Marker

  Contents

  prologue

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  epilogue

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Marker

  A G. P. Putnam’s Sons Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2005 by Robin Cook

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0530-3

  A G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS BOOK®

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons Books first published by The G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS and the “P” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: October, 2005

  ALSO BY ROBIN COOK

  Seizure

  Shock

  Abduction

  Vector

  Toxin

  Invasion

  Chromosome 6

  Contagion

  Acceptable Risk

  Fatal Cure

  Terminal

  Blindsight

  Vital Signs

  Harmful Intent

  Mutation

  Mortal Fear

  Outbreak

  Mindbend

  Godplayer

  Fever

  Brain

  Sphinx

  Coma

  The Year of the Intern

  For Jean and Cameron and all they mean to me

  I would like to acknowledge my medical school, The College of Physicians and Surgeons at Columbia University in New York. It was an honor and a privilege to have attended. Both my professional life and writing career have depended heavily on the foundation of knowledge and experience I learned and enjoyed at that fine institution.

  —R. C.

  prologue

  IN THE WEE HOURS OF FEBRUARY 2, a cold, steady drizzle drenched the concrete spires of New York City, shrouding them in a dense swirl of purplish-pink fog. Save for a few muted sirens, the city that never sleeps was at a relative standstill. Yet at exactly three-seventeen A.M., two nearly simultaneous, unrelated but basically similar, microcosmic events occurred on opposite sides of Central Park that would prove to be fatefully connected. One was on a cellular level, the other on a molecular level. Although the biological consequences of these two events were opposite, the events themselves were destined to cause the perpetrators—all strangers—to violently collide in less than two months.

  The cellular event occurred in a moment of intense bliss and involved the forcible injection of slightly more than two hundred and fifty million sperm into a vaginal vault. Like a group of anxious marathoners, the sperm mobilized quickly, tapped into their self-contained energy stores, and began a truly Herculean race against death: a remarkably arduous and perilous race that only one could win, relegating the others to short and frustratingly futile lives.

  The first task was to penetrate the mucous plug obstructing the collapsed uterine cavity. Despite this formidable barrier, the sperm rapidly triumphed as a group, although it was a Pyrrhic victory. Tens of millions of the initial wave of gametes were lost in a form of self-sacrifice required to release their contained enzymes to make the passage possible for others.

  The next ordeal for this horde of minute living entities was to traverse the relatively enormous uterine expanse, almost equivalent in distance and danger to a small fish swimming the length of the Great Barrier Reef. But even this seemingly insurmountable impediment was overcome as a few thousand lucky and robust individual sperm made it to the openings of the two oviducts, leaving behind hundreds of millions of unlucky casualties.

  Still, the travail was not over. Once within the undulating folds of the oviducts, the fortunate ones who’d entered the correct tube were now spurred on by the chemotaxis of the descending fluid from a burst ovarian follicle. Somewhere ahead, beyond a tortuous and treacherous twelve centimeters, lay the sperm’s Holy Grail, a recently released ovum crowned with a cloud of supporting cumulous cells.

  Progressively goaded by the irresistible chemical attraction, a contingent of the male gametes accomplished the ostensibly impossible and closed in on their target. Nearly exhausted from the long swim and from avoiding predatory macrophages who’d engulfed many of their brethren, the number was now less than one hundred and falling rapidly. Neck and neck, the survivors bore down on the hapless haploid egg in a race to the wire.

  After an astonishingly short one hour and twenty-five minutes, the winning sperm gave a final desperate beat of his flagellum and collided head-on with the egg’s surrounding cumulous cells. Frantically, he burrowed between the cells to bring his caplike acrosome into direct contact with the egg’s heavy protein coat to form a bond. At that instant, the race was over. As his last mortal act, the winning sperm then injected his contained nuclear material into the egg to form the male pronucleus.

  The other sixteen sperm that had managed to reach the egg seconds behind the winner found themselves unable to adhere to the egg’s altered protein coat. With their energy stores exhausted, their flagella soon fell silent. There was no second place, and all the losers were soon swept up, engulfed, and carried off by the deadly maternal macrophages.

  Inside the now-fertilized ovum, the female pronucleus and the male pronucleus migrated toward each other. After the dissolution of their envelopes, their nuclear material fused to form the required forty-six chromosomes of a human somatic cell. The ovum had metamorphosed into a zygote. Within twenty-four hours, it divided in a process called cleavage, the first step in a programmed sequence of events that would in twenty days begin to form an embryo. A life had begun.

  The nearly simultaneous molecular event also involved a forcible injection. On this occasion a bolus of more than a trillion molecules of a simple salt called potassium chloride dissolved in a shotglass volume of sterile water was injected into a peripheral arm vein. The effect was almost instantaneous. Cells lining the vein experienced a rapid passive diffusion of the potassium ions into their interiors, upsetting their electrostatic charge necessary for life and function. Delicate nerve endings among the cells quickly sent urgent messages of pain to the brain as a warning of imminent catastrophe.

