second category, so the question was, how to explain magnetic resonance imaging in a way she could grasp.
“You understand how an X-ray works, right?” McCarthy peered out the window again, afraid of seeing a police car approach with its lights flashing, ready to pull the bus to the side of the road. They wouldn’t find the car that soon, he reassured himself, but it didn’t relive the worry.
“Sure.”
“So, tell me.”
“You’re kidding.” She sounded incredulousness.
“No, I’m trying to find out where to start.”
She sighed. “An X-ray tube produces a beam of radiation that, when it hits a sensitive surface like photographic film, exposes it. Anything in its path, like a hand, blocks some of the rays from reaching the film. The denser the object, the more rays it blocks. That’s why X-rays are good for looking at dense material, like bone, but not very good at looking at soft tissues. How am I doing?”
“Very good. Now say you took ten X-rays of that same hand but each time moved the beam in an arc above it so they were all shot from a different angle. If you took all ten of those pictures and electronically added them together, you’d end up with a picture that would give much greater detail, right?”
“Guess so. I hadn’t really thought of it that way before.”
“Well, that’s how they make a CT scan—by combining a bunch of X-rays from different angles in a computer and recreating them as a single image on a screen.”
“I knew that. What I don’t understand is how an MRI works.”
“Think back to chemistry, to how electrons spin around a nucleus of an atom.”
“Okay.”
“Well, under normal circumstances those electrons stay away from each other as much as possible because they’re all a negative charge. But if you put those same atoms in a very strong magnetic field, those electrons are pulled away from their usual orbit and realign themselves along the magnetic field. Then, if you suddenly turn off the magnet, the electrons fly back to the way they were. And when they do, they give off a very weak radio signal. By looking at all those radio signals you can tell what kind of atoms released them.”
“Got it.”
“And if you did that over and over again, you could piece together a bigger picture, just like the difference between a single X-ray and a CT scan.”
“Yikes, I think I actually understood that. Just don’t give me a pop quiz on it.”
“It gets better, because magnetic resonance can not only make a picture of a structure, like an X-ray does, but it can be made to indicate where some brain functions are happening. It’s called functional magnetic imaging, or fMRI. That’s what Wyse is doing. When you move your right hand, the hand region of the brain works a little harder than when your hand is at rest. When it does, it requires more oxygen and sugar. Still with me?”
“Yes.”
“When that happens the blood flow to the hand region increases.”
“Okay.”
“And if you take two scans, one with the hand at rest and one when the hand is moving, you could subtract one scan from the other and see that difference. Still with me?”
Sarah laughed. “I get it. Wyse could do the same thing with a PTSD patient, right? I mean, he could scan them when they’re normal and when they’re remembering the event.”
“And you might just be able to show where the memory is located. After all, we have a head start on the problem because we know the temporal lobe is where most memories are stored.”
“I get it now, but that doesn’t answer the most important reason: Why would you want to implant someone else’s memory into another person? Assuming that’s even scientifically possible.”
“I don’t get that either. That’s why I’m going to have a look at Wyse’s office.”
She blinked and did a double take. “You’re kidding, right?”
“This mess all started as a result of us working up two of his patients. Those memories are the key to this. The only way to learn what’s going on is to look at their records.”
MAGNUSON PAVILION
SIKES DISCONNECTED FROM the Snohomish County deputy advising him that someone, a man, fitting the description of Tom McCarthy had been spotted at a fucking discount mall north of Everett. The deputy wanted to know if Sikes cared to drive up and take a look.
Look at what?
But instead of asking Shit-for-Brains that question, he politely demurred, saying that under the circumstances, Mc-Carthy would be long gone by the time he got there. Personally, he doubted it was McCarthy.
No, the action was here in downtown Seattle. Regardless of where McCarthy may have been sighted, the odds were sooner or later he’d return to his office to either retrieve the classified documents or destroy evidence of having them. Why else would he continue to risk a confrontational takedown instead of a peaceful surrender under the eyes of his lawyer? Clearly his actions were an admission of guilt. Bottom line was that Sikes had the best chance of completing his original mission by waiting patiently for McCarthy to return.
A half hour ago Lange assured Sikes that the crime lab techs would be out of the office, at which point Sikes could search whatever files he wanted. In the meantime Sikes had been setting up his trap for the traitor. McCarthy escaped yesterday but wouldn’t be so lucky again. Sikes was certain of this.
