Side Effects

Wednesday 19 December

Arlen Paqueiie, 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 never encountered before. 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 Redding'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. 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 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. "Arlen, Arlen, " Redding said warmly, "welcome home." He was in his wheelchair behind his desk and was dressed in the only outfit Paquette could remember him wearing at work, a lightweight blue-gray suit, white shirt, and string tie, fastened with a turquoise thunderbird ring. "So,"

Redding said, when they had moved to the sitting area with coffee and a sugary pastry, "you look a bit drawn. This Boston business has not been so easy, has it?"

"You told me it might not be, " Paquette said. "Do you remember when we decided to move the mailing address of the Ashburton Foundation?"

"Of course. A few months after you started working here. Six, no, seven years ago, right? " Paquette nodded. "It was an excellent suggestion and the first time I fully appreciated what a winning decision it was to hire you." Paquette smiled a weak thank you. "Well, " he said, "it was my feeling at that time that with the foundation registered as a tax-exempt philanthropic organization and located in DC, there was no way Redding Pharmaceuticals could ever be connected to it."

"And yet our tenacious friend Dr. Bennett has done so."

"Yes, although as I told you last night, I'm not certain she has put it all together."

"But she will, " the Warlock said with certainty. "She called twice yesterday trying to reach me-that is, trying to reach Dr. Thompson, the foundation director. I couldn't even call her back for fear of having her recognize my voice."

"It was a wise decision not to."

"She's got to hear from someone today."

"She will, " Redding said. He glanced at his watch. "At this moment, our persuasive legislative liaison, Charlie Wilson, is on his way to the foundation office to become Dr. James Thompson."

"Office?"

"Of course. We wouldn't want Dr. Bennett to try and locate the Ashburton Foundation only to find a desk, phone and secretary, would we?"

Paquette shook his head. The man was absolutely incredible, and efficient in a way that he found quite frightening. "By eleven o'clock this morning, the office, its staff, photographic essays describing its good works, testimonial letters, and a decade or so of documented service will be in place, along with Charlie Wilson, who is, I think you'll agree, as smooth and self-confident as they come."

"Amazing, " Paquette said. "Are you feeling a bit more relaxed about things now?"

"Yes, Mr. Redding. Yes, I am."

"Good. You'll be pleased to know that the company will be taking care of that mirror at the Ritz."

Paquette froze. He had gone to great pains to pay for the damage himself and to insure that in no way would Redding find out about what had happened. Instability under fire was hardly the sort of trait the man rewarded in his platoon leaders. "I… I'm sorry about that, sir. I really am."

Redding gestured to the coffee table before them. Sealed under thick glass was the emblem of Redding Pharmaceuticals, a sky-blue background with white hands opening to release a pure, white dove.

Below the dove was the name of the company, above it, in a rainbow arc, the motto, The Greatest Good for the Most People at the Least Cost.

"Arlen, ever since the day I took over this company, I have tried to chart a course that would lead to exactly what this motto says. In this business-in any business-there are always choices to be made, always decisions that cannot be avoided. In the thirty-five years since I first came to Darlington, I've made more gut-wrenching decisions and smashed more glasses and more mirrors in anguish than I care to count. But always, when I needed direction, when I needed advice or council, it was right in front of me." He tapped the motto with his finger.

"The legislators, state and federal, the competition, and especially the goddamn FDA are all doing their best to cloud the issue, but in the end it always boils down to this." Again, he tapped the glass. If the pep talk was meant to buoy Paquette's flagging morale, it failed miserably.

The greatest good for the most people at the highest profit was all he could think of. The shortcuts and the human testing, the clinics in Denver and Boston, the bribery and extortion involving 1? DA officials-all had been tolerable for him because all were abstractions.

Kate Bennett was flesh and blood, a voice, a face, a reality, and worse than that, a reality he was growing to admire. Paquette snapped out of his reverie, wondering how long it had lasted. A second?

A minute? Then he realized that Redding's eyes were fixed on him. "I understand, sir, " he said, clearing away the phlegm in his throat, "and I assure you, you have nothing to worry about." How did the man know about the stinking mirror? Spies in Boston? A bug in the room?

Damn him, Paquette thought viciously. Damn him to hell. "Fine, Arlen,"

Redding said. "Now, you have a flight back to Boston this afternoon?"

