'What's that?' he asked.
'A jury willing to believe you.'
She ate her meal slowly, spending more than two hours in the restaurant. She had managed to elude the reporters and she wanted her privacy to last. As daylight began to fade, she paid her tab and used the public phone to call the lab. After fielding questions from a concerned technologist and assur-ing him that she was fine, she heard the news that managed to lift her spirits.
Dalton's serologies were fine. And-crucially important-her HLA matched Renata's rare type on five points. That was close enough to make a marrow transplant possible. Relieved that at least one good thing had happened that day, she paid her tab and drove home.
She maneuvered the Saab into the alley behind her apart-ment, parked in the carport, and climbed out. A buzz in the twilight air, different from the usual noises of the neighbor-hood, alerted her to a crowd in the front of the building. Sus-pecting reporters, she looked this way and that. The back entrance was deserted. She headed for the door. A figure shifted in the shadows.
'Dr. Fletcher?'
The voice startled her. She gasped inadvertently, drawing her key ring to hold beside her as a ready weapon.
'Who are you?'
A man dressed in dark blue jeans and a navy turtleneck sweater stepped out of the darkness into the yellow light of the walkway. He handed her an envelope. 'This is for you.' She reflexively reached out for it with her free hand. The instant her fingers touched it, the bearded man released his hold.
'My name is Ron Czernek, attorney for the mother of the baby known as Renata Chandler. You have just been served on behalf of Valerie Dalton with a civil lawsuit demanding the return of Valerie Dalton's and my daughter, the payment of thirty million dollars in actual and punitive damages, and a permanent injunction against your practice of medicine in the state of California. Have a nice night.' Evelyn stood in the pool of light staring wordlessly at Czernek. She felt like an old woman who had just been mugged. Her fingers shifted the smooth surface of the enve-lope around in her hand. He turned to leave.
'I only meant to save a child's life,' she said.
Czernek whipped about to stare at the doctor with icy con-tempt. 'And how many lives have you ruined doing so? Valerie's nearly mad with confusion and guilt. She went through the pain of an abortion and had finally learned to deal with it when she discovered that she had to undergo more pain to save the life she thought she'd ended. Why? Because a doctor's little experiment screwed up.'
'That's not how it was at-'
'I don't care how it was.' He pointed at the envelope. 'This is how it is. We're taking our daughter back.' He waited just long enough for a riposte from Fletcher, received none, and walked into the night. His feet crunched against the gravel and broken glass in the alleyway.
Evelyn unlocked the door to the stairwell and stepped in-side. In the harsh fluorescent light she leaned against the wall to examine the lawsuit.
It was all he had said, naming her, Mr. and Mrs. Chandler, and Bayside University Medical Center as co- defendants. She walked up the stairs feeling old, tired, and shaken. She had always known that her research would be viewed with hostil-ity by her peers. She knew enough history to realize that medi-cal innovations in any particular age were rarely accepted by the physicians then practicing. Usually the old generation of researchers had to die off, clinging intransigently to outmoded ideas and procedures, while a new generation accepted the new concepts as the norm. That's why it took a generation for practically any idea or invention to gain widespread approval. The thought gave her scant comfort. If how she felt after today's ordeal was any indication, she didn't think she could hold out that long. The first action she took upon entering her apartment was to throw the blue- backed insult on the coffee table. Locking and chaining the door, she lit up a Defiant and located her patient- address book. Finger stabbing like a dagger, she punched in Valerie's phone number.
The line was busy.
She hit the redial button. Busy.
Probably being interviewed by People magazine, she mused.
'
Karen Chandler sat in the ICU, weeping in David's arms. She had tried not to cry, but watching the blood transfusion a few hours ago had been the first blow. Renata hardly reacted as the nurse tried to pierce a slender vein with the tiniest of IV needles. The blood brought a pink glow to her skin, but it didn't seem to last.
Now Renata slept motionlessly inside the isolation cham-ber. Minuscule electrodes, stuck with gel and taped to her head and chest, delivered vital information to the machinery against the wall. Except for the electronic musings of the equipment and Karen's sobs, the room was quiet. The sound on the television set had been turned off, but
