by Steve Hadden
Prescott stood as he prepared to make his final statement.
“Therefore, I propose we elect Royce Brayton CEO in accordance with the terms provided to you in your packet. David Wellington remains incapacitated and would be unable to maintain the pace necessary to continue to lead Rexsen Labs through this critical time in our company’s history. He will of course receive a very generous severance and be retained on a consulting basis for three years at his current salary. Any discussion?”
Most at the table remained silent and shuffled papers. But William Walters fired the first salvo. “What the hell are you up to Prescott? I’ve known your father for years. He was a good and trusted friend. I know he wouldn’t support this change at any point, let alone nine days before we go public.”
Prescott sat back down in his chair. “I simply have our new shareholder’s interests in mind.” Prescott knew Walters and his father were close. He was sure his father had talked about him behind his back. He hoped Walters would make a good public showing for the rest of the board and beat his chest like the biggest gorilla in the jungle, but as he’d promised, ultimately support the change.
Claire Armstrong slammed her fist on the table. “Has anyone talked to David? Have you talked to David?” she said, pointing her finger at Prescott. He was surprised by her challenge, considering her promise of support on the golf course.
Prescott raised his crooked index finger and returned fire.
“He’s out of the picture,” Prescott whined. “He’s in the hospital, and who knows when he’ll get out. Even then, my sister has said his brains are scrambled. Do we want him guiding this business with mush for brains? Brayton has the track record. He’s an integral part of the management team. He’s had a prominent role in all our management presentations to the investors, and the underwriters say naming him CEO will actually improve the performance of the IPO.”
Prescott had been well briefed by Brayton on how to cut off Armstrong and Walters. He crossed his arms and delivered the punch line. “Each of you will gain significant wealth with this plan. And I assume I don’t need to remind you who will control sixty-one percent of the company when it goes public!”
Armstrong and Walters were finished. The Rexsen Family Trust would control 61%, Wellington 10% and Brayton 2.5%, after the IPO. The remaining 66.7 million shares were being offered at $30 to an elite group of investors. And with the IPO demand much higher than the shares available, the stock would pop to $120 in the first day or so of trading. Brayton was holding an unofficial offer of $200 from a major pharmaceutical company. Prescott knew Armstrong and Walters had no support to press the issue, and if their positions were made public, even if only in the elite circles they traveled, their reputations as tough advocates for the shareholders would be destroyed. Too much money was on the table for all concerned, especially the institutional investors. They owed the old man’s honor one try, but that was all.
“Now, I need a motion to elect Royce Brayton CEO.”
There were no smiles, and no one hurried to make the motion. A faint-hearted motion from board member John Durham was seconded by long time board member Robert Effingham. The vote was unanimous. David Wellington would no longer run the company he built. It was in the hands of a vindictive son, a scorned daughter, and a wannabe Wall Street cover boy. They’d cash out with twelve billion dollars, and CGT, with its undetectable flaws, would flood the market. Hopes of cancer patients and their families would soar—at least for a while. Then, the unsuspecting patients would receive their death sentences one at a time, victims of CGT’s genetic imperfections.
CHAPTER 15
David flung the covers off and perched on the side of the bed. It was Monday morning; he’d been in the hospital for three days. The door to his private room was propped open and the whispered chatter at the nurse’s station drifted in. The room was washed in dim florescent light. The dry air filled his nostrils and for the first time, he smelled the effects of three days without a shower. He winced as he raised each arm, testing their effectiveness for the first time since the crash. He looked down and plucked at the rumpled dingy white hospital gown hanging loosely from his shoulders. Priscilla’s visit had him worried—she’d never been that concerned for anyone except herself. With her father gone, she and her idiot brother had inherited billions—and as long as he was alive, he’d be entitled to half. He needed to get out of here.
“Mr. Wellington, you’re up,” the nurse said, entering with a small plastic cup and a glass of water. “Time for your meds.”
David studied the nurse as he reached for the cup on the tray in her hand. Her wrists were thick and her forearms were strong and well defined. There was no wedding band and no tan line on her ring finger. He guessed she was in her late forties and carried herself with an air of confidence—she’d been at this a while. David smiled and threw the pills down his throat and chugged the water.
“Mmm, my favorites!”
“You’re certainly feeling your oats,” she replied taking the cup from his hand and circling the bed.
David held his grin.
“Any chance I can I get out of here?” he said, scratching the stubble on the side of his chin.
“Whoa, tiger. You’ve had a pretty rough time, and we’re still checking you out. The doc has a few more tests to run, and you need to get back on solid food and get more mobility back.”
David twisted at the waist to stretch and quickly covered the pain in his side with his hand.
“I just assumed with all your great care I’d be out of here pretty soon.”
She stopped at his bedside and gently took his wrist and slipped a Pulsox monitor onto his finger, and smiled.
David sheepishly looked up and said, “How much longer?”
“I don’t know. It depends on you and your test results.” The nurse was firm.
“Can I at least get some fresh air?”
