Marcus stared out the car window at The Complex’s manicured lawns, which, he thought, were too green. He squinted up into the blue sky, where no clouds obscured the oppressive Arizona sun. Marcus felt the air conditioning on his forehead and realized he was sweating. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, then looked at the Driver. Walter was not perspiring at all. Marcus muttered in annoyance and shifted in his seat, sweat running down the small of his back.
The Driver parked the Mercedes, and its occupants emerged. Tom Holloway whistled and looked up at the red brick structures before them. “Nice buildings,” he said. “Big. But why did they build this place out here in the middle of nowhere? That strip we landed on must be a hundred miles from here.”
“Hundred and nine,” the Driver said.
Marcus pulled a wheelchair from the trunk, and then helped Carmen fasten Jenny into place and elevate her leg. “We need an isolated environment,” Marcus said, “with a consistent climate so we can be sure the results of the drug studies are caused by the drugs and not some outside factor.”
Tom looked at Carmen, who nodded. “Oh,” Tom said. He moved to help the Driver unload the bags from the trunk of the car. Marcus stood and began to push Jenny toward the entrance as Carmen, Tom, and the Driver followed. A brass sign next to the front door proclaimed “Westchester Oncology Clinic” in pretentious script.
“Sure is peaceful here, with all the trees and flowers and things,” Carmen said. “Why do they call it The Complex?”
Marcus thought for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he said. He glanced at the Driver, but Walter kept staring straight ahead. “They’ve been calling it that since before I started with Porter,” Marcus continued. “Porter built Westchester in the early nineties to conduct clinical trials on cancer drugs. We’ve added more buildings over the years, and now the whole thing is called The Complex.”
They walked in silence, and then Tom said, “But Jenny doesn’t have cancer.”
“Right,” Marcus said, “but we have state-of-the-art facilities here for all types of tests and diseases now, not just cancer.”
Tom continued, “But how can Porter afford to do this if they don’t charge anyone to come here?”
The Driver increased his pace until he was even with Marcus, then turned and stared at him. Marcus could feel the heat of the steel-blue glare, even obscured as it was behind the sunglasses. “Some people do pay,” Marcus said, “but most people are like yourselves. They agree to accept treatment with drugs that are still being tested. Insurance companies won’t cover experimental therapies, so Porter underwrites the cost. We can then write it off as research and development.”
“And then Porter gets paid back when it finds a good drug.”
Marcus looked at Carmen and nodded. “That’s right,” he said.
The Driver moved forward and pulled the door open. “Thank you,” Jenny said to the Driver as Marcus wheeled her past him into the lobby, the Driver managing a thin smile in return. They pulled up to the front desk and could see behind the receptionist through tall glass windows into a large open-air courtyard.
“Sure is nice and cool in here,” Tom said.
“Nothing but the best,” Marcus said. “Now, we just need to get Jenny settled in her room, and then I’ll show you folks to the guest quarters.”
Jenny squirmed in her wheelchair and managed to turn around enough to look up at Marcus and ask, “Do they have ice cream here?”
Marcus knelt next to the chair. “Yep. And it’s homemade, too.” Jenny beamed and settled back down into her seat.
—
The conference room at The Complex was cramped and stuffy. Marcus and the Driver sat at a round table, a speakerphone in front of them. The Driver punched in a series of numbers and then sat back in his chair, his calm, unnerving countenance unchanged. Marcus avoided looking at him, concentrating on the telephone instead.
“Hello?” The voice boomed from the speaker on the table.
The Driver nudged Marcus with his foot, and he jumped. “Ah, hello Mr. Porter. It’s Craig Marcus.”
“Marcus! Where are you?”
“At The Complex. I wanted to talk to you before we left for home.”
There was a brief silence, which Porter interrupted. His voice now carried an edge of irritation. “Well?” he said.
“We’ve got Jenny Holloway settled into her room.”
“Good. She’s the new viral patient, right? What about the parents?”
“No problem. The guest quarters are nicer than their house.”
“So then I’ll see you back here,” Porter said.
“Uh, Mr. Porter? There’s just one problem. I prescribed a regimen of Batch 920 to begin tomorrow morning and the Dri—, uh, Walter, tells me you want to start her on 919.”
Silence. Then: “And? . . .”
“We don’t have Katrine Waters’ autopsy back yet.”
“So what?”
Marcus looked at the Driver, who stared back at him. “Excuse me?” Marcus said to the phone.
Porter sighed. “You told me Katrine Waters probably lived three weeks longer than she would have without 919.”
“That’s probably right.”
“So what’s the problem? Run an ELISA test on the new girl to make sure it’s the virus and then start her on 919—”
“With all due respect, Mr. Porter,” Marcus said, interrupting, “the only reason I recommended Jenny to The Complex was because of her age. We’ve not seen the virus in someone so young yet, and I thought it would be nice if we could send someone home from The Complex for a change. It would be a good first trial for 920.”
“Look, I want to know how 919 affects Jenny Holloway. I can’t go to the Board with a recommendation to proceed to market unless I know its effect on a broad demographic. Plus, if she’s as good a prospect for a cure as you say she is, let’s not waste her on the first clinical trial of 920.”
Marcus took a deep breath and steeled himself. “I feel very strongly that we should wait at least until the Katrine Waters autopsy is done.”
“I don’t give a damn what you think or what the autopsy says! You’re the only one who sees those things. FDA just relies on your summaries of the animal trials.”
“But it may be bad news. It may show that 919 killed her.”
