Forbidden Cure Part One Read online

  Chapter 5

  Dad skulks about my tiny kitchen, frustrated and impatient. “Chris, you heard what Doctor Jacobs said. The treatment could kill you!” He’s right of course. But with two young mouths to feed and a body too broken down to sustain steady employment, I’m desperate for a cure—and fast—before the next attack kills me.

  I feel for Dad. In the past sixteen months he’s lost Ma and my wife, Michelle, and now his son faces a terrible choice regarding his own rapidly deteriorating health. I pull out a chair next to me as a peace offering, hoping to ratchet down the tension. “Why don’t we talk this through?” Déjà vu washes over me. Michelle sat here many a night and spoke those same words to me. Now she is gone, gunned down in front of me during an FBI sting operation gone terribly wrong. And no amount of self-loathing, guilt, or regret on my part can bring her back.

  Like fingernails on a blackboard, the screech of Dad’s chair jars me from my thoughts. Arms folded in front of him, Dad settles in the chair as his lecture continues. “Son, with all this family’s been through, you can’t just sign up to be Doctor Hyslop’s next guinea pig, no matter how promising the treatment. We need to take a step back, consider our options.”

  I raise a weary hand, then rest it on his shoulder. “Dad, you heard Jacobs. There really aren’t other treatment options.” I bow my head and take a moment, then steady my eyes on my father. “I thought quitting the police force and heading up to the Vineyard would clear my head, buy me some time to get better. We both know how that worked out,” I say with a derisive laugh.

  He nods with resignation.

  “I need something to believe in, some kinda hope to cling to.” A faint smile emerges from my frown. “I’m going to call Jacobs now, tell him I’m moving forward with the treatment.”

  Dad starts to protest but reconsiders as the realization sinks in: united and hopeful may not be enough, but it’s all we have right now.

  Chapter 6

  Eight small test tubes filled with green-tinged fluid sit before the experimenter. Each solution is sequentially numbered and varies from its predecessor in small but meaningful ways. The researcher finishes taking notes and returns mouse number four to its cage, where it scampers about with seven of its companions.

  Three times more the investigator extracts a mouse, injects it with the solution via a long, thin needle, and returns it to the cage unharmed. Three times more the worker makes entries in the notebook, outlining in detail the latest failed attempt.

  The investigator reaches into the cage for the final rodent, mouse number eight. It slithers away several times before the hand snares it, then holds it steady for the injection. Two minutes go by, the mouse unaffected by the solution. The worker’s lips edge downward into a frown.

  Then it happens.

  The mouse’s body twitches uncontrollably for a few moments. It races around in a tight circle four times as if it can outrun its fate.

  But it can’t.

  Over the next minute, the mouse’s pace slows to a crawl as the chemical ravages its system.

  At two minutes and forty-three seconds post injection, the mouse stumbles forward a few final steps and falls down.

  Dead.

  The experimenter dutifully makes a final entry in the notebook as the frown transforms into a smile.

  Chapter 7

  The early morning sun peers over the horizon, its rays stretching across the icy East River and the tangled, undulating mass of vegetation that overruns North Brother Island. On the west side of the isle sits a lone, ramshackle structure. In it, seated at a small workbench in the corner of his lab, Doctor Hyslop pores over the data on his most recent patients. He shakes his head in disgust as he scans the pages. The results are wildly inconsistent. Almost three-fourths of the patients he treated in the last eighteen months have made a full recovery. But it’s the other fourth that worries him. Three patients did not survive the second dose, and many who did saw their diseases run wild within hours of that treatment. The second dose is critical. Anyone in good health after that was cured by the third dose. Eyes glued to his work, he doesn’t even notice senior technician Todd Zigler’s entrance until the young man’s high-pitched voice pierces the air. “Another early start, Doctor Hyslop? Or were you up late again keeping Phil company?”

  Hyslop looks up, his red eyes and baggy lids speaking for him. Zigler waves an accusatory, effeminate finger at him. “Oh gosh, you look terrible, Doc. You are not taking care of yourself at all.” He shakes his head with disapproval, then folds his arms lightly across his small chest. “Can I get you some coffee or something?”

