I grunted in reply, knowing any doubt I voiced would fall on deaf ears. Besides, I would know soon enough if my father’s research was valid.
As the lab lights dimmed, Tim came up beside me. “If you want to go, too, I don’t mind.”
“Actually,” I said, “that would be great. There is one more thing in the research package I wanted to have a look at. I’ll be back in a bit. Did you want me to bring you anything?”
“You could save my life with a cup of coffee,” he said.
Lawrence had already closed his eyes, and I left the lab and headed back to my office.
There was something my father had said during his presentation that stuck in my mind.
Lawrence only volunteered a few weeks ago. It seemed incredible to me that he had gone through the selection process so quickly. There was something odd in the timeline, and I was determined to find out what was going on.
Chapter Three
I’d only been with my father’s project since yesterday, and I hadn’t had enough time to go through all the research material. I had at least a week or two of reading before I was completely caught up. There were some questions, however, that couldn’t wait.
The first one, obviously, was what kind of formula he’d created to stimulate the stem cells into regenerating organs. There were other labs across the country working on this very thing. A company in Japan had managed to culture stem cells in under a month, and a UK-based research facility was able to grow human teeth in lab mice, but their results were nowhere near as advanced as what my father claimed his were. He’d only teased me with the computer models of the formula in action and had not given me any specifics. For the life of me, I could not imagine how he’d managed such an achievement.
The pressing question was, how had he arrived at this stage of development so fast, and with only one lab assistant?
I’d never been the suspicious type, but that didn’t mean I was naïve to the politics of the scientific and academic community. Often, they were more cutthroat than any other segment of the professional world.
Like the vulture culture of high finance, in medical research it was often kill or be killed, in a figurative sense. Unless you were one of the lucky ones to get tenure at a successful pharmaceutical company, or become a favorite of a government agency, there was only so much funding to go around.
The universities that hosted medical researchers ran on shoestring budgets at the best of times, and if there weren’t enough papers published, or grants gained, then those doctors would soon find themselves without tenure. The researchers were under constant pressure to prove their results, and sometimes the only ways to accomplish that were either to cut corners or to play politics.
Despite my father’s assurances, I had a nagging feeling that he may have done both.
Before I confronted him, however, I needed more proof. With that proof, maybe I could convince him to ease off and do things properly. Whatever pressures he felt to produce, it wasn’t worth risking censure if there was a hint of impropriety.
The first time my father had mentioned his line of research to me was three years ago. He told me that, in his spare time, he had been examining the regenerative properties of certain reptiles and amphibians for the past fifteen years.
It was only when he’d begun work with stem cells that he made enough advances to apply for a small grant from the university to conduct his research full time.
My father had never taken to computers like my generation. He’d always held an undercurrent of mistrust toward them. The vast majority of his research was written down in his own shorthand.
When Tim had shown me to my office yesterday, he mentioned that he’d been going through the notes and transcribing them into the computer. He’d complained that it was a long, tedious process, and he didn’t always have a great deal of spare time between his regular academic workload and the extra duties assigned to him by my father. Still, I wanted to see what information he’d managed to record.
I logged into the computer and tried to access the records. Combing through the data files, I couldn’t find what I was looking for. Maybe Tim hadn’t uploaded them to the server.
I was on the verge of heading back to the lab to ask Tim about it, when I realized that the physical files waiting to be scanned or transcribed would most likely be in Tim’s office, which was on the other side of the hall from mine.
I got up from my desk and went over. Though I expected it to be locked, the door opened when I tried it. I flicked on the light. Sure enough, there were half a dozen boxes piled on the wall opposite the desk.
Unfortunately, they were financial records for the department. It wasn’t what I wanted, but maybe there was something there that would give me a clue about the timeline.
The first thing I looked for was the release paper Lawrence would have had to sign. I also wanted to see his medical forms. There should be reports charting the burns he’d suffered, as well as any other biological information that could be pertinent to the experiment. I didn’t find a folder for Lawrence, but I figured my father might have that in his office.
I did find one folder that contained some of the details of the past three years’ funding.
After my father had put forth his initial proposal, the university’s board of trustees had successfully obtained a small grant from the National Health and Medical Research Council. It was barely enough to cover the first year’s expenses.
The initial findings showed promise, and that garnered him an additional year of funding, as well as enough for a lab assistant.
Last year, however, even though the bacterial culture experiments had been successful, other stem cell projects throughout the United States had shown more promise, and they had denied my father his grant.
For the past year, as far as I could tell, my father had been funding his research out of his own pocket. I couldn’t believe it. That was one of the quickest ways to bankrupt oneself. I supposed that was why he was making another attempt to get funding, but this time from a private firm, rather than through a government agency. He’d probably run out of money.
I’d never heard of the company he’d applied to for funding: Enoch Enterprises.
