The Magic Bullet (28 page)

But why would he want to? It was still early. The drug’s promise, at least in Logan’s own willful estimation, was undiminished.

Still, he knew he was suddenly reduced to dealing in hunches and feelings and odds—for they were stuck with a sponsor whose behavior was as unpredictable as that of the most volatile compound. Is this what being in the big leagues was all about? Operating in a state of chronic insecurity, never sure that even a friend won’t give it to you in the back?

He knew he couldn’t entirely hide his growing anxiety, at least not from Sabrina. He only hoped she would write it off to more mundane daily pressures, or to fatigue, or to a continuing reaction to the Judy Novick situation. After all, she had more than enough problems of her own. Suddenly saddled with exclusive responsibility for nearly half the protocol roster, Sabrina was overwhelmed with work.

For her part, Sabrina did not ask questions. But she sensed something was seriously wrong; and, more than that, regarded Logan’s clear unwillingness—or inability—to
confide in her as potentially menacing as anything their enemies could throw at them. The fact was, their relationship, both in the personal and the professional realm, had always been an act of faith. Two strong personalities blessed with the good fortune to have different yet complementary strengths, they both had to overcome parts of themselves to fully trust each other. That’s what made their bond at once so precious and so fragile. And now, in her view, their private balancing act seemed at risk.

“Listen, Logan,” she put it to him late one Wednesday afternoon, “perhaps we can go away for this weekend. No Compound J—just Sabrina and Dan.”

“Have I told you lately I love the way you put things? But I’m on duty Sunday afternoon.”

“I know. I thought to leave on Friday and come back Sunday morning. Almost two days.”

“Where?”

“Do you know a place called Cooperstown? Near Albany, New York? There is a museum of baseball there.”

He smiled. “Yes, Sabrina, it’s called the Hall of Fame.” He paused, intrigued; after an endless winter, spring had never been more welcome—and being alone with Sabrina beyond the ACF orbit was virtually a revolutionary thought. “Let’s do it.”

The place itself helped put Logan at ease; less a traditional tourist town than an unspoiled nineteenth-century village on a lake. The first morning, after the obligatory visit to the baseball museum, they silently strolled hand in hand down a broad, tree-lined street, gazing at the gingerbread-trim houses, soaking up atmosphere.

“I was here once before,” said Logan suddenly. “I didn’t remember it being so beautiful.”

Sabrina turned to him, flabbergasted. “You were here before? Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

“I don’t know.” He offered his best helpless-little-boy shrug. “Look, it was a long time ago, with my family. It wasn’t much fun.”

“Why?”

“My mother and my sister didn’t want to be here. They didn’t even go with my father and me to the museum.”

She shook her head. “This is hard for me to understand. It is so interesting.”

“And my father … You know the plaques honoring the great ballplayers? He spent half our time there quizzing me on the stats: birth dates, ERAs, career batting averages. He saw it as a chance to test me. I must’ve been all of eight years old.”

“So it was more fun now?”

“I’d say so.”

She took his hand and they walked in silence for thirty seconds. “Tell me more about your father, Logan.”

He shook his head. “Sabrina, some things are hard to talk about, okay? Even to you.”

“When he calls, what does he say to you?” More than once she had noted that, after taking one of his father’s calls, he’d reenter the room deflated.

“I don’t know. It’s not the words, it’s the attitude. Everything’s sarcastic, everything’s a put-down.”

“Really?” Despite herself, she smiled. “This sounds to me like someone else.”

He looked at her quizzically—then it hit him. “Seth Shein.” But immediately, he started shaking his head. “No way. C’mon, don’t play amateur psychiatrist.”

“I am not, I am just listening to what you say.”

He managed a smile. “Anyway, it’s the coward’s way out, blaming my problems on my father. I’ll bet Stillman and Larsen do the same thing.”

“No. People like this do not even let themselves think about such things. But, yes, it is certain they were not well loved when they were little. Otherwise why today would they always need others to say how great they are? It’s only because there is nothing within that tells them.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” He exhaled deeply, wondering the extent to which the observation might also apply to him.

