Lethal Dose

by Jeff Buick

  He touched the storage device again like it was a winning lottery ticket. But unlike sheer luck in a lottery, he’d worked for this. He’d noticed small things in the clinical trials for Triax-cion, errors that somehow had been overlooked by the other researchers and eventually by the FDA. He suspected someone inside the Food and Drug Administration was on the take, as the problems with the drug were too serious to be swept under some convenient carpet. No matter, he still had enough to fry the company’s top management-enough to lever a few million from the corporate coffers, then head overseas.

  He pulled up in front of his town house on Cooley Avenue, a red brick building with black trim around the door and windows, and switched off the ignition. One week more and he’d be gone. No more lonely nights watching the Devils play hockey or reruns of Seinfeld on television. He had definitive proof that Triaxcion was dangerous, that it prohibited coagulants in human blood from bonding. And by searching the Internet with key words, he had clippings from six newspapers with stories of people with no history of hemophilia bleeding to death. Six deaths. And one of them, that Buchanan guy in Butte, Montana, had died just last week.

  Perfect.

  Christ, he was the keeper of the key to the Holy Grail of pharmaceutical lawsuits.

  He grinned again as he slid out of the Mustang and slammed

  the driver’s door. Maybe he’d hit them up for twenty-five million. Recent memories are always the sharpest, and that Buchanan fellow had died at just the right time.

  Such luck.

  7

  A gentle mist settled on Mirror Lake, hovering three or four feet above the water. A solitary loon burst through the covering and glided inches above the murky cloud, trailing wisps of mist in its wing vortex. The bird reached the shoreline and banked sharply skyward, barely clearing the hemlocks bordering the lake. Jennifer Pearce watched until the loon disappeared behind the trees then glanced back over the soupy cloud blanketing the water.

  The sun had yet to rise, the Porcupine Mountains still shrouded in the lingering shadows of the spent night. The spring air was cool, and as she exhaled, her breath sent short bursts of steam into the mountain air. The sound of approaching footsteps drifted to her and she turned to see who else was up before dawn. A man in his early fifties, tanned and dressed entirely in Eddie Bauer, nodded to her as he reached the lake’s edge. He leaned over and dipped his finger in the water.

  “It’s cold,” he said with a hint of irritation in his voice. “Everything about this place is cold.”

  “It’s not the Caribbean, Mel,” Jennifer said. “It’s Michigan and it’s the last week of April. Get used to it.”

  “I don’t like cold weather,” he said, standing next to her and looking out over the lake. He was quiet for a minute. “I should have brought my camera. This is really beautiful.”

  Jennifer didn’t speak. She didn’t like Mel Lun, just tolerated him for the doors he could and sometimes would open for her. Lun was a sycophant of the highest degree, with his perfect nose up so many Marcon assholes she was surprised to see him walk around without someone attached to his face. Lun was a regional director for Marcon Pharmaceuticals, and to some degree held the purse strings for her research money. Not directly-even with his Harvard degree he didn’t have that level of clout with the pharmaceutical giant. But he had the ear of those who controlled the money, and that made him a valuable ally.

  “You made an excellent presentation yesterday,” Mel said, squinting slightly as the sun finally crested one of the eastern ridges. “They were impressed.”

  “It’s important, Mel,” she said quietly. “I believe in what I’m doing. This goes far beyond the funding. It means quality of life to a lot of people.” She kept her gaze focused on the lake. The last thing she wanted Mel Lun to see was even the slightest hint of vulnerability. That could be taken as a sign of weakness, and that was not a trait to exhibit this week.

  One week of every year, top Marcon executives and their department heads dropped off the corporate map to a remote retreat and made the decisions that would dictate which direction the company’s research and development would follow for the next twelve months. To the top executives it was an opportunity to meet with their key research scientists outside the lab environment. To the team leaders, each one with up to fifty lab technicians under them, it was crucial to whether their projects were funded or dismantled. Jennifer Pearce was no exception.

