Mortal Fear

by Robin Cook

  “Some dreadful airplane food, but that seems like days ago.”

  “I have a little leftover cold chicken.”

  “Sounds great.”

  When they got to the car, Jason asked Shirley if she’d mind driving so he could relax and think a little.

  “Not at all,” she said, taking his keys.

  Jason climbed into the passenger side, tossing the envelope into the back seat. He fastened his seat belt, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He let his mind play over the various ways the clinic patients might have been given the releasing factor. Since it couldn’t be administered orally, he wondered how the criminal could have injected the patients undergoing executive physicals. Blood was drawn for lab workups, but vacuum tubes provided no way to inject a substance. For inpatients it was a different story — they were always getting injections and intravenous fluids.

  He had reached no plausible conclusion when Shirley drew up before her house. Jason staggered and almost fell as he got out of the car. The short rest had exaggerated his fatigue. He reached into the back seat for the envelope.

  “Make yourself at home,” Shirley said, leading him into the living room.

  “First let’s make sure Curran hasn’t called.”

  “I’ll check my service in a moment. Why don’t you make yourself a drink while I rustle up that chicken.”

  Too tired to argue, Jason went over to the bar and poured some Dewar’s over ice, then retreated to the couch. While he waited for Shirley, he again pondered the ways the releasing factor might have been administered. There weren’t many possibilities. If it wasn’t injected, it had to be through rectal suppositories or some other direct contact with a mucous membrane. Most of the patients having a complete executive physical got a barium enema, and Jason wondered if that was the answer.

  He began sipping his Scotch as Shirley came in with a cold chicken and salad.

  “Can I make you a drink?” Jason asked. Shirley put the tray down on the coffee table. “Why not?” Then she added, “Don’t move. I’ll get it.”

  Jason watched her add a drop of vermouth to her vodka, and that was when he thought of eyedrops. All patients having executive physicals had complete eye exams, including eyedrops to dilate their pupils. If someone wished to introduce the death gene’s releasing factor, the mucous membrane in the eye would absorb it perfectly. Even better, since the releasing factor could be secretly introduced to the regular eye medication, the fatal drops could be administered unwittingly by any innocent doctor or technician.

  Jason felt his head begin to pound. Finding a plausible explanation of what might what have been the key to it all made the possibility of a psychopathic mass murderer suddenly real. Shirley returned from the bar, swirling her drink. For the moment, Jason decided to spare her this newest revelation.

  “Any message from Curran?” he asked instead.

  “Not yet,” Shirley said, looking at him oddly. For a moment he wondered if she could read his mind.

  “I have a question,” she said hesitantly. “Isn’t this supposed releasing factor for the death hormone part of a natural process?”

  “Yes,” Jason said. “That’s why pathology hasn’t been much help. All the victims, including Hayes, died of what are called natural causes. The releasing factor merely takes the gene activated at puberty and turns it on full force.”

  “You mean we start aging at puberty?” Shirley asked with dismay.

  “That’s the current theory,” said Jason. “But obviously it is gradual, picking up speed only in later life, as the levels of growth hormone and sex hormones fall. The releasing factor apparently switches on the death hormone gene all at once, and in an adult without high titers of growth hormone to counter it, it causes rapid aging just like the salmon. My guess is about three weeks. The limiting factor seems to be the cardiovascular system. That’s what apparently gives out first and causes death. But it could be other organ systems, as well.”

  “But aging is a natural process,” she repeated.

  “Aging is a part of life,” agreed Jason. “Evolutionarily it is as important as growth. Yes, it is a natural process.” Jason laughed hollowly. “Hayes certainly was right when he described his discovery as ironic. With all the work being done to slow aging down, his work on growth resulted in a way to speed it up.”

  “If aging and death have an evolutionary value,” Shirley persisted, “perhaps they have a social one as well.”

