_Wednesday, April 8
12:34 P.M.
_
"W.B., we've got a problem," Karl Van de Vliet said into the
microphone. He was in his private office, on the scrambled videophone.
"Kristen's mother showed up just before noon with a pistol, demanding
to know where she was. When I tried to take the gun away from her, she
accidentally shot herself through the side. Fortunately, it was only a
flesh wound, but it took us almost an hour to stabilize her."
"Christ! Even Kristy thinks she's crazy. Why did she--?"
"Kristen smuggled her a letter somehow. And she came looking for her."
He thought about how they shouldn't be having this conversation on any
kind of phone, even one that was supposedly scrambled. But there was no
choice. "It gets worse. I just called Eight-Eighty Park and they
checked her room and Kristen's not there. She was there when Roxanne
brought up her breakfast at nine, but nobody's seen her since. They
assumed she'd gone back to sleep. Nobody there has any idea where she
went."
"Shit. What am I paying them for? The staff is there for the sole
purpose of making sure something like this didn't happen."
"Well, W.B., that's your part of the show. I'm just trying to practice
medicine. In any case, she slipped out somehow. So the thing now is,
where did she go?"
"Well, she didn't come here. Or at least she hasn't yet. Depending on
how much she can still remember, she might have gone to her old place
down in the Village. Maybe she still has a homing instinct. That's
probably the first location we ought to check. Jesus, if she gets
recognized and starts acting crazy and then Cambridge Pharmaceuticals
finds out--"
"W.B., the bigger problem now could be her mother, Katherine. You know
her. She's unbalanced but she also still remembers how it all started.
She was actually here a couple of times. If she sees Kristen, then God
help us."
"Karl, I've got everything--and I do mean everything-- riding on this.
What happened with that Hampton woman? You've got to get started with
her. Is she on board yet or what?"
"She was here this morning, but she got temporarily spooked by the gun
and the craziness. She'll be back, though."
"When?"
"I took care of it, trust me," Van de Vliet declared. "In the meantime,
I'll try to maintain Kristen's mother under sedation as long as
possible. But we can't keep her out of touch forever. That would be
flirting with kidnapping."
"I'll send Ken over to West Eleventh Street to check out her place,"
Bartlett said. "If she's there, he'll get her."
And he signed off, the image on the computer going dark.
Van de Vliet felt a wave of apprehension. Every day it got worse. Would
any of the other patients develop the Syndrome? Or was its development
unique to the Beta?
Kristen had agreed of her own free will to undergo the Beta, and she'd
been warned that any experimental procedure involved significant risk.
She'd signed release documents absolving Gerex of any liability. But
when treatments go awry, patients tend not to recall the releases they
signed. Undoubtedly, she'd now conveniently forgotten that fact.
Assuming she still remembered anything.
Time to go back to the OR and see how Katherine was doing. If she
seemed completely stabilized and coherent, she could be moved down to
the intensive-care area in the floor below, the subbasement. That way
absolutely nobody could get to her. He clicked off the computer and
walked back to the OR.
"Karl, she's awake," David said as he walked in. He'd been monitoring
her. "It's probably okay to move her."
Thank God, Van de Vliet thought. Maybe there's some way to reason with
her rationally. He moved over and looked down. Her hair was soaked with
sweat and she looked very, very tired.
"Mrs. Starr, can you understand me? I'm Dr. Van de Vliet. I need to
talk to you about your daughter, Kristen."
"Who . . . who are you?" she mumbled, her eyes trying to focus.
"I'm Kristen's physician. She came to see me some months back. Do you
recall? About her . . . skin problem. I seem to remember you came here
with her at one point."
She stared at him mutely for a moment, then closed her eyes and nodded.
"At that time, Mrs. Starr, we discussed some radical treatment options.
Things that hadn't been tried before. Do you have any recollection of
that?"
She opened her eyes again and stared at him, trying to focus.
"You said she'd be all right," she mumbled, slurring the words. "Then
your receptionist told me she'd gone to New Mexico. But I got a letter--
"
"That story was to protect her professionally," he lied. "She was
afraid the press might find out she was here and start speculating
about her health. But now she's in the post-procedure phase of
treatment. It may be a while longer before she's able to return to the
normal life she's used to."
"She's okay, isn't she?" came a plaintive, slurred mumble. "In her
letter it sounded like she'd lost her memory or something. She didn't
sound right."
It was a question that cut him to the core.
"Mrs. Starr, I think we should focus on you right now. You've had a
traumatic episode and you've injured yourself pretty seriously. You may
have to stay here at the institute for a few days so we can take care
of you." He took her hand which felt deathly cold. "Tell me, is there
anyone we should notify of your whereabouts so they won't be alarmed?"
"There's an address book in my purse." Her eyelids flickered. "Those
are all people I'm close to. I just want to sleep. I can't think now."
Good, he thought, the sedative is finally kicking in.
"All right. You need your rest. We'll talk about this later." He turned
and picked up the purse at the foot of the bed. But when he searched
inside, he didn't see an address book.
Where was it? he wondered.
Alexa Hampton had started reading Kristen's letter, which probably was
part of the reason she got uneasy. Did she make off with the address
book? But why?
It didn't matter. She would be back.
If Debra had done what she was supposed to do.
"David have Mrs. Starr taken downstairs. I need to see Deb."
"You've got it."
Van de Vliet went down the hall and then through the heavy steel air
lock and into the laboratory.
"Deb, can I have a word with you?" He motioned for her to follow him to
the computer cubicle in the back, past the head-high racks of solvent
vials and the giant autoclave.
"Is she going to be okay?" Debra asked.
"I think so. It's in her interest that we keep her here and away from a
hospital. Gunshot wounds raise a lot of questions. I seriously doubt
that that pistol was licensed in her name, given how little she seemed
to know about its operation." He settled into a chair and began
stroking his brow. "Did you manage to take care of that matter with
Alexa Hampton?"
She nodded. "You know, she's not yet entirely with the program."
"Yes, but she will be. Putting her mother in the clinical trials was
probably crucial." He grimaced. "God, what a nightmare. A medical
experiment that got away from us has turned into guns and virtual
kidnapping and God knows what manner of felonies. If this thing gets
completely off the track, we could all go to prison. But the real
tragedy is that all the successful research we've done here will be
buried in infamy."
"It's not going to turn out that way. The results here have been so
spectacular." She was gazing at him with eyes that seemed too
worshipful. More and more, she made him self-conscious. She needed a
father, but he did not need a daughter. He still lived on the memory of
Camille.
"This has all got to be resolved soon, Deb. There's a reporter who
found out that we had to drop a patient from the program--which would be
Kristen--and W.B. thinks he's a little too close for comfort. Now
Kristen's mother shows up. It's all starting to unravel."
"Don't worry," she said, getting up. "This Hampton woman is going to be
back today. So I've got to get started on her blood."