Side Effects (38 page)

"I was beginning to think you had run away," a man's voice said from behind. Startled, the chemist whirled. It was Redding's bodyguard, a wiry, seemingly emotionless man whom Paquette had never heard called any name other than Nunes.

"Why, hello," Paquette said, wishing he had stayed at the tavern on the way back for a third drink. "I just picked

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up a message from Mr. Redding, but it says to call him at the Darlington number. Is he--?"

"He's there," Nunes said, showing nothing to dispel Paquette's image of a gunman whose loyalty to the pharmaceutical magnate had no limits. "He's waiting for your call." From that moment on, Paquette had barely been out of Nunes's sight.

Now, in the bright fluorescence of the subbasement laboratory, Paquette glanced first at Zimmermann and then at Nunes and prayed that the forty-five minutes until eight-thirty would pass without incident. A deal had been struck between Redding and Zimmermann--money in exchange for a set of formulas. Redding had let him in on that much. However, the presence of the taciturn thug suggested that Redding anticipated trouble, or perhaps he had no intention of honoring his end of the bargain--quite possibly both.

"Okay, that's seven minutes," Zimmermann said, seconds before the mechanical timer rang out. "There's a shortcut my father used at this juncture, but I never did completely understand it. Dr. Paquette, I suggest you just go on to the next page and continue the steps in order. He performed these next reactions over in that corner, and he checked the purity of the distillate with that spectrophotometer." Paquette nodded and moved around the slate workbench to the area Zimmermann had indicated. The Omnicenter director was neither biochemist nor genius, but he had observed his father at work enough to be able to oversee each step of the synthesis. And oversee he had--each maneuver and each microdrop of the way.

The laboratory was quite remarkable. Hidden behind a virtually invisible, electronically controlled door, it
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had no less than three sophisticated spectrophotometers, each programmed to assess the consistency of the hormone at various stages of its synthesis and, through feedback mechanisms, to adjust automatically the chemical reaction where needed. It was a small area, perhaps fifteen feet by thirty, but its designer had paid meticulous attention to the maximum use of space.

"Did your father design all this?" Paquette asked.

"Be careful, Doctor, your reagent is beginning to overheat," Zimmermann said, ignoring the question as he had most others about his father. "Excuse me, but are you timing a reaction I don't know about?"

"No, why?"

"That's the third time you've looked at your watch in the past ten minutes."

"Oh, that." Paquette hoped his laugh did not sound too nervous. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nunes, seated on a tall stool at the end of the lab bench, adjust his position to hear better. "A habit dating back to high school, perhaps beyond, that's all."

He had made up his mind that there was no way he would complete the Estronate synthesis and turn the three notebooks over to Nunes. That act, he suspected, would be his last. He and Zimmermann were not scripted to leave the laboratory alive. The more the evening had worn on, the more certain he had become of that. He glanced at the metal hand plate to the right of the entrance. Though unmarked, it had to be the means of opening the door.

There were less than thirty minutes to go. If Kate Bennett had gotten his message, and if she had taken it seriously, she would be waiting, with help, in the storage area outside the laboratory. Paquette's plan was simple. At eight thirty-five, allowing five minutes for any delay on Bennett's part, he would announce the need to use the men's room. They had passed one a floor above on their way in. With surprise on their side, whatever muscle Bennett had brought with her should have a decent chance at overpowering Nunes. If there was no one in the storage room when the door slid open, he would have to improvise. There was one thing of which he was sure: once outside the laboratory, he was not going back in. God, but he wished he had a drink.

Traffic into the city was inordinately light for a Friday evening, and it was clear to Jared that barring any monstrous delays, he would make it to Metro with time to spare. Still, he used his horn and high beams to clear his way down Route 1.

Risks. Bring help. There may be trouble. With each mile, Arlen Paquette's warning grew in his thoughts. He had made a mistake in not calling the Boston police before he left Essex. He could see that now. Still, what would he have said? How lengthy an explanation would have been required? His father, he knew, could pick up the phone and with no explanation whatsoever have half a dozen officers waiting for him at the front door to the Omnicenter.

