Seizure

fifteen

9:15 A.M., Friday, March 1, 2002

It had been a long, delightful, and rejuvenating morning. With their circadian cycles awry, compliments of their brief European trip, both Stephanie and Daniel had awakened well before the sun had brightened the eastern horizon. Unable to fall back asleep, they’d gotten up, showered, and taken a protracted stroll around the hotel grounds and along the deserted Cabbage Beach, as a cloudless, tropical dawn broke. Back at the hotel, they’d been the first guests for breakfast and had lingered over their coffee while discussing the schedule for creating Butler’s treatment cells. With only three weeks until his scheduled arrival, they knew they were up against a significant time constraint, and they were eager to get started, although they recognized they could do little until the package arrived from Peter. By eight o’clock, they’d called the Wingate Clinic to tell the receptionist they were in Nassau and would arrive at the clinic at about nine-fifteen. She said she’d let the doctors know.

“This western part of the island looks different than the eastern part,” Daniel observed, as they drove west along Windsor Field Road. “It’s much flatter.”

“It’s also less developed and a lot drier,” Stephanie added. They were passing long, low stretches of semiarid pine forest infiltrated with palmettos. The sky was a deep azure, dotted with a few wispy white clouds.

Daniel had insisted on driving, which Stephanie didn’t mind until he’d suggested she might have more trouble driving on the left than he. Her initial reaction was to challenge what seemed to her an unwarranted, chauvinistic assertion, but then she just let it go. The issue wasn’t worth an argument. Instead, she climbed into the passenger seat and contented herself with getting out the map. As had been the case when they’d fled Italy, she’d be the navigator.

Daniel drove slowly, which was fine with Stephanie, considering the reflex to bear to the right at corners and while circling roundabouts. They’d driven along the northern coast of the island, noting once again the high-rise resorts lined up like soldiers at attention along Cable Beach. After passing a number of limestone caves sculpted by prehistoric seas, they’d turned inland. Bearing right at the next intersection on Windsor Field Road, they’d caught a glimpse of the airport in the distance.

Continuing west, they had no trouble finding the turnoff to the Wingate Clinic. It was on the left side of the road and marked by a huge sign.

Stephanie leaned forward to get a better view out the windshield as they approached. “My word! Do you see the sign?”

“It would be hard to miss. It’s the size of a billboard.”

Daniel made the turn onto the newly paved, tree-lined drive.

“They must have a lot of land,” Stephanie said. She sat back. “I can’t see the building.”

After several turns through a dense copse of evergreens, the serpentine driveway was abruptly blocked by a gate. A formidable chain-link fence topped with razor wire disappeared into the pine forest in both directions. On Stephanie’s side of the car stood a small booth. A uniformed guard, complete with a holstered sidearm, a visored, military-style hat, and aviator sunglasses, stepped out. He was holding a clipboard. Daniel pulled to a stop while Stephanie lowered her window.

The guard leaned over to look at Daniel across Stephanie’s lap. “Can I help you, sir?” His voice was decidedly businesslike and devoid of emotion.

“It’s Dr. D’Agostino and Dr. Lowell,” Stephanie said. “We’re here to meet with Dr. Wingate.”

The guard checked his clipboard and then touched the brim of his hat before returning to the gatehouse. A moment later, the gate rolled open like a pocket door. Daniel accelerated forward.

It took another few minutes before the clinic came into view. Nestled among carefully landscaped shrubbery and flowering trees was a two-story, postmodern, U-shaped complex. It was composed of three separate buildings connected by arcaded covered walkways. Each building was clad in white limestone with white concrete tile roofs, the pediments of which were capped by fanciful, shell-themed acroteria reminiscent of an ancient Greek temple. Latticework was interspersed between multipaned windows along the sides of each structure. At the base of each lattice, young, brightly colored bougainvillea plants were beginning their climb skyward.

“Good grief,” Stephanie exclaimed. “I wasn’t prepared for this. It’s beautiful. It looks more like a spa than an infertility clinic.”

The driveway led to a parking area in front of a central building, the entrance of which was adorned by a columned portico. The columns were squat, with exaggerated entases and capped with simple Doric capitals.

“I hope they saved some money for their laboratory equipment,” Daniel commented. He pulled their rented Mercury Marquis in between several new BMW convertibles. Several spaces away were two limousines, their liveried drivers smoking and chatting while leaning up against their vehicles’ front fenders.

Daniel and Stephanie stepped out of the car and paused to gaze at the complex, which was dazzling in the bright Bahamian sun. “I’d heard that infertility was lucrative,” Daniel commented, “but I didn’t imagine it was this lucrative.”