"Two o'clock."

"I suspect that our meddlesome pathologist is on the ropes. However, her father-in-law assures me that she is far from out on her feet. Her discovery regarding the Ashburton Foundation suggests that he is quite correct."

"I believe Norton Reese is arranging a surprise for her that may help,"

Paquette said, vividly recalling the glee in Reese's voice as he announced that something was set to fall heavily on Kate Bennett.

"Excellent, " Redding said. "Her father-in-law has promised to do what he can to help us as well. One final thing."

"Yes?"

"Has anything further surfaced on the cause of the ovary and blood problems in those three women? " Paquette shook his head. "Strange,"

Redding said, more to himself than to the other man. "Very strange…"

For several seconds, he remained lost in thought, his eyes closed, his head turning from side to side as if he were internally speedreading a page. "Well, Arlen, " he said suddenly, opening his eyes, "thank you for the excellent job you are doing. I know at times your duties are not easy for you, but continue to carry them out the way you have, and your rewards will be great."

"Yes, sir, " Paquette said. He sat for nearly half a minute before realizing that the Warlock had said all he was going to. Sheepishly, he rose and hurried from the room. Cyrus Redding studied the man as he left. The Boston business seemed to be having some untoward effects on him, particularly in the area of his drinking. As he motored from the sitting area to his desk, Redding made a mental note to arrange a vacation of some sort for Paquette and his wife as soon as Boston was over. That done, he put the issue and the man out of his head. There was more important business needing attention. Stephen Stein, the enigmatic, remarkably resourceful investigator, had made a discovery that he suspected would unlock the mystery of John Ferguson. "Mr. Nunes,"

Redding said through the intercom of his desk, "would you bring that package to me now."

At the far end of the office, a perfectly camouflaged panel and one way mirror slid open. The man Nunes emerged from the small, soundproof room from which he kept vigil, revolver at hand, whenever Redding was not alone in his office. The package, containing a book, several typewritten pages, and an explanatory letter from Stein, had arrived by messenger only minutes before Arlen Paquette. "If you have errands to run, Mr.

Nunes, this would be a good time. When you return in, say, an hour, we could well have a new slant on our friend, Dr. Ferguson." He smiled, nearly beside himself at the prospect. "I think this occasion might call for a pint of that mint chip ice cream I have forbidden you to let me talk you into buying."

The taciturn bodyguard nodded. "I can't let you talk me into it, " he said, "but perhaps I could purchase some on my own."

Redding waited until his office door had clicked shut, then he locked it electronically and spread the contents of the package on his desk. "My apologies, " Stein wrote, "for missing this volume during the course of earlier efforts to tie our mysterious Dr. Ferguson's background in with the war. I borrowed it from the Holocaust Library at the university here with assurances of its return, along with some token of our gratitude.

Its title, according to the German professor who did the enclosed translation for us, is Doctors of the Reich, The Story of Hitler's Monster Kings. The work is the product of painstaking research and countless interviews by a Jewish journalist named Sachs, himself a death camp survivor, and is believed by my source to be accurate within the limits of the author's prejudices. Only the chapters dealing with the experiments at the Ravensbruck concentration camp for women have been translated. The photographs on pages three sixty-seven and three sixty-eight will, I believe, be of special interest to you."

For most of the next hour, Cyrus Redding sat transfixed, moving only to turn the pages of the translation or to refer to specific photographs in the worn, yellowed text. John Ferguson was a physician and scientist named Dr. Wilhelm Becker. The photographs, though slightly blurred and taken nearly forty years before, left no doubt whatsoever. "Amazing,"

Redding murmured as he read and reread the biography of his associate.

"Absolutely amazing."

There were two snapshots of Wilhelm Becker, one a full-face identification photo and one a group shot with other physicians at the Ravensbruck Camp. There was also a shot of what remained of the laboratory in which Becker was purported to have died, with the bodies of the man and his staff sergeant still curled amidst the debris on the floor. Redding withdrew a large, ivory-handled magnifying glass from his desk and for several minutes studied the detail of the scene. The body identified as Willi Becker was little more than an ill-defined, charred lump. "Nicely done, my friend, " Redding said softly. "Nicely done."

