Richard Mabry - Lethal Remedy

"You're exactly right," Lillian said. She returned her attention to the menu. "I think another reason I don't try to eat out alone is that there's no one to split an entree with me. My late husband and I used to do that all the time. I guess I could take half my meal home and heat it up later, but it never tastes as good as when it's fresh."

John felt his eyes growing moist. "Beth and I split entrees all the time." He drank some water, then wiped his mouth and used the motion to touch his napkin to the tears on his cheeks. "I'll be happy to pay for whatever you want, but I have to ask. Would you like to split an entree tonight?" "I'd love it." Their discussion went back and forth like an engaged couple picking out a silver pattern. John had been here before and knew that the side dishes were large. When the waiter returned, he said, "We'd like to split the Hawaiian snapper, with a side order of potatoes and vegetables. And please have them divide that in the kitchen." "I'm sorry, sir, but our chef says that splitting an order disturbs the presentation of the dish." John tried hard to maintain a stern expression. "You can ask the manager to come to the table, and I'll discuss your policy with him as well as anyone else within earshot. Or you can convey my compliments to your chef and tell him that we're more interested in the taste of the food than its appearance. And, by the way, the longer we sit here without something to eat, the more testy I tend to become." "Very well, sir. I'll ask the chef to divide the order for you." "Thank you… " John squinted at the nametag the man wore. "Thank you, Henry. I appreciate your doing that. I'll be certain to remember it when we've finished."

As Henry hurried off, undoubtedly to tell the chef about the demanding customer in booth twelve, Lillian giggled behind her hand. "John, you should be ashamed of yourself for coming down on that poor man that way." "No," John said. "The restaurant should be ashamed of itself for such an obvious ploy to make people order more food than they should eat." He helped himself to a roll and buttered it. "Besides, what good is having a dinner companion if you can't show offfor her a little bit?" As they chatted, waiting for their meal, John realized that for the first time in several days he wasn't worried about his HIV tests, or his recovery from Staph luciferus, or the person or persons unknown who didn't want him and his colleagues to discover the truth about Jandramycin. He had a friend- someone to talk with, someone to encourage him, someone who might… No, that would be later, if at all. For now, a friend was more than enough.

The three men gathered in Dr. David Patel's office showed no outward evidence of the stress they bore. Patel presided from behind his desk, the coat of his gray pinstripe suit unbuttoned to show a pristine expanse of dress shirt on which a black and gold rep-stripe tie nested. Dr. Bob Wolfe was seated across the desk from Patel. A white lab coat with his name embroidered over the breast pocket covered his blue oxford-cloth button-down shirt worn open-collared.

His dress signified that, although he was a professional, he worked in the trenches with the lab techs and others he supervised. Steve Lindberg had taken his usual seat at the edge of Patel's desk, halfway between the other two men-neutral in all respects, the Switzerland of Janus Pharmaceuticals. A Grateful Dead tie hung at half-mast on a wrinkled dress shirt. His jacket had been deposited on the back of his office door when he arrived this morning, and he wouldn't retrieve it until he left the building. "Gentlemen, this meeting will be brief,"

Patel said. "Bob, what's the status of our NDA for Jandramycin?" Wolfe cleared his throat. "Because of the unusual circumstances, the FDA appointed a special advisory committee to consider it. They've received clear marching orders from on high to fast-track it and recommend approval. They're working on it, and as I understand it, they're scattering exceptions and waivers along the way like beads from a Mardi Gras float. The wheels have been greased for approval."

He rubbed his thumb and fingers together in a symbol everyone recognized. "It's costing-" "I don't need to hear that," Patel said.

"We'll approve the amount, whatever it is." He swiveled toward Lindberg. "And the marketing campaign?" Lindberg beamed. "First rate, if I do say so myself. The ad agency came up with some great slogans and visuals. We have ad space reserved in every major medical journal, and until we have approval to market we're using it to 'tease' the forthcoming breakthrough that's the biggest antibacterial advance since penicillin. Our sales force has been trained. We've brought key docs and thought leaders to resorts for what we call 'advisory panels.' We make them sign a confidentiality agreement, then bombard them with information about Jandramycin so when it launches we have a ready-made set of lecturers. We'll send them out to national meetings and saturate the medical community with our message." "Again, whatever you need to spend, I'll approve it," Patel said. "I've received word that the scientists at Darlington Pharmaceuticals are on track to develop a compound that is as effective as Jandramycin against Staph luciferus. Not only that, it has better activity against other bacteria than our drug, and although there is a risk of minor immediate reactions-rash, GI upset, and so forth-there's not a hint of severe or late problems." He waited for the import of those words to sink in. "We all know that the first drug on the market gets an almost unbeatable advantage on the ones that follow, even if they're better.

So we cannot allow anything to slow the introduction of Jandramycin."

He looked at Wolfe and Lindberg. "Clear?" Wolfe squirmed in his chair.

Lindberg tugged at his already open collar. Both nodded silently.

"That's all." For all three men, the message was clear. The stakes, already high, had been raised. Winning was everything… whatever the cost.

"How's Chelsea Ferguson?" Rip asked. "Maybe a little better," Sara said. "It's been almost two days now, and I hoped we'd see more improvement." Rip stretched and yawned. "I was figuring forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Let's see how she's doing tomorrow." They were sitting in Sara's office. She was on the computer, while he thumbed through a stack of journals, both desperately looking for the clue that would show them how Jandramycin could save lives, only to put them in jeopardy later. True, there was a chance that OMAL would stop or even reverse the process when complications arose, but that wasn't a sure thing. It was a shot in the dark, based on an educated guess.

Sara ran her fingers through her hair. "You can't believe how frustrated I am." "All we can do is keep-" Rip stopped when Sara's cell phone rang. She spoke for a few moments, but apparently whoever was on the other end of the conversation was in no mood to engage in dialogue. Sara returned the cell phone to her pocket. "That was strange." "What?" Rip asked. "That was Carter Resnick." Rip closed the journal he was reading, marking the place with his finger. "Okay, I agree. It was strange that he'd call you, or anyone for that matter.

Lately he's been sequestered in Ingersoll's 'secret' lab"-he set the word offwith air quotes- "not talking with anyone." "This is stranger still." Sara swiveled away from her computer to face Rip. "He wants to meet us in the lab tonight. He says he's tired of keeping secrets. He thinks we deserve to know." "Know what?" "He didn't say. But he wants us both there at midnight." "Should I call John or Lillian?" Rip asked. Sara thought for a moment. "I don't think so. Resnick said to come alone. He's just unstable enough that, if he gets word I've told anyone, he might back out. He's opened the door a bit, and I don't want to give him an excuse to close it." They were engrossed in their searches when Sara's intercom buzzed. "Dr. Miles, there's a long-distance call for you on line one." "Who is it?" "He's got some kind of heavy accent. It sounded like he said 'Goober.'" Sara shrugged and punched the blinking button on her phone. "Dr. Miles." The man's accent was indeed thick, but Sara made out the words easily enough.