  Her group was twenty-two highly trained researchers, intent on finding a drug to halt or eliminate Alzheimer’s. Their research was through Phase I and well into Phase II, which meant that the drug was already undergoing clinical trials on humans. And if Phase II results were good, the chances of having an FDA-approved drug were also good. And with the right drug for the right disease, that could translate to a billion dollars for the company. Big risks also meant big money.

  “They made their decision, Jennifer,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly, then returning them to his jacket pockets.

  “And…” she said after he was silent for a few seconds. The short bursts of steam had stopped, and she realized she was holding her breath.

  “They decided to fund Jenkins.”

  She spun to face him now, anger flashing in her eyes. “You think this is a game, Mel? You tell me I made a good presentation, knowing they decided against funding my research. Do you enjoy hurting people, Mel? Is that it?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t make the decision, Jen, they did. Take your case to them.”

  “I did,” she fired back at him.”Yesterday, in my ‘excellent’ presentation.” She felt the tears welling up and secretly cursed herself for being so emotional. This was business, and emotions had no place here. She stared into his cold eyes. “The difference between my research and Ray Jenkins’s is that mine will save lives. His will wipe a few wrinkles off some aging faces.”

  “Wrinkles are big business, Jen, you know that. The boomers can’t get their credit cards out fast enough when what they’re buying will strip off some of the years. And they’ve got the money.”

  “Money,” she said. “It’s all about money. Always money.”

  He snickered and shook his head slightly. “Look at you. Talk about a hypocrite. If the board had decided to fund your research, you’d be ecstatic. Because you got the money. When you say that it’s all about money, keep in mind you’re as guilty as anyone else.”

  “But I want it for the right reasons, Mel.”

  Jennifer Pearce turned from the lake where the morning sun was burning off the mist and strode back toward the parking lot. Her hands were clenched in fists, and she could feel her teeth grinding as her jaw tightened. The tears spilled down her cheeks, but she didn’t brush them away. The rented Taurus sat in the parking lot, one of only two cars at this early hour. She glanced at Lun’s rental, wondering how he knew where to find her. It was a passing thought; she didn’t really care. She slid behind the wheel and gunned the engine, slamming the transmission into drive and spinning gravel across the driver’s side of the other car as she careened out of the lot.

  Eight years.

  She wiped the tears now, so she could see the twists and turns in the road as it descended from the top of the ridge toward Lake Superior. Eight years of her life with Marcon Pharmaceuticals, and this was where it was to end. Her research usurped by another group whose focus was on esthetics, not disease. She couldn’t believe Marcon had stooped to the levels of the other Big Pharma giants. The one reason she had brought her box of pens and her Ph.D. to Marcon was their commitment to discovering and developing new drugs that targeted disease. Under Roy Vagelos, the company’s CEO from 1985 to 1996, Marcon was the industry trendsetter in R amp;D. The company encouraged individual thinking that fostered new ideas and looked to lighting paths seldom traveled. It was the one by which all the Big Pharma companies set their benchmarks. Edward Pittman, the pharmaceutical analyst for the big money pension funds, used Marcon as a barometer for what was happening in the in
dustry.

  Marcon was the cornerstone of excellence. And that was why she had hung her shingle at Marcon rather than the hundred-odd other companies that had wooed her when she exited MIT with the ink still fresh on her doctorate. That, and the promises.

  Her own research team, almost unlimited funding, the chance to set her own agenda; the offer was too good to turn down. And although her Phase I tests had gone well, her Phase II tests were average at best. Now they were pulling the rug out from under her.

  The tears returned when she thought of the failed marriage and two other disastrous relationships, ruined by her reluctance to commit one hundred percent to anything or anyone outside the lab. She smashed her fist on the steering wheel, remembering the sadness in her husband’s eyes as he walked out the front door for the last time. She had let him go, choosing her career over his love. The road blurred as the tears flowed freely now. She accelerated into a curve and then hammered on the brakes as she realized she wasn’t going to make it. The rear end of the Taurus fishtailed and slammed into a gnarled basswood. The car threatened to veer into the trees for a second, then regained its grip on the road and came back under control. She slowed and sucked in a few deep breaths, aware of how close she had been to serious injury or death. Her hands were shaking, but she didn’t stop. There was one man who deserved a piece of her mind-and he was going to get it.