“Nor did I,” Stephanie said. “But I wonder how much of this resulted from them being able to collect on their fire insurance following their flight from Massachusetts.” She shook her head. “No matter where the money came from, with the cost of healthcare, opulence and medicine are inappropriate bedfellows. There is something wrong with this picture, and my qualms about getting involved with these people are coming back big time.”

“Let’s not let our prejudices and self-righteousness run away with themselves,” Daniel warned. “We’re not here on a social crusade. We’re here to treat Butler, and that’s it.”

The large bronzed front door opened and a tall, deeply tanned, silver-haired man appeared. He was dressed in a long white doctor’s coat. He waved and called out “Welcome!” in a high, lilting voice.

“At least we’re getting a personalized greeting,” Daniel said. “Let’s go! And keep your opinions to yourself.”

Daniel and Stephanie met up at the front of the car and began walking toward the entrance. “I hope that’s not Spencer Wingate,” Stephanie whispered.

“Why not?” Daniel whispered back.

“Because he’s handsome enough to be a soap-opera doctor.”

“Oh, I forgot! You wanted him to be short, fat, and have a wart on his nose.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, we can still hope he’s a chain-smoker and has bad breath.”

“Oh, shut up!”

Daniel and Stephanie mounted the three steps to the portico. As they approached, Spencer extended his hand while keeping the door open with his foot. He introduced himself with a great flourish of smiles and handshaking. He then grandly motioned for them to precede him into the building.

In keeping with the exterior, the interior had a simple classical ambience, with plain pilasters, dentil moldings, and Doric columns. The floor was polished limestone, softened with Oriental scatter rugs. The walls were painted a very light lavender, which at first glance appeared to be pale gray. Even the varnished hardwood furniture had a classical aura, with dark green leather upholstery. A faint smell of fresh paint permeated the air-conditioned air, as a reminder of the clinic’s recent completion. For Daniel and Stephanie, the dry coolness was a welcome contrast to the moist tropical heat outdoors, which had been steadily climbing since sunrise.

“This is our main waiting room,” Spencer said as he gestured around the voluminous room. Two moderately elderly, well-dressed couples were sitting on separate sofas. They were nervously flipping through magazines and briefly looked up. The only other occupant was a receptionist with bright pink fingernail polish who was manning a half-circle desk just inside the door.

“This building serves as the initial check-in location for new patients,” Spencer explained. “It also houses our administration offices. We’re very proud of the clinic, and we’re eager to show you the entire complex, although we suspect you’re mainly interested in our laboratory facilities.”

“And the operating room,” Daniel said.

“Yes, of course, the operating room. But first, come up to my office for some coffee and meet the others.”

Spencer led the way over to a spacious elevator, even though they were only going up one floor. During the brief ride, Spencer questioned like a concerned host whether their incoming flight had been pleasant. Stephanie assured him it had been fine. On the second level, they passed a secretary who interrupted her word processing to smile cheerfully.

Spencer’s vast office was in the northeast corner of the building. The airport could be seen to the east and a blue line of the ocean to the north. “Help yourselves,” Spencer said, motioning to a coffee service spread out on a low marble table in front of an L-shaped sofa. “I’ll get the two department heads.”

For a moment, Daniel and Stephanie were alone.

“This looks like an office of a CEO of a Fortune Five Hundred company,” Stephanie said. “I have to say, I find all of this opulence obscene.”

“Let’s hold our value judgments until we see the lab.”

“Do you think those two couples reading magazines downstairs are patients?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, nor do I care.”

“They seemed a bit old for infertility treatment.”

“It’s not our concern.”

“Do you think the Wingate Clinic is getting older women pregnant like that maverick infertility specialist in Italy?”

Daniel flashed Stephanie an exasperated, irritated look as Spencer reappeared. The clinic founder had a man and a woman in tow, both dressed like himself in white, highly starched, long doctor’s coats. First, he introduced Paul Saunders, who was short and squat, and whose thick-necked silhouette reminded Stephanie of the columns supporting the building’s entrance portico. In keeping with his body, everything about Paul’s face was round with puffy, pasty, pale skin, all of which was in sharp contrast to Spencer’s tall, slender frame, sharply angled features, and bronzed complexion. A mat of unruly dark hair with a striking white forelock completed Paul’s eccentric image and accentuated his paleness.

As he vigorously shook hands with Daniel, Paul smiled broadly to reveal square, widely spaced, yellowed teeth. “Welcome to the Wingate, doctors,” he said. “We’re honored to have you here. I can’t tell you how excited I am about our collaboration.”

Stephanie smiled weakly as he moved to her and pumped her hand. She was mesmerized by the man’s eyes. With his broad-based nose, his eyes appeared closer together than usual. Also, she’d never seen a person with different-colored irises.