Familiar now with the man and with his spurious death, Redding turned to the page and a half dealing with Becker's research, specifically, with his research on a substance called Estronate 250. Much of the information presented was gleaned from transcripts of the war crimes trial of a physician named Muller and another named Rendl, both of whom were sentened to Nuremberg Prison in large measure because of their association with the supposedly late Wilhelm Becker. Redding found the men in the Ravensbruck group photo. Muller had served five years at hard labor before certain Ravensbruck survivors were able to document his acts of heroism on their behalf and get his sentence commuted. For Rendl, the revelations of his humanitarianism came too late. Three years after his incarceration, he hanged himself in his cell. Redding read the Estronate material word by word, taking careful notes. By the time he had finished, he was absolutely certain that neither Wilhelm Becker nor the notebook containing his work on the hormone had perished in the Ravensbruck fire. A substance, harmless in every other way, that could render a woman sterile without her knowledge. Redding was staggered by the potential of such a drug. China, India, the African nations, the Arabs. What would governments be willing to pay for a secret that might selectively thin their populations and thereby solve so many of their economic and political woes? What would certain governments pay for a weapon which, if delivered properly, could decimate their enemies in a single generation without the violent loss of one life?

Redding's thoughts were soaring through the possibilities of Estronate 250 when, with a soft knock, Nunes entered the office, set a package on the desk, and retired to his observation room. For another hour, Redding sat alone, savoring his mint chip ice cream and deciding how he might best break the news to Dr. John Ferguson that their fifteen-year-old collaboration was about to take on a new dimension. + "I love you, I miss you, and I don't want to not live with you anymore."

Kate read Jared's note again and then again, drawing strength and confidence from it each time. She had returned to her office following two distressing and frightening visits. One was to Ellen, who was, for the first time, receiving a transfusion of packed red blood cells.

The second was to Norton Reese. If the connection between Metropolitan Hospital of Boston, the Ashburton Foundation, and Redding Pharmaceuticals was as intimate as Reese's clumsy evasions were leading her to believe, she would need all the strength and confidence she could muster. Thank you, Jared, she thought. Thank you for pulling me out from under the biggest pressure of all. Her meeting with Reese had started off cordially enough. In fact, the man had seemed at times to be inappropriately jovial and at ease. Ever since their confrontation before the board of trustees over his diversion of budgeted pathology department funds to the cardiac surgical program, Reese had dealt with her with the gingerliness of an apprentice handling high explosives.

Now, suddenly, he was all smiles. His congeniality lasted through several minutes of conversation about her department and Stan Willoughby's recommendation that she succeed him as chief, and ended abruptly with mention of the Ashburton Foundation. Whatever fortes the man might have, Kate mused at that moment, they certainly did not include poker faces. His eyes narrowed fractionally, but enough to deepen the fleshy crow's feet at their corners. His lips whitened, as did the tips of his fingers where they were touching one another. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to open the Ashburton Foundation files to you,

" he had said, his eyes struggling to maintain contact with hers and failing. "However, I shall be happy to answer what questions I can."

"Okay, " Kate said, shrugging. "My first question is why aren't you at liberty to open the Ashburton Foundation fiies to me?"

"It's… it's part of the agreement we signed when we accepted a grant from them." It was bizarre. In a very literal sense, the man was squirming in his seat. "Well, suppose I wanted to apply for a grant for my department. How would I go about contacting them?"

"I'll have Gina give you the address on your way out. You can write them yourself."

"I already have a post office box number in Washington, DC. Is that it?"

"Yes. I mean, probably."

"Well, suppose I wanted to visit their offices in person. Could you ask Gina to give me a street address as well?" Reese continued to fidget.

"Look, " he said, "I'll give you their mailing address and phone number.

I'm sorry, but that's all I can do. Why do you want to know about the Ashburton Foundation anyway? " he managed. "Mr. Reese, " Kate said calmly, "If I answer that question, will you open their files to me?"

"Not without written permission from the Ashburton Foundation."

"Well then, it appears we've got a Mexican standoff, doesn't it?

