Side Effects (1984)

by Palmer, Michael

  “This one?” Drexler held up a half-filled bottle of clear, powder-filled gelatin capsules.

  “From Podgorny, at the Institute for Metabolic Research, in Leningrad,” Redding said simply. “He believes the theory behind the compound to be quite sound.”

  “Amazing,” Drexler muttered. “Absolutely amazing.” Rudy Podgorny was a giant in the field, but so inaccessible that it had been two years since he had met with him face to face. Redding’s resourcefulness, the power of his money, was mind-boggling. “Well,” he said when he had finished his tabulations, “these two preparations have finally had clinical evaluations. Both of them have been shown to be without significant effect. We can discuss my thoughts when Dr. Ferguson arrives, but I feel the data now are strong enough to recommend stopping them.”

  Redding fingered the bottles. “One of these was your baby, yes?”

  The physician shrugged helplessly and nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I am afraid I have hitched my wagon to a falling star.” He failed in his attempt to keep an optimistic tone in his voice. Four years of work had, in essence, gone down the drain.

  “Then you must strike out in other directions, eh?”

  Just tell me, Drexler thought, tell me how in the hell you know the medications you are taking won’t just kill you on the spot?

  “Yes,” he said, through a tight smile, “I suppose I must.”

  The sleek, stretch limousine moved like a serpent through the light midafternoon traffic on the Southeast Expressway. In the front seat, Redding’s portly driver chattered at the taciturn Nunes, whose contribution to the conversation was an occasional nod or monosyllable. In the rear, seated across from one another, surrounded on all sides by smoked glass, Redding and John Ferguson sipped brandy and reviewed the session they had just completed with Vernon Drexler.

  “I am sorry things have not been going well with you, John,” Redding said. “Perhaps we should have stayed and let Drexler examine you.”

  “Nonsense. I have an appointment next month, and that will be quite time enough.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” There was little question in Redding’s mind that Ferguson, perhaps eight years his senior, was failing. The man, never robust, had lost strength and weight. He could shuffle only a few dozen steps without exhaustion. His face was drawn and sallow, dominated by a mouth of full, perfect teeth that gave his every expression a cadaverous cast. Only his eyes, sparkling from within deep hollows like chips of aquamarine, reflected the immense drive and intellectual power that had marked the man’s life.

  Their collaboration, for that is what it quickly became, had begun on the day of their first meeting in Drexler’s office. Ferguson, though still ambulatory with a cane, had the more advanced disease of the two. He was employed at the time as medical director of a state hospital outside of the city and was already taking two experimental drugs after testing them for a time on the patients of his facility.

  Within a year, Redding had begun locating new preparations, while Ferguson expanded his testing program to include them. Quickly, though, both men came to appreciate the need for a larger number of test subjects than could be supplied by Ferguson’s hospital. Establishment of the Total Care Women’s Health Center in Denver and, soon after, the Omnicenter in Boston, was the upshot of that need. Vernon Drexler continued as their physician, monitoring their progress and watching over their general states of health.

  Redding’s driver, still prattling cheerfully at Nunes, swung onto 95 North. Although they would eventually end up at John Ferguson’s Newton home, his only other instruction had been for a steady one-hour drive.

  “John,” Redding said, setting his half-filled snifter in its holder on the bar, “how long has it been since you were at the Omnicenter?”

  Ferguson laughed ruefully. “How long since I’ve been anyplace would be a better question. Two years, perhaps. Maybe longer. It’s just too difficult for me to get around.”

  “I understand.”

  “I take it from our conversation yesterday evening that there’s been some kind of problem. Zimmermann?”

  This time it was Redding who laughed. “No, no,” he said. “From all I can tell, Zimmermann was the perfect choice for the job. You were absolutely right in recommending him. A harmless fop with the intelligence to implement and monitor our testing program without getting in the way. No, not Zimmermann.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Actually, there may not even be a problem. When you were working with Dr. French to set up the Omnicenter, did you ever run into a Dr. Kathryn Bennett?” Ferguson thought for a moment and then shook his head. “I suspected you wouldn’t have,” Redding said.

