[Kate Lange 01.0] Damaged

by Pamela Callow

  Ethan let go of Dr. Mazerski, panting as if he’d run a marathon.

  “He’ll keep spasming if he’s touched,” Dr. Lachlan added in a calmer voice.

  Ethan took a deep breath. “Did you talk to Dr. Clare?”

  “Yes. She gave me permission to speak to you.”

  Ethan sized up Dr. Lachlan. Her desire to protect her colleague was written all over her. “I’d rather get my answers from him. We want him taken off whatever drugs are doing this to him. Just for a few hours.”

  “He isn’t on anything.” Her voice was flat. “That’s what the disease is doing to him.”

  Ethan threw a disbelieving glance at the catatonic neurosurgeon. “You’re kidding. What is CJD, anyway?”

  “Its full name is Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. It’s a degenerative brain disease. Incurable. Caused by a prion—”

  “A what?” He cast his mind back to his high school biology class. He’d been more interested in how girls worked than frogs. His brain came up empty.

  “A protein that the brain cell generates. In CJD patients, it somehow mutates. No one knows how.”

  Lamond gave a low whistle. “So how’d he get it?”

  Dr. Lachlan crossed her arms. “CJD can occur spontaneously in some people or it can be inherited. It can also, in rare occasions, be transmitted from someone or something.”

  “You mean, like HIV?”

  Dr. Lachlan shook her head. “No. CJD is not sexually transmissible, and in cases of classic CJD, there are no reported cases of it being transmissible in blood.” She added, “But we really don’t know how it is transmitted. However, there is a new form of CJD, called variant CJD, which is believed to be caused by mad cow disease and that may be transmissible in blood.”

  “So what form does Dr. Mazerski have?” Ethan asked.

  “Hard to say. It could have happened spontaneously. Or he may have contracted it while operating on a patient.”

  “Which means it’s classic CJD?” Lamond asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “But he got it from the patient, right?” Ethan asked, staring at Dr. Mazerski’s rigid body.

  “I don’t think he got it from the patient. My own theory is that it was from the dura mater—the transplant material we used to patch the tissue around the brain.” She shook her head. “Most neurosurgeons don’t use cadaveric dura mater anymore. But Mike always felt it gave a better patch. So he kept a little supply on hand.”

  “That had CJD?”

  “That’s what I think. It most likely was infected with classic CJD, but until we trace the donor, the dura mater could have come from someone who ate infected beef.”

  Ethan stared at Dr. Lachlan’s set features. His mind darted around the facts, looking for the holes. “Isn’t that stuff screened?”

  Dr. Lachlan’s jaw tightened. “It’s supposed to be. Those bloody tissue suppliers claim they use the highest screening standards, but I think they’re full of it.”

  “So you can get CJD just by handling the infected tissue?” he asked.

  Dr. Lachlan shook her head. “No. I’m pretty sure I know how Mike could have gotten it. About eighteen months ago he was doing a craniotomy. His scalpel slipped as he was trimming the patch. He nicked himself. And if the dura mater had CJD, the scalpel blade would have been loaded with CJD prions.” Her gaze swung over to him. “And now here he is.”

  “What about the patient who received the dura mater? Did he get CJD?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Dr. Lachlan said. “We’re tracking her down. And the tissue supplier.”

  He stared at Dr. Mazerski’s masklike features. What a mess. But he couldn’t forget one important fact: eighteen months was a big gap between getting infected and showing symptoms. Dr. Mazerski could have killed a lot of girls before he was put on leave on Friday. “Does Dr. Mazerski have periods of lucidity?”

  Dr. Lachlan shook her head. “No. His symptoms are progressing very rapidly. That can happen in his kind of transmission, but even so, he seems to be an extreme case.” She paused for a moment, then cleared her throat. “I doubt he’ll ever speak cogently again. He’s also losing his vision.”

  He glanced at Dr. Mazerski, despair warring with frustration. They’d been so close. So close. But a week too late. They’d never get any answers from him. They’d need to get their information from colleagues, family, hospital records.

