The Proteus Cure (26 page)

The guy honked and high-beamed in retaliation but Paul didn’t give a shit.

He beat the police to his house. He pulled in and ran to the door. It opened before he could knock.

“Dad! I—”

Paul wanted to wrap him in his arms but knew Coog considered himself too old for that. Not cool.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for dragging you home but—”

“Hey, you need me, you call me, and I’m there. ’Nuff said?”

Coog smiled and nodded.

Paul stepped back off the steps.

“You stay here. I’m going to look around.”

A look of concern flashed across Coog’s face. “Hey, that’s what the cops are for, Dad.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t see any at the moment, so I’ll have to make do.”

He returned to his car and hit the garage door remote. Inside, he looked around and saw the Louisville Slugger he’d bought last summer. In warmer weather he used it to hit pop flies to Coog. He grabbed it and hefted it.

You’ll do, he thought.

With the bat on his shoulder he began roaming the yard, searching the shadows. When he found no one, he began to relax. And that opened the door to thoughts about where he and Sheila had been headed a few moments ago. His groin ached. So close, so—

“Freeze!”

Paul whirled and was blinded by a flashlight directed at his eyes. He couldn’t see who was holding it but spotted a police car at the curb.

He said, “I’m Paul Rosko, officer. I live here.”

“We’ll see about that.”

A window opened and Coog shouted, “Hey, that’s my dad!”

The flashlight beam lowered to the grass.

“Let’s move around to the front,” the cop said.

He waited for Paul to pass, then followed him. “Your name, officer?”

A kid—probably hadn’t reached his mid-twenties yet—in a gray uniform.

“Evers, sir.”

“Well, Officer Evers, I appreciate your coming. I just got here myself.”

The beam played over the bat in Paul’s hand.

“And what were you planning to do with that, Mr. Rosko?”

“Don’t know exactly. Maybe hit a home run or two if the opportunity presented itself.”

“Bad move, sir.”

“And why is that? A guy sneaks into my yard, scares my kid—”

“If he’s outside your house and you hurt him, you’re the one that winds up in handcuffs. Then he finds a lawyer and sues you for every penny you’re worth.”

“Some legal system.”

“Better than most. I’ll need to come inside and take your son’s statement.”

“You have to?”

Paul didn’t like the idea of a cop in his house or being mentioned on a police report, but saw no way around it.

Evers nodded. “Afraid so.”

Paul sighed and turned toward the house. “Okay. Let’s get it over with.”

Paul found a visitor parking space near the front entrance to the VecGen building. He turned off the engine and sat a moment, giving himself a pep talk.

“You’re going to
be
calm and
stay
calm. You won’t expect to learn anything because they’re not going to tell you a damn thing. You will act deranged but you will
not
lose your temper.”

He’d dreamed up this little fishing expedition last night while thinking about the mysterious Lee T. Swann. What if Swann had sold the Kaplan Biologicals assets to VecGen? It made sense in the timeline. VecGen starts up a year after Kaplan goes under, and comes out with a therapy very similar to KB26.

Coincidence? Maybe. G. K. Chesterton called coincidences spiritual puns. Paul didn’t sense anything spiritual about VecGen.

He’d bounced it off Sheila this morning. She’d been intrigued by the theory but thought the trip was a waste of time: If VecGen was secretive with the doctors using its VG723, they’d hardly open up to a man coming in off the street.

Paul had no delusions about that. He was out to stir up the animals—clank a steel bar against their corporate cage and see who responded and how. Sheila couldn’t get away—initiating new courses of therapy this morning—and Paul didn’t want to wait. He figured he’d be more effective as a solo anyway.

He’d called and told the receptionist that he was experiencing “serious side effects” from VG723 therapy and wanted to speak to someone in charge—today. As expected, they’d referred him back to his oncologist, but he wasn’t having any of that. He wanted—demanded—to see “the Head Man.” Well, that wasn’t going to happen either. But he kept hammering away at the poor woman until—after putting him on hold four times—she finally told him she was referring him to the public relations office. He screamed that he didn’t want some flack, he wanted the Head Man or, at the very least, a scientist.