I found a letter of theirs that stated they were excited about my father’s research and would consider fully funding his research, but they required a demonstration before approving the allocation.
It wasn’t uncommon for private firms to invest in cutting-edge medical science since the payoff of such gambles could be extremely lucrative.
What was missing was the FDA approval for any Phase 1 or Phase 2 clinical tests on humans. Had my father lied to me when he said he’d obtained approval?
Maybe I was just jumping to conclusions. After all, I didn’t have access to the research journals. It was possible he’d already gone through a series of preclinical tests.
My father would likely have had the FDA forms in his office along with Lawrence’s medical folder. I hoped this was the case.
There was only one way to be certain.
At only slightly less than a jog, I headed for my father’s office at the other end of the building. All the while, I found my anger rising.
Was my father so desperate to further his research that he was taking short cuts like this? How could he get me involved in this, knowing what I’d gone through this past year?
By the time I reached his office, I’d worked myself up enough that I would probably erupt at my father. I knew from experience that he did not react well to confrontation, and would clam up.
Willing myself to calm down and broach my concerns rationally, I took a deep breath and knocked on his door.
“Hello?” he asked in a lilted voice.
“It’s me,” I said as I opened the door and poked my head in.
“Kyle. I was just going to look for you.”
“Oh?”
He stood up as I entered, and gestured to a wooden chair in front of his desk.
“
Yes,” he said, “I was hoping that first thing tomorrow we can work up a set of protocols for the trials. I was thinking we would focus on skin regeneration, for the time being, until we refine the formula, dosages, external factors, and—”
He stopped talking when he saw my look of consternation.
“What is it, Kyle?”
“I was going through some of the paperwork,” I said.
“Already?” He smiled. “You see, I knew you’d jump right into the research.”
“No,” I said. “Not the scientific paperwork, the financials.”
For the first time in the past two days, my father’s confident and friendly countenance wavered. “Oh?”
“You didn’t tell me the grant committee denied your application last year, or that you’ve been using your own money up until now.” I gave him a hard look. “You must have burned through all your savings.”
“That’s not important,” he said. “Once we get new funding, money will be the least of our worries. Enoch is a very exciting company. They’re very eager to work with new ideas and venture into uncharted directions.”
I gambled and asked, “Do they know you haven’t received approval for tonight’s experiment from the FDA?”
My father managed an awkward smile. “It’s a minor thing. That’s why I’m only doing a small patch on the skin. There are no side-effects, I assure you.”
I could feel the heat rise in me at the confirmation that he was conducting the trial illegally.
“How can you assure me of that when you haven’t even been approved for Phase 1 trials? As a matter of fact, I can’t find a single lab worldwide that has been approved to experiment with stem cells on humans.”
“There are no side-effects.”
Shaking my head, I asked, “How can you be sure of that?”
“I tested it on myself,” he said.
I shot out of my seat. “What?”
“It’s harmless.”
Through gritted teeth, I said, “You’ve got to be out of your mind.”
He held up his hands. “You know I’m not the first scientist in history to do such a thing.”
I wasn’t doing a good job keeping calm. “Do you have any idea how irresponsible that is? If anyone found out what you’ve been doing, you’d never be able to work in medicine again for the rest of your life. How can the university go along with this madness?”
Trying to maintain his smile, my father said, “You don’t have to worry about that. I’ve taken care of everything.” He gave me a look that was half pleading, half puzzled. “Don’t you realize I’m doing this for the both of us? Once we perfect the compound, our futures will be assured. OrganKnit is going to revolutionize medicine around the world.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’ve taken care of everything?” It was then I put it together. “Tim’s father, Phil Bellows. What was the arrangement?” I asked. “He’ll fix the paperwork for you with the university if you bring his son along for the ride?”
“He’s seen the results. He believes in the project,” my father said. “Tim is a good kid, but he doesn’t have what it takes to be a surgeon. His father wants him to go into research and theory for a few years, and then work towards an administrative position.”
“I can’t believe it,” I said, shaking my head. “Is that why you brought me in? You needed someone who had to keep his mouth shut. Or if he did say something, no one would believe him.”
“No,” he said, looking hurt. “It’s not like that at all.”
Finding that my hands had bunched into fists, I put them on my hips. “Then what’s it like?”
“It’s like…” he said, then took a deep breath, and began again. “I thought you, for one, would understand what I was trying to accomplish.”
I did, and I felt my jaw tighten.
It was only when I was a teenager that the doctors, during a routine physical, diagnosed my mother with cardiomyopathy.
Though they undertook every therapy and treatment they could imagine, her condition worsened. The cardiologist put her on the transplant waiting list, but she died before a suitable donor heart could be found.
After she died, my father stopped practicing general medicine and turned to teaching and research.
My mother’s death was the primary motivation for me to become a cardiologist; it had instilled in me the need to save people. In that light, I did understand my father’s search to find alternatives to organ transplant. I couldn’t condone his methodology, however.