I'll tell you this much, " her voice grew cold. "Two women have died and a third may be dying. If I find out the Ashburton Foundation is connected in any way with what has happened to them, and you have kept significant information from me, I promise that I won't rest until everyone who matters knows what you have done. Is that clear? " Her uncharacteristic anger had, she knew, been prodded by the sight of Ellen Sandler mutely watching the plastic bag dripping blood into her arm and by the knowledge that this was, in all likelihood, just the first of many transfusions to come. Reese checked his watch in a manner that was as inappropriate as it was unsubtle. It was as if he had left a message to be called at precisely nine-twelve and was wondering why the phone hadn't rung. "Mr. Reese?"

The administrator shifted his gaze back to her. His face was pinched and gray with anger-no, she realized, it was something deeper than anger.

Hatred? Did the poor man actually hate her?

"You really think you're something, don't you, " he rasped in a strained, muddy voice. "I beg your pardon?"

"Who made you the crusader? Do you think that just because you have an MD degree and all that old family money you can ride all over people?"

"What? Mr. Reese, I nev-"

"Well, let me tell you something. You don't intimidate me like you do some around here. No, sir, not one bit. So you just ride off on that high horse of yours and let me and the department heads-the official department heads-worry about grants and foundations and such."

Kate watched as the man sat there, panting from the exertion of his outburst. For five seconds, ten, her green eyes fixed on him. Then she rose from her chair and left, unwilling to dignify Reese's eruption with a response. Now, alone in her office, Kate sat, trying to crystallize her thoughts and doodling a calligraphic montage of the words "Reese" and "Asshole." After finishing four versions of each, she began adding "Ashburton" and "Paquette." First there was the bribery of Ian Toole, an act which seemed to her equivalent to shooting a chipmunk with an elephant gun. She would have been quite satisfied with an admission by Redding Pharmaceuticals that they had somehow allowed a batch of their generic vitamins to become contaminated and would gladly recall and replace them. Their illogically excessive response had to have been born out of either arrogance or fear. But fear of what?

"Omnicenter" made its first appearance in the montage. The Ashburton Foundation had endowed an entire ob-gyn department and subsidized a massive, modern women's health center. Philanthropic acts? Perhaps, she thought. But both of her calls to the foundation had gone unanswered by Dr. Thompson, the director, and her efforts, though modest, had failed to come up with an address for the place. Then there was Reese's refusal to discuss the organization that had been, at least in part, responsible for the resurgence of his hospital. At that moment, almost subconsciously, she began adding another name to the paper. Again and again she wrote it, first in the calligraphic forms she knew, then in several she made up on the spot. "Horner." Somehow the cantankerous, eccentric computer genius was involved in what was going on. The notion fit too well, made too much sense. But how? There really was only one person who could help her find out.

Another minute of speculation, and she called William Zimmermann.

Fifteen minutes later, she was on her way through the tunnel to the Omnicenter when Tom Engleson entered from the cutoff to the surgical building. "Hi, " she said, searching his face for a clue as to how he was handling the abortive end to their evening together. "H'lo, " his voice was flat. She slowed, but continued walking. — "Going to the Omnicenter?"

Tom nodded. "I have a clinic in twenty minutes."

"You all right?"

"Yeah, sure. Great."

"Tom, I-"

"Look, Kate, it's my problem, not yours."

"Dr. Engleson, you weren't exactly alone on the couch last night, " she whispered, glancing about to ensure that none of the tunnel traffic was too close. "I feel awful about giving out such mixed messages.

But you are an incredibly comfortable and understanding man. With all the trouble at the hospital I'm afraid I just allowed myself to hide out in your arms. It was wrong and unfair-more so because I really care very much for you. I'm sorry, Tom."

They reached the stairwell leading up to the Omnicenter. "Wait, " Tom said. "Please." He guided her to a small alcove opposite the staircase.

"You know, considering the nature of the Metro grapevine, we'll probably be an item by…" Two nurses chattered past them and up the stairs.

"Hell, " she said, following them with her eyes, "we most likely are already."

"Do you really mean that, about caring for me?"

"Tom, I love my husband very much. We've had some trouble getting our lives back in sync since the election, but my feelings for him haven't changed. Still, you're very special to me. Believe me, if my home situation, my marriage, were any different, we would have been lovers last night."

"Yeah? " The muscles in his face relaxed, and some measure of energy returned to his voice. "Yes, " she said. Tom Engleson might have been nine years Jared's junior, but they still had much in common, including, it now appeared, the need for strong reassurance about such things. "I said it last night, and I'll say it again. Jared is a very lucky man."

