The Suicide Effect (7 page)

Cricket accepted that he and his group might not be able to stop the Prolabs/JB Pharma expansion, but at least they could keep it from being too easy. Sometimes, if they threw up enough roadblocks, the corporate money suckers backed off and went looking for another opportunity.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Cricket was enjoying himself. He smiled at everyone who had come out on this bright but cool evening to speak their minds. Groups of college students, middle-aged couples in matching Birkenstocks and sweaters, sweet old couples, who sometimes turned out to be not so sweet when they stood up and started expressing their views. And others like him, with dreadlocks and hemp clothes. He knew most of the natural folks — as he thought of them—from Saturday Market where he sold his handmade bongo drums and copper jewelry. Only three people from his
Love the Earth
group were here tonight. The rest had gone to Florence to protest a plan to build a Costco on ocean front property.

Most people smiled back. Some gave him thumbs-up gestures or peace signs. Ten minutes before the meeting was scheduled to start, Cricket moved down the steps, so he had a better view of passing traffic and they had a better view of him. He hoped to catch the attention of a TV reporter. A little news coverage could rally a lot of support.

Two men coming up the sidewalk caught his eye. They wore denim work shirts sporting political buttons that said:
Jobs first
! Cricket smiled and held out a pamphlet that outlined the environmental impact of chemical factories on wetlands. One man started to reach for it, then caught the words on Cricket’s sign. He abruptly pulled back.

“If you drink city water, you should read this.” Cricket spoke softly. He never preached and he never raised his voice in non-confrontational situations.

“No thanks.” They looked at him with disgust, then walked past. At least they hadn’t swore or spit at him, which happened sometimes.

A few minutes later, a white KRSL TV van pulled up in front of the wide steps. Trina Waterman, his favorite TV reporter, stepped out, followed by a cameraman. Cricket couldn’t believe his luck. He moved into the center of the steps. The young blond reporter and the camera guy both looked at him, then at each other, then shrugged. Trina, particularly pretty in a pale blue suit, motioned him to come down.

Cricket practiced what he would say as they set up for the shot. Then Trina asked his name.

“Cricket.”

“Just Cricket?”

“Yep. I’m with Love the Earth, a Eugene-based environmental group dedicated to keeping the water supply clean.”

Speaking toward the camera, Trina gave a brief background about Prolabs’ plans and the special council meeting. Then she gave Cricket’s name and affiliation before asking, “Why do you oppose this development?” She held the microphone out to him.

Cricket was ready. “First, it’s illegal. The land is zoned for preservation and only the city can change that. Second, Prolabs wants to build a chemical factory. Yes, they call them pharmaceuticals, but they’re still chemicals. And those chemicals leech into our water supply during the manufacturing process. They also enter our water supply through human use. In some places, there’s so much estrogen and progestin in the water from discarded birth control that the fish and frogs are all becoming one sex and can no longer reproduce. In fact–”

Trina abruptly pulled the microphone away. “Thank you.” She and the cameraman picked up their goods, then went around him and up the stairs. Cricket was so happy he would have done a little dance had he not been holding a heavy sign. She would probably edit out half of what he said, but that was okay. People who watched the news at eleven would think about the water supply. That made his day worthwhile.

It was only the beginning though. His group planned to fight Prolabs’ development with everything they had. To be effective, they had to act now. They also had to get the attention of the media every time they staged a protest.

Chapter 9

Rudker spent the rest of the day in meetings talking about the merger. The details were overwhelming at times. Especially in regard to drug development. The companies had projects that overlapped and they argued passionately about which to continue and which to drop. Rudker believed Prolabs’ cardiovascular lineup was superior, but JB’s scientists wanted to throw all their resources into an anti-inflammatory molecule that had shown clinical activity against C-reactive proteins. After his humiliation that morning, Rudker refused to back down and they had left the matter unsettled.

At the end of the day he was mentally exhausted, yet physically charged. He left JB’s campus on foot in search of a quiet place to eat. He wanted to be on the next flight back to Eugene, but he had another round of meetings scheduled for the morning. He was anxious to get back to Prolabs so he could confer with the Nexapra scientists and find out it anyone was aware of or supported the genetic test idea. He also planned to search Warner’s office and confiscate any evidence of that vulnerability.