  It took only a few minutes for Redding to review the events leading to Kate Bennett’s inspection of the Omnicenter.

  Ferguson listened with the dispassion of a scientist, his silence punctuated only by occasional gestures that he was following the account.

  “Carl Horner assures me,” Redding concluded, “that none of the pharmaceuticals we are studying could have been responsible for the problems young Dr. Bennett is investigating.”

  “But you are not so sure.”

  “John, you’ve worked with Carl. You know that being wrong is not something he does very often. The man’s mind is as much a computer as any of his machines.”

  “But you think two such distinctive cases, and now possibly a third, are too many to explain by coincidence?”

  Redding stared out the window; he removed his glasses and cleaned them with a towel from the bar. “To tell you the truth, John, I don’t know what to think. The facts say one thing, my instincts another. You know the Omnicenter better than I do. Could anyone be fooling around with some drug or other kind of agent behind our backs?”

  “I hope not.”

  “John, mull over what I’ve told you. See if you can come up with any theories that might explain why all three women with this bleeding problem, and two of them with the same ovary problem, were all patients of the Omnicenter.” He flipped the intercom switch. “Mr. Crosscup, you may drive us to Dr. Ferguson’s house,” he said.

  “I will think it over,” Ferguson said, “but my impression is that this once at least, your instincts should yield to the facts.”

  “A week.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A week, John,” Redding said. “I should like to hear something from you about this matter in a week.”

  Ferguson probed the younger man’s eyes. “You seem to be implying that I am holding something back.”

  “I imply nothing of the kind.” He smiled enigmatically. “I am only asking for your help.”

  The limousine pulled into the snow-banked drive of John Ferguson’s house, a trim white colonial on perhaps an acre of land. Redding engaged the intercom. “Mr. Nunes,” he said, “our business has been concluded. Kindly assist our guest to his home.”

  The men shook hands and Redding watched as Nunes aided an obviously exhausted John Ferguson up the walk to the front door. The old man was many things, Redding acknowledged, a brilliant physician and administrator, an exceptional judge of human nature and predictor of human behavior, a gifted philosopher. What he was not, Redding had known since the early days of their association, was John Ferguson. Redding’s investigators had been able to learn that much, but no more. There had been a John Ferguson with an educational background identical to this man’s, but that John Ferguson had died in the bombing of a field hospital in Bataan. Originally, Redding’s instincts had argued against a confrontation with his new associate over what, exactly, the man was hiding from. That decision had proved prudent—at least until now.

  Ferguson bid a final good-bye with a weak wave and entered his home.

  Behind the smoked glass of the limousine, Cyrus Redding was placing a phone call through the mobile operator. “Dr. Stein, please,” Redding said. “Hello, Doctor, this is your friend from Darlington. The man, John Ferguson, of whom I spoke last night: I should like the reinvestigation and clos
e observation instituted at once. Keep me informed personally of your progress. He seems to have materialized shortly after World War Two, so perhaps that is a period to reinvestigate first. Thank you.”

  All right, my friend, he thought. For fifteen years, I have allowed you your deception. Let us hope that courtesy was not misplaced.

  Kate Bennett set her dictaphone headpiece in its cradle and stared across the street at the darkened Omnicenter. Reflections from the headlights of passing cars sparkling off its six-foot windows lent an eerie animation to the structure, which stood out against its dark brick surroundings like a spaceship. Kate knew it was her never-timid imagination at work, knew it was the phone call she was expecting, but she still could not rationalize away her sense of the building as something ominous, something virulent.

  The message had been on her desk when she returned from the Friday meeting of the hospital Infection Control Committee, which she had chaired for almost a year.

  “Ian Toole at State Toxicology Lab called,” the department secretary’s note said. “One spec you sent normal, one spec contaminated. Please await phone call with details between six and seven tonight.”

