Miracle Drug. Richard L. Mabry, M.D.
there is no such drug as robinoxine or RP-78. On a happier note, there is no Bacillus decimus either. Both are products of this author’s imagination. It is true that all drug studies are done on volunteers, and it’s possible there could be one where convicts sentenced to life with no prospect of parole volunteer to receive drugs to treat a potentially fatal disease. However, I have no certain knowledge of such testing in Colombia or anywhere else.
Authors of fiction walk a fine line between accuracy and literary license, and this book is no exception. I appreciate the assistance of Agent Robert Hoback of the United States Secret Service in my quest for authenticity. Nevertheless, the characters and actions I have crafted that involve those brave men and women are purely fictional. Both the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center and Johns Hopkins Medical Center are fine teaching and treatment facilities, and I am honored to have been a faculty member at one and a Visiting Professor at the other. Be that as it may, the people and events portrayed here and their relationship to those medical centers are purely a work of fiction. The same is true of the doctors and facilities of the fictional Prestonwood Hospital.
As always, I count myself fortunate to have representation by a talented agent like Rachelle Gardner of Books and Such Literary. I’d like to express my appreciation to the Senior Acquisitions Editor at Abingdon Press, Ramona Richards, as well as to Editor Teri Wilhelms, for exercising their editorial skills on this manuscript. The Anderson Design Group came up with a dynamite cover. As always, Cat Hoort and her crew took the lead in making sure people know about the book. And, of course, without you, my reader, this novel would languish on bookshelves and storerooms without ever being read.
My wife, Kay, serves as my first reader and always makes a significant contribution to my work. In addition, and even more important, she continues to teach me how to smile and have fun once more. Thank you, dear.
My thanks to my family, for not only believing in me, but for expressing it so well and so often that I’ve never doubted their support.
I hope you enjoy this novel and any future ones God may grant me the ability and opportunity to write. Any praise for this or any of my work goes to Him.
Richard L. Mabry, MD
September 2014
Chapter 1
1
Dr. Ben Lambert stood at the bathroom sink washing his hands. He sensed more than saw the movement behind him.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said without turning. The intruder didn’t respond. Lambert repeated the words, this time in Spanish. “Se supone que no debe estar aquí.”
When there was still no answer, Lambert, his hands wet, the water still running, turned toward the intruder. That’s when he felt it—a sharp pain in his left upper arm. Within seconds, a burning pain swept over his extremities. His vision became fuzzy. He tried to reach out, but the commands his brain sent went unheeded by his arms and legs.
With agonizing slowness, Lambert crumpled to the ground. He felt his heart thud against his chest wall in an erratic rhythm, at first a fast gallop, then slower and more irregular. He tried to breathe but couldn’t satisfy his hunger for air. His calls for help came out as weak, strangled cries, like the mewling of a kitten.
Then the next wave of pain hit him—the worst pain he’d ever experienced, centered over his breastbone as though
someone had impaled him with a sword. Lambert struggled to move, to cry out for help, to breathe. Through half-closed eyelids, he could barely see a patch of worn linoleum, topped by an ever-enlarging puddle beneath the soapstone sink. Then that vision and the world around it faded to black, and Ben Lambert died.
***
Dr. Josh Pearson tapped on the office door. “Nadeel, you wanted to see me?”
Dr. Nadeel Kahn half-rose from behind his desk. Kahn was a small man—almost five eight compared with Josh’s six feet plus. His accent was almost non-existent, probably worn off through years of medical school, residency, and practice. Normally, Josh’s interaction with the managing partner of the Preston Medical Clinic was limited to an occasional “Hi” as they passed in the halls, plus phone calls about hematology patients Josh referred to the subspecialist. This summons to Kahn’s office had come as a surprise.
Kahn motioned Josh inside. “Thanks for coming. Close the door and have a seat, would you?”
Josh did as Kahn asked. “What’s up? I think this is the first time I’ve ever been called into your office.” He tried to summon up a grin. “Am I in trouble?”
Kahn’s expression never changed. “We’ll wait to decide that until you hear both pieces of news I have for you.” He leaned back in his desk chair and tented his fingertips under his chin. His dark eyes fixed on Josh’s. He took a moment, apparently deciding how to deliver his message. When he spoke, his tone had turned serious. “As you know, our colleague, Ben Lambert, left a few days ago to accompany former president Madison on a trip to South America. The delegation was to consider locations for a free clinic Madison’s foundation was considering setting up. Before he left, Ben approached me and said he thought it appropriate, as he got older, to prepare a younger colleague to care for David Madison should the need arise.”
An idea took faint shape in Josh’s mind, but he quickly rejected it. Surely not. He shook his head.
“Yes. He named you,” Kahn said. “Ben told me he had already discussed it with Madison. They’d known each other for years—actually grew up together—and Madison trusted his friend. He said he was willing to go along with Ben’s recommendation.”
“I’m . . . I’m flattered, I guess, but I have no idea why he’d choose me.”
“Unfortunately, we can’t ask Ben that question. I just got a phone call that he died earlier today of an apparent heart attack.” Kahn rose from his chair. He reached across the desk and put his hand on Josh’s shoulder. “I don’t know whether to offer congratulations or sympathy. Josh, you’re now the personal physician for David Madison, former president of the United States.”
***
Tears formed in Rachel Moore’s eyes as she stood on the tarmac of El Dorado International Airport in Bogotá, Colombia, watching the special metal coffin holding the earthly remains of Dr. Ben Lambert disappear into the cargo hold of the private jet. Dr. Lambert, I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done more.
An older man, the silver waves of his hair blowing slightly in the wind, stood beside her. As though he could read her thoughts, he said, “Don’t beat yourself up, Rachel. No one could have predicted this. And you and the others did everything humanly possible. Ben was probably already dead when you found him.” Then David Madison put his arm gently around her shoulders and hugged her.
“I guess I know that,” she said. “But no one expected it. I mean, we all had physicals along with our immunizations before leaving, and he told me he was in tip-top shape for a man over sixty. Then, when we were eating lunch at the church, he was in the bathroom . . .”
“I know. It’s a shock. Ben Lambert was an old friend. We grew up together. And now he’s gone.” Madison took his arm away and looked down at the nurse. “You know you don’t have to be the one to accompany his body back to Dallas. One of the other members of the party could do it.”
“No, I think I need this to achieve some closure. You’ll be coming back in a couple more days, and if there’s a medical problem after I leave, you still have Dr. Dietz and Linda Gaston.”
The door to the cargo hold closed with a thud, and Rachel shivered despite the tropic heat. She lifted her carry-on bag and started to turn away, but Madison stopped her.
“Ben must have sensed something like this might happen, because before we left he spoke to me about another physician he thought should take care of me if he couldn’t.” Madison hesitated. “I think you know him. Matter of fact, I imagine he’s the one meeting you at the airport after you land.”
“You