The Magic Bullet (40 page)

But, as those who’d be assessing them well knew, developing new cancer treatments was a gruesome business. It must not be forgotten that this had been conceived as a highly experimental trial; initially its object had been nothing more than to establish that this compound was active. In fact, it was only because they had so dramatically exceeded that goal that it could now be viewed as a disappointment. Suddenly Compound J was being judged by the much more rigorous performance and safety standards normally applied to drugs in Phase Three trials.

Who could doubt, even now, that it would be a mistake to abandon this drug?

The logic seemed so compelling that by late evening, Sabrina wished it were already the next day.

“This night will be hard, I think,” she told Logan as he pulled up before her apartment. “Waiting is the hardest.”

“Tell me about it. God, I hate those bastards.”

She led him inside. “It is late,” she said. “Just one glass of wine”—then retreated to the back to check her messages.

“Logan,” she said, reappearing a moment later. “Come here.”

“What?”

Wordlessly, she took his hand and led him toward the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she punched a button on her answering machine. After a brief pause, there came the familiar voice.

“What’s all this fuss about?” demanded an obviously perplexed Mrs. Kober. “I get back from my sister’s and there are three messages on my machine. Anyhow, if you still need me, I’ll be in tonight. If not, I’ll be in next week for my regular treatment.” She laughed. “Hooray! The last one!”

“That’s some good news, no?” said Sabrina. “Maybe an omen.”

Logan smiled. “Think we ought to give her a call?”

Snatching up her book, she dialed the number.

It turned out that Mrs. Kober had indeed felt ill briefly several days before. “A little fluish, you know? That’s why my sister was looking after me.”

“But now it is past?”

“It was the flu—a few chills, a little vomiting, and it went away.” There was a questioning tone in her voice. “Why, what’s going on?”

“Then you are all right now?”

“Don’t hold back on me, Dr. Como. Is there something I should know?”

Logan, listening to her end of the conversation, watched Sabrina shrug. “Some people on the protocol have gotten quite sick, so we are checking. But, no, it sounds like you are fine.”

“I
am
fine, you sweet girl. But if that changes, I promise, you’ll be the first to know.”

When Sabrina got off, she grinned at Logan. “For her, I really think this drug has worked.”

“Forget the omens, that’s called
ammo
.”

“You’re right. We must go in that room tomorrow
aggressive
.”

He reached out for her across the bed. “Why does it do something to me when you talk that way?”

“Because I almost never do.” Smiling, she gave his hand a loving squeeze. “Not tonight, Logan, I want you to go home. We must both be alert for tomorrow.”

At least there wasn’t any suspense. As soon as they walked into the room, it was clear the process was rigged. Larsen sat at the head of the conference table. Around him were a who’s who of the protocol’s enemies: Stillman, Marion Winston, Peter Kratsas, and, representing their peers, Allen Atlas.

Also present, of course, looking utterly miserable in his seat at the opposite end of the table, was John Reston. As Logan and Sabrina moved to their own places nearby he
nodded, but—at least some of the others had to notice—edged his chair a couple of inches in the other direction.

Larsen looked solemnly around the table. “Thank you all for being so prompt,” he began. “Courtesy is something I’m afraid we could use a lot more of at this institution. Now then, let us move on to the business that brings us here.

“You are all by now aware of the deaths of several patients on the roster of the trial of so-called Compound J. I am sure you share my sense of the extreme gravity of this situation.” He paused, leaning forward slightly, his blue-gray eyes boring in on the Compound J team. “And I must tell you, it is my intention to rectify it.”

Only now did Logan see with absolute clarity how bad it was going to be. There would not even be the pretense of allowing them their say. The verdict was already in, it was just a matter of going through the formality of reaching it.

Larsen turned to the patient care rep. “Ms. Winston, I believe you have some preliminary observations.”

Logan sneaked a sideways glance at Sabrina. Her expression was absolutely blank, but the rhythmic movement of her jaw muscles let him know her insides were churning as much as his.

