Lab Notes: a novel (7 page)

Jerry tapped “Reset” on the screen and the alarm fell silent. He looked over at Diane who appeared slightly stunned. “Of course, Maggie would give you a warmer greeting if she got to know you,” he said with a smile. “The problem is, no one knows how to introduce you to her—other than Harry Lee, that is.”

Diane glanced around the empty laboratory, then back at Wentzel. “Whatever happened to Dr. Lee?”

Jerry’s features drooped. “Nobody knows. He announced he was taking a sabbatical one day. Then he deleted all his work from the computers and disappeared the next night. They say he was burned out—most unfortunate.

“He was jack-of-all-sciences; a physicist, biologist—a gadgeteer who was onto a great discovery. And, he was a hacker extraordinaire. He’d tell me about his midnight excursions around the internet. He even hacked into government sites. I’d hold my ears and shout at him: ‘Don’t tell me those things. You’re making me an accessory.’ But it was exciting stuff.”

“This elaborate intruder alarm system—Maggie—was it just for fun or was it a serious project for Harry Lee?” Vincent asked.

“It’s a prototype for an ingenious biometric device. He was working on a real-time personal identification system more accurate than fingerprinting, and even more reliable than DNA testing.

“Interesting,” Diane said.

“If you can bear with me, I’ll try to pick my way through the rationale of his invention. Please don’t be offended if I get too basic.”

The Roses mumbled their assurances that it wouldn’t be a problem.

“Harry used Magnetic Resonance Imaging as a basis for his identification system. Maggie here operates on a technology that’s similar to the MRI used as a diagnostic tool in hospitals, and you may have used it the laboratory.”

The Roses acknowledged that they had indeed used an MRI system.

“As you probably know, the inventors of the MRI noted that the protons in the nucleus of every hydrogen atom in our bodies spin randomly in various directions. It’s my understanding that powerful magnetic fields created by the MRI align our protons like soldiers in a row, then a radio frequency pulse causes certain protons to spin in a particular direction. When the RF pulse is turned off, the protons return to their former alignment and release energy. The energy release is converted to mathematical data. The data, in turn, creates a picture. Are you with me so far? “

Diane and Vincent nodded.

Jerry went on to describe Harry Lee’s theory. Harry had gone a step or two further than the MRI developers. Dr. Lee postulated that the speed and direction of proton and electron movement in the body create an electronic signal that is different for each and every individual—your electromagnetic signature.

Jerry pointed to two vertical strips, with a pegboard pattern, attached inside the frame. “Harry added the ability to recognize an individual’s slightest motion using some way-out hocus-pocus kinetic theory. He planned to miniaturize it so an ID could be made with just a wiggle of the subject’s finger. Credit card companies and banks were already interested in the technology.”

Diane questioned whether BRI planned to continue the development of Harry Lee’s technology.

Jerry said, “I seriously doubt that it can be completed without Harry’s help.”

Before they moved on, Jerry let them peek into the temperature-controlled electronics room at the rear of the data area. He pointed out an impressive array of servers and assured them that BRI’s information technology system could handle all the data they could possibly pump into it.

The last part of the tour took them to the offices across from the labs. Jerry went from room to room switching on lights and soft music. “I’ll leave you to your own discoveries now,” he said, looking at his watch. “Lunch will be served in an hour aboard the
Enterprise
.

“The quickest way to the marina is through those double doors, then turn left to the back elevator. And by the way, Raymond said that the
Enterprise
captain Colton Fey will be available to open up
Woodwind
if you’re interested in seeing her.” Then, promising the Roses he’d see them at lunch, Jerry headed for the door.

Diane and Vincent walked slowly through the offices, gaping at the opulence around them. The suite included a large conference room with ebony table, plush seating, built in credenza, bar and wine cooler, and wall-mounted viewing monitor for presentations.

Lacquered ebony desks, bookshelves, credenzas and computer stations furnished a reception area and the three large offices that clustered around it. A dichromatic scheme of gray and subtle turquoise dominated the walls and carpets. Large water-color paintings of brilliant roseate spoonbills standing in muted turquoise marshes provided a focal point for every room. Diane took mental possession of the corner office. She stood before floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded unobstructed views of the bay, the marina and the bluff where BRI stood.

Atop the bluff, the venerable live oaks stood wearing their somber winter green. Out on the bay, shrimp boats dragged their nets while clouds of sea gulls chased behind them. A flock of white pelicans and a great blue heron fished near shore.

Vincent walked up behind Diane and placed his hands on her shoulders. She reached up and placed her hand over his. They stood there, quietly lost in thought, taking in the panorama.

