Lethal Dose (2 page)

2

Canyon Creek slashed a jagged and dangerous line through the thick blanket of Ponderosa pines. The bank on the north side of the creek was almost vertical, a sheer rock wall with few out-croppings running parallel to the fast-flowing water. This was the side from which the fire was approaching. The slope on the opposing side was gentler, about sixty degrees, but still a good test even for an experienced climber. The gorge ran for almost six miles, and access in from either end was through dense bush, thick with thorns. With the exception of a foolhardy few, this section of Canyon Creek was seldom visited.

Billy Buchanan had ventured into the gorge twice over the past six years, both times to estimate the timber potential on the southern edge. Both times he had found the outing dangerous. His past experiences stayed fresh in his memory as he expedited supplies for the crew. Time was scarce, and once the men were in, they wouldn't be coming out until the trees were cleared. He checked the lists on the table in front of him for adequate supplies of food, water, fuel, tents, generators, and chain saws, complete with spare parts. Once he was satisfied the crew would be properly outfitted, he signed off on the list.

The process of acquiring the gear and moving it to the helicopters began. He took one last glance at the map before he rolled it up.

Once dropped into the chasm by chopper, his crew's job would be to hand-slash an additional thirty feet to create an eighty-foot-wide firebreak. This would entail removing almost every tree from the southern edge of the water to the start of the incline that defined the river bank. Billy had two pumps being dropped in six hours after the team, to spray down the recently cut timber and the underbrush. In theory, the idea was to stop the fire when it hit the cliffs on the northern side and not allow the flames to advance up the other bank. With the creek bed devoid of fuel for the fire, the line should hold, deflecting the fire east and west and containing its advance.

In theory, anyway.

Billy rolled up the map and slipped an elastic on to keep it from unraveling. It was a forestry map, 1 to 50,000 scale, and showed every cut line, service road, and goat path that crisscrossed through the forest. Like an American Express card to a logger: Don't leave home without it. At two o'clock, he found his crew suited up and ready. Chris Stevens, his lead hand for the task, approached him as he slipped on a pair of steel-toed work boots.

“The guys are champin' at the bit, Billy,” he said. “They want to get cutting before dark.” Chris Stevens was a graduate student in forestry, working on his master's in conservation. He was mid-twenties, athletic, and well liked by everyone at the mill. Billy had decided on Chris for lead hand over any one of the three foremen who were heading into the gorge, mostly to keep from ruffling any feathers. So far, it seemed to be working.

“Yeah, I know. I've got lights and a generator coming in before sundown, but it'll be a lot slower once we lose the natural light. The chopper's ready, so let's get it loaded. Pick seven men to come with me. You wait for the second trip.”

“Eight men max for each trip?” Chris asked, nodding his head at the company's Bell 412 helicopter, sitting on the far side of the clearing.

“That baby can usually manage fifteen, but we're taking in a lot of gear with us on each trip, so that cuts the number down to eight or nine.”

“That's only two trips to get the entire crew in, Billy. That's not bad.” He headed over to the group of men waiting for the go-ahead, and as he pointed at them, the men moved quickly to where the chopper was sitting, its blades just starting to turn. They loaded gear as they entered, and within a couple of minutes, the Bell 412 was airborne and moving over the treetops toward Canyon Creek.

Gordon Buchanan pulled up in his truck, killed the engine, and jumped out. “Everything okay, Chris?” he asked, moving toward his brother at his usual fast gait.

“No problem, Gordon. Billy just left with the first crew. Chopper will be back soon to pick up the rest of us.”

Gordon hung around the clearing, checking the piles of gear stacked near the tree line. He ticked off a checklist, concentrating on the fuel and food. At this point, any downtime could spell disaster. The crews, working toward each other from each end of the target zone, had to get firebreak cut inside forty hours or not bother. It was going to be tight. The thumping of the chopper's rotors cut through the afternoon air, and once the wheels hit the ground the crew was ferrying supplies aboard. Gordon shouted a few words of encouragement to Chris and his men as they boarded the craft, watched it depart, then headed back to the main office.

The fate of the mill was in their hands.

Billy wiped the sweat from his brow and lowered his aching body onto one of the many stumps dotting the south side of the creek. Thirty hours and the two crews were within earshot of each other. They would have the firebreak cut inside the deadline with no problem. And there was good news from the weather forecasters. The winds were abating and rain was on the horizon. The fire was slowing, and if the rain fell, it would stall the flames in their tracks. He took a long draft of cold water and replaced the bottle on his hip.

“Billy?” It was Chris on the walkie-talkie.

“Go ahead, Chris.”

“We're moving our pump forward another two hundred yards. We've soaked the hell out of the first thousand yards of underbrush. Even if a few burning spars come crashing down the slope, I don't think anything will ignite.”

“Excellent work, Chris.”

“We've got this thing beat, Billy,” he said. There was pride at a job well done in his voice.

“I think you're right. Gordon called about an hour ago. The fire's at least twelve hours from reaching us. It's slowing.”

“We'll reach each other in less than eight,” he said. “We've got another load of logs ready to go. Send the chopper over when you're done with it.”

“Roger that,” Billy said. He signed off and looked over to where the helicopter was hovering over a horizontal stack of logs, preparing to lift them out of the gorge and fly them back to the mill. Leaving the cut trees on the ground was senseless, as the fire could ignite them almost as easily lying prone on the ground as when they were upright. The logger on the ground gave the thumbs-up, and the pilot took the machine straight up until the logs cleared the surrounding treetops, then angled off toward the mill. Billy started back toward where his crew was cutting, some hundred feet distant.

In the sea of cut trees, a solitary stump stuck up three or four feet higher than the rest. Billy knew that additional height might cause problems for the crew lifting the logs out of the ravine. He picked his way through the wet underbrush and, once he reached it, threw his feller pants on the ground next to the stump. The thick material was designed to protect his legs, but it was one simple cut, like ten thousand before, and he wanted to get back to the crew. He pulled the cord on the chain saw and it barked to life. He set the blade against the stump and pulled the trigger with his index finger.

The saw was loose in his right hand, the thirty-inch blade tight to the wood and perpendicular to his left leg. The second the clutch kicked in and the blade began to spin, the teeth kicked off the bark and flew back into his leg. Billy's immediate reaction was to release the clutch, but he wasn't quick enough. The blade slashed into his flesh, tearing into the muscle and tendons just below his knee. He screamed with pain as the blade embedded in his bone and stopped. He dropped to the ground, blood flowing freely from the wound.

Within seconds the entire crew was around him, two men ripping open a first-aid kit and Chris on the walkie-talkie to the mill, calling for the chopper. It took about thirty seconds for Chris to get Gordon.

“How bad is it?” Gordon asked, taking the walkie-talkie from the front-office employee who had answered the call.

“He's cut right to the bone. We've taken the blade out and I've got a couple of guys working on the bleeding. It looks pretty bad, Gordon.”

“The chopper's dumping that load of logs in the yard. It'll be airborne again inside two minutes. Six to seven minutes out once it's in the air.”

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 dihydrotestosterone, 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.