52
4:43 PM, LAKEVIEW MEDICAL CENTER
IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time Wyse made it back to his office. He was still doing a slow burn, vividly fantasizing about the torture he’d inflict on McCarthy if Cunningham would be gracious enough to extend him the courtesy. With another outraged motorist’s help, he’d been able to push his Benz to the shoulder of the road and have AAA tow it two miles to a Les Schwab store where he bought a new set of front tires. Either none of the witnesses had called the police or the cops couldn’t be bothered to cut short their coffee break and respond before the wrecker arrived. Which, on further reflection, was fine with him. The less police involvement, the better the chance that Sikes would find McCarthy first. And that’s what Wyse preferred.
While pacing the tire shop waiting room, Wyse had hit upon an idea. Assuming McCarthy knew Nora Young’s history by now, he’d very likely make the connection between her and Baker. Which meant that by now McCarthy had a pretty damn good idea how Baker ended up with Young’s memories. At this point, McCarthy had two options: do nothing or try to blow the whistle on him. The latter would be problematic for McCarthy because the allegation would be so preposterously crazy that no one would believe him. Unless, of course, McCarthy was able to obtain evidence to validate the charge.
And that evidence could only come from the medical records. Ironically, the requests for Russell’s and the Baker’s records had ignited this whole mess. Fuck! If only McCarthy hadn’t seen those two patients, this situation wouldn’t exist. But he had. And the situation did exist.
Realistically, Wyse knew, the odds of McCarthy being able to see the records were small. The records for the trauma surgeries on Baker and Russell would be easily available from Lakeview to anyone with the proper authority to view them. The second surgeries, however—the ones to implant brain specimens—were not easily obtainable, and without those, McCarthy’s allegations would be worthless. Cunningham had made sure to have those records declared classified and considered exclusive DARPA material. Yeah sure, with the proper legal machinations McCarthy’s lawyer could try to subpoena them. But Cunningham could easily block any access under the guise of national security. Or, the prick could try to steal them.
And knowing McCarthy so well, that’s exactly what he’d try to do.
Wyse settled in at his desk and powered up the computer, found Russell’s phone number, and dialed.
“Hey, Charlie, Doctor Wyse here. Need to ask you a question. I know Doctor McCarthy worked you up a couple weeks ago for those pesky memories. By any chance have you heard from him lately, like in the past twenty-four hours?”
“Yes, sir. He called earlier today. Why? What’s wrong?”
Fucking McCarthy! Wyse fought to control his anger. “He didn’t ask you about your second operation, did he? The one for PTSD?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
Fuck! Wyse slammed the phone on the desk. That settled it. McCarthy had put the story together. Just as he’d feared. Which was exactly why he’d spun the story to Cunningham that McCarthy had stolen the files. The prick had to be put down. Why couldn’t Cunningham’s operatives finish the damn job?
Wyse opened the locked file cabinet that held the hard copies of the records for the clinical trial code-named Cuckoo’s Nest. The name had been chosen because female cuckoos will push another bird’s eggs out of their own nest and replace them with her eggs, a brilliant parallel to what the trial was doing—storing one person’s memories in another person’s brain. His creation, that name. He gave a sigh of relief when he saw the files were still intact. McCarthy hadn’t broken in here. Yet.
But he would.
And that would be the way to catch the bastard. Make sure he broke in. And this sparked another brilliant idea. Where was Sikes’s number? He searched his pockets, found the scrap of paper, and dialed.
Sikes answered with a frigid “Yes?”
Probably, Wyse figured, he was still pissed at him for allowing McCarthy to escape before his men arrived. What the fuck did Sikes expect him to do? Hand-to-hand combat with an armed intelligence operative? What’s more, he was unarmed when McCarthy shot out his tires. That prick Sikes didn’t even give him credit for tracking McCarthy to Mill Creek. It was Sikes’s fault for not responding quickly enough. They should’ve had him.
He’d find McCarthy again. Right here in the office.
“Lieutenant, Wyse. I have something for you. I have reason to believe McCarthy will break into my office. Probably later today.”
“Interesting. Why do you think that?”
Wyse caught himself. Had to be careful with his story or Sikes would wonder why McCarthy would risk another break in if he already had the classified files.
“Because he’s no fool. He must realize there’s additional information here he could sell.”
“That right?” Sikes sounded doubtful.
