F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (29 page)

 
          
But
when she tried to remove the bar, it wouldn't budge.

 
          
She
moaned softly. "Oh, no!" What else could go wrong?

 
          
Her
fingertips grew slick as she tried to wiggle it out. She thought she heard
someone outside the office door. With one last desperate, frantic tug she
wrested the torsion bar from the lock and almost landed on her back.

 
          
Sweating,
shaking, she jammed the Electropick and its accessories into her pocket and
hurried to the door. She pressed her ear against it and listened. Quiet. She
opened it a crack and sneaked a look at Barbara's desk. Empty. Gin took a
breath, stepped through, and walked out.

 
          
She
passed Barbara in the hall, carrying a printout.

 
          
"You're
still here?" Barbara said.

 
          
"Practically
on my way out. Say, did I hear Dr. Lathram's voice before?"

           
"Yeah. But you missed him.
He's already come and gone. I think he forgot something. Probably back on the
golf course already." Yeah. Right.

 
          
"Barbara,
I just have to look something up, then I'm gone. See you Thursday."

 
          
She
hurried to the records room. Carol the file clerk had left for the day, so Gin
had the room to herself. Manila folders lined every inch of wall except for the
dictation area in the corner. A computer terminal on the desk there, and a
short shelf of medical reference texts. Gin grabbed the PDR and thumbed through
the generic and chemical name index.

 
          
No
listing for triptolinic diethylamide.

 
          
Not
surprising. It wasn't in a commercial container.

 
          
Next
was the Mersk Index, a weighty, small-print tome that listed the name and
formula of just about every available chemical compound. But again she struck
out.

 
          
Gin
sat at the dictation desk and stared at the blank face of the computer screen
before her, wondering where to look next.

 
          
Okay.
If the Index didn't list the stuff, it was either brand new or had never been
reported to it.

 
          
She
snapped her fingers. An investigational compound. Something in development. Had
to be.

 
          
But
how to track it down? The properties of new compounds were kept close to the
vest during the development stages. But their formulas were registered
immediately for patent protection.

 
          
Gin
picked up the phone.

 
          
"Hi,
Barbara. Don't we have a linkup to the FDA database?"

        
   
"Sure. And NIH, and the
American
College
of, "

           
"How do I access the
FDA?"

           
"It's kinda complicated. I've
got an instruction manual somewhere around here that tells,''

           
"I'll be right up." Gin
trotted upstairs where Barbara made a relay team handoff of the manual as Gin
passed her desk. A minute later she was seated before the records-room
computer, logging herself into the FDA computer, and picking her way through
the various menus until she got to investigational compounds in development.

 
          
But
again no listing for triptolinic diethylamide.

 
          
Double
damn. This was like chasing a phantom. But she wasn't giving up yet. There had
to be some other way. The label on the bottle . . . the GEM Pharma colophon.
What if she used the company as a starting point and worked back from there?

 
          
It
took a good forty minutes of running into dead ends and backtracking, but she
finally located triptolinic diethylamide in the vast cybernetic waste bin of
discarded registered compounds on which further research had been canceled.

 
          
She
downloaded the file and tagged it with her initials, RFP for Regina Francesca
Panzella, then logged off the database. Back in the Lathram system again, she
entered "TYPE RFPMORE" and began reading from the hard drive.

 
          
A
small file. Triptolinic diethylamide, referred to as TPD in the file, started
off its existence at GEM Pharma as an investigational compound with antidepressant
properties. Early animal trials in mice and rats were encouraging, but when testing
moved up to primates, TPD was found to be toxic, inducing psychotic states. All
further investigation was canceled and GEM Pharma moved on to more promising
compounds.

 
          
A
sudden queasy feeling rippled through Gin's stomach.

 
          
Toxic
. . . psychotic states . . . Senator Vincent's behavior before his seizure was
certainly disturbed, might even fit the criteria for psychotic. And from what
she'd heard, even though he hadn't had any further seizures, mentally he
remained far out in left field.

 
          
And
Duncan
. . .
Duncan
had been there, right there in the hearing
room when it had happened.

 
          
A
few feet to her left, she heard the laser printer begin to - hum.