Raymond Bellfort stood at the window looking down upon the marina from his first floor office suite, a John Phillip Sousa march blaring in the background. He observed Diane and Vincent Rose as they approached
Woodwind
in the company of Colton Fey.

Bellfort smirked when he saw Fey help Diane Rose climb aboard the sailboat—no doubt Colton licked his lips when she kicked off her pumps and hiked her skirt a few inches above her knees to negotiate the step up.

Raymond looked on as Vincent Rose ran his hand along
Woodwind’s
teak cap rail as though she were a thoroughbred. He watched as Vincent joined the others in the cockpit, positioned himself at the helm and threw his head back in laughter—an uncommon sight to be sure.

Just then, one of Andor’s assistants walked out onto the aft deck of the
Enterprise
and tugged at the ship’s bell lanyard.

Raymond silenced the music with his remote control and headed for his side door. Outside, he paused at the corner of the veranda to survey his formal gardens and marina.

Now, certain that he had won the Roses over, he took a deep breath and exhaled hard, his shoulders drooping in resignation.

μ CHAPTER SEVEN μ

Yami, the Kogi shaman and high priestess, emerged from her round mountain hut, reached for the
bom
pole beside the doorway and rang the assembly bell. Turning toward the steep, rocky pathway, she squinted against the gusts. Her face pulled up into bronze creases, the results of living seventy years close to the glare of the sun and blasts of the mountain’s breath on the northwestern slope.

Securing her red ceremonial
ambodei
at her waist, Yami made a slow descent, all the while observing the women congregating in the clearing below.

Even from twenty feet above them, Yami sensed the anticipation among the young priestesses, especially those who would provide food to the warrior hunters for the first time. Yami smiled as she watched the young women bustling from basket to basket. Their excited chatter could be heard over the roar of the mountain as they divided the bounty harvested from the tribe’s lofty fields and high valleys.

Yami and her tribe lived more than half way up the mighty
Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta
. From the occasional outsiders who were permitted entry to the Kogi’s aerial farmlands, she had learned that her mountain arose from the Caribbean Sea and the city of
Santa Marta
in Colombia.

For twenty-some years, Yami had exchanged information with Olimpia, who taught about plants at a great university on a distant mountain. In return for Olimpia’s facts about the world below, Yami taught her to make tonics from mountain herbs, set broken bones with the black roots of the bristly
varu
plant, remove the healing sap from
mavaco
trees during the full moon and many more of her ancient lessons.

Yami also told Olimpia about the warrior hunters who for centuries had arrived on horseback every third full moon and stayed two nights and three days in the stone hacienda in the high valley.

She warned Olimpia that only priestesses were permitted to descend through the clouds, down along the secret pathways during hunter visits. But Olimpia had not taken it to heart. And she bore the consequences.

Now, with a sigh, Yami looked through the glacier-capped mountains and listened to the world beyond. Another outsider would bring pain. But, again, the warrior hunters would prevail.

μ CHAPTER EIGHT μ

Vincent looked out at the water from his office window as a steady procession of Friday afternoon sailors—truants from their desks and cubicles—headed out the channel from Clear Lake into Galveston Bay. His gaze shifted to the BRI marina below where
Woodwind
tugged on her lines as if to say, “I want to go too. I want to go too.”

Along with the grand “treehouse” on stilts (their lakeside home nestled in the tall pines and left vacant by Dr. Harry Lee), Bellfort had given Vincent and Diane the sailboat as a sign-on incentive. She was a beautiful craft, and he was proud to own her. But as early as their first BRI business meeting, three months ago, Vincent suspected that the treehouse and the sailboat had been dangled as glittering lures in some elaborate game of bait and switch.

At that meeting, Raymond Bellfort reported that there was a short-term cash-flow problem. He said he was unable to fund both of their projects immediately; he’d have to go with the one that excited the investors most.

“Let’s jumpstart Diane’s program first. Then we’ll go with yours, Vincent,” he said, promising it was only a temporary setback.

Vincent was more than a little disturbed by the announcement. They were barely unpacked from their move to Texas, and already Bellfort had reneged on his “unlimited funding” pledge. But he didn’t want to rain on Diane’s parade. So, he became her “interim help.” He ordered laboratory equipment, interviewed lab assistants and fielded Diane’s phone calls in her absence. He stayed busy, but not gratified. And his dissatisfaction soon became apparent.

Diane complained that he was irritable around the office. She teased that he was “not being a team player,” a line borrowed from Vincent Rose, PhD, erstwhile department chair at a large university.

To keep his sanity intact that first month, Vincent began designing the next animal testing protocol for
Peruvase.
Then one afternoon, Raymond Bellfort stopped by Vincent’s office. He looked at his computer screen—he had the annoying habit of addressing Vincent’s monitor when he spoke to him—then took off in a flight of ideas.