Acceptance had replaced the strain in Tom's voice. "I know, " Kate said.

"Tom, seriously, thank you for not making it any harder for me. Between the wretched business with Bobby Geary, the disappearance of my chemist, and some incredible crap from Norton Reese, I feel like I need all the friends-all the help-I can get."

She glanced at her watch. "Say, do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure, why?"

"I'm going to see Bill Zimmermann to discuss the Ashburton Foundation.

I'd love to have you come along if you can."

"Rocket Bill? I do have a little time if you think he wouldn't mind."

"Hardly, " Kate said. "He knows how much help you've been to me through all this. Okay?"

During the four-flight climb, Tom reviewed for her the protocols for patient care in the Omnicenter. On arrival, both new and returning patients met with a specially trained female intake worker, who blackened in the appropriate spaces in a detailed computer-readable history sheet. Medications, menstrual history, new complaints, and side effects of any treatment were carefully recorded. The worker then slid the history sheet into a computer terminal on her desk, and in thirty seconds or less, instructions as to where the patient was to go next would appear on the screen along with, if necessary, what laboratory tests were to be ordered. "Do you feel the system is a bit impersonal?"

Kate asked. "You're a patient here. Do you?"

"No, not really, I guess, " she said. "I can remember when a visit to the gynecologist consisted of sitting for an hour in a ten-foot-square waiting room with a dozen other women, having my name called out, stripping in a tiny examining room, and finally having the doctor rush in, thumbing through my chart for my name, and then as often as not telling me to put my heels in the stirrups before he even asked why I was there."

"See, " Tom laughed, "no system is perfect. But seriously, the one here is damn good. It frees me up to do a careful exam and to answer as many questions as my patients have."

The system might be great, Kate thought, but something, somewhere inside it, was rotten. Something was killing people. Large, colored numbers marked each floor. The 3, filling half a wall at the third-floor landing, was an iridescent orange. Kate reached for the handle of the door to the corridor, but then stopped, turned to Tom, and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Thank you for last night, my friend, " she said.

Tom accepted the kiss and then squeezed her hand and smiled. "If you need anything at all, and I can do it or get it, you've got it, " he said. William Zimmermann greeted Kate warmly and Tom with some surprise.

It was clear from his expression and manner that he was concerned about anything that might affect the reputation of the Omnicenter, including involvement of one of the Ashburton Service senior residents. Kate sought immediately to reassure him. "Bill, as you know, Dr. Engleson's been an enormous help to me in sorting all this out. He knows, as do I, the importance of absolute discretion in discussing these matters with anyone."

"You've spoken to no one at all about this? " Zimmermann asked Tom. "No, sir. Only K… only Dr. Bennett."

"Good. Well, sit down, sit down both of you."

"I'll try not to take up too much of your time, " Kate began, "but I want to keep you abreast of what has been happening since we talked yesterday."

"You were concerned about the Ashburton Foundation."

"Exactly. You know how upset I was with Redding Pharmaceuticals after they bribed my chemist. Well-" Zimmermann stopped her with a raised hand. "Kate, please, " he said, with an edge of irritation she had never heard before. "I told you how I felt about the situation with the chemist. I believe that you believe, but no more than that." He turned to Tom. "Do you have any personal knowledge of this chemist, Toole?"

Tom thought for a moment and then shook his head. "No, not really."

"All right, then, " Zimmermann said. "Substantiated facts."

Kate took a breath, nodded, and settled herself down by smoothing out a pleat in her charcoal gray skirt. "Sorry, Bill. Okay, here's a substantiated fact." She passed a telephone number across to him. "It's the number of the Ashburton Foundation in Washington, DC. At one time, maybe seven or eight years ago, the foundation was located in Darlington, Kentucky, the same town as Redding Pharmaceuticals. I tried calling them yesterday, several times, but all I got was a stammering receptionist who promised I would hear from a Dr. James Thompson, the director, as soon as he returned to the office. I never heard. Then this morning, I went to see Norton Reese and asked to see the Ashburton Foundation files. You would have thought I asked to read his diary. He refused and then exploded at me."

"Did he give any reason for refusing? " Tom asked. Kate shook her head.

"Not really. He seemed frightened of me. Scared stiff."

