Robin Cook - Terminal

He loaded samples of the DNA into the remaining wells of the first thermal cycler. Into these same wells Sean carefully added the paired primers for oncogenes, a separate pair for each well. Finally he dosed each well with an appropriate amount of reagents for the polymerase chain reaction.

With the first thermal cycler fully loaded, Sean turned it on.

Turning to the second thermal cycler, Sean added samples of Helen’s tumor cell RNA to each well. In the second run he was planning to look for messenger RNA made from oncogenes. To do this he had to add aliquots of reverse transcriptions to each well, the same enzyme that he’d added to the samples of cerebrospinal fluid. While he was in the tedious process of adding the oncogene primer pairs, a pair in each well, the phone rang.

At first Sean ignored the phone, assuming that Dr. Mason would answer it. When Mason failed to do so, the continuous ringing began to grate on Sean’s nerves. Putting down the pipette he was using, Sean walked over to the glass-enclosed office. Mrs. Mason was sitting glumly in an office chair pushed into the corner. She’d apparently cried herself out and was just sniffling into a tissue. Dr. Mason was nervously watching the flask in the ice bath, concerned that the ringing phone might disturb it.

Sean pushed open the door. “Would you mind answering the phone?” Sean said irritably. “Whoever it is, be sure to tell them that the nitroglycerin is just on the verge of freezing.”

Sean gave the door a shove. As it clunked into its jamb, Sean could see Dr. Mason wince, but the doctor obediently picked up the receiver. Sean turned back to his lab bench and his pipetting. He’d only loaded a single well when his concentration was again broken.

“It’s a Lieutenant Hector Salazar from the Miami Police Department,” Dr. Mason called. “He’d like to talk with you.”

Sean looked over at the office. Dr. Mason had the door propped open with his foot. He was holding the phone in one hand, the receiver in the other. The cord snaked back into the office.

“Tell him that there will be no problems if they wait for a couple more hours,” Sean said.

Dr. Mason spoke into the phone for a few moments, then called out: “He insists on talking with you.”

Sean rolled his eyes. He put his pipette back down on the lab bench, stepped over to the wall extension, and pushed the blinking button.

“I’m very busy right now,” he said without preamble.

“Take it easy,” Hector said soothingly. “I know you’re upset, but everything is going to work out fine. There’s someone here who’d like to have a word with you. His name is Sergeant Hunt. We want to be reasonable about all this. I’m sure you do too.”

Sean tried to protest that he didn’t have time for conversation when Sergeant Hunt’s gruff voice came over the line.

“Now I want you to stay calm,” Sergeant Hunt said.

“That’s a little difficult,” Sean said. “I’ve got a lot to do in a short time.”

“No one will get hurt,” Sergeant Hunt said. “We’d like you to come down here so we can talk.”

“Sorry,” Sean said.

“I’ve heard that you’ve been angry about not being able to work on a particular project,” Sergeant Hunt said. “Let’s talk about it. I can understand how upsetting that might be. You may want to lash out at the people you think are responsible. But we should also talk about the fact that holding people against their will is a serious offense.”

Sean smiled when he realized the police had surmised he’d taken the Masons hostage as a result of being kept off the medulloblastoma protocol. In a way, they weren’t far off.

“I appreciate your concern and your presence,” Sean said. “But I don’t have a lot of time to talk. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Just tell us what you want,” Sergeant Hunt said.

“Time,” Sean said. “I only want a little time. Two or three, or perhaps four hours at most.”

Sean hung up. Returning to his bench, he lifted his pipette and went back to work.

Ronald Hunt was a six-foot redheaded man. At thirty-seven, he’d been on the police force for fifteen years, ever since graduating from community college. His major had been law enforcement, but he’d minored in psychology. Attempting to combine psychology with police work, he’d jumped at the chance to join the Hostage Negotiating Team when a slot became available. Although he didn’t get to use his skills as often as he would have liked, when he did he’d enjoyed the challenge. He’d even been inspired to take more psychology at night school at the University of Miami.

Sergeant Hunt had been successful in all his previous operations and had developed confidence in his abilities. After the successful resolution of the last episode which involved a discontented employee at a soft-drink bottling plant who’d taken three female colleagues hostage, Ronald had received a citation from the force for meritorious service. So when Sean Murphy hung up on him, it was a blow to his ego.

“The twerp hung up on me!” Ron said indignantly.

“What did he say he wanted?” Hector asked.

“Time,” Ron said.

“What do you mean, time?” Hector asked. “Like the magazine? Does he want to be in Time ?”

“No,” Ron said. “Time like hours. He told me he has to get back to work. He must be working on that project he’d been forbidden to work on.”

“What kind of project?” Hector asked.

“I don’t know,” Ron said. He then pushed the redial on the portable phone. “I can’t negotiate unless we talk.”

Lieutenant Hector Salazar and Sergeant Ronald Hunt were standing behind three blue-and-white Miami police cars parked in the Forbes parking lot directly across from the entrance to the Forbes research building. The squad cars were parked in the form of a letter U facing away from the building. In the heart of this U they’d set up a mini-command center with a couple of phones and a radio on a folding card table.

The police presence at the site had swelled considerably. Initially there had only been four officers: the original two uniformed patrolmen who’d answered the call, plus their sergeant and his partner. Now there was a small crowd. Besides dozens of regular uniformed police, including Hector, there was the two-man negotiating team, a five-man bomb squad, and a ten-man SWAT team dressed in black assault uniforms. The SWAT team was off to the side warming up with some jumping jacks.

In addition to the police, Forbes was represented by Dr. Deborah Levy, Margaret Richmond, and Robert Harris. They had been allowed near the command post but had been asked to keep to the side. A small crowd, including local media, had gathered just beyond the yellow crime scene tape. Several TV vans were parked as close as possible with their antennae extended. Reporters with microphones in hand and camera crews at their heels were scouring the crowd to interview anyone who seemed to have any information about the drama transpiring within.

While the crowd of spectators swelled, the police tried to go about their business.

“Dr. Mason says that Murphy flat out refuses to get back on the phone,” Ron said. He was clearly offended.

“You keep trying,” Hector advised him. Turning to Sergeant Anderson, Hector said: “I trust that all entrances and exits are covered.”

“All covered,” Anderson assured him. “No one is going in or coming out without our knowing it. Plus we have sharpshooters on the roof of the hospital.”

“What about that pedestrian bridge connecting the two buildings?” Hector asked.

“We got a man on the bridge on the hospital side,” Anderson said. “There aren’t going to be any surprises in this operation.”