Terminal (A Medical Thriller)
Terminal: Chapter 4

March 3

Wednesday, 8:30 A.M.

When Sean’s eyes blinked open at eight-thirty, he was instantly awake. He snatched up his watch to check the time, and immediately became annoyed with himself. He’d intended to get to the lab early that day. If he was going to give this plan of Janet’s a shot, he’d have to put in more of an effort.

After making himself reasonably decent by pulling on his boxer shorts, he padded down the balcony and gently knocked on Janet’s slider. Her curtains were still closed. After he knocked again harder, her sleepy face appeared behind the glass.

“Miss me?” Sean teased when Janet slid the door open.

“What time is it?” Janet asked. She blinked in the bright light.

“Going on nine,” Sean said. “I’ll be leaving in fifteen or twenty minutes. Want to go together or what?”

“I’d better drive myself,” Janet said. “I’ve got to replace an apartment. I only get to stay here a few nights.”

“See you this afternoon,” Sean said. He started to leave.

“Sean!” Janet called.

Sean turned.

“Good luck!” Janet said.

“You too,” Sean said.

As soon as he was dressed, Sean drove over to the Forbes Center and parked in front of the research building. It was just after nine-thirty when he walked in the door. As he did, Robert Harris straightened up from the desk. He’d been explaining something to the guard on desk duty. His expression was somewhere between angry and morose. Apparently the man was never in a good mood.

“Banker’s hours?” Harris asked provocatively.

“My favorite Marine,” Sean said. “Were you able to keep Mrs. Mason out of trouble, or was she desperate enough to take you on a tour of Lady Luck?”

Robert Harris glared at Sean as Sean leaned against the bar of the turnstile to show his ID to the guard at the desk. But Harris couldn’t think of an appropriate retort fast enough. The guard at the desk released the bar and Sean pushed through.

Unsure how to approach the day, Sean first took the elevator to the seventh floor and went to Claire’s office. He was not looking forward to meeting her since they’d parted on such uncomfortable terms. But he wanted to clear the air.

Claire and her superior shared an office with their desks facing each other. But when Sean found her, Claire was alone.

“Morning!” Sean said cheerfully.

Claire looked up from her work. “I trust you slept well,” she said sarcastically.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Sean offered. “I know it was unpleasant and awkward for everyone. I apologize that the evening had to end that way, but I assure you Janet’s arrival was totally unexpected.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Claire said coolly.

“Please,” Sean asked. “Don’t you turn unfriendly. You’re one of the few people here who has been nice to me. I’m apologizing. What more can I do?”

“You’re right,” Claire said, finally softening. “Consider it history. What can I do for you today?”

“I suppose I have to talk with Dr. Levy,” Sean said. “How do you suggest I replace her?”

“Page her,” Claire said. “All of the professional staff carry beepers. You should get one yourself.” She picked up the phone, checked with the operator that Dr. Levy was in, then had her paged.

Claire only had time to tell Sean where to go to get a beeper when her phone rang. It was one of the administrative secretaries calling to say that Dr. Levy was in her office only a few doors down from Claire’s.

Two minutes later Sean was knocking on Dr. Levy’s door, wondering what kind of reception he’d get. When he heard Dr. Levy call out to come in, he tried to talk himself into being civil even if Dr. Levy wasn’t.

Dr. Levy’s office was the first place that appeared like the academic scientific environment Sean was accustomed to. There was the usual clutter of journals and books, a binocular microscope, and odd assortments of microscopic slides, photomicrographs, scattered color slides, erlenmeyer flasks, culture dishes, tissue culture tubes, and lab notebooks.

“Beautiful morning,” Sean said, hoping to start off on a better note than the day before.

“I asked Mark Halpern to come up when I heard you were on the floor,” Dr. Levy said, ignoring Sean’s pleasantry. “He is our chief, and currently our only, lab tech. He will get you started. He can also order any supplies and reagents you might need and we don’t have, although we have a good stock. But I have to approve any orders.” She pushed a small vial across her desk toward Sean. “Here is the glycoprotein. I’m sure you’ll understand when I tell you that it does not leave this building. I meant what I said yesterday: stick to your assignment at hand. You should have more than enough to keep you busy. Good luck, and I hope you are as good as Dr. Mason seems to believe you are.”

“Wouldn’t it be more comfortable if we were a bit more friendly about all this?” Sean asked. He reached over and picked up the vial.

Dr. Levy pushed a few wayward strands of her glistening black hair away from her forehead. “I appreciate your forthrightness,” she said after a brief pause. “Our relationship will depend on your performance. If you work hard, we’ll get along just fine.”

Just then, Mark Halpern entered Dr. Levy’s office. As they were introduced, Sean studied the man and guessed he was around thirty. He was a few inches taller than Sean and was meticulously dressed. Sporting a spotless white apron over his suit, he looked more like men Sean had seen around cosmetic counters in department stores than a tech in a scientific lab.

Over the next half hour, Mark set Sean up for work in the large empty fifth floor that Claire had shown him the day before. By the time Mark left, Sean was satisfied with the physical aspects of his work situation; he only wished he was working on something he was truly interested in.

Picking up the vial Dr. Levy had given him, Sean unscrewed the cap and looked in at the fine white powder. He sniffed it; it had no smell. Pulling his stool closer to the counter, he set to work. First he dissolved the powder in a variety of solvents to get an idea of its solubility. He also set up a gel electrophoresis to get some approximation of its molecular weight.

After about an hour of concentration, Sean was suddenly distracted by movement that he thought he’d seen out of the corner of his eye. When he looked in that direction, all he saw was empty lab space extending over to the door to the stairwell. Sean paused from what he was doing. The only detectable sound came from the hum of a refrigerator compressor and the whirring of a shaking platform Sean was using to help super-saturate a solution. He wondered if the unaccustomed solitude was making him hallucinate.

Sean was seated near the middle of the room. Putting down the utensils in his hands, he walked the length of the lab, glancing down each aisle. The more he looked the more uncertain he became that he’d seen something. Reaching the door to the stairwell, he yanked it open and took a step forward, intending to look up and down the stairs. He hadn’t really expected to replace anything, and he involuntarily caught his breath when his sudden move put him face to face with someone who’d been lurking just beyond the door.

