by Jeff Buick
Chris did the math. Less than ten minutes for the helicopter to arrive, another couple to load Billy, and a fifteen-minute ride to the hospital. Under half an hour. “He’ll be okay if the blade didn’t hit an artery.”
“Is the blood spurting?” Gordon asked, knowing that a severed artery pumped blood like a crimped garden hose.
Chris looked at the cut. The blood was flowing quickly, but not spurting. “No, but he’s bleeding badly.”
“Get a tourniquet on it,” Gordon said, relieved. “It’s not great, but it’ll stop the flow. I’ll call it in to the hospital and have them get some blood ready.”
“The guys are getting one in place, Gordon. I’ll keep this line open.”
Gordon turned to the employee who had initially taken the call. “Get the emergency ward at the hospital on the line. Tell them they’ve got an emergency coming in and they’ll need A-positive blood.” He returned to the walkie-talkie. “Is the tourniquet on yet?”
“Just pulling it tight, Gordon.”
Gordon could hear voices, indecipherable but panicked.
“What’s going on, Chris?”
A few moments of background noise. Chris said, “They can’t get it to stop, it’s pouring out. The cut is too close to the knee to get the tourniquet tight.”
Gordon fought the panic in his chest. “Christ, you’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
“We’re trying,” Chris yelled back. There was desperation in his voice. There was more background noise, raised voices, men shouting. Chris’s voice came over the air, but he wasn’t talking to Gordon. “Pull it tighter, for Christ’s sake,” he screamed. “Keep him conscious! Don’t let him pass out.”
“Chris,” Gordon said. “Chris!”
More noise, pandemonium as the men, well trained in first aid, fought to stop the bleeding. Gordon slammed the walkie-talkie on the table and ran from the room, shattering the glass in the door as he banged through it and into the late-afternoon sun. He sprinted to the helicopter, which had just finished dropping a load of logs, and jumped in beside the pilot. Seconds later they rose above the trees and banked toward Canyon Creek. He glanced at his watch. Hang on, Billy, we’re coming.
The clearing materialized as they crested the treetops next to the creek, and Gordon could immediately see the swath of forest the two crews had cleared over the past thirty hours. He pointed at the group of men huddled over Billy and the pilot nodded, gently setting the craft down only fifteen yards from the group. Gordon leapt from the open door and weaved through the sea of tree trunks. The odor of pine sap was strong in his nostrils. He reached the group and knelt down at his brother’s side.
The wound was still bleeding. The loggers had secured the tourniquet immediately below the knee joint and cinched it tight. But although the flow was slowed, the blood was not coagulating. And Billy had already lost too much blood to lose any more. Gordon pointed to the chopper, then he and three other men hoisted Billy’s unconscious body into the air and staggered through the stumps to the waiting craft. They slid Billy in the back, and once he was in beside him, Gordon gave the pilot the thumbs-up. They were airborne in seconds.
Gordon turned his attention to his brother’s leg. The wound was gaping, but not as severe as he had imagined. The tourniquet was well placed and tight, but it was the refusal of Billy’s blood to coagulate that was the problem. Gordon slipped Billy’s wrist into his hand and felt for a pulse. Almost nonexistent. He looked down at his brother’s face, white as fresh-fallen Montana snow. He looked at the blood pooling and felt tears welling up in his eyes. Billy had lost too much blood. They were still at least twelve minutes to the hospital, plus time to get him from the chopper to emergency. There wasn’t time. And then he realized.
He was watching his brother die.
Gordon cradled Billy’s head in his arms and felt the tears let loose. They spilled down his cheeks onto his brother’s face. He gently brushed them off as he felt Billy’s body stiffen, then go limp. He brushed Billy’s hair back from his forehead. His body was still warm.
“Oh God, Billy,” he said softly. “Oh my God, what have you done?”
3
Billy Buchanan’s house was small but impeccably kept. Billy was the younger brother and had never reached the financial independence Gordon had achieved, but that didn’t stop him from taking immense pride in his modest abode in an upper-end neighborhood. He had often told Gordon that buying the smallest house on the street was the best financial decision he had ever made. The property value had shot up, mostly because of the larger houses lining the street. Billy had been very proud of that.
