Robin Cook - Terminal

Brian sighed and looked at his mother. She was sitting on the very edge of a straight-backed chair with her hands clasped together in her lap. Brian was furious with Sean. Didn’t he ever consider the effects of his escapades on their poor mother?

“It’s a weird story,” Kevin continued. “It seems that a dead body was mutilated and, you ready for this...?”

“Let me have the whole story,” Brian said.

“Somebody stole the brain out of the body,” Kevin said. “And this body wasn’t some derelict. The deceased was a young woman whose father is some business bigwig up there in Beantown.”

“Here in Boston?”

“Yup, and there’s a big ruckus down here because of his connections,” Kevin said. “Pressure is being put on the police to do something. The state’s attorney has drawn up a list of charges a mile long. The medical examiner who looked at the body guessed the skull had been opened with a jigsaw.”

“And Sean’s 4 x 4 was seen leaving the scene?” Brian asked. He was already trying to think of a defense.

“Afraid so,” Kevin said. “Plus one of the medical examiners says your brother and a nurse were at the medical examiner’s office only a few hours before asking about the same body. Seems they wanted samples. Looks like they got them. Obviously the police are looking for your brother and the nurse for questioning and probably arrest.”

“Thanks, Kevin,” Brian said. “Let me know where you’ll be today. I might need you, especially if Sean is arrested.”

“You can reach me all weekend,” Kevin said. “I’ll leave word at the station to call me if your brother is picked up.”

Brian slowly replaced the receiver and looked at his mother. He knew she wasn’t ready for this, especially since she thought Sean was alone in Sodom and Gomorrah.

“Do you have Sean’s phone numbers handy?” he asked. He tried to keep the concern out of his voice.

Anne got them for him without speaking.

Brian called the residence first. He let it ring a dozen times before giving up. Then he tried calling the Forbes Cancer Center research building. Unfortunately all he got was a recording saying that the switchboard was open Monday through Friday, eight until five.

Picking the phone back up decisively, he called Delta Airlines and made a reservation on the noon flight to Miami. Something strange was going on, and he thought he’d better be there in the thick of things.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Anne said. “It’s bad.”

“I’m sure it’s all some misunderstanding,” Brian said. “That’s why I think I should go down there and clear things up.”

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Anne said.

“Mother,” Brian said. “It’s not your fault.”

Hiroshi Gyuhama’s stomach was bothering him. His nerves were on edge. Ever since Sean had frightened him in the stairwell, he’d been reluctant to spy on the man. But this morning he’d had no choice. He checked on Sean as soon as he saw the 4 x 4 in the parking lot so early in the day. When he saw that Sean was feverishly working in his lab, Hiroshi returned to his office.

Hiroshi was doubly upset now that Tanaka Yamaguchi was in town. Hiroshi had met him at the airport two days earlier and had driven him to the Doral Country Club where he planned to stay and play golf until the final word came from Sushita.

The final word had come late Friday night. After reviewing Tanaka’s memorandum, the Sushita board had decided that Sean Murphy was a risk to the Forbes investment. Sushita wanted him in Tokyo forthwith where they would “reason” with him.

Hiroshi was not at all comfortable around Tanaka. Knowing of the man’s associations with the Yakusa made Hiroshi extremely wary. And Tanaka gave subtle hints that he did not respect Hiroshi. He’d bowed when they met, but he hadn’t bowed very low, and not for very long. Their conversation on the way to the hotel had been inconsequential. Tanaka did not mention Sean Murphy. And once they arrived at the hotel, Tanaka had ignored Hiroshi. Worst of all he did not invite Hiroshi to play golf.

All these slights were painfully obvious to Hiroshi; the implications were clear.

Hiroshi dialed the Doral Country Club Hotel and asked to speak with Mr. Yamaguchi. He was transferred to the clubhouse since Mr. Yamaguchi had scheduled a tee time in twenty minutes.

Tanaka came on the line. He was particularly curt when he heard Hiroshi’s voice. Speaking in rapid Japanese, Hiroshi got directly to the point.

“Mr. Sean Murphy is here at the research center,” Hiroshi said.

“Thank you,” Tanaka said. “The plane is on its way. All is in order. We will be at Forbes this afternoon.”

Sean had started the morning off in high spirits. After the initial ease of identifying the immunoglobulin and the three cytokines, Sean had expected just as rapid progress in determining exactly what kind of antigen the immunoglobulin reacted to. Since it reacted so strongly with the tumor cell suspension, he reasoned that the antigen had to be membrane-based. In other words, the antigen had to be on the surface of the cancer cells.

To assure himself of this assumption as well as confirm that the antigen was at least partially a peptide, Sean had treated intact cells from Helen’s tumor with trypsin. When he tried to see if these digested cells reacted with the immunoglobulin, he quickly learned they did not.

But from that moment on, Sean had run into trouble. He could not characterize this membrane-based antigen. His idea was to try innumerable known antigens and see if they reacted with the antigen binding portion of the unknown immunoglobulin. None reacted. Using literally hundreds of cell lines grown in tissue culture, he spent hours filling the little wells, but he got no reaction. He was particularly interested in cell lines whose origins were from neural tissues. He tried normal cells and transformed or neoplastic cells. He tried digesting all the cells with detergents in increasing concentration, first to open the cell membranes and expose cytoplasmic antigens, then to open nuclear membranes to expose nuclear antigens. Still nothing reacted. There wasn’t a single episode of immunofluorescence in any of hundreds of tiny wells.

Sean couldn’t believe how difficult it was turning out to be to find an antigen to react with the mysterious immunoglobulin. So far he hadn’t even gotten a partial reaction. Just when he was losing patience, the phone rang. He walked to a wall extension to answer it. It was Janet.

“How’s it going, Einstein?” she asked brightly.

“Terrible,” Sean said. “I’m not getting anywhere.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Janet said. “But I’ve got something that might brighten your day.”

“What?” Sean asked. At the moment he couldn’t imagine anything except the antigen he was seeking. But Janet certainly wouldn’t be able to supply that.

“I got a sample of Louis Martin’s large vial medicine,” Janet said. “I used your idea.”

“Great,” Sean said without much enthusiasm.

“What’s the matter?” Janet questioned. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am pleased,” he said. “But I’m also frustrated with the stuff I have; I’m at a loss.”

“Let’s meet so I can give you this syringe,” Janet said. “Maybe you need a break.”

They met as usual in the cafeteria. Sean took advantage of the time to get something to eat. As before, Janet passed Sean the syringe under the table. He slipped it into his pocket.

“I brought my overnight bag, as requested,” she said, hoping to lighten Sean’s mood.

Sean merely nodded as he ate his sandwich.

“You seem a lot less excited about our trip than you did this morning,” Janet commented.