The Magic Bullet (42 page)

“I question the validity of that statement,” she sneered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“All your alleged data is collected by people whose minds are already made up. Doctors are just in cahoots with the drug companies and you know it.”

Their father laughed. “She’s got you there.”

“What, you’re opposed to drugs too?”

“Absolutely. My friend Lucy had breast cancer and they gave her chemotherapy. After every treatment she vomited
for hours, and her hair started to fall out. Do you call that natural?”

This was a ludicrous conversation; the equivalent of a big-league ballplayer trying to explain the fine points of sliding technique to someone who doesn’t know where the bases are. “I happen to know something about breast cancer,” he said. “What would you suggest as an alternative?”

“Native Americans use yucca plants.”

“Oh, yes? And do you have any data on
their
cure rate?”

“Catherine made me some yucca plant tea for my arthritis,” cut in their mother. “I found it very helpful.”

Their father held up his hand to indicate this phase of the conversation was over, a peremptory gesture Logan had seen a thousand times before. “So,” he said, turning to his son, “I want to hear about your plans.”

Logan blanched; he needed time to prepare for this. “I have a number of options,” he equivocated.

“What?”

“Well, I do have one offer.”

“Where’s that?”

“New York City.”

His father looked mildly interested. “In a private practice? With a hospital?”

In fact, the offer wasn’t quite firm—and it was from neither a private practice nor a hospital. Among the first people he’d called after the ax fell was his friend Ruben Perez. Perez was now working part-time at a small start-up company in lower Manhattan, a research lab involved in AIDS drug delivery systems—and he was pretty sure the guy in charge could use someone with Logan’s credentials.

The job held minimal interest or prestige, and the pay would not be high. Logan would do almost anything to avoid taking it. “I don’t want to get into that now. As I say, I want to do some asking around. I plan to make calls all next week.” He turned to his father. “Don’t worry, I’ll reimburse you for the phone bill.”

“I’m not worried, I know you will.”

“I don’t see how you can even begin to defend doctors,” said Cathy sharply, “after what they’ve done to you.”

“That’s not fair, Catherine. It’s really not.”

In the silence that followed, Logan poured himself a second glass of wine.

“I
’ve been looking over the latest data on Elizabeth Rivers,” said Kenneth Markell, indicating the foot-high pile of folders on his desk. “I’ve spent the past two hours on it, as a matter of fact.”

Distractedly, he picked up the top folder and opened it. Like the others, it was marked “E. Cleveland” on its outside cover; the code name was the one Stillman had decided on right at the start, the afternoon three months before when the case had been tossed into his lap.

“I hear from that son of a bitch at the White House, Malcolm, almost every day. Did you know that?”

“I’m not surprised,” said Stillman evenly. “Our problem is also their problem.”

“The way they see it, their problem is our problem.” Markell paused. “And frankly, Greg, let me put this as bluntly as I can—as far as I’m concerned, our problem is your problem.”

Right
, thought Stillman,
as in, if the shit really hit the fan and the politicos went head-hunting at the ACF, his would be the one they’d be after
. “I’ve been aware of that for some time, sir,” he said, “and I accept it.”

Markell flipped through the folder, as if on further study he might find some reason for encouragement. “Look, the bottom line is this: The standard chemo isn’t working.”

“It’s only been a month, she’s only had two cycles. I’d like to try at least one more.” In fact, the three drugs involved in the treatment—doxorubicin, cyclophosphamide, and 5-fluorouracil—were the most active established agents against breast malignancy. Over the years, both these men had used them with considerable success. “I do
see some real positives. She tolerates this combination extremely well, there’ve been almost no side effects to speak of.”

“Christ, Stillman, the tumor’s growing right through the stuff! If I didn’t know better, I’d think the chemo was actually feeding the malignancy!”

Stillman nodded. “And how aware are they of her progress at the White House?”

“They’re not idiots, Marty. You don’t think much of Burke, neither do I, but he is an M.D. He can read X rays.”

The latest X rays were what had them both so concerned. Not only was the tumor in her lung growing, it now appeared as a nodular density.

“Well, then, he also shouldn’t expect magic,” countered Stillman, with quiet vehemence.

