Lab Notes: a novel (6 page)

From the dock, he watched her.

Vincent returned from his harbor tour in time to hear the applause. He approached his wife as she stood up from the piano bench. “I’m sorry I missed it. Judging by the response it must have been a virtuoso performance.” He put his arm around her shoulders.

Diane made light of her husband’s comment: “You’ve heard me play it hundreds of times.”

“And I hope thousands more.”

Diane turned back toward Murphy and Ling. “Thank you, guys. I really enjoyed it,” she said warmly.

Murphy began playing a haunting version of
Funny Valentine
and Vincent pulled Diane toward the dance floor.

Ling picked up a microphone and sang in a hushed voice.

Vincent led Diane slowly around the dance floor. “When you think about it,” he said pensively, “that song has played a part in every major event in our lives—including our wedding. Makes you wonder about its significance here tonight.”

Diane leaned back and looked into her husband’s eyes. “You sure are mellow. Have you been into the cognac?”

Vincent pulled her close and nuzzled her hair. “Must be the salt air.”

By 10:30 p.m. Raymond Bellfort, Vincent and Colton Fey were again ensconced in the pilothouse. This time they were accompanied by Gabriel Carrera who reluctantly piloted the boat out of its temporary Galveston berth. Raymond had cajoled Gabriel into taking the helm. In Vincent’s silent opinion, he handled the boat well, but did not quite have Raymond’s finesse at the wheel.

It turned out that Gabriel Carrera and his father Carlos had originally taught Raymond the art of large boat handling on their family yacht at Carrera Island near Aruba in the Caribbean. Raymond had been a quick study, and they had come to trust him at the helm as much as they did their own captain.

Now Raymond seemed to get great pleasure from badgering his cousin. He issued a steady stream of commands and observations as the big boat moved out. “More throttle. Running lights on? Buoy to port….”

Vincent watched the amusing interplay between the two cousins. He had been steeped in this world of luxury for just four or so hours, and already he felt he must be the only man in the universe without a mega yacht.

Once underway, Gabriel Carrera turned the wheel over to Vincent. He winked and said, “When we bring our boat to Texas for its annual maintenance, you will get to see what a real ship looks like.” He gave Raymond a playful sidelong glance, and went below.

Raymond excused himself, stating he had to go and play Santa Claus. Colton stayed in the pilothouse to serve as backup to Vincent, who assured him he was quite content to remain at the helm.

In the main salon, Murphy and Ling played another old standard,
Charmaine
. Someone dimmed the ceiling lights allowing the gaslights to enkindle the ambience. Charlotte Bellfort urged Carlos Carrera out onto the dance floor. Other couples followed.

Diane stood alone by a starboard window watching the water below. A north wind had cleared the fog, and seas had begun to build. Waves swelled like eerie green specters in the glow of the starboard running light. Diane felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. She turned.

Gabriel bowed. “May I have the honor of this dance, Madam?”

Wordlessly, she allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.

To Diane’s mind, Gabriel Carrera had an imperial quality. She could picture him wearing a white uniform with gold-fringed epaulets, waltzing at a palace ball. She didn’t know why she accepted his invitation to dance. She usually reserved the slow dances for her husband. Maybe curiosity prompted her to take the hand Gabriel so elegantly proffered.

Earlier in the evening, wresting herself (albeit briefly) from Charlotte’s ambush, Diane had stirred among BRI staffers. Some of the lab and office assistants, mellowed by champagne, had whispered various rumors about the tall man with continental dash who gave new meaning to the wearing of a tuxedo.

Some heard he was a Harvard graduate and either a past president of Colombia or a diplomat who had murdered his wife and brother. Others suggested he was a spy for Cuba and a wealthy industrialist who had murdered his own mother.

Conjecture aside, there was something Diane was certain of: From the looks on their faces as Gabriel danced her by, each and every female on board that yacht would have killed to be in his arms that night.

Diane found Gabriel to be a gentleman. He held her away and guided her around the dance floor in a courtly fashion. They danced, and they talked—sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish or French.

As it turned out, Gabriel was the head of Colombia’s Economic Development Council. He was in town to meet with the Houston Organization of Florists to promote the cut-flower industry in Colombia. It was obvious that this man was passionate about changing the image of his country.

