by Thomas Locke
“As a matter of fact,” Whitehurst interjected, “it appears we are actually on the brink of just that.”
“Just what?”
“A major new relief,” Whitehurst replied.
Owen MacKenzie’s gaze took on a keener focus. “How major?”
“According to the latest trial results, as big as Zantac,” Whitehurst predicted. “Maybe bigger.”
Zantac was an industry byword for success, the most prescribed drug in the world. The ulcer medicine had chalked up 1993 sales of over four billion dollars.
The chairman fiddled with his napkin. “I didn’t cancel my other engagement to endure a sales pitch that wouldn’t impress a new GP.”
“He’s not kidding,” Cofield said. “This could be really big.”
Owen MacKenzie glanced from one man to the next. “All right. I’m listening.”
Cofield said, “One of our chief researchers is a woman by the name of Deborah Givens. She was originally brought in to head up research into new monoclonar antibodies, but it turns out she has an illness that could get worse at any moment.”
“Which one?”
“MS,” Whitehurst answered. “We didn’t know it at the time of hiring her, of course.”
“Right,” Cofield said, recovering the ball. “So we decided to take her off the main research, replace her with somebody who didn’t have this risk of not being around to finish the job.”
“We were planning to let her coast for a couple of years,” Whitehurst explained, “then give her the boot. Use her lack of productivity as the reason.”
“Good thinking,” the chairman agreed. “No need to attract any unnecessary litigation.”
“So she comes up with this idea to look into some natural medicines used behind the Iron Curtain,” Cofield went on. “Or what used to be the Iron Curtain. Medicine is so backward there, they’re still using roots and herbs from the Middle Ages. We thought, what the heck, it wouldn’t cost much, and who knows, she might actually turn up something.”
Owen MacKenzie nodded his understanding. A number of key medicines had been discovered in just such studies of natural healing elements. Digitalis, used for heart failure, came from the foxglove plant. Taxol, a new drug used in the treatment of ovarian cancer, had been recently isolated from the bark and needles of the Pacific yew tree.
“We kept her under a tight rein,” Cofield said. “She’s got the smallest lab section in the company, a grand total of five lab technicians, one of which is the biggest man ever created. All of her people are a little odd. Her lab’s been sort of the deposit for techies nobody else wanted to touch. So what happens but she strikes gold. And I mean gold.”
“In what field?” the chairman demanded.
“That’s just it,” Cofield said, growing excited. His hands refused to stay still. They were everywhere, dancing across the table, touching his tie, rubbing the side of his face, patting down his wire-brush hair. “We still don’t know exactly how far we can go with this one.”
“Deborah was looking at a root extract that was claimed to help strengthen the immune system against viral attacks,” Whitehurst explained. “She isolated half a dozen molecules that had not been previously identified.”
“All of them complex as they come,” Cofield broke in. “One of them is like a mile and a half long. She started her lab trials then and found that the single compounds alone didn’t have near as much effect as using them all together. Something about the combination appears to stimulate immune system activity.”
The chairman demanded, “And side effects?”
“The extract has been in use in Europe for decades,” Whitehurst replied. “Some doctors swear by it, others swear at it. But no one has ever, as far as we have been able to ascertain, accused it of having any harmful contraindications.”
“A general immune strengthener without side effects,” Owen MacKenzie mused. “A pity it is already in such general use. We would probably find it impossible to patent.”
“We already have,” Whitehurst announced smugly.
MacKenzie’s gaze turned hard as diamonds. “What’s that?”
“Debs started fooling around with the molecules,” Cofield explained. He was growing impatient with all these interruptions and the need to share center stage. “It appeared that the compounds had a direct effect on the T-cells and that how they combined depended on what disease the system was fighting. So she decided to try and add marker molecules to each of the compounds.”
“Now, just hold on a doggone second,” Owen MacKenzie groused. “You think maybe you could bring this discussion back down to earth?”
“I had to do some research on that one as well,” Whitehurst said soothingly. The chairman hated to be placed in a situation where he had to admit not knowing something. “It appears that T-cells, which fight viral and fungal infections, are in the lymphocyte family of immune cells. They have molecules on their surfaces called receptors, which are used to identify invading infections. They identify these by what are called marker molecules, sort of like red flags waved in a bull’s face.”
“Right,” Cofield barked, determined to grab the spotlight again. “Debs figured that maybe what the compounds she had isolated did was excite the immune system. Not toward anything specific, just alert it in general. So she wondered if maybe by attaching marker molecules she would cause the T-cells to pick them up more swiftly and specifically. Sort of homing in on them, collecting them, and pushing the immune system into super-high gear.”
“Fascinating,” the chairman murmured. “And it worked?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Whitehurst replied smugly. “It worked incredibly well.”
“And in the process,” the chairman went on, “we’ve created a group of new compounds that are patentable.”
“Already done,” Whitehurst confirmed.
“Not to mention exclusively ours to manufacture.”
