Robin Cook - Terminal

The first step of this procedure was to digest each of the immunoglobulins with an enzyme called papain to split off the fragments that were associated with antigen binding. After the splitting, Sean separated these segments, then “unfolded” the molecules. Finally, he introduced these compounds into an automated peptide analyzer that would do the complicated work of sequencing the amino acids. The machine was on the sixth floor.

Sean went to the sixth floor and primed the automated instruments. There were a few other researchers working that Saturday morning, but Sean was too engrossed in his work to start any conversations.

Once the analyzer was prepared and set to run, Sean returned to his lab. Since he had more of Helen’s medicine than he did of Louis’s, he used hers to continue trying to find something that would react with its antigen binding area. He tried to think what kind of surface antigen could be on her tumor cells and reasoned that it was probably some kind of glycoprotein that formed a cellular binding site.

That was when he thought of the Forbes glycoprotein that he had been trying to crystallize.

As he had been doing with numerous other antigen candidates, he tested the reactivity of the Forbes glycoprotein with Helen’s medicine using an immunofluorescence test. Just as he was scanning the plate for signs of reactivity, which he didn’t see, he was startled by a husky female voice.

“Exactly what are you doing?”

Sean turned to see Dr. Deborah Levy standing directly behind him. Her eyes sparkled with a fierce intensity.

Sean was taken completely by surprise. He’d not even taken the precaution of coming up with a convincing cover story for all his immunological testing. He hadn’t expected anyone to interrupt him on Saturday morning, particularly not Dr. Levy; he didn’t even think she was in town.

“I asked a simple question,” Dr. Levy said. “I expect an answer.”

Sean looked away from Dr. Levy, his eyes sweeping over the mess of reagents on the lab bench, the profusion of cell culture tubes, and the general disarray. He stammered, trying to think up some reasonable explanation. Nothing came to mind except the crystal work he was supposed to be doing. Unfortunately that had nothing to do with immunology.

“I’m trying to grow crystals,” Sean said.

“Where are they?” Dr. Levy asked evenly. Her tone indicated she would take some convincing.

Sean didn’t answer right away.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” Dr. Levy said.

“I don’t know exactly,” Sean said. He felt like a fool.

“I told you I run a tight ship here,” Dr. Levy said. “I have a feeling you didn’t take my word.”

“I did,” Sean hastened to say. “I mean, I do.”

“Roger Calvet said you haven’t been by to inject any more of your mice,” Dr. Levy said.

“Yes, well...” Sean began.

“And Mr. Harris said he caught you in our maximum containment area,” Dr. Levy interrupted. “Claire Barington said she told you specifically that area was closed.”

“I just thought...” Sean started to say.

“I let you know from the start that I did not approve of your coming here,” Dr. Levy said. “Your behavior thus far has only confirmed my reservations. I want to know what you are doing with all this equipment and expensive reagents. One doesn’t use immunologic materials to grow protein crystals.”

“I’m just fooling around,” Sean said lamely. The last thing he wanted to admit was that he was working on medulloblastoma, particularly after he’d been forbidden access.

“Fooling around!” Dr. Levy repeated contemptuously. “What do you think this place is, your personal playground?” Despite her dark complexion, color rose in her cheeks. “No one does any work around here without submitting a formal proposal to me. I’m in charge of research. You are to work on the colonic glycoprotein project and on that alone. Do I make myself clear? I want to see defractable crystals by next week.”

“Okay,” Sean said. He avoided looking at the woman.

Dr. Levy stayed for another minute, as if to make sure her words had sunk in. Sean felt like a child caught red-handed in a naughty act. He didn’t have a thing to say for himself. His usual talent for witty retort had momentarily abandoned him.

At long last, Dr. Levy stalked out of the lab. Silence returned.

For a few minutes Sean merely stared at the mess in front of him without moving. He still had no idea where the crystal work was. It had to be there someplace, but he didn’t make any move to find it. He simply shook his head. What a ridiculous situation. His sense of frustration came back in a rush. He’d really had it with this place. He never should have come — and never would have had he known the Forbes Center’s terms. He should have left in protest as soon as he’d been informed. It was all he could do to restrain himself from using his hand to sweep the countertop of all the glassware, pipettes, and immunologic reagents and allow them to smash to the floor.

Sean looked at his watch. It was just after two in the afternoon. “The hell with it all,” he thought. Gathering up the immunoglobulin unknowns, he stashed them in the back of the refrigerator along with Helen Cabot’s brain and the sample of her cerebrospinal fluid.

Sean grabbed his jean jacket and headed for the elevators, leaving behind the mess he’d created.

Emerging into the bright, warm Miami sunshine, Sean felt a bit of relief. Tossing his jacket into the back seat of his 4 x 4, he climbed in behind the wheel. The engine roared to life. He made it a point to burn a little rubber as he exited the parking area and sped south toward the Forbes residence. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the stretch limo pull out after him, bumping its undercarriage on the dip as it struggled to keep Sean in sight, nor did he spot the dark green Mercedes tailing the limo.

Sean sped back to his apartment, slammed the car door with extra force, and kicked the front door of the residence shut. He was in a foul mood.

Going into his apartment, he heard the door across the hall open. It was Gary Engels dressed in his usual jeans without a shirt.

“Hey, man,” Gary said casually, leaning against the door jamb. “You had some company earlier.”

“What kind of company?” Sean asked.

“The Miami police,” Gary said. “Two big burly cops came in here nosing around, asking all sorts of questions about you and your car.”

“When?” Sean asked.

“Just minutes ago,” Gary said. “You could have passed them in the parking lot.”

“Thanks,” Sean said. He went into his apartment and closed the door, irritated anew with another problem. There was only one explanation for the police’s visit: someone had noted his license plate after the funeral home alarm went off.

The last thing Sean wanted now was a hassle with the police. He grabbed a small suitcase and filled it with a dop kit, underwear, a bathing suit, and shoes. In his garment bag he packed a shirt, tie, slacks, and a jacket. In less than three minutes he was headed back down the stairs.

Before stepping out of the building he looked to see if there were any police cars, marked or otherwise. The only vehicle that looked out of place was a limousine. Confident the cops wouldn’t be coming after him in a limo, Sean made a dash for his 4 x 4, then headed back to the Forbes Cancer Center. En route he stopped to use a pay phone.

The idea the police were looking for him bothered Sean immensely. It brought back bad memories of his unruly youth. Parts of his brief life of petty crime had been exhilarating, but his brushes with the judicial system had only been tedious and disheartening. He never wanted to get bogged down in that bureaucratic quagmire again.