“We are promoting industries and resources that benefit mankind. We do not need to deal in cocaine and heroin to survive as a country. We are trying to recapture our dignity,” Gabriel stated, gray eyes ablaze.

Gabriel’s passion about his country reminded Diane of Olimpia. She had received an email from her offering her regrets that they were unable to connect when she was in the States. But she had made no reference to Diane’s email regarding BRI. She apparently hadn’t received it.

Realizing it was a long-shot, Diane asked Gabriel if he had heard of Professor Olimpia Garza from Bogota. And she was quite pleased when he said knew of her work.

They continued dancing through a medley of three old standards. Then Carlos Carrera cut in. Gabriel gave Diane a polite bow and backed away.

Months later, Diane would look back and wonder if the outcome could have been different had she declined the Carreras’ invitations to dance that night.

μ CHAPTER SIX μ

A small bronze placard identified the fortress simply as “10 Cove Road.” Raymond Bellfort lifted his hand in a semi wave toward a guard booth, and two massive wrought iron gates swung open.

Diane sat in the backseat of Bellfort’s Mercedes SUV, behind Vincent. Once inside BRI’s grounds, they followed a curving tunnel of live oaks. Beyond, an enchanted forest allowed only teasing glimpses of the imposing white building ahead.

“These oaks are over two hundred years old,” Bellfort said. “The property was a portion of one of the oldest Spanish Land Grants in this part of the world. “We bought the mansion and eighty-five acres in 1988 from the estate of the fifth generation land owner, an eccentric Texas governor—an oil man. The house was about fifty years old when we purchased the estate.

“We restored the exterior and some of the interior of the mansion to its former glory, and remodeled the rest to meet our needs. If you look over there among the trees, you can see we designed the out-buildings to be as unobtrusive as possible; even the primate house conforms to the landscape.”

Bellfort, obviously enjoying the role of tour guide, slowed so they could take in the sights.

Vincent turned to Raymond. “You’re doing research with primates?”

“Ahh… not at present… Animal rights activists broke in some time ago and ‘kidnapped’ most of our macaque monkeys and chimps. Some of our staff members received threatening phone calls and letters. Everyone was pretty nervous. We decided to suspend our primate research at that time.”

He added quickly, “But now, sure, we can get new animals from a breeding facility in West Texas—squirrel monkeys, rhesus macaques, chimpanzees and so forth…”

After a long pause he seemed to realize a question still hung in the air and added, “We’ve worked out an understanding with the animal rights people. We now have a veterinarian on staff—David Crowley. I’m sure you met him at the party last night. So, everything’s cool. The monkey huggers are no longer a concern to us.” He glanced over at Vincent who nodded.

Satisfied, Bellfort went on with his monologue.

“BRI was incorporated in 1990. By 1999, we were profitable enough to build the marina.” Raymond chuckled. “Boaters out on the bay call it the Texas White House. Some people think it’s an exclusive yacht club. But for the most part, people don’t have a clue what we do here.

“As you can see, we have plenty of room to expand. Future plans include having a science think-tank setup like the one at Cold Spring Harbor on Long Island.”

Emerging from the woods onto a brick roundabout, they were presented with a full frontal view of the Greek revival building that housed Bayside Research Inc. Bellfort dropped Diane and Vincent off at the front steps, allowing them time to gaze upon the amazing structure while he parked the car.

The evening before, the BRI edifice had looked like a dimly lit acropolis looming large over the marina. But now, the light of day revealed a wedding cake of a mansion in all its pilastered, pedimented splendor.

They climbed the steps to a shaded veranda where perhaps liveried domestics once served mint juleps in silver cups on sultry summer afternoons.

Raymond caught up with them and pointed out jogging trails that headed off through the trees to their right and a formal garden, pond and fountains to the left. Then he threw open massive paneled doors to reveal a green and gray marble-columned entry that rivaled the Great Hall at the Library of Congress.

Your garden-variety research facility it was not.

Bellfort explained that being Saturday, just a handful of employees were “on property.” A couple scientists could be found in their offices hovering over computer keyboards. Lab assistants saw to round-the-clock tasks such as feeding Sprague-Dawley research rats and white mice and monitoring experiments. Maintenance people tended the grounds and the marina.