She squeezed his hand. “But there is a big difference—you also have a good heart.”

“You think so?”

“A beautiful heart. I know it well.” She paused. “Maybe you get this from the same father, do you ever think of this?”

Later that afternoon, they were sitting on the terrace of the magnificent Otesaga Hotel, sipping wine and staring at a vista out of an Impressionist painting: distant sailboats, sails billowing, upon a shimmering lake. “How about
your
father?” he asked.

She looked at him, surprised; it was the first time he’d ever shown more than a perfunctory interest in her past. “My father? Him I love very much.”

“Tell me about him. I know that he teaches anthropology-”

“It is also my mother’s hobby,” she noted.

“But what made him so special? Call it research—in case I ever have kids myself.”

Sipping her wine, she thought about it a moment. “He made sure to always let me know I was a serious person,” she said. “Nothing to a girl is more important from a father.”

“To anyone.”

She nodded. “But I think especially a girl. Without it, it is almost impossible for a girl to feel … 
strong
in the world, to feel she can do what she wishes.”

“Sabrina, there’s no difference between men and women that way. Believe me, feeling insecure—or powerless—isn’t exclusive to either gender.”

She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “I understand what you say. You Americans are nice to believe the sexes are always the same—but it is also naive.” She paused. “You see how this Winston talks always of power?”

“That’s such a crock.”

“Yes and no.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She considered. “Let me ask you something else: Do you think there will soon be a woman president of the United States?”

“Absolutely,” he replied readily, pleased she was making the point for him. “The way things are changing, probably within the next twenty years.”

“Ah, but you see, if we ask the same thing of almost any woman—even the most successful—she will say no, it is a fantasy.”

“That’s crazy, you only have to look at the facts, these days women are—”

“No,” she cut in, “that’s what I am saying: it is NOT only facts—it is also how women
feel
. This cannot be changed by insisting.” She paused. “And it is something that is important to know for our protocol.”

He looked at her closely. “How so?”

“No man, even the best, can really know how frightful this disease is for women. It is impossible. Or how vulnerable it makes a woman feel.”

“Sabrina, I do understand that.”

“Yes, perhaps, in your head. But I am telling you why many patients will be less trusting with a man that with another woman.”

He waited a long time before answering. “Winston—”

“I am not supporting what she does,” she said quickly. “She does not understand our protocol, she does not understand
you
. But we must be honest: she does understand the fears of these patients. And these are real also.”

When he made no reply, staring off into the middle distance, she thought she’d gone too far. Her intention was to be constructive—to open up lines of communication—not to be hurtful.

“Do you think a lot about Judy Novick?” he asked suddenly. In the three weeks since her accident, she’d remained comatose. Suffering a subdural hematoma and brain stem compression, she was given only the remotest chance of survival.

“Sometimes.”

“I really think some of those guys are
glad
about it.” He hesitated. “I keep wondering how it happened.”

“That’s crazy, Logan. There is no mystery, she fell.” Brushing the back of her hand lightly over his cheek, aware of the extent to which they’d switched roles, Sabrina didn’t try to hide her smile. “I know I told you to be paranoid. But sometimes we must remind ourselves,
caro
, cancer is our biggest enemy, not other doctors.”

“I keep telling myself that.”

“Truly, I do not think Stillman or Larsen even worry about our little protocol. They don’t believe it has real possibilities.”

“I know that.” He paused. “Even Shein seems to have some pretty serious doubts.”

“Shein? He has said something to you?” She looked at him closely, tensing: so that was it! “When?”

“A couple of weeks ago. He made it pretty clear he’s trying to cut his losses.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this? This is my life also, Logan.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Do not do that to me, Logan. Ever again.”

“Look, I made a mistake. I agree with you. I’m sorry.”

“Tell me now. Everything.”

