The small, well-lit library at The Complex had four tables, each with four chairs, a selection of current magazines, and an assortment of hard cover and paperback books arranged in prim rows on the bookshelves that lined the room. Jason moved to one of the shelves and removed a worn checkerboard with bold red and black squares. He also grabbed a wooden box, then returned to his seat. He opened the box and dumped a set of plastic chessmen onto the table, sending the black and white pieces clattering across the surface. Jason began to set up the game, centering each piece in its square. The library door opened, and Jenny came into the room in a wheelchair pushed by Wendy. Jenny, her head wrapped in a colorful scarf with tufts of hair sticking out here and there, was grinning madly. “I’m gonna cream you today,” she said.
Wendy pushed Jenny up to the table and sat down next to her then looked across at Jason. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Good, good,” Jason said, still worrying over the chess pieces. “You?”
“Fine, thanks,” Wendy said. She gave Jenny a little nod and smile, which Jenny acknowledged.
“No coaching from the sidelines today,” Jason said without looking up.
Jenny and Wendy broke out into giggles. “No fair!” Jenny protested. “You always win unless Wendy helps me.”
“You’ll never improve if someone helps you all the time.”
“Yeah, right, that’s what you always say.”
Jason picked up a black pawn and a white pawn and concealed one inside each fist. He held out his hands to Jenny. “Pick your color,” he said.
Jenny tapped Jason’s right hand and he opened his fist to reveal the black pawn. “Darn it!” she said. “I wanted to go first.”
Jason spun the board around so the white pieces were in front of him. He pushed the pawn in front of his king forward two spaces, then smiled at Jenny. “Your move,” he said. “Show me your stuff.”
“I’ve been working on that Ruy Lopez stuff you showed me last Thursday,” Jenny said as she mirrored Jason’s first move with her king pawn, per the Spaniard’s opening. She then sat back in her chair, arms folded, and stared at the board, her index finger worrying one scraggly forelock. As they played, Wendy stood and walked around the library, pausing to pick up a book, then turning back to study the game. Once, when Jenny put her hand on her queen, Wendy cleared her throat and coughed.
“Hey!” Jason said, turning to Wendy with a frown.
“Sorry,” she said, grinning.
Jason turned back to the board, only lifting his eyes when Wendy would sigh and look at her watch. “I’m hurrying,” Jason said as he moved his rook. Jenny stared at the board, glancing up occasionally at Wendy. Suddenly, a big smile appeared on Jenny’s face and she reached out and pushed her one remaining bishop to a square adjacent to Jason’s king. “Check,” Jenny said. Jason stared at the board, then whistled slowly. “Nice move!” he said. Just then the door to the library opened and an orderly walked in. “Time to go, Jenny,” the orderly said. “Physical therapy.”
“Awww, just a few more minutes,” Jenny pleaded. “Please. I’ve got him on the run.”
The orderly shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Those bones of yours are getting no use sitting in that chair. We’ve got to keep them strong.”
Jenny opened her mouth to protest again when Jason reached out and knocked over his king. “I resign,” he said. He extended his hand to Jenny. “Good game,” he said.
Jenny’s jaw dropped. “I won?”
“You won,” Jason said.
Jenny looked up at Wendy, grinning from ear to ear. “I won!” she said.
“I see that,” Wendy said. “Now scoot!”
The orderly walked to the table and grabbed Jenny’s wheelchair handles, pulling her backwards toward the door. “I’ll get a real checkmate next time!” Jenny called out as she and the orderly vanished into the hall.
Wendy and Jason watched her go, and then Wendy moved to the table and sat down next to Jason. She began to put away the chess pieces. “That was nice of you,” she said.
“Not really,” Jason said. “That last move of hers was a killer. She had checkmate in five moves. I was just trying to save face.”
The two worked in silence for a time, placing the pieces back into the box. “She’s been doing so much better since you got here,” Wendy said. “Her dad had just left when I first met her, and she was really depressed.”
