“So instead of going to the patent office, they went to you.”
West nodded.
“They went to the government,” he said. “I was at the Department of Health at the time. They presented us with the facts and asked us to intervene, to take control of Omega before the whole company changed hands. We accepted their analysis. In the public interest we had to act—to act fast, and in secret.”
“But why? If you were acting in the public interest…?”
“It had to be that way. It had to be secret because, for one, Helical’s research people between them only owned about … fifteen percent of the company. The rest belonged to financial and industrial partners. We’d have had to buy the whole company, and with a product like Omega in the pipeline that would have cost billions. As it was we only had to compensate the research team. Christ, it cost less than a pair of F-sixteens.”
Ford made a wry mouth.
“You just said this had nothing to do with money.”
“Marcus, even the federal government can’t spend a billion dollars without explaining itself. The existence of Omega would’ve had to be made public. How long do you think it would have been before we were forced to use it? Some little kid’s going to lose a kidney or an eye or her front teeth or can’t sleep at night because of earache. Can’t you see it? We’d have newspaper campaigns, telephone polls, tearful parents on Oprah Winfrey. And how long do you think it would be before politicians started jumping on the bandwagon?”
“But if you regulate—”
“No!” West checked himself. “Once we lose control of this thing, it’s over. There’s too much money to be made, too much demand. We’ve never been able to control the narcotics trade. What makes you think we could control this? Start using Omega in every minor crisis, and two years down the line you’ll be able to buy bootleg copies everywhere from Bangkok to Tijuana.”
Ford fell silent. Everything West said made sense. It chimed with his own perceptions, his own instincts. Yet the secrecy, the deception, it couldn’t be right. It still couldn’t be right to let people die.
“Marcus, I’m not saying this technology must be locked away forever. Nobody’s saying that. But we’re entering a new age here, a new age for medicine. And we just don’t know what to expect. Remember the flu pandemic of 1918? It swept around the planet in five months. That was before the age of air travel. Killed twenty million people, half a million right here in America. And what about tuberculosis? Scarlet fever? Measles, for God’s sake? They all have the potential to become epidemics again. And if they do, we need something to hit back with, something that still works. Omega could be our last chance. And that means it has to be treated as a weapon of last resort. For genuine emergencies only.”
Ford folded his arms. “Genuine emergencies like Edward Turnbull?”
West nodded silently, taking the hit as if he knew he had it coming.
“What do you expect?” He sighed. He ran his fingers slowly along the edge of the table. “I’m supposed to turn my back on my own nephew? My sister’s only son? If I’d been in any doubt that I couldn’t keep the matter confidential, it would have been a whole different story, but—”
“If your nephew is a genuine emergency, then so are my patients. What’s the difference?”
“There is a difference. I—”
“Yeah, the difference between rich and poor, black and white. Is that what Omega’s really for? A safety net for the good people of Beverly Hills?”
West planted his elbows on the table and pushed his hands into his hair.
“No, Marcus, it isn’t. We established a clear set of guidelines governing the deployment of Omega. Everyone agreed to it. There was an understanding—a protocol. The drug would be deployed only in certain circumstances.”
There was that word again. Every time he heard it, Ford couldn’t help thinking of Novak. Like West, he’d claimed to be on Ford’s side, yet he’d been silenced before he could share what he knew. Was that why he’d been killed? He’d always assumed that his death was all about money, but as West had admitted, there was more to Omega than that.
“So is that … is that why Novak was murdered?” he said. “He saw what was happening in South Central, downtown, all over LA County, in fact, and he wanted to invoke the protocol. That’s what happened, isn’t it? He felt the circumstances justified deployment. That was what Griffen said.”
“Griffen?”
He could see it now, slowly opening up: a reason why Novak had to die, and Scott Griffen too. He felt giddy, sick.
“He wanted to invoke the protocol, but the problem was the victims didn’t matter, not to you and your friends. They didn’t count. Jesus, Jesus Christ. And you got scared he’d go public. After all, it’d been his discovery. His and Griffen’s. With what they knew between them, they could get the drug made for themselves. Apex could make it, or Stern.”
West was shaking his head.
“For God’s sake, Marcus. This is all…” There were sweat patches under his arms. He looked very pale, his eyes bloodshot. “I don’t know what games Novak was playing, and I don’t care. If you ask me, he got a little loopy towards the end, and, yes, he might have been trying to make a deal with Griffen. It wouldn’t surprise me. There are billions of dollars involved here, and plenty of people who’ll kill to get their hands on it, not just Apex and Stern. Business is just the continuation of war by other means. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“So what are you saying, Marshall? My daughter has to die for the sake of your … of your fucking protocol?”
West picked up the bottle of capsules again, looked at it, put it down.
“No. No, that’s not … We’re not monsters here, Marcus. We’ve made one exception; we can make two.” Almost for the first time, he looked Ford straight in the eye, hoping to see the impact of his words. “But I can’t let you just walk out of here with Omega in your pocket, not on your own at least. For one thing, it could be dangerous. What happened to Novak could just as easily happen to you.”