“Yes, I do,” said Winston evenly. She opened a file folder and stared down at the page. “This is not a pleasant exercise for someone in my position to have to go through. I am interested in helping people, that’s why I got into this business. I am not interested in doing harm to anyone’s career.” Now she looked up and surveyed the table. “But I’m afraid there is considerable evidence that at least one member of this team, its principal investigator, Dr. Logan, has been extremely negligent in regard to patients. I expressed this concern before this protocol was approved, and in light of what’s occurred since, I feel it even more strongly today. I would like to bring before this group two women who have had what can only be called emotionally devastating experiences under this doctor’s care.”

Logan, flushed, raised his hand. “Excuse me—”

“You are speaking out of turn, Doctor,” reprimanded Larsen. “Please allow Ms. Winston to continue.”

“I was only going to say,” pressed Logan, “that I could produce any number of patients who—”

“Perhaps you could,” he was cut off. “But this is not a game of numbers. Treating even one patient with contempt is unacceptable.”

Logan sunk down in his seat, resigned.

The women, of course, were Rochelle Boudin and Faith Byrne.

Called in first and taking her place at the table, Boudin went through the litany of Logan’s supposed abuses. How he’d systematically neglected her needs. How he’d made a point of belittling her concerns. How he’d consistently failed to deliver the treatment her condition demanded. “He just always made me feel,” she summed up softly, “that the fact I had cancer was an inconvenience to him.”

The bitter thought, having crossed Logan’s mind, refused to leave:
Funny, isn’t it? If I treated you so miserably, how’d you end up cured?

Byrne, who followed, was even worse. In self-dramatizing detail, she told the story of her initial treatment with Compound J: emphasizing her concern—and his complete absence of same—for what turned out to be the drug’s very real dangers. Never mind that she was, at the time, being carefully monitored and showed no danger signs; never mind that the best measure of Logan’s performance was the fact that she was sitting here, right now,
alive;
Byrne’s fable was accorded serious weight. Around the table, she was met with sympathetic nods.

“The worst of it,” chimed in Winston, “was that subsequently, on his own authority and against her will, Dr. Logan removed Mrs. Byrne from the protocol. I personally regard this as an act of petty vindictiveness.”

At this, Logan actually came close to smiling. These people would say anything.
Which was it
—
he was a monster for knowingly subjecting patients to a horribly dangerous drug, or a monster for NOT allowing them to take it?

But by now, logic seemed the farthest thing from anyone’s mind.

“I’d like to say something, if I might,” said Allen Atlas, as soon as Byrne left the room. Ever the kiss-ass, he glanced meaningfully toward Stillman and Kratsas. “I don’t know if this is the appropriate time to raise this, but one thing that might be considered here is that Drs. Logan and Como developed a second, related drug. They call it Compound J-lite, I believe.”

Beside him, Peter Kratsas snorted. “Real clever,” he observed, sarcastically.

But Logan was too stunned to notice.
How did Atlas even know about the variant on the original drug?

“When tested in lab rabbits,” continued Atlas, “this compound at first showed a good deal of activity—followed by extreme toxicity.”

“I think what Dr. Atlas is driving at,” picked up Stillman, speaking for the first time, “is that this is the same pattern observed in the deceased patients. Now, obviously this is speculation. The evidence is only circumstantial.” His eyes narrowed and he flashed an odd half-smile. “But it seems the possibility must be considered that these doctors substituted this second drug for the one that had been approved for protocol use.”

Instantly, Logan was on his feet. “That’s a damn lie! Compound J-lite was a private experiment. We did NOT violate the protocol!”

“Dr. Logan, sit down!” shouted Larsen.

“Logan is right,” said Sabrina loudly, pointing a finger Stillman’s way. “You know we did not do this thing! Why would you say so?”

It was as close to losing control as anyone had ever seen her, and momentarily Larsen seemed at a loss. “Dr. Como … 
please
.”

“No, this is not to be smoothed over. To say such things,
that
is wrong—not what we did!”

“All right,” said Larsen, decisive again, “we are going to take a break now. And when we come back, I expect
both of you”—he stared at Logan and Sabrina—“to control yourselves. You are not doing yourselves any good here.”

Leaving the room quickly, they moved down the corridor, turned up another, and retreated to a quiet corner. Both were seething. “I’m going to bring up Mrs. Kober,” said Logan quietly. “We’ve gotta say something on the drug’s behalf.”