Answers. Paquette had promised answers. Perhaps for Kate's sake it was worth swallowing his pride and anger and calling Winfield. Then he realized that the issue went far deeper than pride and anger. The man could not be trusted. Not now, not ever again.

Bring help. Jared pulled off the highway and skidded to a stop by a bank of pay phones. It was seven forty-five.

He was twenty minutes, twenty-five at the most, from the Omnicenter. There was still time to do something, but what? With no clear idea of what he was going to say, he called the Boston Police Department.

"I'd--ah--I'd like to speak to Detective Finn, please," he heard his own voice say. "Yes, that's right, Martin Finn. I'm sorry, I don't know what district. Four, maybe." Finn. The thought, Jared saw now, had been in the back of his mind all along. Tough but fair: that's how his father had described the man. If that was-the case, then it would take only the promise of some answers to get him to the Omnicenter.

Finn was not at his desk.

"Has he gone home for the night?" Jared asked of the officer who answered Finn's phone. "Well, does anyone know?" ..."Samuels. Jared Samuels. I'm a lawyer.

Detective Finn knows me. What is your name?" ... "Well, please Sergeant, this is very urgent and there isn't much time. Could you see if you could get a message to Lieutenant Finn to meet me at eight-fifteen
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at the front entrance to the Omnicenter at Metropolitan Hospital?" ... "That's right, in half an hour. And Sergeant, if you can't locate him, could you or some other officer meet me instead?" ..."I don't know if it's a matter of life or death or not. Listen, I don't have time to explain. Please, just try." Jared hurried back to the Volvo, wishing he had more of an idea of who Arlen Paquette was or at least of what was awaiting him at the Omnicenter. It was exactly eight o'clock when he sped over the crest of a long upgrade and saw, ahead and to his right, the glittering tiara of Boston at night. Perhaps it was the tension of the moment, perhaps the six hours since his last drink; whatever the reason, Arlen Paquette felt his hands beginning to shake and his concentration beginning to waver. He pulled a g narled handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at the cold sweat on his forehead and upper lip. It was only ten minutes past the hour. The hormone synthesis, which had proceeded flawlessly, was well over half completed.

"Are you all right?" Zimmermann asked.

"Fine, I'm fine," Paquette said, clutching a beaker of ice water with two hands to keep its contents from sloshing about. "I ... I'd like to talk with Mr. Nunes for a moment. Privately."

"Why?" Zimmermann asked with a defensiveness in his voice. "There's no problem with the procedure up to now. I assure you of that. You are doing an excellent job of following my father's notes. Just keep going."

"It's not that. Listen, I'll be right back. Nunes," he whispered, his back turned to Zimmermann, "I need a drink."

"No booze until you finish this work. Mr. Redding's orders." As Nunes leaned forward to respond, the coat of his perfectly tailored suit fell away just enough for Paquette to see the holstered revolver beneath his left arm. Any doubt he harbored regarding his fate once the formulas were verified vanished.

"Nunes, have a heart."

The gunman's only response was an impatient nod in the direction of the incomplete experiment.

"Any problem?" Zimmermann called out.

"No problem," Nunes said as Paquette shuffled back.

"Say, Dr. Zimmermann, where's the nearest John?" ~
Paquette slowed and listened. In less than twenty >> 1 minutes he planned to ask the same question and wait for Nunes to open the door for him. Then an unexpected push from behind, and the man would be in the arms of the police. It was perfect, provided, of course, that Kate Bennett had gotten his message. William Zimmermann pointed to the wall behind the gunman. "See that recessed handle in the wall right under that shelf? Just twist it and pull."

Nunes did as he was instructed, and a three-foot-wide block of shelves pulled away from the wall, revealing a fairly large bathroom and stall shower.

"Father had this obsession about hidden doorways and the like," Zimmermann said. His next sentence, if there was to be one, was cut off by the beaker of ice water, which slipped from Paquette's hands and shattered on the tile floor.