“Do you think you’re ready to try walking?”
David nodded and the thick-bodied nurse extended a strong arm.
David shifted his weight to his arms and pushed himself to his feet. He held his breath as the pain shot through his legs, but the payoff was worth it. He wanted to get out. There was a reason he miraculously survived, the orderly had said. Now, despite the threat from Brayton, Prescott, and Priscilla, David was desperate to find it.
The nurse guided him to the door, and he propped himself with the IV stand. Moving under his own power, he let go of the nurse’s arm.
“I’ll be right here if you need me,” she said stepping aside.
The steps were hard at first. The bruises and cuts burned with each step. He shuffled along the linoleum floor and listened to the noises emanating from each room he passed, but he resisted looking in at the occupants. He passed the nurses’ station and managed a smile at the young woman seated at the desk. A TV blasted from the room to the right. A reporter was giving a recap of David’s miraculous survival of the horrible crash. “The miracle man.” he called him.
David had to glance in.
“Hey, mister! It’s you!” The voice was high-pitched but pleasant. He recognized the unpretentious tone of a child, a young girl. He paused and leaned into the room.
“It is you. You’re the miracle man!” A mountain of pillows propped up the girl, maybe nine or ten, as she sat upright in bed. An IV at her bedside was attached to her arm through a clear tube. A metering device clicked and beeped at her bed side. She wore a red Anaheim Angels cap, obviously hiding a hairless head. She grinned in excitement, her large blue eyes locked on David.
“I’m sorry, she just saw a picture of you on TV,” a woman’s voice said from behind the curtain of the semi-private room.
“No problem. I guess I’ll have to get used to that,” David replied, shuffling into the room. “I’m David Wellington.”
“Mr. Wellington, I’m Faith Carlton.” The woman was in her thirties, fit and lean like a runner. There were dark, tired circles under her bloodshot eyes. Her shor
t dark hair was tousled. It was the same ragged look his wife had as they watched Connor die. She stepped from behind the curtain and extended her hand to help David.
“And who is this pretty young lady?” David asked with a smile.
“I’m Amy.”
David stood by her bed. Something drew him to her.
“The news said you should have died,” Amy said.
“Amy!” her mother warned.
“It’s okay. She’s right. I should have.” He took a seat at the foot of her bed.
“So, how come you didn’t die?” Amy asked.
“Now that’s a good question. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
“You know what I think?” Amy grinned with a knowing look.
“No. What do you think, Miss Amy?”
“I think the TV was right. It was a miracle. And since it was a miracle, God saved you.”
“Well I guess that makes sense,” David said, glancing at Faith.
“And if God did it there must be a really good reason. Do you know what it is?”
David shifted uneasily in his seat. The discomfort was not from his injuries. It came from inside him. Amy had hit the nail on the head. There must be a really good reason. But what was it? If Amy was right and it was God, could he have made a mistake? After all, David knew he hadn’t lived his life to this point in accordance with God’s teachings.
“I guess I don’t know yet,” David replied.
“That’s okay; I know you’ll find out.” Amy’s confidence made him feel a little better.
“So what brings you here, Miss Amy?” David asked.
“Well, I have a cancer. This stuff here fights it off. I come here every now and then to fight the cancer. It tires me out, but I know it’s good for me.”
David, impressed with her frankness, offered encouragement. “Well, you keep fighting.”
David started to get up and Faith stepped in to help. He shuffled out the door.
“I’ll see you later, Miss Amy.”
“Bye, miracle man.” Amy giggled.
Faith followed David out the door. Both stopped just out of earshot from Amy.
“Mr. Wellington, I’ve read about the gene therapy treatment your company developed and is testing. Is it really that promising?”
“Absolutely. We hope to have FDA approval next week and make it available within a month or two.”
Tears welled in Faith’s tired eyes and she reached for David’s hand. “Mr. Wellington, Amy may not have that much time. I know I have no right to ask you this, considering your condition, but I’d do anything to allow her to get the treatment now. They’ve told us this is her last treatment. The cancer seems to have stopped responding to the chemo. If there’s anything you can do …” Her tired eyes begged him. Without thinking, David stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her.
Normally, he’d blow her off and give her some phone number of a contact buried deep in the company and that would be the end of it. But he’d met Amy, and that made a difference.
The nurse stepped into the doorway. “There you are. The doctor wants to see you. It’s time for another test. Excuse us; I need to get him back to his room.”
“Of course,” Faith said, wiping her cheek.
“I’ll … I’ll look into it,” David said as he was led away to his room. He wanted to cry too. It was a feeling he’d nearly forgotten. He remembered how he’d begged for his young son’s life and how no one could help. Some of the doctors, nurses, administrators and researchers had seemed concerned and had looked at him with helpless pity, but others were either too busy or just didn’t want to get involved and had brushed him off. Life flickered in his young son’s eyes, and then, late one evening, the little boy’s big blue eyes rolled to the top of his head and closed. His breathing grew shallow and tears filled David’s tired eyes. He held his little boy’s hand and watched him surrender his last breath. His heart hardened that day, and he promised he’d never rely on or care for another person again. It was a promise he’d kept for over fifteen years—until today.
