Read Lab Notes: a novel Online
Authors: Gerrie Nelson
Lab Notes: a novel (8 page)
Vincent merged onto Interstate 45 heading south. Diane sat in the passenger seat of the Suburban watching the lush spring foliage roll by.
Southeast Texas had been a surprise when she first arrived months before. She had expected more of a desert landscape. But it was a transitional place where live oaks and magnolias shared the land with prickly pear cactus and mesquite, a place where the South made room for the Southwest.
She looked over at Vincent. His intense focus on the road told her his mind had already jumped ahead to Galveston; he was a man on a mission. Diane smiled to herself. She had forgotten how resilient her husband could be. It was only four days since the sale of
Peruvase
, and already he had moved on to his next project.
On Saturday, Raymond Bellfort had stopped by the house to gauge any fallout from the sale of Vincent’s drug and to present his case. The gist was: The cost of studying each and every compound from the medicinal plants added to their arsenal would be prohibitive. For the most promising ones, they’d have to seek a pharmaceutical partner before they reached the clinical trial stage. Even at that, every Investigational New Drug carried risks, what with FDA requirements and the competitive business environment. So, sometimes they’d sell a product—like
Peruvase
—outright, before the work on it was completed.
Raymond appealed to Vincent saying, “Even with the carefully constructed work you do here in the lab, you can’t guarantee positive outcomes. If we get an early offer, if it’s a good number—and you have to admit in this case it was—we sell
them
the risk.”
Diane was relieved when Vincent and Raymond shook hands, agreeing to move on to the next project—the development of a compound from a plant Diane had found in Venezuela.
She had been on a collecting expedition more than three years before when she visited the Witochi, an Indian tribe that lived along the banks of Peru’s Maranon River, an Amazon tributary.
During certain tribal rituals, the men became raucously inebriated by sucking on nuts they called the
balasi
. Afterwards, they threw the nuts into the flames as an offering to the god who provided the trees on which the nuts grew.
The nuts were only permitted during special celebrations, and the tribal Shaman kept the trees’ whereabouts a secret.
The men delighted in these festivities. However, on the mornings after, some of them suffered colossal hangovers replete with demonic hallucinations. They wept and fell to the ground rubbing their faces in the ashes from the previous night’s fire. Then they tore at their flesh and begged the Shaman for more
balasi
nuts—hairs from the dog that bit them, as it were.
But instead of the nuts, the Shaman administered foliage from a plant he said grew near the
balasi
. The plant’s small, obvate-oblong leaves with bright yellow midribs instantly, miraculously cured the prostrate men of their hangovers.
It took two weeks for Diane to convince the Shaman that he could be responsible for doing great good in the world if he would give her some of the nuts and the curative leaves to take back to the States with her. When he finally relented, he not only gave her a generous supply of the nuts, but some dried, as well as fresh, specimens of the plant she later named the
achimera
.
The Shaman then shared with her an amazing fact: For several months after taking the hangover cure, the men were immune to the inebriating effect of the
balasi
nuts.
After returning home from that trip, Diane’s research team extracted several enzymes from the
balasi
nuts and the
achimera
leaves, and Vincent went to work.
At the time, he focused on one particular enzyme that showed promise,
VZ13
. “We could have a cure for some types of addictions here, or maybe even prevention,” he had said. But then their funding came through for
Peruvase
and they shelved
VZ13
(aka
Chimeron
)—until now.
Vincent parked in the multi-level visitors’ garage at the University of Texas Medical Branch in Galveston, and they walked along Market Street toward the Moody Medical Library. When they stopped to allow a campus shuttle—an antique streetcar—pass by, Vincent dug into the side pocket of his briefcase for a handful of index cards. He divided them into two piles, handing Diane the top half. They both giggled; they had played this game before.
The index cards contained a bibliography of science journal titles Vincent had compiled from the Internet. His investigation centered on the variants of the mu opioid receptors in the brain and the pharmacokinetics of certain drug toxicities in the central nervous system.
As they had done so many times in years past, the two of them would go through the library’s computers, on a sort of scavenger hunt, in search of the manuscripts. Then they’d print copies of the research. This would give Vincent a picture of findings already out there, saving him the trouble of reinventing the wheel.
Whoever completed their search first was the winner. And the winner got to ask for anything he or she wanted—within reason.
They entered the lobby of the library and took the elevator to the third floor. In the journal section, they established squatters’ rights at a remote table and dug in for three hours of intense research.
When Vincent checked the last of the items off his list, he playfully pounded his chest in a simian display of superiority—he had finished first. He helped Diane search for the last two items on her list. Then they packed up their copies and headed for the elevator.
When they reached the lobby, Vincent remembered that he’d left some of his materials at the copier upstairs.