  Within seconds, the rest of the potassium ions were streaming through the great veins and into the heart, where they were propelled with each beat out into the vast arterial tree. Although progressive dilution occurred within the plasma, the concentration was still incompatible with cellu
lar function. Of particular concern were the specialized cells of the heart responsible for initiating the heartbeat, those of the brainstem responsible for the urge to breathe, and the nerves and muscle spindles that carried the messages. All were quickly adversely affected. The heart rate rapidly slowed, and the heartbeats grew weaker. Breathing became shallow, and oxygenation inadequate. Moments later, the heart stopped altogether, initiating progressive bodywide cellular death as well as clinical death. A life had been lost. As a final blow, the dying cells leaked their store of potassium into the stagnant circulatory system, effectively masking the original lethal bolus.

  one

  THE SOUND OF THE DRIPPING was metronomic. Somewhere out on the fire escape, drops of water, fueled by the incessant rain, splattered against a metallic surface. To Laurie Montgomery, the noise seemed almost as loud as a kettledrum in Jack Stapleton’s otherwise silent apartment, making her wince as she anticipated each splat. The only competition over the long hours had been the refrigerator’s compressor cycling on and off, the hiss and thump of the radiator as heat rose, and an occasional distant siren or horn, sounds so typical in New York that people’s minds instinctively ignored them. But Laurie was not so lucky. After tossing and turning for three hours, she’d become hypersensitive to every sound around her.

  Laurie rolled over again and opened her eyes. Anemic fingers of light reached around the window shade’s edges, allowing her a better view of Jack’s barren and otherwise drab apartment. The reason she and Jack were there instead of at her apartment was the size of her bedroom: It was so small that the largest bed it could accommodate was a twin, which made communal sleeping problematic. And then there was also Jack’s desire to be near to his beloved neighborhood basketball court.

  Laurie glanced over to the radio alarm clock. As its digital readout relentlessly advanced, Laurie became progressively angry. Without much sleep, she knew from sore experience she’d be a basket case at the medical examiner’s office that day. She wondered how in God’s name she had made it through medical school and her residency, where sleep deprivation had been the name of the game. Yet Laurie sensed that her current inability to fall asleep wasn’t the only thing making her angry. In fact, her anger was probably why she couldn’t sleep in the first place.

  It had been the middle of the night when Jack had inadvertently reminded her of her upcoming birthday, asking her if she wanted to do something special to celebrate. Laurie knew it had been an innocent question, coming as it did in the afterglow of lovemaking, but it had shattered her elaborate defense of taking each day at a time to avoid thinking about the future. It seemed impossible, but she was soon to be forty-three years old. Somewhere around age thirty-five the cliché about the ticking reproductive clock had become true for her—and now hers was sending out the alarm.

  Laurie let out an involuntary sigh. In her loneliness as the hours had slid by, she’d fretted over the social quagmire in which she found herself ensnared. When it came to her personal life, things hadn’t gone right since middle school. Jack was content with the status quo, as evidenced by his relaxed silhouette and the sounds of his blissful sleep, which only made things worse for Laurie. She wanted a family. She’d always assumed she’d have one, even during her comparatively wild twenties and early thirties, yet here she was, almost forty-three, living in a crummy apartment in a fringe New York neighborhood, sleeping with a man who couldn’t make up his mind about marriage or children.

  She sighed again. Earlier, she’d consciously tried to avoid disturbing Jack, but now she didn’t care. She had decided she was going to try to talk with him again, even though she knew that the issue was something he studiously preferred to ignore. But this time, she was going to demand some change. After all, why should she settle for a miserable life in an apartment more suited to a couple of penurious graduate students than board-certified forensic pathologists, as she and Jack were, in a relationship where discussions of marriage and children were unilaterally verboten?

  Yet things weren’t all bad. On the career side, it couldn’t be better. She loved her job as a medical examiner at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York, where she’d been working for thirteen years, and she felt lucky she had a coworker like Jack with whom she could share the experience. Both of them were awed by the intellectual stimulation that forensic pathology offered; each day they learned something new. And they saw eye to eye on a lot of issues: Both had little tolerance for mediocrity, and both were turned off by the political necessities of being part of a bureaucracy. Yet as compatible as they were work-wise, it did not make up for her burgeoning desire to have a family.

  Jack suddenly stirred and rolled over onto his back, his fingers intertwined and hands clasped on his chest. Laurie looked at his sleeping profile. In her eyes, he was a handsome man, with closely cropped, gray-streaked light brown hair, bushy eyebrows, and strong, sharp features, usually sporting a wry smile, even in repose. She found him aggressive yet friendly, bold yet modest, challenging yet generous, and, most often, playful and fun. With his quick wit, life was never dull, especially with his adolescent penchant for risk-taking. On the negative side he could be aggravatingly stubborn, especially about marriage and children.

