The RX Factor (16 page)

One afternoon on one of their walks, Cindy said, "I've been thinking how nice it would be to take the kids to the islands. We've always considered that part of the world a piece of paradise." Her eyes warmed. "And I still think of our honeymoon on Exuma." Taking a shaky breath, she clasped his hand to hers as tears welled up in her eyes. "I didn't know until now—this moment—that those were the highlights of my life."

Ryan staved off his own emotions. He wanted to appear strong, encouraging. "And the kids won't mind missing school, either," he said.

The next week, Ryan caught a flight to Nassau, followed by a puddle jumper to Exuma. The plan was for him to find the spot closest to paradise, a place worthy of spending one's last days. God forbid she should spend them in a hospital bed immersed in institutional sterility and surrounded by a host of white-clad strangers.

Ryan followed a rental agent from ramshackle bungalows to virtual palaces. On the third day he found what he was looking for: a simple stucco cottage snuggled between bunches of coconut palms and bougainvillea. Out back, the turquoise ocean spread out to the horizon and sparkled like a jewel. The surf crashed ashore in an endless procession of sugar-frosted waves. Ryan was certain this was the place. He sent for Cindy, the kids, and the caretaker they had hired after Cindy's diagnosis. He settled into his new paradise and waited for his family.

The last thing he heard before he bolted upright were the words from the black box recorder on his family's downed flight:
Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!

Eric Maynard picked up the morning paper off
the front porch of his home in North Raleigh. The twittering birds were muted by the buzz of leaf blowers as the Mexican gardeners hurried about the sprawling grounds.

Back inside, Eric glanced upward. A cathedral ceiling soared to the second level. His wife, Laura, was descending the staircase while putting on earrings.

"Hi, honey," he said. "Aren't you going to have some breakfast?"

"No time," she replied, giving him a peck on the cheek before stepping out the door.

He headed to the kitchen where Maria, the family's housemaid, was preparing coffee, shirred eggs, Canadian bacon, and toast. He was on his second cup of coffee when he spotted the article in the paper. It was on the third page, below the fold—a follow-up story to the car bombing in Chicago that had been all over the news last weekend. He set his cup down when he read the name of the victim: Dr. Ryan Matthews.

Ryan Matthews. He finally ventures back to the States, and this is what happens to him.
He couldn't help choking up at the thought of his old friend almost being killed. He hadn't seen Ryan since the memorial service for Cindy, Jake, and Karly. On the few occasions Eric attempted to reach out to him in Exuma, Ryan always clammed up. Eric pressed forward with his life, figuring they would reconnect once Ryan had rebounded from his tragic loss. Despite their lack of communication over the past five years, Eric still considered Ryan to be one of his best friends. After reading the article, Eric picked up the phone.

"Ryan, is that you buddy?" he asked as soon as he'd been connected to Ryan's room.

"Uh, hello?" Ryan's groggy voice betrayed a healthy dose of painkillers still in his bloodstream, but he seemed to recognize the voice on the other line. "Eric, is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"How're you doing?"

"Better question is, how are
you
doing? I just picked up the Raleigh paper and there you were. They picked up the story from the AP and added a piece about your ties to the local community. Evidently you're alive. So, how the hell are you?"

"I'm healing up. In fact, I should be out of here today. It's been six days and I'm leaving one way or the other. In fact, your timing's great. I was planning on giving you a call later today to let you know I'm flying into RDU tomorrow."

"Great! I know Laura will be thrilled to see you too. So what brought you to Chicago in the first place? And what the hell happened?"

"It's a long story buddy, but I'll fill you in on all the details when we get together."

"Okay. Sounds good. Call me when you get in. We've got a lot of catching up to do."

"Will do. It's been too long. Say, Eric, are you still with FSW?"

"Sure am. I'm in charge of the facility in RTP now. I'll give you all the details when you get here."

"Sounds good. I'll give you a call once my flight is confirmed. If you have the time, I'll come by FSW after I land. That is, if I'm not still banned from the building."