“They will not let you.”

“We should’ve brought her down here, no way they could’ve stopped us.” He shook his head bitterly. “That son of a bitch Atlas. How’d he even know about those fucking rabbits?”

“Oh, here you are!”

And there, to their astonishment, stood Gregory Stillman.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Stillman, ingratiatingly, “I know how it is.” He nodded back toward the meeting room. “Tough going in there.”

Sabrina eyed him with undisguised loathing. “What kind of man are you, Dr. Stillman?” she said, her voice hard enough to cut glass.

In response, he actually managed a smile. “Look, I understand how you feel. I really do. All I can tell you is that it’s not personal. We’re competitors, sure, but we share the same goals.” He paused. “Dr. Logan understands that, don’t you?

“Me? Not for a second.”

“Your friend Reston does.” He flashed that smile again. “I’ve just gotten through talking with him.”

Logan and Sabrina exchanged a glance, but made no reply.

“Look,” added Stillman, a model of sweet reason, “no one denies you’ve had some interesting results. But when there are legitimate questions about methodology, we’ve got an obligation to raise them.”

Abruptly, Logan knew what this was about. “You want to take over this drug, don’t you?”

“That’s a hell of an accusation,” said the other, without missing a beat. “Let’s just say that, given the history of this protocol, it’s pretty obvious it could use an experienced guiding hand.” He looked from one to the other. “I’d even say Compound J’s finished without it.”

“No,” said Sabrina flatly. “We don’t even want to talk with you!”

Stillman shot her daggers. “
You
don’t want to talk to
me?
Perhaps you fail to grasp the position you’re in.”

“You’re doing this to us only because your own protocol has shown no results. Anyone can see that!”

Logan could see the effort it took for the man to retain a semblance of calm. No
one
spoke to the esteemed Gregory Stillman this way. “Well,” he said, “why don’t we just let your boyfriend, the principle investigator here, answer for himself?”

“So we would still have a major role?” asked Logan evenly.

“Absolutely. This has been your baby. I don’t for a second flatter myself that I could pull this off without you.”

An astonishing admission. This guy wanted this thing
bad
.

But Logan’s interest in the proposition was as counterfeit as his seeming calm. The bastard’s intention couldn’t have been clearer if he posted it on the bulletin board in the administration building: Compound J was to become a Stillman project. Their dogged work with the compound would earn them nothing more than inclusion among a long list of junior associates—if that. For who could doubt that, once Stillman had his hands on their research, he’d cut them out entirely?

“I take it Reston’s already agreed to this?” asked Logan.

“Happily. After all, his bottom line is the same as mine: he only wants to see this drug succeed.”

Logan paused thoughtfully. “Well, then, I hope you enjoy working with John Reston as much as we have.”

Stillman’s face darkened. “That’s it? That’s what you have to tell me?”

“Yes,” said Sabrina, taking Logan’s hand, “that is it.”

“Fine,” snapped the other, turning on his heel. “See you inside.”

W
hatever satisfaction the exchange with Stillman gave them vanished the moment they reentered the room. At the table, where Boudin and Byrne had been, sat … Ray Coopersmith.

He wore the same anxious expression Logan remembered from their meeting at the Hotel Jefferson. How long ago was that? Nine months? Ten? Only, now his hair was neatly trimmed and his suit, gray with muted pinstripes, appeared to be brand-new.

“Dr. Coopersmith,” began Larsen, “we understand you met some time ago with Dr. Logan.”

“November sixth.” He looked around the room and smiled broadly. “A Saturday.”

“And this was at your instigation?”

“His.”

“That’s another lie,” said Logan.

“Dr. Logan, I am ready to conduct this hearing without you.”

“I’m just supposed to sit here? I don’t even get to present my side?”

Larsen’s voice grew even colder. “ ‘Your side?’ You had almost a year to inform me that you had met with Dr. Coopersmith. It was your choice not to do so. Unless you deny that such a meeting occurred.”

Logan made no response.

“I thought not.” He turned to Coopersmith. “I promise you, that won’t happen again. Now, perhaps you might fill us in on your background with this institution.”