  Laurie leaned toward Jack and looked more closely. He was definitely smiling, which aggravated her irritation. It didn’t seem fair that he was satisfied with the status quo. Although she was reasonably sure she loved him and believed he loved her, his inability to make a commitment was literally driving her to distraction. He said it wasn’t a fear of marriage or parenthood per se, but rather the vulnerability that such commitment created. At first, Laurie had been understanding: Jack had suffered the tragedy of losing his first wife and two young daughters in a commuter plane crash. She knew that he carried both the grief and the responsibility, since the accident had occurred after a family visit while he was retraining in pathology in another city. She also knew that after the accident, he had struggled with severe reactive depression. But now the tragedy was almost thirteen years in the past. Laurie felt that she’d been sensitive to his needs and had been patient when they finally did start dating seriously. But now, almost four years later, Laurie felt that she’d reached her limit. After all, she had needs, too.

  The buzz of Jack’s alarm shattered the silence. Jack’s arm shot out and swatted the snooze button, then retracted back into the warmth of the covers. For five minutes, peacefulness returned to the room, and Jack’s breathing regained its slow, deep, sleeping rhythm. This was part of the morning routine that Laurie never saw, because Jack invariably was up before she was. Laurie was a night person who loved to read before turning out the light, often staying up longer than she should. Almost from day one of their cohabitation, Laurie had learned to sleep through the alarm, knowing Jack would get it.

  When the alarm went off the second time, Jack turned it off, threw back the covers, sat up, and put his feet on the floor, facing away from Laurie. She watched him stretch and could hear him yawn as he rubbed his eyes. He stood up and padded into the bathroom, heedless of his nakedness. Laurie put her hands behind her head and watched him, and despite her aggravation, it was a pleasant sight. She could hear him use the toilet and then flush. When he reappeared, he was again rubbing his eyes as he came around to Laurie’s side of the bed to wake her.

  Jack reached out to give Laurie’s shoulder a shake as per usual, and then gave a start when he saw her eyes open, trained on him, her mouth set in an expression of irritated determination.

  “You’re awake!” Jack said, his eyebrows arching questioningly. He knew instantly that something was amiss.

  “I haven’t been back to sleep since our middle-of-the-night tryst.”

  “It was that good, huh?” Jack said, in hopes that humor could defuse her apparent pique.

  “Jack, we have to talk,” Laurie said flatly, sitting up and clutching the blanket to her chest. Defiantly she locked eyes with him.

  “Isn’t that what we’re already
doing?” Jack questioned. He immediately guessed where Laurie was coming from, and he couldn’t keep sarcasm out of his voice. Although he knew his tone was counterproductive, he couldn’t help himself. Sarcasm was a protective mannerism he’d developed over the last decade.

  Laurie started to respond, but Jack held up his hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but I have a sneaking suspicion where this conversation is headed, and it’s not the time. I’m sorry, Laurie, but we have to be at the morgue in an hour, and neither of us has showered, dressed, or eaten.”

  “Jack, it’s never the time.”

  “Well, then let’s put it this way: This might be the worst possible time for some kind of serious, emotional discussion. It’s six-thirty on a Monday morning after a great weekend, and we have to get to work. If it had been on your mind, there’d have been a dozen other times during the last couple of days when you could have brought it up, and I would have been happy to discuss it.”

  “Oh, bull! Let’s face it, you never want to talk about it. Jack, I’m going to be forty-three on Thursday. Forty-three! I don’t have the luxury of being patient. I can’t wait for you to decide what you want to do. I’ll be postmenopausal.”

  For several beats, Jack stared into Laurie’s blue-green eyes. It was clear that she wasn’t going to be placated easily. “All right,” he said, exhaling noisily as if he was conceding. He averted his gaze down to his bare feet. “We’ll talk about it tonight over dinner.”

  “I need to talk about it now!” Laurie said emphatically. She reached out and lifted Jack’s chin to lock eyes again. “I’ve been agonizing over our situation while you’ve been sleeping. Putting it off is not an option.”

  “Laurie, I’m going to go in and take a shower. I’m telling you, there’s no time for this at the moment.”

  “I love you, Jack,” Laurie said after grabbing his arm to restrain him. “But I need more. I want to be married and have a family. I want to live someplace better than this.” She let go of Jack’s arm and swept her hand around the room to point out the peeling paint, the bare lightbulb, the bed with no headboard, the two night tables that were empty wooden wine cases set on end, and the single bureau. “It doesn’t have to be the Taj Mahal, but this is ridiculous.”