“If I knew then what I know now,” my father said in a very quiet voice, “she would still be with us.”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “You can’t punish yourself like that. And that’s not a good enough reason to take such extreme chances like you did.”
As far back as I could remember, my father had never lost his temper. Though he’d been cold and distant to everyone, including me, after my mother died, he’d always seemed to be in complete control of his emotions. Though there were times he would let a genuine smile escape his lips, he never showed despair, fear, or pain.
That was why it took me so long to realize something was happening to him.
An odd look came over his face. For a moment, I thought it was merely a physical manifestation of the emotional pain he was feeling. Looking closer, I saw his skin pale, and beads of sweat form along his hairline. His pupils dilated, and he started to sway off balance.
“Are you all right?” I asked, stepping to him and putting a steadying hand on his arm. With my assistance, he sat back down in his chair and seemed to recover.
“Yes, fine.” He smiled and waved me off. “I haven’t been sleeping, and I think I may have forgotten to eat supper tonight.”
“Did you want me to get you a bottle of orange juice from the machine?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll be fine. I just need to ease off the throttle.”
I studied him a moment, before I said, “You know, this discussion is not over. Tomorrow, we’re going back to the beginning and doing this by the numbers.” I gave a single shake of my head when he opened his mouth to protest. “If this Enoch Enterprises is so keen on this research, they’ll have no problem waiting until we get proper approval, even if it takes another year.”
He seemed on the verge of arguing again, but then slowly nodded. “You see, everything happens for a reason. This is why I invited you to join me. You always were one for doing the right thing.”
I felt a shudder go through me. Though I knew my father intended the words as a compliment, they were more of an indictment. The one time I hadn’t done the right thing, it had ruined my life.
Aloud, I said, “Speaking of which, don’t you think it’s time you revealed your little secret? Exactly what is this OrganKnit formula you created? Your computer simulations tell me nothing. How does it work?”
Before my father could answer, the intercom chime on his office phone sounded, and he pressed the button that had lit up.
“Tim?”
“Professor, you need to get down here right away.” His voice sounded panicked.
I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. It’s Lawrence. He’s freaking out.”
“We’re on our way.”
I was already two steps to the door when I said it.
Chapter Four
I heard the sound of glass smashing before I got to the lab, and with a sidelong glance at my father, I broke into a run.
When I burst into the room, the first thing I saw was Lawrence flailing around with his unbound arm. His legs were kicking out in what looked to be involuntary spasms. As if he were in agony, his head was thrown back and his mouth was open in a scream, but no sound was coming out.
Tim’s voice was high and panicked. “He just went nuts.”
“What’s happening to him?” I demanded of my father, who stood frozen as he stared at his patient’s violent reaction.
It was then that I noticed the jaundiced pallor of my father
’s eyes and skin was getting worse. Something was happening to him. He held his hand to the upper part of his abdomen, as if suffering cramps, but I knew there was more to it than that.
I recognized the signs, and when his eyes lost focus, and he collapsed against a lab table and fell over onto the floor, I rushed toward him. For a moment, I couldn’t believe what was happening to him, but he was showing signs of acute liver failure.
In a flash, I made a connection. Even with the latest stem cell advancements, it would take a month to cultivate a batch for use in the experiment. Lawrence had only volunteered a few weeks ago. That hadn’t given my father enough time.
Where had he gotten the stem cells from? If he was willing to run the first regenerative tests on himself, he wouldn’t draw the line at farming his own liver cells to use on Lawrence.
My outrage at the ethical and professional breaches would have to wait. Unless my father got to a hospital quickly, he would die.
Just then, a primal roar erupted from Lawrence as he broke his arm free from the restraint. He jumped to his bare feet and threw off the white sheet that had covered him. All he had on was his jeans.
Tim rushed forward, but Lawrence grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. Their looks mirrored each other: both of their eyes bulged, and their mouths were drawn in rictus grins. The only difference was that Tim’s expression was one of terror, and Lawrence’s was one of mad glee.
The only person who might have an idea what was going on was unconscious on the floor. I was torn between trying to revive my father and rushing to Tim’s aid. There was no way to tell how bad the liver failure was; for all I knew, my father had hours, maybe even days. Tim, however, had only seconds.
Jumping up, I charged Lawrence with the intention of knocking him over, hoping the impact would loosen his death grip on Tim’s throat.
In the split-second before I reached him, I noticed that the spot on his arm where he’d been given the injection was festering, rather than healing. The burns around the area, which up until tonight looked to have been at the beginning stages of mending, had reversed their progress. Instead of dark red and pink burns, the skin was turning black and bubbly, almost as if he were on fire again. No wonder he’d been going crazy. Not only would the pain be unbearable, but to relive the agony was enough to drive anyone mad.
The Complete Book Of Fallen Angels Page 42
