Jeff Abbott - Fear

‘Not entirely. But Frost strips the trauma of the attack, keeps the fearful memory from strengthening. Frost can make his memory of being beaten almost to death toothless – so that the recall of it produces no effects of post-traumatic stress disorder.’ Hurley tapped a pen against his bottom lip, grinned with pride. ‘This man suffered his trauma two years ago. Four months ago seeing the computer-generated re-creation practically drove him into a dissociative state. But now, after treatment with Frost, his heartbeat’s slightly elevated, he’s nervous, but not frightened.’

‘It’s a cure.’

Hurley grinned. ‘It works. As long as it’s used in combination with therapy that brings back the traumatic memory – such as our virtual-reality room or regular psychiatric therapy – while medicated with Frost. Come with me.’

Groote followed him out of the VR room and down the hall to Hurley’s cluttered office. Hurley sat down at his desk and tapped on the computer keyboard. ‘All forty-six patients dosed with Frost were suffering from severe PTSD, with extreme flashbacks, pronounced anxieties, and often maladaptive behavior. All of them have shown steady improvement in the lessening of their trauma through usage of the memory drug when compared with the control group of forty-six patients who got a sugar pill. A small sample, but enough to interest the pharmas in our sale.’

‘And this Allison Vance knows about the program.’

‘She doesn’t know about Frost – only the VR side of the project here. But I believe she’s gotten suspicious about whether we’re dosing the patients. I caught her trying to take a blood sample from the lab; she said she thought the patient might be HIV positive and that we should get it tested.’

‘That’s not completely implausible.’

‘It suggested to me she thought there was a story hiding in the blood samples,’ Hurley said. ‘If she got hold of Frost, or she knew about the auction of our research to the drug manufacturers, she could make trouble.’

‘The drug companies wouldn’t develop this themselves?’

‘Think how many ads for drugs you see. Their marketing budgets are much more than their research-and-development budgets. We’ll make a mint, so will they.’ Hurley turned back to the computer.

Groote crossed his arms. ‘Where’d Quantrill get Frost?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He steal it? He’s a thief, even if you put a fancy consultant title on him.’

Hurley didn’t answer.

Groote leaned forward. ‘Here’s my theory. He doesn’t want the drug companies to know where he got Frost from, does he?’

‘I couldn’t say, Mr. Groote.’

‘Why have Allison Vance involved?’

‘She’s fairly new to town, not plugged in to the local psychiatric community. She keeps to herself. I needed a doctor to handle assessments. She was affordable and efficient. Patients liked her.’

‘She could sneak out a Frost sample and get it tested.’

‘I administer all the doses. None are missing.’

‘How do you check them?’

‘Counts.’

‘Are these solid capsules? Could she replace any with fakes?’

Hurley’s face grew red. ‘You’re giving her far too much credit. She wouldn’t resort to thievery. She’d simply call the authorities if she had a concern.’

‘So we buy her off if she raises a stink.’

‘Allison’s not the type much motivated by money. She’s altruistic. Always blathering on about how the patients come first.’

‘Why not just bring her in, sit her down, and question her?’

Hurley gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m not a strong-arm type of guy. That’s why you’re here.’

‘But she hasn’t run to the authorities about your setup.’

‘Allison would never make a sudden or ill-placed accusation. Spend five minutes with her and you can see she’s simply a careful person, as most psychiatrists are. You can see how she is, we have videos of her interviewing the patients…’ He unlocked a desk drawer, opened it, froze.

‘What’s the matter?’ Groote asked.

‘I have backup DVDs of all our research – I keep them in here. They’re gone.’

Frost. Gone. The tightness came back to Groote’s chest. ‘But they’re only backups. You have the originals on the hard drive-’

‘That’s not the point. If Allison wanted to expose us, she’s got the proof on those DVDs.’

‘Maybe you simply misplaced them.’

‘No. I do a daily backup here, lock them up tight. I have the only key.’ Hurley’s voice rose in panic.

‘Is Allison here now?’

Hurley moused and clicked on his computer screen. A video window opened to show the three entrance and exit points from the hospital; it also displayed a log that recorded the usage of the staff’s electronic passkeys. ‘No, she’s not.’

‘Where might I find her?’

‘Probably at her office. On Palace Avenue, close to the Plaza.’

‘How long ago did she leave?’

Hurley clicked on the keyboard; two of the video windows stayed open, one showing Allison Vance walking out of the building; according to the timer, at ten that morning. The other video showed a young man, in patient scrubs, glancing over his shoulder, heading out a door. The timer read ten minutes ago.

‘Who’s that guy?’ Groote asked.

‘A patient. Nathan Ruiz. What the hell’s he doing with a pass-key? It’s showing him because the key he’s using is the same code as Allison’s… The guards must not have seen him leave.’

Groote drew his sidearm from under his jacket.

‘I don’t know how he got past the doors up here,’ Hurley said.

‘He’s the thief.’

‘Not this guy, he’s a total fuckup, and the patients don’t know about Frost,’ Hurley said. ‘I’ll handle him. You find Allison and see if she has those files.’

‘It’s not the end of the world, right? You still have the original research.’

Hurley’s tone was tight and frantic as he started to head down the hall, Groote following him. ‘Don’t be an idiot. Whoever took the research, they could give Frost to the FDA and blow us out of the water. No medicine for us to sell.’ He shook his head. ‘No medicine for your kid.’

Groote bolted past him.

Thunder boomed and Miles opened his eyes, sweaty, sour mouthed, jerking away from the fading dream of Andy pulling a gun from the back of his pants as Miles tried to say, Don’t don’t don’t, of Andy collapsing on the grease-spattered concrete, Miles collapsing across from him, the floor dusty against his cheek. He blinked again.

Night had slid into the room.

He read the soft gleam of his clock. Six fifty-eight. He’d be late to meet Allison. He grabbed his coat and ran out into the cold drizzle.

He ran down two streets, then across the Plaza, then up Palace Avenue. The rain faded to a mist and he could see the lights aglow inside her office. Allison, still waiting for him.

Miles ran into the parking lot and he spotted Allison’s BMW parked at the back of the lot. Then as he turned his face toward the building the blast cracked the world and slapped him backward through the mist, hitting the pavement shoulders-first, the afterimage of the explosion a fiery blot against his eyes.

He threw his arm up over his face and heat hooked into his pants, his stomach. He rolled over once, wriggling, knocking the burning debris away from his clothes. He staggered to his feet. The building’s front collapsed but he heard nothing but an awful ringing in his ears. Flames burst from Allison’s building, a fiery fist raised toward the sky.

He ran into the wall of broiling air surrounding her building; he retreated with a low moan humming in his throat. Where her office had been – right-side front – a heart of hell burned. Miles stood, numb in shock.