“Ah,” Whitehurst cautioned. “Not exactly.”
“Yeah, like I said,” Cofield agreed, “these compounds are more than complex. We haven’t come up with a way to produce them synthetically. They’ve got to be grown naturally, for the moment, anyway. But this is a temporary thing. I’m working on the production process personally.”
Which would mean a ten-year delay, Whitehurst thought to himself, but he kept his face blank. “Deborah came up with a means to both increase the plant’s growth rate and to force the plants to change the compounds naturally.”
“And just how did she accomplish that?”
Cofield’s smile made his face look like a vulture homing in on a carcass. “You’ll like this one,” he replied. “You really will.”
5
Cliff arrived at Blair’s house ten minutes late. He would never have thought it possible to get so lost in a town this small. Put it down to first-date nerves.
Deborah had returned him to the guesthouse after the visit to the church. He had not argued. The rising fatigue had given her features a grayish pallor.
“So much I wanted to do today,” she sighed. “So many plans.”
“There’s always tomorrow.”
“For you, maybe.”
He knew a peal of real alarm. “You think it might get worse?”
“I don’t know. Not knowing is worse than anything, almost.” She rubbed an angry hand across her forehead. “I’ve got to be going, Cliff. Have a nice time. Behave yourself tonight, all right? Blair is a friend.”
“What’s her story, anyway?”
“That you’ll have to ask her.” She slid behind the wheel of her Cherokee, and immediately Cliff understood why she had purchased the jeep. There was no need to lower herself to get in or raise up to get out.
“Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No.” Definite about that, at least. “I want to be able to show you my home when I am able to enjoy it with you.” She shut her door, the effort costing her, and asked through the window, “Do you understand?”
“
No, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does matter. That’s why I want to wait.” She forced out a tired smile. “Until tomorrow. I hope.”
* * *
He finally found Blair Collins’s house on a tree-lined street directly across from the bay. As he hurried up the walk, an old woman seated in one of the rockers called out, “Would your name happen to be Cliff?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come up here and have a seat, young man. I’m afraid Blair is running a tad late this evening, so you’ll have to put up with me for a while.”
He mounted the stairs and said, “It would be a pleasure.”
“Thank you kindly.” She patted the rocker beside her. “My name is Sadie Atkins, but you may call me Miss Sadie. All the rest of the world does, and there’s no need to make an exception for you, now, is there?”
“I’m pleased to meet you.”
“The honor is mine. I’m not near as pretty as my niece, I’ll be the first to admit that. But I have had a nodding acquaintance with life for quite some time now. Never can tell, it might even make for an interesting chat. Would you care for something cool to drink?”
The rocker creaked a welcome as it accepted his weight. “No, thank you, I’m fine.”
“Blair is late because she volunteered to take a neighbor of mine to the dentist. The old dear was to have another tooth extracted and be fitted with dentures. But it appears the tooth was not consulted in the matter, and proved unwilling to depart without a rather lengthy struggle.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That is kind of you, young man, but don’t be. Mrs. Simpkins suffers from the ailment of many old folks who don’t have pretty nieces to liven up their world. It’s commonly referred to as boredom, although how one small word could hope to hold all that discomfort is beyond me.”
“It ought to be twelve syllables long,” Cliff agreed. “Begin with ‘acute’ and end in ‘itis.’”
The old lady gave him an assessing glance. She nodded once, as though approving what she saw, then turned back to the sunset and continued, “In any case, Mrs. Simpkins had the most memorable afternoon of her entire summer and was left with sufficient fuel to fire simply hours of gossip.”
Light footsteps traced their way across a hardwood floor. Cliff was on his feet in time to watch Blair emerge through the screen door and say, “Good evening, Cliff.”
“Hello, Blair,” he replied. He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. The words simply were not there.
She wore a simple white linen skirt, a midnight blue blouse with matching pumps, and a single strand of pearls. The effect was simple and unpretentious and maybe even a little bit severe, with her blouse buttoned up to her neck. It matched the cautious warning in her eyes. Blair stepped toward him, holding a thin black purse with both hands, everything about her shouting for him to keep his distance.
Still, she was beautiful. Her dark blond hair spilled in lustrous waves over her shoulders. She walked erect and poised, with a natural grace that dancers struggle for years to achieve. Her hands were slender, her fingers unusually long. Her eyes were the color of wet jade. Her figure was heart-stopping.
Miss Sadie looked from one to the other and said approvingly, “Why, I do believe you two would make an attractive couple.”
A faint flush appeared on Blair’s cheeks. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“No problem,” Cliff replied. “How was Mrs. Simpkins?”
“Well, would you look here?” Miss Sadie said. “He even remembered the poor dear’s name. Young man, there might indeed be hope for you.”
“We’re off, auntie.” Blair stooped and bussed the old lady’s cheek. “Don’t wait up.”
“Now why on earth would I do a silly thing like that?” She winked at Cliff. “I do happen to own a mirror, you know. I realize full well how much I need my beauty sleep.”