  Contaminated.

  “It’s you. I know it is.” Her mind spoke the words to the gleaming five stories. “Something inside you, inside your precious Monkeys, has gone haywire. Something inside you is killing people, and you don’t even know it.”

  The ringing of the telephone startled her. “Kate Bennett,” she answered excitedly.

  “Kate Bennett’s husband,” Jared said flatly.

  “Oh, hi. You surprised me. I was expecting a call from Ian Toole in the toxicology lab and … never mind that. Where are you? Is everything all right?”

  “At home, where you’re supposed to be, and no.”

  Kate glanced at the clock on her desk and groaned. “Oh, damn. Jared, I forgot about the Carlisles. I’m sorry.”

  “Apology not accepted,” he said with no hint of humor.

  Kate sank in her chair, resigned to the outburst she knew was about to ensue, and knowing that it was justified. “I’m sorry anyhow,” she said softly.

  “You’re always sorry, aren’t you?” Jared said. “You’re so wrapped up in Kate’s job and Kate’s world and Kate’s problems that you seem to forget that there are any other jobs or worlds or problems around. My father and several big-money people are going to be at that party tonight. What kind of an impression is it going to make when I show up without my wife?”

  “Jared, you don’t understand. Something is going on here. People are dying.”

  “People like Bobby Geary?”

  Kate glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to seven. “Look,” she said, “I’m waiting for a call that could help solve this mystery. I can call you back or I can get home as soon as possible, change, and make it over to the Carlisles by eight-thirty or nine.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Jared, what do you want me to do?”

  Jared’s sigh was audible over the phone. “I want you to do whatever it is you feel you have to do,” he said. “I’ll go to the Carlisles and make do. We can talk later tonight or tomorrow. Okay?”

  “All right,” she said, taken somewhat aback by his reasonableness.

  “How’s Ellen?”

  “Pardon?” It was one minute to seven.

  “Ellen. You remember, our friend Ellen. How is she?”

  “She’s in the hospital, Jared. Listen, I really am sorry, and I really am in the middle, or at least on the fringes of something strange. Ellen’s life may be at stake in what I’m doing.”

  “Sounds pretty melodramatic to me,” Jared said, “but then again, I’m just a poor ol’ country lawyer. We’ll talk later.”

  “Thank you, Jared. I love you.”

  “See you later, Kate.”

  Ian Toole’s call came at precisely seven-fifteen.

  “These are some little pills you sent me here, Dr. Bennett,” he said. “My assistant, Millicent, and I have been running them most of the afternoon, and we still don’t have a final word for you.”

  “But you said Ellen’s pills were contaminated.”

  “Ellen Sandler’s? Hardly. I think your secretary mixed up my message. Probably went to the same school as ours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ellen Sandler’s vitamins are a pretty run-of-the-mill, low-potency preparation. B complex, a little C, a little iron, a splash of zinc. It’s yours that are weird.”

  “Mine?” Kate’s throat grew dry and tight.

  “Uh-huh. You’re not only taking the same vitamins as Ellen Sandler, but you’re also taking a fairly sizable jolt every day of some kind of anthranilic acid.”

  “Anthranilic acid?”

  “Millicent and I are trying to work out the side chains, but that’s the basic molecule.”

  Kate felt sick. “Mr. Toole, what is it?”

  “I’m a chemist, not a doctor, but as far as I’ve been able to determine, you’re taking a painkiller of some sort. Nonnarcotic. Some kind of nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug. The basic molecule is listed in our manuals, but I don’t think we’re going to find the exact side chains. Whatever it is, it’s not a commercially available drug in this country. If it were, we’d have it in the book. I’ll check out the European manuals as soon as we know the full structure.”

  “Let me know?” Kate had written out the word “anthranilic” and begun a calligraphic version.

  “Of course. Probably won’t be until next week, though. I had to promise Millicent a bottle of wine to get her to put off her date with her boyfriend even this long.”