“Paul is our head of research,” Spencer announced, giving Paul a pat on the back. “He is looking forward to having you in his lab and eager to be of assistance and to learn a few things, I might add.” Spencer then draped his arm over the shoulders of the woman, who was almost as tall as he. “And this is Dr. Sheila Donaldson, head of clinical services. She’ll be making the arrangements for your use of one of our two operating rooms, as well as our inpatient facility, which we assume you’ll be taking advantage of.”

“I didn’t know you had inpatient capabilities,” Daniel said.

“We are a full-service, self-contained operation,” Spencer said proudly. “Although for long-term inpatient care, which we don’t expect, we will be referring patients to Doctors Hospital in town. Our inpatient facility is limited and more just for an occasional overnight, which should serve your needs admirably.”

Stephanie pulled her attention away from Paul Saunders and looked at Sheila Donaldson. She had a narrow face framed by lank, chestnut hair. In comparison to the exuberant men, she seemed withdrawn, almost shy. Stephanie had the feeling the woman was reluctant to look her in the eye as they shook hands.

“No coffee for you folks?” Spencer questioned.

Both Stephanie and Daniel shook their heads. “I think we’ve both had our fill of coffee,” Daniel explained. “We’re still on European time, and we’ve been up since the crack of dawn.”

“Europe?” Paul questioned enthusiastically. “Did your travel to Europe have anything to do with the Shroud of Turin?”

“Indeed it did,” Daniel responded.

“I trust it was a successful trip,” Paul said, with a conspiratorial wink.

“Withering, but successful,” Daniel remarked. “We…” He paused, as if trying to decide what he wanted to say.

Stephanie held her breath. She was hoping Daniel wouldn’t describe their Turin experience. She very much wanted to maintain a distance from these people. For Daniel to share their recent travail would be too personal and would cross a boundary she did not want to cross.

“We managed to get a bloodstained swatch from the shroud,” Daniel said. “In fact, I have it with me at the moment. What I’d like to do is get it into a buffered saline solution to stabilize the DNA fragments, and I’d like to do it sooner rather than later.”

“Sounds good to me,” Paul said. “Let’s head directly over to the laboratory.”

“There’s no reason the tour can’t start there,” Spencer said agreeably.

With a sense of relief that appropriate personal distance had been maintained, Stephanie let our her breath and relaxed a degree as the group trooped out of Spencer’s office.

At the elevator, Sheila excused herself by saying there were patients scheduled, and she wanted to be certain things went smoothly. She then left the group to take the stairs.

The laboratory was off to the left side of the central building and was reached by traversing one of the gracefully curved, covered walkways. “We designed the clinic as separate buildings to force ourselves to get outside, even if we work all the time,” Paul explained. “It’s good for the soul.”

“I get out a bit more than Paul,” Spencer added, with a laugh. “As if you couldn’t tell by my tan. I’m not quite the workaholic he is.”

“Is this building all laboratory?” Daniel questioned, as he stepped through the door held open by Spencer.

“Not entirely,” Paul explained, as he went ahead to stop by a periodical rack where he bent over to pick up a glossy-covered magazine from a stack. The group had entered a room that appeared to be a combination lounge and library. Bookshelves lined the walls. “This is our journal room, and I have here a copy for you of our latest issue of the Journal of Twenty-first Century Reproductive Technology.” He proudly handed the publication to Daniel. “There’s a few articles you might find interesting.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Daniel managed. He scanned the contents printed on the cover before handing it to Stephanie.

“This building has living accommodations in addition to the laboratory,” Paul said. “That includes some guest apartments, which are nothing fancy but certainly adequate. We would like to offer for you to use them if you are inclined to be near your work. We even have a cafeteria, which serves three meals a day, in the clinic building across the garden, so you wouldn’t have to leave the premises unless you wanted. You see, many of our employees live here in the complex, and their apartments are also in this building.”

“Thank you for your offer,” Stephanie responded quickly. “That’s very hospitable of you, but we have very comfortable accommodations in town.”

“Where are you staying, if I may ask?” Paul questioned.

“The Ocean Club,” Stephanie said.

“A very good choice,” Paul said. “Well, the offer holds if you decide to change your minds.”

“I don’t think so,” Stephanie said.

“Let’s get back to the tour,” Spencer suggested.

“By all means,” Paul said. He motioned for the group to move toward a pair of double doors leading into the depths of the building. “Besides the laboratory and living quarters, this building also houses some diagnostic equipment, like the PET scanner. We had it installed here because we felt we’d be using it more for research than clinical work.”

“I didn’t realize you had a PET scanner,” Daniel said. He glanced at Stephanie with raised eyebrows to communicate his contented amazement as a counterpoint to her palpable negativity. He knew a PET scanner, which uses gamma rays to study physiological function, might be handy if a problem arose with Butler after the treatment.

