The Proteus Cure Read Free Page B

employees.
    Sheila had bought the gardener’s home upriver. An awful nice house for a gardener: two stories, three bedrooms, roof patio … and for a third of what she would have paid if she’d bought off campus in overpriced Bradfield.
    Bill, her boss, friend, and one of the founders, lived in the former Dean’s house, a mansion overlooking the river.
    Must be nice, Sheila thought. Jesus, just
look
at that house.
    Even from this far, she could see Elise Gilchrist’s shiny new Porsche pull into the driveway. She stiffened as the chic brunette got out of the car, arms loaded with shopping bags.
    Sheila shook her head. No, I’m
not
jealous.
    She turned away from the Gilchrist mansion and trudged on.
    Sheila liked living in Bradfield. She’d grown up in Massachusetts, was used to the weather, wouldn’t dream of leaving. This was a great town for shopping—ten miles from tax-free New Hampshire, forty miles to Boston, and only an hour to the outlet stores in Freeport, Maine. People
needed
access to L.L. Bean’s winter gear if they lived around here.
    A gust blew some leaves into her face. Nice. The wind puffed again but she stepped into the Admin building ahead of the leaves.
    She trotted up to her third-floor office, turned on the overhead light, flung her coat on the guest chair, and sat in her rolling black leather ergonomic. She’d decorated it as an extension of her house: White walls with the same tan curtains she’d bought for her home office.
    A picture of Dek holding a model train engine smiled at her from a brass frame. She sniffed apple pie and remembered the gel candle on the side table. A comforting smell, unlike the “Summer Rain” one she’d bought a few months ago that smelled like Windex.
    She grabbed Kelly Slade’s chart from her desktop. Records had dropped it off because Kelly had missed her appointment today. That wasn’t like her. Last week the poor woman had been virtually devastated by some truly odd symptoms. Sheila had taken pictures, ordered labs, and scheduled a follow-up for today.
    She’d been a Tethys patient, another VG723 success story. For two years, no contact, then last week, presenting with those disturbing changes in her skin and hair. Sheila hadn’t known what to think.
    Odd she didn’t make it in today.
    Sheila dialed the home number from the chart. After a few rings, she got an answering machine and hung up. She couldn’t find a cell number so she turned on her computer.
    While she waited for it to boot up she tapped on the desk’s glass top and looked around. Framed degrees and academic awards dotted the walls. Papers covered the desk. Despite her efforts, the place still didn’t feel homey. Not enough color. She frowned. Have to work on that.
    She reached across the desk and retrieved the clay pencil cup a patient’s child had made her as a thank-you for saving her dad. She pushed back the papers and set it before her. In purple crayon it read,
Thank you, Dr. Sheila.
    It should have read
Thank you, VG723
.
    For the thousandth time she wondered why 723 wasn’t used on children.
    Well, at least it cured their parents.
    When her screen came to life she keyed in Kelly’s name. Gray letters popped onto the screen: “File closed—Deceased.”
    Her fingers jumped off the keys. The date was two days ago. How could that be?
    She put her index finger to her lips where her teeth started to tug at a nail, but she caught herself.
    Bad habit.
    She felt a pang as she stared at the screen.
    Poor Kelly. She’d overcome so much, and now … gone. Doctors were supposed to be inured to death, but she sure wasn’t. Not yet anyway.
    No cause of death mentioned but Sheila guessed it must have been some kind of accident.
    She’d presented with a fascinating syndrome. Well, fascinating to Sheila, maddening to Kelly. The distraught woman had cried for answers and Sheila hadn’t had any.
    She had to investigate Kelly further. She’d talk to Bill about it at lunch. Get his take.
    She