No One Lives Forever

in the U.S.' The doctor shrugged. 'We're making strides.'

Strides? Strides in their agenda. Maybe that was the point. Interesting that Phillips was more concerned by a U.S. ban than the therapeutic aspects. Finding a way around U.S. laws and international borders handed them a get-out-of-jail card in case they needed it. Making strides around the law on a global scale could be quite lucrative until they were deterred by legal measures. And with enough distribution infrastructures, they could operate for a long time before they were shut down, country by country. The arm of the law moved slowly across jurisdictions. But he realized he had to know more about the plant itself.

'You said the Iboga stimulates the nervous system. How does it work exactly?'

Phillips appeared uneasy by his interrogation.

'When taken in small doses, it reduces sleep, makes it possible to resist hunger and fatigue, and activates circulation and respiration. The root material has an astringent bitter taste when chewed, causing an anesthetic sensation in the mouth and numbness to the skin,' the doctor explained. 'Local natives use it in rituals and tribal dances to stimulate spiritual hallucinations, particularly at night. Apparently, darkness accentuates the haunting experience. And because it's not addictive, they consider it quite harmless. Now I really must be going.'

'Yeah, but human nature being what it is . . .' Christian touched the man's arm to grab his attention. '. . . someone always pushes the limit. What happens when the dose is upped to overload, Doc?'

He knew he pushed the guy's buttons, but his mind was filled with questions. Jasmine, impatient as well, stood behind Phillips and glared at him, arms crossed and foot tapping. Some forms of communication needed no translation.

A concerned look shadowed the doctor's face, an uneasy fear. 'In massive doses, it can cause death by paralysis of the respiratory muscles. Not a pleasant way to go, I'm afraid. The victim suffers extensive hallucinations in a frenzied state. And they endure profound paranoia before they simply suffocate, strangled by the failure of their crippled lungs. Agonizing.'

That sounded way too personal.

'You've witnessed an overdose before?'

The doctor stared off into the distance, his mind in another time and place.

'Once.' The peaceful setting of the arboretum mocked the memory he relived. 'And once is quite enough.'

The man cleared his throat and ushered them out of the hothouse and back into the main corridor.

'I'm afraid that's all the time I have today.' The director turned for the offices up front, expecting them to follow.

'Wait a minute. What's down here?' Christian pointed to a corridor the man had avoided.

'Oh, that's nothing. A medical clinic we set up to serve the local community.' Phillips turned to go, but neither Jasmine nor Christian followed. When the man looked back over his shoulder, he added, 'I assure you it's nothing. Minor injuries, immunizations, really basic health care for the locals. It was negotiated . . . recently.'

'Such a humanitarian gesture. I would think you'd want to show it off.' Christian shrugged and stood his ground.

Jasmine joined him, crossing her arms. 'The last time my employer came for a visit, this clinic was not in service. I would also like to see it for myself.'

Dr. Phillips sighed. 'Very well. Follow me,' he conceded, and headed toward the health facility. His jaw was knotted with tension, nudging a nasty cluster of purple veins jutting from his temple.

With a pained grimace, Christian hoisted the tote carrying the dead snake and voodoo artifacts onto his sore shoulder and waved an arm for Jasmine to pass.

'After you, Ms. Lee.'

The beautiful woman said nothing. Her sly wink gave him the only Atta boy he'd get.

CHAPTER 10

Like a Russian nesting doll, the clinic was burrowed neatly within the much larger genetics facility, only a fraction of the puzzle Charboneau's money had funded. If Christian hadn't paid attention on the tour, he might never have noticed the breezeway link to this section of the compound. The medical clinic had been cordoned off from the rest of the secured research laboratory, with a circular drive and a small parking lot outside. On the taxi ride in, he hadn't noticed any signs directing traffic to a healthcare clinic. Yet it looked like an entrance allowed the public through an open gate without security during the day, giving the community better access.

Being the cordial guide, Dr. Phillips now led them through the main ward. Contrary to what the doctor had led them to believe, the facility mainly catered to expectant mothers, not just general health concerns. Christian might not have given this a second thought since everything appeared in order—except for Jasmine's behavior. Her classic stoic face morphed into edgy apprehension. When the doctor's back was turned, she stepped toward the bed of a pregnant teenage girl, grabbed her chart and scanned the girl's medical history.

'What's wrong?' Christian whispered, turning his back on their host. She kept reading, a troubled look on her face.

Eventually, Dr. Phillips stepped between them and yanked the chart from Jasmine. 'In this facility, we respect a patient's right to privacy.'

'Yes, of course.' Jasmine nodded her apology, a courteous bow of her head. 'I was merely curious.'

She walked up to the young girl, who couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. Shoulder length black hair, skin the color of caramel, and large hazel eyes brimming with uncertainty. Even with her swollen belly, she looked small and frail in the hospital bed. But the young girl managed a smile. Jasmine reached for her, ran fingers through her bangs and touched her cheek.

Christian had no idea she could muster such affection. Well, I'll be damned! When the doctor headed back to see what Jasmine was up to, he waved the man off.

'The girl reminded her of someone. Let it go.' He knew Jasmine had something on her mind. To deflect attention away from her, he went on the offensive. 'Is this place linked to the research conducted at the lab?'

'No, this clinic is purely humanitarian in nature. What are you implying?'

Christian stepped in, closing the gap with Dr. Phillips, while Jasmine made the rounds.

'Come on, Doc. You mean you're not even tempted to further your research with discarded tissue samples? You do fertility work here?'

From the corner of his eye, Christian saw Jasmine steal a peek at other med charts. No doubt, she had something on her mind. And for his part in the diversion—making a belligerent ass of himself—he expected Jasmine's cooperation when it came time to share her suspicions.

The doctor's skin grew flush, almost purple, to match the veins on his face.

'Mr. Delacorte. Are you suggesting this clinic is involved in stem cell research with unsuspecting donors?'

Christian had no idea where he would go with this line of questioning. He only wanted to stall. From the corner of his eye he caught Jasmine motioning with her hand, a signal for him to keep going. Well, damn it! Read faster. As she flipped through another chart, he dug through his memory for something more to say.

'I've heard a lot of embryos are tossed in the fertility process. I bet that seems like a waste for a researcher like you. Too much temptation?'

Before the man blew a gasket, Christian saved the best for last.

'And what about genetic engineering?' He waggled a finger. 'A controversial subject. But with the genome for drug addiction identified, wouldn't it be possible to reengineer a junkie, steer him away from his addiction?'

From fertility and pregnant mothers to a point counterpoint on crazed meth heads, Dr. Phillips grappled with the change in topic. But the way Christian figured it, when grasping at straws, sound reasoning only got in the way.

The man took a deep breath and nodded. 'Yes, that's our hope.'

'Is it, Dr. Phillips? Is that what Nicholas Charboneau had in mind with this privately funded research?' When the director didn't answer, Christian pressed. 'Isn't it also possible to engineer a normal person into