We'll Meet Again

84

The doctor had been anxiously waiting for Fran Simmons to appear for a full half hour before the headlights of her car signaled her arrival. It was virtually on the stroke of seven when she rang his bell, an attention to promptness that he found gratifying. He-a scientist-was punctual himself and expected it in others.

He opened the door, and with a courtly greeting expressed his delight at meeting her. “For nearly twenty years I have been known in this area as a retired ophthalmologist,” he said. “Dr. Adrian Logue. In fact, my real name, and the one which I now happily resume, is Adrian Lowe. As you already know.”

The pictures she had seen of Adrian Lowe in the magazines were almost twenty years old, and they depicted a decidedly more robust man than the one who was standing before her.

He was just under six feet tall, lean, a little stooped. His thinning hair was more white than gray. The expression in his pale blue eyes could only be described as kindly. His overall manner was deferential-even a little shy, as he invited her into the small living room.

Overall, Fran thought, he’s not at all the kind of person I’d expected him to be. But then, what did I expect? she asked herself as she chose a straight-backed chair rather than the rocker he offered. After reading all that stuff he wrote, and knowing what I do about him, I guess I thought he’d look like some kind of zealot, with wild eyes and flailing arms, or like some goose-stepping Nazi doctor.

She had been about to ask him if he would permit her to record him, when he said, “I do hope you brought a recorder with you, Miss Simmons. I do not want to be misquoted.”

“Indeed I did, Doctor.” Fran opened her shoulder bag, slipped out the recorder, and turned it on. Don’t let him guess how much you know already about what he’s been up to, she warned herself. Ask all the important questions. This tape should make valuable evidence later on.

“I will be taking you upstairs to my laboratory directly, and we’ll do most of our talking there. But first let me explain why you are here. No, in point of fact, let me explain why I am here.”

Dr. Lowe rested his head against the back of his chair with a sigh. “Ms. Simmons, you must have heard the old cliché, ‘For every positive there is a negative.’ That premise is especially true in the practice of medicine. Therefore choices-sometimes difficult choices-must be made.”

Fran listened without comment as Adrian Lowe, his voice sometimes soft, sometimes animated, explained his views about the advances in medical care and the need to redefine the concept of “managed care.”

“There should be a cutoff of treatment, but I’m not talking merely about life-support systems,” he began. “Let us say a person has had a third heart attack, or is past seventy and has been on dialysis for five years, or has been granted the enormous financial outlay needed to cover a heart or liver transplant that has failed.

“Isn’t it about time to let that person cash in his or her chips, Miss Simmons? Clearly it’s God’s will, so why should we keep fighting the inevitable? The patient might not agree, of course, and no doubt the family might sue for continuing coverage. Therefore, there should be another authority enabled to hasten this inevitable outcome without discussion with either the family or the patient, and without the incurring of further expense on the hospital’s part. An authority capable of a clinical, objective, scientific decision.”

Fran listened in astonishment at the almost unimaginable philosophy he was articulating. “Do I understand, Dr. Lowe, that you are actually saying that neither the patient nor the family should have anything to say or even know about the decision that is being made to terminate the patient’s life?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you also saying that the handicapped should be unknowing and unwilling guinea pigs for any experiments you and your colleagues might wish to conduct?”

“My dear,” he said condescendingly, “I have a videotape I want you to see. It may help you understand why my research is so important. You may have heard recently of Natasha Colbert, a young lady from a very prominent family.”

My God, he’s going to admit what he did to her, Fran thought.

“Due to a most unfortunate accident, the terminal treatment that was about to be given to a chronically ill elderly woman was administered to Ms. Colbert instead of the routine saline solution that she required.

“This resulted in an irreversible coma, in which state she had existed for over six years. I have been experimenting to find a drug that would reverse that deep coma and last night, for the first time, enjoyed success, if only for a few moments. But that success is the beginning of something magnificent in science. Allow me to show you the proof.”

Fran watched as Dr. Lowe placed a cassette into the VCR attached to a wide-screen television.