“Wait here, I’ll go up and get them,” he said. He placed his briefcase on the information counter and hurried to the elevator.
Diane watched young people passing in and out the library doors and realized that she missed teaching. She still maintained email relationships with former students scattered around the world. But that wasn’t enough for her. She made a mental note to pressure Raymond regarding his promise to affiliate with a university.
Suddenly, she became aware of a commotion behind her. She turned to see the elevator doors opening and realized Vincent was causing the disturbance.
He emerged from the elevator behind a short middle-aged man who wore blue jeans, an orange T-shirt and a baseball cap and had a death grip on a briefcase under his arm. Vincent seemed to be chasing the gentleman toward her. The man hurried past Diane, tipped his hat in her direction and rushed out the door.
Vincent approached in a purple state of apoplexy. “Do you know him?” His voice was accusing.
“No. Why?”
That sonofabitch,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Should we call campus security? What did he do to you, Vincent?”
Vincent waved a hand toward the doorway as if dismissing the man. “He didn’t get much.”
“Much of what?” Diane checked to see that Vincent was still wearing his watch and wedding band.
“The little s.o.b. was stuffing the research I left behind into his briefcase.”
“Really?”
“It’s science espionage, Diane. It happens all the time around here. Ask your buddy, Raymond.”
Diane was flabbergasted by Vincent’s rage. The man she saw running for the door looked harmless. And he was wearing a University of Texas T-shirt. He was probably a professor or a research scientist at the University. Most likely he had more right to that library than they did. She felt certain the man had picked up Vincent’s materials by mistake, and Vincent had grossly overreacted.
Diane noticed the stares of people in the lobby. She extracted the crumpled papers from Vincent’s hand and placed them in the briefcase. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
Obediently, Vincent followed through the front doors. But once outside, he raved on about spies and piracy of intellectual properties until they reached the Suburban. Diane insisted on driving.
By the time they reached the causeway bridge that connected Galveston Island to the mainland, Vincent had gotten his agitation under control. “I don’t know what got into me,” he said, looking contrite with his forehead resting in the palm of his hand.
Diane patted his shoulder affectionately to conceal her concern, then changed the subject. “You won the hunt—fair and square this time. What do I owe you?”
Still agonizing over his thuggish behavior, Vincent didn’t answer her.
She tried a different approach. “What about a telescope for the cupola?”
That got his attention. He looked up. “That’s a possibility,” he said.
Years before, Vincent had developed a fascination with astronomy while learning celestial navigation for sailing. But he never had the time or the place for a telescope. However, when they moved into their Texas home, the six-windowed, cupola with an opening moon roof provided a perfect spot for viewing the heavens. As a matter of fact, three telltale marks in the cupola’s rug indicated Harry Lee had used the room for that very purpose.
Diane thought a telescope would be a great diversion for Vincent. She grabbed for her phone and called the information line, which connected her with a camera and telescope shop near downtown Houston. She punched an address into the GPS and stayed on I-45 headed north.
Vincent spent that evening in the cupola happily setting up his telescope. It was top-of-the-line technology, suitable for lunar and planetary viewing as well as terrestrial observation.
Diane pruned plants in the large screened-in garden on the back deck and played with Huck, their eighty-pound hound. She felt a peaceful aura settling over the house.
No more concerns about espionage and pirates.
David Crowley watched as the maitre’d led the man toward his table. Like himself, he wore a navy blazer and striped tie and carried a briefcase. He could have been mistaken for one of the many business people doing deals over dinner in the dark-paneled dining room. He approached the table, and David reached up and shook his hand. “Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.” He motioned for the man to sit. “The iced tea should be here any minute. I assumed that’s what you’d want”
The man nodded, then glanced at David’s fingers drumming on the tablecloth. He leaned forward with a smirk. “Slow your motor; no harm has been done… How’s the veterinary business?”
David brought his fingers under control and glanced around furtively. “I guess I don’t have the temperament for this. I feel I’ve been as useful as a trapdoor in a canoe.”
“These things develop slowly. So… what’s up?”
David scanned the nearby tables, then looked back at his dinner partner. “So far there hasn’t been a peep from the Roses about the sale of
Peruvase
.
“You think they could be players?”
“Possibly. But I need more time.”
“I have some background information here.” The man reached down beside his chair, popped the locks on his briefcase and handed a manila folder across the table. “That should give you some insight into who we’re dealing with.”
David slid the folder into his briefcase.
The waiter brought their iced tea. Then, at the gentlemen’s request, he stood by while they looked over the menu.
Shifting from one foot to the other, the waiter struggled to avoid gawking at the bare ankles and scruffy boat shoes on one of the men and the bulging pistol beneath the jacket of the other.
