Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

The sixth customer in his line asked for a package of ten stamps for mailing a standard letter, and Jimmy pulled the package off the wall and set it on the counter. The man also had two small packages: one for Phoenix, the other for Boston.

“That will be twenty-three dollars and sixteen cents,” Jimmy said, printing a receipt and making change.

“Thank you,” the man said.

“You’re welcome, Mr. English,” Jimmy said, reading the name off the return address on one of the packages.

The man did a double take at the sound of his name, and Jimmy pointed at the return address. English smiled at the extra initiative the postal employee had taken and returned to the July sunshine. The smile was still on his face as he climbed behind the wheel of his Cadillac and steered for Maderas Golf Club.

It was a perfect day for golf. What the hell, it was a perfect day.

The lighting in BioTech Five was muted, almost nonexistent. Jennifer Pearce slipped off her reading glasses, set them on the stack of printouts she was studying, and rubbed her eyes. The clock in the bottom right corner of her monitor read 11:15. She moved the cursor to the start icon and shut down her computer. Enough was enough. Working until almost midnight was stupid. And after three months of working for Veritas, she had her team functioning exactly as she wanted. There was no reason to work so late. She closed her office door, locked it behind her, and took the elevator down to the main foyer.

“Good night, Art,” she said to the graveyard security guard.

He brightened as she passed his desk. “Good night, Dr. Pearce. Take care driving home.”

“Thanks,” she said, and smiled as she passed through the doors into the muggy August air. She liked talking with the night watchman at Veritas, and she had a suspicion that he quite liked her. For a rent-a-cop, he was an interesting fellow, always with a story to tell about something or other. It was too late tonight to hang around for whatever the flavor of the day was. She’d find out tomorrow or the day after.

It was still hot for pushing midnight. Richmond was in a mini heat wave, typical for the last week of August, and there was no relief when the sun dropped out of sight at night. The mercury hovered near one hundred and the humidity was rotten. Clothes here were always wet and clammy, and that was something she wasn’t accustomed to. Her mind started to wander as she crossed the parking lot and she let it go. In seconds, she was a Russian ballerina, a product of the prestigious Moscow Ballet, defecting to the West. The night was dark, no moon, and she moved stealthily, keeping to the shadows. A solitary car was parked in the lot, her ticket to freedom. The Americans had been begging her to come across since 1978, and now was the time. Her parents were both dead at the hands of the KGB, and there was no reason to linger in Moscow any longer. Things were getting dangerous.

She approached the car slowly, glancing at the bushes and wondering why her contact had parked so close to a possible hiding place for Soviet spies. She thought of turning and running, but she had come too far. Tonight was the night. Tonight was freedom. She reached the car and tried the handle. It was locked. She felt the panic rising, tasted fear in her mouth. She readied herself to run or fight, whatever would save her life.

Then she was back. At her car with her keys in hand. She pressed the key fob and the park lights blinked twice as the door locks opened. She slid in behind the wheel and took a couple of deep breaths before starting the car and backing out.

Jennifer Pearce had spent a substantial part of her life in denial. Denial of her reality. Her childhood had been an unhappy one, left alone to cook and clean while her parents doted on her younger brother. Her only escape had been to enter a fantasy world, where she was someone special, not Cinderella before the ball. Trips to school in the snow were long treks through hostile blizzards in the wilds of Canada, where hungry polar bears and wolverines tracked her, ready to pounce. Washing and drying the dishes after supper each night was using the suds to uncover secret codes on the bottom of the plates. Her imagination had no limit. And even as she matured, she still let herself enter that fantasy world on occasion. It was harmless and sometimes quite entertaining.

The streets were empty and driving was easy. This was one aspect of working late she really liked. The drive home was enjoyable. It gave her time to think. Tonight, her mind went back over the last three months at Veritas. She had restructured her team after about two months and, with a full month now under her belt, she felt she’d made some good decisions. Three of her staff had risen to the challenge and they were now her key people. And last week, when she finally shared her thoughts on the beta-amyloid chemical sequence, all three had stared at her like she was a nutcase from the local loony bin. Four hours later, after she had filled every chalkboard in the conference room with scribbles and formulas, they were somewhere between speechless and blathering idiots.

“Do you really think it’s possible?” Dawn Sergeant, a specialist in cellular microbiology, had asked. “It’s a totally new approach to the problem.”

She referred back to the chalkboard. “The key is here,” Jennifer said. “When this protein, tau, is altered, the neural structural support system is compromised. Once that happens, the amyloid precursor protein is subject to being cut, first by this enzyme, beta-secretase, then by gamma-secretase. The result is fragmentation of the amyloid precursor protein, which forms toxic plaques, causing healthy neurons to die. Then the neurotransmitters, especially acetylcholine, are reduced and the damage to the brain is irreversible. My approach to the problem is here,” she said, poking at the board, “by altering the betaamyloid sequence. It’s never been tried before.”

“Impressive,” Dawn said.

“And to answer your question, yes, I think it will work. We just have to iron out the problems. Now, it’s getting late…”

The group broke up, most of her researchers leaving in groups of twos or threes, discussing the new approach to a disease that affected over four million Americans. Jennifer headed for Kenga Bakcsi’s house to visit her cat. It was Wednesday, and she had promised Kenga she would check on the little fellow at least twice a week while her coworker was on holidays. She hadn’t been over since Sunday.

She cut off on Broad Street and headed for Shockoe Slip and the Mayo Bridge. She had to check the cat’s litter box and make sure there was still water in his dish. No better time than now, when the traffic was next to nil. She crossed the James River, followed Hull to Sixth, then east to Everett. She pulled onto Everett Street and slowed, trolling for a parking space. She found one a half-block up the street from Kenga’s condo, parallel-parked, and jogged back. She let herself in with the key and switched on a light.

“Hello, cat,” she said as he poked his head out to see who was home. She couldn’t remember his name, and simply called him “cat.” “Could you really care less if I showed up? I doubt it. Just give you some food and water, and leave. Cats. How the hell did you guys end up so different from dogs?”

Jennifer picked up the mail that had accumulated on the floor under the slot in the front door and wandered into the house, glancing about and satisfying herself that all was in order. She set the mail on the kitchen table and refilled the cat’s water dish. A quick trip to the litter box to scoop out a few little logs and she was ready to leave. Then it hit her.

What if she focused on somatostatin and corticotrophin to help as communication vehicles between damaged cells? She needed to access the Veritas mainframe and make a note for herself so she would remember this brain flash.