скачать книгу бесплатно
His wife frowned. “I thought we were here for a blood test. We already filled out the questionnaire and your assistant took a preliminary sample.” She pushed up the bell sleeve of her tunic to show a small Band-Aid at the crook of her elbow. “Isn’t this just a formality?”
Meg smiled. “I need to make sure you understand the study structure and your privacy rights.” She paused, losing her place in the oft-repeated speech as Erik shifted uncomfortably in the upholstered chair.
He looked up and caught her staring. His eyes glinted with an expression she couldn’t interpret and wasn’t sure she liked. But he said, “Can you tell us a little bit about the test? My—Raine is a cautious woman.”
Another hesitation? Meg thought. Wonder what sort of marriage these two have.
Telling herself it was really none of her business, she pushed a glossy folder across the desk. “Here’s some information for you to take home and look over later. Most of it is also on our Web site.” She slid a brochure from the folder and tapped a color schematic cutaway of a pregnant woman. “We’re in the final stages of streamlining prenatal blood tests for a number of common genetic disorders. The technique is called Noninvasive Prenatal Testing, NPT for short. We’re enrolling pregnant women in their first or second trimester, and asking that you come in for biweekly blood draws.” Meg smiled at Raine’s indrawn breath. “It’s just one milliliter at a time, so we won’t drain you dry. We’re not vampires.”
“Twice a week is a substantial time commitment for me.” Raine glanced at her husband, whose attention was focused elsewhere. She touched his knee. “Erik, don’t you think twice a week is too much for me to be out of the office?”
He diverted his gaze from the wall art and glanced at her. “I’m sure your boss will give you the time.” His lips twitched. “He’s not all that bad, you know.”
The two traded a look that excluded Meg. The sense of connection sent a slice of harmless envy through her chest.
Maybe Jemma was right. Maybe she had been neglecting her social life for too long. Maybe it was time to meet a man, someone she could hike and bike and climb with, someone who loved all the things she used to love.
As soon as the licensing went through and tenure was announced, she promised herself. Then she’d focus on moving from ice-blue walls to something more interesting.
Maybe teal. Hot pink.
Sapphire blue.
Focus, Meg! She gave herself a mental shake and continued her explanation. “We’re testing whether the different phases of pregnancy affect our results. In addition, we’ll be able to examine your baby for most known genetic diseases. We can—”
“Some people say that’s impossible,” Erik interrupted. His attention wasn’t on the wall art anymore. Now it was focused on Meg. “Plenty of experts in the field say your results are nothing but false positives and hopeful interpretation.”
Normally, Meg would have taken the challenge and explained the strength of her science. But now she paused as her instincts jangled a warning.
Something told her that this guy wasn’t quite what he seemed.
She forced a smile. “I see you’ve done your homework, Mr. Phillips.”
“Call me Erik.” He leaned forward, hitching his weight to the left to ease his bad leg. “And yes, I’ve done some background reading. Three of the top experts in the field of prenatal testing have publicly denounced your discovery.”
“Only because I beat them to it.”
“They say it’s impossible to isolate a baby’s cells from maternal blood.”
“Not impossible,” Meg countered. “Even dinosaurs like Lafitte in Paris and Heinz Kramer in Dusseldorf admit that fetal cells and DNA are carried in the maternal bloodstream for years, sometimes even decades after the pregnancy. They simply don’t believe that it’s possible to isolate the one-in-a-million fetal cell and use it for testing.”
“And you believe it’s possible?”
“I’ve done it,” she said simply, and with a bone-deep sense of pride for the work that would help so many. No more pregnancies would be lost due to a misdirected amniocentesis needle or a nick during chorionic villus sampling, two of the most common—and invasive—procedures used for prenatal genetic testing.
“How does it work?” he asked, eyes revealing nothing.
She tapped the brochure. “The process is summarized here.”
He dismissed the schematic with a wave. “I’ve read what’s posted on the Web site, but how does it really work? How exactly do you isolate the fetal cells? Is it true that the baby’s cells can sometimes heal the mother if she’s injured?”
“That hasn’t been proven to my satisfaction,” Meg said, a chill chasing through her bloodstream, because she had no intention of pursuing the question. Not now. Not ever. Not with the risks involved. “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics of the process.”
Especially not until next month, when the last of the patents would finally be filed.
A handful of university glitches had delayed the applications, leaving her in a legal gray area. If another researcher—or worse, one of the big drug companies—tried to scoop her work, she was in trouble. Though she had her lab notes, patent battles were notoriously long and messy, and neither Boston General nor Thrace University could stand up to one of the big companies if it came down to lawyers and money.
Be careful, her father had cautioned when he’d been in town the week before. Your work is at its most vulnerable right now. They know you’ve done it, but not how, and they’ll be itching for that one detail, the one trick that lets you do what everyone said couldn’t be done.
With that caution ringing in her ears, Meg narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason, really.” Raine touched her husband’s arm, urging him to relax. “Ever since I found out about the pregnancy, Erik’s been fascinated by the technology.”
He shot her an unreadable look, but shrugged with a half smile that did little to lighten the intensity of his face. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”
“You’re an engineer?” Meg asked. She glanced quickly at Raine’s questionnaire.
“No, I’m—” A muted buzz cut him off midsentence. He frowned, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a seriously high-tech communications device—a little handheld that combined a phone, computer, fax and probably a food processor into one unit. He read the display and frowned. “We’ve got to go.”
He didn’t show his wife the message and she didn’t argue. They rose as one and, despite his bad leg, showed an almost military precision in their actions.
Meg rounded the desk and held the door for them. “Please look over the material and call me if you have any questions. We’ll be in touch once the preliminary blood screening is complete.” Though she already knew what it would show. “If the blood work looks good, you can decide whether you’re willing to make the necessary time commitment in return for free genetic screening for the baby and a small stipend.”
She ushered them out and closed the door behind them, knowing damn well she wouldn’t see either of them again.
Moments later there was a brisk knock on the door. Jemma opened the panel without waiting for an invite, and raised her eyebrows when she saw that Meg was alone. “Where did Mrs. Phillips go?”
“Let me guess. She’s not pregnant.” Meg scowled toward the elevators. “It was a setup. A fishing expedition. Who were they working for? TRL? Genticor?”
Jemma shook her head, eyes worried. “I don’t know about that, but she’s definitely pregnant, and there’s a problem. You’ve got to get her back here, right now.”
“You’ve already got results back on the baby?” Meg asked, confused. Impossible. Her technique was fast, but not that fast.
“No, we haven’t even started separating out the cells. But Max needed an unknown sample for one of his test runs, so I gave him a small subsample of Raine Phillips’s blood.”
Max Vasek was Meg’s second in command. With two degrees and a decade in research, he could easily have his own lab, but preferred the freedom of working for Meg. He kept the lab running smoothly and followed his own investigative directions on the side. These days, he was working on a panel of accelerated genetic tests for expecting mothers. So new he hadn’t yet reported it to the hospital or the university, Max’s technique could identify the presence of twenty-plus genetic abnormalities that could endanger the life of mother or child—all in the space of less than fifteen minutes.
A sick pit opened up in Meg’s stomach. “Max’s technique hasn’t been fully validated, and I’m not ready to go public. If we know something, I can’t tell them how or why we know it.”
He shouldn’t have performed the test on an unenrolled patient’s DNA. Though they had signed consent for Raine’s preliminary sample, the initial forms didn’t include blanket consent for all tests. They’d stumbled over into an ethical gray area.
Damn it, Max.
Jemma handed her the printout. “I don’t care how you do it, but get her back here. She’s heterozygous for both the Factor V Leiden and prothrombin 20210 mutations.”
“Oh, hell.” Meg was out the door in an instant, headed for the elevators. Halfway there, she called, “Phone down to the front desk and see if they can grab her. She needs to be on supportive therapy, pronto!”
The mutations were ticking time bombs. Separately, they increased the risk of blood clot disorders including strokes, heart attacks and pulmonary embolisms during pregnancy.
Together, they virtually guaranteed a problem. Perhaps even a fatal one.
Suspicions tabled for now, Meg hurried out of the elevator the moment the doors whooshed open on the ground floor. When the security guard shook his grizzled head, she jogged across the lobby and pushed through the revolving doors out onto Kneeland Street.
Boston General perched at the intersection between the swanky theater district and the more eclectic environs of Chinatown. The busy street dividing the two teemed with vehicles and pedestrians, making Meg fear that she might have lost the couple.
Worry flowed through her. If they’d been sent by one of the big companies, they’d probably given false names and contact information. She might be unable to find them, unable to warn Raine that—
There! The pedestrian flow ebbed for a moment and Meg saw a man leaning on a cane as he walked a woman to a taxi.
“Erik!” Meg called. A cement truck—part of the endless construction of Boston General’s new wing—revved its engine nearby, drowning out her next shout.
She gritted her teeth and dodged into the sea of bodies on the sidewalk. Some of the pedestrians gave way at the sight of her white coat. Others glared and jostled her as she fought her way to the street.
“Erik, Raine, wait!”
But he didn’t climb into the cab with the pregnant woman. Instead he handed her in, shut the door and awkwardly stepped back onto the edge of the sidewalk near the construction zone. Nearby, construction workers directed a heavy stream of cement into a deeply excavated foundation form.
She lunged across the last few feet separating them and grabbed his sleeve. “Erik!”
He turned and his face blanked with surprise. “Dr. Corning. What are you—”
Someone pushed her from behind and she tumbled against him. She felt hard muscle through the elegant suit, then another blow slammed into her, knocking her aside.
She shrieked and stumbled back, arms windmilling. Her hip banged into a railing and wood splintered. The heel of one of her tall boots snagged on something.
She screamed. Overbalanced.
And plunged into the construction pit.
The fall was short, but when she hit, the impact drove the breath from her lungs. Her landing pad was cold and wet. Too heavy to be water, too gritty to be mud.
She’d fallen into the cement form.
And she was sinking.
Over the growing hubbub of screams and shouts from above, she heard a man’s voice shout, “Meg!”
She looked up and saw Erik leaning over the lip of the cement form. He stretched his arm down and sunlight glinted off his cane. “Grab on!”
Gasping and choking as the wet, heavy weight pressed on every fiber of her being, she reached up. She could just touch the cane with the edge of her fingertips. She stretched farther and heard a rushing roar, and a man’s shout.
Above her, the cement truck sluiceway opened up and dumped heavy, clinging cement on top of her.
“Help me!” she screamed. The cascade of wet cement filled the space quickly, covering her shoulders in seconds, then working its way up her neck.
Why hadn’t they turned off the sluice? Couldn’t the cement truck operator tell there was a problem?
Even as the thought formed in Meg’s brain, it was too late. The liquefied silt poured down around her, covering her neck and ears. She screamed, though she knew it would do no good.
She was being buried alive.
Safety was no more than ten feet away. Rescue had to be on its way. But it would be too late.
She screamed again and arched her back against the sluggish give of the setting cement. She looked up to the edge of the cement form, toward the sidewalk, where the protective railing hung askew. Though she could hear nothing over the splatter of cement that continued to fall from above and her eyes were blurred with clinging clumps of grit, she saw the silhouette of a broad-shouldered man in an expensive suit.
The image of blue eyes stayed with her when she sucked in her last breath.
Chapter Two
“Get that crane down here! And kill the flow, now!” Erik’s ears rang from the equipment noise and the force of his own shouts. “What is wrong with you people? There’s a woman in there!”
He gripped the edge of the cement form so hard his fingers ached. He cursed the construction crew for being incompetent, and cursed himself for being worse than useless. Eight years ago, he could have jumped in and saved her.
If he jumped in now, there would be two of them stuck, drowning.
The flowing cement cut out with a rattle. The last few blobs plopped into the foundation form and were immediately absorbed by the smooth gray surface.
There was no sign of Meg Corning. No sign of movement.
Panic spiked through Erik. “Damn it! Where’s that crane?”
“Here!” a man’s voice shouted, and a weighted ball with a large, dangling hook swung down into the foundation pit.
Erik was aware of the shouting, gesturing pedestrians cramming close to the disaster site, aware of the rising throb of sirens in the near distance. The local cops would be here any moment, but the trapped woman couldn’t wait that long.
The thought brought an image of her, a flash of red-gold curls and intelligent hazel eyes, a stacked body hidden beneath a starched white lab coat.
He’d gone to the meeting in person because he’d needed to put a face to the reams of reports he’d amassed on Meg Corning. He’d told himself it was groundwork, but it had been more than that.
It had been a compulsion. He’d needed to see her.
Now he might be the last person to ever see her.
The crane operator finally swung the line toward Erik, who caught the cable. Cursing, he pulled himself onto the swinging weight, braced his good foot on the hook and let the other leg dangle free. Damn thing wasn’t good for much else.
“Lower me into the pit,” he shouted, waving at the crane operator. “Stop when I give the signal!”
He hung on tight as the crane operator swung him out over the slick gray surface and lowered him toward the cement. Please let it still be liquid, he thought. Please let her be holding her breath.
But that seemed a thin hope. The average person would be struggling. Thrashing. Fighting to get free, only to drive themselves deeper into the muck. The very stillness of the slurry was a problem. Either Meg Corning had professional-level survival skills or she’d lost consciousness.
Having met the pretty lady doctor, he feared the latter. She didn’t seem like the survivalist type.
“Okay, stop!” He waved when the hook was barely skimming the surface of the cement, not wanting to drop the heavy weight on top of her. Then he took two quick breaths, aimed off to the side of the form, away from where she’d fallen—
And jumped.
The impact was like slamming into a solid floor that became liquid the moment he passed through. His bad leg folded, sending agony up his hip. He ignored the pain and fought through the clinging gray grit, which had started to set.
