Side Effects (28 page)

"With Redding products?"

"We have a contract."

"But they ..."

"Facts, Kate. We need substantiated facts." Kate sighed and sank back in her seat, deflated. It was nearly ten and she had done nothing to prepare for the day's surgicals. "Have you started working on that list of patients who might be willing to allow me to have their medications analyzed?" Zimmermann smiled patiently. "You can see how that might be a bit tricky to explain to a patient, can't you?" He handed her a brief list and five Omnicenter medication cards. "These belong to long-term patients of mine, who agreed to exchange them as part of what I said was a routine quality-control check."

"It is," Kate said. 'Thanks, Bill. I know this isn't easy for you and I'm grateful."

"I'll try and get you some more today."

"Thanks. You're being more than fair. I know I'm right, and sooner or later I'm going to prove it." She stood to go.

"You know," Zimmermann said, "even if you find there was a manufacturing error at Redding, you have no way of tying it in with the cases you are following."

The faces of three women--two dead and one her friend--flashed in her thoughts. "I know," she said grimly.

"But it's all I ... it's all we have. Say, before I forget.

Have you got the purchase invoices for the Redding generics that I asked you about?"
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Zimmermann opened his file cabinet. "Carl Horner does the ordering. He gave me these and asked that I convey his desire to cooperate with you as fully as possible.

He also asked that you return these as soon as you're done." "Of course," Kate said, glancing at the pile of yellow invoice carbons. Redding Pharmaceuticals, Inc.; Darlington, Kentucky. The words sputtered and sparked in her mind.

Then they exploded.

"Kate, are you all right?" Zimmermann asked.

"Huh? Oh, yes, I'm fine. Bill, something very strange is going on here. I mean very strange." Zimmermann looked at her quizzically. "I don't know how long ago they moved, but at one time, the Ashburton Foundation was located in Darlington, Kentucky."

"How do you know?"

"I found their old address in my father-in-law's Rolodex."

"So?"

Kate held up an invoice for him to see. "Darlington.

That's where Redding Pharmaceuticals is headquartered."

For the first time, William Zimmermann seemed perturbed. "I still don't see what point you're trying to make."

Kate heard the irritation in the man's voice and, recalling his oblique reference to the Bobby Geary letter, cautioned herself to tread gently. Her supporters, even skeptical ones, were few and far between. "I ... I guess I overreacted a little," she said with a sheepishness she was not really feeling. "Ellen's being in the middle of all this has me grasping at straws, I guess." She glanced at her watch. "Look, I've got to get over to the OR. Thanks for these. If I come up with any facts," she corrected herself with a raised finger,

"make that substantiated facts, I'll give you a call." "Fine," Zimmermann said. "Let me know if there's any further way I can help."

Kate hurried outside and across the street, mindless of the wind and snow. Ashburton and Redding--once both in Darlington, and now both at the Omnicenter. A coincidence? Not likely, she thought. No, not likely at all.

The lobby clock read two minutes to ten as she sped toward the surgical suite and the small frozen-section lab.

The room was dark. Taped to the door was a carefully printed note.

OR CRYOSTAT INOPERATIVE. BRING

TO PATH DEPARTMENT CRYOSTAT FOR PROCESSING

"Ten seconds to ignition. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Ignition." Tom Engleson struck the wooden match against the edge of an iron trivet and touched the brandy-soaked mound of French vanilla ice cream. "Voila!" he cried.

"Bravo!" Kate cheered.

Tom filled two shallow dishes and set Kate's in front of her with a flourish. The evening had been a low-key delight: drinks at the Hole in the Wall Pub, dinner at the Moon Villa, in Chinatown, and finally dessert in Tom's apartment, twenty stories above Boston Harbor. She had forgotten to break their date, and for once her poor memory had proven an asset. Twenty minutes into their conversation at the Hole in the Wall, Kate had given up trying to sort out what she wanted from the evening and the man and had begun to relax and enjoy both. Still, she knew, thoughts of Jared were never far from the surface; nor were thoughts of Redding Pharmaceuticals and the Ashburton Foundation.