CHAPTER 16
Tori Clarke weaved through the Monday morning traffic along the wide, tree-lined boulevard. The clear blue sky held a brilliant sun, which peaked over the mountains to the east. A light offshore breeze filled the air with the fresh smell of cypress and salt water. The wind from the open driver’s window toyed with her dark brown hair. Any other day, she’d be singing to the radio and reveling in the beautiful weather Newport Beach seemed to deliver more days than not—but not today.
The breeze cooled her reddened eyes, and helped her fight the fatigue of a sleepless night. The call from Rexsen’s human resources department had come the previous evening. The project manager for CGT, Jeff Reese, had been killed in a tragic accident. There would be some immediate changes, and Tori was to report directly to Brayton’s office first thing this morning. She considered the possibility that this may be her last day on the job. Brayton had told her to turn her work over to an outside contractor. She’d seen him grimace for a moment when he first heard the news that CGT had a problem, but then he smiled and dished out a few compliments. After what she’d heard about his slick reputation, she wouldn’t put it past that asshole. To make things worse, when she’d asked the caller what the subject of the meeting was, she was told to just be on time.
Now she looped around Newport Center Drive, turned right onto Santa Barbara Drive, pulled to the security gate at the entrance of the Rexsen Labs complex, and displayed her security badge to the elderly guard in the booth. The guard leaned out and gave her a somber smile.
“Terrible news about Mr. Reese. He was a nice man.”
Tori dropped the badge into her purse and did her best to return a smile, but a lump in her throat choked off her attempt to reply. She swallowed hard and answered,
“He certainly was.” She focused on the gate lifting and got back under control. “Thank you.”
Numbly, she drove along the white marble, four story administration building and then hunted up and down the rows of parked cars between the lab complex and the admin building, until an open space appeared. She pulled her Toyota Prius into the spot and stepped out and glanced at the lab. She was close to the cure—and close to fulfilling her promise to Aaron. She took a deep breath and prepared to face whatever Brayton had to say. Either way, she convinced herself she wouldn’t let it stop her. Turning her back on the lab where she’d worked for three years, she marched into the main office building that housed Rexsen’s executives, lawyers, and accountants. With her chin up and ready for battle, she cleared security and headed into the elevators without making eye contact with anyone.
Once on the executive floor, she walked the long hardwood corridor and listened to the clicking of her own heels. She entered Brayton’s office suite and abruptly stopped when she notice the parade of managers and company lawyers lined up outside his office in the waiting area.
“Hello, Ms. Clarke,” Brayton’s secretary said, stepping from behind her desk. “I’ll let him know you’re here. He’s expecting you.”
Tori stood firm, like a statue, as she watched Dianne bypass the long line of managers waiting for Brayton’s attention. After a quick knock on the door, Dianne opened it just wide enough to announce, “She’s here.”
Dianne stepped aside, held the door open, and gave Tori a polite smile.
“Come in, Miss Clarke.”
Tori focused on the door and tried not to catch the annoyed looks from the managers lining the walls of the suite’s lobby. She took a deep breath and stepped past Dianne and into Brayton’s office. She heard the door close behind her. She prepared for the worst.
Brayton looked up from his neatly organized desk and smiled. Tori was disgusted by his obvious attempt to use his legendary charm. She never knew why people said he was charming.
“Ah, Miss Clarke, please have a seat.”
“No thank you, Mr. Brayton. I’ll stand.”
Tori moved quickly to
the desk, stood in silence and mustered as much emotional armor as she could. Her blue eyes were wide open and locked on Brayton’s as she braced for another dose of bullshit from this arrogant bastard.
He smiled again, ignoring her refusal to sit.
“First of all, please accept my apology for my shortness with you last Friday. There was pressure to get ready for the board meeting, and I wasn’t ready for the news you delivered.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Brayton. I understand.”
Tori listened to the words tumble out of her mouth. That was not the response she’d promised her friends she’d give him, if given the opportunity. He was the topic of discussion for Friday’s happy hour session at McGinty’s. Everyone agreed with Tori’s assessment of him being just a hired henchman who would get his someday. The next time she had a chance, she’d tell that bastard off in a second, she’d bragged. This was that chance.
“Well, now that’s out of the way, I wanted to give you some good news. With the events of this past weekend, we have to make some changes in the research division. Effective today, you’re the new group leader for Proteus 40.”
Tori tried not to react. Proteus 40 was the next high profile advance in the Oncology line of gene therapy treatments. It was entering phase one testing and would be fast tracked to get FDA approval within the next 18 months. She’d made several requests to Reese to transfer into the section. She had an even greater passion for the effort since it was targeted at several other forms of leukemia, the disease that ended her little brother’s life at the age of nine. Obviously, Brayton had been well briefed.