  Jason looked at her with a growing sense of alarm. He wished he weren’t so tired. His brain was sending danger signals he felt too exhausted to decode. Taking his silence as assent, Shirley continued. “Let me put it another way. Medicine in general is faced with the challenge of providing quality care at low cost. But because of increasing life-spans, hospitals are swamped with an elderly population that they keep alive at an enormous price, draining not just their economic resources, but the energy of the medical personnel as well. GHP, for example, did very well when it first started, because the bulk of the subscribers were young and healthy. Now, twenty years later, they are all older and require a great deal more health care. If aging were speeded up in certain circumstances, it might be best for both the patients and the hospitals.

  “The important point,” emphasized Shirley, “is that the old and infirm should age and die rapidly to avoid suffering as well as to avoid the over-utilization of expensive medical care.”

  As Jason’s numb brain began to understand Shirley’s reasoning, he felt himself becoming paralyzed with horror. Although he wanted to shout that what she was implying was legalized murder, he found himself sitting dumbly on the edge of the couch like a bird confronted by a poisonous snake and frozen with fear.

  “Jason, do you have any idea how much it costs to keep people alive during their last months of life in a hospital?” Shirley said, again mistaking his silence for acquiescence. “Do you? If medicine didn’t spend so much on the dying, it could do so much more to help the living. If GHP wasn’t swamped with mid-. die-aged patients destined to be ill because of their unhealthy lifestyles, think what we could do for the young. And aren’t patients who fail to take care of themselves, like heavy smokers and drinkers, or people who use drugs, voluntarily speeding up their own demise? Is it so wrong to hasten their deaths so they don’t burden the rest of society?”

  Jason’s mouth finally opened in protest, but he couldn’t find the words to refute her. All he could do was shake his head in disbelief.

  “I can’t believe you won’t accept the fact that medicine can no longer survive under the crushing burden of the chronic health problems presented by physically unfit people-those very patients who have spent thirty or forty years abusing the bodies God gave them.”

  “That’s not for me or you to decide,” Jason shouted at last.

  “Even if the aging process is simply speeded up by a natural substance?”

  “That’s murder!” Jason stumbled to his feet. Shirley rose too, moving swiftly to the double doors leading to the dining room. “Come in, Mr. Díaz,” she said, flinging them open. “I’ve done what I could.”

  Jason’s mouth went dry as he turned to face the man he’d last seen at the Salmon Inn. Juan’s darkly handsome face was alive with anticipation. He was carrying a small, German-made automatic muzzled with a cigar-sized silencer.

  Jason backed up clumsily until his back struck the far wall. His eyes went from the gun to the killer’s strikingly handsome face, to Shirley, who eyed him as calmly as if she were in a board meeting.

  “No tablecloth this time,” Diaz said, grinning to show movie-star-perfect white teeth. He advanced on Jason, putting the muzzle of the gun six inches from Jason’s head. “Good-bye,” he said with a friendly flick of his head.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Mr. Diaz,” Shirley said.

  “Yes,” Juan answered without taking his eyes off Jason.

  “Don’t shoot him unless he forces you to. It will be better to deal with him the way we did with Mr
. Hayes. I’ll bring you the material from the clinic tomorrow.”

  Jason breathed out. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

  The smile vanished from Juan’s face. His nostrils flared; he was disappointed and angry. “I think it would be much safer if I killed him right now, Miss Montgomery.”

  “I don’t care what you think — and I’m paying you. Now let’s get him into the cellar. And no rough stuff — I know what I’m doing.”

  Juan moved the pistol so the cold metal touched Jason’s temple. Jason knew the man was hoping for the slightest excuse to shoot; he remained perfectly still, petrified by fear.

  “Come on!” called Shirley from the front hall.

  “Go!” said Juan, pulling the gun back from Jason’s head.

  Jason walked stiffly, his arms pressed against his sides. Juan fell in behind, occasionally touching Jason’s back with the gun.

  Shirley opened a door under the staircase across from the front entrance. Jason could see a flight of steps leading to the basement.

  As Jason approached, he tried to catch Shirley’s eye, but she turned away. He stepped through the door and started down, Juan directly behind him.

