“Good. Well, we better get some sleep.” Cohen turned toward the bathroom.

“Seth?” Kilburn said, stopping the detective in his tracks.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking about my role in all this.”

“Your role?” Cohen turned back to face him.

“Being the clinician to connect the bug and the antidote,” Kilburn said. “Don’t you find it a big coincidence that I happened to see two of the first cases of MRGAS and work at the same hospital running a major clinical trial of the one study drug that could treat it?”

Cohen folded his arms across his chest. “Yes, I do.”

“Seems to me, someone went to a lot of trouble to spread the bug in a few specific cities,” Kilburn said. “Vancouver, Seattle, Portland, and San Francisco.”

Cohen’s eyes narrowed. “All four cities in the Oraloxin trial. It’s hard to overlook that kind of coincidence.”

Kilburn stared at Cohen, chilled by his own logic. “Do you think someone wanted me or some other clinician to make the connection between MRGAS and Oraloxin?”

“Someone with a vested interest in Oraloxin?”

“Yes,” Kilburn said, his heart pounding in his ears. “You heard Neil Ryland. The FDA would never approve this drug if they knew about the bone marrow complication, unless—”

“It was the only cure available for a killer disease.”

“Exactly.”

“I hear you,” Cohen said quietly. “We need to know more about SeptoMed and the people there.”

“Seth, it’s a huge company.”

Cohen shook his head. “The people involved had to be close to the development of this drug. You heard Ryland. Who else would have known about the bone marrow problem?”

“I suppose.” Kilburn frowned. “It’s odd, though. When I first tried to use the drug clinically, the VP in charge, Luc Martineau, did all he could to block my access to it.”

“Maybe he’s not involved.” Cohen shrugged. “Or maybe he was trying not to look too eager.”

“Yeah. Martineau only tried to stop me from using Oraloxin on a dying patient.” Kilburn frowned, suspicions rising again. “But he had no problem with us testing it in the lab.”

56 - Brandywine Valley, Pennsylvania

56

Brandywine Valley, Pennsylvania

Twenty-six miles west of Philadelphia, Forbes applied the brakes to the stolen Ford Excursion as the road wound tightly in front of him.

He’d grown so accustomed to Wayne Forbes’s name that, as he drove the two-lane road, he practiced aloud introducing himself as “Nick Snider,” the name that now appeared below his picture on the Delaware driver’s license he carried. He wanted to ensure he didn’t trip over the name when the time came to use it.