  Hyslop stares back impassively, nods, and returns to his work as Todd glides past him toward the break room. Along the way the lab technician runs his finely manicured fingers across the work bench, past a dizzying array of expensive, state-of-the-art equipment. Blood chemistry analyzers, interferometers, and spectrometers fill the bulk of the counter top. A venting hood, centrifuges, test tubes, and other sensitive, delicate instruments take up the remaining space.

  A few minutes later Todd re-emerges, presenting a fresh cup of coffee to his boss. Hyslop masks his disdain over the young man’s French-manicured nails, sighs, and accepts the offering. Eccentricities aside, Todd has proven his most valuable asset, recruiting, assisting, and supervising a first-rate team of lab technicians despite the many drawbacks of their God-forsaken location.

  “Made any breakthroughs this morning, boss, in our quest to outdo Grayson Limerock and company?”

  Hyslop senses movement on the edge of his field of vision. He turns and spots his secretary, Kiki Aloni, moving furtively through the lab toward the coffee room. His voice booms, “A bit early for you, Kiki?”

  She straightens up, her long black hair spilling off her shoulders. “Uh, yes, Doctor,” she replies self-consciously. “I caught a ride with Todd this morning.”

  Hyslop nods, taking a sip of his coffee, then spits it on the floor in front of him. “What is this swill, Todd? Kiki!” She jumps to attention. “Make yourself useful.” He shakes his cup. “Fetch me a fresh cup right away, and then be gone.” Condescending, with a snicker he continues, “Todd and I have pressing matters to discuss that are well above your pay grade.”

  Kiki nods her assent and scurries off to the coffee room.

  Todd tries to get his point across in a playful manner, to avoid Hyslop’s wrath himself. “Hey boss. Maybe ease up on the Draconian approach, huh? The ladies can be kind of sensitive with that, you know?”

  Hyslop, amused, looks Todd over, paying close attention to the young man’s nails. “Never thought of you as an expert when it comes to the ladies.”

  Kiki dashes over, hands Hyslop his coffee, then hurries away. Hyslop yells after her, “Come back in about two hours. I’ll need you to deliver the treatment we’ve been working on to Doctor Gorelick.”

  Kiki offers a quick nod, then disappears from the lab.

  Hyslop holds up the cup. “Seems I have things well under control. Now, where were we?” Scratching his head, “Ah, yes. No breakthroughs this morning, Todd.” Hyslop rubs the bridge of his nose. “I can’t detect any patterns for the treatment failures. Can you pass me the calibration and quality assessment logs? Perhaps they’ll shed some light on our failings.”

  Todd pats his chest. “I check on those daily and everything is always up to snuff.” Zigler arches his eyebrows and shakes his head. “I know you don’t want to hear it again, boss, but the prob is obvious in my opinion....”

  “Yes, Todd, I know,” Hyslop replies wearily, “‘too many station chefs for you to keep track of’.”

  “Exactly. Even the teensiest, tiniest error by any one of them and our formulations can be ruined.”

  Hyslop stares at the ceiling and nods his head, his patience all but spent. “That’s why I personally trained each technician to be an expert in all areas of formulation and trained you to catch any rare errors along the way.”

  A disapproving look fills Zigler’s
face. “That was fine when I only had two techs to oversee. But seven, well, that’s really asking for trouble now, don’t you think?” Zigler’s eyes implore Hyslop. “We all want to plow ahead as fast as we can, but sometimes a breather’s not a bad thing.”

  Hyslop’s death-stare says what no words ever could.

  Zigler replies with a huff, “Okay, okay, I get it, boss. Keep our worker bees humming along and keep my opinions to myself.”

  Hyslop’s stare morphs into a thin smile.

  Todd stares back, intimidated and self-conscious. “Okay then... off to work.” He takes two hesitant steps away before coming to a stop and turning back. “Did you see the phone message I left on your desk last night from Doctor Jacobs?”

  Hyslop’s brow arches. “No. What’s it about?”

  “Apparently Detective Chris Ravello is in dire need of our services.”

  “The same Ravello who just arrested that serial killer Durand?”

  “One and the same. Ravello’s got a pheochromocytoma he badly needs our help with.”

