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“I can do that.” Jimenez tapped on his computer keyboard. “Ah. Dr. Petrone. She was overseeing Abramson’s work.”

  “He reports to her.”

  “Not exactly,” said Jimenez. “The institute provides funding for outside scientists. They send us grant requests, we review them. Those that are approved and given funding are monitored by one of our scientific staff. Dr. Petrone was monitoring Abramson’s work.”

  “Was?”

  Jimenez peered at his computer screen, double-checking to make certain he was right. Then he said, “Apparently Abramson’s grant was not approved this year. We haven’t funded his work since…” He glanced again at the screen. “Since April first.”

  “Why not?”

  Jimenez made an elaborate shrug. “You’ll have to ask Dr. Petrone about that.”

  * * *

  LUKE WAS SITTING in the office of Dr. Yolanda Petrone. She was a comely woman in her early sixties, with light gray eyes and hay yellow hair. When Luke had first met her, some twenty years earlier, he’d been surprised to learn her ancestry was Italian.

  “My people come from north of Venice, near the Austrian border,” she explained. “Plenty of Germanic blood in my family.”

  Now, as he sat beside her on the sofa in her office, he realized that there was plenty of gray in the blond hair, and her skin was spiderwebbed. Telomerase injections could help her, he thought. But he kept the idea to himself.

  “So what brings you to Washington, Luke? It’s not like you to just pop in, unannounced.”

  He tried to grin and failed. Instead, he confessed, “I’m in trouble, Yolanda. I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong? Is the Fisk Foundation cutting off your funding?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “You know,” Petrone said, “I thought it was a mistake when we refused your grant request last spring. Orders from on high, you know. Something about budget cuts. I couldn’t do anything about it.”

  “It’s not that, Yolanda,” Luke repeated. “It’s my granddaughter. She’s dying.”

  Petrone sat in shocked silence as Luke explained the situation to her.

  “So where is the child?”

  “At the moment she’s in a motel out by the Beltway. I was hoping you could find her a bed. I need to run some diagnostics on her.”

  “Of course! I’ll do anything I can, you know that, Luke.”

  Petrone had flown to Boston when Luke’s wife died. She had been an aid and comfort during those devastating first days after Adele’s funeral. Once she saw that Luke was able to stand on his own feet again, she returned to Washington, but only after getting him to promise he’d stay in touch with her. He did, in his own way: They saw each other at meetings and conferences, always with other people around, never just the two of them alone. And now he had come to her for help.

  “I appreciate it, Yolanda,” he said, with some emotion.

  She got up from the sofa and went to her desk. “I’ll make the arrangements…”

  The phone rang before she got there.

  She picked it up. “Mr. Jimenez? Oh, from legal. Yes, hello. How are—”

  Yolanda Petrone’s eyes narrowed as she listened to Jimenez’s voice. She turned and stared at Luke.

  At last she said, “Yes. I’ll see him. This afternoon, after lunch.”

  She put down the phone. “I’m going to be visited by an FBI agent. He’s looking for you.”

  Kennedy Clinic

  THE KENNEDY CLINIC was a small, unobtrusive building set in a residential neighborhood across the highway from the NIH campus.

  “We’ve used the facility for years,” Yolanda Petrone explained as she steered her Lexus up the driveway. “Top-flight facility, and very private.”

  Luke nodded absently.

  “Plenty of politicians and media stars have been treated here for various problems,” she continued while she parked the sedan in a RESERVED FOR STAFF slot. “Your granddaughter will be in good hands.”

  “I really appreciate this, Yolanda.”

  “It’s the least I could do for you, Luke.”

  She led him into the clinic’s hushed entryway and down an empty corridor to the administrative office. In half an hour Angela was registered as a “Jane Doe” patient.

  “I don’t how to thank you,” Luke said.

  Petrone smiled. “You can let me take you to dinner, once the child is safely tucked in here.”

  Luke said, “Fine. I’ll bring her here, then give you a buzz.”

  “Wonderful,” said Petrone.

