Chapter 6

‘Good morning, Dr Hartfield speaking.’ Melissa glanced across the desk at her colleague, Dr Edward Jonick, knowing he was listening closely to her conversation.

‘Dr Hartfield, it’s Belinda Colton—again. What’s happening with our son?’

‘Mrs Colton, I explained this previously. We’ve just had to send Blaine for a few more tests, as some were inconclusive. It’s nothing to worry about.’

‘I find your responses insufficient, Dr Hartfield. Blaine has a serious health condition that has to be carefully monitored, even given his gene therapy. He’s not yet eighteen—so he’s our responsibility. My husband and I need to know the specifics of your investigation.’

She rolled her eyes at her colleague. Not again, she mouthed. ‘Yes, I understand your concerns, Mrs Colton, and I know it’s been six days, but he’s fine.’

‘Why can’t I reach him on his phone?’

‘He can’t have it on. It interferes with the equipment. The tests are merely precautionary.’

‘And you’re managing the fevers? If his condition’s unmanaged, he can also experience seizures!’

‘We know about his fevers and seizures.’

‘And he’s got enough meds? The ones from Professor Ramer?’

She stopped and pressed the handset harder to her ear. ‘Medicine from Professor Ramer?’ Eddie leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers.

‘Yes. He gave Blaine the tablets himself.’

Melissa scowled, finding it hard to follow the woman’s emotional prattle, let alone decipher cryptic remarks about undocumented medication. ‘So, it’s not prescription?’

‘I just said that. You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘Of ... of course. It’s just the organisation has so many clinical trials to manage, Mrs Colton. We’ll call you as soon as we know more.’

‘Tell him we love him and we’re—’

‘Yes, I’ll tell him. Good day.’

Melissa slumped against her desk and dropped the telephone handset heavily onto its cradle. ‘Oh, that woman! She’s like a mother hen! Tenth call of the day.’

Eddie smiled. ‘They’ve been through a lot. Wouldn’t you call incessantly if he was your kid? Besides, I thought you’d said you couldn’t stand it when people over-exaggerated?’

Unable to stop the warmth creeping into her face, Melissa pursed her lips. ‘Fine—third call, Eddie.’

‘I like it when you call me Eddie.’

‘Dr Jonick, I think we’d best get back to those results.’

Eddie flicked her a look laced with intent, but she merely adjusted her glasses and returned to the data in front of her. She worked hard to hide the twist of her intestines, which was anything but pleasant. Eddie always hinted that they should get to know each other better; engage more outside of work. On occasion he even commented on her perfume, so Melissa ensured she varied the fragrances she wore to keep him guessing.

When she was sure he was focussed on the report, she let her gaze slide over him. Broad shoulders and muscular chest effortlessly filling out a well-cut shirt. Pleasant hazel eyes, more green with yellow flecks, than brown. Full dark hair tussled into a modern style.

Sure, Eddie wasn’t a bad specimen to look at and he justified his gym membership with frequent attendance, but there was just ... something. He was a brilliant researcher with considerably more experience than she had in genetic manipulations. Yet she often likened him to the tongue of a salivating dog—slightly abrasive and slimy.

But she also needed him to finish what they’d started with Blaine. Poor kid. Maybe we should have overdosed him when we had the chance.

The conversation with Belinda Colton remained with Melissa long after she’d finished her meeting with Eddie. She checked through the records, but couldn’t find any indication Ramer had prescribed the usual drugs to control Blaine’s seizures. Evidently these incidents had ceased after his successful gene therapy. Now they’d started again with increasing severity, Blaine could suffer irreversible damage if unmanaged. The question was, what had triggered them?

She stopped typing details into her report and let this reality settle into her mind. Saving the half-completed document, she stood and headed for the door.

Melissa had just gowned up in the anteroom when she heard the alarms go off. She’d been right to have an observation room installed on her floor with Blaine in mind. No one seemed to have questioned the refurbishment, even so near a large suite of laboratories, and it enabled the direct access she required. Quickly tying her face mask on, she raced through the door and snapped on a pair of gloves.

‘Blaine? Blaine!’ She jostled the boy’s shoulder. Slowly he roused, but she could see that he was approaching seizure once again. ‘Blaine, don’t go out on me. I need you to tell me what drug you’re on! The ones we’re using aren’t working.’

Blaine’s eyes rolled back in his head and Melissa prodded her finger against the panic button on the wall. We can’t lose him now! We’re so close!

‘Blaine! Tell me what it is! You can trust me.’

The room began to swarm with gowned people. The paramedic on call pushed in next to her and injected drugs through the i/v. By now she knew it would have little effect. ‘Come on, Blaine!’ She glanced at the monitors as more pads and wires were rapidly connected. ‘Are we getting this?’

‘Yes. It’s been the same each time, Mel—just longer.’

She watched Blaine’s body writhe, clench and lose control. In reality she considered his condition a disease, for until they knew exactly what they were dealing with, it could destroy him.

Finally he passed the critical point and began to relax. But he was weaker than yesterday; paler than he had been after the previous episode. Each seizure seemed to accelerate his decline.

‘Carl!’ She caught the eye of the attending paramedic. ‘I need you to get the details of his treatment out of him or work out what it could possibly be. Contact exotic diseases if you must, but if we don’t manage this everything will be in vain.’ She held the eye of everyone present. ‘You know what we’re risking for this boy’s sake. Don’t make it for nothing.’

Don’t make it for nothing. The information dream echoed through Blaine’s head like a bell tolling through dense fog. The words were said with such urgency, such emotion, that a new respect for Melissa Hartfield spilled through him. Perhaps his wariness had been misguided. Perhaps her general detachment was a way of maintaining professionalism.

He felt blood leaving the vein in his arm and the spinning of his head increased. He was floating in an ocean, bobbing face down, deprived of oxygen and waiting for someone to turn him back over. His thoughts blurred as the dark hound of death paddled up to pull him further away from the shore. He screamed in his head, as he had when having this dream as a small child. Finally, in the instant before it would have been too late, he was turned over.

Melissa’s pretty blue eyes peered into his. She did not smile.