  “Doctors amaze me,” said Shirley, turning on the cellar light and closing the door behind her. “They think medicine is just a question of helping the sick. The truth is unless something is done about the chronically unhealthy, there won’t be money or manpower to help those who can actually recover.”

  Looking at her calm, pretty face, the perfect clothes, Jason couldn’t believe it was the same woman he’d always admired.

  She interrupted herself to direct Juan down a long narrow hallway to a heavy oak door. Squeezing by Juan and Jason, she unlocked it and flicked on the light, illuminating a large square room. Jason was pushed inside, where he saw an open doorway to the left, a workbench, and another heavy closed door to the right. Then the light went out, the door slammed, and total darkness surrounded him.

  For a few minutes, Jason stood still, immobilized by shock and lack of vision. He could hear small sounds; water coursing through pipes, the heating system kicking on, and footsteps above his head. The darkness remained absolute: he could not even tell if his eyes were open or closed.

  When Jason was finally able to move, he stepped back to the door through which he’d entered. He grabbed the door knob and tried to turn it. He pulled on the door. There was no doubt it was secure. Running his hands around the jamb, he felt for hinges. He gave that up when he remembered the door opened into the hall.

  Leaving the door, Jason worked his way laterally, taking baby steps and gingerly sliding his hands along the wall. He came to the corner and turned ninety degrees. He continued moving step by miniature step until he felt the doorway of the open door. Carefully reaching inside, he felt for a wall switch. On the left side, about chest height, he found one. He threw the switch. Nothing happened.

  Advancing into the side room, he began to feel the walls, trying to ascertain the dimensions. His fingers hit on a metal object on the wall whose front was glass. Feeling down at waist height he touched a sink. Over to the right was a toilet. The room was only about five by seven.

  Returning to the main room, Jason continued his slow circuit. He encountered a second small room with a closed door just beyond the bathroom. When he opened the door, his nose told him it was a cedar closet. Inside he felt several garment bags filled with clothes.

  Back in the main room, Jason came to another comer, and he turned again. Within a dozen small steps, he gently hit against the workbench, which stuck out about three feet into the room. Skirting the end of the bench, he felt beneath it, finding cabinets. The workbench, he estimated, was about ten to fifteen feet long. Beyond the workbench, he returned to the wall, encountering shelving with what felt like paint cans. Beyond the shelving was another corner.

  In the middle of the fourth wall, Jason came to another heavy door that was tightly closed and secured. He could feel a lock, but it needed a key. There were no hinges. Continuing his circuit, Jason came to the fourth corner. After a few minutes, he was back at the entrance.

  Getting down on his hands and knees, Jason felt the floor. It was poured concrete. Standing up again, he tried to think of what else he could do. He had no good ideas. Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming sense of mortal fear like he was being smothered. He’d never suffered from claustrophobia, but it descended on him with crushing severity. “HELP!” he shouted, only to have his voice echo back to his ears. Losing control, he groped madly for the entrance door and pounded on it with closed fists. “PLEASE!” he shouted. He pounded until he became aware of pain in his hands. He stopped abruptly with a wince and clutched his bruised hands to his chest. Leaning forward, Jason touched the door with his forehead. Then the tears came.

  Jason could not remember crying since he’d been a child. Even after Danielle’s death. And all those years of denying that emotion came out as he crouched in the blackness of Shirley’s basement. He lost complete control and slowly sank to the floor, where he curled up in front of the door like an imprisoned dog, choking on his own tears.

  The ferocity of Jason’s emotional reaction surprised him. And after ten minutes of sobbing, he began to regain his composure. He was embarrassed at himself, having always believed he had more self-control. Finally, he sat up with his back against the door. In the darkness, he wiped his tears from his damp cheeks.

  Instead of surrendering to utter despair, he thought about the room he was in. He tried to guess the dimensions and picture the location of things he’d encountered on his exploratory circuit. He began to wonder if there were any other light switches. Getting to his feet, he slowly returned to the second locked door that was to his right. When he got there, he felt along the walls on both sides, but there was no light switch.