Diane and Vincent jogged single-file along the bluff’s edge toward the orange dome of sun rising out of Galveston Bay. Running along behind her husband, staring intently at the back of his head, Diane tried to divine what was going on in there.
After the library incident, he seemed content enough on the surface. But behind his perpetual smile, she had detected an irritating smugness.
Then a few evenings ago, the alien returned. Vincent reverted to his Texas mood—grumpy and non-communicative. She hoped today she’d get an inkling of the problem before she left for Ecuador. Gabriel Carrera was sending a private plane for her and Raymond that afternoon.
Diane caught up with Vincent at a rest area where he was stretching his legs on a log crosspiece. She swiped her terrycloth wristband across her forehead and gulped some water. Sitting down on a wooden bench, she dropped her head between her knees and stretched her back muscles.
Vincent plopped down beside her on the seat and said in a chummy tone, “Remember that student of yours from Hong Kong who always hung around the lab? The one with the obvious crush on you.”
Diane pulled up to a sitting position. Dare she hope that her husband was trying to make small talk? “Tung Chen,” she replied.
“That’s the guy. What ever happened to him?”
“He opened a testing lab in Hong Kong. I hear from him every now and then. He teaches a class at a university there also… Why?”
“Would he know any scientists in Taiwan?”
Diane snapped her head around to make eye contact. “What’s this about?”
Vincent bent down and untied a shoelace. “I’ve been doing some checking—looking for the pharmaceutical company that bought
Peruvase
.”
“For God’s sake, Vincent, you assigned BRI the rights to
Peruvase
. They sold it. We were paid handsomely—end of story. I thought we’d gotten past all that.”
“
You
may have.” He shook invisible stones from his shoe.
Speechless, Diane jumped up and began pacing in front of Vincent, arms crossed.
He continued. “During their investigation, my people—”
“What people?” Diane was incredulous.
“Old colleagues who work in Asia now—will you let me finish?”
Diane bit down on her lip.
“I had mentioned Harry Lee’s name in an email to an old classmate who’s in Singapore. The other night he wrote back saying that a scientist by that name was murdered in Hong Kong last December.”
Diane stopped pacing. “Chances are slim that it’s the same man. ‘Harry Lee’ is Hong Kong’s version of ‘John Smith’.”
Vincent looked up and cocked an eyebrow at her. “You have to consider the timeframe and profession involved here. Weren’t you the professor who always warned your lab students against shrugging off a possible discovery as coincidence?”
“No one at BRI has mentioned his death.”
“Precisely.”
Diane planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “What are you implying?”
Vincent shook his head, denying any intent.
He stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out at the bay. “I’m thinking of entering
Woodwind
in that sailboat race to Vera Cruz. I’d like you to come… If not, I’ll single-hand it.”
Diane couldn’t find her voice at first. Then it squeaked out in a plea. “We have work to do. How could you consider sailing off?”
Vincent stared silently out at the bay.
“I don’t know who you are any more, Vincent,” Diane said, then turned and jogged into the woods.
Her brain in turmoil, she ran along blindly, tripping over roots and tangling with low-hanging branches and beards of Spanish moss.
She was now certain that Vincent had lost it completely. A spy network in Asia? Murder in Hong Kong? A BRI conspiracy of silence? Solo racing offshore?
Actually, the solo racing part could be considered within the realm of normalcy, but not for the unadventurous, buttoned-down Vincent she used to know.
She approached a jogging trail and made a right turn, her internal compass indicating that the primate house should be up ahead on the left. From there she knew that an intersecting path would take her to the main building. As she approached the animal cages, she was startled by a figure emerging from the shadows. Then she realized it was Colton Fey, the boat captain.
She disliked Colton Fey; the way he looked at her made her feel unclean. Adding to that, she wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. She considered heading off into the woods again to avoid him. But, handicapped by a genetic inability to be rude, she stayed the course and slowed to say hello.
As she approached him, Colton looked quizzically at her hair (probably a nest of twigs and Spanish moss). Then he grinned broadly and said, “Well, if it isn’t the silk stocking half of our pair o’ docs. But where’s the mismatched mate?”
Diane smirked, indicating his comment didn’t merit a reply, and resumed jogging. Once past him she regretted showing any response at all; it wasn’t his first dig at her husband.
Vincent’s reserved manner made some people believe he was unapproachable. From the beginning it was obvious that Colton Fey felt threatened by him, taking every opportunity to zing him behind his back.
As Raymond Bellfort’s yacht captain and harbormaster, Colton Fey was given carte blanche at BRI. He roamed the hallways, freezing the genial working environment with his malignant wit. “Loosening up the brainiacs” he called it.
Jogging away from the primate house, Diane felt Colton Fey’s leer crawling down her back. With the bend in the trail just ahead, she bolted, running for the main building and its promise of a decontaminating shower.