“We’ve planned the Wingate to be a full-service research and clinical facility,” Paul said proudly. “As long as we were putting in a CT scanner and an MRI, we thought we might as well add a PET.”

“I’m impressed,” Daniel admitted.

“I thought you’d be,” Paul said. “And as the discoverer of HTSR, you’ll surely be interested to know we plan to be a major player in stem-cell therapy as well as infertility.”

“That’s an interesting combination,” Daniel said vaguely, unsure of his reaction to this unexpected news. As with so many things about the Wingate Clinic, the idea that they were thinking of doing stem-cell therapy was a surprise.

“We thought it a natural extension of our work,” Paul explained, “considering our access to human oocytes and our extensive experience with nuclear transfer. The irony is that we thought it was going to be a sideline, but since we’ve opened our doors, we’ve done more stem-cell treatment than infertility.”

“That’s true,” Spencer said. “In fact, those patients you saw earlier in the main waiting area are here for stem-cell therapy. Word of mouth concerning our services seems to be spreading quickly. We haven’t had to advertise at all.”

Both Daniel and Stephanie’s faces reflected their dismayed surprise.

“What kind of illnesses are you treating?” Daniel asked.

Paul laughed. “Just about anything and everything! A lot of people understand stem cells’ promise for a host of ailments, from terminal cancer and degenerative diseases to the problems of aging. Since they can’t get stem-cell treatments in the USA, they come to us.”

“But that’s absurd!” Stephanie exclaimed. She was aghast. “There are no established protocols for treating anything with stem cells.”

“We’re the first to admit we’re breaking new ground,” Spencer responded. “It’s experimental, like what you folks are planning with your patient.”

“Essentially, we’re using public demand to fund the needed research,” Paul explained. “Hell, it’s only reasonable since the U.S. government is so chary about funding the work and making it so difficult for you researchers on the mainland.”

“What kinds of cells are you using?” Daniel asked.

“Multipotent stem cells,” Paul said.

“You’re not differentiating the cells?” Daniel questioned, with mounting disbelief, since undifferentiated stem cells would not treat anything.

“No, not at all,” Paul said. “Of course, we’ll be trying that in the future, but for now we do the nuclear transfer, grow out the stem cells, and infuse them. We let the patient’s body use them as it sees fit. We’ve had some interesting results, although not with everyone, but that is the nature of research.”

“How can you call what you are doing research?” Stephanie questioned hotly. “And I beg to differ with you: There’s no parallel between what we are planning to do and what you are doing.”

Daniel gripped Stephanie’s arm and eased her away from Paul. “Dr. D’Agostino’s point is merely that we will be treating with differentiated cells.”

Stephanie tried to pull her arm free from Daniel’s grasp. “My point is a hell of a lot bigger than that,” she rejoined. “What you people are talking about doing with stem cells is nothing but pure, unadulterated quackery!”

Daniel tightened his grip on Stephanie’s arm. “Excuse us for just a moment,” he said to Paul and Spencer, whose expressions had clouded. He forcibly pulled Stephanie to the side and spoke to her in an angry whisper. “What the hell are you doing, trying to sabotage our project and get us thrown out of here?”

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Stephanie whispered back with equal vehemence. “How can you not be outraged? On top of everything else, these people are snake-oil charlatans.”

“Shut up!” Daniel sputtered. He gave Stephanie a short shake. “Do I have to keep reminding you we’re here for one thing and one thing only: to treat Butler! Can’t you restrain yourself, for Christ’s sake? The future of CURE and HTSR is on the line. These people are far from saints. We knew that from the start. That’s why they are here in the Bahamas and not in Massachusetts. So let’s not muck up everything with righteous indignation!”

For a moment, Daniel and Stephanie stared at each other with blazing eyes. Finally, Stephanie broke off and hung her head. “You’re hurting my arm,” she said.

“Sorry!” Daniel responded. He let go of her arm, which Stephanie immediately began to rub. Daniel took a deep breath to get his anger under control. He glanced back at Spencer and Paul, who were watching them with quizzical expressions. Returning his attention to Stephanie, he said, “Can we concentrate on the mission? Can we accept the fact that these people are unethical, venal morons and leave it at that?”

“I suppose the aphorism ‘People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’ fits here, considering what we are planning. Maybe that’s why this all bothers me so much.”

“And maybe you’re right,” Daniel said. “But keep in mind we’re being forced to push ethical boundaries. With that accepted, can I count on you to keep your reactions to the Wingate Clinic and its mission to yourself, at least until we get off by ourselves?”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Good,” Daniel said. He took another deep breath for fortitude before walking back to join the others. Stephanie followed a few paces behind.

“I think we’re suffering a bit of jet lag,” Daniel explained to their hosts. “We’ve both been a tad emotional. Also, Dr. D’Agostino tends to exaggerate to make a point. Intellectually, she feels that differentiated cells would be a more efficacious way to take advantage of the promise of stem cells.”