“Ahh… You should take advantage of this slack time. I know you must be itching to get
Woodwind
back in shape. I’ll have Maxine give you the names of the engine people, the sail loft, woodworkers and so forth. Diane will be out of the country a lot more. Ahh… Why don’t you join the sailing club down the way?”

The barrage of suggestions roused Vincent’s suspicions that Diane had squealed on him. She must have told Bellfort that her husband was not working and playing well with others. He felt like the pesky child being bribed to run outside and play alone. So he did just that.

Maxine was helpful. She gave him the names and phone numbers of assorted vendors to the yachting community in triplicate. But she never looked him in the eye.

It was one thing when the boss didn’t make eye contact—he could have a thousand things on his mind or, as in Bellfort’s case, he could be just plain squirrelly. But it was another situation altogether when the executive assistant avoided your glance. She knew something.

Vincent felt the reason for Maxine’s reticence would surface eventually. In the meantime, he quietly worked on
Peruvase
and became a boat bum—ever watchful for pirates.

Vincent tore himself away from the view and walked to the doorway connecting his office with Diane’s. She looked up from her computer and said, “Did you know that Ecuador is southeast of here? I always pictured it more to the west.”

Diane was working on her trip to Quito. She had meetings scheduled with government officials there to negotiate a contract allowing BRI to explore Ecuador’s jungles and remove plant specimens.

Satisfied he was not interrupting any serious brain crunching, Vincent settled into a chair opposite her and studied the small jar of Peruvian
balasi
nuts she used as a paperweight.

“I never really thought about it,” he said. Then he looked up at his wife. “My turn for a question.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“Do you know when Harry Lee left BRI?”

“I never really thought about it.” She smirked.

“He was here until mid-October. Something is rotten..”

“Who gave you that date?”

“Crowley.”

The set of Diane’s jaw told Vincent she had connected the dots: Bellfort’s pursuit of them had begun in September. He told them he had an empty lab and offices on the 4
^th
floor. But Harry Lee was still at BRI at that time.

Diane’s voice took on an impatient tone. “No need to get paranoid about it. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” She refocused her attention on her computer screen. “I really need to get this done.”

Vincent shrugged and stood up. “Then going for an afternoon sail is out of the question, I guess?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

Vincent wiped down the cockpit, started
Woodwind’s
engine and set about removing sail covers. He was becoming efficient at solo sailing. He looked up at Diane’s corner office windows and wondered if she ever enjoyed the view.

He was concerned about her. Since their move to BRI she seemed driven to make these trips to Central and South America. In the past, at the university, she had set out on her semi-annual plant collecting expeditions as if compelled by some biological imperative. But here in Texas, it went beyond even that. She now anticipated her trips with the fervor of one going on a religious pilgrimage.

He heard a voice behind him. “Permission to come aboard Captain?”

Vincent turned and grinned at his wife who stood on the finger pier. She had changed into the jogging shorts and tee shirt she kept in her locker.

“Permission granted.” He gestured toward the cockpit.

Diane stepped onto the boat and looked up at him. “Would you mind if I took her out this time, Captain?”

“She’s all yours. I’ll get the lines.” Vincent walked forward to the bowline, his spirits buoyed.

Diane backed the sailboat out of the slip and negotiated the turn into the bay with ease. Vincent went to work raising the sails.

They cleared the far end of the BRI compound and waved at some of Vincent’s racing friends from the sailing club. It seemed everyone was starting the weekend early. And why not? It was one of those perfect days on the bay: low humidity, twelve-knot breeze, Texas bluebonnet sky.

Diane stood at the helm watching her husband tweak the sail trim, and her heart went out to him. She knew that Vincent loved sailing, but she sensed that he found his leisure overload tedious. She knew that the temporary ban on practicing his alchemy had placed a severe strain on Vincent’s patience. And it was weighing on him, demonstrated in part by his growing animosity toward Bellfort.

The erosion of his attitude was also evident in his less-than-burning interest in her achievements. Returning from successful business trips, she had to curb her enthusiasm to avoid the appearance that she was showing off.

So far she had signed agreements with each of the Central and South American countries she visited with Raymond Bellfort and his cousin Gabriel Carrera who had arranged the meetings. Gabriel pointed out that even pharmaceutical giants did not have her 100 percent success rate. He said that representatives of large American companies usually showed up looking impressive in their hand tailored suits and Rolex watches. But their “taco Spanish” was almost an insult, and the use of an interpreter stiffened discussions.

Gabriel attributed Diane’s success to her deft handling of the cultures and her amazing facility with the Spanish language. She communicated like a local wherever she went.

“And, of course, your looks do not hurt,” he had said.