  He tries to contain it, but a smile spreads across Hyslop’s face. Turning away, in a soft voice he mutters, “Excellent. Just the case I need to test out two new theories.”

  Chapter 8

  Kiki winces in pain as she flexes and massages her right hand. This is getting harder and harder to keep under wraps. Leaning forward in bed, she shakes her hair off her shoulders and rummages through her purse, anxious to find the pills before Grayson emerges from the bathroom. She pushes her car keys, lipstick, and a small pack of tissues aside, taking care not to disturb the vial of medication Hyslop entrusted her to deliver to Doctor Gorelick. Finally, she finds them.

  Introduced in the 1940s as an anti-malarial medication, the pills are Kiki’s last line of defense against the crippling effects of her rheumatoid arthritis. But the treatment has been failing her of late, the side effects growing more frequent and severe. Intense bouts of nausea, diarrhea, and blisters on the inside of her mouth leave her feeling weak, isolated, and vulnerable, a poor combination for a middle-aged widow of limited financial means.

  Enter Grayson Limerock, the Chief Medical Officer/CEO of Immunogenetics Offerings. A tall, well-built, and charming Irishman, he and Kiki met at an industry conference six months earlier and mid-day liaisons away from her boss and his wife’s prying eyes have been the norm since. Kiki smiles inwardly. Soon one of the two, Hyslop or Grayson, will find out how to make her whole again. Until then, her relationship with Grayson must remain a delicate dance of stealth and ingenuity.

  The shower stops. Kiki hears the curtain open and Grayson’s feet hit the bathroom floor as she struggles to free the pills from their container. Stabbing pain shoots through her fingers as she pushes and twists the bottle top. Damn it, why do they make these so hard? The cap finally begins to give. Come on, come on, she implores it. Suddenly, it flies open all at once, scattering pills onto the sheets and floor. Kiki grabs for the glass on the nightstand, knocking it over. Rivulets of water form, one stream threatening to douse the hotel room phone and clock. She grabs at the bed sheets, using them as a towel. Grayson hums as he dries himself off. She hurriedly gathers the pills in her hands and dumps them and the open bottle in her purse. Kiki jabs her mouth at a lone pill stuck to her wet hand. She swallows it just as the bathroom door handle turns and Grayson appears, towel wrapped around his waist.

  “All yours, baby. What time is that asshole boss of yours expecting you back?” he says with a warm smile.

  “He’s buried in the lab the rest of the day so I can get back when I please.” She sighs as she saunters over to him. “With any luck I won’t see the jerk again until morning.” She rubs a hand against Grayson’s hairy chest as she nibbles on his ear. “What do you have in the afternoon?”

  Grayson’s smile hardens. “A couple of meetings about our newest biologics.” He takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips. “Two rheumatologics that promise to challenge Harold’s best creations.”

  Kiki smiles at him, then brushes her lips against his cheek as she glides away. “Brilliant and sexy.” She winks at him and bats her lashes as she walks toward the bathroom door. “Leaves a girl weak in the knees,” she adds, blowing him a mischievous kiss. “Powerless to resist.”

  Grayson smiles back as he watches the door close and hears the hiss of the shower. Reaching into her purse, he grabs hold of the vial and removes it. As he turns it over and over in his hands, his smile broadens. I’m counting on it, baby.

  Chapter 9

  “You have placed yourself in a very difficult situation, Doctor. My associates want to kill you, to set an example to others who are slow to pay.” Dmitri Korsakov leans back in the chair and takes a puff of his Montecristo cigar. Rings of smoke emanate from his mouth, dissipating as they rise toward the ceiling.

  Jerome Gorelick sits behind his desk, a white-knuckled grip on his chair. A small stream of sweat runs down the left side of his stout, bearded face.

  “Dmitri, we have been doing business for many years. You know I am good for the money.”

  Korsakov shakes his head, his heavily accented voice a mixture of disappointment and disgust. “You have lost control, Jerome, and seventy-eight thousand dollars is a great deal of money.” Gorelick winces as Korsakov grinds the tip of his cigar into the oak desk, leaving a burn mark in its wake. “I have no choice but to let my associates have their way.” He rises and turns to go.