Gordon entered the house just after noon on the day after Billy’s funeral with a key his brother had given him some years earlier. As he turned the key in the lock, it struck him: He’d never had to use the key before. Billy had always been at home when he’d visited. He pushed open the door and was greeted by the faint scent of fresh strawberries. He removed his shoes and raincoat and glanced outside at the drizzle that had saved his sawmill, then closed the door.
The blinds were drawn, and Gordon moved through the house pulling back the shades and opening a couple of windows to get some air flowing. The house was a three-bedroom bungalow, with a country kitchen and a living room. There was no formal dining area, which Billy preferred, calling a dining room a total waste of usable space. Gordon returned to the living room and paused, scanning the multitude of framed photos on the wall abutting the kitchen. Many of the pictures were of Gordon and Billy fishing, hunting, at the mill, enjoying a cold beer together. Gordon stood motionless for a few minutes, remembering the weather and their conversation at the time when each picture was snapped. His eyes were moist, but his hands never moved from his sides to wipe away the tears.
A noise at the front door jerked him back to the present and he turned to see Sheriff Boyle framed in the doorway. Boyle was a large man with a prominent beer belly and jowls that moved every time he spoke. He was nearing retirement, and his eyes spoke of too many years seeing the downside of humanity. His uniform was clean and freshly pressed. The lawman removed his hat as he entered. “Hello, Arnie,” Gordon said. “Thanks for coming down.”
Boyle looked uncomfortable. “Not a problem.” He was quiet for a minute. “I’m so sorry, Gordon. I know how close you and Billy were.”
Gordon managed a hint of a smile. “Yeah, thanks. We were close, weren’t we?”
“You sure were,” Boyle said, relaxing a bit. “Not everyone gets to be so close to another person. You were lucky.”
Gordon walked over to the sheriff and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I know this is tough for you too, Arnie. Don’t think I don’t know. I really appreciate your coming out today.”
Boyle nodded. “Where do you want to start?”
Gordon shrugged. “You’re the cop. You know what to do. I’m okay if you tell me how we should do this.”
“Well, usually we look around, take a few pictures, and make some notes before we disturb anything. Once that’s done, you can collect valuables and keepsakes, bankbooks, stuff like that. Best if you take it with you so nothing goes missing. We should keep an eye out in case Billy had a will.”
“That sounds good, Arnie. You have a camera?”
The sheriff produced a tiny digital camera in a leather pouch. “We’re high-tech now,” he said as he started snapping shots of the various rooms. He concentrated on the areas of the house where Billy had left personal belongings: paper, mail, keys, and such.
Gordon followed him, sorting through kitchen drawers and then Billy’s bedroom. There was little of any value aside from some cash and a couple of gold chains. His brother had been a caring man with simple tastes, and searching through his belongings was no adrenaline surge. The bathroom was last, and Gordon poked through his shaving cream, razor, toothbrush, and deodorant, then opened the medicine cabinet. There were only two items: a tube of Polysporin and a bottle of prescription pills. Gordon picked up the pills and studied
the label. Triaxcion. He’d never heard of it. He replaced the pill bottle and shut the cabinet. He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, opened the cabinet again, and removed the pills. He twisted the cap until the arrows lined up and flipped the cap back. The bottle was about half full of green pills. A quick shake of his wrist and a few pills spilled into his palm. He looked at them thoughtfully.
“Arnie,” he called out. “You ever heard of a drug called Triaxcion?”
The sheriff appeared at the bathroom door and stared at the pills in Gordon’s palm.”Can’t say I have,” he replied. “What does it say on the bottle?”
“Take one tablet twice a day with food. Avoid direct sunlight.”
“Which doctor prescribed them?”
Gordon scanned the bottom of the label. “Dr. Hastings. You know him?”
“Yeah. He’s in Butte, on West Granite Street. Been around for a few years now. Good guy.”