"Kate, " Zimmermann asked, fingering the paper she had given him, "just what is it you're driving at? " The edge was still in his voice. Even before she spoke, she sensed her theory would not sit well with the Omnicenter director. Still, there was no way to back off. "Well, I think Redding Pharmaceuticals may be investing money in hospitals-or at least this hospital-and using the Ashburton Foundation as some kind of front, sort of a middle man."

Zimmermann's pale eyes widened. "That's absurd, " he said, "absolutely absurd. What would they have to gain?"

"I'm not certain. I have an idea, but I'm not certain. Furthermore, I think Norton Reese knows the truth."

"Well?"

Substantiated facts. Suddenly, Kate wished she had taken more time, prepared herself more thoughtfully. Then she remembered Ellen. Time was, she felt certain, running out for her friend. With that reality, nothing else really mattered. She girded herself for whatever Zimmermann's response was to be and pushed on. "I don't think the anthranilic acid in my vitamins was an accidental contaminant, " she said, forcing a levelness into her voice though she was shaking inside. "I think it was being tested on me, and probably on others as well, not tested to see whether or not it worked, because I didn't have any symptoms, but rather for adverse reactions, for side effects, if you will."

Zimmermann was incredulous. "Dr. Bennett, if such a thing were going on in the Omnicenter, in my facility, don't you think I would know about it?"

"Not really, " Kate said. "It was starting to come together for me, but Tom's description of how the intake process works made it all fit. It's Carl Horner, downstairs. Horner and his Monkeys. You and the other docs here just go on prescribing his medications and then recording his data for him. There's no reason you have to know anything, as long as the computers know."

"And you think the Ashburton Foundation is bankrolling his work? " Kate nodded. "This is getting out of control." He turned to Tom. "Do you follow what she is saying? " Reluctantly, Tom nodded. "And do you believe it?"

"I… I don't know what to believe."

"Well, I think it's time I checked on some of these things for myself,"

Zimmermann said, snatching up the telephone and setting the Ashburton number on his desk. "Dr. William Zimmermann, access number three-oh-eight-three, " he told the operator, as Kate looked on excitedly, "I'd like a Watts line, please."

Only a few more minutes, Kate told herself. Only a few more minutes, a few words from the confused, stammering receptionist, and Zimmermann would at least realize that something was not right at the Ashburton Foundation. For the moment, that would be enough. Measured against the fiascoes surrounding Bobby Geary and Ian Toole, the planting of even a small seed of doubt in the man's mind would be a major victory. "Yes, good morning, " she heard Zimmermann say. "I am Dr. William Zimmermann, from Boston. I should like to speak with the director… Yes, exactly.

Dr. Thompson." Kate turned to Tom and gave him a conspiratorial smile.

Suddenly, she realized that Zimmermann was waving to get her attention and pointing to the extension phone on the conference table. She came on the line just as did Dr. James Thompson. "This is Dr. Thompson, " the man said. "Dr. Thompson, I'm sorry to disturb you. My name is Zimmermann. I'm the director of the Omnicenter here in Boston."

"Oh, yes, Dr. Zimmermann, I know of you, " Thompson said. "You took over for poor Dr. French, what was it, four years ago?"

"Five."

"Tragic accident, tragic, as I recall."

"Yes, he drowned, " Zimmermann said, now looking directly at Kate, who was beginning to feel sick. "What can I do for you, sir? " Thompson had a deep, genteel voice. "I'm here with Dr. Kate Bennett, one of our physicians."

"Ah, yes. Her name is right in front of me here on my desk. Twice, in fact. She phoned here yesterday and was told I would return her call.

However, my secretary had no way of knowing that my son, Craig, had fallen at school and broken his wrist and that I was going to be tied up in the emergency room for hours."

"He's all right, I hope?"

Thompson laughed. "Never better. That plaster makes him the center of attention. Now, what can I do for you and Dr. Bennett?

"

"Nothing for me, actually, but Dr. Bennett has a question or two for you. One moment."

"Certainly." Zimmermann, his expression saying, "Well, you asked for it, now here it is, " motioned for her to go ahead. Kate felt as if she were being bludgeoned. She had been sure, so sure, and now… "Dr.

Thompson," she managed, "my apologies for not being more patient." She glanced over at Tom, who shrugged helplessly. "I… I was calling to find out if there was any connection between the Ashburton Foundation and Redding Pharmaceuticals."