“Yes. Now, I must admit it’s only a hunch, but it’s strong enough I thought you should hear it.” Since you’re not doing squat yourself.
“You there now? In your office?”
“Yes.”
“Plan on staying there?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, call if McCarthy shows up.”
And risk another delayed response? “Wait! Where are you now? I mean, suppose he does show up? I need some assurance you’ll be able to get here in time.” You incompetent asshole.
“I’m at McCarthy’s office, waiting for the cops to finish up so I can search the place. Sons of bitches are taking forever. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
Wyse couldn’t tell if Sikes was pissed at him or the police. Did it matter? Not really. Wyse threw the phone across the room. It ricocheted off the window and bounced to a stop on the floor.
His stomach growled. How long since he last ate? He brewed a small pot of coffee and selected another PowerBar from his diminishing stash. He’d wait through the night, if that’s what it took. At some point McCarthy would show up. He knew it. Hell, he could feel it.
MCCARTHY SELECTED THE smallest crowbar ACE Hardware offered: red, black rubber grip on the handle, carbon steel, small enough to hide in your pant leg, strong enough to inflict serious damage.
“Please tell me we’re not really planning on breaking into Wyse’s office.”
He flashed Sarah a smile on the way to the cash register. “We are not breaking into Wyse’s office. I am. It’s Saturday evening on a three-day weekend. Can you think of a better time? Besides, Davidson’s just about out of time. If I’m going to surrender, I need something to back up my story.”
“Yes, but so far we’ve not broken any laws,” she whispered. “Well, maybe shooting out those tires, but—”
“But what?” He turned to face her directly. “Wyse has been conducting illegal experiments on patients without their consent or knowledge. They trusted him, and he abused that trust by using them as guinea pigs, and look what happened. We don’t have any other choice. Or do you see it differently?”
“Well, when you put it that way.” Glancing around, keeping her voice to a whisper, Sarah said, “I suggest we get out of here before someone recognizes you.”
MCCARTHY PARKED THE rental in the massive four-story concrete Lakeview garage the size of a city block. The original hospital loomed directly across the street, newer expansion wings spreading to either side. The right one was a large contemporary office building of black glass and steel. Since arriving in Seattle, Tom had set foot only once in the medical complex. He asked Sarah, “You rotate through there last year?”
Sarah nodded. “I did.”
“Think you can find us some scrubs?”
She nodded again.
“I’ll wait here.”
She started to reach for the door handle, hesitated, and turned to him. “You sure you don’t want to just call Davidson and get this over with? You really have to do this?”
McCarthy thought about the crowbar and what he intended to do. “While yo
u’re at it, see if you can find me a white coat.”
She shook her head. “Sure hope you know what you’re doing,” and was out the door, the shopping bag from the Ralph Lauren store folded under one arm.
McCarthy locked the door and slouched down in the seat to wait, the baseball cap low over his head.
TEN MINUTES LATER he saw Sarah emerge from of the stairwell coming straight for the car, the Ralph Lauren bag full and hanging from her hand.
As soon as he popped the door lock she was inside, handing him a set of sky blue scrubs. “Here.” Then she pulled out another set.
After a quick check to make sure they were alone, he was out of the car, stripping down to his shorts. She changed quickly in the front passenger seat of the car, then climbed out and handed him a white coat. “Typical Saturday evening. It’s a zoo. Couple of surgical residents recognized me and said hi. Like I never left. I swear to God you totally lose your perspective of time on the trauma service.”
He slid the crowbar down his leg and snagged the hooked end over the waistband, then dropped the scrub shirt over it, took Washington’s gun from the glove box, checked to make sure the clip was full, dropped the extra clip into the pocket of his white coat, and stuffed the gun under the waistband before making sure all the ties were snug.
She eyed him. “Think that’s necessary?”
“Certainly hope not.” He stood naturally, arms to his side. “How do I look?”
“Like a surgeon.”
They breezed in through the automatic doors to the emergency room without a second glance from the guard.
County hospitals reminded McCarthy of third-world countries. Wailing babies, babbling voices, shouts, a cop or two milling around the ambulance bay, worn linoleum, body odor. Bedlam.
McCarthy followed Sarah past the overcrowded waiting room into the restricted area, walking like they belonged and getting away with it. They passed the trauma bays and exam rooms into a main hall that ran the length of the building. Mc-Carthy found a directory, located Wyse’s name next to the number 1401, and assumed that would be the fourteenth floor of the office building.