“Ah, but that’s the thing of it—they do. They’re looking for you to treat her with a goddamn magic wand.” Markell rose to his feet. “It’s time to try and give it to them. I want to go experimental. Let’s talk about the results of your protocol.”

Caught short, Stillman took a moment to collect himself. “Well,” he said, smiling, “I haven’t killed anybody.”

He was gratified to see Markell smile back. “That’s not exactly the kind of endorsement I had in mind.”

“Maybe not. But in experimental breast treatments around here lately, that makes it unique.”

“I agree, you were on target about that.” Markell shook his head. “That’s all our friends at the White House would have needed right now, a public stink about some kid doctor at the ACF hyping his results.”

“On breast cancer.”

“Where’s Logan going, anyway?”

“I have no idea. One of them’s still around, though—Reston, the one who came clean. He’s got promise, why not give him a break?”

Markell looked at him with sudden impatience; who the hell did Stillman think he was kidding with this show of ersatz magnanimity? “We’ve already had this conversation,
Greg. What I want to hear about now is dyronium nitrate. Tell me about your results.”

“Look, I believe in this drug. Let’s begin with that.”

“Why? On the basis of what data?”

“We don’t have all our data in yet. But we’ve already had some encouraging responses. No appreciable tumor shrinkage, but seventeen of the thirty-eight women on the protocol have shown considerable periods of stabilization.”

“How considerable?”

“In several cases, we’re at six months and counting.”

Markell sat back down behind his desk. Briefly, he seemed to focus on an abstract painting at the far end of his large office. “I know you want to be a hero on this one, Greg,” he said, “I know that you want to make her well.”

“Isn’t that what
they
want?”

He nodded. “But I think it’s time to think about cutting losses. Let’s put her on this stuff of yours. Maybe she won’t get better—but your job right now is to see to it she doesn’t get worse.”

T
hree days after he arrived, a Monday morning, Logan closed the door of the small den and settled onto the faded green love-seat that had been there as long as he could remember. On a small table beside him sat the same black rotary phone. Glancing down at the yellow legal pad in his lap, he picked up the receiver.

His plan was simple enough. There were twenty-seven comprehensive cancer centers in the United States; each so designated by the ACF for its record in basic research and the range of clinical trials and community programs it sponsored. Before this week was over, he intended to hit every one of them.

As an intellectual proposition, Logan knew not to be overly optimistic; if nothing else, the experience he’d just lived through had taught him how quickly a seeming sure thing can blow up in one’s face. Still, he couldn’t help himself. He’d been around, he knew his relative worth in the biomedical community. Hadn’t he, a mere year and a half before, been among the prize recruits in the nation? And—never mind the recent unpleasantness—it was reasonable to assume that his time at the ACF could only have increased his market value.

His first call, to the Washington Memorial Cancer Center in St. Louis, quickly confirmed that feeling. Here, as at a dozen other institutions around the country, Logan enjoyed the advantage of already knowing a higher-up—in this case a crackerjack oncologist named Bradley Merritt, formerly associated with Claremont Hospital.

Since he ran into one of those automated phone systems that refused to deal with his rotary phone, it took
Logan several minutes to reach his office. But when he did, Merritt had his secretary put through the call immediately.

“Dan Logan,” he said, with a heartiness Logan had never before associated with him, “what a terrific surprise!”

“Well, Brad, just thought I’d say hello,” he tried to respond in kind.

“Believe it or not, I was talking about you just the other day—about how many of the best and the brightest seem to come out of that place.” He laughed. “I probably should’ve appreciated it more at the time.”

There was more small talk about Claremont and assorted souls they’d both known there, before Merritt flipped the subject to today. “I assume you’re not calling just to reminisce.”

Logan chuckled. “No—much as I enjoy it. Frankly, I want to find out how things are over there. The sorts of research you’re involved in, the quality of the work environment.”

“You’re asking if there are any openings?”

“I always like to keep my ears open. And my options.”

“What about the ACF? You’ve got to have—what?—another year or so on that contract.” There was no trace of suspicion in this. In fact, Logan had the impression he was trying to restrain his enthusiasm.

