Authors: Michael Palmer
“How heavy is that?” Rosa asked.
“Without the reverse gear? Oh, two-fifty, three hundred maybe.”
“I’m very impressed.”
“No need to be. With the block and fall setup I have here, I could lift two of these at once if I ever really wanted to or had to.… At least I think I could.”
She wrapped the greasy line just a single time around a cleat on the wall and tucked a loop under to secure it. Rosa could not believe what she was witnessing.
“Just that one loop will hold it up there?” Rosa asked as the woman reached overhead and loosened the oil pan.
“Will if no one messes with it,” Martha said. “And since I work alone here, no one does.”
Her moonish face was unlined and open. And although her manner was brusque and her voice like sandpaper, there was an appealing quality to her. Rosa introduced herself.
“Miss Fezler, I need your help,” she said.
“It’s Martha. And unless you’ve got car or boat trouble, I don’t see how I can—”
“Martha, I need to find your brother Warren. It’s very, very urgent.”
Martha lowered her hands and wiped them with a towel that seemed incapable of absorbing any more grease. For just a moment, Rosa thought she was going to deny having a brother and demand that she leave. Then, just as quickly, the woman’s expression changed.
“Maybe we ought to go sit down,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?”
The small, metal-top table overlooked the placid harbor from a spot just to one side of the rails. Seated across from Martha Fezler, Rosa traced her involvement in the DIC cases from her arrival at the Medical Center of Boston, through her discovery of Constanza Hidalgo’s diary, and finally to Ken Mulholland, and their efforts to pin down the source of the virus CRV113.
“I believe that somehow the women I have been investigating became infected with the virus that your brother created,” she concluded. “It is quite possible that some component of this diet powder they all were taking was contaminated. I don’t know. I hope Warren does. Once the virus got into the women, their natural defenses battled back, but never completely eliminated it. It remained in balance with their bodies, until the stress of labor upset that balance.”
“How many women have died from this?”
“Two that we know of. And their babies. A third woman—the one we cultured the virus from—lost her baby and almost died. I fear she is not going to be the
last case, Martha. That’s why I need to find your brother.”
Martha Fezler stared out at the water and the lengthening afternoon shadows. Finally she handed a pencil and notepad to Rosa.
“Write down your name, where you come from, the name of the virus, and the name of that disease,” she said. She waited until Rosa had complied, then tore off the sheet and slipped it into her overall pocket. “Wait here,” she said.
She lumbered up the staircase and disappeared through the door to the loft. Rosa doodled absently on the pad as she watched a pair of gulls do strident battle over a mussel. Only when she glanced down did she realize that she was shading in the carefully blocked letters BART.
Five minutes passed. Once Rosa swore she heard Martha Fezler shouting. The gulls resolved their dispute and glided off across the harbor. Finally the loft door opened and Warren Fezler emerged, followed by his sister. He was even slighter than Rosa remembered from the time he dashed past her on the MCB campus. Compared to him, Martha looked positively hulking. He approached Rosa and smiled sheepishly.
“S-sorry I’ve given you s-such a hard time,” he said. “I’ve been v-very frightened.”
He took the seat opposite Rosa. Martha brought over another folding chair and settled onto it, facing the tracks.
“Warren says it’s okay if I stay for this,” she said.
“That’s fine,” Rosa replied. “Believe me, Warren, coming forward is the right thing to do.”
“Even if I g-get k-killed?”
“We’ll have to see to it that doesn’t happen. When my department head finds out what’s going on, you’ll get all the protection you need. If I’m right, Warren, others have already died from this virus. There’s a good chance that by coming forward, you may save a lot of lives.”
“I honestly d-didn’t know it was hurting anyone. He said that D-Dr. B-Baldwin caused their problem. N-not the virus.”
“Who’s
he
, Warren?”
Warren Fezler rubbed at his eyes, which looked flat and tired. He turned to Martha, who gave an encouraging nod.
“Blankenship,” he said, suddenly. “Eli B-Blankenship.”
Rosa stared at him incredulously.
Blankenship!
The one person aside from Sarah and Matt Daniels whom she had trusted with all her information. She felt a sick, empty churning beginning in her gut.
“Explain,” she said.
“I s-stutter a lot. I’m s-sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for, Warren. Don’t even think about it. Just tell me about CRV113 and Eli Blankenship.”