“I never watch television,” he explained, “but for research purposes, I have this unit. I will show you only the final five minutes of the last day of Natasha Colbert’s life. That is all you will need to understand what I have accomplished in the years that I have spent here.”

In disbelief, Fran watched the tape and saw Barbara Colbert murmuring her dying daughter’s name.

She knew her audible gasp when Natasha stirred, opened her eyes, and began to speak delighted Dr. Lowe.

“You see, you see,” he exclaimed.

Shocked, Fran watched as Tasha recognized her mother, then closed her eyes, opened them again, and pleaded with her mother to help her.

She felt tears well in her own eyes at the agonizing sight of Barbara Colbert pleading with her daughter to live. With something approaching hatred, she witnessed Dr. Black denying to Barbara Colbert that Natasha had regained consciousness.

“She could only last a minute. The drug is that powerful,” Dr. Lowe explained as he stopped and rewound the tape. “Someday it will be routine to reverse comas.” He slipped the tape into his pocket. “What are you thinking, my dear?”

“I am thinking, Dr. Lowe, that with your obvious genius, it is incredible that all your efforts are not devoted to the preservation of life and to improving the quality of life, not to the destruction of lives whose quality you deem to be less than acceptable.”

He smiled and stood up. “My dear, the number of thinking people who agree with me are legion. Now let me show you my laboratory.”

Feeling a mixture of horror and growing uneasiness that she was alone with this man, Fran followed Lowe up the narrow staircase. Natasha Colbert, she thought angrily. She was put in that condition by one of his “highly effective drugs.” Also Tim’s grandmother, who had hoped to celebrate her eightieth birthday. And Barbara Colbert, who was too intelligent to be told she was hallucinating by Lowe’s murderous disciple, Peter Black. He may even be talking about Billy Gallo’s mother. How many others? she asked herself.

The upstairs hall was gloomy and dimly lit, but when Adrian Lowe opened the door to his laboratory, it was like stepping into another world. Knowing little about research laboratories, Fran could still see that this one appeared to be the epitome of technical perfection.

The room was not large, but the limited space was more than made up for by the careful arrangement of equipment so that every inch was put to practical use. In addition to the latest in computer technology, Fran recognized some of the equipment she had seen in her own, very high-priced doctor’s office. There was also a rather substantial oxygen tank, with valves and tubes attached. Many of the machines appeared to be geared to testing chemicals, with others more suited to testing live subjects. Rats, I hope, Fran said to herself with a sinking feeling. Most of the lab equipment meant nothing to her, but what she did find impressive was the extreme cleanliness and orderliness of the place. It is both impressive and absolutely terrifying, she thought as she advanced into the room.

Adrian Lowe’s face glowed with pride. “Miss Simmons, my former student Gary Lasch brought me here after I had been hounded out of medicine. He believed in me and my research and was devoted to lending me the support I needed to carry out my tests and experiments. Then he sent for Peter Black, another of my former students, and one who had been Gary ’s classmate. That proved not to be the wisest move, in retrospect. Possibly because of his problem with alcohol, Black has turned out to be a dangerous coward. He has failed me on a number of occasions, although most recently he has helped to hand me the greatest achievement of my career. In addition, there is Calvin Whitehall, who was kind enough to arrange our meeting, and who has been an ardent supporter of my research, both financially and philosophically.”

“Calvin Whitehall did what?” Fran asked, a shiver of alarm running down her back.

Adrian Lowe looked puzzled. “Why, he arranged this meeting, of course. He suggested you would be the appropriate media contact. He made the arrangements with you and verified with me that you would be coming.”

Fran chose her next words carefully: “Exactly what did Mr. Whitehall tell you I would do for you, Doctor?”

“My dear, you are here because you are going to produce a thirty-minute interview with me that will then allow me to share my achievements with the world. The members of the medical establishment will continue to excoriate me. But even they over time, as well as the general public, will come to embrace the wisdom of my philosophy and the genius of my research. And you, Miss Simmons, will lead the way. You are going to publicize that program in advance and place it on your own prestigious network.”