Recognition dawned swiftly as Sean realized that it was Hiroshi Gyuhama who stood before him, equally as startled. Sean remembered meeting the man the day before when Claire had introduced them.

“Very sorry,” Hiroshi said with a nervous smile. He bowed deeply.

“Quite all right,” Sean said, feeling an irresistible urge to bow back. “It was my fault. I should have looked through the window before opening the door.”

“No, no, my fault,” Hiroshi insisted.

“It truly was my fault,” Sean said. “But I suppose it is a silly argument.”

“My fault,” Hiroshi persisted.

“Were you coming in here?” Sean asked, pointing back into his lab.

“No, no,” Hiroshi said. His smile broadened. “I’m going back to work.” But he didn’t move.

“What are you working on?” Sean asked, just to make conversation.

“Lung cancer,” Hiroshi said. “Thank you very much.”

“And thank you,” Sean said by reflex. Then he wondered why he was thanking the man.

Hiroshi bowed several times before turning and climbing the stairs.

Sean shrugged and walked back to his lab bench. He wondered if the movement he’d seen originally had been Hiroshi, perhaps through the small window in the stairwell door. But that would mean Hiroshi had been there all along, which didn’t make sense to Sean.

As long as his concentration had been broken, Sean took the time to descend to the basement to seek out Roger Calvet. Once he found him, Sean felt uncomfortable talking to the man whose back deformity prevented him from looking at Sean when he spoke. Nonetheless, Mr. Calvet managed to isolate a group of appropriate mice so that Sean could begin injecting them with the glycoprotein in hopes of eliciting an antibody response. Sean didn’t expect success from this effort since others at the Forbes Center had undoubtedly tried it already, yet he knew he had to start from the beginning before he resorted to any of his “tricks.”

Back in the elevator Sean was about to press the button for the fifth floor when he changed his mind and pressed six. He wouldn’t have guessed it of himself, but he felt isolated and even a bit lonely. Working at Forbes was a distinctly uncomfortable experience, and not simply because of the bevy of unfriendly people. There weren’t enough people. The place was too empty, too clean, too ordered. Sean had always taken the academic collegiality of his previous work environments for granted. Now he found himself needing some human interaction. So he headed for the sixth floor.

The first person Sean encountered was David Lowenstein. He was an intense, thin fellow bent over his lab bench examining tissue culture tubes. Sean came up to his left side and said hello.

“I beg your pardon?” David said, glancing up from his work.

“How’s it going?” Sean asked. He reintroduced himself in case David had forgotten him from the day before.

“Things are going as well as can be expected,” David said.

“What are you working on?” Sean asked.

“Melanoma,” David answered.

“Oh,” Sean said.

The conversation went downhill from that point, so Sean drifted on. He caught Hiroshi looking at him, but after the stairwell incident Sean avoided him. Instead he moved on to Arnold Harper who was busily working under a hood. Sean could tell he was doing some kind of recombinant work with yeast.

Attempts at conversation with Arnold were about as successful as those with David Lowenstein had been. The only thing Sean learned from Arnold was that he was working on colon cancer. Although he’d been the source of the glycoprotein Sean was working with, he didn’t seem the least interested in discussing it.

Sean wandered on and came to the glass door to the maximum containment lab with its No Entry sign. Cupping his hands as he’d done the day before, he again tried to peer through. Just like the previous day, all he could see was a corridor with doors leading off it. After glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was in sight, Sean pulled open the door and stepped inside. The door shut behind him and sealed. This portion of the lab had a negative pressure so that no air would move out when the door was opened.

For a moment Sean stood just inside the door and felt his pulse quicken with excitement. It was the same feeling he used to get as a teenager when he, Jimmy, and Brady would go north to one of the rich bedroom communities like Swampscott or Marblehead and hit a few houses. They never stole anything of real value, just TVs and stuff like that. They never had trouble fencing the goods in Boston. The money went to a guy who was supposed to send it over to the IRA, but Sean never knew how much of it ever got to Ireland.

When no one appeared to protest Sean’s presence in the No Entry area, Sean pushed on. The place didn’t have the look or feel of a maximum containment lab. In fact, the first room he looked into was empty except for bare lab benches. There was no equipment at all. Entering the room, Sean examined the surface of the counters. At one time they had been used, but not extensively. He could see some marks where the rubber feet of a countertop machine had sat, but that was the only telltale sign of use.

Bending down, Sean pulled open a cabinet and gazed inside. There were a few half-empty reagent bottles as well as assorted glassware, some of which was broken.

“Hold it right there!” a voice shouted, causing Sean to whirl around and rise to a standing position.

It was Robert Harris poised in the doorway, hands on his hips, feet spread apart. His meaty face was red. Dots of perspiration lined his forehead. “Can’t you read, Mr. Harvard Boy?” Harris snarled.

“I don’t think it’s worth getting upset over an empty lab,” Sean said.

“This area is off limits,” Harris said.

“We’re not in the army,” Sean said.

Harris advanced menacingly. Between his height and weight advantage, he expected to intimidate Sean. But Sean didn’t move. He merely tensed. With all his street experience as a teenager, he instinctively knew what he’d hit and hit hard if Harris threatened to touch him. But Sean was reasonably confident Harris wouldn’t try.

“You are certainly one wiseass,” Harris said. “I knew you’d be trouble the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Funny! I felt the same way about you,” Sean said.

“I warned you not to mess with me, boy,” Harris said. He moved within inches of Sean’s face.

“You have a couple of blackheads on your nose,” Sean said. “In case you didn’t know.”

Harris glared down at Sean and for a moment he didn’t speak. His face got redder.

“I think you are getting entirely too worked up,” Sean said.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Harris demanded.

“Pure curiosity,” Sean said. “I was told it was a maximum containment lab. I wanted to see it.”

“I want you out of here in two seconds,” Harris said. He stepped back and pointed toward the door.

Sean walked out into the hall. “There are a few more rooms I’d like to see,” he said. “How about we take a tour together?”