There was no sense in trying anything other than a direct approach.

She was beaten, humiliated again, and she knew it. "Connection?"

"Yes, sir. Isn't it true that the foundation was once located in Darlington, Kentucky, the same town as Redding?"

"As a matter of fact, it was. John and Sylvia Ashburton, whose estate established the foundation, were from Lexington. Their son, John, Jr., ran one of their horse farms, Darlington Stables. For two years after his parents died, John stayed at the farm, tidying up affairs and setting up the mechanics of the foundation. I was hired in, let me see, seventy-nine, but by then, the center of operations had already been moved to Washington. I'm afraid that as far as Redding Pharmaceuticals goes, the geographical connection was pure coincidence."

"Thank you, " Kate said meekly. "That certainly helps clear up my confusion." Another glance at Tom, and she grasped at one final straw.

"Dr. Thompson, I was trying to find out the street address of your office, but there's no Ashburton Foundation listed in the DC directory."

"By design, Dr. Bennett, quite by design. You see, where there is grant money involved, there are bound to be, how should I say it, omewhat less than fully qualified applicants contacting us. We prefer o do our own preliminary research and then to encourage only appropriate institutions and agencies to apply. Our offices are at 238 K street, Northwest, on the seventh floor. Please feel free to visit any time you are in Washington. Perhaps your pathology department would be interested in applying for a capital equipment grant."

"Perhaps," Kate said distractedly. William Zimmermann had heard enough.

"Dr. Thompson, " he said, "I want to thank you for helping to clear up the confusion here, and also for the wonderful support your agency has given my Omnicenter."

"Our pleasure, sir, " Dr. James Thompson said. "Well? " Zimmermann asked after he had hung up. "Something's not right, " she said. "What?"

"He mentioned my pathology department. How did he know I was a pathologist?"

"I told him you were at the very start of the call."

"I'm not trying to be difficult, Bill-really, I'm not-but you referred to me as a physician, not a pathologist. You remember, Tom, don't you?"

A look at the uncertainty in Tom's eyes, and she began having doubts herself. "Well?"

"I… I'm not sure, " was all the resident could say. Kate stood to go.

"Bill, I may seem pigheaded to you, or even confused, but I tell you, something still doesn't feel right to me. I just have a sense that Dr.

Thompson knew exactly who I was and what I wanted before you ever called."

"You must admit, Kate, " Zimmermann said clinically, "that when one looks first at the business with the baseball player, then at the conflict over whether or not a chemist actually performed tests he swears he never ran, and now at what seem to be groundless concerns on your part regarding the Ashburton Foundation and my long-standing computer engineer, it becomes somewhat difficult to get overly enthusiastic about your hunches and senses and theories. Now, if you've nothing further, I must get back to work."

"No, " Kate said, smarting from the outburst by the usually cordial man.

"Nothing, really, except the promise that no matter how long it takes, I will find out who, or what, is responsible for Ellen's bleeding disorder. Thanks for coming, Tom. I'm sorry it worked out this way."

With a nod to both men, she left, fingers of self-doubt tightening their grip in her gut. She bundled her clinic coat against the wind and snow and pushed head down out of the Omnicenter and onto the street. What if she were wrong, totally wrong about Redding and Horner, about the Omnicenter and Ellen's bleeding, about Reese? Perhaps, despite the critical situation in Berenson 421, despite the nagging fears about her own body, she should back off and let things simmer down. Perhaps she should listen to the advice of her father-in-law and reorder her priorities away from Metropolitan Hospital. They were waiting for her in her office, Stan Willoughby, Liu Huang, and Rod Green, the flamboyant, black general surgeon who was, it was rumored, being groomed for a Harvard professorstlp. I "Kate, " Willoughby said. "I was just writing you a note." He held the paper up for her to see. Kate greeted the other two men and then turned back to Wiljj› loughby. He was tight. His stance and the strain in his smile said so. "Well? " she asked.

"Pardon?"

"The note, Stan. What would it have said?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. My mind is racing." He cleared his throat. "Kate, we need to talk with you."

"Well, sit down then, please." She felt her heart respond to her sudden apprehension. "A problem?"