"I think I can sneak you in. After all, I'm the man in charge at RTP now and the corporate security director hasn't been down for an interrogation in almost a year."

Ryan couldn't tell if Eric was joking or serious so he responded cautiously. "If my visit is going to cause you any trouble we can always meet somewhere else."

"No worries. I'll work on rearranging my schedule and free up some time for you tomorrow."

Ryan felt surprisingly good and was just wondering about Jordan when she appeared at the door with Jim Crawford in tow. She leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I hear they're springing you today."

"That's what they said. All the tests results are negative and they said if I can live with the pain, then I am free to go. Of course, since I have no insurance company they have to justify their services to a cash buyer, so to speak. I'm sure they would like me to stay around a few more weeks at four grand a night."

"That's the Matthews I know," Crawford joked. "Always bitching about something."

Before Ryan could retort, Jordan jumped in. "Jim has been a big help."

"What have you been up to, Jim?"

"Well, as I told you the other day, no hits on that ID you gave me last week in our database." Crawford glanced over at Jordan. "And I assumed you didn't want to alarm Jordan with details of someone possibly following you, but now that she is beyond alarmed, I gave her and all the law enforcement patrols working the hospital the description of the guy. However, no one matching that description has turned up so far. Now that you are feeling better, I want you to sit down with a sketch artist so we have something better to work with."

"I'd be happy to. What else? Any good news?"

"Since you and Jordan are American citizens who were recently attacked on foreign soil and are now being pursued within the U.S. by the same person or persons who mean to do you harm, your case now falls under federal jurisdiction."

Ryan smirked. "It's been over a decade since I was in the Bureau, Jim. Remind me how that's going to help us out."

Crawford smiled back at Ryan and hesitated. "First of all, I'm authorized to provide both of you with federal protection." His smile faded. "And I strongly advise that you take me up on that offer."

"And what about the investigation?"

"We've taken the case over from Chicago P.D. We're still checking out the car for any clues and I should have a detailed forensics report in the morning. We have also drafted a short list of perps with a penchant for bombing."

"How short of a list?"

"Not as short as we would like. But, as you know, the best sources are on the street, and I've put word out to my snitches along with the description of the guy you thought might be following you."

"Sounds like a long road lies ahead, Jim."

"As you know, it can either be a very long road or we could catch a break and have things under control before the day's out. Anyway, let me know your plans and I will make any arrangements possible for your protection."

Crawford stepped out to make a few phone calls and arrange for the sketch artist to come over to the hospital to meet with Ryan.

"I'll meet with the sketch artist today, but I'm not sticking around in protective custody and waiting for the FBI to solve this crime," Ryan said to Jordan. "I'm flying out to Raleigh tomorrow. I need to find out more about the Tricopatin derivative that's being sold on the black market. My buddy Eric Maynard is running the show at FSW, and I'm hoping he can provide some insight. He was my college roommate and my partner at Immugene. We worked on Tricopatin together for several years. If anyone can shed some light on this, it'll be him."

An awkward silence followed, disturbed only by the distant murmur of the hospital cafeteria cart making its morning rounds. Jordan seemed at a loss.

"Jordan, this is a very dangerous situation and I think you should stay in Chicago and let Jim continue to protect you."

"My clinic is scheduled to open for business in two weeks. Jim has been great, but I'm not waiting around for the FBI to solve a crime that they don't have a clue about. Protective custody could last for weeks or even months and I'm leaving for Mexico in ten days one way or the other."

"Jordan, I understand, but . . ."

Before Ryan could continue with his objection, Jordan interrupted. "As you know, I am convinced that my clinic is the reason behind these attacks. So if you are going to Raleigh to see what you can discover about a once-promising drug that is banned by the FDA, and that same drug is now being sold in a clinic similar to mine, then I think you're probably barking up the right tree. I'm coming with you."

Ryan was upbeat the next morning; despite the pain he was still experiencing from his burn wounds, he was still cheery on the flight to Raleigh. Jordan seemed more content as well. They rented a car at the airport and set out for the regional headquarters of Fisher Singer Worldwide in Research Triangle Park, Ryan's old stomping grounds.