He did so, down to Shein’s appalling remarks about Judith Novick; yet, even as he noted Sabrina’s rising agitation, he felt a sudden sense of relief. No question, this was a burden he should never have tried to bear alone.

“Well, then,” she said when he was finished, her voice taking on a steely edge, “it is now up to us. We will just have to show his doubts are wrong.”

He nodded. “Better than that, let’s force an apology out of him. That’s a sight I’d pay money to see.”

“It’s true, Logan. So many of the people at the ACF, they lack a soul. I will not mind at all when it’s time to get out of there.” She looked out over the lake. “Would you like to work here? I am told there is an excellent teaching hospital right outside of this town.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It would be nice—no?—to just be done with all the nonsense.”

He smiled. “Let’s be honest, we’d probably also go stir crazy.” Reflexively, he glanced at his watch. “I’ll tell you the truth, I’m just about ready to head back there now.”

Following his brushes with Marion Winston, Logan had made one other self-protective move. It became policy of the Compound J team that visits by protocol patients to the ACF be scheduled with a minimum of overlap, with particular care taken that those likely to have the loudest complaints have as little direct contact with the others as possible.

Generally, the arrangement functioned smoothly. But, of course, it is never feasible—nor, finally, even necessarily desirable—to isolate patients entirely. Most of the Compound J patients were independent and resourceful women, many wanted every scrap of information they could get their hands on; so the sense that things were being kept from them could only heighten their apprehension.

Inevitably, after a time, they started recognizing one another in the waiting room or the parking lot—standing out from others by dress or demeanor, by their labored breathing or chalky skin—and began talking.

They compared notes; their conclusions were mixed. No one, it seemed, was being made sick by Compound J, and obviously that was good. None of the dire possibilities of which they’d read in the Informed Consent Document—from debilitating headaches to loss of appetite—had yet occurred.

Yet none had signed up merely not to be made ill by the drug. Though the doctors had been at pains to explain that this was a highly experimental procedure and they shouldn’t expect miracles, on some level, like patients on every such protocol, that is precisely what each was looking for: a miracle.

And the truth seemed to be that this stuff was doing
nothing at all
!

Unavoidably, there was another dimension to the concern. From the start, the relative youth of the doctors running the program had been much remarked upon by patients, usually with bemusement. But now it gave rise to an increasingly insistent question: Did they know what they were doing? Did they have the experience—the
wisdom
—to handle such awesome responsibility?

What they couldn’t know was that Dan Logan and his colleagues were as troubled as they were by the drug’s baffling nonperformance. Going in, they wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover unforeseen side effects; that was Compound J’s clinical history. But they were certain it would demonstrate
some
kind of activity. And now that they weren’t seeing any, tensions for some time held in check began to show themselves.

Early one Monday morning, busy with their respective hospital duties, Logan and Sabrina heard themselves paged over the intercom. They were to report immediately to the Outpatient Clinic.

There they found Reston, as sober as Logan had ever seen him.

“This is it,” he said. “We can kiss our careers good-bye.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Logan.

“I’ve been doing an exam on one of the ladies. We’ve got a toxicity problem.”

“Which patient?”

He indicated the examining room off to his right. “Hannah Dietz. I swear, I didn’t know what to tell her.”

“Stop worrying about yourself,” snapped Sabrina. “What is her problem?” Dietz, a feisty, headstrong refugee from Hitler’s Germany, was the patient who’d so willingly switched places with Faith Byrne. She was a particular favorite of Sabrina’s.

“Profuse bleeding from the gums,” said Reston. “Every time she brushes her teeth.”

There was a momentary silence. Under other circumstances, such a complaint would merit little concern. But Logan and Sabrina realized immediately Reston had a point. “All signs point to Compound J,” he added. “What else could it ber?”

Sabrina led the way into the examining room. “Hello, Hannah,” she said to the heavyset woman with steel-gray hair—and then spotted the man sitting in the corner. Balding, with a seedy, unkempt mustache, he appeared in his early sixties, a few years younger than the patient. “Hello, Phil.”