The Baby Thief (22 page)

The warm memory quickly darkened into a bout of homesickness. Eric felt more alone than he ever had in his life. An image of himself as an old man, sitting at the same table, eating dinner alone, pushed into his consciousness and hovered, pulling him down, deeper into the dumps.

Eric pushed back. His threw his bowl at the pile of dishes in the sink and bolted from the room. He grabbed his coat, locked up, and left the house while he still had the energy. Keep moving, he told himself. Help someone whose problems are bigger than your own. Work until you’re too tired to think—a proven strategy.

He drove aimlessly for a few minutes, then instinctively headed for North McKenzie. If nothing else, he would get back into the computer and read the rest of Jenna’s file. Maybe even try another visit with Dr. Demauer.

The hospital was crowded with visitors, lots of little family groups with worried expressions. Eric headed straight for the second floor and the computer he’d used that morning.

Two nurses stood talking in front of the little office, so Eric passed the pediatrics’ admitting desk and caught the next elevator up to the research wing. An attractive woman with short, wavy dark blonde hair stepped out of the lounge across from the elevator. A younger woman in a matching lab coat followed her. Eric moved toward them just in time to hear the younger woman say, “Good night, Dr. Demauer.”

Am unexpected rush of excitement propelled him forward. “Dr. Demauer?”

The woman turned and he saw her clearly for the first time. Her face seemed very familiar. Eric figured he must have seen her in the hospital before.

“Yes?” Her voice was curt, but quiet.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“That depends.” She tried to calculate who he was and what he wanted.

“My name’s Eric Troutman. I’m a hospital volunteer. Can we go sit down in the lounge and be comfortable?”

“I have work to do. Just tell me what you want.”

“A friend of mine named Jenna McClure has disappeared. I know she had a blood test done at the Assisted Reproduction Clinic, followed by a consultation with you. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about her condition. Something that might help me find her.”

Demauer’s eyes widened for a split second, then she seemed to drift. Eric waited patiently, giving her a chance to respond. He noticed the doctor’s skin was unnaturally pale, and she seemed to have a slight tremor in her hands. “I realized you’re probably–”

“You don’t realize anything.” Demauer’s voice was shrill and loud. “How dare you even ask me. A patient’s confidentiality is sacred. Perhaps your friend is just trying to get away from your overbearing personality. If you have no other business on the research floor, I suggest you leave. I see the security guard coming now. Should I alert him?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Eric spun around and strode to the elevator. It was the same security guard he’d encountered that morning, and he didn’t want the man to see him. He bounced on his feet and kept his face turned away. The elevator door opened and Eric rushed in. When he turned back to face the doors, Demauer was standing in the same place, watching him. What a hostile woman, he thought. Seriously lacking in social skills.

Riding down, he felt jittery and almost talked himself out of a second try at the computer. This day had been so frustrating, so full of dead ends, that he felt compelled to take one more opportunity to find a breakthrough.

The nursing staff was mostly out of sight when he exited on the second floor. Only one desk clerk was in the area of the cubby office, and Eric slipped in unnoticed. He accessed Jenna’s file quickly this time and scanned past the first page. Then a voice boomed out, “Step away from the computer.”

Shit! It was the security guard from the research department. He must have followed him down. “Listen, I can explain. I’m a hospital volunteer, and everyone on the pediatric staff will vouch for me.”

“Save it for the police.”

“Call big Al, head of security. He knows me. He’ll tell you I’m just a nosey reporter looking at my girlfriend’s file.”

“Stand up.”

Eric realized the guard was wearing a gun, but he hadn’t drawn it.
What was with the people on the research floor?

“Turn around, put your hands on the wall, and spread your legs.”

Eric was frisked for the first time in his life. It made him feel sleazy. Shameful. In a moment, they were headed to the security office on the first floor.

Albert Hoskins, head of security, was not in the building but insisted on coming in to handle the problem himself. Eric was forced to wait almost an hour in a tiny, dingy room that stank of sweat. Hoskins—Eric didn’t dare call him Big Al under the circumstances—was not impressed with his story of investigating a kidnapping. He lectured Eric about the abuse of privilege and friendship, then decided he would release him without pressing charges. Relief flooded over the shame.