“Good guy or good doctor?” Gordon asked, tipping his hand so the pills slid back into the bottle. He snapped the lid in place.
“Bit of both,” the sheriff said. “My wife’s sister goes to him. She likes him.”
Gordon nodded. He pocketed the pills. “Probably nothing, Arnie, but I never knew Billy to take pills. Think I’ll find out what they’re for.”
“Yeah, good idea.”
Arnie Boyle left about one o’clock, clutching his digital camera. Gordon spent another two hours in the house, going through the fridge and removing anything that might spoil, shifting Billy’s laundry from the washer to the dryer and running the clothes through a cycle, and checking the latest entries in his bother’s checkbook. It was just after three o’clock when he finished for the day and locked the house behind him. As he slid into the front seat of his car, he felt the pill bottle in his pocket. He pulled it out, eyed the front label, and checked his watch. He still had time to drive to the doctor’s office before closing. He started the BMW and slipped it into gear.
Hastings’s office was less than twenty minutes from Billy’s house. Gordon pulled up in front of the pale stucco two-story building at exactly three-thirty. An elegantly crafted sign hung next to the main door, black lettering on a white background. There were a handful of names followed by their M.D. designations, with Alex Hastings third from the top. His office was on the second floor with a north-facing view of the ravine that snaked in an east-west direction behind the building. He found the office, modern with comfortable leather chairs for the waiting patients. Gordon approached the mid-fifties receptionist and dug the pill bottle from his pocket.
“Good afternoon. I’m Gordon Buchanan, Billy Buchanan’s brother.”
The receptionist’s smile faded and a look of genuine sorrow slid over her features. “Oh, Mr. Buchanan, I’m so sorry.”
Gordon forced a grim smile. “So am I,” he said. He set the pill bottle on the woman’s desk. “I found this prescription in Billy’s medicine cabinet and I’d like to know why the doctor prescribed it.”
She glanced at the bottle. “Mr. Buchanan, before I can even let the doctor know you’re here, I need to see some identification. We can only speak to immediate family on such matters.”
“Of course,” Gordon said, producing his driver’s license. She studied the name and picture, and he replaced it in his wallet. “Dr. Hastings did prescribe this, didn’t he?”
She nodded. “Yes. I remember Billy very well, Mr. Buchanan. He was such a nice man, so polite and always smiling.”
“Do you know what the medication is for?”
“Yes, but I’d rather you talk to Dr. Hastings about that. I’ll slide you in next, between patients. The doctor is pretty well on schedule and can afford a few minutes, given what happened.”
“Thank you,” Gordon said, taking a seat. The wait was short, perhaps five minutes, before he was shown into the doctor’s office. The furnishings were rough-hewn pine with coarse berber carpet; the walls were covered with degrees. A couple of minutes later, Alex Hastings entered and closed the door behind him.
He was younger than Gordon had envisioned, just into his thirties with a full head of unruly red hair and the white, freckly complexion that usually accompanied this hair color. He offered his hand. “I’m Alex Hastings,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep for his thin frame.
“Gordon Buchanan. Thanks for meeting with me, Doctor.”
Hastings sat in the chair next to Gordon and said, “Call me Alex, please. My deepest sympathies to you and your family, Mr. Buchanan.”
“Thank you. I’m fine with Gordon.”
“I understand you found one of my prescriptions in Billy’s house.”
Gordon handed over the pill bottle. “Triaxcion. Why did you prescribe it? Billy wasn’t one to take pills.”
“No, he wasn’t. But this was different. Triaxcion is an anti-balding drug, and your brother was very self-conscious of his hair loss. I counseled him for a few months on this problem, and he tried a variety of shampoos and creams before I finally gave in and issued the prescription.”
“It was his idea to take pills for this?” Gordon asked, perplexed. His brother had always been adamant about not taking medication.