“Out!” Harris shouted, pointing toward the glass door.

JANET HAD a late morning meeting with the director of nursing, Margaret Richmond. She used the time from Sean’s wake-up call until the moment she had to leave to take a long shower, shave her legs, blow-dry her hair, and press her dress. Although she knew her job at the Forbes hospital was assured, meetings such as the one she was anticipating still made her nervous. And on top of that, she was still anxious about Sean’s potential for heading back to Boston. All in all she had plenty of reason to be upset; she had no idea what the next few days would bring.

Margaret Richmond was not what Janet anticipated. Her voice on the telephone had conjured up an image of a delicate, slight woman. Instead, she was powerful and rather severe. Yet she was still cordial and businesslike, and conveyed to Janet a sincere appreciation for Janet’s coming to the Forbes hospital. She even gave Janet her choice of shifts. Janet was pleased to opt for days. She had assumed she’d have to start on nights, a shift she disliked.

“You indicated a preference for floor duty,” Ms. Richmond said as she consulted her notes.

“Correct,” Janet said. “Floor duty gives me the type of patient contact that I replace the most rewarding.”

“We have an opening for days on the fourth floor,” Ms. Richmond said.

“Sounds good,” Janet said cheerfully.

“When would you like to start?” Ms. Richmond asked.

“Tomorrow,” Janet said. She would have preferred a few days’ delay to give herself a chance to replace an apartment and get settled, but she felt an urgency about delving into the medulloblastoma protocol.

“I’d like to use today to try to replace a nearby apartment,” Janet added.

“I don’t think you should stay around here,” Ms. Richmond said. “If I were you I’d go out to the beach. They’ve done a nice job restoring the area. Either that or Coconut Grove.”

“I’ll take your advice,” Janet said. Assuming the meeting was over, she stood.

“How about a quick tour of the hospital?” Ms. Richmond asked.

“I’d like that,” Janet said.

Ms. Richmond first took Janet across the hall to meet Dan Selenburg, the hospital administrator. But he wasn’t available. Instead, they went to the first floor to see the outpatient facilities, the hospital auditorium, and the cafeteria.

On the second floor Janet peered into the ICU, the surgical area, the chemistry lab, the radiology department, and medical records. Then they went up to the fourth floor.

Janet was impressed with the hospital. It was cheerful, modern, and appeared to be adequately staffed, which was particularly important from a nursing point of view. She’d had her misgivings about oncology and the fact that all the patients would be cancer patients, but given the otherwise pleasant environment and the variety in the patients she saw—some old, some gravely ill, others seemingly normal—she decided the Forbes hospital was definitely a place in which she could work. In many ways, it wasn’t dissimilar to the Boston Memorial, just newer and more pleasantly decorated.

The fourth floor was arranged in the same configuration as other patient floors. It was a simple rectangle with private rooms on either side of a central corridor. The nurses’ station was situated in the middle of the floor near the elevators and formed a large U-shaped counter. Behind it was a utility room and a small closet-like pharmacy with a dutch door. Across from the nurses’ station was a patients’ lounge. A housekeeping closet with a slop sink was across from the elevators. At either end of the long central hall were stairways.

Once their tour was completed, Ms. Richmond turned Janet over to Marjorie Singleton, the head nurse on days. Janet liked Marjorie immediately. She was a petite redhead with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She seemed in a constant flurry of activity and never without a smile. Janet met other staffers as well, but the profusion of names overwhelmed her. Aside from Ms. Richmond and Marjorie, she didn’t think she’d remember a single person to whom she’d been introduced except for Tim Katzenburg, the ward secretary. He was a blond-haired Adonis who looked more like a beach boy than a hospital ward secretary. He told Janet he was taking pre-med courses at night school since discovering the limited utility of a philosophy degree.

“We’re really glad to have you,” Marjorie said when she rejoined Janet after taking care of a minor emergency. “Boston’s loss is our gain.”

“I’m happy to be here,” Janet said.

“We’ve been short-handed since the tragedy with Sheila Arnold,” Marjorie said.

“What happened?”

“The poor woman was raped and shot in her apartment,” Marjorie said. “And not too far from the hospital. Welcome to big city life.”

“How terrible,” Janet said. She wondered if that was the reason Ms. Richmond had warned her against the immediate neighborhood.

“Currently we happen to have a small contingent of patients from Boston,” Marjorie said. “Would you like to meet them?”

“Sure,” Janet said.

Marjorie bounded off. Janet practically had to run to keep up with her. Together they entered a room on the west side of the hospital.

“Helen,” Marjorie called softly once she stood beside the bed. “You have a visitor from Boston.”

Bright green eyes opened. Their intense color contrasted dramatically with the patient’s pale skin.

“We have a new nurse joining our staff,” Marjorie said. She then introduced the two women.

The name Helen Cabot immediately registered in Janet’s mind. Despite the mildly jealous feelings she’d had back in Boston, she was pleased to replace Helen at the Forbes. Her presence would undoubtedly help keep Sean in Florida.

After Janet had spoken briefly with Helen, the two nurses left the room.

“Sad case,” Marjorie said. “Such a sweet girl. She’s scheduled for a biopsy today. I hope she responds to the treatment.”

“But I’ve heard that you people have had a hundred percent remission with her particular type of tumor,” Janet said. “Why wouldn’t she respond?”

Marjorie stopped and stared at Janet. “I’m impressed,” she said. “Not only are you aware of our medulloblastoma results, you made an instantaneous and correct diagnosis. Are you endowed with powers we should know about?”

“Hardly,” Janet said with a laugh. “Helen Cabot was a patient at my hospital in Boston. I’d heard about her case.”

“That makes me feel more comfortable,” Marjorie said. “For a second there I thought I was witnessing the supernatural.” She began walking again. “I’m concerned about Helen Cabot because her tumors are far advanced. Why did you people keep her for so long? She should have been started on treatment weeks ago.”

“That’s something I know nothing about,” Janet admitted.