“If I sp-speak slowly, it’s not as bad.”
“You’re doing fine.”
Fezler took a calming breath. In fact, when he did begin to speak again, he seemed more composed and fluent.
“The CRV s-stands for coagulation-related virus. I stumbled on its weight loss p-property by accident. I th-think it’s due to some sort of gene that’s closely linked on the chromosome to one of the ones I w-was working on. The linked gene interferes with the digestion and cellular storage of fat by blocking a specific enzyme. In isolating my clotting genes from their chromosomes, I apparently cut away the genes that provide the checks and balances on the fat-inhibiting one. My m-monkeys began losing weight. A lot of them died. After I realized what was happening with them, I p-played around with the inoculum size and some other stuff. They stopped dying, and just lost weight—right down to dry weight. F-finally I ingested the virus myself. It w-worked perfectly. I l-lost a hundred pounds in
just a f-few months with no p-problem and absolutely no side effects.”
“But Cletus Collins said all your monkeys died.”
“I—I’m ashamed to say it, but I k-killed them m-myself to protect the secret. It was B-Blankenship’s idea. We were classmates in graduate school. He has an M.D. I have b-both an M.D. and Ph.D. I s-swear I n-never thought anyone would get hurt. You’ve g-got to believe that.”
“She does, Warren,” Martha said sadly. “Just go on.”
“I t-told Eli about the virus and what I h-had found. He said we could get very rich from it. There were two p-problems, though.”
Already, for Rosa, the final pieces had dropped into place.
“The patent,” she said.
“Exactly. B-BIO-Vir owns the virus.”
“And I guess the second would be the FDA.”
“You’re very s-smart,” Fezler said.
Rosa thought about how much she had shared with Eli Blankenship—especially over the past two days.
“Not so smart,” she said. “So, Blankenship concocted the Herbal Weight Loss powder to avoid any lengthy research protocol with the FDA.”
“Which they w-would n-never have approved of anyhow. Eli set up the whole thing. He’s incredibly b-brilliant. But he’s a demon. He’s a liar, and he’s v-very, very secretive. No one involved ever knew w-what anyone else was doing. N-not Singh, not Ettinger, not Paris, n-not even me.”
“None of them knew about the virus?”
“Just me … and Eli.”
“But it’s in the diet powder.”
“N-no. Not in the powder. In the vitamins. One of the vitamin capsules—n-number nine—is different f-from the rest. I made them myself in a lab Eli s-set up for me. At first I believed him about D-Dr. Baldwin being responsible for those women. Then I b-began to
have doubts. I got f-frightened about what we w-were doing. Especially with s-so many people buying the p-powder.”
“So Blankenship tried to kill you?”
“Not Blankenship. A m-man he hired. Tall and b-blond with—”
“No!”
Rosa was about to say the word herself when Martha Fezler screamed it. Her eyes were wide with terror. At that instant a soft pop came from Rosa’s right. Martha cried out and flew over backward as if she had been hit by a wrecking ball. Warren and Rosa dropped to where she lay. She was grunting for breath. Her eyes were glazed.
“Oh, God!” Warren said, touching the dime-size hole in her overall bib, which was already soaking through with blood. “She’s been shot.”
“Excellent deduction, Warren.”
They spun to the voice, which Rosa had recognized even before she saw the man. Darryl was leaning comfortably against a support beam, grinning at her the way he first had on the highway. The silenced revolver, held comfortably in his hand, was pointed at a spot somewhere between her and Warren.
“H-he’s the m-man,” Fezler said from his knees. “B-Blankenship’s man. Why d-did you sh-shoot my s-sister, you f-fucker? Why?”
“It’s just business, Warren,” he said, taking a step toward them. “I’m sure Rosa there understands that. She doesn’t hold it against me that I shot out that tire of hers. She knows it was just business. Just a way to find out exactly where she was headed. I don’t hold it against you that my knee got blown apart the last time we were together and that I’m going to be a fucking gimp cripple for the rest of my life. Occupational hazard is the way I look at it. Business. Now, though, it’s your turn.”
“You s-son of a bitch!” Fezler whined.
“Get up! Now!”
Numbly the scientist did as he was asked. He looked like a man resigned to death.
