Robin Cook - Terminal

The phone on Dr. Mason’s desk rang. Dr. Mason answered it.

“Dr. Mason, this is Juan Suarez in security,” the voice at the other end told him. “You asked me to call if Mr. Sean Murphy appeared. Well, he and a nurse just came in and went up to the fifth floor.”

“Thank you, Juan,” Dr. Mason said with relief. He hung up the phone. “Sean Murphy is safe,” he reported. “He just came into the building, probably to inject more mice. What dedication! I tell you, I think the kid is a winner and worth all this trouble.”

It was after ten o’clock at night when Robert Harris left Ralph Seaver’s apartment. The man had not been particularly cooperative. He’d resented Harris’s bringing up his rape conviction in Indiana which he’d dubbed “ancient history.” Harris didn’t think much of Seaver’s self-serving assessment, but he mentally took the man off his list of suspects the minute he laid eyes on him. The attacker had been described as being of medium height and medium build. Seaver was at least six-eight and probably weighed two hundred and fifty pounds.

Climbing into his dark blue Ford sedan, Harris picked up the last file in his priority category. Tom Widdicomb lived in Hialeah, not too far from where Harris was. Despite the hour, Harris decided to drive by the man’s home. If the lights were on, he’d ring the bell. Otherwise he’d let it go until morning.

Harris had already made several background calls regarding Tom Widdicomb. He’d found out that the man had taken an EMT course and had passed the exam for his license. A call to an ambulance firm where Tom had worked didn’t yield much information. The owner of the company refused to comment, explaining that the last time he talked about a former employee the tires of two of his ambulances were slashed.

A call to Miami General had been a bit more helpful but not by much. A personnel officer said that Mr. Widdicomb and the hospital had parted ways by mutual agreement. The officer admitted he’d not met Mr. Widdicomb; he was merely reading from the employment file.

Harris had also checked with Glen, the housekeeping supervisor at the Forbes Hospital. Glen said that Tom was dependable from his point of view, but that he frequently clashed with his colleagues. He said that Tom worked better on his own.

The last call Harris had made was to a veterinarian by the name of Maurice Springborn. That number, however, was no longer in service and information did not have another number. So all in all, Harris hadn’t turned up anything incriminating concerning Tom Widdicomb. As he drove into Hialeah and searched for 18 Palmetto Lane, he was not optimistic.

“Well, at least the lights are on,” Harris said as he pulled over to the curb in front of an ill-kept ranch-style house. In sharp contrast to the other modest homes in the neighborhood, Tom Widdicomb’s was lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Every light inside and outside the house was blazing brightly.

Getting out of the car, Harris stared at the house. It was amazing how much light emanated from it. Shrubbery three houses away cast sharp shadows. As he walked up the driveway, he noticed the name on the mailbox was Alice Widdicomb. He wondered how she and Tom were related.

Mounting the front steps, Harris rang the bell. As he waited he eyed the house. It was decorated in a plain style with faded pastel colors. The trim was badly in need of paint.

When no one responded to the bell, Harris rang again and put his ear to the door to make sure the bell was functioning. He heard it clearly. It was hard to believe no one was home with all the lights on.

After a third ring, Harris gave up and returned to his car. Rather than leave immediately, he sat staring at the house, wondering what could motivate people to illuminate their house so brightly. He was just about to start his engine when he thought he saw some movement by the living room window. Then he saw it again. Someone in the house had definitely moved a drape. Whoever it was seemed to be trying to catch a peek at Harris.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Harris climbed out of his car and went back to the stoop. He leaned on the doorbell, giving it one long blast. But still no one came.

Disgustedly, Harris returned to his car. He used his car phone to call Glen to see if Tom Widdicomb was scheduled to work the next day.

“No, sir,” Glen said with his southern accent. “He’s not scheduled to work until Monday. Good thing, too. He was under the weather today. He looked terrible. I sent him home early.”

Harris thanked Glen before hanging up. If Widdicomb wasn’t feeling well and was home in bed, why all the lights? Was he feeling so bad he couldn’t even come to the door? And where was Alice, whoever she was?

As Harris drove away from Hialeah he pondered what he should do. There was something weird going on at the Widdicombs’. He could always go back and stake out the house, but that seemed extreme. He could wait until Monday when Tom showed up for work, but what about in the meantime? Instead, he decided he’d go back the following morning to see if he could catch a glimpse of Tom Widdicomb. Glen had said he was of medium height and medium build with brown hair.

Harris sighed. Sitting in front of Tom Widdicomb’s house was not his idea of a great Saturday, but he was desperate. He felt he’d better make some headway on the breast cancer deaths if he was interested in remaining employed at Forbes.

Sean was whistling softly while he worked, the picture of contented concentration. Janet watched from a high stool similar to Sean’s that she’d dragged over to the lab bench. In front of him was an array of glassware.

It was at quiet times like this that Janet found Sean so appealingly attractive. His dark hair had fallen forward to frame his downturned face with soft ringlets, which had an almost feminine look in stark contrast to his hard, masculine features. His nose was narrow at the top where it joined the confluence of his heavy eyebrows. It was a straight nose except for the very tip where it slanted inward before joining the curve of his lips. His dark blue eyes were fixated unblinkingly on a clear plastic tray in his strong but nimble fingers.

He glanced up to look directly at Janet. His eyes were bright and shining. She could tell he was excited. At that moment she felt inordinately in love, and even the recent episode at the funeral home receded into her mind for the moment. She wanted him to take her in his arms and tell her that he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

“These initial silver stain electrophoresis gels are fascinating,” Sean said, shattering Janet’s fantasy. “Come and look!”

Janet pushed off her stool. At the moment she wasn’t interested in electrophoresis gels, but she felt she had little choice. She didn’t dare risk lessening his enthusiasm. Still, she was disappointed he didn’t sense her affectionate feelings.

“This is the sample from the larger vial,” Sean explained. “It’s a non-reducing gel so you can tell by the control that it has only one component, and its molecular weight is about 150,000 daltons.”

Janet nodded.

Sean picked up the other gel and showed it to her. “Now, the medicine in the small vial is different. Here there are three separate bands, meaning there are three separate components. All three have much smaller molecular weights. My guess is that the large vial contains an immunoglobulin antibody while the small vial most likely contains cytokines.”

“What’s a cytokine?” Janet asked.

“It’s a generic term,” Sean said. He got off his own stool. “Follow me,” he said. “I’ve got to get some reagents.”

They used the stairs. As they walked, Sean continued to explain. “Cytokines are protein molecules produced by cells of the immune system. They’re involved in cell-to-cell communication, signaling cues like when to grow, when to start doing their thing, when to get ready for an invasion of virus, bacteria, or even tumor cells. The NIH has been busy growing the lymphocytes of cancer patients in vitro with a cytokine called interleukin-2, then injecting the cells back into the patient. In some cases they’ve had some good results.”