Robin Cook - Terminal

After Janet got out of the shower, Sean got in. Janet was still complaining about not having reported the man with the gun, and said as much as she was applying her makeup. But Sean remained unwavering, adding that he believed Robert Harris was fully capable of handling the situation.

“Won’t it look suspicious if we have to explain after the fact why we didn’t go to the police?” Janet persisted.

“Probably,” Sean agreed, “but it is just something else Brian will have to handle. Let’s stop talking about it for a while and try to enjoy ourselves a little.”

“One more question,” Janet said. “The man said something about my interfering. What do you think he meant?”

Sean threw up his hands in exasperation. “The guy was obviously crazy. He was probably in the middle of some acute paranoid psychotic episode. How am I supposed to know what he was talking about?”

“All right,” Janet said. “Take it easy. Did you try Brian again?”

Sean nodded. “The bum is still not home,” he said. “But I left this number. He’ll probably call while we’re at dinner.”

When they were ready to leave, Sean phoned the parking valet to have the car brought up to the entrance. As they exited the room, Sean pocketed the Smith and Wesson, unbeknownst to Janet.

As they drove south on Gulf Shore Boulevard, Janet finally began to calm down. She even began to notice the surroundings again and to appreciate all the flowering trees. She noticed there was no debris or graffiti or any signs of homeless people. The problems of urban America seemed a long way from Naples, Florida.

While she was trying to get Sean to look at a particularly beautiful flowering tree, she noticed that he was spending an inordinate amount of time looking in the rearview mirror.

“What are you looking for?” she questioned.

“Robert Harris,” Sean said.

Janet glanced behind them, then at Sean.

“Have you seen him?” she asked with alarm.

Sean shook his head. “No,” he said. “I haven’t seen Harris, but I think a car is following us.”

“Oh great!” Janet said. The weekend was not turning out as she’d envisioned at all.

All of a sudden, Sean made a U-turn in the middle of the road. Janet had to grab the dash to steady herself. In the blink of an eye they were traveling north, returning in the direction from which they’d come.

“It’s the second car,” Sean said. “See if you can tell what kind of car it is and if you can see the driver.”

There were two cars bearing down on them from the opposite direction, their headlights cutting a swath in the darkness. The first car went by. Sean slowed, and then the second car passed them.

“It’s a limousine,” Janet said with surprise.

“Well, that shows how paranoid I’m getting,” Sean said with a touch of chagrin. “That’s certainly not the kind of car Robert Harris would be driving.”

Sean made another sudden U-turn, and they were again heading south.

“Would you give me a little warning when you are about to do one of your maneuvers?” Janet complained. She resettled herself in her seat.

“Sorry,” Sean said.

As they traveled south beyond the old section of town they noticed the homes got progressively larger and more impressive. Within Port Royal they were even more lavish, and when they pulled into Malcolm Betencourt’s driveway lined with blazing torches, they were awed. They parked in an area designated “visitor parking” at least a hundred feet from the door.

“This looks more like a transplanted French château,” Janet said. “It’s huge. What does this man do?”

“He runs some enormous for-profit hospital corporation,” Sean said. He got out of the car and came around to open the door for Janet.

“I didn’t know there was so much money in for-profit medicine,” Janet said.

The Betencourts were gracious hosts. They welcomed Sean and Janet as if they were old friends. They even teased them for parking in an area reserved for the “trades.”

Armed with glasses of the finest champagne flavored with a mere drop of cassis, Sean and Janet were treated to a grand tour of the twenty-thousand-square-foot home. They also had a walk around the grounds which included two pools, one cascading into the other, and a hundred-and-twenty-foot teak sailboat moored to a sizable pier.

“Some people might say that this house is a bit too big,” Malcolm said when they were seated in the dining room. “But Harriet and I are accustomed to a lot of room. Our home up in Connecticut is actually a little larger.”

“Plus we entertain regularly,” Harriet said. She rang a little bell and a servant appeared with the first course. Another poured crisp white wine.

“So you are studying at Forbes?” Malcolm said to Sean. “You’re a lucky man, Sean. It’s a great place. You’ve met Dr. Mason, I presume?”

“Dr. Mason and Dr. Levy,” Sean said.

“They’re doing great things,” Malcolm said. “Of course, I don’t have to tell you that. As you know, I’m living proof.”

“I’m certain you are grateful,” Sean said. “But...”

“That’s an understatement,” Malcolm interrupted. “They’ve given me a second chance at life, so we’re more than grateful.”

“We’ve donated five million from our foundation,” Harriet said. “We in the United States have to put our resources in those institutions that are successful instead of following those pork barrel policies of Congress.”

“Harriet’s sensitive about the research issue,” Malcolm explained.

“She’s got a good point,” Sean admitted. “But Mr. Betencourt, as a medical student I’m interested in your experience as a patient, and I’d like to hear it in your own words. How did you understand the treatment you were given? Especially considering the business you are in, I’m sure you were interested.”

“You mean the quality of the treatment or the treatment per se?”

“The treatment per se,” Sean said.

“I’m a businessman, not a doctor,” Malcolm said. “But I consider myself an informed layperson. When I got to Forbes they immediately started me on immunotherapy with an antibody. On the first day they took a biopsy of the tumor, and they took white blood cells from my body. They incubated the white blood cells with the tumor to sensitize them to become ‘killer cells.’ Finally, they injected my own sensitized cells back into my bloodstream. As I understand it, the antibody coated the cancer cells and then the killer cells came along and ate ’em up.”

Malcolm shrugged and looked at Harriet to see if she wanted to add anything.

“That’s what happened,” she agreed. “Those little cells went in there and gave those tumors hell!”

“At first my symptoms got a little worse,” Malcolm said. “But then they got progressively better. We followed the progression on MRI. The tumors just melted away. And today I feel great.” To emphasize his point he gave his chest a thump with his fist.

“And now you are treated in the outpatient?” Sean asked.

“That’s right,” Malcolm said. “I’m scheduled at present to go back every six months. But Dr. Mason is convinced I’m cured, so I expect to extend it out to once a year. Each time I go I get a dose of antibody just to be sure.”

“And no more symptoms?” Sean asked.

“Nothing,” Malcolm said. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”

The first-course dishes were removed. The main course arrived along with a mellow red wine. Sean felt relaxed despite the episode on the beach. He glanced at Janet, who was having a separate conversation with Harriet; it turned out they had family friends in common. Janet smiled back at Sean when he caught her eye. Clearly she, too, was enjoying herself.