Bleeding in the Eye of a Brainstorm

Chapter 9

I slept fitfully, awakening often with painful muscle spasms and cramps, my dreams haunted by the pasty white faces of deadly puppets coming at me with cattle prods. I awoke in midmorning twisted like a pretzel. Drinking up all that voltage pumped into me by Punch and Judy had definitely not been welcomed by my muscles, joints, nerves, and acetylcholine, and my body was telling me to go on about my business if I liked, but it would take its own sweet time recuperating, thank you very much.

After a half hour of stretching exercises, calisthenics, and a hot shower, I could move more easily. I dressed, then went downstairs to check on my charges. Margaret was stronger, able to sit up now, and I found Michael in her room. Apparently they enjoyed each other's company, and had been talking all morning, swapping stories. Margaret had been telling the man about her former existence-what she could remember-as Mama Spit, and Michael had been telling her about life at Rivercliff. From Margaret's description of the murdered man who had given her the plastic bag of black-and-yellow capsules, Michael had given the patient a name-Philip Mayepoles. I duly noted the information so as to pass it on to MacWhorter.

It occurred to me that it might be very useful at some time in the future to have the reminiscences of the two schizophrenics on tape, and so I retrieved a tape recorder from my apartment, gave it to them along with several blank cassettes. When I left them, Michael was speaking into the microphone, talking about Rivercliff.

When I went downstairs to my office, I found Francisco in a foul mood. Precisely those qualities that made him such an excellent administrator and assistant also made him an occasional pain in the ass. He was obsessive about having clean desks-mine as well as his; he considered it his sworn duty to see that all business-mine as well as his-was taken care of promptly, and in the past week I had certainly let things slide. He knew nothing about what I was involved in, but he did as he was told and never asked questions, in this case not even about the miraculous transformation of the woman who, until a week before, had sat in rags on a grate and cursed and spat at him every time he passed by. Francisco had no objections whatsoever to playing butler for my two mysterious guests and monitoring their movements to make sure they stayed out of sight; what he did object to was the small mountain of unsigned documents, unfinished reports, and unanswered messages that were piling up on the desk in my office, which was behind his. When he began to mutter darkly about how he was going to have to look for new employment after Frederickson and Frederickson lost all its clients and could no longer afford to pay him, I saluted, then dutifully marched on my cramping legs into my office and closed the door behind me.

The first call I made was to Veil Kendry, a friend who, along with my brother and Chant Sinclair, was one of the three most dangerous men I knew. In addition to being a world-class painter, a creator of eerily beautiful murals that could be divided up into segments, he was a consummate martial artist, my personal sensei, who had, on more than a few occasions, taught me more than a few things about wreaking havoc on people who were trying to wreak havoc on me. Veil had other students, men and women from whom he accepted no payment and whom Veil chose through a selection process I did not understand; Veil, something of a mystic, would say only that they had been "sent" to him, as I had been "sent" to him. I didn't care how he selected them, but at the moment these were the kinds of people I needed sent to me.

I trusted Veil completely, and so I told him the whole story about Mama Spit, Michael Stout, Rivercliff, Raymond Rogers, the drug, the shepherdess and her lost flock, Punch and Judy. He immediately understood the nature of my problem; Punch and Judy knew where I lived, and I had to worry about a return visit, if not by them personally, then by other assassins who might be in the employ of the people responsible for Rivercliff. I had to worry not only about myself but also about Francisco, if they came during the day, and Margaret Dutton and Michael Stout were a surprise package the assassins would be most delighted to find and dispatch. Whoever was sent was certain to be highly skillful at breaking and entering as well as killing, and it was possible everyone in the brownstone could be murdered in their sleep unless precautions were taken. We needed protection.

Veil told me he would assume responsibility for the security of everyone in the brownstone, around the clock; two-person teams would be assigned to eight-hour shifts, with one guard on the ground floor and one on the top. He would take the midnight-to-eight shift himself, since that was the time he usually painted and he would use the hours to work. I declined his offer to have somebody follow me around when I left the house. I insisted on paying him and his students, but he only laughed, reminding me that he would be dead if not for me. I reminded him that I would be dead if not for him, and argued that at least his students should be paid. He explained that his students were not allowed to take money for the use of the skills he taught them, and that the people he chose to guard the brownstone would be only too happy to have the opportunity to practice something he called "vigilance technique." I thanked him profusely, and hung up.