  Striking out across the room, he returned to the bathroom. He tried the switch in there several more times. Then he felt for the fixture, thinking he could exchange the bulb provided he could locate the lights in the ceiling of the main room. But there was no fixture, either as part of the medicine cabinet or as part of the ceiling. Discouraged, Jason returned to the large room.

  “Ahhh!” cried Jason, as he walked directly into a lolly column, hitting his nose against the six-inch diameter metal surface. Momentarily off balance, he felt his nose already beginning to swell. There was a bony ridge along the right side: he’d broken it. Once more, tears involuntarily filled his eyes, but this time it was from reflex, not emotion. When he recovered enough to proceed, Jason had become disoriented. Reverting to baby steps, he moved until he encountered a wall. Only then was he able to find the workbench.

  Bending down, Jason began opening the cabinets, then carefully exploring each with his hands. Each cabinet was about four feet wide and contained a single removable shelf. He found more cans of what he thought was paint, but no tools whatsoever. Standing up, Jason leaned over the workbench and felt the wall above it. There was some narrow shelving to the right with small jars and boxes. Moving to the central part, Jason felt the wall again, hoping to encounter a pegboard or the like with screwdrivers, hammers and chisels. Instead, his hand encountered a glass bowl facing away from him. Curious as to what it was, Jason felt around it, ascertaining that the glass bowl was secured to a metal box. Pipes entered the metal box. Jason realized it was the electric meter.

  Moving down to the left end of the workbench, Jason again felt the wall. There was more shelving containing plastic and ceramic flower pots, but there were no tools.

  Discouraged, Jason wondered what else he could do. He thought about finding something to stand on so that he could explore the walls close to the ceiling in case there was a blacked-out window. Then his mind went back to the electric meter. Climbing up on the workbench, he located the meter and traced the wires to a second rectangular metal box. Feeling the surface, Jason immediately encountered a hinged metal ring. Giving it a slight tug, Jason opened the box.

  Inside was the s
ervice panel for the house. Slowly he reached inside, hoping he was not about to touch a live wire. Instead, his fingers touched the low row of circuit breaker switches.

  For the next five minutes Jason thought about how to make use of his discovery. Getting off the bench, he opened the door to the cabinet underneath and removed its contents, storing the cans in the two side cabinets. Then he removed the single shelf, which luckily was not nailed down, and climbed in. He had plenty of room.

  He got out, climbed back on the workbench and, one by one, threw all the circuit breakers. Then he closed the service panel, scrambled into the empty cabinet, pulled the door shut behind him, and prayed. If they’d already gone to bed, the lack of power wouldn’t bother them.

  After what Jason guessed was another five minutes, he heard a door opening. Then he heard voices, and through a crack in the cabinet door saw a line of flickering light. Then there was the sound of a key in the entrance door and it swung open. His eye to the crack, he could plainly see two figures. One was holding a flashlight which slowly swung around the room.

  “He’s hiding,” said Juan.

  “I don’t need you to tell me that,” said Shirley with irritation.

  “Where is your fuse box?” asked Juan.

  The flashlight swung around above the workbench.

  “You stay here,” said Juan. He started into the room, coming between Jason and the light which Shirley must have been holding. Jason suspected Juan’s hands were busy with his gun.

  Jason leaned against the back wall of the cabinet and lifted his feet. As soon as he heard the circuit breakers being turned back on, Jason kicked the cabinet doors with all the force and power his runner’s legs could muster. The doors caught Juan Diaz entirely by surprise, hitting him in the groin. He gasped with pain and staggered back against the cedar closet.

  Jason lost no time. He crawled out and raced across the room, catching the door before Shirley had a chance to close it. He hit it with full force, running directly into Shirley and knocking the two of them onto the floor. Shirley cried as her head hit the concrete. The flashlight rolled out of her hand.