The Lethal Helix

by Don Donaldson

  “NIH is funding no such study. Neither is NSF.”

  “Then who the devil are we dealing with?”

  “Wish I knew,” Susan said. “What about the paper and the phone company?”

  “They have a name, but won’t give it up.”

  “Maybe you should hire a lawyer to get it. I’d be glad to share the expense.”

  “Is there any legal basis to expect we’d succeed?” Holly said. “The fraud took place in Mississippi.”

  “Didn’t you tell me yesterday the ad that ran there said they were recruiting donors for a federally funded project?”

  Seeing her point, Holly said, “That would be fraud too, wouldn’t it?”

  “Anyway, those are issues for a lawyer. Lay out the situation for them, see what they say.”

  “Right now I can’t think of any other way to go.”

  Wishing she had time to mull this over, Holly hung up and went back to her patient.

  A quarter after twelve, she headed downstairs to the food court and got in the Subway sandwich line. The only lawyer she knew was a friend of Grant’s. And lawyer-client confidentiality aside, she wasn’t going to call him.

  Grant . . .

  With a little time having elapsed since her blowup in Grant’s office, enough dust had settled to permit some scrutiny of the circumstances leading up to it. How had she been so misled about his intentions? Had she read more into their relationship than had really been there?

  Of course she had. But whose fault was it? Had he ever actually expressed an interest in marriage and kids?

  She thought back . . .

  Yes.

  It was a night around three months after they’d started sleeping together. They’d had dinner at Owen Brennan’s, that New Orleans–style place with the jazz band out east. They’d left the restaurant and were greeted by . . .

  “SNOW,” HOLLY SAID. “How beautiful.”

  It almost never snowed in Memphis, so this was an indescribable treat; big soft flakes falling steadily into the glow of the parking lot lights, frosting the asphalt like powdered sugar. Holly stepped from under the restaurant’s portico, spread her arms, and turned her face to the sky. “It tickles,” she said. “Like . . . the tips of angels’ wings.”

  Not given to such displays himself, Grant watched her with his hands in his coat pockets. “Okay, Eskimo girl,” he said after less than a minute. “We better go before you get run over.”

  Reluctantly, Holly followed him to the car, took a last look at the heavens, and got in. Feeling moisture on her face from the melting snow, she turned on the overhead light and checked her makeup in the mirror. What she saw made her howl with laughter.

  “What’s going on?” Grant asked.

  “Look at me.”

  She turned and faced him so he could see how her mascara had run down her cheeks. “Trick or treat.” She returned to the mirror and howled anew.

  Her laughter was contagious and Grant joined in. “You’re nuts, you know that?” He reached for her “But you’re my nut.”

  Then they were kissing . . .

  SHE COULD RECALL it now with the utter clarity of an event just moments old, the urgency of their embrace, the feeling of being lost in him, surrounded and protected.

  INEXPLICABLY, AT THAT moment, the specter of her illness whispered, “Don’t get too happy, kid, cause it ain’t over yet.”

  The day she’d first been diagnosed, she’d cried endlessly. But then, deciding that giving in to it was like being dead already, she’d toughened and hadn’t wept since. But for some reason, that little whisper in the car cut right through her.

  In the flash of another car’s lights, Grant saw the tears on her face and realized it wasn’t melting snow.

  “What’s wrong? I thought you were happy.”

  “I was. But then I remembered . . .”

  “Remembered what?”

  She hesitated, not wanting to say it aloud. But finally, the burden was too much to carry alone. “. . . that I might have no future, that I may die without ever having a family, that I’ll never wake up in the morning next to someone I can make breakfast for and tell my troubles to and know that it’s not just for a day or a week or a month . . .” Now that the gates were open, her fears galloped through them. “. . . that I’ll never see the look on my children’s faces when they open their gifts at Christmas or show them how to color eggs for Easter, never see their report cards or help them tie their shoes and blow their noses, never feel their arms around my neck.”

  Grant pulled her close. With his cheek against her hair and his mouth next to her ear, he breathed “Holly, whenever you’re ready, just tell me and we’ll make all those things happen.”

  HE’D SAID THAT. And there was no mistaking the meaning. But maybe she’d overreacted in his office. Wasn’t it possible he’d just been taken by surprise—that by now, he’d realized what he’d done?

  But even as she spun this web of self-delusion, it began to tear.

  “Hi, Holly.”

  She turned and saw that she’d been joined in line by Elaine Miller, the new addition to the pediatric practice on the sixth floor. They’d met a few months ago when they’d shared a table here and had done so numerous times since. She was a dark-haired, curvaceous beauty with huge brown eyes and a perfect smile, facts that made women of lesser stature dislike her on sight, or at least distrust her. Though Holly was a different type—blonde, green-eyed, and lean from the rigorous exercise regimen she’d adopted to give her body every chance to fight off any remaining leukemic cells in her marrow—she too was a head turner. So the two women were able to interact as equals.

  “I heard you and Grant have broken up,” Elaine said. “Is that true? I’m not trying to pry into your private life, but . . . well, it’s something I need to know.”

