Lethal Remedy by Richard Mabry Page A

how much will it cost us?"

He smiled. "I won't answer the first two questions, but I assure you I have my methods and my reasons. As for the price, it's ten million dollars, wired into a bank account in the Cayman Islands. Four million up front. Another three million when Jandra accepts your offer to buy them. The final three million when your acquisition is complete. These terms are nonnegotiable. You have fifteen minutes to decide."

Everyone wanted to talk at once. Questions flew, and the CEO fought to keep order.

The first question, of course, was "Can we afford this?"

The answer there was simple. The four million was manageable. Everything else was dependent on a successful acquisition, and if that happened, the price was right.

Gradually, the buzz died down. The CEO rapped his water glass on the table. "Gentlemen, it's decision time. Price is not the crux of our debate. At issue is whether we support and underwrite this piece of industrial espionage. If we vote to accept this proposal, nothing that took place in this room can ever be revealed. Not to a spouse, a business partner, even in the confessional. Hands for 'yes.'"

Some hands shot up decisively. Others eased up gingerly. But in a moment, every hand was raised.

7

 

 

H OW MANY PATIENTS IN THE STUDY NOW? " I NGERSOLL THREW THE QUES tion over his shoulder as he strode through the tunnel that linked the medical school with University Hospital.

Rip didn't break stride, nor did he reach for the note cards in the pocket of his white coat. He knew the number of patients who'd received Jandramycin, their names and diagnoses, and how they'd been at their last follow-up appointments. "Thirtynine counting the patient we put on Jandramycin yesterday."

"Oh, that was the woman—"

"It's a man. Mr. Rankin is a fifty-one-year-old school principal with sepsis from Staph luciferus, acquired when a cut on his foot from a camping trip became infected. He—"

"No need for all that. Thirty-nine. That's what I want to know."

The two men walked along in silence, Rip carefully keeping a pace behind his chief. Most doctors in postgraduate programs became good friends with the men and women under whom they trained. By the time a fellowship was over, they had formed a collegial bond. That wasn't the case here, though. From day one, Rip had received the unspoken message: You're here to learn from watching me, but I'm in charge, and don't you forget it.

"How many cases do we need before Jandra can submit their new drug app?" Rip said.

Ingersoll mumbled something.

"Sorry. I didn't hear that."

Ingersoll didn't slow or even turn his head. "I said the application for approval of a new drug was filed with the FDA two weeks ago."

At the doors of the ICU, both men found their way blocked by a cluster of people. The women cried, the men tried vainly to comfort them, and there was about the group an aura of defeat and despair. Rip had seen that scene too many times, but it never failed to move him. Someone didn't make it. For the doctor, the aftermath meant an hour's worth of paperwork. For the family, it was the beginning of a lifetime of "what if 's" and "if only's."

Slowly the group moved into the waiting room, opening a path for the doctors. Ingersoll was about to push through the swinging doors when Rip said, "How could they apply two weeks ago? I recall being told they needed at least forty patients from us before they could file the app. Two weeks ago we had thirty-seven."

"Let me worry about that. Your job is to keep the study running smoothly." Ingersoll strode to the nurse's desk, where he stopped and cleared his throat loudly. "I need the chart for my patient—" He looked pointedly at Rip.

"Cletus Rankin. Room eighteen."

"For my patient, Cletus Rankin, in room eighteen," Ingersoll repeated, as though the nurse hadn't heard Rip.

Ingersoll took the proffered chart, scanned it, and nodded with satisfaction. "Defervescing already. Good, good."

Just like Ingersoll. Use