I spent some time returning what I considered to be the most important calls, canceled some appointments and rescheduled others in order to provide myself with blocks of time to do whatever it was I was going to have to do to prevent the tragedy that was going to take place in less than three weeks if I couldn't find a fresh supply of the drug the escaped patients were taking. A half hour later the first team of bodyguards arrived, a black man named Ted, who appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and a slight, fresh-faced Asian woman named Kim, who looked as if she could be bowled over by a good sneeze, which I knew was not the case. I showed them around the brownstone, introduced them to Margaret and Michael and Francisco, then left them to their own devices.

Punch and Judy, or anybody else who tried to enter the brownstone uninvited, were going to get the surprise-maybe the last-of their lives.

Step Four.

I did some paperwork, hid the rest of the stack behind a filing cabinet when Francisco wasn't looking, and at eleven-thirty sneaked out past Francisco and walked the few blocks to Frank Lemengello's lab. His was a report I wanted to hear in person.

"The reason the capsule is so big is because there's so much stuff in it," the husky, bushy-haired chemist said as he ushered me into his office. "There isn't just one component, but a whole slew. It's like a soup-a cocktail, if you will. There's a mixture of different drugs, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of them didn't actually counteract each other. Here's the breakdown."

He handed me a computer printout listing the chemicals by name and molecular structure. I noticed one long line of letters and numbers with a big question mark beside it. I didn't much like what I was hearing, which sounded very complex, or the sight of the big, hand-drawn question mark on the printout, which was worse than complex, and did not bode well. "Can you be a little more specific, Frank? How many ingredients can you identify?"

"I can put a name to five. There's lithium, Thorazine, Ritalin, a chemical analog of Prozac, and even what appears to be an analog for Roxian, a Swedish medication for schizophrenics used for a while in Europe, until a couple of patients died. Most are heavy-duty psychotropics, used for treating the seriously mentally ill."

"By 'analogs' you mean they're not the actual drugs, but close to it?"

"That's right. It's all noted on the printout, along with the relative proportions found in the capsule. I've never heard of mixing those drugs together like that. Most of them can have some pretty unpleasant side effects."

"Like what?"

Frank shrugged his broad shoulders. "The side effects can range from simple things like dry mouth and constipation to serious depression and dyskinesia-uncontrollable muscle contractions and rigidity. Lithium, for example, is actually toxic. It's almost never given in the same dose to different patients. Usually the physician takes into account the body weight of a patient before prescribing a particular dosage, and then the blood is closely monitored for levels of toxicity."

"I know about the side effects you mentioned. What about others?"

"They'd all be listed in the literature, or on the labels or in the pamphlets given out by the various companies that manufacture the drugs. You can look them up in a pharmaceuticals manual."

"What about side effects that aren't listed on labels or in the literature?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know-anything."

"All side effects that have been observed in human testing have to be described in the written materials put out by the pharmaceuticals companies licensed to manufacture the various drugs. It's the law. If you can tell me what it is you're rooting around for, maybe I can be more helpful. The things I mentioned are the major side effects associated with those drugs-that I know of. But then, I'm not a physician."

"Frank, I don't know what I'm rooting around for. Tell me about the drug you can't identify."

"Now there's a puzzler. As you can see from the printout, more than half of the compound in the capsule was this stuff, more than all of the other drugs combined. But it's new, with a molecular structure not described in any of the pharmaceuticals or chemical manuals. It doesn't have a name. All I can tell you is that it's a large molecule, a really big mother. It's very complex, and almost certainly man-made."

"What's your best guess as to what this big mother molecule does?"

"It could be a kind of binder to help the other drugs work together more effectively, or it could be a whole new type of psychotropic. My best guess is that it's both."

"And?"

"I can't tell you any more than that from just looking at the molecular structure. Psychotropics act on the brain in ways that aren't completely understood. For example, nobody knows why lithium works so effectively for some manic-depressives. Give Ritalin to a hyperactive kid, and it calms him down; give it to a normal adult, and he'll start climbing the walls. I'd say this new stuff is definitely toxic. I wouldn't want any of it in my bloodstream or brain."

"Is it possible that this drug magnifies side effects, or even creates new ones?"

"Why the hell would any manufacturer want to create a drug to treat mental illness that would amplify side effects? That's a crazy idea-if you'll pardon the expression."

"Forgive the stupid questions of a naive layman. I'm not concerned with the manufacturer's motives, only in whether you think it's possible this drug might act in that way."

"I can't tell from the data I have. Where the hell did you get this stuff, Mongo?"

