“Jesus,” Goodkind breathed.
Lash said nothing. But he found himself going cold in the overheated room.
FORTY
Tara Stapleton sat behind her desk, motionless except for her eyes. Slowly, she scanned the office, letting her gaze settle on one thing, then another. The plants were watered and carefully pruned; her old fiberglass board leaned against the wall as it always did; the posters, bumper stickers, and other surfing paraphernalia remained in their usual spots. The institutional clock on the far wall told her it was ten minutes to four. Everything was as it should be. And yet everything looked unfamiliar, as if the office had become suddenly foreign to her eyes.
She leaned back slowly in her chair, aware her breathing had grown fast and shallow.
Suddenly the phone rang, its shrill warble shattering the quiet. Tara froze.
It rang again. Two beeps: an outside call.
Slowly, she lifted it from the handset. “Stapleton.”
“Tara?” The voice was rushed, out of breath.
“Tara?” it repeated. “It’s Christopher Lash.”
Street noises filtered from the earpiece: the rush of traffic, the blatt of a truck’s horn.
“Christopher,” Tara said evenly.
“I’ve got to talk to you. Right now. It’s very important.”
“Why don’t you come by my office?”
“No. Not inside. Can’t take the chance.”
Tara hesitated.
“Tara, please.” Lash’s voice was almost pleading. “I need your help. There’s something I have to tell you nobody else can overhear.”
Still, Tara said nothing.
“Tara. Another supercouple is about to die.”
“There’s a coffee shop around the corner,” she said. “The Rio. On Fifty-fourth, between Madison and Park.”
“I’ll be waiting for you. Hurry, please.”
And the phone went dead.
But Tara did not rise from her desk. In fact, she made no move at all except to replace the phone in its cradle and stare at it, as if struggling with some terrible uncertainty.
FORTY-ONE
Lash walked into the Rio a few minutes after four. The walls were covered in gilt wallpaper, and the incandescent lights and resin-colored banquettes gave the diner a hazy, golden glow. He felt like an insect surrounded by amber.
For a moment, he thought he’d arrived first. But then he caught sight of Tara, sitting at a booth in the rear of the restaurant. He stepped forward and slid into the seat across from her.
A waitress approached; Lash ordered a coffee, waited until she walked away. Then he turned back. “Tara. Thanks for coming.”
Tara nodded.
“Did you talk to that doctor? Moffett?”
Tara nodded again.
“What did he say?”
“He was following instructions from an internal scrip.”
“What does that mean?”
“Medication regimen, based on the findings of an earlier examination.”
“In other words, he was following some other in-house doctor’s orders.”
“Yes.”
“Did he say whose orders?”
“I didn’t ask him that.”
“How easy would it be to fake such orders?”
Tara hesitated. “I’m sorry?”
“Everything at Eden is automated. You get a piece of paper, telling you to do something. Couldn’t somebody type false medical orders into the computer system?”
When Tara did not reply, Lash leaned a little closer. “I don’t have all the answers yet. But I have enough to know it’s not only the remaining supercouples who are in danger. We’re in danger, too.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody — somebody inside Eden — has set these women up to kill themselves and murder their husbands.”
Tara began to speak, but Lash quickly held up a suppressing hand. “No. Let me talk first, please. You’re not going to believe it unless I give you a little background.”
Tara relaxed, but only slightly. She was looking at him with shock, even apprehension. Lash glanced toward a nearby mirror and caught a glimpse of himself: haggard, hair askew, tired eyes animated with nervous energy. If he was her, he’d be apprehensive, too.
The waitress returned with his coffee, and Lash took a sip. “That prescription of Lindsay Thorpe’s, for one milligram of scolipane? It was the clue I needed. I spent the afternoon tracking down more information. Did Dr. Moffett tell you what scolipane is normally prescribed for?”
Tara shook her head.
“It’s a muscle relaxant. It works on the area of the brain that controls muscle spasms. Sports medicine doctors use it to treat strains. You say Dr. Moffett was following through on treatment prescribed in an earlier examination. But Tara, what earlier examination could have predicted Lindsay Thorpe would strain a muscle?”
“Then scolipane must be used to treat something else.”
“You’re more right than you know. Scolipane was originally intended to treat something else. But that something else was kept a close secret, locked up in drug development databases.”
He paused. “Ever see a TV ad for what sounds like a miracle drug? No more allergies, maybe. Or your high cholesterol, suddenly gone. And then all the side effects go scrolling across the screen… and it’s almost enough to make you swear off medicine forever. Those are just the drugs that make it past clinical trials. Many others never make it.”
He glanced across the table, but Tara’s expression remained unreadable.
“Okay. Let’s back up. Most aspects of personality are the result of genes controlling neurotransmitters in the brain. That includes undesirable traits like anxiety and depression. So we create drugs to deal with them. Things like SSNRIs, which suppress the reuptake of serotonin. But there are lots of serotonin receptors in the brain. How can you aim a drug at all the receptors at once?”
He took another sip of coffee. “So drug companies have been looking for other solutions. Ways they could alter brain chemistry to achieve better results. Sometimes they venture deep into unknown territory. Such as the neuropeptide known as ‘Substance P.’ ”
“Substance P,” Tara repeated.
“I hadn’t heard of it either, until this afternoon. It’s very mysterious: nobody knows exactly why it’s in the brain, or what its purpose is. But we do know the kind of things that cause it to be released. Acute physical pain. High levels of stress. It’s been closely implicated with severe depression, sudden suicide.”
He leaned closer. “At least one drug company became interested in Substance P. They decided if they could develop a pharmaceutical agent to ‘hit’ Substance P, to block its receptor, maybe they could make a whole lot of depressed people happy again. That drug company was PharmGen. Eden’s parent.”
“Not anymore. Eden is independent now.”
“PharmGen developed a new anti-psychotic drug that acted against Substance P. It had some rough going early on — red flags appeared during toxicology testing — and the drug was remodified. Four years ago, it was finally ready for group testing. The testing was done in Poland, which was common practice. Maybe ten thousand people were involved, all told. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the drug worked beautifully. And it wasn’t limited to single indicators: schizoids, borderlines, chronic depressives, all seemed to benefit.”
He sipped his coffee. “But there was a problem: that other one percent. If a person without mental illness took the drug — specifically, a person with high levels of serum copper in their blood — terrible side effects resulted. Depression, paranoia, homicidal rage. There were mass instances of suicide, enough to skew the suicide statistics for the entire country that year.”