There was a time when Diane would have found that comment offensive, allowing it to diminish her sense of accomplishment. Despite advanced degrees in biology and pharmacology, she always suspected her looks were considered her strongest credential. And early in her career she allowed her resentment to show.

But as she matured she accepted that some people (even within her profession) saw female scientists as anomalies. Eye-appeal could at least explain, to the skeptical, how a woman might have risen to such a position. And maybe they were right to some extent. If she had been hard to look at, would Vincent have become her mentor early on?

From the beginning, they were a team in the workplace as well as at home. But Vincent had always been in charge of their professional life. Now, she wondered if her singular success was producing stress cracks in the foundation of their marriage.

They both knew that their relationship (personal as well as professional) was being redefined. Last week Vincent had even bent to help her with her gardening. However, for a man who could calibrate sensitive laboratory equipment with one hand behind his back, he had shown a marked clumsiness with flower pots—but she adored him for the effort.

So, today she had dropped her trip-planning and ran to catch him at the dock. The boat was the last bastion of Vincent’s supremacy over her. Vincent had introduced her to the world of boats and water. And even though she had been a quick study, they both knew that Vincent was forevermore captain of the ship. And they both liked it that way.

With a hand slice across his throat, Vincent signaled Diane to cut the engine. There was plenty of wind to run on sail-power alone.

He stepped into the cockpit and settled into the starboard seat. Diane glanced over at her husband as he ran his hand admiringly over the varnished cockpit trim.

“You’ve done a beautiful job restoring her. She looks brand new.”

Vincent smiled, acknowledging the compliment, and turned his head, slowly examining the yacht from bow to stern.

“Do you think we should rename her?” Diane asked.

“What’s wrong with
Woodwind
?”

“I love that name, but in another life she was owned by drug runners,” she said. “Maybe the wrong people will remember it.”

Vincent chuckled. “Now who’s acting paranoid?”

The phone in his pocket vibrated. He dug for it and looked at the screen. It was Raymond Bellfort. He frowned. “This can’t be good.” Bellfort had a habit of saving bad news until the staff left the premises. Then he’d call them on their mobile phones.

After wrestling with the temptation to ignore the ring, Vincent pressed the green button.

Bellfort sounded breathless. “Taking Diane out for some relaxation, I see. Good idea. You two work so hard.”

Bellfort was greasing him up for something.

“Our investors drive me crazy. Gotta have a ‘magic bullet.’ They won’t loosen their purse strings for a car that takes them half way up the hill. They don’t want palliation; they want a cure. But we were lucky this time.”

A shrimp boat chugged past on their port side, with a flock of laughing gulls in close pursuit. With all the commotion, Vincent could only catch every other word, enough though to give him the uneasy sense that he should prepare to do battle.

The boat and the birds moved on by, but Raymond’s litany droned on: “… eliminate the risk, the expense of the interminable FDA processes: Clinical Trials, approval committees and so forth. Just a me-too drug. So what if it has fewer side effects and costs a lot less to manufacture? It’s not a cure.”

Vincent had heard enough. He interrupted, shouting into the wind. “I’m having a hard time hearing you, Raymond. Can we get to the bottom line?”

“Bottom line. That’s what I like to hear. I knew you’d eventually get past that ‘for the greater good’ schlock and get with the program here. Ahh… Welcome to the business world, my man.”

Vincent cursed and tossed the phone onto the seat. He had strongly suspected there was no monetary shortfall at BRI. Now he knew that Bellfort withheld funding for the completion of
Peruvase
because he planned to sell it all along—probably even before he and Diane had signed on with BRI.

Infuriated, Vincent pounded his fist on the seat cushion beside him; the phone bounced onto the cockpit floor. He bent down to retrieve it and heard Bellfort’s voice still prattling on: “You’ll get a large bonus, of course, and a royalty. We’ll finally be able to order that new spectrophotometer and so forth—all the stuff that’s been sidelined. It was quite a coup, my man. We really put the pants on them.

“Wait ‘til you see what that Taiwanese pharmaceutical company paid up front for your
Peruvase.
”

Bellfort studied his phone. The battery was fully charged. Signal strength was good. So, as he suspected, Vincent Rose had hung up on him.

The phone buzzed in his hand, and “Aaaa calling” came up on the screen. Bellfort rolled his eyes; the man had been dogging him since early that morning. He pressed the green button and grunted “Hello.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Just a minute ago.”

“And?”

“He had a little bit of an attitude… but I think after he chews on it awhile, he’ll warm up to the idea.”

“Try to help him fast-track his attitude adjustment. We need some damage control here.”

Duh!
“I’m on it. Believe me; I know what’s at stake.”

“Keep me apprised. If you’re not successful, maybe
I
can be more persuasive.”