“We’ve been having some darn good results,” Paul said. “Perhaps, Dr. D’Agostino, you’d like to review them before you make a blanket judgment.”

“I’d find that very instructive,” Stephanie managed.

“Let’s move along,” Spencer suggested. “We want you to see the rest of the clinic before lunch, and there is a lot to see.”

In stunned silence, Daniel and Stephanie passed through the double doors into a vast laboratory. Once again, they were taken aback. The sheer size of the facility combined with its array of equipment, from DNA sequencers to mundane tissue culture-incubators, was much greater than either had envisioned or hoped. The only thing lacking was personnel. A single technician could be seen working in the distance at a dissecting stereomicroscope.

“We’re understaffed at the moment,” Spencer said, as if reading his guests’ minds. “But that’s soon to be rectified, as patient demand balloons.”

“I’ll get our lab supervisor,” Paul said, before disappearing briefly into a nearby side office.

“We project to be up to full strength in about six months,” Spencer said.

“How many technicians do you plan to have?” Stephanie asked.

“Around thirty,” Spencer replied. “At least, that’s what our current projections suggest. But if the stem-cell treatment demand continues to increase at its present rate, we’ll have to adjust that figure upward.”

Paul reappeared, holding the hand of a slight woman who appeared practically emaciated, with all her bony prominences poking through her skin, particularly her cheekbones. She had gray-streaked, mousy-colored hair and a narrow, knifelike nose that stood like an exclamation point above a small, tight-lipped mouth. She was wearing a short lab coat with the sleeves rolled up over a pantsuit. Paul brought her over to the group and introduced her. Her name was Megan Finnigan, as advertised by the laboratory supervisor nametag clipped to her jacket pocket.

“We’re all ready for you,” Megan said, after the introductions. She spoke softly, with a Boston accent. She pointed toward a nearby lab bench. “We’ve prepared this area with what we thought you would need. If there is anything else, all you have to do is ask. My office door is always open.”

“Dr. Lowell needs a small flask of buffered saline,” Paul said. “He has a fabric sample containing blood whose DNA he wants to preserve.”

“That’s no problem at all,” Megan said. She called out for the single lab technician to get it. In the distance, the woman pushed back from her microscope and busied herself with the request.

“When would you like to start your work?” Megan asked, while Daniel and Stephanie inspected the area of the lab set aside for them.

“As soon as possible,” Daniel said. “What about the human oocytes? Will they be available when we need them?”

“Absolutely,” Paul said. “All we need is about twelve hours notice.”

“That’s amazing,” Daniel said. “How is it possible?”

Paul smiled. “That’s a trade secret. Perhaps after we have worked together, we can share such secrets. I’m equally interested in your HTSR.”

“Does that mean you want to start today?” Megan asked.

“Unfortunately, we can’t,” Daniel said. “We have to wait for a FedEx package before we can start, other than getting the fabric sample into an appropriate salt solution.” He turned to Spencer. “I don’t suppose anything has come for us this morning.”

“When was it sent?” Spencer asked.

“Last night from Boston,” Stephanie said.

“How much did it weigh?” Spencer asked. “It makes a difference when it will arrive. Nassau is, after all, an international destination for a shipment from Boston. If it were an envelope or a very small package, it may get here overnight and be here sometime in the afternoon.”

“It wasn’t an envelope,” Stephanie said. “It will be big enough to hold an insulated pack containing a cryopreserved tissue culture plus a stock of reagents.”

“Then the earliest you can expect it is tomorrow,” Spencer said. “It has to go through customs, which will take an extra day at least.”

“It’s important we get the tissue culture in the freezer before it thaws,” Stephanie said.

“I can call customs and expedite it,” Spencer said. “During our construction over the last year, we’ve been dealing with them almost on a daily basis.”

The lab tech arrived with a stoppered flask of buffered saline. She was a light-skinned African-American in her early twenties who wore her hair in a tight bob. A sprinkling of freckles graced the bridge of her nose, and an impressive array of piercings with associated jewelry ringed the helices of her ears.

“This is Maureen Jefferson,” Paul said, introducing her. “Her nickname’s Mare. I don’t mean to embarrass her, but she has the golden touch when it comes to micropipettes and nuclear transfer. So if you need any help, she’ll be here. Am I right, Mare?”

Mare smiled demurely as she handed the saline container to Daniel.

“That’s very generous,” Stephanie said, “but I think we’ll be fine in the cellular manipulation department.”