  “Mr. Toole, is it dangerous?”

  “What?”

  “Anthranilic acid.”

  “Like I said, I’m not a doctor. It’s not poisonous, if that’s what you mean, but it’s not vitamins either. Any drug can do you dirt if you’re unusually sensitive or allergic to it.”

  “Thanks,” Kate said numbly. “And thanks to Millicent, too.”

  “No problem,” Ian Toole said.

  It was a hot, sultry day at Fenway Park when Kate, seated in a box next to Jared, began to bleed to death. Silently, painlessly, thick drops of crimson fell from her nose, landing like tiny artillery bursts on the surface of the beer she was holding, turning the gold to pink.

  She squeezed her nose with a napkin, but almost instantly tasted the sticky sweetness flowing down the back of her throat. Jared, unaware of what was happening, sipped at his beer, his attention riveted on the field. Help me. Please, Jared, help me, I’m dying. The words were in her mind, but somehow inaccessible to her voice. Help me, please. Suddenly she felt a warm moistness inside her jeans, and knew that she was bleeding there as well. Help me.

  In the box to her right, Winfield Samuels looked her way, smiled emptily as if she weren’t even there, and then turned back to the field and genteelly applauded a good play by the shortstop.

  The players and the grass, the spectators and the huge green left-field wall—all had a reddish cast. Kate rubbed a hand across one eye and realized she was also bleeding from there.

  Giddy with fear, she stood and turned to run. Sitting in the row behind her chatting amiably and smiling as blandly as Jared’s father had, were Norton Reese and a man with the overalls and gray hair of Carl Horner but the grotesque face of a monkey.

  “I see you’re bleeding to death,” Reese said pleasantly. “I’m so sorry. Carl, aren’t you sorry?”

  Jared, please help me. Help me. Help me.

  The words faded like an echo into eternity. Kate became aware of a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “Dr. Bennett, are you all right?”

  Kate lifted her head and blearily met the eyes of night watchman Walter MacFarlane. She was at a table, alone in the hospital library, surrounded by dozens of books and journals dealing with bleeding disorders, ovarian disease, and pharmacology.

  “Oh, yes, Walter,” she said, “I’m fine, thank you. Really.” Her b
louse was uncomfortably damp, and the taste in her mouth most unpleasant.

  “Just checking,” the man said. “It’s getting pretty late. Or should I say early.” He tapped a finger on the face of his large gold pocket watch and held it around for her to see.

  Twenty after two.

  Kate smiled weakly and began gathering her notes together.

  “I’ll see you to your car if you want, Doctor.”

  “Thanks, Walter, I’ll meet you by the main entrance in five minutes.”

  She watched as the man shuffled from the library. Then she discarded the notion of calling Jared, knowing that she would just be adding insult to injury by waking him up, and finished packing her briefcase. As she neared the doorway, she glanced out the window. Across the street, the winter night reflected obscenely in its dark glass, stood the Omnicenter.

  8

  Sunday 16 December

  The night was heavy and raw. Crunching through slush that had begun to gel and shielding her face from blowgun darts of sleet, Kate crossed Commercial Street and plowed along Hanover into the North End. Traffic and the weather had made her twenty minutes late, but Bill Zimmermann was not the irritable, impatient type, and she anticipated a quick absolution. Demarsco’s, the restaurant they had agreed upon, was a small, family-owned operation where parking was as difficult to find as an unexceptional item on the menu.

  Initially, when Kate had called and asked to meet with him, Zimmermann had proposed his office at the Omnicenter. It was, perhaps, among the last structures on earth she felt like entering on that night. Unfortunately if there were a list of such things, Demarsco’s, his other suggestion, might also have been on it. Demarsco’s was one of her and Jared’s favorite spots.

  And now Jared was gone.

  “A sort of separation, but not a separation,” he had called it in the note she had found waiting for her at three o’clock on Saturday morning. He had taken some things and gone to his father’s, where he would stay until leaving for business in San Diego on Monday.