I considered my answer carefully. I hated to lie to Frank, but I couldn't afford to provide him with information that he didn't need to know and that could prove dangerous for both of us. I needed his help, if I could get it, and he had to remain almost totally ignorant of what I was up to if I didn't want to make him a witting accomplice. I finally decided on a reply that was at least partially true. "It's floating around on the street."

"You mean dope dealers are offering this stuff for sale and people are actually buying it?"

"Well, not exactly. It's just out there on the street."

"The drugs I can identify in that capsule you gave me wouldn't give a healthy person anything but grief."

"It's a little complicated, Frank. I just need to know all I can about that combination of drugs."

"There isn't much more to tell you, except that I don't see how this compound could have any value as a street drug. Except for the Ritalin, which is actually methylphenidate hydrochloride, and granted that I don't know what that new drug does, there's nothing in the compound I can identify that would give anybody a high. Ritalin is nothing more than a mild stimulant, and the other drugs are used to treat schizophrenia and other psychoses. You'd get a lot more bang for your buck with the amphetamines or cocaine for sale out there. An emotionally stable person wouldn't get any jolt out of taking this stuff, would still experience the nasty side effects, and might be in big trouble if he or she suddenly stopped taking it cold turkey without medical supervision."

"Why, Frank? What might happen to a person who'd been on this stuff for a time and then suddenly stopped taking it?"

"I'd just be guessing. An MD could give you a better picture."

"Please. Guess away."

"The known psychotropics in this compound alter blood chemistry, in some cases dramatically, and I have to assume the unidentified drug does the same thing-maybe in an even bigger way. So your blood and all of your organs kind of become adapted to that alteration. My guess is that once you start taking this stuff you have to keep taking it, or be weaned off it very carefully to allow the blood chemistry to return back to normal. Abrupt withdrawal could cause trauma. An analogy would be an alcoholic getting the shakes and DTs if he doesn't get his booze. Except that I suspect being suddenly deprived of this stuff could kill you. Why can't you bring me nice, simple things, like those samples of Hudson River water you lugged in here a couple of years ago?"

"You think medical people, maybe a psychiatrist or some kind of researcher, could tell me what that unidentified drug is?"

Frank shook his head. "I strongly doubt it; they'd consult the same references I did. You'd have to find the manufacturer. They're the people who researched and developed this compound, in house, and exactly how they did that is most likely a closely guarded trade secret. They're probably running computer models and doing animal testing, hoping to eventually get FDA approval for human trials. That could take years, because they've got a lot of rough spots to smooth out. They could never get approval for this formulation-too toxic. This stuff is dangerous."

"Frank, let me ask you a question. Could a good chemist-you, for example-make up a batch of this compound using the ingredients in the capsule as a model?"

He studied me for a few moments, and when he replied his voice had a slight edge to it. "Why would any respectable chemist want to do such a thing?"

"I'm just curious. Could it be done?"

"Highly unlikely. The five drugs I mentioned are off the shelf, available by prescription or DEA license. But that last drug, which makes up the bulk of the compound, is another matter. Researchers for pharmaceuticals companies use supercomputers to design and manufacture new drugs like that. It's not like processing heroin or cocaine, where the method is known. I couldn't replicate the stuff, and I wouldn't if I could. There would be no purpose. God knows how long the company that made this compound has been working on formulation, and what they have is still useless, dangerous to humans. Trying to replicate it without proper licensing is probably illegal, and the fact that there are capsules out on the street represents a serious breach of security by the manufacturer. Do the police know about this?"

"I've been reporting to the local precinct commander personally," I said, rolling up the computer printout and putting it under my arm. "Thanks, Frank. Send me a bill."

"Will do. Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mongo. I hope you and the cops nail whoever is responsible for letting that stuff escape from the lab, and I hope they get put away."

I hoped for the same thing. But I didn't want them put away just yet-not until their current victims were out of harm's way, and that necessitated getting another batch of the compound, possibly a big one, before those victims went away permanently.

Step Five.

An unplanned improvisation.

I'd hoped to persuade Frank Lemengello, once he'd identified what was in the capsule, to make up some for me after he'd been told the reason I needed it. But he'd made it clear to me that he couldn't, and wouldn't, no matter what the reason, and I couldn't say I blamed him. But if Frank couldn't do it, I had to find somebody else with the appropriate expertise who might be willing to at least take a stab at it, and I knew only one other candidate-a highly unlikely one, since I wasn't sure he would even talk to me.