While the others watched, Daniel took the sealed glassine envelope from his pocket. With a pair of scissors proffered by Megan, he cut off one end. By compressing the envelope from the edges, he got it to open. He then carefully dropped the small, pale-reddish swatch of aged linen into the solution without touching it. It floated on the surface of the fluid. He fitted the flask with its rubber stopper and pushed the stopper in tightly. With a grease pencil, also proffered by Megan, he marked the outside of the flask with the initials ST.

“Is there someplace safe to store this while the blood components elute?” Daniel questioned.

“The entire lab is safe,” Paul said. “There’s no need to worry. We have our own professional security department.”

“Consider the clinic the Fort Knox of Nassau,” Spencer said.

“I can lock it in my office,” Megan suggested. “I can even put it in a small safe I have.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Daniel said. “It’s irreplaceable.”

“Have no fear,” Paul said. “It will be safe. Believe me! Would you mind if I held it for a minute?”

“Of course not,” Daniel said. He handed the flask to Paul.

Paul held the bottle up to backlight it with one of the overhead lights. “Can you imagine?” he questioned, squinting at the tiny bit of reddish fabric floating on the fluid’s surface. “We have some of Christ’s DNA! It gives me shivers just to think about it.”

“Let’s not be overly theatrical,” Spencer said.

“How did you manage to get it?” Paul asked, ignoring Spencer’s comment.

“We had high-level clerical assistance,” Daniel said vaguely.

“And how did you arrange that?” Paul asked, as he continued gazing at the fluid-filled flask while slowly turning it.

“Actually, we didn’t,” Daniel said. “Our patient did.”

“Oh, really,” Paul said. He lowered the flask and glanced at Spencer. “Is your patient associated with the Catholic Church?”

“Not to our knowledge,” Daniel said.

“At the very least, he must have some serious pull,” Spencer suggested.

“Perhaps,” Daniel said. “We wouldn’t know.”

“Now that you’ve been over to Italy,” Spencer said, “where do you come down on the issue of the Shroud of Turin’s authenticity?”

“As I told you on the phone,” Daniel said, with barely concealed exasperation, “we’re not involving ourselves in the controversy about the shroud. We’re only using it at our patient’s insistence as a source of the DNA we need for HTSR.” The last thing Daniel wanted to do was get into an intellectual discussion with these bozos.

“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting this patient of yours,” Paul said. “He and I have something in common: We both believe the Shroud of Turin is the real thing.” He handed the flask to Megan. “Let’s be doubly careful now! I have a feeling this little tidbit is going to make history.”

Megan took the flask and held it with both hands. She turned to Daniel. “What are your plans for this suspension?” she asked. “You don’t expect the ancient linen to dissolve, do you?”

“Certainly not,” Daniel said. “I just want to let the swatch sit in the saline to let the lymphocytic DNA present to leech into solution. In twenty-four hours or so, I’ll run an aliquot through the PCR. Electrophoresis with some controls should give us an idea what we have. If we find we have enough DNA fragments, which I’m reasonably sure we will have, we’ll amplify it and then see if our probes pick up what we need for HTSR. Of course, we may have to do the whole exercise a few times and sequence any gaps. Anyway, the swatch will stay in the saline until we have what we need.”

“Very well,” Megan said. “I’ll put the flask in my safe as I suggested. Tomorrow, just let me know when you want it.”

“Perfect,” Daniel said.

“If we’re finished here, why don’t we head over to the clinic building,” Spencer suggested. He checked his watch. “We want you to see our operating rooms as well as our inpatient facility. You can meet the personnel over there, and then we can show you our cafeteria. We’ve even planned a luncheon on your behalf, to which we have invited Dr. Rashid Nawaz, the neurosurgeon. We thought you’d like to meet him.”

“We would indeed,” Daniel remarked.

It seemed to have taken forever, but finally Gaetano was next in line at the rent-a-car concession at the Nassau International Airport. He wondered why it had taken the people ahead of him so long to rent a freakin’ car, since all they had to do was sign the goddamn form. He looked at his watch. It was half past twelve in the afternoon. He had arrived only twenty minutes earlier, even though he’d left Logan Airport at six A.M., before it was even light. The problem had been the lack of nonstop or even direct flights, and he had had to change planes in Orlando.

Gaetano shifted his muscled weight nervously. Sal and Lou had made it crystal clear they wanted him to accomplish his mission in a single day and get his ass back to Boston. They specifically warned him they were not going to brook any lame excuses, even though in the same breath they admitted success depended on Gaetano connecting expeditiously with Dr. Daniel Lowell, which wasn’t a given, since they graciously admitted there were a few variables. Gaetano had promised he’d do his best, yet there wasn’t going to be any possibility whatsoever of getting the job done if he didn’t get the hell over to the Ocean Club hotel ASAP.