The next patient was Louis Martin. In contrast to Helen, Louis did not appear ill. In fact, he was sitting in a chair fully dressed. He’d only arrived that morning and was still in the process of being admitted. Although he didn’t look sick, he did appear anxious.

Marjorie went through introductions again, adding that Louis had the same problem as Helen, but that thankfully he’d been sent to them much more swiftly.

Janet shook hands with the man, noting his palm was damp. She looked into the man’s terrified eyes, wishing there was something she could say that would comfort him. She also felt a little guilty realizing that she was somewhat pleased to learn of Louis’s plight. Having two patients on her floor under the medulloblastoma protocol would give her that much more opportunity to investigate the treatment. Sean would undoubtedly be pleased.

As Marjorie and Janet returned to the nurses’ station, Janet asked if the medulloblastoma cases were all on the fourth floor.

“Heavens no,” Marjorie said. “We don’t group patients according to tumor type. Their assignment is purely random. It just so happens we’ll currently have three. As we speak we’re admitting another case: a young woman from Houston named Kathleen Sharenburg.”

Janet hid her elation.

“There’s one last patient from Boston,” Marjorie said as she stopped outside of room 409. “And she’s a doll with an incredibly upbeat attitude that’s been a source of strength and support for all the other patients. I believe she said she’s from a section of town called the North End.”

Marjorie knocked on the closed door. A muffled “Come in” could be heard. Marjorie pushed open the door and stepped inside. Janet followed.

“Gloria,” Marjorie called. “How’s the chemo going?”

“Lovely,” Gloria joked. “I’ve just started the IV portion today.”

“I brought you somebody to meet,” Marjorie said. “A new nurse. She’s from Boston.”

Janet looked at the woman in the bed. She appeared to be about Janet’s own age. A few years earlier, Janet would have been shocked. Prior to working in a hospital she’d been under the delusion that cancer was an affliction of the elderly. Painfully, Janet had learned that just about anyone was fair game for the disease.

Gloria was olive-complected with dark eyes and what had been dark hair. Presently her scalp was covered with a dark fuzz. Although she’d been a buxom woman, one side of her chest was now flat beneath her lingerie.

“Mr. Widdicomb!” Marjorie said with surprised irritation. “What are you doing in here?”

Her attention focused on the patient, Janet had not realized there was another person in the room. She turned to see a man in a green uniform with a mildly distorted nose.

“Don’t go giving Tom a bad time,” Gloria said. “He’s only trying to help.”

“I told you I wanted room 417 cleaned,” Marjorie said, ignoring Gloria. “Why are you in here?”

“I was about to do the bathroom,” Tom said meekly. He avoided eye contact while fidgeting with the mop handle sticking out of his bucket.

Janet watched. She was fascinated. Tiny Marjorie had been transformed from an amiable pixie to a commanding power-house.

“What are we to do with the new patient if the room is not ready?” Marjorie demanded. “Get down there at once and get it done.” She pointed out the door.

After the man had left, Marjorie shook her head. “Tom Widdicomb is the bane of my existence here at Forbes.”

“He means well,” Gloria said. “He’s been an angel to me. He checks on me every day.”

“He’s not employed as part of the professional staff,” Marjorie said. “He’s got to do his own job first.”

Janet smiled. She liked working on wards that were well run by someone capable of taking charge. Judging by what she’d just seen, Janet was confident she’d get along fine with Marjorie Singleton.

SOME OF the soapy water sloshed out of his bucket as Tom raced down the corridor and into room 417. He released the doorstop and let the door close. He leaned against it. His breaths came in hissing gasps, a legacy of the terror that had flashed through him when the knock had first sounded on Gloria’s door. He’d been seconds away from giving her the succinylcholine. If Marjorie and that new nurse had happened by a few minutes later, he would have been caught.

“Everything is fine, Alice,” Tom reassured his mother. “There’s no problem whatsoever. You needn’t be worried.”

Having reined in his fear, Tom was now angry. He’d never liked Marjorie, not from the first day that he’d met her. That bubbly good nature was just a sham. She was a meddlesome bitch. Alice had warned him about her, but he hadn’t listened. He should have done something about her like he’d done to that other busybody nurse. Sheila Arnold, who’d started asking questions about why he was hanging around an anesthesia cart. All he’d have to do was get Marjorie’s address sometime when he was cleaning up in administration. Then he’d show her who was in charge, once and for all.

Having calmed himself with thoughts of taking care of Marjorie, Tom pushed off from the door and eyed the room. He didn’t care for the actual cleaning part of his job, just the freedom it provided. He’d preferred the job with the ambulance except for having to deal with fellow EMTs. With housekeeping, he didn’t have to deal with anyone except for rare run-ins with the likes of Marjorie. Also, with housekeeping he could go anyplace in the hospital almost anytime he wanted. The only catch was he occasionally had to clean. But most of the time he was able to get by just pushing things around, since nobody was watching him.

If Tom was honest with himself, he had to admit that the job he’d liked the best had been one he’d held way back when he’d first left high school. He’d gotten a job with a vet. Tom liked the animals. After he’d worked there for a while the vet had designated Tom as the person in charge of putting the animals to sleep. They were usually old, sick animals that were suffering, and the work gave Tom a lot of satisfaction. He could remember being disappointed when Alice didn’t share his enthusiasm.

Opening the door, Tom peered up the corridor. He had to return to the housekeeping closet to retrieve his housekeeping cart, but he didn’t want to run into Marjorie for fear she’d start in on him again. Tom was afraid he might not be able to control himself. On many occasions he’d felt like striking her because that’s what she needed. Yet he knew he couldn’t afford to do that, no way.

Tom knew he would have trouble helping Gloria now that he’d been seen in her room. He would have to be more careful than usual. He’d also have to wait a day or so. He’d just have to hope she’d still be on IVs by then. He didn’t want to inject the succinylcholine intramuscularly because that might make it detectable if it occurred to the medical examiner to look for it.

Slipping out of the room, Tom headed up the hall. As he passed 409, he glanced inside. He didn’t see Marjorie, which was good, but he did see that other nurse, the new one.