“Don’t come back,” Hoskins warned with a sad face. “You’re done here permanently. It’s too bad for the kids, Troutman. They’ll miss you.”

“I know. I can’t tell you how much I regret this already.”

“I hope you find your girlfriend.”

“Me too.”

Eric had serious doubts. If today was any indication of the way things would turn out, he was in serious trouble. He couldn’t think of a worse day. Except when Chris died.

Chapter 22

Friday, Nov. 3, 9:44 a.m.

Carmichael stepped out of the cab and got drenched in a sudden downpour. Welcome to Seattle. Deciding it would take longer to dig out his umbrella than reach the cover of the building, he sprinted toward the glass door marked
JB Pharmaceuticals
.

Once inside, Carmichael checked his watch. Fifteen minutes before ten. After passing through the security checkpoint, he would have just enough time to scoot into a men’s room and see how much damage the rain had done.

The bathroom, with its pink and gray marbled counter and twenty-foot-long mirror, was a long way from the primitive furnishings at the compound. He reminded himself that material things were not important.

After quickly combing his hair and drying his loafers as best as he could with paper towels, Carmichael grabbed the elevator and rode to the tenth floor. Gerald Akron’s secretary, a large plain-looking woman packed into a small dress, stared at him suspiciously when he walked in.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m David Carmichael. I have an appointment with Gerald Akron.”

“You’re not in the appointment book.” She continued to stare, her expression vacillating between disapproval and curiosity. It was probably the ponytail, Carmichael thought. Most women liked it, but some found it out of place on a well-dressed man.

“Tell him I’m here, please.” Carmichael smiled politely, but didn’t waste any charm on the woman. He was too preoccupied to play the game.

She turned away slightly to speak into her headphone, then turned back after a moment. “Have a seat then.”

Carmichael waited patiently, using the time to go over his prepared answers. During the flight, he’d tried to anticipate Akron’s conditions. He would only compromise so far. He needed the money more that ever, but would never risk the Sisters’ health just to keep the clinic going. The irony of it almost made him smile.

“Mr. Akron will see you now.”

Carmichael resisted the urge to smirk as he walked briskly back to the inner door. He might, God forbid, be back here again someday.

Akron’s office wasn’t particularly large, but it had a spectacular view of the bay. Carmichael refused to comment. He was not impressed with Akron or his half-million-a-year desk job. The man’s face was huge and square with a nasty dimple in his chin. Akron was also overweight, with a pink flush over pale, moist skin. High blood pressure, possibly coronary disease. The man probably wouldn’t collect much of his pension.

“Have a seat, Carmichael.” Akron’s tone was that of a superior talking to a subordinate. Carmichael bristled, but held himself in check. He never let pride get in the way of a contribution. God had taught him to be humble when necessary.

“Thanks.” He plopped in the chair, leaned back, and crossed his legs—the look of a relaxed man.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Certainly.”

“We’re not pleased with the way you’ve handled things in the past.” Akron held up a hand and used his fingers to list grievances. “Altering dosages at random. Sloppy documentation, if any at all. Discontinuing injections before the subject ovulates. And failing to set clinical endpoints.”

“I’ve reorganized–”

“Save it.” Akron reached back and grabbed a large dark box, which he set to one side of the desk. “When you take our money, you do our research our way. Each subject gets her own special dosage, the same dosage every day. Everything is pre-measured, color-coded and labeled just to make it easy for a guy like you. With me so far?” Akron paused, but Carmichael couldn’t bring himself to speak. He nodded slightly.

“For example, subject A gets injected with the needles in the red packages every day until she ovulates, then the eggs are retrieved, counted, and documented. Subject B gets injected with the pink packages, and only the pink packages, every day until she ovulates. It’s too simple to screw up.”

“What about side effects? What if the dosage proves to be too much for the individual?” Carmichael sounded whiny even to himself, but his heart was sick. He feared what they expected of him.