No use. He was switched. So Paul badgered the unfortunate PR underling who took his call until—only twice on hold this time—he was granted a meeting with Arnold Brown, head of the department.

Well, it was a start.

VecGen occupied a long, one-story building on Canal Street in Milltown. It looked more like a brick-fronted warehouse or a widget factory than the home of a cutting-edge research firm. Weren’t these little companies always trying to attract capital? This didn’t have the look to spur investors to reach for their wallets. Why weren’t they out on the 128 strip with the other biotech companies?

Convenient that it was in Milltown. Another coincidence? Or had it set up here to be close to Tethys?

He pushed open the glass front door and stepped up to the reception desk.

“Hi, I’m Paul Rosko. I have an appointment with Mister Brown.”

The young, pretty woman with curly dark hair became flustered.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Rosko. We spoke before and—”

“Was that you? I’m sorry if I was rude. I’m just upset—terribly upset.”

“I understand. But I … I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Brown had to go out to an important meeting.”

“
What
?” Paul didn’t have to feign outrage. “He’s not here? You mean I drove all the way out here for
nothing
?”

It hadn’t been all that far, but no reason for her to know that.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rosko. He said he’d see you some other time but—”

“Then I’ll see Swann!”

“Who?”

“Lee T. Swann. You know him, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of him.”

The woman jumped as Paul banged his fist on her desk. He’d expected to be stonewalled but this was the metaphorical finger. Damn these sons of—

Be calm … be cool. 10 … 9 … 8 …

He let out a breath. He believed that she’d never heard of Swann.

“Okay, then, who
can
I talk to?”

“I’ll call legal. Maybe someone there can help.”

She hit a couple of buttons. As she started a hurried conversation in a low voice, Paul looked around. He saw a couple of guys in white labcoats amble down the hall to his right and step through the front door. Cigarette break.

He shook his head. Biotech researchers should know better.

The receptionist cringed as she hung up and turned to him.

“Everybody is busy. I think you’ll just have to reschedule.”

Paul could see that he was frightening her. He hadn’t intended that. Wasn’t her fault. The cowards in the back offices had left her on the front line to take his fire.

But he had to keep up the unstable act, even though it was becoming less and less of an act.

“You tell them for me—” He pointed to the pad on her desk. “Write this down. You tell them that their VG-seven-twenty-three therapy has made my body change—my hair, my eyes, lots of things. I’m becoming somebody else! And you tell them I want to know why. I’ve already sent a letter to the FDA, so don’t try any funny stuff. Anything happens to me, the feds are on notice!”

With that he turned and stomped back outside.

But he was smiling by the time he reached his car.

That ought to shake things up.

Bill sat at his desk, swiveling back and forth and thinking about Sheila, wondering how she’d spent her weekend. He hoped it was shopping or the movies.

What would I do without you?
Abra had said.

If she only knew what he’d done for her lately …

A chime drew his attention to his monitor. An alert icon flashed. He didn’t have to open it to know what it was. After all, he’d set it up himself. It would read
Make the call.
He’d programmed it to remind him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to call the answering machine at Innovation Ventures.

Never in the six years since he’d set it up had anyone left a message. And that was good.

But he checked it religiously three times a week. He hit
9
on his office fax’s speed dialer without bothering to pick up the receiver. He’d set the answering machine to pick up after four rings unless it had a message; then it picked up after two. Bill’s routine was to listen until the third ring, then hang up.

One ringy-dingy, he thought. Two ringy-dingies. Three—

“You have one new—”

Bill almost fell out his chair as he snatched up the receiver.

“—message.”

A message. What was the access code, damn it? It had been so long. He remembered it had to be four digits—

His birthdate—his old standby. He punched in 1-1-3-0 and heard a hesitant voice come on the line.

“Is there a Mr. Swann there? This is Jason Fredericks from legal at VecGen. I have instructions to call this number in the event of any trouble down here. Well, it seems we had an incident this morning. A man came in with some wild story about VG-seven-twenty-three changing him into someone else.”