They were going to let him have the drug. Ford let it sink in for a moment. They were buying his silence with Sunny’s life. But there was going to be a price, he knew that, and the price was betrayal.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me, Marshall?”
“Sure,” said West, standing up and reaching for his jacket, “like you trusted Helen Wray. Denman here will go with you to the hospital. Omega doesn’t leave his sight. Once Sunny’s treatment is complete, he takes what’s left away with him and this whole thing never happened. You have to give me your word on that.”
“What about the medical staff? Dr. Lee, the nurses? They’ll be the ones who’ll administer the drug.”
“No, they won’t, because you will. Your suspension will be terminated. I’ll see to that.”
“But there are others there, others who are dying. Some of them are my patients. Goddammit, Marshall, there are children. I can’t just … I’m a doctor. I have a duty—”
“Sorry, Marcus, it’s just too risky. I’ve explained the situation to you. I’ve explained everything, and you know now—you’ll see when you stop and think about it—that what I’ve said adds up. There’s just too much at stake to … to do everything we’d like to do.”
Ford looked down at the ground. He didn’t have the strength to argue. He was all used up.
“You can’t save all of the people all of the time. Is that what you’re trying to say, Marshall?”
West pulled his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on, anxious now to complete the transaction.
“We can save your daughter, though. We can save your daughter.”
He rose and looked down at Ford.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked.
He was waiting for Ford’s answer. Yet Ford could tell he already knew what that answer would be.
They went out a back way, past a line of private ambulances and a van unloading catering supplies. West’s Mercedes was aw
kwardly parked in the corner of the yard, almost blocking in a blue Pontiac. It was after eight o’clock, dark.
“I want you to ride along with Mr. Denman,” said West, gesturing to the other man, who was putting an attaché case in the trunk of the Pontiac. “I’ll have somebody drive your car down later.”
Ford paused for a moment.
“What’s the matter?” said West.
“Why can’t I…?”
“You don’t think I’m going to let you drive out of here on your own with this thing.”
He approached Ford until he was standing so close, Ford could smell the faint sweetness of breath freshener.
“Marcus, don’t be a fool. We’re not Cosa Nostra, for Christ’s sake.”
Ford watched Denman get into the Pontiac. He turned on the lights and began slowly reversing out of his space.
“Remember, I’m going out on a limb here,” West said. “Again, I hope you see that. Not everyone would handle things like this.”
Ford kept his eyes on the Pontiac reversing slowly towards him, bathing them both in red light.
“I told you,” he said. “We have a deal.”
West looked Ford over one more time and walked back towards the clinic.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said as he went inside.
The Pontiac was just a few feet away now, slotting itself into the narrow space behind. Watching it come on, Ford read its bumper sticker: if you think education is expensive, try ignorance. Denman stuck his head out of the window.
“Am I clear there?” he said.
Ford did not reply. He was trying to remember where he’d seen the sticker before, the broken taillight, the blue Pontiac itself. Something told him it mattered. Something told him to think.
“I said, am I clear?”
And then it came to him—Griffen’s place. And what would muscle like Denman have been doing up there, unless…?
“Say, wait a second,” Ford shouted, raising a hand. His heart was suddenly pounding. He risked a look back at the building, but there was no sign of West.
Denman put on the brakes. “What’s the problem?”
“You’re … It looks like you’re losing oil,” said Ford, his mind racing. “It looks pretty bad.”
“Oil? Back there?”
“Did someone run into you?” asked Ford, bending down close to the taillight.
With an impatient swipe Denman put the car into park.
“I can’t believe this.”
He was stepping out to take a look, one foot out on the gravel when Ford threw himself against the door.
“What the fu—!”
Denman screamed, leg and arm trapped, crushed against the frame. He strained back, pushed, face pressed hard against the glass, straining.
“Son of a bitch!”
With his free hand he was struggling to reach inside his jacket. Ford wrenched the door back, slammed it again. Denman bellowed with pain. With the trapped arm he tried to claw at Ford’s face, his fingernails dug into his cheek, reaching up into his eyes.
Ford yanked open the door, grabbed Denman by the throat, dragged him clear with a strength he didn’t know he had. Choking, Denman rolled out onto the ground.
And then there were footsteps, shouting. An alarm was sounding, high-pitched, oscillating. Lights went on up the side of the building. It was one of the catering people, a kid in white coveralls. He stopped dead, terrified of this crazy guy, this psychopath. And then there were others running towards him, blue jackets, the suit.
Ford jumped into the Pontiac and gunned the engine, showering the lines of luxury cars with gravel, narrowly avoiding another ambulance coming the other way. He could still hear them shouting as he raced through the narrowing gates and out onto the road.
5
“Damn!”
Gloria Tyrell looked down at her white sneakers—at the hot chocolate splashed all over her white sneakers—and then back up at the person who had come surging through the doors of pediatric ICU, almost knocking the drink out of her hand.
“What are you charging around like that for, mister?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I hope you’re … Can I…?”