“Side effects are to be documented, but they should in no way alter the course of the research.” Akron’s voice dropped a level. “The most important aspect of this trial is the rate of implantation. We’re trying to develop a hormone that is less irritating to the uterine lining, thus allowing more embryos to implant. The success rates of our fertility clinics are declining. The doctors think the hormones they prescribe to increase egg production might actually work against the transfer rate.”

“I concur.” Carmichael leaned forward, eager to discuss the subject. “They seem to cause abnormal endometrial maturation, adversely affecting the outer hyperechogenic layer.” He’d compared endometrium biopsies of women taking fertility drugs to women who’d been exposed only to natural estrogen levels and found a startling difference.

“Keep your theories to yourself.” Akron held up his hand. “When you work for us, you have no mind of your own and no patients. They are subjects in a clinical trial. If you deviate from the program, you ruin the data. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes.” Carmichael wanted to slap the man.

“Good.” Akron leaned back and smiled. “Now it’s only a question of price. How many subjects this time?”

“Ten or twelve.” Carmichael gave him what he thought would be the lowest acceptable number.

Akron grunted. “Almost not worth bothering with. But somebody has to go first, so we can fine tune the dosage for the real test group.” He rotated his chair and opened a safe in a cabinet behind his desk. “Because you only have a dozen subjects and there are twenty sets of injections in there, some of your gals will just have to go through a second cycle. But for fifteen thousand, I’m sure they won’t mind.” Akron held out a stack of bills, waiting for a response.

The urge to snatch the cash and run was overpowering. Carmichael knew he would never give anyone back-to-back cycles of untested hormones. That was insane. He couldn’t just walk away from the cash either. Lord help me, he prayed. There had to be a way.

There was. He could fake the results of the second cycle based on the notes from the first. Akron would never know the difference. As long as everything was all neat and accounted for on paper, the drug maker would be happy.

Carmichael nodded. “You have a deal.”

Akron handed him the cash. Carmichael glanced at it just long enough to make sure it looked right, then slipped the wad into an interior jacket pocket. These trials were not registered with the FDA, and JB Pharma wasn’t reckless enough to leave a paper trail.

He couldn’t bring himself to look Akron in the eye. It wasn’t right to cheat the man. Akron was a heartless asshole, and Carmichael didn’t feel too guilty. “I’ll send the results in a few months.” He stood, feeling his muscles relax for the first time in days.

“Bring them in person.” Akron chuckled softly. “It’ll be nice to see you again.”

Carmichael’s throat was too dry to respond. He nodded, then walked out.

“Asshole.” He said it out loud for the first time on the elevator. The word had been playing in his head like a mantra since leaving Akron’s office. Carmichael promised himself he wouldn’t come back here—ever. Elizabeth would come through with the money she had promised, and he would contact the United Christian Foundation personally to find out why his church had been cut out of the yearly distribution. Everything would work out. He would cut the hormone dosages in half and to hell with Akron. Other fertility specialists might push for big numbers like eight and ten eggs per retrieval, but not him. His success rate was in the high seventies. All he needed were a few extra oocytes each time, so he could be sure to produce at least one female embryo with good metabolic activity for transfer. And, of course, have a few rejects leftover to study.

Out on the street, the rain had stopped and the sun streaked through the clouds in patches. A dim rainbow intersected the Freemont Bridge. Carmichael took it as a good sign. He caught a cab to the airport and headed home.

Three hours later he moved briskly through Eugene’s small airport, thinking it would take him longer to drive to the compound than it had to fly from Seattle. His one piece of luggage, a travel bag, was slung over his shoulder as he hurried to the overnight parking lot and unlocked the church van. Daylight was fading and the sky was heavy with rain. Carmichael made a quick stop at the bank to deposit the cash in the ATM, then headed east on Hwy. 126. He wanted to stop and see Elizabeth about the money she had promised, but his need to be at the compound, to make sure everything was all right with Jenna, was overwhelming.

The feeling that all was not well at the church had nagged him during the flight. His anxiety continued to grow, reaching a state of near panic as Carmichael navigated the winding mountain road in the dark. Wind and rain pounded the van in relentless fury. He pushed the speedometer, taking the corners at reckless speeds. He prayed continuously.