"Okay," Tom said as he poured two cups of coffee and settled into the chair next to her, "now that my brain is through crying for food and drink and such, it's ready to try again to understand. There is no Ashburton Foundation?"

"No, there's something called the Ashburton Foundation, but I'm not at all certain it's anything other than a laundry for money."

"Pharmaceutical company money."

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"Right. I called the number I got from my father-in law's Rolodex and got a receptionist of some sort. She referred every question, even what street they were located on in DC, to someone named Dr. Thompson, apparently the director of the so-called foundation."

"But Dr. Thompson was out of the office and never called you back."

"Exactly. I tried calling the receptionist again, and this time she said that Thompson was gone for the day and would contact me in the morning. It was weird, I tell you, weird. The woman, supposedly working for this big foundation, didn't have the vaguest idea of how to handle my call."

"Did you ask Reese about all this?"

"He was gone for the day by the time I called, but tomorrow after I see Ellen, I intend to camp out on his doorstep."

"But why? What does Redding Pharmaceuticals get out of funneling all this money into our hospital?" Kate shrugged. "That, Thomas, is the sixty-four dollar question. At the moment, every shred of woman's into ition in my body is screaming that the tie-in has something to do with the contaminated vitamins our friend Dr. Paquette has gone to such lengths to cover up."

"Incredible."

"Incredible, maybe. Impossible?" She took a folded copy of an article from her purse and passed it over.

"I came across this yesterday during one of my sessions in the library. It's part of a whole book about a drug called MER/29, originally developed and marketed by Merrell Pharmaceuticals."

"That's a big company," Tom said, flipping through the pages.

"Not as big as Redding, but big enough. This MER/29 was supposed to lower cholesterol and thereby prevent heart disease. Only trouble was that other companies were racing to complete work on other products designed to do the same thing. The good folks at Merrell estimated a potential yearly profit in the billions at just one twenty cent capsule a day for each person over thirty-five. However, they also knew that the lion's share of that profit would go to the first company whose product could get cleared by the FDA and launched into the marketplace."

"I'm not going to want to hear the rest of this, am I," Tom said.

"Not if you have much trust in the pharmaceutical industry. Remember, the FDA doesn't evaluate products; the pharmaceutical companies do. The FDA only evaluates the evaluations. In its haste to get MER/29 into the bodies of the pharmaceutical-buying public, Merrell cut corner after corner in their laboratory and clinical testing.

But since none of the shortcuts was evident in the massive reports they submitted to the FDA, in 1961, MER/29 was approved by the FDA and launched by Merrell. Two years later, almost by accident, the FDA discovered what the company had done and ordered the drug removed. By that time, a large number of people had gone blind or developed hideous, irreversible skin conditions or lost all their hair." Tom whistled.

"Kids with no arms because their mothers took a sleeping pill called thalidomide. Kids with irreparably yellow teeth because tetracycline was rushed into the marketplace before all its side effects were known. The list goes on and on."

"You sound a little angry," Tom said, taking her hand and guiding her to the couch across the room.

"They paid off my chemist, Tom," she said. "They've made me look like a fool, or worse, a liar. You're damn right I'm angry." She sighed and leaned back, still holding his hand. "Forgive me for popping off like that, but I guess I needed to."

Tom slipped his free arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Together they sat, watching fat, wind whipped flakes of snow tumble about over the harbor and melt against the huge picture window.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for unders tanding." Again and again they kissed. First her blouse, then her bra, then Tom's shirt dropped to the carpet, as he bore her gently down on the couch. His lips, brushing across the hollow of her neck an dover the rise of her breasts, felt wonderful. His hand, caressing the smooth inside of her thigh was warm and knowing and patient. She felt as excited, as frightened, as she had during her earliest teenage encounters. But even as she sensed her body respond to his hunger, even as her nipples grew hard against his darting tongue, she sensed her mind begin to pull back.