Hastings nodded. “I can understand your surprise. Billy was antimeds. He refused antibiotics on a couple of occasions, and when I recommended a more holistic approach, he jumped at it. He wasn’t one to take pills for no reason.” The doctor stopped for a moment and ran his hand through his thick locks. “But the whole balding thing was really getting him down. In his mind, it was a grave problem. Enough to alter his thinking on drugs to the point where he was insistent I write the prescription.”
“Why Triaxcion?” Gordon asked.
“The pharmaceutical company that developed and markets Triaxcion is pretty slick. Their television ads target men with hair loss, and as the boomers age, it’s becoming a huge market, almost bottomless. The money Veritas is making off this drug is sinful.”
“Veritas? What’s Veritas?”
“Veritas Pharmaceutical, the manufacturer. They’re a medium-size pharmaceutical company out of Richmond, Virginia, and Triaxcion is an enormous cash cow for them.”
“Does it work?” Gordon asked, fingering the bottle and reading his brother’s name again, as he had done twenty or thirty times since finding the pills.
Hastings shrugged. “The FDA approved it, and for them to approve any drug it has to have passed Phase III clinical trials.”
“What’s a Phase III clinical trial?” Gordon asked.
“It’s the third tier of a system that starts with Phase I. Phase I trials are small, maybe twenty to fifty people who are closely monitored to see what kind of side effects there are and how much can be taken before the drug becomes toxic to the system.”
“Sounds dangerous-like they should be using rats, not people.”
“Oh, by the time the drug enters a Phase I trial, they’ve got a pretty good idea that it’s reasonably safe. It’s already undergone a lot of testing in the labs. The rats have already had their doses.”
“Then what?”
“Phase II trials are conducted on people with the disease. Half the test group, usually a few hundred, is given the drug, the other half a placebo. They’re testing the effectiveness of the drug more than anything in this phase.” He took a sip of water and continued. “Phase III trials are the real test. They concentrate on long-term effectiveness and side effects. Once the drug passes Phase III trials, the company can apply for a New Drug Application, or NDA as they call it.”
“Then the drug’s on the market?”
“If the FDA approves, yes.” Hastings returned to Gordon’s original question. “So does Triaxcion work? I can’t say exactly how effective it is, but I suspect there’s some benefit.”
Gordon nodded. “Is there any downside to it?”
“Every drug has side effects, Gordon. Veritas acknowledges the user may suffer upset stomach, and because Triaxcion targets conversion of testosterone to dihydrot
estosterone, there could be changes in sexual performance. They don’t say for better or worse, just that desire and performance may change.”
Gordon looked skeptical. “I’m sure if it enhanced sexual prowess, they’d mention it. Viagra doesn’t have any problem advertising that.”
Hastings nodded. He glanced at his watch. “I have patients, Gordon. I should get back to them.”
Gordon stood and offered his hand. “Thanks, Alex. I appreciate your time.”
“Not a problem. Call me if you need any more information.”
Gordon stopped in the doorway to the office. “Anything in Billy’s file that would indicate he was a hemophiliac?”
“Nothing,” Hastings replied immediately. “I checked through his file thoroughly when I was informed of his death.”
Gordon took the stairs to the main floor and sat in the driver’s seat of the BMW, going back over the meeting in his mind. Billy had no history of being a bleeder, and this certainly wasn’t the first time he had cut himself and needed stitches.
But this time had been different. Very different. Billy had died. And that didn’t make sense. The only variable that had changed in his life was that he was taking medication daily to prevent his hair loss. If the FDA had approved the drug, how could it be dangerous?
But try as he might, Gordon couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
4
BioTech Five is one of seven research buildings in the Virginia BioTechnology Park in Richmond, Virginia. One block north of the Coliseum, it’s tucked between a group of horseshoe-shaped buildings to the east and south, and BioTech Three to the west. The entire third floor, almost twelve thousand square feet, is dedicated to the corporate offices of Veritas Pharmaceutical. The office of Bruce Andrews, CEO of the company, occupies the southeast corner, with a partial view of the Coliseum and City Hall. But the view was the last thing on Andrews’s mind this particular Wednesday morning. He sat with his back to the window, peering at his computer screen.