The plan was simple. Gaetano was to go to the hotel, locate the mark, who Lou and Sal were absolutely sure would be lounging on the beach, considering the weather, lure him away from the hotel by some clever ruse, and do what he had to do, meaning deliver the bosses’ message and beat the crap out of him so the message would be taken seriously. Then Gaetano was to race back to the airport and take one of the puddle jumpers back to Miami in time to catch the last flight to Boston. If that wasn’t going to happen for some unknown reason, then Gaetano would carry out his mission that evening, providing the professor left the hotel, and then Gaetano would spend the night at some fleabag flophouse and return the following day. The only problem with the latter plan was that there was no way to guarantee that the mark would leave the hotel, which would mean pushing everything to the following day. If that happened, Lou and Sal would be mad, no matter what Gaetano said, so he felt he was caught between a rock and a hard place. The problem boiled down to the fact that Gaetano was needed in Boston. As his bosses had reminded him, there was a lot going these days, with the economy in a tailspin and people complaining that they did not have the cash to meet their loan and gambling obligations.

Gaetano wiped away the sweat that had beaded along the border of his dark, cropped hair and expansive forehead. He was dressed in what had been carefully pressed tan slacks, a flowered short-sleeve shirt, and a blue sports jacket. The idea was to look upscale so he wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb hanging around the Ocean Club. At the moment, he had the jacket slung over his shoulder, and his pants had some serious damp creases behind each knee. With his compact bulk, he was sensitive to the moist, tropical heat.

Fifteen minutes later, Gaetano was out in a parking lot that was as hot as Hades, looking for a white Jeep Cherokee. If he was hot before, he was boiling now, with triangles of sweat-soaked shirt under each arm. He was holding his carry-on overnight bag in his right hand while his left gripped his car rental papers and a map he’d gotten from the agent. The idea of driving on the left, as instructed by the rent-a-car agent, had initially given him pause, but now he thought he could handle it, provided he kept reminding himself. To him, it seemed the height of ridiculousness for the Bahamians to drive on the wrong side.

He found the car. Without delay, he climbed in and got it started. His first order of business was to get the air-conditioning on full blast and to redirect all the vents in his direction. After checking the map and spreading it out on the seat next to him, he started out of the lot.

There had been some talk of getting a gun, but the idea had been dropped. First of all, it would take time, and second of all, he didn’t need it to deal with a pissant professor. He checked the map again. The route was pretty simple, since most of the roads led into the town of Nassau. From there, he’d take the bridge over to Paradise Island, where he assumed the Ocean Club would be easy to find.

Gaetano smiled at fate. A few years earlier, who would have guessed that he’d be driving along in the Bahamas, dressed to beat the band, feeling good, and anticipating some action? A quiver of excitement made the hairs on the back of his neck momentarily stand up. Gaetano liked violence in any form. It was an addiction of sorts that had gotten him into trouble in the past, starting in middle school but particularly in high school. He loved violent action movies and violent computer games, but mostly he loved the real thing. Thanks to his size, which he’d attained at a young age, and his athleticism, he managed to come out on top in most scuffles.

The biggest problem had occurred in the year 2000. He and his older brother had been employed as he was now, as enforcers or musclemen, but back then it had been in the big leagues in Queens, New York, for one of the major crime families. A job came up for which he and his brother, Vito, were both assigned. They were to teach a lesson to a cop who was on the take but not coming through with his side of the bargain. It was supposed to be straightforward, but it went awry. The cop pulled out a hidden gun and managed to seriously wound Vito before Gaetano disarmed him.

Unfortunately, Gaetano had seen red. When it was over, not only had he killed the policeman, but he’d also killed the man’s wife and teenage son, both of whom had stupidly tried to intervene, the woman with another gun and the kid with a baseball bat. Everyone was furious. None of it was supposed to have happened, and it caused a huge overreaction on the part of New York law enforcement, as if the cop had been some kind of hero. At first, Gaetano thought he was going to be sacrificed, either whacked himself or given over to the police on a silver platter. But then out of the blue came the opportunity to disappear by going to Boston to work for the Castigliano brothers, who were somehow distantly related to the family the Barreses had worked for.

Initially, Gaetano had hated the move. He hated Boston, which he considered a puny town compared to New York, and he hated being a clerk in the plumbing supply business, a position he felt was demeaning. But slowly he got used to it.

“Holy crap!” Gaetano voiced, as he caught his first view of the Bahamian ocean. He’d never seen such an intense blue and aquamarine. As traffic increased, Gaetano slowed down accordingly and enjoyed the scenery. He had adjusted more easily than he thought he would to driving on the left, which left his eyes free to wander, and there was a lot to see. He began to become optimistic about the afternoon until he got to Nassau itself. In town, he found himself bogged down completely and for a time stuck behind a bus at a complete standstill.

