Syndrome, Thomas Hoover [best free e reader txt] 📗
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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.”
Wednesday, April 8
2:41 P.M.
Ally was very fond of Kristen’s West Village neighborhood, since she herself had once had an apartment on West Eleventh Street, just west of Seventh Avenue. The street was tree-lined and many of its nineteenth-century town houses were home to single families, though sometimes the ground floor, with the entry “under the stoop,” i.e., beneath the stairs, was rented out to provide a little side income. She had rented one of those “garden apartments”-the upstairs owners were two gay bankers-and had loved it. However, it also was entirely possible that Kristen had the whole town house to herself-that was the kind of thing that a lot of celebrities who lived, or even just spent time, in New York did. There was privacy and there also was the sense of living in an actual house instead of in some cookie-cutter apartment. Then again she could have a downstairs neighbor.
A solitary town house seemed somewhat at odds with the extroverted personality Kristen displayed on TV, but the privacy was probably intended more for her sugar daddy, Winston Bartlett, than for her.
Ally had been pushing the pace ever since she got off the phone with Stone. At Twenty-third Street she had peeled off the West Side Highway and gone over to Seventh Avenue, where she had a straight shot downtown. She passed St Vincent’s Hospital, and the notorious six-way intersection that caused so many accidents, and hung a right on West Eleventh.
She was approaching the corner at Bleecker Street when a huge black Lincoln Navigator lumbered in front of her, at an angle that cut her off and blocked the street. Then the vehicle abruptly slammed to a halt.
“What-!”
She hit her own brakes and managed to slide to a stop just before she collided with the Lincoln’s rear bumper. At first she thought they’d deliberately cut her off, but then she realized the move had nothing to do with her. A man and a woman were piling out. He was muscular and balding, with dark hair and sunglasses, and he was dressed in black. She had red hair streaked with white and was dressed in a nurse’s whites. They were in a major hurry.
That was when she recognized the man she’d met at Gramercy Park, the Japanese sidekick Bartlett had called Ken.
Oh shit.
Then she realized that a thirtyish woman was running down West Eleventh Street toward them, carrying a dark green backpack in her left hand. They were gesturing for her to come to them and get into the vehicle, though she didn’t appear to see them yet. Halfway down the block behind her, a man in a tan flight jacket was running, calling out.
“Kristen, wait I just want to talk—”
The running woman glanced over her shoulder at him and, at that moment collided with Bartlett’s flunky. As she recoiled from the impact the red-haired woman seized her left arm.
“Kirby, come,” the woman said. “You’re not well. We’ll take you back.”
“No!” she yelled, and twisted free of the woman’s grasp. But now the Japanese guy had grabbed her other arm.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said as he caught the top of her head and started shoving her through the open
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