Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (41 page)

Luther Abbott!

His eyes were closed, but the expression on his pale face was anything but serene.

Sammy’s stomach plunged. Overcome with nausea, she leaned against the table, willing herself not to vomit.

Another patient of Palmer’s to die.

She had to tell someone. Now! Frantic, Sammy searched the room until she saw a phone on the far wall. Osborne. She’d call the psychologist. He’d know what to do. Sammy reached in her purse for the slip of paper with his number, then picked up the receiver and dialed. A few seconds later she heard the first ring.
Please be there
.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Osborne, I’m at the Nitshi Institute. I’m in trouble.”

A hand shot past her face and punched the disconnect.

Sammy whirled to see a gray-haired man in a white lab coat standing behind her. His face was distorted with rage. Even without the nametag she knew he was Dr. Palmer. She thought he was going to hit her.

“You don’t know what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, young lady.”

“Oh there you are, Miss Greene.” Carl swept into the open door behind the researcher.

Palmer grabbed Sammy’s arm.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you to Mr. Ishida. I’ll let him deal with you.”

Ishida rose as Palmer and Carl escorted Sammy into the CEO’s office. “Hello again, Miss Greene,” he said.

“Mr. Ishida. I know I shouldn’t be here, but . . .”

The Japanese man ambled over to Sammy and patted her arm. “No need to explain.” He motioned her to a seat in front of his desk. “Please.”

Sammy looked at Palmer still hovering by the door, his face firmly set in a scowl. “Could I talk to you in private, Mr. Ishida?” she whispered.

“Of course. Marcus, leave us alone for a few minutes. I shall call you in if we need you.”

Palmer exited without protest, closing the door behind him. Carl, Sammy noted, had already disappeared.

She sank into one of two comfortable chairs facing Ishida’s massive walnut desk. Her heart was just beginning to slow.

Ishida walked across the room to a stylish wet bar that included what looked like a high-tech hot plate. “Now, Sammy — May I call you Sammy?”

“What? Uh, yes, of course.”

“I know you’ve just had a terrible shock.” He poured from a carafe into two mugs. “Why don’t we have some tea,” he said, placing
one mug on his desk for Sammy, “and talk about what you’ve learned?”

Reed’s heart thumped wildly as he stood still in the darkness of the lab, listening. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the voices and footsteps began to recede. Whoever it was had proceeded down the hall toward Chemistry.

Reed waited another five minutes before he felt safe enough to leave and head for the elevator.

Sammy was in way over her head, he realized. And so was he. He had to warn her as soon as possible, he thought, as the car neared the lobby. First, he would stop at her apartment and apologize, and then they were going to the authorities. Together.

“Green tea.” Ishida watched Sammy take another sip from her mug.

“Quite soothing, don’t you agree?”

Sammy nodded as the warm liquid slid down her throat. It was slightly more bitter than the tea she’d shared with Mrs. Nakamura, but already she was beginning to feel a calmness settle over her. Her pulse had returned to normal, her breathing had slowed. She took a moment to survey the room. The CEO’s decor here was slightly less elegant than his corporate office in New York — walnut instead of mahogany, expensive prints instead of original French impressionists.

“I’m sorry you had to see that body,” Ishida continued. “What happened to the boy was most unfortunate.”

Sammy eyed Ishida over her mug. His expression reflected genuine regret. “I know Luther was bitten by a monkey, but I don’t understand why he died. I mean he was treated at Student Health right after the injury.”

“You are obviously a bright young woman and a very resourceful one,” Ishida said, smiling. “So I’m going to be very frank with you, Sammy. The monkey that bit Luther was infected with a deadly virus.”

“Virus?” Sammy’s eyelids drooped as she felt a torpor stealing
over her. She was totally exhausted, but she forced herself to sit straighter in the chair. She sipped another mouthful of tea and tried not to think of Luther’s corpse.

“Two years ago Dr. Palmer began testing a new vaccine to combat the AIDS virus. He was using an approach developed by another Ellsford University professor.”

“Dr. Nakamura,” Sammy said sleepily.

“Why, yes. Of course,” Ishida agreed, raising an eyebrow. “But Dr. Palmer significantly refined the original technique.” Ishida paused and took a sip of his tea. “The early trials with pigtail macaques showed great success, and frankly, we would have continued using monkeys if not for Reverend Taft.”