“I’ll be”—Gloria pulled the plastic cup away from the reaching hand—“fine—thanks all the same. Just damn near ruined my work shoes is all. Now, are you going to tell me what you’re doing in here? Or do I have to call Security?”
The man flashed a nasty smile and flipped open an ID card that showed a picture of him with a crew cut. Gloria checked out the tight mouth and sharp little nose. It was the same guy.
“Deputy Samuel Dorsey, Nurse…”
“Tyrell.”
“I’m with the county sheriff’s department. Homicide.”
Gloria put her hands on her hips.
“Homicide. Well, our trauma unit’s closed, if you’re looking for hoodlums.”
“Actually, I was hoping to have a word with Dr. Marcus Ford.”
He looked behind him, pointing at an older man with a mustache who was coming along the corridor.
“Me and my partner, Sergeant Ruddock, want to ask him a few questions.”
“So why’ve you come here?” asked Gloria.
Dorsey looked puzzled.
“Don’t you know he’s been suspended?” asked Gloria, raising an eyebrow.
Ruddock arrived, showing his ID.
“Dr. Ford isn’t here?”
Gloria gave Ruddock a look.
“He isn’t working here.”
Ruddock could see that, once again, Dorsey had gotten on the wrong side of the civilian population. It was like a gift with him.
“We understand his daughter is here,” he said, trying to look as avuncular as possible. “Little girl that’s very ill?”
Gloria nodded.
“That’s right. She’s going into the OR tomorrow morning, first thing.”
“We tried to reach Dr. Ford at his house,” said Ruddock, “but he wasn’t there. So we thought maybe he was down here visiting.”
“I don’t know whether he’s visiting or not. I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
Gloria showed the policemen her plastic cup.
“I was just taking this to his daughter’s room. She has a visitor, but it isn’t Dr. Ford.”
“Do you mind if we come with you, Nurse?” Ruddock asked.
Gloria nodded assent, turned, and with tremendous dignity set off down the ward towards the isolation rooms.
When she reached Sunny’s room, she turned and faced the men.
“If you want to come in, you’re going to have to put on masks. We’re very strict about infection here.”
She gave Dorsey a look that left him in no doubt about who she thought would be doing the infecting.
“Whatever you say,” said Ruddock.
“In the meantime, I’m going to deliver what’s left of this hot beverage.”
She turned away from them and opened the door. Ruddock got a glimpse of a young woman sitting next to a respirator machine. She was wearing business clothes.
“How come she’s drinking hot chocolate, but we have to wear masks?” hissed Dorsey.
Ruddock put a restraining hand on Dorsey’s arm and watched as the young woman turned to accept the cup. She looked as though she had been crying.
6
The storm broke as Ford reached Sunset. Lightning flickered away to the east, and then the rain came down, a startling downpour that had him peering forward through the windshield trying to see the traffic ahead. Waiting at the intersection, he was suddenly aware of the pain in his right thumb. He held it up to the light and was surprised to see the nail rimmed with drying blood. He realized it must have happened in the struggle with Denman, but had no recollection of hurting himself. Staring at the damaged nail, he saw again Denman’s face as he slammed the door into his body, saw Denman’s eyes—so determined, so … angry. The presence of the Pontiac at Griffen’s house, the disturbed earth under the fence, these things w
ere suspicious in themselves, but it was the look in Denman’s eyes that had convinced Ford, a look of resolute, focused, professional anger. It left him in no doubt. Denman was the killer. It was Denman who had killed Griffen. Novak too, more than likely. But why? And why did West need to employ such a man? The blast of a horn jolted him back to the present. He saw angry faces pressed against streaming glass. A raised fist. People were trying to get past him.
He rolled out onto Sunset and turned left, checking his mirror the whole time, expecting at any moment to see West or his people in pursuit. As he had so often in the past few weeks, he had the clearest sensation of being caught up in something so much bigger than himself, so much beyond his understanding. When he tried to focus on any part of what he was dealing with—Helen, Novak, Helical, West—all he got was a jumble of contradictory impressions. Yet what had to happen next, what he had to make happen, could not have been simpler. He needed to get to Sunny. He would explain to Allen and Lee what had happened. Explain everything he knew about the drug.
Omega. He looked down at the bottle of capsules in his lap. It struck him that he knew next to nothing about its effect on bacterial pathogens or its side effects on the human body. But then there was Edward Turnbull. The boy was living proof that the drug worked. Clostridium botilinum and Clostridium perfringens were not a million miles apart, and West had characterized Omega as an effective scattergun. Turnbull had said he was on three capsules a day. Ford would give Sunny the same and then monitor her progress.
Despite his predicament, despite his fear, the thought of Sunny’s recovery lifted him with a sudden rush of elation. She was going to be okay. There would be no need to cut her open. She was going to come through this thing whole—unscathed.
He thumped up onto the access ramp of the San Diego Freeway and, despite the buffeting wind, immediately moved across to the fast lane.
Three cars behind him a dark blue Mercedes sedan effected the same maneuver.
“Maybe he saw us at the house,” said Dorsey. “Saw the black-and-white parked in the street and just kept driving. Probably on his way to the airport right now.”
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