In a second floor paneled office overlooking the formal garden and lily pond on the west side of the building, Raymond placed the Roses in the “capable hands” of Jerome Wentzel.

On the ride up in the elevator, Bellfort had given them a thumbnail bio of Dr. Wentzel who had not been able to attend the party the night before.

Wentzel was a psychiatrist and an electrical engineer schooled in the Northeast. He taught two computer science courses at the local campus of the University of Houston and was closely involved with Johnson Space Center, also nearby, and The National Space Biomedical Research Institute. On the personal side: he and his wife Connie had three grown sons and two grandsons. He had a keen sense of humor and loved golf and the internet. But—to Bellfort’s great dismay—he hated chicken-fried steak and boats.

Raymond excused himself saying that he had a few things to take care of. He promised he’d catch up with them for lunch.

The Roses found Dr. Wentzel to be an affable man, tall and fit, probably in his mid fifties. He greeted them with an air of colleagueship, his knee-length white lab coat adding a layer of professionalism over a gray sweat suit.

“Jerome is my father’s name; please call me Jerry,” Dr. Wentzel pleaded as he subdued his animated hands long enough to shake theirs. “Welcome to BRI. Sorry I missed the party last night. I had just returned from a conference in Asia and hadn’t quite recovered from the jet lag.”

He inquired about the weather in Pittsburgh, their flight down to Houston and how they enjoyed last night’s party. Social amenities satisfied, he gestured toward a door on the far side of the office. “If you’ll be kind enough to follow me, I’ll give you a quick look at my pet project before we move on.

Jerry’s lab was a ceramic tile and stainless steel environment. Near the room’s center stood a floor-to-ceiling structure that could have been a double bank of elevators except for the two ship’s hatch doors.

“We call that our ‘flux encapsulator,’ “Wentzel said, grinning broadly. Behind rimless glasses, his eyes danced from Diane to Vincent and back again. Eliciting no response, his grin faded. “Just a little play on
Back to the Future,
he mumbled.

“Oh, right,” Diane said with a forced chuckle while she strained to remember details of the movie.

Two young women wearing blue scrubs emerged from a glass office that held multiple wall-mounted monitors. Wentzel introduced them as his lab assistants, Fran Kushner and Penny Eaglin. Diane remembered Fran from the party.

Jerry explained that Penny and Fran, both registered nurses, were monitoring the physical and emotional health and cognitive performance of four research subjects who had been residing in the “encapsulator” for three months and would remain there for three more, barring any problems.

Jerry added, “Working with NASA and other agencies, we’ve created an analog environment that simulates the tight living conditions of space travel. The data from this study will help us to design protocols for healthcare during extended space missions, such as visits to the Moon or Mars.”

The Roses could have spent the rest of the morning there asking questions, but Jerry consulted his watch and said they had to move on. They said their goodbyes to the nurses and followed Wentzel out into the hall.

Diane regretted her choice of shoes as her clopping footfalls echoed in the marble corridor. She would have happily traded her fashionable black pumps for the squeaky running shoes that Jerry wore.

A right turn into a block-long hallway led to the laboratory of Pete Sabedra, the cigar smoking refugee from Hematec. Pete, a chemist, was a jolly soul. He reported that he was working on a blood test to determine the presence of a specific breast cancer antigen. His hearty “welcome aboard” was a bit premature since they had not been offered, nor had they accepted, positions at BRI. Nevertheless, they shook hands and moved on to the third floor, then to the forth.

None of the earlier parts of the tour, although impressive, prepared Diane and Vincent for their introduction to the laboratory and offices that encompassed most of the top floor at BRI, the former domain of a scientist named Dr. Harry Lee.

From the marbled fourth floor elevator lobby, Jerry Wentzel led them along an opulent hallway to a set of ebony doors, opened them with a flourish and stood aside. “This is the lab bench area,” he said. “The data area is on the other end. Make yourselves at home. Go exploring. Feel free to ask any questions.”

Diane stepped through the doorway and whispered, “Wow.” The laboratory was enormous and absolutely pristine. Several work stations were situated along rows of stainless steel counters, still wearing their factory sheen. Each area had its own hood and vacuum system to remove any noxious chemicals. The counter tops held the usual test tube racks, centrifuges and microscopes. Glass-fronted upper cabinets held flasks and beakers, and other glassware.