Jason looked at Wendy with surprise. “Her dad left?”
Wendy nodded. “Yeah, it happens all the time. The parents can’t take it, you know, watching their kid die from cancer or TL or whatever, so they bail out.” Jason could see Wendy’s jaw clench. “Pisses me off when they’re such wimps like that,” she said. “Jenny needs him.”
“What about her mom?” Jason said.
“She’s still here, but she’s pretty much a basket case. She starts crying every time she sees Jenny, and that’s no good for a kid’s morale. She convinced one of the staff docs here to give her some Valium, so she’s out of it most of the time.”
Jason shook his head. “She’s such a great kid, too.” Jason then looked at Wendy. “How’s she doing?”
Wendy shook her head. “Who knows? I look at her charts whenever I can, and as far as I can tell she’s on some experimental antiviral regimen—Batch Nine-something—last resort kind of stuff. But she doesn’t seem to be improving.”
“Who’s her doctor?” Jason asked.
Wendy thought for a second. “Craig Marcus,” she said.
Jason’s eyes opened wide. “Hey, that’s my doctor, too. I should say something to him next time I talk to him.”
“That would be great,” Wendy said. She blinked as her eyes filled with tears.
Jason reached across the table and put his hand on Wendy’s. “Hey, hey, hey, I thought you nurses were supposed to be tough.”
Wendy squeezed Jason’s hand and laughed, then wiped away tears and tried to smile. “I know, I’m sorry,” she said. “I usually just draw blood from Montweiler’s insurance guys. This is the first patient I’ve ever had who’s going to die.”
Jason looked at Wendy’s soft curls and brown eyes. He reached up and wiped her cheek with his thumb, then placed his hand under her chin. “She’s going to be fine,” he said.
Wendy sighed. “You’re a pretty nice guy, you know that?” she said. “Jenny needed a friend, and you’ve been there for her.”
Jason placed his hand on Wendy’s shoulder and then hugged her, lingering in her grasp. They sat in silence until Jason finally grabbed the two remaining chessmen and put them back in the box. He started to walk back toward the shelf, but stopped halfway, wincing and holding the inside of his left arm.
Wendy got up and moved to Jason’s side. “What’s wrong?” she asked, taking the chess set from him and placing it on the shelf.
Jason flexed and straightened his arm, massaging it. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s just that this arm gets pretty sore sometimes.”
Wendy grabbed the arm and turned it up, examining the area opposite the elbow. “Bruising,” she said as she touched and probed the skin. “How long has it been this tender?” she asked.
“About a week. It hurts like mad every time you draw blood.”
Wendy let go of Jason’s arm. “Why didn’t you say something?” she asked.
“We guinea pigs are supposed to be tough,” Jason said. “Besides, I’m under contract.”
Wendy frowned. “You didn’t sign on to get abused though, did you?”
Jason shook his head.
“Maybe they can put a shunt in, since we’re taking so much blood.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a tube inserted into a vein, creating an opening to the outside,” Wendy said. “That way, we just extract the blood through the shunt instead of creating a new puncture wound every time. People who use dialysis machines have them.”
Jason nodded. “So they can just open up the tap and let it flow, huh?” Jason thought for a moment. “Hmmm,” he said. “For today anyway, it hurts.”
Wendy smiled. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
Jason grinned back. “And maybe you can kiss it better, too?”
Wendy eyed Jason with a raised left brow. “I thought you were married,” she said.
Jason sighed and put his arm around Wendy’s shoulder. “That,” he said, walking with her toward the door, “is a long story. What are you doing for dinner?”
—
“I’ve read your memo.” Porter put down the piece of paper he was holding and looked at Marcus over the top of his glasses. “The answer is no.”
Marcus sat across from Porter, his mouth half-open, his breath pulled away like he’d been gut-punched. “Excuse me?” he finally said.