Tom slowed his steps as a new fear gripped him. What if the new nurse who’d been hired to replace Sheila was actually hired to replace him? Maybe she was a spy. That would explain why she had suddenly appeared in Gloria’s room with Marjorie!

The more Tom thought about it, the more sure he became, especially since the new nurse was still in Gloria’s room. She was out to trap him and stop his crusade against breast cancer.

“Don’t worry, Alice,” he assured his mother. “I’ll listen this time.”

ANNE MURPHY felt better than she had in weeks. She’d been depressed for several days after she’d learned of Sean’s plans to go to Miami. To her, the city was synonymous with drugs and sin. Somehow, the news hadn’t surprised her. Sean had been a bad child from an early age and, like men in general, he certainly wasn’t likely to change, despite his surprising academic performances late in high school and then in college. At first when he talked about going to medical school, she’d felt a ray of hope. But the hope had been shattered when he told her he did not plan to practice medicine. Like so many other junctures in her life, Anne recognized she just had to endure and stop praying for miracles.

Still the question of why Sean couldn’t be more like Brian or Charles plagued her. What had she done wrong? It had to have been her fault. Maybe it was because she hadn’t been able to breast-feed Sean as a baby. Or maybe it was because she’d been unable to stop her husband from beating the child during some of his drunken rages.

Leave it to her youngest son, Charles, to provide a bright spot in the days subsequent to Sean’s departure. Charles had called from his seminary in New Jersey with the glorious news that he would be home for a visit the following evening. Wonderful Charles! His prayers would save them all.

In anticipation of Charles’s arrival, Anne had gone out shopping that morning. She planned to spend the day baking and preparing dinner. Brian said he’d try to make it although he had an important meeting that night that might run late.

Opening the refrigerator, Anne began putting away the cold items while her mind reveled in anticipation of the pleasures she’d enjoy that evening. But then she caught herself. She knew such thoughts were dangerous. Life was such a weak thread. Happiness and pleasure were invitations for tragedy. For a moment she tortured herself about how she’d feel if Charles were killed on the way to Boston.

The doorbell interrupted Anne’s worries. She pressed the intercom and asked who was calling.

“Tanaka Yamaguchi,” a voice said.

“What do you want?” Anne asked. The doorbell did not ring often.

“I want to talk to you about your son Sean,” Tanaka said.

The color drained from Anne’s face. Instantly she scolded herself for having entertained pleasurable thoughts. Sean was in trouble again. Had she expected anything less?

Pressing the door-release button, Anne went to the door to her apartment and pulled it open in anticipation of her unexpected guest. Anne Murphy was surprised enough that someone was paying a house call; when she saw that he was an Oriental, she was shocked. The fact that the man’s name was Oriental hadn’t registered.

The stranger was about Anne’s height but stocky and muscular with coal-black short hair and tanned skin. He was dressed in a dark, slightly shiny business suit with a white shirt and dark tie. Over his arm he carried a belted Burberry coat.

“I beg your pardon,” Tanaka said. He had only a slight accent. He bowed and extended his business card. The card simply read: Tanaka Yamaguchi, Industrial Consultant.

With one hand pressed against her throat and the other clutching the business card, Anne was at a loss for words.

“I must speak to you about your son Sean,” Tanaka said.

As if recovering from a blow, Anne found her voice: “What’s happened? Is he in trouble again?”

“No,” Tanaka said. “Has he been in trouble before?”

“As a teenager,” Anne said. “He was a very headstrong boy. Very active.”

“American children can be troublesome,” Tanaka said. “In Japan the children are taught to respect their elders.”

“But Sean’s father could be difficult,” Anne said, surprised at her admission. She felt flustered and wasn’t sure if she should invite the man in or not.

“I’m interested in your son’s business dealings,” Tanaka said. “I know he is a fine student at Harvard, but is he involved with any companies that produce biological products?”

“He and a group of his friends started a company called Immunotherapy,” Anne said, relieved that the conversation was turning to the more positive moments of her son’s checkered past.

“Is he still involved with this Immunotherapy?” Tanaka asked.

“He doesn’t talk to me about it too much,” Anne said.

“Thank you very much,” Tanaka said with another bow. “Have a nice day.”

Anne watched as the man turned and disappeared down the stairs. She was almost as surprised at the sudden end to the conversation as she’d been at the man’s visit. She stepped out into the hall just in time to hear the front door close two floors down. Returning to her apartment, she closed the door and bolted it behind her.

It took her a moment to pull herself together. It had been a strange episode. After glancing at Tanaka’s card, she slipped it into her apron pocket. Then she went back to putting food into the refrigerator. She thought about calling Brian but decided she could tell him about the Japanese man’s visit that evening. Provided, of course, that Brian came. She decided that if he didn’t come, then she’d call.

An hour later Anne was absorbed in making a cake when the door buzzer startled her again. At first she worried that the Japanese man had returned with more questions. Maybe she should have called Brian. With some trepidation she pressed the intercom button and asked who was there.

“Sterling Rombauer,” a deep masculine voice replied. “Is this Anne Murphy?”

“Yes…”

“I would very much like to speak to you about your son Sean Murphy,” Sterling said.

Anne caught her breath. She couldn’t believe yet another stranger was there to ask questions about her second born.

“What about him?” she asked.

“I’d rather talk to you in person,” Sterling said.

“I’ll come down,” Anne said.

Rinsing her hands of flour, Anne started down the stairs. The man was standing in the foyer, a camel-hair coat thrown over his arm. Like the Japanese man, he was wearing a business suit and white shirt. His tie was a bright red foulard.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Sterling said through the glass.

“Why are you asking about my son?” Anne demanded.

“I’ve been sent by the Forbes Cancer Center in Miami,” Sterling explained.

Recognizing the name of the institution where Sean was working, Anne opened the door and gazed up at the stranger. He was an attractive man with a broad face and straight nose. His hair was light brown and mildly curly. Anne thought he could have been Irish except for his name. He was over six feet tall with eyes as blue as those of her own sons.

“Has Sean done something I should know about?” she asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Sterling said. “The management of the clinic routinely looks into the background of the people who work there. Security is an important issue with them. I merely wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Like what?” Anne asked.