Willoughby was totally ill at ease. "I… um… Kate, yesterday you did a frozen section of a needle biopsy on one of Dr. Green's patients."

"Yes, a breast. It was an intraductal adenocarcinoma. I reported the results to Dr. Green myself." Her pulse quickened another notch. "Was there, um… any question in your mind of the-"

"What Dr. Willoughby is trying to say, " Rod Green cut in, "is that I did a masectomy on a woman who, it appears, has benign breast disease."

The man's dark eyes flashed. "That's impossible." Kate looked first to Willoughby and then to Liu Huang for support, but saw only the tightlipped confirmation of the surgeon's allegation. "Liu?"

"I have examined specimen in great detail, " the little man said carefully. "Track of biopsy needle enters benign adenoma. No cancer there or in any part of breast."

"Are… are you sure? " She could barely speak. "Kate, " Willoughby said, "I reviewed the slides myself. There's no cancer."

"But, there was. I swear there was."

"There was no cancer in my patient, " Green said. "None." His fury at her was clearly under the most marginal control. "You have made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake."

Kate stared wide-eyed at the three men. It was a dream, a grotesque nightmare from which she would awake at any moment. Their stone faces blurred in and out of focus as her mind struggled to remember the cells.

There were three breast biopsies, no, two, there were two. Green's patient was the first. The pathology was a bit tricky, but it was nothing she would ever miss in even one case out of a thousand, unless..

.. She remembered the fatigue and the strain of the previous morning, the stress of Jared's being away, the crank phone calls, and the disappearance of Ian Toole. No, her thoughts screamed, she couldn't have made such a mistake. It wasn't as if they were saying she had missed something, although even that kind of error would have been hard to believe, they were claiming she had read a condition that wasn't there.

It was… impossible. There was just no other word. "Did you check the slides from yesterday? " she managed. "The frozens?"

Willoughby nodded grimly. "Benign adenoma. The exact same pathology as in the main specimen." He handed her a plastic box of slides. Green stood up, fists clenched. "I have heard enough. Dr. Bennett, thanks to you, a woman who came to me in trust has had her breast removed unnecessarily. When she sues, even though I will in all likelihood be one of the defendants, I shall also be her best witness."

He started to leave and then turned back to her. "You know, " he said,

"that letter you sent to the papers about Bobby Geary was a pretty rotten thing to do." He slammed the door hard enough to shake the vase of roses on the corner of her desk. Kate could barely hold the slide as she set it on the stage of her microscope. This time, the yellow-white light held no excitement, no adventure for her. She knew, even before she had completed focusing down, that the specimen was benign. It was that clear-cut. Her mistaking the pattern for a cancer would have been as likely as an Olympic diver springing off the wrong end of the board.

"Something's wrong, " she said, her eye still fixed on the cells. The words reverberated in her mind. Something's wrong. She had said that to Bill Zimmermann not half an hour ago. "Kate, " Willoughby said gently,

"I'm sorry."

Only after she looked up from the microscope did she realize she was crying. "Stan, I swear this is not the slide I read yesterday. It can't be." But even as she said the words, she admitted to herself that, as in the situation with Bobby Geary, her only defense was a protestation of innocence. "You've been under a great deal of stress lately, Kate. Do you suppose that-"

"No! " She forced herself to lower her voice. "I remember the biopsy I saw yesterday. It was cancer. I didn't make a mistake."

"Look, " Willoughby said, "I want you to take a few days off. Rest.

After this coming weekend we can talk."

"But-"

"Kate, I'm taking you off the schedule for a while. Now I don't want you coming back into work until after we've had a chance to discuss things next week. Okay? " There was uncharacteristic firmness in the man's voice. Meekly, she nodded. "Okay, but-"

"No buts. Kate, it's for your own good. I'll call you at home and check on how you're doing. Now off you go."

Kate watched her colleagues leave, Stan Willoughby, head down, shuffling a few feet ahead of Liu Huang, who turned for a moment and gave her a timid, but hopeful, thumbs-up sign. Then they were gone. For a time she sat, uncertainly, isolation and self-doubt constricting every muscle in her body, making it difficult to move or even to breathe. With great effort, she pulled the telephone over and lifted the receiver. "I want to place a long-distance call, please, " she heard her voice say. "It's personal, so charge it to my home phone… I'm calling San Diego."