Oh, God. Oh, dear God.

“He’s obviously deranged but he seemed to be talking litigation. And he asked for you by name.”

What? What?

“His name, by the way—at least the name he gave—was Paul Rosko. I’m at extension two-two-three if you need to get back to me.”

A disembodied voice came on with a menu of options. Bill hit
3
to erase, then leaned back.

Paul Rosko … Goddamnit!

Every time he turned around, his name popped up. His kid had the KB26 therapy, not VG723, so what was he doing at VecGen?

Then it hit him. Sheila. She must be feeding him information about VG723. Bill slammed his fists on the desk. Shit!

So, she hadn’t really believed all his explanations, hadn’t accepted there was no link between her patients’ changes and the VG723. And now she’d made the connection between Rosko’s kid and the KB26 … put it all together. She couldn’t contact anyone about KB26, so she’d sent that hairy buffoon Rosko to VecGen to bully his way around.

No … ease up. If they knew anything, they wouldn’t waste their time at VecGen. They’d have already gone to the police. Or FDA. Or JCAHO. They had nothing.

So calm down.

Sheila suspected a connection because KB26 and VG723 were both stem-cell therapies administered at Tethys. Recipients of each had exhibited inexplicable changes in appearance.

But Rosko’s kid had the “correct” DNA type now, so they wouldn’t suspect that it was changed.

He took a deep breath. They were fishing, that was all.

Rosko was a known quantity. Not as known as Bill would have liked—he’d yet to receive the background check—but at least he knew who he was dealing with. And Sheila … she was always right under his thumb. And Abra’s. She was easy.

Nosing around what was happening to Tanesha Green was just what Sheila was supposed to do. The woman had come to her and, like the dedicated healer she was, Sheila was trying help her. Just doing some extra work, that was all. It wouldn’t lead anywhere.

Bill smiled and opened his Rolodex. Bembridge Security. Time to see what skeletons they’d found in Rosko’s closet.

Yes, soon, things would go back to normal. Once Tanesha’s case was closed …

Tanesha … he turned to his computer and searched for Tanesha Green to see if she’d had another visit with Sheila.

No. The latest notes in her file were from last week. Good. At least—

Bill stiffened in his chair when he saw the next hit from the search: Tanesha Green was scheduled for skin and scalp biopsies for DNA analysis. Tomorrow.

Shit! The probe would yield results that could start a scandal all over the bioscience world.

Okay. Be calm—
calm
, damnit!

He leaned his elbows on his desktop and cradled his head in his hands. Splitting headache. He cudgeled his brain for an answer but came up with only one way out. One he did not want to take.

He’d have to call Shen.

Abra Gilchrist opened an envelope. Yet another plea for help. This one for extra flu vaccine for rural parts of Appalachia that were missed by the government due to another shortage. It was still early enough to do some good. Those poor people were sick year round. Someone had volunteered to deliver and administer the vaccine, so how could she say no to providing it?

She smiled as the sun caught the edge of her letter opener. She held it closer. “Love, Lee Swann.” Lee, her childhood nickname for her little brother Billy. And Swann, their inside joke. Someday they would turn all the ugly ducklings into swans.

Not much else to smile about. Her chest still ached where she’d had her sternotomy. It had been a choice between opening her undersized chest or letting her heart crowd out her lungs. Not much of a choice. The pain never seemed to stop.

How many broken bones? She’d lost count. How many surgeries? Too many. Waking up from anesthesia was always scary. Every time. She doubted Bill and Mama had much compassion for each new procedure. They probably assumed it was a walk in the park by now. But it wasn’t. Fresh incisions, fresh pain. It never got easier.

Sheila always offered her sympathy. But Abra couldn’t burden her with her aches and pains. Had to appear strong for Sheila. It was what mothers did. Or maternal figures, as it were. She knew the girl looked up to her and relied on her strength, so she was obliged to be strong.

Speaking of mothers, Abra had broken down and called Mama in Switzerland. If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain …