She approached the car slowly, glancing at the bushes and wondering why her contact had parked so close to a possible hiding place for Soviet spies. She thought of turning and running, but she had come too far. Tonight was the night. Tonight was freedom. She reached the car and tried the handle. It was locked. She felt the panic rising, tasted fear in her mouth. She readied herself to run or fight, whatever would save her life.
Then she was back. At her car with her keys in hand. She pressed the key fob and the park lights blinked twice as the door locks opened. She slid in behind the wheel and took a couple of deep breaths before starting the car and backing out.
Jennifer Pearce had spent a substantial part of her life in denial. Denial of her reality. Her childhood had been an unhappy one, left alone to cook and clean while her parents doted on her younger brother. Her only escape had been to enter a fantasy world, where she was someone special, not Cinderella before the ball. Trips to school in the snow were long treks through hostile blizzards in the wilds of Canada, where hungry polar bears and wolverines tracked her, ready to pounce. Washing and drying the dishes after supper each night was using the suds to uncover secret codes on the bottom of the plates. Her imagination had no limit. And even as she matured, she still let herself enter that fantasy world on occasion. It was harmless and sometimes quite entertaining.
The streets were empty and driving was easy. This was one aspect of working late she really liked. The drive home was enjoyable. It gave her time to think. Tonight, her mind went back over the last three months at Veritas. She had restructured her team after about two months and, with a full month now under her belt, she felt she’d made some good decisions. Three of her staff had risen to the challenge and they were now her key people. And last week, when she finally shared her thoughts on the beta-amyloid chemical sequence, all three had stared at her like she was a nutcase from the local loony bin. Four hours later, after she had filled every chalkboard in the conference room with scribbles and formulas, they were somewhere between speechless and blathering idiots.
“Do you really think it’s possible?” Dawn Sergeant, a specialist in cellular microbiology, had asked. “It’s a totally new approach to the problem.”
She referred back to the chalkboard. “The key is here,” Jennifer said. “When this protein, tau, is altered, the neural structural support system is compromised. Once that happens, the amyloid precursor protein is subject to being cut, first by this enzyme, beta-secretase, then by gamma-secretase. The result is fragmentation of the amyloid precursor protein, which forms toxic plaques, causing healthy neurons to die. Then the neurotransmitters, especially acetylcholine, are reduced and the damage to the brain is irreversible. My approach to the problem is here,” she said, poking at the board, “by altering the betaamyloid sequence. It’s never been tried before.”
“Impressive,” Dawn said.
“And to answer your question, yes, I think it will work. We just have to iron out the problems. Now, it’s getting late…”
The group broke up, most of her researchers leaving in groups of twos or threes, discussing the new approach to a disease that affected over four million Americans. Jennifer headed for Kenga Bakcsi’s house to visit her cat. It was Wednesday, and she had promised Kenga she would check on the little fellow at least twice a week while her coworker was on holidays. She hadn’t been over since Sunday.
She cut off on Broad Street and headed for Shockoe Slip and the Mayo Bridge. She had to check the cat’s litter box and make sure there was still water in his dish. No better time than now, when the traffic was next to nil. She crossed the James River, followed Hull to Sixth, then east to Everett. She pulled onto Everett Street and slowed, trolling for a parking space. She found one a half-block up the street from Kenga’s condo, parallel-parked, and jogged back. She let herself in with the key and switched on a light.
“Hello, cat,” she said as he poked his head out to see who was home. She couldn’t remember his name, and simply called him “cat.” “Could you really care less if I showed up? I doubt it. Just give you some food and water, and leave. Cats. How the hell did you guys end up so different from dogs?”
Jennifer picked up the mail that had accumulated on the floor under the slot in the front door and wandered into the house, glancing about and satisfying herself that all was in order. She set the mail on the kitchen table and refilled the cat’s water dish. A quick trip to the litter box to scoop out a few little logs and she was ready to leave. Then it hit her.
What if she focused on somatostatin and corticotrophin to help as communication vehicles between damaged cells? She needed to access the Veritas mainframe and make a note for herself so she would remember this brain flash.
Jennifer powered up Kenga’s computer and logged onto Veritas’s database. Since each computer that was authorized to access the mainframe required its own code, Jennifer knew her password wouldn’t work on Kenga’s computer. Not a problem. As the team leader, she had access to all the codes. She signed in to her home computer, pulled the file, and found Kenga’s password. Mischief. She logged off, then entered the Veritas site by typing “mischief” when prompted. She was in.
An hour later, she closed the research file and leaned back in the chair. Now it was late, but that had been very productive time. Tomorrow, she would follow up on the ideas she had typed into the system. She logged off the Veritas site and moved the cursor across to power down the system, then stopped. A small icon shaped like an ankh caught her eye. It was tucked into one corner, almost obscured by a word processing file. She double-clicked on it and a file opened on the screen. Inside was a complex chemical formula. She scrolled through the remainder of the file, wondering why Kenga Bakcsi had this formula on her home computer. It was filled with links to other sites, all internal to Veritas and all dealing with a drug called Triaxcion. One of the sites answered her question. The formula resisted the modification of testosterone into dihydrotestosterone. The drug was touted as an alternative to hair loss in middle-aged males. Probably a big seller, she thought, still wondering why it was on Kenga’s computer. She was scrolling down to sign out when she saw a text file buried among the numbers. She opened it.
Inside was a name and an address: Gordon Buchanan, Butte, Montana. There was no phone number. She tucked her hair behind her ears, stared at the name for a minute, shrugged, and closed the file. She powered down the computer, stroked the cat a couple of times, and headed home.
Her new digs were in the Fan District, an expensive and trendy area just west of Richmond’s city center. She was on Plum Street, on the eastern edge of the Fan and one full block off Cary Street. One block to excellent dining and some of the best shopping in Richmond. Coincidence? Not a chance.
The town house-style home was almost everything she liked mixed with a few things she hated. But her realtor had insisted you never get ten out of ten with a resale house. To start with, it was old, turn-of-the-century. That she did not like. Jennifer preferred new, with no sod and sticks for trees, and a bathtub that had never seen a naked bottom. But the previous owners had done extensive renovations to the house, including all new drywall, windows, doors, an off-white kitchen, and new fixtures in all three bathrooms. This she did like. Her ebony baby grand sat next to the massive bay window in the living room. She turned on one muted light and sat on the bench. Her fingers glided over the keys, Enya gently filling the room. She played “Watermark” and “Only If…,” then “By Heart,” one of her favorite Jim Brickman pieces. The room, with its soft tan and black striped sofa and love seat, and pewter and glass tables, resonated quietly with the last notes as she drew her fingers back from the keyboard. She used the remote to turn on the stereo and found a Yanni CD on her multidisc system. She filled a diffuser with vanilla scent, lit the tea candle, and lay quietly in the darkness.