As they pulled into the parking lot of the FSW headquarters and strode into the lobby, Jordan admired the opulent surroundings. "Tres ritzy."

A security guard directed them to the executive offices via a private elevator. When the door opened, Eric emerged from plush surroundings with a huge smile on his face. The two old friends shook hands and then Ryan introduced Jordan.

"It's a pleasure meeting you," she said, stepping forward to shake his hand.

Eric cleared his throat awkwardly as he returned the handshake. "Yes, nice to meet you. Jordan, was it?"

She smiled. "Haven't we met somewhere before? You seem oddly familiar."

"I doubt it," Eric said. "I think I would have remembered you."

Jordan blushed, but as she did, she tilted her head and narrowed her gaze, revealing a hint of skepticism. "Ryan has told me all about you."

"Hopefully only the good stuff," Eric said, forcing a laugh.

After everyone was seated in Eric's office, Ryan went on to recount everything that had happened since Jordan arrived on Exuma—well, almost everything. While it was an extensive and graphic account of the attempts on their lives, it said nothing of the growing relationship between Ryan and Jordan.

Eric listened, looking distraught at all the right places in the story. Jordan took over and told Eric about her experience with the mysterious stranger who had offered her a drug that he claimed would cure ovarian cancer. She went on to relate the stranger's warning that the wonder cure would not be receiving FDA approval anytime soon, if ever. When Jordan finished, Ryan turned grim. "The roots of this drug seem to reach back to FSW. It sounds like Tricopatin."

Eric seemed uneasy, like someone at a high stakes poker table with a bad hand, but remained silent as Ryan filled his old friend in on the rest of the story.

As Ryan was finishing, Eric's secretary brought in coffee and pastries, causing a momentary distraction. She poured the coffee for them and exited before Eric spoke. "That's some story, but I'm not involved with Tricopatin anymore. I really don't know anything about it."

Ryan had been watching his friend's facial expressions as he talked. He sensed an underlying current of unease. Putting on a smile to alleviate the tension, Ryan said, "Come on, Eric, you never could lie, especially to me. I can see it in your face. You know something about this."

"That's not it, Ryan. You've been out of the loop for a while. New rules around here don't allow us to say anything—and I mean anything— about any drug, whether it's new and in development or old. That's the truth." He looked furtively about, leaned toward them, and almost in a whisper, said, "You remember how ruthless these SOBs are."

Although Eric had plausible reasons for not wanting to discuss the matter, Ryan wanted to call his hand.
I may have been out of the game a long time, but I haven't lost my common sense.
"We both know the damn drug doesn't work. If FSW is peddling this junk outside the U.S. as a cure for ovarian cancer, there's no way I'm going to stand by and allow them to bilk people out of their savings and shorten their already doomed lives. Hell, I feel like an accomplice just thinking that they may be selling my worthless drug for millions of dollars a pop."

Eric was pumping his knee in a nervous twitch. In poker, they call this a "tell"—the subconscious communicating something that the conscious wants to repress. "I have a conference call I need to be on in a couple of hours; let's go for an early lunch," he said. "We can talk old times."

Ryan's initial reaction was to grow angry, but then he realized that his friend wanted to move the conversation to neutral grounds, where they wouldn't be monitored.

Soon they were out on the street. Ryan climbed into the passenger seat of Eric's Mercedes CL600 while Jordan followed in the rental car.

"Nice wheels."

"Five hundred and ten horses and zero to sixty in 4.5 seconds. Can't beat it."

"They must be treating you well at FSW."

"No complaints, except my travel schedule. This company never takes a breather."

Ryan thought about pressing the issue at hand as they headed for the restaurant, but decided to wait until the three of them sat down for lunch.

Once they were all seated and had ordered drinks, Eric said, "I meant it when I said I can't talk about company business."

Ryan had no intention of letting him off that easy. "Eric, I'm not some cub reporter looking for a story here. I'm the one who invented the damn drug and if FSW or anyone else is selling this useless drug, I need to know about it. You owe me that much, buddy."