He looked at his watch. It was already after one in the afternoon. He shook his head as his optimism rapidly faded. He couldn’t help but feel that the chances of being able to do what he needed to do and get back to the airport by four-thirty or so, which is what he’d have to do if he were to make the Miami-to-Boston flight, were getting smaller every minute that went by.

“Screw it!” Gaetano said vehemently. All at once, he decided he wasn’t going to let the time factor ruin his day. He took a deep breath and looked out his side window. He even smiled at a handsome black woman who smiled back at him, making him feel that spending the night might be rather entertaining. He rolled his window down, but the woman had already disappeared. A moment later, the bus in front of him began to move forward.

Gaetano finally drove up and over the graceful span that connected New Providence Island with Paradise Island, and soon found himself in the Ocean Club’s lot, which, by the look of the vehicles, was more for the employees than the guests.

Leaving his bag and jacket in the back of the Cherokee, Gaetano proceeded west on a tree- and flower-lined walkway before turning north between two of the hotel’s buildings. That brought him to the lawn separating the hotel from the beach. Turning east, he wandered back toward the central buildings comprising the public spaces and restaurants. He was impressed with all he saw. It was a gorgeous setting.

An outdoor restaurant with a central bar and a thatched roof stood high above the steeply sloped beach’s edge, affording a pleasant view up and down the strand. At one-thirty, the eatery was still filled to overflowing, including a line of people patiently waiting for tables or empty barstools. Gaetano stopped and took out his photos to review the images of the professor and Tony’s sister. His eyes lingered on the sister, while he wished she were the mark. The thought of the various ways to give her a violent message brought a smile to his face.

Armed with a refreshed mental image of the people he was searching for, Gaetano took a slow walk around the bar/restaurant. The tables were arranged around the periphery, with the bar in the center. Every table and every seat at the bar were occupied, mostly with scantily clad people of all shapes, sizes, and ages in bathing suits and cover-ups.

Gaetano found himself back where he’d started, without seeing anyone who resembled either the guy or the girl. Leaving the restaurant, he took a flight of stairs that led down to a landing with several outdoor showers before descending another flight to the beach. To the right, at the foot of the stairs, was the hotel’s beach concession, with towels, umbrellas, and lounge chairs for the guests. Gaetano took off his shoes and socks and rolled his pant bottoms before traipsing down to the water’s edge, where gentle waves lapped at the shore. When he stuck his toes into the water, he found himself wishing he had on his bathing suit. The water was crystal clear, shallow, and delightfully warm.

Walking on the damp, densely packed sand, Gaetano first rambled to the east while scanning the faces of all the people on the beach. It wasn’t particularly crowded, because most everybody was having lunch. When he ran out of people, he turned around and walked west. When he ran out of people in that direction, he decided the professor and the sister weren’t on the beach. So much for that idea, he thought moodily.

Gaetano went back and retrieved his shoes. He helped himself to a towel and went up to the landing, where he rinsed his feet off. With his shoes back on, he climbed the remaining stairs and set off up the sidewalk that traversed the lush lawn in front of the hotel’s plantation-style main building. Inside, he found himself in what looked like the living room of a large, luxurious house. A small bar in the corner with six stools reminded him it was, after all, a hotel. With no customers, the bartender was busy cleaning his glasses.

Using a house phone on a desk stocked with hotel stationery, Gaetano called the hotel operator. He asked how to dial one of the guest rooms and was told she would be happy to connect him. Gaetano said he wanted room 108.

While the phone rang, Gaetano helped himself to a bowl of fruit on the desk. He let it ring ten times before the operator came back on the line to ask if he’d like to leave a message. Gaetano said he’d try again later and hung up.

At that point, Gaetano wondered if the hotel had a pool. He hadn’t seen one where he would have expected it, namely out in the middle of the expansive lawn, but since the hotel’s grounds were obviously large, Gaetano figured there still could have been one. Accordingly, he walked across the living room-like lounge and entered the hotel’s reception area. There he asked and was given directions.

It turned out the pool was to the east, set away from the ocean at the base of a formal garden that rose up in successive tiers to be capped by a medieval cloister. Gaetano was impressed with the setting but disappointed at having the same luck as he had on the beach. The professor and Tony’s sister were neither at the pool nor in the snack bar next to the pool. They also weren’t in a nearby health club or on one of the many tennis courts.

“Crap!” Gaetano mumbled. It was clear to him that his marks were currently not in the hotel. He looked at his watch. It was now after two. He shook his head. Instead of wondering if he would have to spend the night, he started thinking how many nights it might take at the rate he was going.

Retracing his steps back to the reception area, Gaetano found a comfortable couch that had another bowl of fruit as well as a stack of classy magazines that were positioned so as to afford a clear view through an archway to the front entrance of the hotel. Resigned to waiting, Gaetano sat down and made himself comfortable.