A squarish middle-aged man with thick gray hair stood next to Marcy. In a black sport shirt and chinos, he didn’t look like a doctor—maybe because it was Saturday or because the docs here didn’t dress in white. The man had a wide, toothy smile and dark eyes that were hidden behind thick Coke-bottle glasses.
“Dr. Mavros assisted Dr. Heller when you were first brought to MGH.”
Mavros’s hand was meaty and cool. “Good to finally meet you awake. How you doing?”
“Better.”
“Good, good. You’re quite the Comeback Kid.” Mavros smiled broadly. “The PT reports say you’re progressing marvelously. And there’s no evidence of any neurological damage. In fact, quite the contrary. The memory centers of your brain are very active. Which is the most important thing, right?”
Jack nodded. Dr. Mavros’s large opaque eyes bore down on him. And though it was barely perceptible, Jack felt his innards tighten.
“You’re a medical wonder. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to run a functional MRI on you someday.”
Jack was not interested in more tests, and made a noncommittal nod.
“Do you recall anything about the actual accident—swimming, the jellyfish attack?”
“Not really. Just jumping into the water, some vague image of jellyfish, then I’m here.”
Mavros nodded woefully. “They got you pretty good.”
“I don’t recommend it.”
“I’ll say.” Mavros smiled brightly. Almost too brightly, as if trying to slide into the next question without notice. “And just out of curiosity, what were you doing out there on Homer’s Island? Seems like a rather remote place to be.”
“We used to rent a place out there.”
“We?”
“My family.”
“Your family … ,” Mavros repeated, leaving an inviting gap for Jack to fill in.
“A vacation rental.”
“I see. Were you staying there at the time of the jellyfish attack?”
Outside thunder cracked. Jack had already tired of the line of questioning. “Just wanted to see the old place.”
“I see.”
But it was clear that the good doctor didn’t see.
“Do you remember how old you were when you first started going out there?”
Jack shook his head. “I was a baby.”
“Do you remember the name of your first-grade teacher?”
“My first-grade teacher? I already had memory tests.”
“Just checking.” And Mavros flashed a thousand-watt smile.
“Miss Van Zandt.”
The doctor jotted that down on his pad, and Jack wondered how he’d check for accuracy.
“What were your adoptive parents’ names?”
Jack told him.
“Do your remember your biological parents?”
“No. My father died when I was six months old, my mother when I was two.”
“So you don’t remember them.”
Jack felt himself slump. “No.”
The doctor looked at his notepad. “The nurses say that you’ve complained of bad dreams, which is consistent with the reports while you were in the coma. Do you remember anything about those dreams—any specifics?”
“Nothing very clear.”
“Can you characterize them in any way?”
“Disturbing.”
“Disturbing?”
“Violent. Images of someone getting hurt.” Jack felt his heart rate notch upward.
“Can you see who it is? Who’s involved, or how they’re—”
Jack cut him off. “No, and I’d rather end the questions, if you don’t mind. I’m very tired.”
“Of course. I understand, and I’m sorry about this.” Then his face brightened again. “But thank you. And you should know that we’re delighted with your progress.”
Jack nodded. He was drowsy all of a sudden, as if he’d been drugged.
Before the doctor left he said, “I hope I didn’t upset you with my queries. It’s just a routine thing, you understand.”
“No problem.” Jack closed his eyes.
“Just one more, if you don’t mind. One of those standard memory test things.”
Jack opened his eyes.
“Your biological mother. What was her maiden name?”
“Sarkisian.”
Mavros looked at him for a protracted moment. Then he nodded.
But he did not ask to spell it, nor did he write it down on his pad. He just stared at Jack without expression, then thanked him and left the room, leaving Jack thinking that this was the third person in a week who wanted to know his mother’s maiden name.
55
“WE HAVE A PROBLEM,” MARK THOMPSON announced.
Of the thirteen chairs around the huge shiny cherrywood conference table in the boardroom of GEM Tech, six were occupied. Five men and one woman: Gavin Moy; legal counsel Mortimer Coleman; marketing director Marilyn Pierce; medical director Mark Thompson; principal investigator for the clinical sites in Connecticut Zachary Mello; and Jordan Carr. Conspicuously absent was Dr. Nicholas Mavros.
“Peter Habib has gotten Nick thinking there’s a causality between these so-called flashback seizures and Memorine. Since the suicide-ruled death of one of his patients, he is asking for an immediate review of clinical protocol.”
“Even before Utah?” Moy asked.
“Even before Utah.”
“What about Nick?”
“He’s more open-minded but he’s susceptible. Apparently Peter has forwarded him data.”
“Wasn’t it Peter who first raised a flag?”
“Yes. And now he wants to alert the agency.”
“What about Nick?”
“I think he’s willing to wait until Utah. But the point is that he’s losing his proper vision on this project,” Thompson continued. “And frankly that makes him something of a liability for this trial and this organization.”
“If you’re suggesting we replace him as chief PI, that’s not going to happen,” Gavin Moy declared. “That’ll only invite the press to ask why, raising the kind of speculations we don’t need.”
Mort Coleman agreed. “Axing Nick because we don’t like his position on the drug’s efficacy is not the way to go. He’s an iconic figure in the medical community and is identified with these trials and GEM Tech. That would be counterproductive.”
Marilyn Pierce cut in. “Not to mention how the FDA would react once Nick began talking to the press about his termination. That’s not a viable option.”
“But there is a viable option,” Moy said. “Hiring an independent clinical research organization. Not only is that the most legitimate way to go, but I’m betting it’ll get Nick to come around.”
“Come around to what?”
“To stop suggesting that we ask the FDA for a friggin’ two-year extension.”
“Christ, is that what he’s doing?”
“Yes.” Moy poured himself some coffee from the decanter. “So what we do is consult an expert clinical