“You heard me,” Porter said. “You may not seek FDA approval to conduct expedited human trials with the Kramer blood factor.”
“But Mr. Porter,” Marcus said, “the animal trials were uniformly successful. We have developed an algorithm for determining correct dosages as a function of body weight. We are now routinely achieving complete cessation of TL viral activity in chimpanzees. Human trials are the obvious next step.”
Porter shook his head. “Frankly, I don’t understand your enthusiasm,” he said. “In the past you have always been . . . reluctant . . . to involve the FDA—”
“Hence my willingness to tolerate your covert chemotherapy trials at The Complex,” Marcus said, cutting Porter off, his voice louder than it should have been. Marcus glanced over at the Driver, who was seated on the couch in Porter’s office reading a magazine. The Driver looked up when Marcus raised his voice, and their eyes met over the top of the Driver’s New Yorker. Marcus continued undaunted. “You’re correct,” he said. “This does seem paradoxical, my anxiousness to involve the FDA, but we’re talking about a possible cure for TL here.”
“The operative word being ‘possible,’” Porter said. “If we seek permission for expedited trials, our ability to control the dissemination of information about the Kramer factor will be greatly impaired. News reports will circulate about an experimental TL cure being tested by Porter Pharmaceuticals. Our stock price will fluctuate on a daily basis as the market reacts to that day’s news reports, and the shareholders will be distressed. We’ll be overwhelmed with requests from people desperate to become part of the trial. Remember that Super Bowl commercial that showed Christopher Reeve walking up to receive an award, how everyone with a spinal cord injury wanted in on his treatment, even though the whole thing was computer-generated? And remember when that researcher announced he’d cured cancer in mice with angiostatin and endostatin? People went crazy trying to get the stuff—even though it didn’t work in people. Plus, even if the Kramer factor does work in people besides Jason Kramer, the key—and I’ve said this before—the key is to control distribution of the product so that we can maximize our return on investment.”
Marcus sat and watched Porter in stunned silence. Even the Driver was listening, engrossed by Porter’s exegesis on the economics of the cure.
“Can you imagine what would happen,” Porter continued, “if we found ourselves in the same position as Burroughs-Wellcome when it introduced Retrovir?”
Marcus nodded, thinking. The Driver looked from Porter to Marcus and then back again. “What?” Walter said, apparently emboldened by his interest in the conversation. Porter gestured to Marcus, inviting him to answer.
“Retrovir,” Marcus said. “You’ve probably heard of it as AZT. A strong antiviral agent.”
“Oh. Mmm hmm,” the Driver said, nodding.
“When Burroughs-Wellcome, the pharmaceutical company that developed the drug, announced that it had an AIDS treatment available,” Marcus continued, “tremendous pressure was put on the company to get the drug to market. Once they got it to market, even more pressure was put on them to cut their profit margins and surrender their patents—despite their investment of millions of dollars in research and development costs—and make the drug more widely available. Burroughs did so,” Marcus said, “because they probably recognized the tremendous good will they could generate by helping more people get AZT, especially since it was one of the only drugs shown to be able to slow down the HIV virus.”
“But by now,” Porter retorted, “AZT is at best a loss-leader for Burroughs when it should have been their chief money maker. Think of it—they’re losing money on a drug that is a source of hope for millions of people, people that would pay any price to get it.”
“Doesn’t make any sense,” the Driver said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Porter said. “That’s why we are going to be very careful with the factor. Let’s assume this does turn out to be the cure. Let’s assume we make it widely available, even subsidize it in case insurance companies decide not to underwrite it because it is an ‘experimental’ protocol. Three things would happen: first, TL would be eradicated. Second, we’d generate tremendous good will. Third, we’d all be out of business and broke. All that good will and a dollar bill wouldn’t even get us a cup of coffee.”
“Not even a cappuccino,” the Driver said.
Marcus studied Porter through narrowed eyes.
