Never Say Die

Chapter 15

Remo followed Highway 60 south from Louisville to Muldraugh, several miles above the Fort Knox, gold depository, where he branched off to the west toward Brandenburg.

It was a gamble, dropping in on Radcliff uninvited, but he had a feeling that the doctor would be shunning interviews today, if he was given any choice. Remo was interested in seeing how his adversary dealt with unexpected visitors the morning after losing one of his facilities.

Of course, there was a chance he might not get to see the doctor, after all. Radcliff could be in hiding or he might refuse to meet with Remo. Stranger things had happened to reporters, but whichever way it went, he would be able to examine part of Radcliff’s clinic.

Whatever happened in the next few hours, he would get a feeling for the man.

The Family Service Clinic had a wholesome ring to it. A passing motorist would have to stop and read the fine print on a sign no more than three feet square to realize the clinic dealt exclusively with Family Planning and Fertility. At that, the clinic proper was concealed by ivy-covered walls and weeping willows, but the wrought-iron gate was open, waiting for him.

Remo took the bait and drove inside.

Ideal Maternity had been an older building, modernized and renovated, while the clinic was a relatively new addition to the landscape, cunningly designed to look antique—at least from the outside. There was a blacktop parking lot on the west side, with spaces for a dozen cars marked off in yellow paint. The spacious lawn was neatly trimmed and bordered, with a flagstone path that led him from the parking lot to the front door.

Inside, a blond receptionist who could have modeled swimsuits for a living greeted Remo with a dazzling smile. “How may I help you, sir?”

Women had not been pursuing Remo relentlessly since his shark-eating episodes, and his interest in them had been revived. Now he checked an urge to tell her how she could help and replied, “I’m hoping for a chance to speak with Dr. Radcliff.”

“Ah. Is he expecting you?”

“Unfortunately, no, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d take a chance.”

The smile took on a hint of frost. “And you are…?”

“Remo Washington, reporter. I’m with Newstime, working on a feature piece for next week’s issue. Infertility, its causes, new treatments—that type of thing.”

“I’ll have to see if Doctor is available,” she said, “We normally require appointments.”

“Understood,” he told her. “I appreciate your help.”

“No promises,” she said, and put some warmth back in her smile. He wandered over to the nearest picture window while she buzzed the intercom, picked up her telephone receiver and conversed in muted tones with someone Remo couldn’t see. Outside, the grounds resembled snapshots of a well-kept park, except they were deserted. Where a park would have had children running, shouting, lovers strolling hand in hand, the clinic grounds had been monopolized by two fat squirrels who chased each other up and down the trunks of old, established trees. The whole place had a sterile feel about it, as if Radcliff had constructed his ideal oasis underneath a dome that let the sunlight in but kept the world at bay.

Long moments passed before he heard the click of heels on vinyl, turned to see a sleek brunette approaching. She was tall—five eight or nine—with thick, dark hair that framed an oval face: full lips, a perfect nose, green eyes that could be warm, he guessed, when they were not on full alert. A stylish three-piece suit could not disguise the luscious body underneath. Even without a smile, she bumped the blond receptionist back to the second string.

“Good morning, Mr. Washington, is it?”

“Remo Washington.” He palmed a business card to verify the lie. “I write for—”

“Newstime. So I understand. You asked to see my father?”

Remo blinked at that one, honestly surprised. “I’m hoping for a word with Dr. Radcliff,” he replied.

“I’m Chelsea Radcliff,” the brunette informed him, still without a smile. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“And I apologize for that. The truth is,” Remo told her, offering the phrase that was so often preface to a lie, “I spent the last two days in Indianapolis, with Dr. Kirk and Dr. Russell. They suggested that a visit to your father’s clinic might add something to my story.”

“Really? Kirk and Russell?”

“As I live and breathe.”

“You could have called ahead.”

“They didn’t bring it up until last night,” said Remo. “Anyway, you know the freelance writer’s rule of thumb—it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission. What if I had called ahead and Dr. Radcliff still refused to see me?”

“Mr. Washington—”

“Please, call me Remo.”

“Mr. Washington, my father is a very busy man.”

“I understand, of course.”

“You do? And yet you never heard of him before last night”

“By reputation, certainly,” he told her, scrambling desperately to salvage credibility, “but I had no idea where he was working.”

“We do not invite publicity.”

“What could it hurt?” asked Remo.

“Mr. Washington, my father’s work is not confined to pure research. His patients have included many wealthy, influential families. They aren’t celebrities, of course, and we intend to keep it that way. Infertility is still considered an embarrassment. in certain quarters. Confidentiality is critical, not only from a legal aspect, but in terms of simple trust.”