Fran stood silent for a moment, both dumbfounded and horrified by what she had heard. “Dr. Lowe, you do realize that you will be exposing yourself, and Dr. Black, and Calvin Whitehall to possible criminal prosecution?”

He bristled. “Of course I do. Calvin has willingly accepted that as a necessary part of our important mission.”

Oh dear God, Fran thought, he’s become dangerous to them. And so have I. This laboratory is also dangerous to them. They’ve got to get rid of it-and us. I’ve walked into a trap.

“Doctor,” she said, trying to sound calmer than she felt, “we’ve got to get out of here. Immediately. We’ve both been set up. Calvin Whitehall would never let you go public with all this, especially on television. You must realize that!”

“I don’t understand…” the doctor responded, an almost childlike confusion crossing his face.

“Trust me. Please!”

Dr. Lowe was standing next to her by the laboratory’s center island, his hands on the Formica surface. “Miss Simmons, you’re not making sense. Mr. Whitehall-”

Fran grabbed his hand. “Doctor, it isn’t safe here. We have to get out.”

She heard a faint noise and felt a sharp draft. At the far end of the room the window was being raised. “Look!” she screamed pointing to the shadowy figure, barely visible against the night.

She saw the flicker of a tiny flame, watched as an arm lifted it, then seemed to pull back. Suddenly she realized what was happening. Whoever was outside that window was going to throw a firebomb into the room. He was going to blow up the laboratory-and both of them with it.

Doctor Lowe pulled his hand from her tight grasp. Fran knew it was useless to run, but she also knew she had to try. “Doctor, please.”

But in a lightning movement he reached below the counter of the island, pulled out a shotgun, racked back the slide with a loud, ominous click, then aimed and fired. The noise deafened her. She saw the arm holding the flame disappear, then heard the thud of a body. An instant later flames shot up from the porch.

Dr. Lowe pulled a fire extinguisher off the wall and thrust it at her. Then he ran to a wall safe, opened it quickly, and frantically began to search through it.

Fran leaned out the window. Flames were licking at the shoes of their would-be assailant, who lay on the porch. He was groaning and clutching at his shoulder, trying to stem the gushing flow of blood. Fran pressed down with her finger, and a stream of foam sprouted from the extinguisher, putting out the flames directly around him.

But the fire had spread already to the railing of the porch and was seconds away from reaching the steps. Some of the flaming liquid from the firebomb had also flowed between the floorboards of the porch, and she could see flames already licking underneath. It was clear to Fran that no extinguisher could save this house. She knew also that if she opened the door to the porch, the flames would sweep through the laboratory and engulf the oxygen tank.

“Doctor, get out,” she shrieked. He nodded, and with his arms full of files, he ran out of the laboratory and down the hall. She could hear the clatter of his feet on the stairs as he descended.

She looked back out onto the porch. There was only one way to try to save the life of the injured man, which she was determined to try to do. She could not leave him to be blown up when the laboratory went. Holding the extinguisher, Fran squeezed herself out of the narrow window and onto the small porch. The flames had returned, inching closer to the wounded man and threatening soon to climb the house’s outside wall. Spraying foam from the fire extinguisher in the space between the window and the stairs, she created a temporary path. The would-be killer was lying almost at the top of the steps. Fran set the extinguisher down, put her hands under the man’s right shoulder, and with all her strength, she lifted and rolled him. For an instant he teetered at the top step, then in an end-over-end motion that brought agonized cries from his lips, he tumbled down the stairs.

Fran tried to straighten up but lost her balance in the slippery foam and fell, her feet going out from under her. Her head struck the top step, her shoulder banged against the sharp edge of the next one, her ankle twisted as she finally dropped to the ground.

Dazed, she managed to scramble to her feet just as Dr. Lowe came around the side of the house. “Grab him,” she shouted. “Help me to get him clear before the whole place explodes.”

Their assailant had fainted during his tumble, and was now a deadweight. With superhuman strength, Fran assumed most of the burden but still managed, with Dr. Lowe’s help, to pull Lou Knox nearly twenty feet before the explosion Calvin Whitehall had planned so carefully took place.

They headed for safety as flames leaped skyward and debris rained around them.