“Oh please, Doctor,” Porter said, “don’t play naive, and don’t try to impress me with your moral high ground. You have fed from the trough of despair as much as anyone. The only reason we enjoy the perquisites we do is because we sell chemotherapeutic agents. Not drugs that cure cancer, mind you, but drugs that kill cancer cells along with most of the patient’s good cells. Tremendous doses, repeat doses, are required, and with each administration you and I make money.
“As long as people contract new cases of cancer,” Porter continued, “you and I make money. Imagine what would happen if that demand for chemotherapy suddenly vanished because you invented the cure. Bully for you and your Nobel Prize, but no cash flow. No summer home in Tahoe. No new Mercedes. It is exactly the same thing with Jason Kramer and TL. If I were an altruist, I could perhaps see our championing the cause of the ‘Kramer Factor’ and finding a way to bring it to the whole world, but I am not an altruist, I am a capitalist, and as a capitalist my motivation lies in controlling the source and dissemination of this substance to take advantage of supply and demand and thus maximize my company’s profits. Period. Now I understand your need to tinker with this factor and maybe cure TL in a few mice and chimpanzees, but that’s as far as it’s going to go.”
Marcus sat and stared at his shoes while the grandfather clock in the corner of Porter’s office ticked and tocked, accentuating the silence. The Driver resumed his perusal of the magazine, and Porter turned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk. Marcus looked up and over at Porter. “I can appreciate your concerns,” Marcus said. “What if,” he continued, “I were to propose a compromise?” Porter kept working and did not look up. Marcus stood and began to walk toward Porter’s desk. “Let me try the cure on three TL patients at The Complex,” Marcus said.
Porter’s eyes remained down, but he stopped writing, his pen poised over the creamy white bond paper that bore Porter Pharmaceuticals’ letterhead. “We already have every safeguard in place to maintain confidentiality,” Marcus continued. “We can conduct human trials without involving FDA, just like we always do. Then if the cure works on those three patients, we can formally approach FDA with our animal trial numbers, already knowing that the eventual official human trials will work. No market uncertainty.” Marcus stopped in front of Porter’s desk.
Porter looked up now and stared out across his office, thinking. “Hmm,” he said. “On which three patients do you propose to conduct these trials?”
“I’ll have to review some files, but one name springs immediately to mind. Jenny Holloway.”
“No,” Porter said instantly. “You’ll have to think of someone else.”
Marcus blinked and took a half-step back. “Why not Jenny?” he asked.
Porter reached out and took a cigarette from an ornate walnut box on his desk. He lit it with a red-tipped wooden match, a pile of which stood next to the cigarette box. Porter inhaled, and then spoke as he exhaled, the smoke punctuating his words. “Jennifer Holloway,” he said, “is in the last stages of a very successful—and very expensive—trial with Batch 919. I don’t want you corrupting our data with some unproven nostrum.”
“The cure is hardly unproven,” Marcus said. “It worked in Jason, it worked in Carol Davis, and I have every confidence an additional human subject—”
Porter held up his hand. “There will be no more discussion about Jenny Holloway,” he said. “Besides, I thought we had already resolved all this when you first came to me and asked to start her on Batch 920 instead.” Porter paused, studying Marcus’ face. “Oh, I see,” Porter said after a moment. “You’ve gone soft, haven’t you?”
Marcus reaction was immediate. “No! I have maintained strict objectivity. For you to suggest that I might compromise a study based on some personal emotional attachment—”
“I can see it now,” Porter said. “The compelling, heart-breaking story of a cute little girl, stricken down, crippled by Triptovirus L, abandoned by her parents, until the brave doctor with the checkered past miraculously saves her.” Porter laughed, and Marcus could hear the Driver chuckling behind him. “I’ll tell you what,” Porter said. “I’ll let you try the Kramer factor on the three most recent admittees to The Complex—three who are not in the last stages of a successful drug trial. When those patients are in complete remission, come and see me.”