“I understand,” said Remo. “If your father would agree to speak with me in general terms, about his research, some of the advances he has made, I’m sure it would be good for business.”

Chelsea Radcliff stiffened, as if Remo’s breath offended her.

“We’re less concerned with profit here than service to our clients, Mr. Washington. I don’t believe—”

“No insult was intended. Miss Radcliff.”

“That’s ‘Dr. Radcliff,’ Mr. Washington.” She noted his expression, adding, “Ph.D.”

“What field, if I may ask?”

“Psychology.”

“I’ll bet that comes in handy, with the cases you get here.”

“I really don’t have time—”

“How’s this for an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you ask your father if he wants to talk to me. If he says no, I’m out of here, and no hard feelings. On the other hand…”

“I screen the visitors who show up unannounced,” she told him.

“And I’m sure you do a bang-up job,” said Remo, “but I have a hunch your father can decide this kind of question for himself.”

A hint of color tinged her cheeks. Her full lips tightened with annoyance.

She looked at him frostily, then seemed to relent a little.

“Wait here, please.”

Remo tracked her with his eyes, appreciating the unconscious sway of Chelsea Radcliff’s walk. Was it unconscious, though, or simply one more way to put him in his place? Take that, you snotty bastard. What you see is what you can’t get.

Remo smiled. He felt a bit of a challenge there, but at the moment, his mind was focused on the job at hand. And it looked likely that she was in agreement with the enemy.

She was back within five minutes, same determined stride, but with a new expression on her face. It fell short of concern, but there was something else that had not been present in. their first encounter, moments earlier. Confusion, maybe?

“My father has agreed to see you,” she told Remo. “I’ll show you the way.”

“With pleasure.” Smiling just enough that Chelsea couldn’t miss it as she turned away and led him past the blonde, along a spacious, antiseptic corridor.

“It’s quite a layout you have here,” said Remo.

“All the latest methods, with a touch of down-home comfort,” she informed him. Was she warming up a little, albeit reluctantly, or was the tone a standard part of guided tours?

She led him past a dozen doors—due north, in the direction of the river, Remo thought—before they reached the last door on the left. Its simple label— PRIVATE—could have served a broom closet as well as Dr. Radcliff’s inner sanctum. Chelsea knocked, three short, decisive taps, and waited.

“Come!”

The single syllable told Remo much about the man before he crossed the threshold and beheld his quarry in the flesh. Whatever else he was, whatever he aspired to, Quentin Radcliff had an ego on him that demanded deference, a visible distinction from his various subordinates. And those subordinates, apparently, included daughter Chelsea—in the public eye, if nowhere else.

She led the way into a stylish office, furnished with a desk, settee and heavy chairs that may have been antiques or just expensive knockoffs. Remo couldn’t tell, nor did he care.

The man who came around the desk to meet him was a stocky five foot seven, shorter than his daughter, but his attitude made up the difference. Quentin Radcliff had a shock of snow-white hair, receding slightly in the front, which he combed back stiffly from his squarish face. His nose was thick and broad, above a narrow mouth, but Remo focused on his eyes. They looked like amethysts, just short of violet, shaded by his spiky, bristling brows. The tan was probably a sun-lamp special, since it did not seem to reach his large, blunt-fingered hands.

“Good morning, Mr…?”

“Washington,” said Remo, knowing the display of ignorance was part of Radcliff’s act. He would have heard the name from Chelsea moments earlier, but he appeared far too busy and important to remember it for any length of time.

“From Newsweek, I believe you said?”

“Newstime,” Remo corrected him.

“Is that the tabloid?”

“Well…”

“No matter. Please, sit down.” He gestured toward one of the vacant chairs, and Remo sat, a bit surprised when Chelsea settled in another, to his left. “What brings you all the way to Brandenburg?”

“As I told your daughter, sir, I’m working on a piece for next week’s issue that will deal with human infertility from several angles—common causes of the problem and the latest medical solutions, psychological effects of infertility on married couples in today’s society…the whole nine yards.”

“If you’ll forgive the observation, Mr. Washington, your premise won’t exactly break new ground.”

“No, sir, that’s true. Some topics never lose their impact, though, and that includes most subjects where the family and children are involved. Times change, as do the expectations and reactions of a childless couple. As for medical advances…well, six months can mean a whole new ball game, so to speak.”

“And which concerns you more? The human side or science?”

“I would hope to find the two are integrated, Doctor.”

“Ah. Of course. You spoke to Dr. Kirk and Dr. Russell, I believe?”