“Has your son been involved with any biotechnology companies to your knowledge?”

“You are the second person to ask that question in the last hour,” Anne said.

“Oh?” Sterling said. “Who may I ask made similar inquiries?”

Anne reached into her apron pocket and drew out Tanaka’s business card. She handed it to Sterling. Anne could see the man’s eyes narrow. He handed her the card back.

“And what did you tell Mr. Yamaguchi?” Sterling asked.

“I told him my son and a few friends had started their own biotechnology company,” Anne said. “They called it Immunotherapy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Murphy,” Sterling said. “I appreciate your talking with me.”

Anne watched the elegant stranger descend the steps in front of her house and climb into the back seat of a dark sedan. His driver was in uniform.

More baffled than ever, Anne went back upstairs. After some indecision she picked up the phone and called Brian. After apologizing for interrupting his busy day, she told him about her two, curious visitors.

“That’s odd,” Brian said when she was finished.

“Should we be worried about Sean?” Anne asked. “You know your brother.”

“I’ll call him,” Brian said. “Meanwhile, if anyone else comes asking questions, don’t tell them anything. Just refer them to me.”

“I hope I didn’t say anything wrong,” Anne said.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Brian assured her.

“Will we be seeing you later?”

“I’m still working on it,” Brian said. “But if I’m not there by eight eat without me.”

WITH THE Miami street map open on the seat next to her, Janet managed to replace her way back to the Forbes residence. She was pleased when she saw Sean’s Isuzu in the parking lot. She was hoping to replace him home since she had what she thought was good news. She’d found an airy, pleasant furnished apartment on the southern tip of Miami Beach that even had a limited view of the ocean from the bathroom. When she’d first started looking for apartments she’d been discouraged since it was “in season.” The place she found had been reserved a year in advance, but the people had unexpectedly canceled. Their cancellation had come in five minutes before Janet stepped into the real estate office.

Grabbing her purse and her copy of the rental agreement, Janet went up to her apartment. She took a few minutes to wash her face and change into shorts and a tank top. Then with lease in hand she walked down the balcony to Sean’s slider. She found him glumly slouched on the couch.

“Good news!” Janet said cheerfully. She plopped down in the armchair across from him.

“I could use some of that,” Sean said.

“I found an apartment,” she announced. She brandished the lease. “It’s not fabulous, but it’s a block from the beach, and best of all it’s a straight shot out the expressway to the Forbes.”

“Janet, I don’t know whether I can stay here,” Sean said. He sounded depressed.

“What happened?” Janet asked, feeling a shiver of anxiety.

“The Forbes is nuts,” Sean said. “The atmosphere sucks. For one thing, there’s a Japanese weirdo who I swear is watching me. Every time I turn around, there he is.”

“What else?” Janet asked. She wanted to hear all Sean’s objections so she could figure a way to deal with them. Having just signed a lease for two months made her commitment to remaining in Miami that much more binding.

“There’s something basically wrong with the place,” Sean said. “People are either friendly or unfriendly. It’s so black and white. It’s not natural. Besides, I’m working by myself in this huge empty room. It’s crazy.”

“You’ve always complained about the lack of space,” Janet said.

“Remind me never to complain again,” Sean said. “I never realized it, but I need people around me. And another thing: they have this secret maximum containment lab which is supposed to be off limits. I ignored the sign and went in anyway. You know what I found? Nothing. The place was empty. Well, I didn’t get to go in every room. In fact, I hadn’t gotten far when this frustrated Marine who heads up the security department stormed in and threatened me.”

“With what?” Janet asked with alarm.

“With his gut,” Sean said. “He came up real close and gave me this nasty look. I was this far from giving him a shot in the nuts.” Sean held up his thumb and index finger about a half inch apart.

“So what happened?” Janet asked.

“Nothing,” Sean said. “He backed off and just told me to get out. But he was all worked up, ordering me out of an empty room as if I’d done something really wrong. It was insane.”

“But you didn’t see the other rooms,” Janet said. “Maybe they’re redoing the room you were in.”

“It’s possible,” Sean admitted. “There’s a lot of potential explanations. But it’s still weird, and when you add all the weird stuff together, it makes the whole joint seem plain crazy.”

“What about the work they want you to do?”

“That’s okay,” Sean said. “In fact, I don’t know why they’ve had so much trouble. Dr. Mason, the director, came in during the afternoon, and I showed him what I was doing. I’d already gotten some minuscule crystals. I told him that I could probably get some decent crystals in a week or so. He seemed pleased, but after he left, I thought about it, and I’m not wild about helping to make money for some Japanese holding company, which is essentially what I’d be doing if I get crystals that they can defract.”

“But that’s not all you’ll be doing,” Janet said.

“How’s that?”

“You’ll also be investigating the medulloblastoma protocol,” Janet said. “Tomorrow I’m starting on the fourth floor and guess who’s there?”

“Helen Cabot?” Sean guessed. He pulled in his feet and sat up.

“You got it,” Janet said. “Plus another patient from Boston. A Louis Martin.”

“Does he have the same diagnosis?” Sean asked.

“Yup,” Janet said. “Medulloblastoma.”

“That’s amazing!” Sean remarked. “And they certainly got him down here quickly!”

Janet nodded. “Forbes is a bit perturbed that Helen had been kept in Boston so long,” Janet said. “The head nurse is worried about her.”

“There’d been a lot of argument about whether or not to biopsy her and which of her tumors to go after,” Sean explained.

“And there was another young woman being admitted while I was there,” Janet said.

“Medulloblastoma too?” Sean asked.

“Yup,” Janet said. “So there are three patients on my floor who are just beginning their treatments. I’d say that was pretty convenient.”

“I’ll need copies of their charts,” Sean said. “I’ll need drug samples as soon as they start actual treatment, unless of course the drugs are named. But that’s not going to be the case. They won’t be using chemo on these people; at least not chemo exclusively. The drugs will probably be coded. And I’ll need each patient’s regimen.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Janet said. “It shouldn’t be difficult with the patients on my floor. Maybe I’ll even be able to arrange to care for at least one of them personally. I’ve also located a convenient copy machine. It’s in medical records.”