  Ethan turned to Dr. Lachlan. “How often have you seen Dr. Mazerski in the past two weeks?”

  She held his gaze. “We were on six shifts together. A week ago Saturday, Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday, Tuesday and then the past Friday, when he totally lost it in the O.R.”

  “A week ago Monday—was it a day or night shift?”

  “Night.”

  Lamond rolled back on his heels. That Monday night was when Lisa MacAdam was killed.

  “Were you with him all the time?”

  “I’d have to check our O.R. records, but if I recall correctly, we operated at 9:45 p.m. We closed the patient around 2:50 a.m., and then we had another patient waiting right after that. So, yes, I believe I was.”

  Her pager beeped. She glanced down at the number and swore. “Just when I thought I was done for the night.” She gave a grim smile. Ethan realized she was making a joke—the clock bolted to the wall showed it was already past noon. She threw one final glance at Dr. Mazerski. “I’ve gotta run,” she said, striding across the room. “We’re short staffed.” She sprinted out the door, her pager urging her on.

  “I’ll get the records,” Lamond said, “but if she’s right—”

  Ethan walked toward the door. “If she’s right, Dr. Mazerski is not our man. He’s just one unlucky bastard.” Leaving behind a grief-ravaged wife and two young children. At least the risk of his family contracting it from him was remote. But what a tragic waste of talent, opportunity, life.

  How must Dr. Clare feel to see the brilliant mind of her spouse being ravaged so ruthlessly? To see the promise of their lives cruelly dismantled? And yet, she had had a desperate determination in her gaze. The stunned look of a survivor. He realized—with a shock of recognition—he’d seen that same look before. In Kate’s eyes.

  They left the hospital floor. The watchful gaze of the nursing staff remained on their backs until they got in the elevator. Dr. Roberts must have been held up. Ethan thanked the powers that be for small mercies.

  They walked in silence back to the parkade. As soon as they slid into the front seats, Lamond said, “Man, I thought we were on to something.” Frustration flashed in his eyes. “If that doc was right, then we’ve just lost a prime suspect.”

  Ethan sipped his cold coffee. “Tell me about it.” Disappointment added to the burning feeling in his gut. He put the coffee cup back in the holder. The killer was still out there. What were they missing? How could this guy not leave a trace?

  He rubbed his jaw. Stubble rasped against his skin. He needed a shave. He needed sleep. Both those things would have to wait. “I still think we’re on the right track. Just the wrong guy.”

  Chapter 41

  Thursday, May 17, 1:00 p.m.

  Dr. Gill was no straw man. In fact, he was a big coup for Hollis University. Kate skimmed his bio again. The university Web site listed the numerous research grants he’d been awarded, and noted he was short-listed for the newly endowed one-million-dollar chair in neuromuscular research. A separate press attachment mentioned the possibility of a Nobel Prize.

  This guy was a highly respected medical researcher. What was his involvement with BioMediSol—if any? Was he being used?

  In a few hours she would find out. Right now, she needed to work on her files and keep a low profile. She’d shown up to work this morning, trying to maintain the appearance of normality and lull John Lyons into thinking that she was as clueless as he thought she was.

  She tucked Dr. Gill’s address under the case reports on her desk.

  * * *

  Randall Barrett strode past the associate
s’ offices, heading for one office in particular.

  He hadn’t seen Kate for days. Not since he’d shared an elevator with her. The memory of her eyes raking his face still made his chest tighten. She’d known about the notes. She’d realized he’d taken them. She just didn’t know why.

  That had eaten away at him ever since.

  He stopped in her doorway. She had her back to him and was bent over. He couldn’t help himself: his eyes drank in the heart-shaped curve of her bottom.

  He forced his gaze away. It looked as if she was packing her briefcase. He glanced at his watch: 3:05 p.m. A little early for her to be leaving. But her caseload had lightened since the MacAdam and TransTissue cases were over.