“Taft? I don’t think —” Sammy couldn’t remember what she was going to say.

“The Traditional Values Coalition has lobbied quite hard to stop animal research. They have even tried to buy influence among those of a political persuasion.”

Ishida’s smile seemed somehow odd to Sammy, who tried vainly to suppress a yawn. She felt very, very tired.

“Perhaps with enough time and money, we could have overcome the opposition in the public arena. But it seemed prudent — given the significant financial potential for Nitshi if we were first to develop the vaccine — to simply proceed to the next phase. Human trials.”

Sammy was puzzled. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“All the infected monkeys were ordered destroyed. Unfortunately, Dr. Palmer allowed one newborn to survive. That was the pigtail that bit Luther Abbott.” Ishida drank once again from his tea mug before proceeding. “Truly a pity. By the time he realized the boy was infected, it was too late. We know from students already tested that the vaccine only works as a preventive measure.”

“Students?” Sammy frowned, trying to concentrate on the conversation. “Lucy Peters, Seymour Hollis, Sergio Pinez are students —”

Ishida nodded. “A shame the vaccine did not protect them. But I assure you, their sacrifice was for the greater good.”

“Sacrifice? Greater good?” Despite the hazy cloud she felt settling over her thoughts, Sammy began to grasp what Ishida was saying: Lucy, Seymour, and Sergio had been part of a study. They’d been infected with the virus and now they were dead. Palmer had killed them and Ishida had given the corrupt doctor his blessing.

“You know, this tea is my mother’s favorite.”

Sammy focused on Ishida’s lips for several moments, fascinated by how slowly the words were forming in his mouth.

“See? Here we are together in Kyoto.”

Sammy followed his fingers to a small photo perched on his credenza. Ishida stood next to a beautiful Japanese woman dressed in a traditional kimono. Sammy stared at the picture, then back at the Japanese executive sitting in front of her. A chill of alarm spread through her veins an instant before full comprehension settled in. The truth was there before her all the time. No wonder the woman’s features seemed so familiar that day in New York. “You’re Mimiko Nakamura’s son.”

“If I hadn’t had you watched, I’d never have known you visited Mother,” Ishida said. “For some reason, she didn’t tell me.”

Sammy’s mind raced as the significance of Ishida’s true identity registered. She felt a mixture of disgust and fear.

Sometimes we don’t always know the men we love as much as we think we do.

Sammy assumed Mimiko had meant her husband, but the long-suffering woman had been referring to Ishida. She shivered, certain of one fact: Dr. Nakamura never committed suicide. “You killed your own father,” she gasped as she struggled to stand.

“Yitashi Nakamura was not my real father,” Ishida declared. “Fifty years ago he married my mother. I was five years old.”

Sammy slid back down in her chair, confused. “But your accent sounds Japanese.”

“When I was eleven, Yitashi convinced my mother to send me
to Japan to ‘complete’ my education. He called me a
‘nisei.’
Second generation. Too American. I never forgave him for that. I took my mother’s name back. I
became
Japanese. After graduating university, I joined Nitshi Pharmaceuticals, starting, as you say, at the bottom. As administrative associate, I reviewed all scientific proposals submitted for funding. One was from my stepfather. I understood enough immunology to recognize that Yitashi’s early work was visionary. A word to the director of program development was sufficient.”

“Huh?”

“My stepfather was invited to work for us. A very productive association at first. I was promoted. Yitashi had all the financial support he needed for his vaccine project and, in exchange, Nitshi would own the patent.” Ishida produced a bitter laugh. “But Yitashi was always such a pedantic moralist at heart. He believed private funding could corrupt researchers, compromise their objectivity. He eventually wanted out, and that would not have been good for either of us.”

Sammy’s head hurt as she tried to focus on Ishida’s words.

“I was sure a little pressure from above would force Yitashi to change his mind, so I went directly to the chancellor. Reginald Ells-ford was only too happy to accept our yen. When we proposed the institute, he was delighted.”

“But you’re — Yitashi?”

Ishida’s voice was icy. “Yitashi tried to block the venture, to hide his research. That’s why he had to go. He was standing in the path of science. Of progress, of —”

“You were his son,” Sammy said quietly.