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"Kate. Oh, Kate," Tom whispered, the words vibrating gently against the skin of her breast.

"Tom?" The word was a soft plea, almost a whimper.

"Hold me, Kate. Please don't stop." She took his face in her hands. "Tom," she said huskily. "I ... just can't."

Her emotions swirling like the snow on the interstate, Kate took most of an hour and a half to make the drive ri pounds from Boston to Essex. Tom had been hurt and frustrated by her sudden change in attitude, but in the end he had done his best to understand and accept.

"I only hope Jared knows how goddamn lucky he is," he had snapped as she was dressing. Later, he had insisted on driving her back to Metro and her car, where they had shared a quasi-platonic good-bye kiss. The phone was ringing as she opened the door from the garage to her house. Roscoe, who had spent most of the past two days at a sleepover with neighbors and their golden retriever, bounded down the hall, accepted a quick greeting, and then followed her to the den.

It was Jared. "Hi," he said. "I called the house at three a.m. and no one was home. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Jared. I spent the night at your father's.

Didn't he tell you he had invited me?"

"No." There was no mistaking the curiosity in Jared's voice. "Did you get my letter?" Kate thumbed through the pile of bills and throwaway journals she had carried in with her. Jared's letter was sandwiched between the magazines Aches and Pains and Pathologist on the Go.

"I just brought it in," she said. "If you want to wait, I'll read it right now."

"No need, Kate. I've got it memorized." Kate opened the letter and read along as he said the words. "It says 'I love you, I miss you, and I don't want to not live with you anymore. Jared.' " Kate's heart was pounding so much she could barely respond. "I love you too, Jared. Very, very much. When are you coming home?"

"Day after tomorrow, unless you want me to hitch home now."

"Thursday's fine, honey. Just fine. I'll pick you up at the airport."

"Seven p.m. United."

"Perfect. I have a lot to tell you about. Maybe we'll take a ride in the country. There's someone you should visit."

"Who?"

"You'll see. Let me leave it at that until Thursday.

Okay?"

"Okay, but ..."

"I love you."

"I love you, Boots. Sometimes I don't know who the heck you are or where Jared Samuels is on your list of priorities, but I love you and I want to ride it all out with you as long as I can hang on."

"We'll do just fine, honey. Everything is going to be all right." As she hung up, Kate realized that for the first time in weeks she believed that. Wednesday 19 December

Arlen Paquette, stiff and sore from lack of sleep, cruised along the tree-lined drive toward Redding Pharmaceuticals.

Paralleling the icy roadway were the vestiges of the first December snow in Darlington in eleven years. His homecoming the evening before had been a fiasco, marked by several fights with the children, too much to drink before, during, and after dinner, and finally, impotence and discord in bed--problems he and his wife had i never encountered before. J

He adjusted the rearview mirror to examine his face and plucked off the half dozen tissue-paper patches on the shaving nicks caused by his unsteady hand. Even without the patches he looked like hell. It was the job, the job he couldn't quit. Bribery, payoffs, deceptions, threats, ruined lives. Suddenly he was no longer a chemist. Suddenly he was no longer even an administrator. He was a lieutenant, a platoon leader in Cyrus Bedding's army. It was an army of specialists, held together by coercion, blackmail, and enormous amounts of money--poised to strike at anything or anyone who threatened Cyrus Redding or the corporation he had built.

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The guard greeted him warmly and performed a perfunctory search of the Mercedes. Paquette had once asked the man exactly what it was he was checking for. His

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polite, but quite disconcerting, reply was, "Anything Mr. Redding doesn't want to be there." The executive offices, including Cyrus Redding's, were at the hub of the wagon wheel of six long, low structures that made up the manufacturing and packaging plants.

Research and other laboratory facilities occupied an underground annex, joined to the main structure by tunnels, escalators, and moving walkways. Paquette parked in the space marked with his name, stopped at his office to leave his coat, and then headed directly for Redding's suite. He was ushered in immediately.