  “Are you busy?”

  She tensed at the sound of his voice, then straightened and turned. “No, I’m not busy.” She didn’t bother to hide the fact she’d been intending to leave. She placed her car keys on her desk. Her gaze was challenging. “Come in.”

  He surprised himself by closing the door and lowering himself into a chair. She reluctantly sank into hers. “I heard about the TransTissue file, Kate.”

  She stiffened, a slight flush warming her translucent skin. Then she shrugged. “John advised them to settle.”

  Randall studied her. She was watching him as closely as he watched her. “He said you did a good job on it.”

  That didn’t have the response he expected. Her lips twisted. “Glad to hear it.” Her eyes probed his face. There was something there, under the surface. A totally different dialogue. It was as if he could see the lips moving but couldn’t hear what was being said.

  He was sure she must be frustrated to lose the chance to work on a case like TransTissue. He leaned forward. “You know, there will be other cases, Kate. Ones that will go through to the trial phase.”

  “Yes. I know.” She seemed to be waiting for something.

  “I’ll make sure you get assigned to one in the next few weeks.”

  Her lips twisted again. “Thanks.”

  Her desire for him to leave was palpable. Her disdain for him was just as thick.

  He couldn’t leave things the way they were. She needed to understand that she could trust him, despite everything. That he’d tried to protect her. He leaned back in his chair. “You are correct in your assumption.”

  He’d expected to see anger, disgust even, at his revelation. But not shock. Her gaze flickered over a scrap of paper peeking out from under her case reports, then snapped back to him. There was no mistaking that there was something on her desk she did not want him to see. What was it?

  “Which assumption are you talking about?” she shot back. He suppressed both a wince at her implication that she harbored many assumptions—which, from her tone of voice, were unflattering—and a surge of admiration at her riposte. Especially given that she was so tense her cheekbones jutted from her face.

  He had to fight the impulse to smooth the curve of her cheek with his fingers. He cleared his throat. “I took your notes.”

  She drew back. “I know.” Those two words repeated what her eyes had flashed at him. Contempt, anger. Underneath it vibrated hurt.

  He leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Kate.” Her carefully masked surprise at his apology stabbed him. “It was something I was loath to do.”

  She crossed her arms. “Did Judge Carson put you up to it?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t answer that.” He wouldn’t blame Hope.

  Her gaze challenged him. “Will you return them?”

  “No,” he said softly. “I destroyed them.”

  “Of course.”

  He knew what she was thinking. He’d left her dangling in the wind. “The contents were never revealed to anyone. Solicitor-client privilege was not violated. You don’t need to worry.”

  “I see.” She glanced down for a moment. His tension ebbed. She understood.

  Then she looked up and his pulse staggered. Fury radiated from her eyes. “So you think that makes it all right? You steal my notes, won’t tell me why, and then assure me that no one’s seen them?” She stood and planted her palms on her desk. Her breasts heaved under her silk blouse. “Why should I believe you?”

  He tore his gaze from her chest.

  She saw where his eyes had been fixed. Her lips curled in contempt.

  His neck burned. Jesus, he was like a teenager in her presence. This associate who was at least a decade his junior. He rose to his feet and crossed his arms. “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “Because you stole from me, Randall! You came into my office and went through my files and took my notes and left me holding the bag—” She stopped abruptly.

  The whole picture suddenly shifted into focus. She’d wanted those notes for something. That’s why she was so upset.

  “True.” He let his eyes probe hers. “But it’s not like you needed those notes for anything, right, Kate? They were protected by solicitor-client privilege.”

  A slash of color burned on each elegant cheekbone. She stared at him, mute with fury. And guilt.

  Bingo.

  “That’s right,” she managed. “And you took them.”

  “But I destroyed them. I wasn’t planning on giving them to anyone else…” There was only one person in her acquaintance who’d be able to persuade her to give up those notes. Only one person with a connection to both the MacAdam case and to Kate. Only one person who would be willing to resort to unethical investigative means in order to further his own assumptions.