“That’s right.”

In fact, the names had come from Smith. Remo had no idea what kind of help he could expect if Radcliff telephoned the Indiana clinic to confirm his nonexistent visit.

“I’m surprised they mentioned me at all,” said Dr. Radcliff, sounding peevish, “much less recommended that you speak to me in person.”

Remo picked up on the tone, deciding he could use it. “Well, it wasn’t so much a suggestion, Doctor, as… how should I put it? No offense intended, sir, but Russell seemed to take it as a joke.”

“I see.” The tight smile on Radcliff’s face seemed sculpted out of ice. His daughter glared, the angry flush returning to her cheeks. “Of course, they would attempt to mock my work.”

Remo shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though he felt slightly uncomfortable. “May I be frank, sir?”

“Please do.”

“I wasn’t that impressed with Doctors Kirk and Russell, if you follow me. I mean, I read up on the subject pretty well before I started doing interviews, and much of what they’ve done struck me as being, well…”

“Derivative?” Radcliff suggested, leaning forward with his elbows on the polished desk. “Perhaps a trifle unoriginal?”

“Exactly! When they mentioned you in passing, such a denigrating tone, I wondered if there could be something in the nature of jealousy behind it. Medical research is so competitive, I thought perhaps.”

He left the sentence dangling, saw a spark of interest flare in Dr. Radcliff’s eyes. Beside him Chelsea had relaxed a bit, but not entirely. She was obviously still prepared to intervene if he impugned her father’s work or character in any way.

“You’re quite perceptive, Mr. Washington.”

“I’ve done my homework, too,” Remo responded, “even though I didn’t have much time. Thank God the morgue was open.”

“Pardon me?” One of the bristling eyebrows arched into a perfect bow.

“The reference library at Newstime,” Remo said, translating. “Sorry. Once you’re used to newsroom slang—”

“Homework, you said?”

“On you. The background stuff. I hate cold interviews—they always come out sounding lifeless, and we waste time going over things I should already know. Of course, I only had time for the basics.”

“Basics?’

“Right. Your schooling,” Remo said, “the internship and residency. All the years you spent as head of research for Eugenix Corporation.”

Radcliff blinked at that. It only took a fraction of a second, eyelids dropping, flicking up again, but Remo seemed to watch it in slow motion, like the action of a camera’s lens preserved on time-lapse film. He had a sense that Dr. Radcliff would preserve that moment, when he spoke the unexpected name, and take it out for later study when he was alone.

“Eugenix?”

“Right. In Belding, Michi—”

“Yes, yes, of course. It takes me back to hear—”

“And you recall the CEO?”

“Excuse me?”

“Jasper Frayne?”

“Old Jasper, certainly. I haven’t talked to him in years.”

“You missed your chance,” said Remo. “Someone killed him at his home in Florida, a few days ago.”

Radcliff went through the motions of appearing shocked, but Remo focused more on Chelsea, judging her reaction as the real McCoy. She frowned. Was it surprise or something else?

“There’s so much crime in Florida, these days,” said Dr. Radcliff. “When I finally retire, I plan on Arizona. I have the land already near Lake Havasu.”

“You’ll miss him, then?”

“Not really,” Radcliff answered bluntly. “We were colleagues, but I never thought of us as friends. Frayne handled cash, you understand—which does make the real work possible, but he wasn’t a scientist.”

“I understand. You spent so much time on genetic research, Doctor, that I can’t help thinking there must be some intimate connection with your present work. Has anything from the Eugenix period been useful in your treatment of infertile couples?”

“Well, we draw on what we know, that’s only natural,” said Radcliff. “Infertility per se is often the result of injury or illness, possibly a birth defect or some environmental factor—anything from choice of clothing to conditions on the job. If a specific difficulty is remediable, then we intervene with the most efficacious, non-invasive means available. If we can modify behavior to achieve results, so much the better. Drugs would be the next line of attack, with surgery reserved for special cases.”

“That includes genetic surgery?” asked Remo.

Dr. Radcliff smiled, as if the question came from a well-meaning but simpleminded pupil. “You’re discussing theory now,” he said. “Such work has been. successful on the lower animals, under controlled conditions, but we have not yet achieved the skill required to work such magic on our own.”

“You’ve thought about it, though.”

“What scientist has not? I can assure you, Mr. Washington, that childless couples are as much concerned about the quality of offspring they produce—more so, I should imagine—than about the simple act of giving birth. If we had choices, who would not prefer to sire a Beethoven, an Einstein—even a McCartney—than a simple drone who trudges through his life and never truly rises to the challenge? Wouldn’t you prefer a child to make you proud, who leaves his mark behind?”