 
          
And
Congressman Allard . . . he'd had that nasty fall and cerebral concussion that
had left him disoriented, not quite sure of who or where he was. But what if it
wasn't the concussion that had scrambled his thoughts? What if his thoughts had
been scrambled before the fall . . . as he was going down the steps? What if
the scrambled thoughts had caused the fall?

 
          
Gin's
own thoughts began to feel scrambled. She blinked and rubbed her eyes with an
unsteady hand as the queasy feeling rippled toward nausea.

 
          
Footsteps
behind her. Quickly Gin blanked the screen, then looked up to see Barbara
retrieving her printout.

 
          
"You
okay?" Barbara said, staring at her.

 
          
"Hmmm?
Why do you ask?"

           
"Because you don't look so
hot. I mean, you looked fine when you picked up that manual, now you look like
you're gonna be sick." Maybe I am.

 
          
Gin
rubbed her upper abdomen. "My stomach's bothering me." That was no
lie.

 
          
"You're
working too hard. You're gonna give yourself an ulcer."

           
"Maybe I already have."

           
"I've got some Mylanta,"

           
"That's okay. ' Barbara
pointed to the FDA database manual. "You finished with that?"

           
"Yes. Thanks."

 
          
"I'm
getting ready to leave," Barbara said as she picked up the manual. "You
want me to lock you in?"

           
"No. I've done all I can do
here. I'm on my way."

           
As Barbara went back upstairs, Gin
shut off the terminal and got to her feet. She felt weak, confused as she
trudged upstairs, ninety years old at least.

 
          
She
was barely aware of her surroundings. Somewhere along the way she said good-bye
to Barbara, but when she reached her car, she didn't start the engine. She sat
behind the wheel and stared at the back of
Duncan
's officer building.

 
          
Vincent
. . . Allard . . . but what about Schulz? He jumped off his balcony. Was that
psychotic? Maybe, maybe not. But it certainly wasn't rational. And
Congressman Lane
. He died in a car accident with a high
blood-alcohol level. She couldn't link that to
Duncan
. But she couldn't rule it out, either. What
if the TPD reacted with alcohol?

 
          
Or
what if it kicked in while he was driving? The same disorientation that could
make you fall could make you drive off the road.

 
          
I
hate this, she thought. She pounded her fist against the steering wheel. Hate
it!

 
          
Duncan
couldn't be involved in this. Couldn't.
Listen to me. Involved in what? No evidence that there was anything for
Duncan
to be involved in.

 
          
Then
why the TPD? What legitimate reason could
Duncan
have for keeping a psychosis-inducing
compound locked in his desk drawer?

 
          
Okay
. . . Oliver used to work for GEM Pharma, the company name on the label. That
would explain how the bottle found its way to
Duncan
. But why have it at all? Why keep something
of no therapeutic value, something that was a proven toxin?

 
          
And
what about the trocar, perfect for inserting one of Oliver's large-size
implants, loaded with TPD, maybe? , under someone's skin, where it could nestle
in the fat until
Duncan
zapped it with an ultrasound beam?

 
          
Wait
a minute. Ultrasound. That was where this whole insane scenario broke down.
Sure,
Duncan
had been at the Guidelines committee
hearing when Senator Vincent went off the deep end, but Gin hadn't noticed him
wheeling an ultrasound machine through the room.

 
          
And
yet . . with microchips and printed circuits, it was certainly possible to have
an ultrasound transducer small enough to fit in one's pocket and . . .

 
          
Gin
rubbed her throbbing temples. She hated what she was thinking.

 
          
She
began remembering
Louisiana
and wishing she'd stayed there.

 
          
If
only she could know!

 
          
She
shook herself and started the car. One thing she did know, come Thursday
morning she was going to be on duty and she was not going to let Senator
Marsden out of her sight for one second.