Porter looked back down at his paperwork. Marcus continued to stand in front of the desk, waiting, but Porter did not look up as he spoke: “And I don’t think I need to remind you how important it is for you to remain optimistic about Batch 919—” Marcus jumped as a hand rested on his shoulder. He looked back into the Driver’s icy gunmetal eyes. “—do I?” Porter said.
Marcus locked eyes with the Driver, and then looked away. “No,” he said.
—
“Dr. Marcus! Thank goodness you’re here. I want to talk to you about Jenny Holloway.” Jason slid to the edge of his bed and started to stand.
“Whoa, Jason, slow down,” Marcus said as he moved to the side of the bed and eased Jason back onto the mattress. He took Jason’s wrist, checking his pulse. “Let’s talk about you first. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Look, you really need to do something about Jenny. She—”
Marcus held up his hand, stopping Jason, counting to himself. After a moment he let go of Jason’s wrist. “A little fast,” he said. “How are they treating you?”
Jason relaxed. “It’s been better ever since they put this in.” Jason held up his arm. A length of tubing protruded from a vein on his forearm, held in place with white tape. The tube was capped, but Marcus could see the red liquid inside. Jason’s blood.
“Oh, a shunt,” Marcus said. “Good idea.”
“Wendy thought of it.”
“Wendy?” Marcus asked.
“She’s a nurse here. A phlebotomist actually,” Jason said. “This way she doesn’t have to make a new hole in me every time she has to take blood.”
“Which is pretty frequently, I bet, huh?”
Jason nodded, and then looked up toward the door. “Hi,” he said.
Marcus turned around just as Dr. Wilson entered the room. Marcus moved toward Ruth and ushered her toward the bed. “Jason, you remember Dr. Wilson,” he said. “She’s going to help me out here at The Complex for a few weeks.”
Ruth extended her hand. “Nice to see you again,” she said.
Jason shook her hand, but immediately turned his attention back to Marcus. “Now, about Jenny. You really need to do something. She only has three months left to live, and that’s even though she’s on some secret experimental drug.”
Marcus frowned. “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter where I heard it, you just need to help her!”
Marcus shot Ruth a glance, and then sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m listening,” he said.
“They’re killing her!” Jason said, his face flush. “They keep pumping her full of that nine-nineteen crap, and it’s just making her worse.”
Marcus felt Ruth looking at him. “She’s getting the best possible treatment—at no charge, I might add,” Marcus said.
“That’s bull!” Jason yelled. He held up his arm again and pointed at the shunt. “This is the best possible treatment.”
The room fell silent as Marcus and Ruth stared at Jason’s arm. Ruth opened her mouth to speak, but Marcus held up his hand, cutting her off. “Jason,” he said, “you know how difficult it is to extract and refine the factor in your blood. We’re using all that we currently have in the testing phase. Besides, we don’t know what it will do to a human.”
Jason glowered at Marcus. “You know what it did to me.”
“And you know what it did to the mice,” Marcus snapped back.
“Look, all I ask is that you see her,” he said. “Just come with me to her room right now and see her. If, after that, you can tell me we shouldn’t try some of this stuff—” he held up his arm “—on her, then fine. I’ll drop it. But you need to see her.”
Marcus watched Jason for a moment, looked at his face and his eyes. Then he turned to Ruth. “Let’s go see her,” he said.
Jenny was asleep when they entered her room. Jason moved next to the bed, then motioned Ruth and Marcus closer. Ruth looked around as she walked toward the sleeping girl. There were no balloons or flowers decorating the room, no pictures on the walls, no get-well cards on the dresser—just a stuffed animal, an elephant, on the nightstand with a tag around its neck. Ruth turned her head sideways and read the tag: “Love, Jason and Wendy.” Next to the stuffed elephant, Red Ranger maintained his vigil, watching over Jenny.