“Oh, we don’t exactly see eye to eye on some things. They know I’m looking around.” A variation on what he’d decided would be his standard explanation.

“When could you come aboard?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” Caught by surprise, Logan paused a moment. “Probably pretty soon. But, I should tell you, this is the first call I’ve made. I’m going to want to see what else is out there.”

“You’re not going to do better than here. A top-notch facility, quality people.… The governing philosophy is to go after the best—then give them the lab space, and the freedom, to pursue their passions.”

Logan couldn’t believe it: the guy was
desperate
for him. What Merritt couldn’t know was how appealing it
sounded. Logan ached for a lab where he could pursue independent research—and one line of inquiry in particular. “Sounds good,” he acknowledged blandly.

“Look, Dan, do me a favor. Don’t call anyone else today. Let me speak to the director here and see what kind of package we can put together. Will you do that for me?”

“I guess so.” Logan chuckled. “Only, what am I supposed to do now with the rest of the day?”

“Thanks, Dan, really. Just sit tight. I’ll get back to you.”

The call came that evening, shortly after dinner. Logan took it in the same room. As soon as he heard Merritt’s voice, stripped of all animation, he knew something had gone terribly wrong.

“Uh, listen, Dan,” he began, “I’ve spoken to our top guys.”

“Yeah …?”

“It seems we’re in a holding pattern right now. No new hires at all.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Look, I’m terribly sorry. I hope I didn’t lead you on.”

“Not at all.” No need to prolong this; it was agony for both of them.

“Good. Look, I’m sure you’ll land something terrific.”

“Oh, yeah.”

But the knot in Logan’s stomach meant he already suspected otherwise. On some level, this is what he’d been fearing—that, somehow, he’d been tainted.

Over the next two days, he called every one of the remaining eleven institutions in which he knew a senior staffer on a first-name basis. At most, he had no trouble accepting what he heard: sorry, money was tight, they just weren’t hiring. But at no fewer than four, ranging from Scripps-Morgan in southern California to Boston’s Revere Hospital, the St. Louis experience was repeated with only minor variation; strong initial enthusiasm unaccountably dissipating within twenty-four hours.

But, then, he knew what was happening—it was just a
matter of facing it. At every one of those institutions, someone had checked in with the ACF.

“Look, Nick, just tell me what’s going on?” Logan finally erupted when his last in-house source called with the bad news. “Who got to you guys?”

“That has nothing to do with it,” came the mealy-mouthed reply. “You know how these things are, decisions that seem made get unmade.”

Anyway, what was the point? Logan already knew the answer. There was only one office at the ACF to which such calls would have been directed: that of Raymond Larsen.

By Thursday morning, as he set about cold-calling the second group of institutions on his list—those in which he would be known, if at all, only by reputation—Logan had reached a decision. At least in this initial approach, he would make no mention of his association with the ACF, acknowledging it only if the matter was raised on the other end. True enough, this could cause logistical problems. How to account for the previous eighteen months? How, indeed, to present himself as sufficiently credentialed as a cancer researcher to make a case for himself as a potential employee? Still, given the apparent alternatives—certain rejection versus at least the slim possibility of moving to the next step—the choice seemed obvious.

Then, again, by the end of that morning, he was convinced the point was moot. The five calls he made to assorted department of oncology heads and cancer center directors, or, more precisely, to their secretaries and assistants, produced not even a flicker of interest. More than that, in a couple of instances, judging from the knowing tone on the other end, he had the impression that his call had been
expected
.

Could it be that Larsen was actually seeking out potential employees and blacklisting him? Why? Could those bastards really be so vindictive they’d want to
bury
him?

Or—this was equally a possibility—maybe he was just starting to lose it. Making these calls
was
hard, a violent
assault on his already battered ego; seeing himself as victim was, in its way, safer. It was certainly easier. Sometimes now he found himself overcome by a wave of hopelessness so intense that for minutes at a time he couldn’t bring himself to move, let alone pick up the phone.
What miserably wrong turn had his life taken that had him sitting here day after day, staring at those damn pine-paneled walls and the pictures his father had stuck up of dogs playing cards, getting crapped on by people who didn’t know the first thing about him?