He found a small French restaurant called Maximilien’s in Pike Place Market. It had a great view of the harbor, but Rudker was there for the food. He ordered Tournedos Rossini, a beef tenderloin seared with foie gras and served with truffle and Armagnac sauce. He nearly moaned with the pleasure of it. For dessert, he had the soufflé au Grand Marnier. It might have been the best meal he’d ever had. Temporarily satiated, he paid with his business card and stepped back out into the night.

The sky had cleared, so Rudker passed on a taxi and set out walking. He’d come to love downtown Seattle during his recent trips to meet with JB executives. The night energy was electric. In Eugene, you could find a little jazz and maybe one restaurant open after nine. In Seattle, you could find just about anything. And in this town, for now, he was still anonymous.

Rudker knew what he needed this evening—an outlet for his pent up frustration—and he knew exactly where to find it. He set off at a brisk pace and twenty minutes later reached the unmarked club. The entrance was located in an alley between Stewart and Powel Streets. There were no signs, no windows, and no outward indication that it was a place of business. In fact, he knew from past experience that the door was locked and that there was no point in knocking.

In the dark alley, he pulled out his cell phone and called a confidential number. Last time he’d been to Seattle, one of JB’s marketers had given him the number after several hours of drinking at Lucky’s. The marketer had insisted Rudker enter the number directly into his phone rather than write it down. The cloak-and-dagger scenario had amused him.

An older man answered after two rings. “Yeah?” Rudker recognized the voice from last time.

“Karl Rudker. I’m at the door.”

He turned to face the light fixture to the left of the door frame, where a small camera was hidden in the mounting. He knew the old guy was looking him over as they talked.

The man grunted. “Okay.”

Rudker heard the locking mechanism click and reached for the handle. He pushed the door open and quickly stepped inside. The brick-lined hallway was barely lit and smelled of moss and cigarette butts. It led up a flight of stairs, where he encountered another solid metal door. He pushed the buzzer and waited. The old guy with bad teeth and a cell phone opened the door and held out his hand. Rudker pressed four fifties into it. They did not speak.

The old guy went back to his table, and Rudker entered the small dark bar. It reeked of cigarette smoke. He’d wished he’d gone back to the hotel and changed. The smoke smell was tough to get out of suits with standard dry cleaning. He approached the counter, and the bartender, a nearly bald guy in his late fifties, looked up and nodded. Two guys near the end of the bar also gave him a quick glance. Rudker gave them a casual head lift in response.

The dozen or so male customers ranged from twenty to seventy. A few were dressed in suits like him, but most were in some variation of jeans and work jackets. There wasn’t much heat in the place.

Rudker stood at the end of the bar and ordered a Jack Daniels and coke. He wasn’t a big drinker—too much alcohol slowed his mind—but some social situations required a drink in hand. He made obligatory chit chat with the bartender about the Mariners’ prospects for a good season, then kept to himself until it was time.

At nine-thirty a door in the back of the bar opened, and the men gathered up their drinks and moved through it. The next room was slightly larger than the bar but equally devoid of windows or features. The brick walls sported a few graffiti scrawls but that was it. A small boxing ring filled the center of the room, and platform with bench seats surrounded the fight area. Rudker was one of the last to enter, and he took a seat near the door. Memories of his first time in the club flooded him, and his breath became shallow with anticipation.

In a few minutes, the fighters entered and passed within a few feet of him. An intoxicating mix of sweat and shampoo hit his nostrils. The girls were both in their early twenties and reasonably attractive—for fist fighters. The blond was outfitted in a skin-tight black workout suit with a white sports bra showing underneath. The other girl, with black spiky hair, wore a red halter top with tight purple shorts. She reminded him of the girl in the airport.

The bartender doubled as the referee and entered the ring. He announced the contenders without much ceremony. “Tonight’s match is between Felicia the Fearless,” he said, pointing at the blond, “And Badass Brenda.”