  “He asked you out, didn’t he?”

  “Frankly, yes. He told me you two had separated, but I just wanted to hear it from you.”

  This blew away the last remnant of the fictional Grant Holly had been imagining a moment earlier, and her anger at him came back in a rush. Editing what she really wanted to say about him, Holly replied, “Obviously I can’t recommend him to you, but if you’d like to see for yourself what he’s like, go to it.”

  “I’m not sure I should. I mean, he’s asked me to go skiing with him in Denver. That’s kind of a big deal for a first date.”

  Denver.

  The word gave Holly an idea that pushed her anger aside. “I just thought of something I need to do. I’ll see you around.”

  Holly’s next patient was scheduled for one o’clock. That gave her barely thirty minutes. Memphis isn’t the kind of town where you can step outside and hail a cab. You can stand on the curb for hours and never see one. So Holly looked up taxi companies on her cell phone and called one. Her ride showed up twenty minutes later smelling like bathroom deodorizer.

  “World News,” Holly said, getting in. “One twenty-four Monroe.”

  “You call cab just to go one mile?” the driver asked. He was Asian, Vietnamese maybe. “Bus go there. Make no money on such short trip.”

  “You get to wait while I do something and bring me back.”

  “Need nice tip too,” he said, pulling into traffic.

  About the time she became accustomed to the cab’s odor, they were there.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” she said.

  “Can’t stay here. Must circle block.”

  “Just be sure and come back.”

  “Have to come back. You owe money. This no trick to avoid paying, right?”

  “It’s no trick.”

  Holly went into the newsstand and gathered up every out-of-town newspaper she could find, a cache that included the Dallas Morning News, the New York Times,
the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Chicago Sun-Times, the Cleveland Plain Dealer, and the New Orleans Times-Picayune. She came out of the newsstand considerably lighter in the wallet, with a cumbersome armload that made her hope her cabby hadn’t just passed.

  Two minutes later, he turned the corner and picked her up. As they started back to her office, the driver looked at her in the mirror. “You know, many lies in newspaper. You read all that, you think you informed, but many lies. Even here.”

  Presumably by here, he meant the United States. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “What you do?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “To make living.”

  “I’m a doctor.”

  “Very fine occupation. You must be very smart lady. My son want to be doctor. You have son?”

  “No.”

  “Daughter?”

  “No.”

  “Children much problem, but also much pleasure . . . when not screwing up.”

  By the time they arrived back at the medical building, Holly had decided that despite the driver’s initial irritating remarks, she rather liked him. So he got his nice tip.

  She didn’t have time to look at the papers until later that afternoon when one of her patients was a no-show.

  Though it had been many months since she’d been approached about selling her eggs, it seemed possible that the people who had stolen her future might still be running ads in other cities looking for donors. But was it likely she’d find them in one of the papers in front of her? Who knows? To find out, she pulled the New York Times off the pile and began hunting for the classifieds.

  Twenty minutes later, as she put the Philadelphia Inquirer on the pile of papers she’d already checked and reached for the Dallas Morning News, Debra Demetrius informed her that her last patient of the day had arrived.

  “Bring her in.”

  Hurrying, Holly flipped through the paper to the Dallas classifieds and ran her finger down the personals column.

  Looking for chess partner . . .

  Single? We can change that . . .

  Need someone to share purchase of a bass boat . . .

  Adopt . . .

  Holly’s eyes lingered on this one.

  A lifetime commitment. We can offer a special life to a child. Love, happiness, and financial security. Expenses paid. Please call . . .

  Adopt.

  Was this the answer? Was it better to have someone else’s child than none at all?

  Damn it.

  She shouldn’t have to confront this. At least not yet. Right now she should still have eleven chances of bearing her own child. Even if the odds were long against success, she should still have that hope. With her anger freshened, she moved down the column.

  Then a boldface heading caught her eye.

  EARN UP TO $5,000

  Women wanted to participate . . .

  4

  THE CLAPBOARDS CLOTHING the north side of Ronnie Johannson’s house on the outskirts of Midland, Wisconsin, were so rotted they just had to be replaced. At least that’s what he’d been hearing daily from his wife, Skye, for nearly six weeks. It was a lousy time of year to be taking on that kind of job, but he’d gotten the distinct impression that installation of the new siding might lead to resurrection of certain bedroom activities that had lately been in short supply.

  He’d considered assigning the task to Dennis, his goofy brother-in-law, who had been staying with them until he could “get on his feet.” But then, believing that Dennis would probably just end up driving a nail through his hand, Ronnie became resigned to doing the job himself. Dennis was sure as hell going to help though. Certainly the whole thing would go faster with the pneumatic nailing gun Ronnie now held in his hand.

  “It’s not only faster than a hammer with that little gem,” Shell Phillips, the owner of the hardware store, said as if reading Ronnie’s mind. “But the nail goes in so fast, there’s less chance of the wood splitting.” He was called Shell because of the shell collection in the glass case by the door.

  “Yeah, I like the idea,” Ronnie said. “But I don’t have a compressor to run it.”

  “Might be I could rustle up one you could rent,” Shell said.

  Suddenly, Ronnie’s thoughts of clapboards and nailing techniques were toppled and carried away by a flood of memories, released by the smell of rubber and perfume that had just engulfed him. He’d been unfaithful to Skye only once in their twelve-year marriage: two years ago, with a woman he’d met having a battery put in her car at the BF Goodrich store.

  While he’d waited for them to install new shocks on his pickup, they’d sat in front of the store’s TV and talked. She’d laughed at his jokes and looked deep into his eyes like the girls in high school used to when he was an honorable mention all-conference receiver for the Midland Brahmas. He wasn’t cruising for any action, but that look of availability, that moment when he realized he could have her, made him forget he drove a truck for a living and had no future. Once again, he was Flying Ronnie Johannson, a football cradled in his arms, the crowd on their feet, calling his name. Who could blame him for wanting that rediscovered moment to last as long as possible?

  Skye, that’s who.

  Afterwards, he’d felt such guilt he was almost sick to his stomach. And he was afraid . . . afraid they’d been seen, that she’d try to contact him, that Skye would find out.

  But he’d never heard from the woman again, or even seen her anywhere. And now she was standing right behind him. He was sure of it.

  Heart tripping, he turned and saw . . .

  No one.

  Relieved, and perhaps a little disappointed, he realized that if she had been there and had been wearing the same perfume, he shouldn’t have smelled rubber too. That had come from the tires all around them at the BF Goodrich store.

  So what was the origin of that smell?

  Then, Ronnie’s vision frayed and blurred at the edges. As he turned back to look at Shell, the diameter of the tunnel Ronnie seemed to be looking through grew smaller and smaller . . .

  The store began to rotate . . .

  Behind the counter, Shell saw Ronnie’s eyes roll upward until the colored part almost disappeared. For a moment Ronnie seemed to stiffen, then his left arm began jerking rhythmically the way he used to do after scoring a touchdown. But then he dropped to the floor and his right arm joined the beat, his legs also bucking.

  Having no earthly idea what to do for someone having a fit, Shell ran for the phone.

  “AND NOW, LADIES and gentlemen, our benefactor, the founder and CEO of Bruxton Pharmaceuticals, Doctor Zane Bruxton.”

  The medical director stepped aside, and the man of the hour took the podium. Five rows back on the left side of the small hospital auditorium, Richard Heflin was still marveling at how old Bruxton looked. From his reputation, Richard had expected a tornado of a man, but Bruxton didn’t look as though he could blow the fluff off a dandelion. He wore a dark blue suit that contrasted so much with his luminous pink complexion he seemed to have a lamp on inside him.

  “I know you’re all very busy, so I’m only going to say a few words,” Bruxton began in a surprisingly strong voice.

  Behind him was the projected image of the MRI scanner he’d donated to the hospital, a major gift for any facility, let alone a small operation with only forty beds. The gift had been made possible by his company’s newest product, Vasostasin, a substance that reduced the size of tumors by denying them a blood supply and also made the residual cells more sensitive to conventional chemotherapy. Because of Vasostasin, remission rates for many types of cancer were skyrocketing.

  True to his word, Bruxton spoke about five minutes, then stepped away from the podium to more-than-polite applause. As the crowd filed out of the auditorium to the hallway, where there were c
offee and cookies, Jessie, Richard’s sister, who headed one of Bruxton Pharmaceuticals’ R&D teams, spoke from behind him.

  “Well, Richard, what did you think?”

  “I expected him to be bigger.”

  “That’s all you can say after what he’s done for this hospital?” Jessie replied, letting her irritation show. “You know, you’re one of those who will benefit most. I’d think you’d be grateful.”

  Jessie was right. As the area’s lone neurologist, he and Dean Goodman, the only orthopod around, would probably be the MRI’s primary users.

  As they made their way into the hallway, she pressed her point. “Because of him, you’re going to be able to give your patients much better care.”

  “Not to mention what his company’s stock has done for your portfolio,” Artie Harris said. Then, seeing the look on Richard’s face, Harris said, “You didn’t buy any? Richard, I told you that when Vasostasin got FDA approval their stock would go ballistic.”

  Artie was a better insurance agent than stock picker. Before his Bruxton tip, every one of his recommendations that Richard had acted on had promptly headed south. For Jessie’s sake—for some reason, she was in love with the guy—Richard chose to ignore the bait and not ride him over his dismal record. Instead, he responded to Jessie.

  “My comment about Bruxton wasn’t meant to be critical. I couldn’t be happier over what he’s done for the hospital. It was a very generous act.”

  “Yeah, but considering the dough his company’s raking in, he could afford it,” the director of the critical care unit said, entering the group with a cookie in one hand and coffee in the other. “Do you know how much it costs to treat the average cancer patient with Vasostasin?” Without waiting for a reply, he answered himself. “Five hundred and sixty K.”

  “I realize that their healthy bottom line is a major reason why Bruxton could give us such an expensive instrument,” Richard said. “But come on, half a million dollars?” Failing to notice Artie’s hand signal, he went on. “I can’t help but wonder if it really has to cost that much.”