to know one another and possibly even falling in love.
But before she agreed to try and settle, there was something she had to know. 'Matt, tell me. If you could script this whole legal thing exactly the way you wanted-the way that would benefit you the most-how would it go?'
He looked at her strangely. 'What a funny question. What do you mean the way that would benefit me the most?'
'Financially, career-wise. You know.'
She debated, then rejected, the notion of sharing with him what Ruth had told her. The woman was too gabby, and probably a professional liability to him, but it seemed premature to make trouble.
For a moment, she was afraid Matt was about to guess that she knew more about his situation than he had shared with her.
'Well,' he said finally, 'I suppose if the hypothetical options were placed in order, the number-one most desirable would be a knock-down, drag-out court battle against Jeremy Mallon that generated a ton of publicity and fees for me, followed by a jury verdict of no negligence for you.'
'And the number-one least desirable?'
'The same exact scenario, I suppose, except that we lose. That would pretty much finish me as far as malpractice cases go, to say nothing of referrals. In this game, everybody knows who wins and who doesn't. And nobody likes to put their life on the line with an established loser.'
'Is that why you recommend that we try to settle?'
He slammed on the brakes and glared at her, oblivious to the blaring horn behind him.
'Is that what you think?' he asked.
'I–I'm sorry. No, that's not what I think, and it's not what I meant. Dammit, Matt, I'm not putting things together too clearly. I just want this whole business to be over.'
His expression quickly softened. He reached over and squeezed her hand. Then he pulled over to the curb. 'Sarah, I'd let someone put bamboo splinters under my fingernails if I thought it would help us win in court. But I've been working like hell on every angle I can think of, and I keep running into dead ends. If I'm pushing too hard to settle, it's probably because today just gave me a firsthand feel for what it's going to be like.
'Still, if it's what you want, or if they refuse our offer, I'm ready to dig in and do battle. You probably don't know much about relief pitchers, but we're notoriously lacking in the part of the brain that tells a person there is legitimate reason to be frightened of something. Suggesting we settle is what I think is best for you. It may be best for me, too, but believe me, that's incidental. Think about it, though. This case has already generated more publicity than most, and it hasn't really even started. If we go to trial, you're going to be the featured performer in a three- ring circus like you couldn't imagine. Axel Devlin will be just one of your problems.'
'I understand. Matt, I'm sorry for what I said before. I'll let you know as soon as I decide.'
He nodded and pulled back into the traffic.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'One way or the other, things will work out. And no matter what happens…'
'Yes?' Go ahead, Matt, say it, she urged silently. Tell me that no matter what happens, we'll face it together. Tell me how happy you are that we've met.
'I-um-I just want you to know I'm behind you one hundred percent.'
Two silent minutes later, he pulled to a stop by the main entrance to MCB. Sarah thanked him and momentarily considered sharing her own feelings. Finally she turned away. He had enough pressure on him as it was. If she was reading him wrong, she would just be adding to it.
She entered the campus through the security gate and headed toward the surgical building where she had left her bicycle. A short ride through the arboretum would be just the ticket before her long-overdue session in the dictation carrel. To settle or to fight? Her thoughts were racing. Distracted, she was just a few yards from the surgical building before she realized what had happened.
A bucket of paint-bright red enamel-had been poured over her bike. Tied onto the seat was a rag doll, also drenched in glistening scarlet. One of its arms had been ripped off and dropped on the ground. Its abdomen had been slashed open. Pinned to its chest was a crudely written sign that read
KILLER QUACK
Sarah tried, unsuccessfully, to keep calm. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she raced into the surgical building. Her first call was to hospital security. Her second was to Matt.
'Please call me at the hospital, Matt,' she said to his answering machine. 'It's very important that I see you as soon as possible. I've decided what I want to do.'
CHAPTER 24
'The tissue cultures are ruined. All of them. This has never happened before. Absolutely never.'
The distraught microbiology technician, a bright young man named Chris Hall, shook his head in disbelief. Rosa patted his arm consolingly, although in truth she was probably the more upset of the two of them.
'When did you check them last?' she asked.
'Yesterday afternoon. I go through the incubators each afternoon. It's not just your stuff that's been lost, it's everything. Dozens and dozens of experiments and cultures are gone. God, I just can't believe this. Dr. Wheelock, Dr. Caro, Dr. Blankenship-they're all going to be furious. I changed the growth media yesterday, and the stuff I threw away was perfect-crystal clear. Somehow, the replacement media must have been contaminated with some kind of cytotoxin.'
'Easy does it, Chris,' Rosa said. 'These things happen. Anyone who's ever done any microbiology understands it-especially anyone who's worked with tissue cultures.' Unlike bacteria, which were grown in the laboratory on top of solid, nutrient agar, viruses could only be grown within sheets of living, multiplying cells-tissue cultures. 'Show me a lab that's never had any problem with tissue culture contamination,' she went on, 'and I'll show you a lab that's not getting any work done. Do you have any frozen backup specimens?'
'Some.'
'Any of the specimens I gave you?'
'I don't think so. Dr. Suarez, I'm sorry. I really am.'
'Chris, listen. If you did it on purpose, you may apologize. Otherwise, just go and get your lab back in shape, and don't worry. We'll do fine.'
She was determined not to add to the earnest technician's distress by snapping at him. But a pounding, fatigue-and-frustration-driven headache was making her more irritable every second. In fact, although she would not share the information with Chris Hall no matter what, the lost cultures were not the disaster they might have been-at least not yet. Because of BART, she had become nearly paranoid about backing up even the most trivial work. She had sent duplicates of everything to Ken Mulholland, an old friend at the CDC lab in Atlanta. At last check, a week or so ago, he had found nothing.
'I hope the others are as understanding as you are,' Chris said.
'Oh, I'm sure they will be. Do you have the log book of the cultures you were running for me?'
He handed over a standard, cardboard-bound lab notebook, with R. Suarez written on the cover. Rosa opened her briefcase and laid the notebook on top of Connie Hidalgo's diary. After some Tylenol and a nap, the diary would be her next project.
'Did I mention that I was just beginning to see something in a couple of your bottles?' Chris asked.
'No. No, you didn't.'
'I marked the specimens with stars in the margin of the log book, so I could check them a little more frequently. It was nothing definite, mind you; just the slight rattiness of the tissue sheet that we sometimes see during early infection. We see the same sort of changes when the tissue cells themselves are running out of gas. That's when we know we need to thaw out a new batch.'
'Thank you, Chris. I'll break the code when I get back to my room and see which specimens were in those bottles.'