Darryl’s gun came up. Rosa could see Fezler had no intention of moving. She dove at him from the side and pushed him as hard as she could. He stumbled, tripped, and then toppled off the rear platform between the rails and the building. The gunman’s reflex shot splintered the floor where Fezler had been standing.
“Run, Warren, run!” Rosa screamed.
Darryl turned to her and smiling in a calm, twisted way, shot her in the chest. In grotesque ballet, Rosa spun nearly full around, her arms flapping like a rag doll’s, her glasses flying off. She fell heavily to the floor, not two feet from where Martha lay. Pain exploded through to her back from a spot just above her right breast. She cried out, but was not aware that she had made a sound. Drawing even a shallow breath sent daggers through her chest, and up into her shoulder and jaw.
Darryl, now ignoring her completely, had moved to the spot where Warren had fallen from the platform. He held the obscene, silenced revolver loosely as he stared out toward the water. Lying on her side, gasping for air, Rosa prayed that Fezler had overcome his cowardice and kept his head enough to try to escape.
“P-please d-don’t sh-shoot,” she suddenly heard him beg.
“Up,” Darryl said. “Slowly now. On your feet.”
Silently Rosa cursed both men. Moving through pain unlike any she had ever known, she pulled herself toward them.
“Now, Warren, this way. Come on.… Come on, boy.”
Rosa felt herself move, then move again, first on her belly, then on her hands and knees. Her lung had collapsed. Of that she was sure. She tasted blood and sensed it welling up from her chest. She felt dizzy. Her vision blurred. Then, as she wondered if she could move even one more foot, her hand brushed against Martha Fezler’s
coffee can. Hearing the soft scrape, Darryl turned. With all her strength, Rosa splashed the solvent into his face. He staggered backward, screaming, pawing frantically at his eyes with his free hand and firing the revolver wildly with the other.
A bullet tore through the flesh of Rosa’s arm, but she barely noticed. She had pulled herself up by a line and stumbled over to the wall.
“Warren, help!” she cried hoarsely.
Darryl, now writhing on the floor by the tracks, fired instinctively at her voice. The bullet shattered the barnside just inches from her face.
“Please help me!”
Again a bullet slammed into the wall by her face. The blood gurgling in her throat was beginning to suffocate her. Her cough was futilely weak, her consciousness beginning to go. The room swirled mercilessly as she slipped toward the floor. Suddenly, through the unrelenting haze, she heard a crash, followed instantly by Darryl’s dreadful wail. Then, just as suddenly, there was silence.
Rosa lay by the wall, conscious, but barely so. Her hand was inches from her eyes. Still, it took some time before she realized that she was clutching the safety line Martha had so loosely tied. She peered across through a deepening gloom. Twenty feet away, Blankenship’s hired killer lay facedown and very still. The huge marine inboard engine rested squarely on his back.
“Warren?” Rosa whimpered, almost soundlessly. “Please come.”
There was no response. Rosa battled the encroaching darkness. But slowly her eyes closed.
“Rosa?” Fezler meekly whispered her name, as he touched her shoulder. “C-can you hear me?”
Rosa nodded but could not speak. She felt blood oozing from her mouth.
“Hang on. I’ll c-call an ambulance.”
“Wait,” she gasped.
“W-what?”
“Pad … pencil … over there.”
Bewildered, Fezler retrieved the pad and then lifted her head and rested it on his lap. Painfully, slowly, she dictated a phone number to him.
“Call … now,” she managed. “Explain … to … him.… Sarah … is … at … M … C … B .… This … man … will … help.”
“I’ll g-get an ambulance,” Warren said. “Rosa? Dammit, Rosa, no!”
The muscles in her face relaxed. Her lips curled up in a thin smile.
“Go,” she said.
E
ACH HOUR OF
S
ARAH’S INCARCERATION ON THE
locked ward of Underwood Six was more traumatic and unpleasant than the last. The staff seemed determined that she should neither expect nor get any special treatment merely because she was a physician. And some of them clearly enjoyed having power and control over an M.D. Every request she made, however minor, was prohibited or modified by some sort of unit rule. Her primary antagonists were the mental health workers—mostly recent college graduates who majored in psychology or sociology, and who all seemed to have taken the job as a stopgap while they tried to decide what to do with their lives.
“My doctor hasn’t been by to see me all day. It’s very important that I talk to him. Could you please call him?”