  Ethan Drake.

  A vein throbbed in his temple. “Did your former fiancé ask to have a peek?”

  She crossed her arms and tightened her jaw. But the fiery pink of her cheeks spoke volumes.

  “How disappointed you must have been when you discovered I’d beat you to it.” He was taking a perverse pleasure in angering her now. She’d planned to breach her fiduciary duty to help Ethan Drake. A man who was willing to sacrifice a person’s future in order to serve his twisted ideal of justice. “I saved your ass, Ms. Lange,” he said, his tone clipped. “Do you think your ex would have protected you if he’d had to make the provenance of his information known?”

  Her face tightened.

  “I saved your ass, Kate,” he repeated. He wanted her to recognize it for what it was. “And I saved it with Child Protection, too.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” She was so angry she was trembling. “Kiss yours?”

  An image of her on her knees in front of him, her hair tumbling over her naked shoulders, slammed through him. Anger and desire were igniting on the same narrow fuse. Dangerous. Way too dangerous. “No.” He shook his head to clear his mind of that image. That delicious, tantalizing image. It almost toppled him with need. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders. He wanted to attack her mouth with his and plunge its depths. He wanted to lower her onto her desk and cup that heart-shaped bottom in his hands…

  He clenched his hands to his sides. He had not felt desire assault him like this in a long, long time. If ever. That sudden realization fueled his resolve. “I’m not saving you anymore.”

  He yanked open the door. “You are hereby on notice. You cannot afford any more screwups, Kate. This is it. No more chances.”

  He closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  She grabbed her briefcase and fumbled with the doorknob to her office. Her fingers shook. She flung open the door and stormed down the corridor.

  That bastard.

  That bloody, bloody bastard.

  She punched the button to the elevator. When the door opened, she held her breath. She half-hoped and half-dreaded seeing Randall Barrett in there. If he was…

  She wanted to launch herself against him, pound his chest and make him suffer for those words. All those hurtful words.

  The bastard.

  How did he know how to hurt her so precisely? To twist the knife like that?

  The elevator was empty. She stabbed the button to the parkade, leaned her head back against the mir
rored wall and closed her eyes.

  She’d been stunned when he appeared in her office doorway—just as she was about to visit Dr. Gill. Had he somehow found out what she was up to?

  Had he been on a scouting mission to see what she knew about TransTissue?

  She couldn’t believe his ballsiness. He’d ostensibly apologized for stealing her notes, and then accused her of wrongdoing.

  The worst thing was that he’d been right.

  She’d walked right into Ethan’s trap, had agreed to give him the notes, but had never thought about what would happen if he was forced to reveal the source of his information. Would he deliberately ignore the evidence trail of the Body Butcher in order to protect her?

  Of course not.

  Randall Barrett had saved her.

  And that rankled more than anything else.

  She didn’t want to be saved. Correction, she didn’t want to make mistakes that required someone—and in particular, Randall Barrett—to save her.

  She did not want to be in his debt.

  She could not afford it. The price was too high. Not just the cost to her career. There was a more personal price. There had been a moment—another blasted moment—when his eyes had demanded that she acknowledge his desire. And not only acknowledge it, but meet it. And her body had complied. With a longing so heated she knew it would burn her up. No one, not even Ethan, had ever done that to her.

  She hated the fact that Randall Barrett could. To have him be able to immolate her good judgment with a glance and ignite her nerves scared the life out of her.

  It was humiliating.

  She climbed into her car and sped out of the parkade. She needed to get away from the firm, from Randall Barrett.

  The worst thing was, he understood her better than anyone she knew.

  That was a fucking scary thought.

  He was her boss. He was also one of the best lawyers in the city. That was an even scarier thought. If he was involved in the deceptions of the TransTissue file—after all, hadn’t he persuaded John Lyons to put her on it?—would he guess that she was tracking down its suppliers? Would he be waiting for her to come back and reveal her findings?