I waited across the street from the lab, next to a newsstand, for twenty minutes. At 12:45, Bailey Kramer, wearing a sheepskin coat, emerged from the lab and headed in the opposite direction, presumably to have lunch. I hurried across the street and ran after him, catching up with the defrocked professor as he waited for the light to change at the end of the block.

"Let me buy you a hot dog, Bailey," I said as the light turned green and I fell into step beside him.

He glanced down, and if he was surprised to see me he didn't show it. His face didn't reveal any emotion, and he simply said, "No, thank you."

"All right, then, a real lunch."

"No, thank you," he repeated, and quickened his pace.

"This is important to me, Bailey. It could also be important to you."

"What do you want from me?"

"I can't talk and jog like this at the same time."

Kramer abruptly stopped walking and turned to face me, studying me with his soulful dark eyes. "What do you want?"

"What do you want to eat?"

"A hot dog will be fine."

I bought us hot dogs and sodas at a Sabrett stand in the next block, and we sat on the concrete lip of a fountain and reflecting pool outside a bank. The tall black man ate his hot dog and sipped at his soda in silence as he stared down at the sidewalk. I wondered if he was thinking of the future Garth and I had helped take from him. I finished my dog and soda, got up to throw our wrappers and cans in a trash basket, came back, and again sat down beside him.

"I have a job for you, Dr. Kramer."

"If you want to talk to me, Frederickson, don't call me Dr. Kramer. I already have a job that you got for me."

"I have another job for you, Bailey, in addition to the one you have now."

"Mr. Kramer."

"I have another job for Mr. Kramer, if he wants it. It's not an easy job; in fact, it's so difficult that I'm not sure it can be done by one man, even you, in the time I need it done-which is by Christmas Eve, two and a half weeks. I can't pay you even a small fraction of what this work is worth, assuming it is possible for you to do it. Also, you will most likely end up in prison for a long time if you get caught doing it, because it's essentially the same kind of work you got busted for."

He slowly turned his head to look at me, and for the first time his face and eyes registered emotion-in this case surprise bordering on astonishment. "You want me to design a narcotic?"

"Not exactly. I want you to replicate a compound. Most of the ingredients are off-the-shelf prescription drugs, but one ingredient hasn't been identified, and there's where the hard work begins. What you'll end up with isn't a narcotic, but it's highly toxic. To make this compound would almost certainly be deemed illegal, at the least, and in your case a parole violation, which amounts to the same thing."

Bailey Kramer slowly shook his head. His initial look of astonishment had mellowed to mere amusement, and there was a thin smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You sure are one terrific salesman, Frederickson. Let me see if I've got this straight. You, of all people, want me to do something illegal for you, essentially the same thing you and your brother got me busted for, and you can't even begin to pay me what the job is worth."

"Yeah. That's about it."

"Would you like me to distribute the product for you too?"

"No distribution. I'm your sole customer."

"What, am I supposed to take a commission?"

"No commission. What you make won't be for sale."

"It sounds to me like you're going to make an even worse dope dealer than a salesman. Why the hell do you want to joke with me, Frederickson?"

"I'm not joking, Mr. Kramer."

"Stop calling me Mr. Kramer. It sounds silly coming from someone with whom I have such an intimate relationship."

"I didn't want to make my main pitch and then have to temporize with a lot of ohs, ands, buts, and the like. I figured it was best to give you the bad news up front."

"Devilishly clever of you, Frederickson. What's the good news?"

"I'm not sure there is any for you; that's for you to decide. Can I give you the rest of my spiel now?"

Kramer shrugged, and once again there was the slightest trace of a smile on his face. "After that teaser about the possibility of going to prison for doing this thing, how can I resist?"

I took another one of the black-and-yellow capsules I had borrowed from Margaret Dutton's supply out of my pocket, used it to tap on the rolled-up computer printout I had taken from under my arm and placed between us on the stone ledge. "This printout is a chemical analysis of the ingredients contained in a capsule just like this one. Like I said, most of the ingredients are prescription drugs-but the main ingredient, the stuff that makes it work the way it does, hasn't been identified. It's something new that's been carefully designed for its purpose, and it will probably have to be synthesized from scratch. I don't know how I'm going to get hold of the prescription drugs to add to it, but I'll think of something. I'll supply you with all the equipment, materials, space-whatever you need. I don't know how I'll do that either, but I will. You just sit down and make me a list of what you require. What I need for you to do is come up with a way to replicate that unidentified substance. I need a lot of it, enough for an indefinite number of doses in the ratio you'll find in this capsule, and on the printout. And I need it by Christmas Eve-a day or two before, if you can manage it, because I'll need time to package the doses."