Marcus moved to the foot of the bed and grabbed the chart. He began to read while Ruth went to the head of the bed and looked down at Jenny. She was bald, her head resting on a stiff white pillowcase. Ruth noticed how pale the girl’s skin was, almost the color of the white sheets pulled up under her chin. Her cheeks were translucent, as if one could see the capillaries and bones poking through from beneath. Her breathing was shallow and barely audible, and the ubiquitous IV bag hung next to her, dispensing a clear liquid into a tube hooked to her arm. The IV bag was clearly marked: Batch 919.
“She’s dying,” Jason whispered.
Marcus looked up from the chart. “She has TL, Jason,” he said.
Ruth looked up at Jason. “Where are her parents?” she asked.
“Her dad’s been gone for weeks,” Jason said. “Her mom’s here, but she stays down in the guest quarters most of the time, zoned out on tranquilizers.”
Ruth nodded, and then looked back down at Jenny, studying her face. “What do you think, Craig?” she said.
Marcus put down the chart. “Batch 919 is still her only and best hope.” As he said it, Marcus felt Ruth staring at him, her eyebrows raised and eyes wide.
Jason reached down and pulled the blanket at the foot of the bed up to Jenny’s chin. He moved back away from the bed and took a step toward Marcus, his fists clenched. “I’m trying to understand your position, Craig,” Jason said, trying to keep his voice level, “but it doesn’t seem to make any sense. Whatever they’re doing to her obviously isn’t working and we’ve got to help.”
Marcus turned on Jason with sudden venom. “It’s not your job to understand or to help,” he said. “You’re just a patient here—a very well-paid patient—and, believe it or not, despite your new-found notoriety you don’t hold the power over life and death.”
Jason’s jaw tensed visibly and a vein pulsed in his left temple. “Yeah, well neither do you, doctor,” he said. Jason pushed past Marcus, bumping shoulders with him as he left the room.
Ruth and Marcus stood in silence for a moment, looking down at Jenny, until Ruth turned to Marcus. “What was all that crap about 919 being her only and best hope?” she said.
Marcus met her stare. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But we can’t use the factor on Jenny. Porter has made that very clear.”
“What about Jason? If we don’t help Jenny, he could refuse to cooperate, and where does that leave us?”
Marcus looked out the window. “We are in the middle of the Arizona desert in July,” he said, “100 miles from the nearest airstrip. Where’s he going to go?” Marcus turned to leave Jenny’s room and Ruth began to follow him, but stopped and moved to the head of Jenny’s bed. She reached out and straightened the stuffed elephant, then turned on her heel and ran after Marcus.
“So you’re going to let her die,” Ruth said when she caught up to him.
“Ruth, people who have TL do die. That’s what TL does to people—it kills them. Apparently, more and more of them every day. But for today, I truly am doing everything I can for that little girl. If you disagree, you may wish to talk to Porter.”
Ruth stared at Marcus for several seconds, and then relented. “O.K.,” she said. “For today. But I won’t take this lying down.”
“I know that, believe me,” Marcus said. “But right now we’ve got to find three guinea pigs. The quicker we can show Porter this stuff works in humans, the better. Meet me up in Admitting in an hour.” Marcus glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a quick errand to run.”
—
The lab was on the fifth floor, one flight up. Marcus ducked into the stairwell and climbed two steps at a time. The hall was deserted except for a security guard stationed outside the lab. The guard glanced up at Marcus’ access badge and nodded. “Mornin’ Doc.”
“Good morning.” Marcus punched his security code into the keypad on the wall and the door swung open. The room was bathed in bright white light from the overhead fluorescents, making the white-coated lab technicians emit an ethereal glow. Marcus took a breath and steeled himself. He noticed one of the techs looking at him, a pretty young woman with olive skin and black hair. She was loading test tubes filled with red liquid into a centrifuge. Marcus walked over to her. “Hi,” he said, “I’m Dr. Marcus. I’d like to see some test results.”
