Final Venture

It might be that Mahoney had finally crossed me off his suspect list. But through the long night that thought gave me little comfort. Alone in my apartment, it was difficult to fight the fear. I had been very lucky that whoever had tried to shoot me the day before had missed. But they would try again, for sure. There was nowhere to hide. A bullet seemed unavoidable; the only thing I could do to delay it was to lock myself in, and the world out. Pull down the blinds, live on Chinese and pizza deliveries and wait and hope.

I felt small and alone in my bed, our bed. I so desperately wanted Lisa's warm body next to me, her embrace to give me comfort and courage. With her, I felt I could face the likelihood of death. Without her, that night, it was very difficult.

So I was going to be a father! I laughed to myself, a hollow bitter laugh. Who was I kidding? I wouldn't last a week, let alone nine months.

I pulled myself out of bed, and poured myself a Scotch. For a moment the whisky made me feel warm and almost safe. But then I poured it all down the kitchen sink.

Drinking myself into a stupor wouldn't save me. If I wanted to live, if I wanted my child to have a father, even one living thousands of miles away, I would have to do something. Soon.

29

Very early the next morning, I packed a bag and called a cab.

'Where to?' asked the Indian driver.

'Logan Airport.'

The traffic wasn't too bad, and I checked over my shoulder all the way. I didn't think I was being followed, but I couldn't tell. We soon approached the airport. I was so tempted to direct the driver to International Departures and take the first flight to London. I would be safe in England; I wouldn't be much of a threat to anyone three thousand miles away.

I had two choices: either to run away and forget Revere, BioOne and Lisa, or to go underground and try to take the battle to the enemy, whoever they were. What I couldn't do was wander around Boston until someone shot me.

Long ago I had decided I couldn't run away from Lisa.

Besides, the Assistant DA had my passport.

So, I had the taxi-driver drop me off at Departures, and spent half an hour dodging round the airport, trying to make sure I wasn't being followed, before ending up at the Hertz office. There I rented a bland white Ford. I drove round Route 128 until I came to a rest stop, and pulled up in the parking lot. I hadn't seen anyone following me, and it was a couple of minutes before another car pulled off the highway, so I guessed I was safe.

I sat in the car and went through the four Alzheimer centres on my list. I pulled out my cell phone and managed to make appointments to see three of them.

The first clinician on my list was Dr Herman A. Netherbrook of one of the smaller universities that littered Boston. His office was on the campus in a medical research unit named after a now deceased Massachusetts politician.

Netherbrook was about sixty, grey and uninterested, with the weary cynicism that afflicts stale school teachers and, presumably, academics. He welcomed me politely into his small office, and procured me a mug of instant coffee. I gave him one of my cards.

'Now, who is it you are with, Mr Ayot? I don't quite follow.'

'Revere Partners is one of the investors in BioOne, who of course are conducting the trial of their neuroxil-5 drug for Alzheimer's disease. A trial in which you are participating, I believe?'

'Indeed we are. We were involved with the Phase Two trial, so it seemed natural to continue with the Phase Three trial as well. But I'm not sure I can talk to you about any of the commercial features of this work. You had better discuss that with Dr Enever himself.'

'It's the safety of the drug I'm concerned about.'

'Yes, you mentioned that on the telephone. But we monitor the patients very carefully in all the trials we do.'

'Of course. And have you encountered any adverse events?' I knew from my research on Alzheimer's that adverse events had to be reported as soon as they occurred.

Netherbrook looked me over carefully, as if deciding whether to answer my question. Finally he walked over to a filing cabinet, and pulled out a folder.

'Let me see. We have thirteen patients enrolled in the study. We have had two adverse events in the year or so the trial has been running. One patient had a heart attack, and another is showing signs of developing diabetes. But in a sample of elderly patients, that is only to be expected. And all of them have survived so far.'

Any examples of strokes?'

'Strokes?' He glanced at his file. 'No, none.'

'Nothing that you would consider suspicious or a cause for concern.'

'If I had a cause for concern, I would have notified BioOne immediately, wouldn't I?'

'Yes, of course, Dr Netherbrook. Thank you for your time.'

I left, feeling slightly foolish, and drove off to Springfield, in central Massachusetts. I hoped I was asking all the right questions. But if there had been no strokes amongst the patients enrolled, it was difficult to see how I could have missed anything.

There was a specialist Alzheimer's Research Clinic in Springfield. Dr Fuller turned out to be about thirty-two, blonde, with long eyelashes and very long legs. She seemed to me to be wasted on geriatrics, but perhaps if I were eighty I would disagree with that view. She had a soft southern accent, and purred quietly, rather than talked. I could scarcely make out what she was saying.

I did understand that one of her ten patients enrolled in the trial had suffered a mild stroke nine months after the trial had begun. Another had died from bronchial pneumonia, as old people sometimes do.

One stroke out of a total of twenty-three patients. That didn't prove anything.

Then on to Hartford and a Dr Pete Korninck. He was a genial man with a beard and iron-grey hair that curled over the tops of his ears. One of his sixteen patients had developed a liver complaint, and another had died of a heart attack.

'How about strokes?' I asked, knowing that if there had been any, he would probably have told me.

'None. At least not among the Alzheimer's patients.'

'OK.' I thought a moment. 'What do you mean by "the Alzheimer's patients"?'

'Well, we have some patients who suffer from multi-infarct dementia. That's a condition also known as "mini strokes". Small blood vessels in the brain can become blocked, causing areas of surrounding tissue to lose their blood supply. Over the years these can cause damage to the brain, which has similar effects to Alzheimer's. The two are often confused.'

'And these patients have "mini strokes" all the time?'

'Yes,' the bearded doctor replied. 'And sometimes they get big strokes.'

'Presumably you exclude these patients from your study?'

'Where we can, yes. But there's no doubt some of them creep in. You can only really identify Alzheimer's for sure after an autopsy'

'Have you had to reclassify any of your Alzheimer's patients in this way?'

'Yes, three.'

And you told BioOne this?'

'Of course.'

'Do you think there is anything significant about it?'

Korninck thought for a moment. 'It's impossible to say from my patients alone. There may be. But BioOne would be the only people to have enough information to be sure.'

I left Hartford, and drove east, stopping briefly for a cup of coffee and a burger. It had been a long day, with lots of driving, but I thought I might still have time to see the fourth clinic on the list, in Providence, Rhode Island.

Dr Catarro was unavailable, but his assistant Dr Palmer was. He agreed to meet me at seven fifteen at his office.

Dr Palmer was a dark thin man who could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty. His young-looking face had lines that suggested a short life with a lot of worry, or a longer one with only an average amount. His voice, when he spoke, had the squeaky depth of a thirteen-year-old.

'Thank you for waiting for me, Dr Palmer.'

'Not at all,' he said. He looked tired.

'Hard day?'