The dark-haired girl with black eye makeup pivoted in a full circle and waved. The bartender held up a small cow bell, gave it ring, then quickly stepped out of the way.

The girls circled each other for a moment, then Felicia lurched forward and smashed her bare fist into the side of Brenda’s face. The blow glanced off as Brenda pulled away. Rudker’s pulse began to accelerate. After a few wild swings, Brenda connected with Felicia’s nose in an audible smack. Blood trickled down onto the girl’s pale lips. Rudker felt himself get hard.

Then the girls got with it, raining blows on each other with an unexpected ferocity. Brenda went down, and Felicia jumped on her, pummeling her in the face and chest. Rudker realized he’d been holding his breath and gulped for air.

He wanted to be in there, swinging away, fists crashing into tender flesh. Girls, guys, it didn’t matter. It was all about release. But his executive position in a conservative industry didn’t allow him to live that close to the edge. Showing up for work with a black eye and a fat lip could derail his career. He had not fought with anyone in years. The other night in the parking lot didn’t count. That skirmish had been unexpected and accidental.

The fight only had three rounds, each five minutes long. At the end, the audience voted for a winner with applause, and Felicia was the clear favorite. Brenda gave them all the finger and stormed out. Felicia circled the ring twice, arms raised in victory, blood running from her face, then left the room. Rudker wished it had lasted longer, but still, it was the best seventeen minutes he’d spent in a long time.

Chapter 10

Thursday, April 15th, 7:59 am

Sula went through the same routine morning she’d carried out the day before, only today, she felt more panicked. First she called Warner’s extension and got no answer, then she called Steve Peterson, who still had not seen or heard from the doctor. She called Warner’s cell and home numbers. No answer and no room left to leave a message. Something was definitely wrong, and it was time to call the police. Still, she hesitated. Once the cops got involved, it might be impossible to search Warner’s office for the suicide data.

Sula was angry with herself for not doing it yesterday afternoon. She had thought about it obsessively, even formulating several plans. One had involved stealing the master keys to the R&D building from Bob Wurtzer, the building maintenance guy. She had immediately rejected the idea as insane. It had occurred to her Marcy had keys to all the offices because she was the one who gave people keys when they were hired. Sula had tried to come up with a workable plan for borrowing Marcy’s keys, but both ideas were so out of character for her mode of thinking and acting that she had become paralyzed with fear.

Now it was too late. Her priority had to be about Warner herself. The doctor was clearly missing. Sula took the elevator up one level to the human resource office on the third floor. She checked her watch: 8:27.

Serena’s first words were, “Have you heard anything about Diane Warner?”

“She’s not in again today. Is Marcy in her office?”

“Yep. Go on in. I think she’s expecting you.”

Marcy was on the phone, so Sula waited in the doorway. Marcy signaled her to sit. The HR director was listening intently to someone on the phone. Her legs were crossed and the one on top swung impatiently. Finally she said, “You will try to reach him, though?”

A pause.

“Thanks. Give him my number please.” Marcy hung up and turned to Sula.

“Diane’s son Jeff works for Doctors without Borders. Right now, he’s in a remote village in Somalia. That was his answering service. They said they would try to track him down and give him my number. I didn’t tell them his mother was missing, because we don’t know that for sure yet.”

“She isn’t here again this morning. I think we should call the police.” Sula sounded more confident than she felt.

“Did you try her house?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Marcy heaved a big sigh. “I’m supposed to fly to Seattle today for meetings with JB’s human resource department.”

“I’ll help in any way I can.” For a second, Sula was tempted to suggest that Marcy let her check out Dr. Warner’s office, but she chickened out.

Marcy grabbed a phone book and looked up the non-emergency number for the Eugene police department. Sula stood to leave.

“Please stay,” Marcy pleaded.

Sula sat back down. While Marcy explained the situation to someone at the police department, Sula casually looked around the office for where the director might keep her set of master keys. A desk drawer was the most likely spot, but maybe a filing cabinet. Sula noticed a set of dark brown luggage leaned against one wall. Marcy was traveling; she would be gone later today. Sula suddenly realized that the woman was talking to her.