“If it had cured her we’d all be out of a job right now, wouldn’t we,” Porter said. “Ever since this thing came along, this ‘Trip the Light Fantastic’ or whatever they’re calling it —”
“Trips Lite. TL, short for Triptovirus L. Somebody at CDC thought they were clever, I guess,” Marcus said. “I wonder if Stephen King is getting a royalty.”
“Whatever. Ever since it came along and ever since you perfected the enzyme immunoassay test for it so it could be diagnosed, Porter has been the leader on this thing. Everybody is working around the clock to try and crack the code on this bug and get a vaccine, and I want the market to be convinced that Porter will be the source for the vaccine, not just the source for the ELISA test, and not Pfizer or Merck. We know that 919 stopped TL’s progression in Katrine Waters, we need one more trial for 919, and Jenny Holloway is it.” The line went dead, the speaker emitting an angry buzzing sound.
The Driver reached forward and depressed a button on the speakerphone, then lifted the handset and dialed a four-digit number. Marcus watched him dial. He recognized the number as the nursing station for Jenny Holloway’s wing. The Driver handed the phone to Marcus.
Marcus was pale, and his voice quivered. “Hi, this is Dr. Marcus,” he said. “I need to change my dispensing order for Room 411, Jenny Holloway . . . start her on Batch 919.” Marcus kept the phone pressed to his ear for several seconds before the Driver reached up and took the handset away from him.
“Good boy,” Walter said.
—
Jenny Holloway looked very small and frightened, lying in the exact center of the big hospital bed, swallowed by the sheets and metal railings surrounding her. She was staring glassy eyed at the TV, Tom and Carmen sitting beside her. They were holding hands.
“We’re leaving now.”
Tom and Carmen started, and then looked up at Marcus standing in the doorway. “Where are you going?” Tom said.
“Back to San Francisco.”
“When will you be back?” Carmen asked.
“I’ll fly out in a week,” Marcus said. “Until then, you’re in very good hands. The staff here is excellent.”
Tom stood and walked to Marcus, his hand extended. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for Jenny.”
Marcus took Tom’s hand and shook it limply, not meeting Tom’s eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said.
“Goodbye Mr. Driver.” Jenny had spotted the Driver standing behind Marcus, and she was now waving at him, her tiny hand flapping. The Driver held up a hand in acknowledgment, but then a smile formed and he wagged his fingers a bit toward Jenny. Jenny grinned, showing missing teeth.
Marcus released Tom’s hand and turned to leave. “I’ll be in touch,” he said without looking back. As he moved through the door, a nurse carrying a plastic IV bag came into the room. Marcus glanced at the bag and the writing on the label, where black numbers spelled out “919.” He paused to watch as the nurse moved to the side of Jenny’s bed and hung the bag on a metal frame, then inserted a needle into a vein in Jenny’s thin arm.
“Ow!” Jenny cried out, “that hurts!”
“It’s O.K., honey,” Carmen said. “This is the special medicine that Dr. Marcus said will make you all better. Right, Dr. Marcus?” Carmen turned and looked toward the door, but Marcus was gone.
—
Marcus trudged back to his office at Porter Pharmaceuticals’ Marin County headquarters, his head bent in thought, passing several white-coated technicians without returning their greetings. He paused before entering the room and looked at the sign on the door: “Craig Marcus, M.D. Director of Research.” What a joke, he thought. He shook his head and went in.
He loosened his tie and shook off his jacket, then sat down at the desk and sighed. His in-box was piled high, and Marcus began sorting the contents into categories. “Medical journal,” he mumbled, “junk mail, journal, letter, junk—” He stopped and lifted the next package, a manila mailer, for closer inspection. It was from the autopsy lab in Cupertino, and the “RECEIVED” stamp on the outside had today’s date on it—June 9. “Finally!” Marcus said.
He ripped open the package and removed a five-page form. Bold letters at the top spelled out “KATRINE MARIE WATERS.” He was suddenly hot, perspiration building on his forehead and cheeks. “Here we go,” he said. He placed the document on the desk and wiped his palms on his trousers, then grabbed the papers and held them up, squinting, scrutinizing each line. “Where is it?” he muttered, pulse racing. “Come on, come on,” he said, turning to the last page. “Date of death, time of death, age . . . .” Marcus held his breath and looked at an underlined sentence in the last paragraph. “Cause of death,” he said, his voice muted. “Death was caused by cytotoxic effect of antiviral agent resulting in renal failure and eventual cardiac arrest.”
He held the paper for another moment, then dropped it on the desk, his hand frozen in mid-air. “It killed her,” he said. He turned his chair and looked out the window at the Bay. It was sunny, and no fog was threatening. He watched the sailboats play on the waves for several minutes. “It killed her,” he said again, this time in a whisper.
Marcus spun his chair back around to the desk and turned on his computer, then summoned up the Katrine Waters memo he had written last May. He sat, eyes glued to the screen, reading: “Specific autopsy inquiry requested as to whether cardiac arrest caused by cytotoxic effects of Batch 919 or systemic organ failure due to viral pathogen prior to administration.” He put his fingers on the keyboard and typed: Autopsy confirmed cause of death as kidney failure and cardiac arrest induced by Batch 919. He saved the report, then e-mailed it to Porter and to his personal Gmail account, password protected. He printed off a hard copy for himself and turned off the computer.
Marcus got up from his chair and went down the hall to the copy machine. He glanced around, and then made one copy each of the autopsy and the memo. He went back to his office and typed out a mailing label, then affixed the label to an envelope and put the copies inside. He looked at his watch—five o’clock. Marcus put his jacket back on and straightened his tie, then gathered his things and hurried to the mailroom, where he buried the envelope deep in a pile of outgoing mail.