"Frank did this analysis?"

"Yep."

"Did you ask him to make this stuff for you?"

"Not directly. He clearly indicated that he wouldn't even if he could, and he said he couldn't."

"So now you want me to make it for you."

"Yep."

"You going into the drug-dealing business, Frederickson?"

"If you want to look at it that way, yes. Except this dope isn't a narcotic; it's an extremely powerful psychotropic."

Kramer picked up the printout, unrolled it, and gave the contents barely a glance before saying, "It's a number of psychotropics, and one amphetamine."

"All working in concert with the unidentified substance to provide one hell of a jerk back to reality-that is, if you're psychotic."

"It looks very toxic."

"It is very toxic. I said so."

"Frank told you he couldn't replicate this. You think I can?"

"You tell me. Better yet, show me. You're the hotshot chemist. Will you do it?"

"What the hell do you want this stuff for, Frederickson? This drug compound can't be much good for anything. Normal people wouldn't get anything out of taking it but a puckered mouth and a sour stomach. Half of these drugs are already available, in carefully monitored dosages, to the people who need them if they're under a doctor's care. I don't need to know a great deal about the unidentified drug on the printout to recognize that this formulation could kill you. Any psychiatrist who prescribed this should be locked up."

"It's a long story, Bailey, so I'm going to give you the Classics Illustrated version. Right now there are about a dozen very seriously mentally ill people here in the city."

"This is a news flash? I would have thought there were more than that not far from where we're sitting."

"Not like these people, Bailey. I'm talking serious psychotic. These people are chronic schizophrenics who have been institutionalized most of their lives. But they're able to function normally, thanks to the compound in this capsule. It's true that the drug is highly toxic, but it seems to be its own antidote-probably one of many functions of that unidentified component. The problem is that you can't stop taking it once you start. It's been manufactured illegally, and used exclusively for illegal experiments on the people I mentioned. There probably isn't any way of getting a fresh supply of this stuff through any kind of normal, legal channel. All of these people are going to run out of the supply they have by Christmas Eve. When that happens, they'll first plunge back into madness, and within a few hours they'll die-quickly and badly, from massive internal hemorrhaging. The supply I want you to replicate represents an insurance policy that will buy them the time I need to try to find a way to solve their medical problem through more acceptable channels. Without a new supply of this specific compound, they're outta here come Christmas."

Bailey put the printout back down on the ledge, looked away. "Shit," he said quietly.

"This is a heavy-duty job with heavy-duty risks, Bailey. What else can I say? If I could think of any other way to get it done, I wouldn't be coming to you."

Now he turned back, and his soulful eyes searched my face. He no longer seemed amused. "So you're helping these people."

"I'm giving it my best shot. I'm not sure how much good it would do if things don't work out and we get caught at this, but I'll give you a letter detailing this conversation and specifying that you're acting only at my urgent request. Maybe we can come up with some scam that makes it look like I'm blackmailing you. If you go down, I go down along with you, and you can plead extenuating circumstances. I'll back you up. I give you my word on that, and you'll have the letter to corroborate your story."

"Stuff your letter," he said softly, and narrowed his eyes. "It cost you something to come to me like this, didn't it?"

"Not really. After Frank turned me down, I couldn't think of any other option. These people, and particularly one of them, are important to me. Even if I did feel a little uncomfortable and humbled coming to you, that would be pretty petty stuff compared to what's going to happen to those ex-patients if I don't get more of their medication."

"Why you, Frederickson?"

"Why me what?"

"Why should you do this? I don't need any silly, self-incriminating letter from you to know that your ass is on the line right now, regardless of what I do or don't do for you. Before I give you an answer, I want you to explain to me why you'd risk so much for these people."

"What, are you bucking for psychiatrist? You're starting to piss me off, Mr. Kramer, and this may be the last time I buy you lunch. I don't have any explanation. I'm doing it because the situation fell into my lap, it has to be done, and I didn't see anyone else waiting in line to do it. Maybe I'm doing it because being around and talking to some of these people makes me a little more appreciative of what a marvelous gift it is to have my own brain in reasonable working order when I wake up each morning. Give me a break."

Now Bailey Kramer laughed; but it was a gentle, warm sound, with no trace of mockery. "You really are a goddamn professional do-gooder, aren't you? You're unreal, dude. You rescue fallen molecular chemists from their jobs as hack drivers and find them meaningful work, and you spend your own time and money, and maybe risk getting into big-time trouble with the law, to help a bunch of loonies, most of whom-if I'm reading correctly between the lines-don't even know who you are."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a regular Mother Teresa."