“Be careful there,” Sean warned. “The mother of the woman in public relations is one of the medical librarians.”

“I’ll be careful,” Janet said. She eyed Sean warily before going on. She was learning what a mistake it was to push him to any conclusions before he was ready to make them. But she just had to know. “So this means you’re still game?” she asked. “You’ll stay? Even if it means doing that bit of work with the protein, even if it is for the Japanese?”

Sean leaned forward with his head down, elbows on his knees, and rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “This whole situation is absurd. What a way to do science!” He looked up at Janet. “I wonder if anybody in Washington had any idea what limiting research funding would do to our research establishments. It’s all happening just when the country needs research more than ever.”

“All the more reason for us to try to do something,” Janet said.

“You’re serious about this?” Sean asked.

“Absolutely,” Janet said.

“You know we’ll have to be resourceful,” Sean said.

“I know.”

“We’ll have to break a few rules,” he added. “Are you sure you can handle that?”

“I think so,” Janet said.

“And once we start, there’s no turning back,” Sean said.

Janet started to answer but the ringing of the phone on the desk startled them both.

“Who the hell could that be?” Sean wondered. He let it ring.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Janet asked.

“I’m thinking,” Sean said. What he didn’t say was that he was afraid it might be Sarah Mason. She’d called him that afternoon, and despite a temptation to aggravate Harris, Sean did not want any association with the woman whatsoever.

“I think you should answer it,” Janet said.

“You answer it,” Sean suggested.

Janet jumped to her feet and snatched up the receiver. Sean watched her expression as she asked who was calling. She showed no strong reaction as she extended the phone to him.

“It’s your brother,” she said.

“What the hell?” Sean mumbled as he pulled himself out of the couch. It wasn’t like his brother to call. They didn’t have that type of relationship, and they had just seen each other Friday night.

Sean took the phone. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I was about to ask you the same question,” Brian said.

“You want an honest answer or platitudes?” Sean asked.

“I think you’d better tell me straight,” Brian said.

“This place is bizarre,” Sean said. “I’m not so sure I want to stay. It might be a complete waste of time.” Sean glanced over at Janet, who rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Something weird’s going on up here too,” Brian said. He told Sean about the two men who’d visited their mother, asking about Immunotherapy.

“Immunotherapy is history,” Sean said. “What did Mom say?”

“Not much,” Brian said. “At least according to her. But she got a bit flustered. All she said was that you and some friends started it.”

“She didn’t say we sold out?”

“Evidently not.”

“What about Oncogen?”

“She said she didn’t mention it because we’d told her not to discuss it with anyone.”

“Good for her,” Sean said.

“Why would these people be up here talking to Mom?” Brian asked. “The Rombauer guy told her he represented the Forbes Cancer Center. He said that they routinely look into their employees for security reasons. Have you done anything to suggest you’re a security risk?”

“Hell, I’ve only been here for a little over twenty-four hours,” Sean said.

“You and I know of your penchant to provoke discord. Your blarney would try the patience of Job.”

“My blarney is nothing compared to your blather, brother,” Sean teased. “Hell, you’ve made an institution of it by becoming a lawyer.”

“Since I’m in a good mood, I’ll let that slam slide,” Brian said. “But seriously, what do you think is going on?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Sean said. “Maybe it’s like the man said: routine.”

“But neither guy seemed to know about the other,” Brian said. “That doesn’t sound routine to me. And the first man left his card. I have it right here. It says: Tanaka Yamaguchi, Industrial Consultant.”

“Industrial consultant could mean anything,” Sean said. “I wonder if his involvement is somehow related to the fact that a Japanese electronics giant called Sushita Industries has invested heavily in Forbes. They’re obviously looking for some lucrative patents.”

“Why can’t they stick to cameras, electronics, and cars?” Brian said. “They’re already screwing up the world’s economy.”

“They’re too smart for that,” Sean said. “They are looking toward the long term. But why they would be interested in my association with piss-ant Immunotherapy, I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Well, I thought you should know,” Brian said. “It’s still a little hard for me to believe you’re not stirring things up down there, knowing you.”

“You’ll hurt my feelings talking like that,” Sean said.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as the Franklin Bank comes through for Oncogen,” Brian said. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

“Who, me?” Sean asked innocently.

Sean dropped the receiver into the cradle as soon as Brian said goodbye.

“Have you changed your mind again?” Janet asked with obvious frustration.

“What are you talking about?” Sean questioned.

“You told your brother that you weren’t sure you wanted to stay,” Janet said. “I thought we’d decided to go for it.”

“We had,” Sean said. “But I didn’t want to tell Brian about the plan. He’d worry himself sick. Besides, he’d probably tell my mother and who knows what would happen then.”

“THAT WAS very nice indeed,” Sterling told the masseuse. She was a handsome, healthy Scandinavian from Finland, dressed in what could have passed for a tennis outfit. He gave her an extra five-dollar tip; when he’d made the arrangements for the massage through the Ritz’s concierge, he’d already included an adequate tip in the charge added to his account, but he’d noticed she’d gone over the allotted time.

While the masseuse folded her table and gathered her oils, Sterling pulled on a thick white terrycloth robe and slipped off the towel cinched around his waist. Dropping into the club chair near the window he lifted his feet onto the ottoman and poured a glass of the complimentary champagne. Sterling was a regular visitor at Boston’s Ritz Carlton.

The masseuse called a goodbye from the door, and Sterling thanked her again. He decided he’d ask for her by name the next time. A regular massage was one of the expenses Sterling’s clients had learned to expect. They’d complain on occasion, but Sterling would merely say that they could accept his terms or hire someone else. Invariably they’d agree because Sterling was extremely effective at the service he performed: industrial espionage.

There were other, more sanitized, descriptions for Sterling’s work such as trade counsel or business consultant, but Sterling preferred the honesty of industrial espionage, although for propriety’s sake, he left it off his business card. His card merely read: consultant. It didn’t read “industrial consultant” as did the card he’d seen earlier that day. He felt the word “industrial” suggested a limitation to manufacturing. Sterling was interested in all business.