PRESURGICAL

           
DUNCAN
POURED A SECOND CUP OF COFFEE FROM. THE
carafe and settled behind his desk. He liked Wednesday mornings in the cool
stony quiet of the officer, especially when, like today, he could get in early
and have the place to himself. With no surgery scheduled, he could dawdle with
his coffee, savoring the silence and the aroma as he watched his koi meander
around their pool in the rock garden, and catch up on his dictation, tidy up
any loose ends from Monday's and Tuesday's procedures, then have the rest of
the day to himself. Maybe he'd call Brad and convince him to take the afternoon
off from classes, he figured Brad would need about ten seconds of convincing.
Maybe they could get in a round of golf. He hadn't played in ages.

 
          
He
picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV across the room. He switched from
CNN to Today to Good Morning America to This Morning and then back to CNN.
Apparently nothing newsworthy had happened yesterday, and the morning shows
seemed interested only in movie stars.

 
          
C-SPAN
was rerunning footage of presbyopic senators droning over long speeches to an
empty chamber in support of or in opposition to some inconsequential bill.

 
          
Time
to catch up on dictating his surgical reports. He pulled out his key and
inserted it into the lock. It wouldn't turn. He tried it again, wiggling it
back and forth, sliding it in and out. He checked to make sure it was the right
key, then tried again and noticed that the key wasn't going in all the way.
Something was wrong with the lock. Jammed somehow.

 
          
Now
how the hell had that happened? It hadn't been sticking or showing any warning
signs that something was amiss. Goddamn. What a world.

 
          
Didn't
anybody make anything that worked?

 
          
He
wandered out to Barbara's desk and now wished she were here. He needed to get a
locksmith to get that damn thing open. He supposed he could call himself but it
was probably too early. He grabbed a pen and left a note on Barbara's desk to
call one as soon as she got in.

 
          
As
he straightened and started to turn away, he noticed the manual for the FDA
database Lying on Barbara's desk. Probably Oliver had needed it.

 
          
At
least somebody was getting some use out of it.

 
          
He
went in search of another minirecorder.

 
          
Gin
levered up to a sitting position in bed.

 
          
"Oh
my God! " She'd been lying here, wishing she could rest easy and
luxuriate. No surgery today, no moonlighting last night, and no meetings at the
senator's until the afternoon. Should have been a great morning.

 
          
But
yesterday's revelations wheeled over the bed like hungry vultures.

 
          
The
trocar . . . the TPD . . . the information from the FDA . . . she kept trying
to put a fresh spin on them, one , wouldn't make
Duncan
look bad. Racking her brain, going over
everything, she remembered the FDA download.

 
          
"RFP"
file she'd created on the hard drive.

 
          
She
hadn't erased it.

 
          
She
jumped out of bed and began pulling on her clothes.

 
          
Could
brush her hair in the car, but no time for a shower.

 
          
Had
to get up to the office and erase that file. If
Duncan
found it, or Oliver ran across it and asked
Duncan
about he'd know she'd been in the drawer.

 
          
She
grabbed her car keys and ran out.

 
          
"Right,
Doc," the locksmith said. He was thin, looked but forty, reeked of
tobacco, and had Bill stitched on his shirt.

 
          
"You're
all set."

 
          
"Excellent,"
Duncan
said but didn't mean it. The man spent an
hour on what should have been a fifteen-minute job. It hadn't been easy, but
after twenty minutes of grunts and muttered curses, Bill finally got the drawer
unlocked.
Duncan
hovered over him the whole time, and as
soon as the drawer slipped open, he removed the TPD and trocar and put them in
one of the cabinets on the other side of the room.

 
          
Neither
would mean a thing to the locksmith, but
Duncan
wanted them safe and out of sight. As for
the rest of the drawer's contents, he dumped them on the desktop.

 
          
Bill
took the empty drawer out to his truck, saying he would work on it better
there.
Duncan
figured he could also have a cigarette.

 
          
So
now, after an interminable period, Bill was back.

 
          
"Had
to put in a new lock."

 
          
"What
was the matter with the old one?"

           
"I wanted to know the same
thing. Had to take it apart to find out. A little strange." Why did he
seem hesitant?

 
          
"How
so?" He fished in his pocket and brought out a piece of Scotch tape. He
dropped it on the desktop in front of
Duncan
.

 
          
"This
was in it."
Duncan
picked up the tape, a single piece folded on itself. Caught between the
two sticky surfaces was a small shard of metal.

