“But cancer immunotherapy is not comparable to antibiotics,” Sean said. “Like I said before, cancers are antigenically distinct, even the same type of cancer.”
“I thought one of the tenets of scientific reasoning involved the issue of an exception,” Janet said. “If an exception is found to a hypothesis then one is forced to reconsider the original hypothesis.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Sean said, but he hesitated. Janet was making good sense. The fact was that Forbes was getting one hundred percent remission, apparently with medication that was not individualized. Sean had seen that success documented in the thirty-three cases. Therefore, there had to be an error in his insistence on the immunological specificity of cancer cells.
“You have to admit I have a point,” Janet persisted.
“Okay,” Sean said, “but I still think there’s something strange with all this. Something I’m missing.”
“Obviously,” Janet said. “You don’t know what antigen the immunoglobulin reacts with. That’s what’s missing. Once you figure that out maybe everything else will fall into place. Let’s see what a relaxing weekend will do for your creativity. Maybe by Monday you’ll have an idea that will get you around this apparent roadblock.”
After passing through the heart of the Everglades, Sean and Janet began to see signs of civilization. First there was an isolated resort or two, then the road expanded to four lanes. Quickly the saw grass gave way to strip malls, convenience gas station/food stores, and miniature golf courses equally as ugly as on the Miami side.
“I’d heard Naples was upscale,” Janet said. “This hardly looks upscale.”
“Let’s hold our verdict until we get to the Gulf,” Sean said.
The road suddenly turned north, and the unattractive profusion of unrestricted signs and commercial development continued.
“How can so many strip malls survive?” Janet asked.
“It’s one of the mysteries of American culture,” Sean said.
With map in hand, Janet did the navigating. She gave Sean plenty of warning before they had to turn left toward the water.
“It’s starting to look a bit more promising,” Sean said.
After a mile or so of more scenic vistas, the Mediterranean-style Ritz Carlton loomed out of the mangroves to the left of the road. The profusion of lush tropical plants and exotic flowers was staggering.
“Ah, home!” Sean said as they pulled beneath the porte cochere.
A man in a blue morning coat and a black top hat opened their car doors. “Welcome to the Ritz Carlton,” the liveried gentleman said.
They entered through oversized glass doors into a haze of polished pink marble, expansive Oriental carpets, and crystal chandeliers. High tea was being served on the dais beneath the huge arched windows. Off to the side was a grand piano complete with tuxedoed pianist.
Sean put his arm around Janet as they meandered over to the registration desk. “I think I’m going to like this place,” he told her.
TOM WIDDICOMB had gone through a range of emotions during his two-hour pursuit. Initially when Janet and Sean had headed out of town toward the Everglades, he’d been disturbed. Then he’d decided it was a good thing. If they were on some mini-vacation, they’d be lax and unsuspecting. In the city, people were naturally more suspicious and careful. But as one hour turned into two, and Tom began to eye his gas gauge, he’d become angry. This woman had caused him so much trouble, he began to wish they’d just pull over to the side of the road. Then he could stop and shoot them both and put an end to it all.
As he pulled into the Ritz Carlton, he wondered if he had any gas at all. The gauge had registered empty for the last five miles.
Avoiding the front entrance, Tom drove around and parked in a large lot next to the tennis courts. Getting out of his car he ran up the drive, slowing when he saw the red rental car parked directly in front of the entrance. Clutching the handle of the pistol in his pocket, Tom walked around the car and fell in with a group of guests and entered the hotel. He was afraid someone might try to stop him, but no one did. Nervously, he scanned the lavish foyer. He spotted Janet and Sean standing at the registration desk.
With his anger giving him courage, Tom boldly walked to the registration desk and stood next to Sean. Janet was just on the other side of him. Being so close sent a shiver down Tom’s spine.
“We’re out of nonsmoking rooms with an ocean view,” the desk person said to Sean. She was a petite woman with large eyes, golden hair, and the type of tan that made dermatologists cringe.
Sean looked at Janet and raised his eyebrows. “What do you think?” he asked.
“We can see how bad the smoking room is,” she suggested.
Sean turned back to the receptionist. “What floor is your room with the ocean view?” he asked.
“Fifth floor,” the receptionist said. “Room 501. It’s a beautiful room.”
“Okay,” Sean said. “Let’s give it a try.”
Tom moved away from the registration desk, silently mouthing “Room 501” as he headed for the elevators. He saw a heavyset man in a business suit with a small earphone in his ear. Tom avoided him. The whole time he kept his hand in his pocket, clutching his pistol.
ROBERT HARRIS stood by the piano racked by indecision. Like Tom, he’d been exhilarated early in the chase. Tom’s obvious pursuit of Janet seemed to confirm his fledgling theory. But as the procession left Miami, he’d become irritated, especially when he too thought he might run out of gas. On top of that, he was starved; his last meal had been early that morning. Now that they had made it all the way through the Everglades to the Ritz Carlton in Naples, he was having doubts as to what exactly the journey proved. It certainly was no crime to drive to Naples, and Tom could contend he hadn’t been following anybody. Sadly, Harris had to admit that as of yet, he hadn’t come up with anything conclusive. The link between Tom and the attack on Janet or the breast cancer patient deaths was tenuous at best, still made up only of hypothesis and conjecture.
Harris knew he’d have to wait for Tom to make an overtly aggressive move toward Janet, and he hoped he would. After all, Tom’s apparent interest in the nurse could be chalked up to some crazy obsession. The woman wasn’t bad. In fact she was reasonably attractive and sexy; Harris himself had appreciated that.
Feeling distinctly out of place dressed as he was in shorts and T-shirt, Harris skirted the piano as Tom Widdicomb disappeared from view down the hallway past reception. Walking quickly, Harris passed Janet and Sean, who were still busy checking in.
Up ahead, Harris could see Tom round a corner and disappear from sight. Harris was about to pick up his pace when he felt a hand grab his arm. Turning, he looked into the face of a heavyset man with an earphone stuck in his right ear. He was dressed in a dark suit, presumably to blend in with the guests. He wasn’t a guest. He was hotel security.
“Excuse me,” the security man said. “May I help you?”
Harris cast a quick glance in the direction Tom had gone, then looked back at the security man who still had hold of his arm. He knew he had to think of something quickly . . .
“WHAT ARE we going to do?” Wayne asked. He was hunched over the steering wheel. The green Mercedes was parked at the curb near the main entrance to the Ritz Carlton. Ahead of them was the limousine parked on one side of the porte cochere. No one had gotten out of the limousine although the liveried doorman had spoken with the driver, and the driver had handed him a bill, presumably a large denomination.
“I truly don’t know what to do,” Sterling said. “My intuition tells me to stay with Tanaka, but I’m concerned about Mr. Harris’s entering the hotel. I have no idea what he plans to do.”
“Uh oh!” Wayne uttered. “More complications.” Ahead they saw the front passenger-side door of the limousine open. An immaculately dressed, youthful Japanese man climbed out. He placed a portable phone on top of the car, adjusted his dark tie, and buttoned his jacket. Then he picked up the phone and went into the hotel.
“Do you think they might be considering killing Sean Murphy?” Wayne asked. “That dude looks like a professional to me.”
“I would be terribly surprised,” Sterling said. “It’s not the Japanese way. On the other hand, Tanaka is not your typical Japanese, especially with his connections to the Yakusa. And biotechnology has become an extremely