As they walked down the steps, Blair said quietly, “That woman irritates people easier than most folks draw breath.”
“I like her,” Cliff declared.
Blair inspected him for any hint of derision. When none was found, she said, “Then maybe she was right.”
But when he stopped beside the Jaguar, she said, “I take it back.”
“You don’t like my car?”
“It’s not a question of liking or disliking it. I just don’t like what it stands for.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
She took in the car with one sweeping hand. “Status. Pride. Everything that money can buy.”
Cliff turned hot. “I bought that car ten years ago for two thousand dollars and overpaid.”
Again there was the frank examination. “You rebuilt this yourself?”
“From the pavement up.”
“How long did it take?”
“The four longest years of my life.”
The Southern accent was stronger when she said, “Then I truly love your car, Cliff.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“It is indeed a work of art,” she replied, her eyes on the car, not him. “This lady would dearly like to be taken for a drive. Would you do me the kindness of helping me in?”
* * *
Blair accepted Cliff’s explanation of Deborah’s fatigue with calm understanding. Once they were seated in the restaurant Deborah had suggested, she asked, “How did you two become friends?”
“Debs was my tutor. Well, not in the normal sense. I didn’t pay her anything. Not with money, anyway. We played racquetball together.”
“Come again?”
“Debs wouldn’t play with girls. And most guys didn’t like to play her because they didn’t like losing to a lady.” He smiled at the memory. “She had this forehand shot that almost drilled the ball through the wall. On her good days, that is.”
“What did she teach you?”
“Biology first, then pharmacology.” He looked back over the years. “She was working on her Ph.D. and lecturing in biology. I enrolled because I thought I wanted to be a doctor. I was on the verge of flunking when Debs took me under her wing. She coached me through the entire year, pushed me hard, really hard. I ended up with two B’s, but man, she made me work for them.”
“And you became friends.”
“Debs was the most intelligent person I’d ever met. Not just smart. Intense. She would focus on you, and it felt like two lasers pinning you to the spot.”
“You admire her a lot.”
“I do. She’s everything I’m not. Focused, directed, driven, determined.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ve always taken an easier road. I know I’ve enjoyed life a lot more than she has, but when I see what she’s done, despite everything, I’m not sure it matters all that much.”
There was a pause for ordering, and when the waiter had departed Blair asked, “So what is it you want out of life?”
She used her questions both to probe and keep a distance—that much was clear, as was the fact that if he switched and asked about her, she would draw away. Yet he found himself not minding this one-sidedness. There was something at work here, opening him up more than a dozen dates with another woman could. He looked across the table and knew with hidden wisdom that now was a time for honesty.
Cliff answered, “Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent my whole life waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. I just feel like,” Cliff tried to capture the invisible within his fist. “Like maybe one day I’d look at something and just know.”
“Like it had struck a chord in you,” she said, her guarded gaze unwavering.
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it exactly. Like all of a sudden it all made sense. Like there’s a reason. Why I’m here, what I’m going to do with my life, everything.”
“Like suddenly your life was given the meaning it lacked.”
“It sounds crazy, I know.”
“Not to me.” A pause, then, “Have
you found it?”
He replied slowly, “I don’t know. Sometimes lately I feel like I have, like I’m looking right at it and can’t see it. Other times . . .”
“How do you feel when that happens?”
“Sort of excited. Sort of stupid, too, like maybe I’m kidding myself to think it might really come off.”
Blair leaned both elbows on the table. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you better keep your eyes open and your ears turned to high.”
He smiled. “Yeah?”
She nodded, all seriousness. “Have you ever watched how a hawk goes hunting in the wild?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“He hovers high overhead, poised and waiting, all his attention focused down on this point on the earth. He doesn’t see his prize. But he thinks it might be there. So he just hangs there in midair and waits. It is hard, though. Probably the hardest thing he does in his entire life. But he hovers there. He waits. And then when the prize appears, he is ready.”
Cliff felt as though he could dive into her jade-green eyes and lose himself completely. “You really think this might be it?”
She leaned back. “You’re the one who’s hunting. It’s your prize. All I’m saying is, if you think this might be the one, you’ve got to be ready to commit.”
* * *
Fernando Aristide Montoya de Cunhor surveyed his kingdom with a very disapproving gaze. A frown sharpened his aquiline features. He was actually very pleased, but Fernando de Cunhor had long ago learned that people moved much faster if they feared his wrath.
De Cunhor’s kingdom of some seven thousand souls lay in the heart of Sao Paulo, a city that came second in any number of categories. The industrial center of Brazil, Sao Paulo was second only to Poland’s “Triangle of Death” in air and water pollution. It was second only to the turbulent native townships outside Johannesburg in nightly murders. It was second to Medellin, the world’s capital of cocaine production, in street battles between armed gangs. It was second to its more temperate neighbor to the north, Rio de Janiero, in the number of homeless street kids under the age of nine.