 
          
"How
did this get in my lock?"

           
"Somebody left it there."

 
          
"Now
why on earth?"

           
"Not on purpose. It looks like
it broke off the tip of a tension bar."

 
          
"A
tension bar?"

           
"You know, something you use
to pick locks with."

           
No,
Duncan
did not know. He stared at Bill as a spasm
rippled through his intestines. He dropped the tape, then snatched it off the
desk.

 
          
Had
this man actually said . . . ?

 
          
"What?"
Duncan
's expression must have been fierce, because
Bill began verbally back pedaling.

 
          
"I
can't be sure, of course, but that's the first thing I thought of when I saw it
drop out of the cylinder."

 
          
"But
that's ridiculous!" He realized he'd raised his voice. He hadn't meant to
do that.

 
          
"Hey,
okay," Bill said, making conciliatory motions with his hands. "Don't
get excited. Makes no difference to me. If you ain't missin' nothin', then I
guess maybe I could be wrong. But it sure looks like the tip of a tension
bar."

           
Duncan
's mind raced back over the contents of the
drawer. The TPD, the trocar, Lisa's photo, the recorder, and some miscellaneous
junk. All there when they'd opened. the drawer.

 
          
He
modulated his tone. "Well, I'm not missing anything. And I don't keep
anything in there worth stealing in the first place. So I guess that means the
lock wasn't picked."

           
Bill shrugged, averting his gaze.
"You could say that. Could also say that the piece might've chipped off
and jammed in there before whoever it was got the drawer open."
Duncan
winced as the spasm tightened its grip on
his gut. He's right.

 
          
But
who in the world . . . ?

 
          
"Yes,
well, since nothing is missing, I think I'll just forget about it. But I'm
certainly glad you brought it to my . . . attention.

           
"Hey, no problem." When
Bill left, leaving a set of keys for the new lock,
Duncan
went to the appliance cabinet and checked
the TPD bottle.

 
          
He
hadn't memorized the previous fluid level but it appeared unchanged.

 
          
The
autoclave envelope was still sealed around the trocar. He replaced both in the
drawer and locked it. Then he leaned back in his desk chair and felt his gut
slowly uncoil as he willed himself toward calm.

 
          
All
right. Let's be rational. Very strange. And very unsettling.

 
          
But
where was the logical reason for anyone to try to get into that drawer, and by
picking the lock, of all things?

 
          
And
what was there, really, to worry about? Even if someone had found the TPD, what
could they do? They wouldn't know what it was. TPD was an orphaned, abandoned
compound. The only record of its existence was in the dead files of GEM Pharma,
and in the cavernous data banks of the . . . FDA.

 
          
Good
Lord!

 
          
Duncan
bolted from the chair and hurried out to
the reception area.

 
          
"Barbara!
Did you use the FDA database yesterday?"

           
"No, I,"

           
"I saw the manual on your desk
this morning." She leaned back from him, a startled expression on hex
face. He hadn't intended to speak so harshly.

 
          
"I,
I gave it to Dr. Panzella yesterday. She asked for it, so I dug it out for
her."

             
He was stunned. Gin?

 
          
"That
was all right, wasn't it?"

           
Gin?

 
          
"What?
Oh, yes. Fine." Time for a little damage control. "I was just looking
for it. I have to use it . . . need some data from the FDA myself."

           
Barbara handed it to him and he
returned to his office, shaking his head at the image of Gin attempting to pick
a lock.

 
          
Absurd.
Laughable.

 
          
And
yet . . .

 
          
She
certainly had access and opportunity. But why would she? No. No way.

 
          
And
yet . . .

 
          
The
jammed lock, Gin asking for the FDA manual . . . the juxtaposition was just a
little too close.

 
          
Duncan
returned to his desk and turned on his
computer terminal. Maybe there was some way to find out just what she was after
from the FDA.

 
          
Gin
stiffened behind the wheel when she saw
Duncan
's car in the lot.

 
          
Not
that unusual for him to be here on a Wednesday morning, but she'd been hoping
and praying he'd have done whatever it was he did and be gone by now.