Terminal

Sean flashed Janet a look of frustration. “I was interrupted by the charming head of research,” he said. “She read me the riot act and told me I had to go back to the Forbes glycoprotein baloney. She really caught me off guard; for once words failed me. I couldn’t think of anything clever to say.”

“I’m sorry,” Janet said.

“Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later,” Sean said. “But even before the harpy showed up I wasn’t doing that great. I haven’t been able to get Helen’s medicine to react with any antigen, cellular, viral, or bacterial. But you must be right about the medicine all coming from a single batch. I ran a sample of Louis’s medicine against Helen’s tumor and it reacted just as strongly at the same dilutions as Helen’s.”

“So they use the same medicine,” Janet said. “What’s the big deal? When people are treated with an antibiotic, they all get the same drug. Labeling the drug for each patient is probably more a matter of control than anything else.”

“But cancer immunotherapy is not comparable to antibiotics,” Sean said. “Like I said before, cancers are antigenically distinct, even the same type of cancer.”

“I thought one of the tenets of scientific reasoning involved the issue of an exception,” Janet said. “If an exception is found to a hypothesis then one is forced to reconsider the original hypothesis.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Sean said, but he hesitated. Janet was making good sense. The fact was that Forbes was getting one hundred percent remission, apparently with medication that was not individualized. Sean had seen that success documented in the thirty-three cases. Therefore, there had to be an error in his insistence on the immunological specificity of cancer cells.

“You have to admit I have a point,” Janet persisted.

“Okay,” Sean said, “but I still think there’s something strange with all this. Something I’m missing.”

“Obviously,” Janet said. “You don’t know what antigen the immunoglobulin reacts with. That’s what’s missing. Once you figure that out maybe everything else will fall into place. Let’s see what a relaxing weekend will do for your creativity. Maybe by Monday you’ll have an idea that will get you around this apparent roadblock.”

After passing through the heart of the Everglades, Sean and Janet began to see signs of civilization. First there was an isolated resort or two, then the road expanded to four lanes. Quickly the saw grass gave way to strip malls, convenience gas station/food stores, and miniature golf courses equally as ugly as on the Miami side.

“I’d heard Naples was upscale,” Janet said. “This hardly looks upscale.”

“Let’s hold our verdict until we get to the Gulf,” Sean said.

The road suddenly turned north, and the unattractive profusion of unrestricted signs and commercial development continued.

“How can so many strip malls survive?” Janet asked.

“It’s one of the mysteries of American culture,” Sean said.

With map in hand, Janet did the navigating. She gave Sean plenty of warning before they had to turn left toward the water.

“It’s starting to look a bit more promising,” Sean said.

After a mile or so of more scenic vistas, the Mediterranean-style Ritz Carlton loomed out of the mangroves to the left of the road. The profusion of lush tropical plants and exotic flowers was staggering.

“Ah, home!” Sean said as they pulled beneath the porte cochere.

A man in a blue morning coat and a black top hat opened their car doors. “Welcome to the Ritz Carlton,” the liveried gentleman said.

They entered through oversized glass doors into a haze of polished pink marble, expansive Oriental carpets, and crystal chandeliers. High tea was being served on the dais beneath the huge arched windows. Off to the side was a grand piano complete with tuxedoed pianist.

Sean put his arm around Janet as they meandered over to the registration desk. “I think I’m going to like this place,” he told her.

TOM WIDDICOMB had gone through a range of emotions during his two-hour pursuit. Initially when Janet and Sean had headed out of town toward the Everglades, he’d been disturbed. Then he’d decided it was a good thing. If they were on some mini-vacation, they’d be lax and unsuspecting. In the city, people were naturally more suspicious and careful. But as one hour turned into two, and Tom began to eye his gas gauge, he’d become angry. This woman had caused him so much trouble, he began to wish they’d just pull over to the side of the road. Then he could stop and shoot them both and put an end to it all.

As he pulled into the Ritz Carlton, he wondered if he had any gas at all. The gauge had registered empty for the last five miles.