Free Megan's Cure by Robert B. Lowe Page A

weight, medium height and wore glasses.   He had light brown hair and was not particularly attractive.   When he left his house, he tried to forget his real identity.   Blend in, he told himself.   Be average.   John Average. That’s how he thought of himself.   Weight, height, hair, accent, shoes, type of ballpoint pen.   Average, average, average.
     
    He found the room using the number he had memorized.   He checked the name of the lone patient written on a whiteboard near the bed against the one he had also committed to memory.   From his pocket, he pulled out a syringe filled with a bluish fluid.   He had no idea what was in it.   Each time, he was given an unlabeled vial, the name of a hospital, room number and patient name.   He kept a bag of new syringes.   He filled one and replaced the plastic cap over the needle.   He was careful to dispose of the vial in a convenience store trash can, as instructed.
     
    He suspected the drugs were different because the amounts and colors varied.   All he knew was that after he injected it into the intravenous line, he had at least ten minutes before anything would happen.   Whether that was a heart monitor alarm going off, a careful nurse noticing a change in breathing patterns or the patient turning over and releasing a polite fart before going back to sleep, he had no idea.   He didn’t know if what he was doing would leave the patient dead, blind or feeling like a million dollars the next day.   And, he didn’t want to know.
     
    John Average still was holding the clipboard when he replaced the plastic cap over the needle of the now-empty hypodermic and put it back in his pocket.   He would dispose of it later that morning in another convenience store trash receptacle.
     
    Then he left the room and walked back down the hallway toward the bank of elevators.   They led down to the lobby with an exit that opened onto the parking area.   He walked at four steps per each relaxed breath.   He counted off the steps as if he were a soldier on parade but more slowly.   Half speed.   One…Two…Three…Four.   One…Two…Three…Four.   It was a carefully calibrated pace.   It was exactly average.
     

Chapter 18
     

     
    “I HAD A dream last night,” said Megan.   “There was this girl in it.   I think she was a little bit older than me.   She was blonde, with pigtails.”
     
    Her fishing pole was high in the air.   She examined the worm on the end, still curled into a tight brown knot.   Satisfied, Megan pressed the thumb button on the reel, pulled the rod behind her on the right side and then cast next to a half submerged log.
     
    Walter Novak had been watching his own line inattentively, keeping the float in sight while his mind wandered.   His thoughts had shifted from working through math problems – mental games really – to tracing the main points of the medical research that had consumed the past 15 years.   His conclusions.   He recalled yet again the trail of evidence he had uncovered that had convinced him of sabotage and of the threat to Megan.  
     
    The scientist’s greatest breakthroughs had come when he set a task for himself – such as finding the single gene in a cluster of thousands that had suddenly gone bad – and allowed his subconscious to grind out the answer.   After weeks or months, he would suddenly awaken with the solution or it would come to him while he was planting tulips or watching the sun set.  
     
    Novak had given himself the task of figuring a way out of the mess that had ensnared Megan and him but he was getting nowhere after two days. A math or science problem was one thing.   He wasn’t equipped to handle real danger.   He couldn’t see a path.   Everything felt too dangerous – more risky than just staying here where it at least seemed safe.
     
    Megan’s account of her dream, though, had grabbed his full attention.
     
    “She seemed familiar,” she said, slumping in her seat at the