“I never really thought about it,” Remo said. “I take it, then, that you don’t carry on genetic research at the clinic?”

“The specifics of my work are not for publication yet,” said Dr. Radcliff. “As you pointed out, the field is quite competitive, and some of my esteemed colleagues, unfortunately, have a minimal concern with ethics.”

“But it’s safe to say that any research you have done—or may be doing—is distinct and separate from the treatment of your patients here?”

“Indeed. You know as well as I do, Mr. Washington, that most testing on human subjects is confined to government facilities or major universities, where bureaucrats can practice oversight.”

The final word was spoken with thinly veiled contempt, as if it left a sour taste in Radcliff’s mouth. The doctor checked his watch and frowned.

“I wonder if there’s time for me to take a look around the clinic,” Remo said. “I’d like to get some pictures—”

“That’s impossible.”

“Perhaps the place, to give my readers some idea of what the cutting edge feels like.”

It was a short step from outrageous flattery, but Quentin Radcliff didn’t seem to mind. “A walkthrough should be harmless, I suppose,” he said magnanimously. “Sadly I don’t have the time right now, but I believe my daughter—”

“Yes, of course,” she said before the dictum was completed.

“There you are.” The doctor rose, came back around his desk, squeezed Remo’s hand in lieu of shaking it. “I’m glad we had this little talk, and I look forward to your article.”

“I’ll have a copy faxed out in advance,” said Remo, “to make sure you’re quoted accurately and I have my facts straight.”

“Fair enough. Good day.”

Dismissed, thought Remo as he followed Chelsea Radcliff back into the corridor.

“We’ll have to make this quick,” she said. “I do have work.”

“Of course. Lead on.”

“Examination rooms,” she told him, passing by the numbered doors that stood between her father’s office and the foyer. Choosing one at random, Chelsea led the way inside. It was, indeed, a standard treatment room, complete with padded table, chairs, a stool on casters, sink and paper-towel dispenser, metal cabinets on the walls, assorted medical equipment on the counters.

“No one stays the night, then?” Remo asked.

“On rare occasions, when there’s minor surgery involved, or a reaction to some medication, but we always try to send them home as soon as possible.”

“And treatment normally includes a course of counseling?”

“Where indicated,” Chelsea said. “Some couples don’t require it. Others are distraught and desperate by the time they come to see us. Since emotions may influence both fertility and fetal growth, we treat all aspects of the problem.”

Their next stop was an ultramodern lab where sperm and eggs were frozen, thawed and merged in vitro, in the cases where traditional attempts had met with failure. Remo listened, made a show of taking notes, but it was gibberish. So far, he was no closer to an answer for the riddle of a dead assassin and his doppelgangers than he had been yesterday.

The clinic had a fully sterile operating room with all the fixings, plus a spacious lounge of sorts where Chelsea said she met with clients who required her services.

“You must be running short of time right now,” he said.

“That’s right,” she confirmed.

“But I would love to hear some more about your end,” he said.

“My end?”

“Of what goes on here.”

“I don’t see—”?

“Unfortunately, Dr. Radcliff, I’m on deadline, and my editor…well, let’s just say he makes Saddam Hussein look like a pussycat.”

“You ought to find another job,” she told him, not quite smiling.

“I’ve considered it,” he said, “but I can’t shake the curiosity.”

“That killed the cat, you know.”

“I’ve had my shots.”

“In any case—”

“And I was thinking,” Remo interrupted, “if you’re free tonight…”

“Tonight?”

“If I could buy you dinner, talk some more about your work. No names, of course. I understand the ethics problem. But we don’t hear much about the mental and emotional impact of infertility.”

She thought about it for a moment, looking Remo up and down before she answered him. “Where are you staying?”

“Nowhere, yet. I drove from Louisville.”

“You’ve got a fair wait until suppertime.”

‘I’ll manage.”

“Seven-thirty, then,” she told him, pushing it. A test. “You passed Antonio’s as you were coming into town.”

“Italian place, out on the highway.”

“Right. I’ll meet you.”

“I could pick you up,” he said.

“I doubt that very much,” said Chelsea Radcliff as she turned away and left him staring after her. Again the suggestion of a challenge in her tone.

Another time, it might, have been amusing to find out, but there was too much work left to be done, and it was deadly serious. The Radcliffs. needed more investigation before he could decide on what to do.

Two doctors in the family, he thought.

A paradox.

But he was getting closer. He could feel it.

He was on his way.