  She reached Peterson’s Cottages on the distant edge of Ontonagon and pulled the battered rental up in front of Cedar Lodge, the largest of the guest cabins. She adjusted the rearview mirror so she could see her reflection. Her eyes, usually so clear and bright with sparkling hazel irises, were bloodshot. Framing her eyes were naturally thin, dark eyebrows. Her forehead, nose, and cheeks flowed flawlessly to her full lips, and when she smiled her teeth were white with few imperfections despite her never having had braces as a child. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was windblown but fell into place with a few flicks of her fingertips. She stared at her reflection for a few moments, taking in the toll of the last eight years.

  She had been thirty when she first arrived at Marcon. Thirty and in demand by both pharmaceutical companies and a long line of single men. Her hair was longer then, past her shoulders, and her face leaner with no laugh lines. Her eyes were intelligent, and although she was strikingly attractive, they told the observer that this woman was no waitress at the local pub. She dressed well and carried herself with absolute confidence, something that scared some men and intrigued others. To say that she had been an interesting addition to the Marcon research was a gross understatement. Jennifer Pearce had been the primary topic at many lunch tables and over many a Budweiser at the bars near the research facility. But that was eight years ago, and this was now.

  She opened the door and headed for the cabin without checking the damage on the rental. She knocked on the rough wood and waited. A half minute later, a tall man in his midsixties opened the door. He was dressed in a track suit and there was little fat on his frame. His hair was silver and his gaze steady and powerful. He didn’t smile when he saw her. He stepped aside, and she entered the rustic cabin. The aroma of freshly baked scones tinged the air.

  She wasted no words. “What’s going to happen to my team?” she asked.

  Sheldon Zachery, CEO of Marcon Pharmaceuticals, closed the door behind her, his face taking on a grim look. “It will be dismantled. We’ll try and find places for all your staff on other teams.”

  “Then I quit, Sheldon,” she said. “Effective immediately.”

  Zachery was thoughtful for a moment. “I wish you’d take some time, Jennifer, rethink things. You’ve invested a lot in Marcon and we’ve invested a lot in you.”

  “I’ve given you the last eight years of my life,” she said, her voice rising. “In retrospect, I should have spent more time with my husband. Maybe I’d have kids, something to show I had a life once. My decision is final. I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t take the research with you, Jennifer. It’s proprietary. It stays with us.”

  She leaned close to one of the most influential and powerful men in the global pharmaceutical market. “What I have in my head stays there, Sheldon. That, I take with me. And it’s far more valuable than what’s on the discs in the lab.”

  Zachery’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Jennifer?”

  “You figure it out, Sheldon. You’re the CEO. You’re the one with all the answers.”

  “If you run to a competitor and deliver them proprietary goods, we’ll sue,” he said. “We’ll shut you and your new company down in record time.”

  She smiled, even white teeth showing beneath her rekindled eyes. “Take your best shot, Sheldon, because what you’ve got in a court of law is squat. You’ve got Phase I and Phase II tests, but you don’t have a billion-dollar drug. Not by a long shot. That is going elsewhere, courtesy of your stupidity.”

  His face took on color. “Are you threatening me?”

  “You can take the truth as you wish, Sheldon. I know where I want to go with my research. You don’t. No one else does. For the past few months I’ve been biding my time, waiting to see whether Marcon would back a new approach to fighting Alzheimer’s. Now I know. Looks like keeping my trump card close to my chest was a good idea.”

  “Maybe if you’d brought it out,” he said, “we would have seen things differently. Maybe the funding would have gone your way.”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “I don’t think you understand. Marcon doesn’t think like it did when Vagelos was at the helm.” She turned to the door and opened it. A gust of cool spring air rushed in. “Have HR send my final check to my house. And don’t forget the vacation pay. You can keep whatever personal stuff is on my desk.”