  Gorelick springs from his chair and stretches a hand out. “Wait! There must be something I can do to clear my debt?”

  A sinister smile spreads across Dmitri’s face as he wags his forefinger. “There is one thing. But I am not sure you have the stomach for it.”

  “What is it?” the doctor asks with trepidation.

  Korsakov’s smile broadens as he waves Gorelick back to his seat and sits down himself. “There are those in my organization who grow concerned about Irina. Estranged from me, her husband dead, her career in ruins, they fear she has little to lose and may betray us. My associates seek a permanent solution to this problem.”

  The blood drains from Gorelick’s face. “Your own sister, Dmitri?” Gorelick wrings his hands as he whispers, “What would you have me do?”

  “Kill her.”

  The rheumatologist winces, then averts his eyes and traces the edge of the desk with his fingers. A long moment passes before his eyes find Dmitri’s again. “And who better than you, Doctor? Nobody would suspect.”

  Gorelick slumps in his chair.

  “My sister is desperate. She will undertake whatever treatment you prescribe, and that is how you will kill her.” Korsakov waves his hand through the air. “Do this and your debt is forgiven.”

  Staring at the floor, Gorelick hangs his head as Korsakov trudges to the door. He turns to the physician and shouts, “Look at me! Forty-eight hours to save yourself, Doctor—not one minute more.” The door slams behind him. Gorelick flinches, the color draining from his face as he grapples with the ultimate lose-lose scenario; violate his sacred pledge to “do not harm” or face the mobster’s deadly wrath?

  Dmitri nods to the receptionist on his way out, stepping aside so a beautiful, Asian woman can enter before he exits the office.

  The receptionist smiles warmly. “Oh, hello, Kiki. We’ve been expecting you. Here, come this way.”

  Chapter 10

  Irina Malekoviec can hardly believe her good fortune as her fingers fly along the Steinway baby grand piano, bringing Rhapsody in Blue to life. True, the Gershwin composition is far easier to play than the Rachmaninoff Piano Concertos that propelled her to fame as a concert pianist. But, it’s progress. A long-time sufferer of a particularly aggressive form of rheumatoid arthritis, Irina’s career as a concert pianist is a dim memory. Four years ago she stood at the pinnacle of her career, but extensive joint damage to all her fingers and failed treatment after failed treatment have left her earning a meager living as a piano teacher. That is, until this latest treatment. The second
dose of the injection was administered just a few hours ago after much counseling by her doctor on the risks of the procedure and its unpredictable results. Nothing much happened after the first dose, or in the first hour after the latest treatment. But as the day progressed, Irina’s miracle began to unfold.

  Gone was the interminable pain in her fingers that dogged her waking hours. Indeed, her fingers look less swollen and are more mobile than they have been in years. Irina glances at the antique clock on her coffee table. A gift from her great-grandmother from the old country, it still keeps excellent time after all these years. Ten minutes until her next appointment. It’s just enough time to enjoy the rest of ‘Rhapsody.’

  For the next nine minutes, Irina’s spirit soars as she glides along the piano, speeding up, slowing down, infusing the piece with her long pent-up emotion as she drives the music toward its climactic finish.

  Then it happens.

  The moment her killer longed for arrives.

  Hemorrhages erupt on her arms and legs. The pain in her fingers and hands roars back. By the time Irina clutches her temples with the worst headache of her life, numbness has spread throughout her left side. She glances at the antique clock and the salvation that lies next to it. If she can only slide across the piano bench, reach her phone, there’s still hope.

  But it is not to be. Irina’s head comes crashing down on the piano keys, playing the last and most dissonant notes of her life.

  Chapter 11

  NYPD Detective Kevin Kennedy carefully surveys the scene. Reminiscent of an early twentieth century music parlor, the Brighton Beach apartment shows no signs of forced entry nor damage to any of the vic’s possessions. Antique gas lamps, a couch, and a clock fill one side of the room, untouched. Built in shelves of classic Russian literature line the adjacent wall. An old phonograph and a few Tchaikovsky records sit undisturbed atop a dark, wooden table in front of the bookshelves.