  * * *

  AGENT HIGHTOWER WAS waiting in her office when Petrone returned from lunch. As she entered the room he got to his feet, rising like a mountain before her.

  His hand engulfed hers as he introduced himself. Petrone went to her desk, and Hightower sat down again. Even seated he looked immense to her.

  “You’re interested in Professor Abramson?” she asked.

  “That’s right. We want to talk to him about a possible kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping?”

  Hightower went through the story, ending with, “So I’ll need to know who his associates are, who he might go to for help.”

  Glad that he hadn’t asked if she herself had seen Luke, she replied, “You mean other than the people here at the National Cancer Institute.”

  “Including your people, ma’am.”

  The “ma’am” nettled her slightly. He must think I’m some fuddy-duddy grandmother, Petrone said to herself. Suppressing a frown, she said as innocently as she could manage, “Well, his main point of contact here at NCI would be me, of course.” Quickly she added, “But Professor Abramson didn’t get a renewal of his grant this year, so technically we don’t have anything to do with him anymore.”

  “That’s what Mr. Jimenez told me.”

  “From our legal office,” Petrone murmured. “Yes, of course.”

  Leaning forward ponderously, Hightower said, “But you must know the other scientists in his field of research, the people he works with, consults with. His friends and associates. I need their names.”

  Petrone said, “Let me think a moment. There’s McAllister, at the University of Pennsylvania, of course. He was a student of Professor Abramson’s, you know.”

  Hightower leaned back and patiently allowed her to reel off half a dozen names.

  The one name that Petrone did not mention was Shannon Bartram. She felt certain that Luke would try to get to Shannon Bartram and her private clinic in Oregon. She would have all the facilities Luke needed to treat his granddaughter. And she would welcome Luke with open arms, Petrone felt certain. With open legs, too, she seethed silently.

  Dinner for Three

  “I WANT TO DO an MRI on her,” Tamara Minteer said to Luke in a near-whisper.

  Angela was drowsing in the bed of the private room that Petrone had arranged for her. Luke had been impressed, until he realized that the Kennedy Clinic had nothing but private rooms for its patients. Politicians, news anchors, entertainment stars—they don’t want to share a room. They want privacy, secrecy.

  “MRI?” he asked. “Is that necessary?”

  She nodded, tight-lipped. “To see if the tumors are still growing.”

  “Can’t you do that with a blood sample? Measure the tumor signature?”

  “That could tell us if the tumors have metastasized into other parts of her body, but it won’t work on the brain tumors themselves. There’s no blood marker for a brain tumor. It’s not like a PSA. We need an image. Might as well make it a full-body MRI while we’re at it.”

  “Full-body? Why—”

  “I need to see her complete physical condition, Luke. See what effect all this traveling has had on her.”

  Luke looked down at his sleeping granddaughter. She didn’t seem much different than she’d appeared back at University Hospital, in Boston. Angela seemed to be in no pain. She looked relaxed, almost smiling in her sleep.

  Tamara said, “She’ll be all right for no
w. The staff has her under observation.”

  The child was wired up like an astronaut. In addition to the IV in her arm, a trio of sensors was plastered to her chest, abdomen, and left arm. A bank of monitors beeped softly along the side wall, and a security camera hung up near the ceiling, its unblinking red eye aimed at the bed.

  Tugging at Luke’s sleeve, Tamara headed for the door. “Let’s get some dinner. I haven’t had anything to eat since that crappy breakfast at the motel. I’m starving.”

  Luke followed her out of Angela’s room and down the corridor to the nurse’s station. Tamara gave the duty nurse her cell phone number while Luke picked up the phone on the counter and dialed Petrone’s number.

  * * *

  THE RESTAURANT THAT Petrone picked was in downtown Washington. Luke followed his GPS’s directions and found it, then spent several minutes looking for a parking place. Finally he gave up and let the restaurant’s valet take the van.

  Petrone was already seated at a table when Luke and Tamara came in. It was a fairly elegant place: white linen tablecloths, heavy drapes across the windows, waiters in dark suits. A miniskirted hostess showed them to the table.

  Petrone’s welcoming smile faltered when she saw that Tamara was with Luke. He introduced the two women to each other as they sat down.

  “Tamara is Angela’s attending physician,” Luke explained. “She’s looking after Angela while we’re…” He fished for a word. “Traveling,” he finally said.

  “I see,” said Petrone. “And who’s looking after the child while you’re here?”

  Tamara said coolly, “She’s in good hands at the clinic. If a problem arises they have my cell number.”

  “I see,” Petrone repeated.

  It finally dawned on Luke that Yolanda was annoyed. She’s sore that I brought Tamara with me, he said to himself. I told her I’d be bringing Angela’s physician. With a jolt of surprise he realized that Yolanda was jealous. She had wanted a quiet dinner for just the two of them. A romantic dinner. Bringing a third party was an intrusion. Bringing a younger woman was an affront.

  The dinner was hardly romantic. The two women talked to each other like a pair of Old West gunslingers sizing up each other. They practically ignored Luke as the waiter brought their salads and entrées and busboys removed their emptied plates. Tamara ate like a wolverine, while Yolanda barely touched her food.

  Luke saw that Tamara was really quite a good-looking young woman, with her high cheekbones and sparkling eyes. Not that Yolanda wasn’t pretty herself, but she was at least twenty years older than Tamara, getting kind of plump and wrinkled.

  “Are you sure that dragging the child across the country like this isn’t going to harm her?”

  Luke started to say, “We’ll be checking—”

  But Tamara cut him off. “She’s in an excellent facility, thanks to you. I’m going to run some scans on her tomorrow. If I see that she’s not up to traveling, we’ll have to return her to her parents, I suppose.”

  Petrone smiled coldly. “You can keep her at the clinic as long as you need to. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

  “And the bills?”

  “Part of my discretionary budget.”

  Luke said, “That’s awfully good of you, Yolanda.”

  Still focused on Tamara, Petrone said, “That’s what friends are for, isn’t it? To help each other.”

  Tamara looked down at her plate. Nothing left but crumbs. Gazing up at Petrone again, she said, “You’re being a wonderful help. I’m sure Luke is very grateful.”

  “That’s right,” Luke said eagerly. “We owe you a lot, Yolanda.”

  Petrone gave him a displeased look as their waiter came up to the table and asked, “Would you like to see the dessert menu?”

  Petrone immediately shook her head. Luke said, “Not me.” Tamara hesitated, then reluctantly said, “Me neither.”

  “Coffee, then?” the waiter asked. “Espresso, perhaps?”

  They ordered coffee, and Tamara excused herself.

  As she walked away from the table, Luke leaned toward Yolanda. “You know, she’s taking a big risk to come along with Angela.”

  Petrone nodded.

  “It’s strictly professional. She’s Angie’s doctor. There’s nothing else going on.”

  Petrone’s pale gray eyes narrowed slightly. “Of course there isn’t. Why, she’s young enough to be your daughter. Maybe even your granddaughter.”

  Luke just stared at her.

  * * *

  AS LUKE DROVE the SUV back to Bethesda, Tamara said, “She’s interested in you.”

  Keeping his eyes on the traffic in the street, Luke muttered, “I didn’t know. Not until tonight.”

  “I bet she’s calling the FBI right about now.”

  “She wouldn’t do that!”

  “Hell hath no fury.”

  He glanced at Tamara sitting beside him in the shadows, profiled against the passing streetlamps.

  “We can’t take Angie out of the clinic. Not yet.”

  “Hell hath no fury,” Tamara repeated.

  Maybe so, Luke thought, but at the moment his most immediate problem was pressure from his bladder. Should’ve gone to the freaking toilet before leaving the restaurant, he grumbled to himself.

  Kennedy Clinic

  ANGELA WAS SLEEPING soundly when they got back to her room, the monitors alongside the bed showing her heart rate, breathing, and EKG all normal. Low normal, Luke saw, but nothing dangerous. Not yet.

  The telomerase inhibitors were flowing into her bloodstream, he knew. Now it would be just a matter of time until they started to show some effect. How long? he wondered. A few days, at least. Maybe we ought to stay here instead of trekking across the country. It’d be better for Angie.

  If Yolanda isn’t so pissed off that she’ll tell the FBI we’re here.

  Tamara broke into his thoughts. “I’m going to stay here tonight,” she whispered.

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve made arrangements with the staff. They have guest rooms for relatives right here in the building.”

  Luke huffed. “Maybe we should let Yolanda know.”

  “She’ll know.”

  He nodded and headed for the door, Tamara beside him. Out in the empty, silent corridor, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to put a port in your chest.”

  Luke’s blood ran cold. “A port? I don’t want one of those things attached to my chest or anywhere else. It’s like having a plastic leech hanging on me.”

  She gave him a disapproving frown. “It’s better than sticking you every day. You’ll look like a drug addict, with all the bruises.”

  His face twisted with revulsion.

  “After the first half hour you won’t even notice that it’s there.”

  “Yes I will. I don’t want it.”

  “You’d rather be stuck every day?” Tamara argued. “With a port, I just put the needle into the valve, not in your arm.”

  “But the damned thing is in my chest all the time.”

  She sighed. “Your granddaughter has one. You don’t see her complaining about it.”

  Luke stared at Tamara, then muttered, with a reluctant nod, “You’re the doctor.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “I am.”

  Grousing to himself, Luke went out into the cold night and climbed into the SUV. He poked at the GPS box sitting atop the dashboard to find a gas station. Goddamned van gobbles gas like an Army tank, he thought.

  Once he’d filled the van’s capacious fuel tank, he went into the station’s minimart to pay in cash. And find the men’s room. Fill the gas tank and empty the bladder, he mused. At least I don’t have to fill the SUV every couple of hours.

  As he left the men’s room, Luke spotted a display of throwaway cell phones next to the cashier’s stand. He took one, paid cash, and bought a hundred minutes on it.

  Glancing at the clock on the wall, he thought, They’ll be aslee
p by now. I’ll just leave a quick message on their answering machine.

  He was surprised when Del picked up on the first ring.

  “Del? It’s me, Luke. Listen, Angie’s doing fine—”

  “Luke! Wait a minute, Lenore’s getting ready for bed, but I know she’ll want to talk to you.”

  He heard Del calling for his wife. Luke fidgeted uncertainly for a few seconds, then clicked the phone off. I told them Angie’s okay. That’s enough. Maybe the FBI can trace cell phone calls, he thought. Nervous, uncertain, he dropped the cell phone in the first trash bin he passed.

  Then he drove back to the motel and slept fitfully until daybreak.

  * * *

  TAMARA WAS WAITING for him in Angela’s room, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  “Good morning,” Luke said softly as he entered the room. “How is she?”

  “She’s holding her own. We’re scheduled for the scans in an hour.”

  Luke looked down at his granddaughter. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough. “Has she eaten anything?”

  “Intravenously,” said Tamara.

  Luke sank into one of the easy chairs.

  Her lips curling into an almost impish smile, Tamara said, “It’s time for you to get your port.”

  “Now?”

  “You gave me a schedule, and I intend to keep it. Now take off your jacket and unbutton your shirt.”

  He watched her pull a gray plastic port and a hypodermic syringe out of a case on the table, then a small bottle of alcohol and a wiper pad. All in one neat package, Luke said to himself. The vial of enzymes sat on the table beside the case.

  “I’ve been thinking about Yolanda,” he said, as much to keep his mind off the port and the needle as for any other reason. “I don’t think we have to worry about her.”

  “Oh no?” Tamara was filling the syringe with the steroid cocktail that Luke had gotten in Philadelphia.

  “If she’s as interested in me as you think, why would she turn us in? She’d want to keep us here as long as she could, wouldn’t she?”

  “Maybe,” Tamara half-agreed, as she swabbed a spot on his bared chest with alcohol.

  Luke said, “No cops have shown up.”

  “Uh-huh. A little stick now.”