Save for the security light in the front lobby, the Omnicenter was completely dark. Jared parked across the street and was beginning a walking inspection of the outside of the building when a blue and white patrol car pulled up. Martin Finn stepped out, looking in the gloom like a large block of granite with a homberg perched on top. Even at a distance, Jared could sense the man's impatience and irritation.

"I got your message," Finn said, with no more greeting than that. "What's going on?" Behind him, a uniformed officer remained at the wheel of the cruiser. The engine was still running.

"Thanks for coming so quickly," Jared said. "I ... didn't know whom to call."

"Well?"

Jared checked the time. There were thirteen minutes.

"My wife is in Henderson Hospital. Someone tried to run her down with a car earlier today while she was jogging." Finn said nothing. "She's had to have surgery, but she's going to be okay." Still nothing. "She couldn't speak much, but she said it was Dr. Zimmermann, the head of the Omnicenter, who tried to run her down and then chased her with a tire wrench."

"William Zimmermann?"

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"Yes. Do you know him?"

Finn looked at him icily. "He delivered my daughter."

Inwardly, Jared groaned. "Well, he was involved in something illegal, possibly in connection with one of the big pharmaceutical houses. Kate discovered what was going on, so he tried to kill her."

"But he missed." There was neither warmth nor the slightest hint of belief in the man's voice.

"Yes, he missed." Jared swallowed back his mounting anger. There was far too much at stake and hardly time for an argument. "When I returned home from the hospital a short while ago, there was a message on our answering machine for Kate from a man named Arlen Paquette. I think he works for the drug house. He asked that she meet him here, in the subbasement of this building, and that she bring help. That's why I called you. I suspect that Zimmermann is in the middle of all this and that he's in there right now."

"In there?" Finn gestured at the darkened building.

"He said the subbasement."

"Mr. Samuels, Dr. Zimmermann's office is on the third floor. On the corner, right up there. I've been there several times. Now what on earth would he be doing in the subbasement?"

"I ... I don't know." There were eleven minutes.

"Look, Lieutenant, the man said exactly eight-thirty. There isn't much time."

"So you want me to go busting into a locked hospital building, looking to nail my wife's obstetrician, because you got some mysterious message on your telephone answering machine?"

"If the doors are all locked, we can get in through the tunnels. We don't have to break in. Dammit, Lieutenant, my wife was almost killed today. Do you think she's lying about the broken bones and the punctured lung?"

"No," Finn said. "Only about everything else. Mr. Samuels, I had a chance to do some checking up on your wife. She's in hot water with just about everyone in the city, it seems. Word has it she's just been fired for screwing up here at the hospital, too. Face it, counselor, you've got a sick woman on your hands. You need help, all right, but not the kind I can give."

"Then you won't come with me?" Jared could feel himself losing control.

"Mr. Samuels, because of your wife, I still have enough egg on my face to make a fucking omelet. I'll file a report if you want me to, and even get a warrant if you can give me some hard facts to justify that. But no commando stuff.

Now if I were you, I'd just go on home and see about lining up some professional help for your woman." Before he could even weigh the consequences, Jared hit the man--a roundhouse punch that landed squarely on the side of Finn's face and sent him spinning down into a pile of plowed snow. Instantly, the uniformed officer was out of the cruiser, his hand on the butt of his service revolver. Finn, a trickle of blood forming at the corner of his mouth, waved him off.

"No, Jackie," he said. "It's all right. The counselor, here, felt he had a score to settle with me, and he just settled it." He pushed himself to his feet, still shaking off the effects of the blow. "Now, counselor, you just get the fuck out of my sight. If I hear of any trouble involving you tonight, I'm going to bust your ass from here to Toledo.

Clear?"

Jared glared at the detective. "You're wrong, Finn.

About my wife, about refusing to help me, about everything.

You don't know how goddamn wrong you are."

He glanced at his watch, then turned and raced down the block toward the main entrance to the hospital and the stairway that would lead to the Omnicenter tunnel. There were less than five minutes left. Visiting hours had ended. The hospital was quiet.