  She jumped into the Taurus and jammed it into gear. What a disaster. But in the back of her mind, she had suspected Zachery might hedge on her funding. Her group’s approach to the Alzheimer’s quandary was not novel, but more of the same, targeting the beta amyloid protein that was known to force healthy tissue aside and invade key spaces in the brain. But what Zachery and the other Marcon brass didn’t know was that she had isolated a new chemical in the sequence, one unknown and unnoticed in the hundreds of thousands of previous screened molecules by all the big pharmaceutical companies.

  She had the key. She just had to prove it in clinical trials. And that knowledge was going with her when she left Marcon.

  8

  Evan Ziegler deplaned in Richmond, cursing the rain. It was the last day of April, but there was no warmth to the heavy mist. Just a gray day that chilled the bones and made driving ugly. He navigated the rental car through the sodden streets, past a group of school kids on their way home from classes, splashing in puddles and laughing when one of them slipped and fell, soaking his pants. Evan cracked a smile as a memory of Ben, drenched from a sudden downpour, came to mind. The smile faded as quickly as it had materialized.

  He found the Commonwealth Park Suites Hotel easily enough and collected the package from the front-desk clerk. He sat in one of the wingback chairs in the oblong lobby and slowly opened the sealed flap. He tilted the envelope and the contents spilled onto his lap. There were three pages and a small plastic envelope with three tiny bags inside. He slipped the plastic envelope into his pocket and perused the written material. The cover page had a picture of his target and a brief bio. Albert Rousseau. Ziegler had pictured him as a geek, and he wasn’t far off. The man’s skin was pockmarked and fresh acne was scarring the few remaining smooth patches. Under the unruly mess of hair was a pasty complexion and bad teeth. Albert was never going to make the cover of GQ.

  The address was on Cooley Avenue, in Carytown, a trendy section of Richmond just off the Fan District, and Evan found a Starbucks on the way. He picked up a latte and set the car’s radio to a classic rock station as he sipped on the drink. It was a few minutes after four o’clock when he pulled up in front of Rousseau’s town house. He found a parking spot halfway down the block and walked around to the rear of t
he dwelling. Each of the units had a small yard with a wood deck and a gas light. He counted the units from the corner and let himself into Rousseau’s yard. A neighbor three doors down glanced over, but Evan knew the look: Nothing was registering. He wouldn’t even remember that someone had entered the yard, let alone what that person looked like.

  The back door had two locks, one on the handset and the other a deadbolt. Evan picked the lower one and tried the door. It opened. He grinned at the stupidity of having an expensive deadbolt on an outer door and not using it. He closed the door quietly behind him, listening for any sound that would indicate the house was protected by an alarm. Nothing.

  He was in the galley-style kitchen, dated but clean. He glanced at the stove and noticed the gas burners. Excellent. A quick tour through the town house assured him that no one was home and that he was in the right place, then he got to work. The stove pulled away from the wall with a minimum of effort, and he hopped into the narrow space between the stove and the wall. The flexible gas line to the stove was old, probably twenty years. He smiled at that; this was getting easier all the time. Grasping the line with both hands, he bent it back and forth, weakening the line at one of the joints. It took the better part of fifteen minutes before the line cracked and the unmistakable odor of natural gas stung his nostrils. He immediately placed a small piece of clear tape over the break. The smell lingered for a moment, then dissipated through the house. He jumped up on the counter, then dropped to the floor and pushed the stove back in place.

  Now it was time to wait.

  Albert Rousseau counted the number of days until he would be fabulously wealthy. Twenty-three. He grinned and shut down the operating system on his office computer. He wanted to be home by seven in case it was a Seinfeld he hadn’t seen, although the chances of that were just about zero. He put the Mustang through its paces on the drive home, thinking about what kind of car he would buy with the money. He didn’t even worry about whether Veritas would pay for the information he had stashed in his town house on that tiny disc. They would pay.