The tech smiled, flashing straight white teeth. “I know who you are. Over there.” She pointed across the lab to a glassed-in room. Marcus could see computer terminals and file cabinets through the windows. “Who are you looking for?” she asked.
“Jennifer Holloway.”
The tech smiled again. “Oh, that little girl in four-eleven. She’s a cutey.” The technician put down the tray of test tubes she was holding and started for the file room. “Come on,” she said, over her shoulder. “I’ll show you.”
Marcus walked with her to the file room door. He looked through the thick glass at the rows of file cabinets inside. Marcus lifted his access badge to slide it through the scanner, but the tech stopped him. “Won’t work,” she said.
Marcus stared at her. “It’s all-access.”
“Not in here. We’re the only ones who can get into the lab results.” She grinned. “Top secret stuff, you know.” She slid her access badge through the scanner. Marcus heard the sound of heavy bolts sliding followed by a loud click. The tech grabbed the door and pulled it open, then motioned Marcus ahead of her. “After you.”
Marcus paused, studying the woman’s face. She smiled, and Marcus stepped into the room. He heard the low hum of the air conditioner, but the heavy glass muted all other external noise. He turned around and looked at the tech, who was still standing by the door. For the first time, he glanced at her name badge. “Thank you, Denise. I think I can find it from here.”
“No problem. Call me when you’re done.” She nodded toward a phone on the wall. “Can’t get out without me.” She held up her badge and wagged it at Marcus. “I’m surprised you’ve never been in here before,” Denise said.
“Never needed to before. I’ve always just waited for the summaries.”
“So what’s the rush this time?”
Marcus smiled. “It seems like I always get the summaries just before the patient dies.”
Denise studied Marcus’ face. “And this time you want to try and actually save the patient, right?”
Marcus bristled at the barb. “Right,” he said.
Denise stepped back from the door and held the handle in her fingertips, ready to let go. “Hey, don’t blame us if you guys can’t keep ‘em alive long enough for the lab work to arrive.” The handle slipped from her hand and the bolts clicked into place.
Marcus watched her walk back to the centrifuge. He looked around the room to orient himself and was amazed by the number of files the room contained, one file for each patient who had spent time at The Complex. Katrine Waters is in here, too, he thought. Someplace.
He started walking through the rows of cabinets, reading the labels on the front of each, looking for the H’s. “Franklin . . . Johnson,” he mumbled, “. . . Harper.” He knelt and pulled open the drawer. Jenny’s folder was near the back.
Marcus sat cross-legged on the floor, the file open on his lap, and began to read. He turned through page after page of lab work and test results, scrutinizing the findings and snapping pictures with his cell phone until finally—"Bingo,” Marcus whispered.
“All done?”
Marcus jumped, dumping Jenny’s file and his cell phone onto the floor. He looked up. “You scared me,” he said.
“Sorry, but you’ve been in here an hour and I was getting worried.”
Marcus retrieved the folder and stuffed it back into the cabinet while surreptitiously pocketing his phone. “I am glad you checked on me.” He nodded toward the wall phone. “You didn’t give me your extension.”
Denise laughed. “You could’ve been in here a month!” She extended her hand and Marcus took it. Denise pulled back, helping Marcus from the floor. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Marcus straightened his tie. “Not really,” he said. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”
They walked together to the file room exit. Denise punched in her code, and the heavy bolts clicked open. “So, are you headed back to San Francisco now?” Denise said.
“No. We just arrived.”
“Me too. I just started this rotation, so I’m stuck out here in the middle of nowhere for the next two weeks.”
“Do you live in Marin?”
“I wish! No, I commute over to Porter every day from the East Bay. Oakland, actually.”
They walked to the lab exit and Marcus pushed the door open. “Thanks again,” he said to Denise as he turned and went out into the hall. Marcus nodded at the guard and hurried toward the elevator, then stopped and looked over his shoulder. The guard was reading. Marcus dodged into the men’s room and locked himself into a stall, then took a pen and legal pad from his briefcase and scrawled page after page of notes, referring to the cell phone photos and cursing their poor resolution.