Diane walked slowly along the counters, running her hand on the cool metal surfaces, mentally “decorating” the lab to suit her needs—
spectrophotometer here, chromatography setup over there—
preparing the space to receive the treasures from her expeditions.

She is transported back to the jungle, to her sources: usually a shaman, but sometimes the mother of a sick child or a beekeeper or a fisherman or a drifter.

She is shown a leaf, its blades resembling a devil’s fork. It is crushed and masticated and mixed with mud, then applied to an old man’s
skin lesions. And eureka—a native cure is found! A scab of tree bark is crumbled and boiled and strained through woven palm fibers and fed to a scrawny infant with diarrhea. And hallelujah—a life is saved! She trembles with the joy of such discoveries. She is humbled by the privilege of peering into the pharmacopoeia of native lore. Leaves, fronds, bark, seeds, flowers, soil, roots, fungi are collected, pressed, dried, prepared for the lab where they are screened for bioactive compounds. The specimens are processed, assayed, distilled, scanned, isolated, fractionated, deconstructed; like playing a symphony backwards to find the lead notes—the ones that give rise to the music. The results are digitized, analyzed and synthesized.

Then back to the jungle craving another dose of eureka.

Vincent broke through her ruminations, “Di?”

Slightly disoriented, she turned toward the sound of his voice.

He beckoned to her from the triple wide doorway connecting to the next room. “You have to see this contraption!”

She followed him into the data area, weaving through rows of counters and desks, towards a floor-to-ceiling glass cubicle with an exit sign over it. Inside the glass walls, a rectangular frame stood about eight feet tall, five feet wide.

Jerry Wentzel stood beside the structure, wearing an impish grin, as Diane approached. “Your husband is trying to figure out what it is; would you like to hazard a guess?”

“It looks like an oversized airport metal detector, but I’m sure Vincent has already covered that one.” After studying it for a few moments, she shrugged and said,” Okay, if it’s not a carwash for Mini Coopers, I’m out of guesses.”

Jerry laughed and turned to Vincent who held up his hands in surrender.

“I give up.” he said.

“This was Harry Lee’s tinker toy. We named her ‘Maggie,’” Jerry said as he reached over and tapped a touchscreen on a control panel mounted outside the glass wall. He tapped the panel in several more spots and turned to Vincent. “Okay. I’m going out that door. When I’ve closed it behind me, you push ‘enter’ to start up the system.” Vincent nodded without total comprehension. Jerry grinned, “You’ll hear a brief blast of noise—that’s just part of the process.”

He walked through the frame and out the back door. Vincent pressed “enter” on the screen as he had been instructed. Two electronic eyes, about ankle high on either side of the inner frame, switched on.

Jerry Wentzel re-entered from the hallway. As he passed through the frame, a pleasant female computer voice said, “Hello, Jerry Wentzel.”

“Interesting,” Diane said when Wentzel rejoined them. “Are you wearing some sort of magnetic tag?”

“Good guess. You try it,” Jerry said, touching the screen. He looked down at Diane’s pumps. “But you’d better remove your shoes first. They could have metal shanks.”

Diane, looking puzzled, glanced down at Jerry’s Adidas, then obediently stepped out of her shoes.

Jerry explained. “There’s a powerful magnetic field that comes up past your ankles. If there was any metal in your shoes they’d stick to a strip in the floor and you’d either step out of your shoes or fall on your face.” With that, he threw back his head and laughed.

“Harry Lee always left the thing turned on, and one evening it got him.

“He was headed downtown and stopped by here to pick up something. He used the back elevator, as he was accustomed to doing, and came through that door. But Harry forgot he was wearing his dress shoes. Maggie grabbed his left shoe, and he had to throw his hands out to break his fall.” Jerry laughed again. “Instead of enjoying
Aida
performed by the Houston Grand Opera, Harry spent the evening in the emergency room with a fractured wrist.”

Diane was fascinated, “Well, it’ll be amazing if Maggie can identify
me
.” She headed through the frame in her stocking feet and out the back door.

Jerry tapped the touchscreen, and the electronic eyes lit up. Diane reentered from the hallway and stepped through the frame. Then just as she opened the glass door to reenter the lab, a pulsating electronic screech issued forth in quadraphonic sound, and Maggie shouted out, “Intruder entering, intruder entering.”