Richard Mabry - Lethal Remedy

Unless Rip could somehow find the true mechanism of action of the antibiotic and, even more important, come up with a treatment to prevent late autoimmune reactions, one of them, maybe both, might eventually be afflicted with such a problem. The two doctors stopped in the dictation room, and Ingersoll made a few brief notes on each chart. Rip knew this was more to document his presence than add anything to the treatment plan. "Any new orders?" Rip asked. "No, no.

You've done well. Followed my protocol to the letter. I presume Resnick is getting the material for lab studies on a regular basis."

"Right. I draw the blood myself, take the tubes to your lab, knock on the door, Resnick opens it a crack, I pass them through to him, and he slams it in my face." "I know it grates on you that you're not allowed in there," Ingersoll said. "But we're dealing with a revolutionary drug, and it's important that our data not get into the wrong hands."

Rip figured he'd never have a better opening than that. "But I'm your colleague, your Fellow. I'm supposed to be a part of this study, but Resnick won't even share the mechanism of action of the drug with me.

And it's important, because-" Ingersoll held up a hand like a traffic policeman. "You already know the mechanism. I told you this early on.

Jandramycin breaks down the bacterial cell wall. I can't go into details, but there's a great deal more data in the New Drug Application." Which is probably a remarkable work of fiction. Rip decided to take a different tack. "You recall that Chelsea Ferguson, one of the patients in our series, was admitted with Guillain-Barre syndrome before you left." "Terrible when that happens. Refresh my memory about her." Rip gave Ingersoll a brief review of Chelsea's case, ending with, "It seems to me that this could be a late consequence of Jandramycin therapy. Would you like to see her?"

Ingersoll shook his head. "No, no. I'm sure she's in good hands. And too much time has passed since her treatment to implicate Jandramycin in the problem. It's undoubtedly just one of those unfortunate circumstances." It was clear to Rip that Ingersoll wasn't going to admit Jandramycin could be responsible for any adverse effects. There was no need to prolong the conversation. But there was one more thing he wanted to say, and he thought he'd figured the best way to say it.

"Dr. Ingersoll," Rip said, "I was helping Dr. Miles clean out her attic recently, and we found something you left behind when you moved out." "Oh? I don't recall anything being missing. It couldn't be very important. She can just keep it." "I'll tell her that, although neither of us could figure why you'd move out and leave a very expensive digital recorder behind. And why was it in the attic?" Rip was sure Ingersoll flinched for just a second before the mask dropped back in place, and he said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Bob Wolfe had been expecting the summons, but it came from a different source. Not David Patel this time. Instead, he was told that Mr. Lindberg would like to see Mr. Wolfe in his office at his earliest convenience-in other words, now. Wolfe thanked Lindberg's secretary, hung up the phone, and turned to look out his office window. It wouldn't hurt Lindberg to wait a few minutes. Wolfe was sure he was being called in to report on how things went in Frankfurt, and he wanted to be certain he had the answers clear in his mind. He reran the reel of the last couple of days through his mind and smiled when he could find no fault with what he'd done or the results. He buttoned his collar, cinched up his tie, and took his jacket from a hook on the back of his office door. Wolfe paused at the open door when he saw Lindberg on the phone. Lindberg's desk faced the huge windows that gave him a spectacular view. Some people might turn their desk away from such a distraction, but Wolfe had heard Lindberg say he kept that perk visible to remind him of how hard he had to work to retain it. In a down economy, people might be fired, but Lindberg was apparently determined to be the one doing the firing, not the one on the other end. Lindberg's conversation was animated, to say the least. "I don't care how you do it, but I want those mock-ups on my desk tomorrow.

Jandramycin is the drug that's going to save this company, and that won't happen if no one knows about it. I want those ads ready for the front part of every major medical journal in the U.S. I want them to hit at the same time our reps are knocking on doctors' doors to tell them about our wonder drug. One hundred percent success against the worst infections in history, with absolutely no side effects." Wolfe faintly heard the murmur of words rattling forth from the phone when Lindberg broke in. "No, you can't have more time. The FDA is moving this thing forward triple speed, and you don't want to know how we managed to get that done. When they give their approval-and they will-I want those ads ready to roll with the next issue. Is that clear?" Apparently it didn't matter whether it was clear, because Lindberg slammed down the phone without waiting for an answer. Wolfe tapped on the doorframe. "You wanted to see me, Steve?" Lindberg swiveled his chair around and in that split second managed to go from hard-nosed boss to jovial colleague. "Bob, come in. Sorry to keep you waiting." He waved at one of the chairs across the desk from him.

"Have a seat." Wolfe pulled up a chair but decided to let Lindberg take the conversational lead. He didn't have to wait long. "Tell me about the meeting in Frankfurt." "Huge attendance, representatives from the U.S., the UK, Germany, France, Belgium-" "Okay, it was well attended. And our people had a booth where we reminded people of all the great products we have and told them we are coming out with a blockbuster. And so forth. You know what I want to hear." Not much question there. Wolfe decided to be equally direct. "Ingersoll toed the company line perfectly. I stayed up all night before his presentation reviewing his slides, and they were perfect. Figures matched the ones we sent to the FDA in our new drug app. Conclusions in line with ours, including the lack of adverse reactions." Lindberg nodded. "And-" "And the Q amp;A ended with him being asked if he was aware of any complications associated with Jandramycin. He parroted back what we gave him." Wolfe smiled, remembering the way he'd reminded Ingersoll who was buttering his bread. But there was no need to mention that to Lindberg. Such actions were expected. He figured the marketing director had done similar things in his time, and probably a lot worse. "Now to another part of our problem. We've had no more calls from that snoopy Dr. Miles, but I understand she's still convinced Jandramycin is responsible for a number of severe late complications in some of the patients receiving it. Now that you're back from enjoying sauerbraten and beer, why don't you contact your source and get an update on that situation? And let me know what you find out." Lindberg rose and extended his hand, as close to a "thanks for a job well done" as Wolfe expected to receive. Before he was out the door, Wolfe heard Lindberg on the phone once more. "What do you mean, our reps can't get in to see the doctors? Tell them to bring lunch for the staff. Hang around with them while they eat. I've never known a doctor who wouldn't drift back and nosh a bit. That's when-"

"How are you today?" Sara plastered a smile on her face as she approached Chelsea Ferguson's bed. For a change, the girl's mother was not at the bedside. "Your mother not here?" Chelsea's reply was so weak Sara had to ask her to repeat it. "My sister's sick. Mom kept her home from school and had to stay with her." "No problem. If you need anything, ring for the nurse. They'll be right here for you." Sara flipped open the chart. "How are you doing after the immune-I mean, that medicine we gave you the other day?" "Not much different."