Someone knocked on the stall door. Marcus dropped his pen, which clattered on the tile. “It’s occupied,” he said as he grabbed the pen and threw the pad and phone back into the briefcase. He closed the clasps, and cursed them when they clicked.
“Dr. Marcus?”
Marcus felt his hands and feet go cold. “Yes?”
“Everything all right in there?”
Marcus stood and took a breath, then opened the stall door, briefcase in hand. He smiled at the security guard.
“I saw you go in the restroom, but you didn’t come out. I was getting worried,” the guard said.
Marcus massaged his stomach. “Yeah, I thought I was going to be sick. The flight in was a little rough. False alarm, though.” Marcus made his way to the bathroom door and left the guard standing by the open stall.
—
The two doctors stood in front of the admitting room desk until Marcus finally cleared his throat. The nurse looked up. “Can I help you?” she said, not smiling.
“Uh, yes . . .” Marcus said, glancing at her name tag, “. . . Doris, I need to see the files on our three most recent patients.”
Doris continued to stare at Marcus, but did not move. “Do you have their names?” she said.
Ruth suppressed a grin. “No,” Marcus said, “I was hoping you could tell us that.”
Doris sighed and looked down at her computer console. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she mumbled to herself, “Date of admission, date of admission. Ah, here they are,” she said. “We had two check in day before yesterday and one just this morning. One pancreas and two TLs.”
“Excuse me?” Ruth said.
The nurse smiled. “Sorry,” she said. “That’s our shorthand way of describing the illnesses the incoming patients have. Three months ago I would have said something like, ‘two lungs and a pancreas,’ but now almost everything we are seeing is TL.”
“So that ‘pancreas’ is a case of pancreatic cancer?” Ruth said.
“Yep,” said Doris.
“Uh, excuse me,” Doris said. “But what can you tell me about that new strain of TL? I had an uncle die from it a couple of weeks ago, and I remember everybody always getting real quiet and crossing themselves whenever they found out it was the new TL.”
“It’s so bad because . . . well, because it’s so fatal,” Marcus said.
Ruth looked up. “And,” she said, “the mutated strain seems to magnify the symptoms of the old TL—quicker lung failure, more aggressive bone loss—plus with the new TL we are seeing rapid liver failure as well. All you can do for treatment—typically—” she glanced at Marcus “—is prescribe pain meds until they die.”
Doris swallowed hard.
“That,” Marcus added, “plus when the liver goes, you get horrible jaundice,” he said. “It’s really painful.”
“Oh,” Doris said. She sat for a moment, and then crossed herself.
“So, do you mind if we look at those files?” Marcus said to Doris.
Doris removed three thick folders from a cabinet and handed them to Marcus. “Knock yourself out,” she said.
Marcus took the folders and handed one of the “TLs” to Ruth. He opened the other one and began studying its contents. Ruth did the same with her folder, her brow furrowed in concentration as she examined the patient’s medical history.
Marcus looked over at Ruth. “Let’s get these files back to the office,” he said. “I want to meet the patients and start them on the Kramer factor as soon as possible. If we’re lucky, we’ll have some results within a few days.”
“Then,” Ruth said, “we go to Porter.” She paused, watching Marcus. “Right?” she asked.
Marcus put his finger to his lips and motioned Ruth out into the hall. He turned to the nurse. “Thanks for your help,” he said.
Doris was once again staring at her computer screen. “No problem,” she mumbled.
Marcus joined Ruth in the hall. “Right,” he said. “Then we go to Porter.”
“What kind of a chance do you think these two really have?”
“With the factor?” Marcus said. “You are reading the headlines, right? Because these two patients just got here, it’s likely that they have the mutated strain. So their odds at The Complex have got to be better than the odds they have out there.”