"And now you're making this totally absurd request, trying to drop this particular little job in my lap because it has to be done, and you can't think of anybody else who can do it."

"Yep."

"Give me the capsule," Kramer said, picking up the printout with one hand and holding out the other. "I'll see what I can do. I should know within a day or two if I have any chance of success, and I'll let you know if the answer is negative. I won't keep you in suspense."

I handed him the capsule, resisting the strong impulse to throw my arms around his shoulders and kiss him. "People who accede to my totally absurd requests are granted permission to call me Mongo."

"I'll think on it, Frederickson."

"I haven't told you about the potential payoff-assuming, that is, you don't end up in prison."

"You said you couldn't pay me."

"I said I couldn't pay you a fraction of what the work is worth. If you're successful, I think the work could be worth millions. In addition to being very wealthy, you just might get back your career and reputation."

He stared at me for some time, then said quietly, "Explain how I might get back my career and reputation."

I smiled. "You mean as opposed to the millions I mentioned? You don't need that kind of spare change?"

"Obviously, Frederickson, you've never been totally humiliated and virtually destroyed because of your own stupidity. I don't need millions of dollars; I need a chance to take off the dunce's cap I put on myself. I need not to be a fool."

"I've been humiliated, Bailey, and I've been a fool on more than a few occasions. I hear what you're saying."

"Tell me."

"There are probably generic equivalents to all of the prescription drugs in this compound, so patents aren't a problem. But the unidentified drug is the engine that really drives this witch's brew. The people who designed, manufactured, and tested it weren't interested in helping schizophrenics to function normally; their only interest was in some bizarre side effects caused by the medication. Right now, your only concern is replicating the drug exactly as it is within the next two and a half weeks to allow the patients to live long enough for some researcher to come up with a safe substitute. That's in the future, and I could be looking at that researcher. The point is that, even with its toxicity and deadly side effects, to call the medication inside that capsule a wonder drug would be a gross understatement. I've seen how quickly and powerfully it works, and I think it's nothing short of downright stone miraculous. People who were hopelessly mad become sane and able to function normally. It's far and away more effective than anything on the market, and for all we know it may be useful in treating other kinds of psychoses. But it will have to be reformulated to make it safer before it can be submitted for FDA approval and human testing. Get me a batch of the original replicated, and then you can work on that reformulation at your leisure. Believe me, the people who designed that drug have never been in any patent office, and they're not going to follow you into one. They won't be looking to take any credit, and if I have my way they'll be spending the rest of their lives in prison."

"Interesting," Kramer said in a mild tone.

"I'm glad I've piqued your curiosity."

"This drug sounds like something the CIA would dream up."

He'd surprised me. "Why do you say that?"

"The CIA is always nosing around academia. They like to keep up with the latest research in chemistry, pharmacology, psychology-all sorts of areas. You'd be amazed at how much academic research is totally funded by the CIA, although they're almost never up front about it."

"I wouldn't be amazed at all."

"You're in danger, aren't you?"

There didn't seem to be much sense in denying it. "Ah, well, you know how it goes, Bailey. Mongo's the name, danger's my game."

"I'm serious. I've had dealings with these people, probably turned down close to two dozen research grants for odd jobs they wanted me to do. They're very strange."

"Tell me about it. My safety isn't your concern, Bailey. And you should be safe as long as you lie low while you're working on this, and don't talk to anybody else about what you're doing."

"You don't have to worry about that." He paused, lowered his gaze, then added softly, "Thanks."

"For what? Giving you the chance to get sent to prison?"

He looked back into my face, said, "For having the chutzpah to come to me with this totally absurd request."

"You can do it, Bailey."

"I don't need a pep talk, Frederickson," he said with a wry smile as he put the capsule in his pocket, picked up the computer printout, and rose to his feet.

"When will I hear from you?"

"When I have something to say. I told you I'd let you know in a day or two if I won't be able to do it."

"Call or fax me with a list of everything you need-amount of lab space, equipment, materials, general expenses, whatever. The phone and fax numbers are on the printout."

"Sure. I'm not doing this for the potential payoff, Frederickson- not the potential profits from marketing a safe version of the drug, and not even for the chance to get my old life back. At least, those aren't the major reasons."

"I don't care why you're doing it, Bailey. I'm grateful to you."

"Maybe your reasons are good enough for me; I'd like to save these people's lives."

"It wouldn't surprise me at all."

"I'll be in touch," he said, then turned and walked away.