Sterling sipped his drink and gazed out the window at the superb view. As usual, his room was on a high floor overlooking the magical Boston Garden. As the sunlight waned, the park’s lamps lining the serpentine walkways had blinked on, illuminating the swan boat pond with its miniature suspension bridge. Although it was early March, the recent cold snap had frozen the pond solid. Skaters dotted its mirrored surface, weaving in effortless, intersecting arcs.

Raising his eyes, Sterling could see the fading dazzle of the gold-domed Massachusetts State House. Ruefully he bemoaned the sad fact that the legislature had systematically destroyed its own tax base by enacting short-sighted, anti-business legislation. Unfortunately Sterling had lost a number of good clients who’d either been forced to flee to a more business-oriented state or forced to leave business altogether. Nevertheless, Sterling enjoyed his trips to Boston. It was such a civilized city.

Pulling the phone over to the edge of the table, Sterling wanted to finish work for the day before he indulged in dinner. Not that he found work a burden. Quite the contrary. Sterling loved his current employ, especially considering that he didn’t have to work at all. He’d trained at Stanford in computer engineering, worked for Big Blue for several years, then founded his own successful computer chip company, all before he was thirty. By his middle thirties he was tired of an unfulfilling life, a bad marriage, and the stultifying routine of running a business. First he divorced, then he took his company public and made a fortune. Then he engineered a buyout and made another fortune. By age forty he could have bought a sizable portion of the State of California if he’d so desired.

For almost one year he indulged himself in the adolescence he felt he’d somehow missed. Eventually, he got extremely bored with such places as Aspen. That was when a business friend asked him if he would look into a private matter for him. From that moment on. Sterling had been launched on a new career which was stimulating, never routine, rarely dull, and which utilized his engineering background, his business acumen, his imagination, and his intuitive sense for human behavior.

Sterling called Randolph Mason at home. Dr. Mason took the call from his private line in his study.

“I’m not sure you will be happy about what I’ve learned,” Sterling said.

“It’s better I learn it sooner rather than later,” Dr. Mason responded.

“This young Sean Murphy is an impressive young fellow,” Sterling said. “He founded his own biotechnology company called Immunotherapy while a graduate student at MIT. The company turned a profit almost from day one marketing diagnostic kits.”

“How’s it doing now?”

“Wonderfully,” Sterling said. “It’s a winner. It’s done so well that Genentech bought them out over a year ago.”

“Indeed!” Dr. Mason said. A ray of sunshine entered the picture. “Where does that leave Sean Murphy?”

“He and his young friends realized a considerable profit,” Sterling said. “Considering their initial investment, it was extremely lucrative indeed.”

“So Sean’s no longer involved?” Dr. Mason asked.

“He’s completely out,” Sterling said. “Is that helpful?”

“I’d say so,” Dr. Mason said. “I could use the kid’s experience with monoclonals, but not if he’s got a production facility behind him. It would be too risky.”

“He could still sell the information to someone else,” Sterling said. “Or he could be in someone else’s employ.”

“Can you replace that out?”

“Most likely,” Sterling said. “Do you want me to continue on this?”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Mason said. “I want to use the kid but not if he’s some kind of industrial spy.”

“I’ve learned something else,” Sterling said as he poured himself more champagne. “Someone besides myself has been investigating Sean Murphy. His name is Tanaka Yamaguchi.”

Dr. Mason felt the tortellini in his stomach turn upside down.

“Have you ever heard of this man?” Sterling asked.

“No,” Dr. Mason said. He’d not heard of him, but with a name like that, the implications were obvious.

“My assumption would be he’s working for Sushita,” Sterling said. “And I know that he is aware of Sean Murphy’s involvement with Immunotherapy. I know because Sean’s mother told him.”

“He’d been to see Sean’s mother?” Dr. Mason asked with alarm.

“As have I,” Sterling said.

“But then Sean will know he’s being investigated,” Dr. Mason sputtered.

“Nothing wrong in that,” Sterling said. “If Sean is an industrial spy, it will give him pause. If he’s not, it will only be a matter of curiosity or at worst a minor irritation. Sean’s reaction should not be your concern. You should be worried about Tanaka Yamaguchi.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never met Tanaka,” Sterling said. “But I have heard a lot about him since we’re competitors of sorts. He came to the United States many years ago for college. He’s the eldest son of a wealthy industrial family, heavy machinery I believe. The problem was he adapted to ‘degenerate’ American ways a bit too easily for the family’s honor. He was swiftly Americanized and became too individualistic for Japanese tastes. The family decided they didn’t want him home so they funded a lavish lifestyle. It’s been a kind of exile, but he’s been clever to augment his allowance by doing what I do, only for Japanese companies operating in the U.S. But he’s like a double agent of sorts, frequently representing the Yakusa at the same time he’s representing a legitimate firm. He’s clever, he’s ruthless, and he’s effective. The fact that he’s involved means your Sushita friends are serious.”

“You think he was involved with our two researchers who disappeared and whom you found happily working for Sushita in Japan?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Sterling said.

“I can’t afford to have this Harvard student disappear,” Dr. Mason said. “That would be the kind of media event that could destroy the Forbes.”

“I don’t think there is a worry for the moment,” Sterling said. “My sources tell me Tanaka is still here in Boston. Since he has access to a lot of the same information as I, he must think Sean Murphy is involved in something else.”

“Like what?” Dr. Mason asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sterling said. “I haven’t been able to locate all that money those kids made when they sold Immunotherapy. Neither Sean nor his friends have any personal money to speak of, and none of them indulged themselves with expensive cars or other high-ticket items. I think they are up to something, and I believe Tanaka thinks so too.”

“Good God!” Dr. Mason said. “I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should send the kid home.”

“If you think Sean can help you with that protein work you told me about,” Sterling said, “then hold tight. I believe I have everything under control. I have made inquiries with numerous contacts, and because of the computer industry here, I’m well connected. All you have to do is tell me to remain on the case and continue paying the bills.”

“Keep on it,” Dr. Mason said. “And keep me informed.”