“I was never his son.”

No, Conrad, not Ishida was his son, Sammy thought, remembering her conversation with Mimiko:

Yitashi loved him as a son. Perhaps even more than a son.

“You killed Conrad.” The words tumbled out slowly. “You were jealous.”

“Jealousy is a useless emotion.” Ishida shook his head. “He just managed to get in the way.”

Sammy struggled to keep her eyelids above her pupils. It took all her strength. “Of what?”

Ishida finished the last of his tea before responding. “Conrad learned we’d progressed beyond animal studies. Somehow he’d plugged into Palmer’s database so he knew about our work. He planned to tell the dean and the board of regents.”

“Dean Jeffries . . . brown envelope . . .” Sammy’s words were slurred.

“My, you have done a bit of detective work. Pity that no one else will ever know.”

Sammy’s mind recoiled. Her tongue struggled in vain to express the horror at what she’d just heard. “I . . . don’t . . .”

Ishida picked up Sammy’s mug. It was empty. “More tea?”

“. . . don’t feel so well . . .” Sammy slumped over in her chair.

Ishida shook his head. “A very bright young woman,” he said. “We might have benefited from your talents. A real shame.” Picking up his desk phone, he buzzed Palmer. “You can come in now.”

Pappajohn’s home fax hummed as the machine produced the Berkeley University records he’d requested hours before. Twelve pages dating back over a decade were sent. Some of the typing had faded and was difficult to read. He sat at his desk and skimmed through the papers until he came to the report he was looking for: Faculty Senate minutes, June 1986. Reading the journal carefully, he knew he’d discovered the last piece of a complicated puzzle.

A black-and-white yearbook picture had been included in the faxed materials. Pappajohn gazed at the photo of the bearded young man, wondering whether the decision to sell his soul had come easily. Temptation had crossed his path many times during his own career, but Pappajohn had never stepped over the line.

Why? It was a question he wanted to ask the man when he caught him.

Now Pappajohn lifted the receiver on his desk phone and dialed Sammy’s number. He didn’t care what time it was. He needed to talk to her.

“This is Sammy Greene. I’m not in.”

Damn it. Nothing but — what was it —
tzoris
— trouble — from that girl.

About to dial another number, his attention turned to a new message flashing on his computer screen. He’d been searching through Marcus Palmer’s files via the E-net when the fax had interrupted his search. Someone was making a new entry. At this hour?

Across the terminal came the words, row by row:

NRINET UPDATE: 0257 GMT

ADMITTING PHYSICIAN: M. PALMER

DATE OF ADMISSION: 11/29/95

STUDY PATIENT #24: SAMMY GREENE

Pappajohn frowned. What the hell was going on? The terminal source was NRI. That mean it was located not at Ellsford General Hospital, but the Nitshi Research Institute.

“
Ghamo to!
” he cursed out loud.

Without a second thought, Pappajohn jumped up from his desk, grabbed his coat and his gun, and bolted out the door.

Sammy dreamed she was lying in a hospital bed, but she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there. Her head throbbed with pain. Had she been in an accident?

Voices buzzed back and forth around her. She strained to listen.

“It seems to me that this is rather an inappropriate time for you to begin setting moral standards for yourself, Doctor.”

Sammy recognized Ishida’s voice.

“But giving her the virus. You might as well kill her.”

That was Palmer talking, Sammy realized, forcing herself to concentrate.

“That is unavoidable. Would you prefer she tell her story to the police?”

A pause.

“I didn’t think so.”

Another pause.

“In fact, go ahead and give her the vaccine. That way she’ll be another subject for your study. We can keep her in the institute until she contracts the disease.”

“But you don’t know. It could protect her.”

“Hardly, Doctor.” Ishida’s laugh was filled with contempt. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? After all those deaths?”

“It’s got to be some kind of mutation producing a different, much more virulent strain.”

“A different strain, yes. But not from some random mutation. You’d be happy to know, my people used your techniques to alter the virus.”

“You did this?” Palmer’s voice was strained with shock. “Why?”

“In the words of the Roman philosopher, Seneca, ‘Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power,’ ” Ishida answered calmly. “Today’s friends are tomorrow’s enemies. What better tool than a deadly virus that no one can cure — not even you, Doctor.”