Free The Proteus Cure by F. Paul Wilson, Tracy L. Carbone Page B

dissipate the damp chill, however. Nor keep out the trickles that seeped through from above.
    Sheila rarely came down here, so she had to pause to orient herself. The Admin building was to her right, and then left. They needed signs down here. Take a wrong turn and you could wind up in one of the unrefurbished dead-ends.
    She maintained a hurried walk, nodding and smiling to other Tethys staff members taking advantage of the shelter.
    She was glad to see them. After last night, the last place she wanted to be alone was in these eerie tunnels.
    Reaching the Admin stairs, she ran up to the first floor, down the hall, and pushed through a door emblazoned with William P. Gilchrist, Jr. MD .
    “Is he in?”
    Marge, his secretary, looked startled by Sheila’s precipitous entrance.
    “Yes, but he’s on a call.”
    “Thanks.”
    Sheila stepped through the inner door into Bill’s sanctum without waiting to be announced. He had the phone to his ear but smiled and gestured to the settee. Sheila felt too wired to sit, so she wandered the room.
    She loved this office and hoped to have one just like it someday. The big windows with their diamond-shaped panes of leaded glass, the richly paneled walls, the hardwood floor, the stone fireplace that had been converted to gas. It used to belong to the dean of Bradfield.
    She’d been here numerous times but never tired of inspecting the photo-bedizened walls. Bill had been everywhere and seemed to know everybody. He had framed photos of himself with politicos—President Bush, Senator Kerry, Kofi Annan, among others—and celebrities—everyone from Bono to Arnold Schwarzenegger. Salted among the photos were award plaques from the American Society of Clinical Oncology, the American Society of Pediatric Hematology / Oncology, the Massachusetts Society of Clinical Oncology, plus a host of cancer advocacy groups.
    She studied his smiling face under a ten-gallon Stetson as he shook hands with Imus at his ranch for kids with cancer. The same smile that had pulled her back into the light from the darkest moment of her life.
    She remembered that time … she’d never forget.
    Her mother had recently died, only a year after Da. Sheila’s pregnancy had helped her deal with her grief and she’d begun applying for positions at cancer centers. Then the call came that Dek was DOA after his accident. She’d miscarried the very next day. She’d had the D&C and then gone to pick out Dek’s casket.
    The back-to-back losses were more than she could handle and she’d begun to sleepwalk through life. Job interviews but no one called back. Why would they? Who’d want to hire a zombie?
    Bill was the only one who’d asked her what was wrong. She remembered his words to the letter.
    “I look at you and I look at your record and I see two different people. Am I missing something?”
    First she’d been amazed that someone in his position not only met with her personally, but then had the insight to see how emotionally raw she was. It was as if he knew all of her sorrows and cared enough to ask about them. She’d trusted him instantly; breaking down, she told him everything.
    He’d listened patiently, then shocked her by offering a one-year trial on the spot. She’d also have free access to the psychiatrists and psychotherapists on staff to help her get back on track. A dream come true. If she proved herself, she’d be offered a long-range contract; if not, well, then …
    Sheila had planned to make full use of the shrinks, but then she’d met Abra. The seemingly debilitated woman’s indefatigable drive and courage motivated Sheila to pour out her heart. Losing Dek was a near mortal blow, but the miscarriage had all but put her over the edge. And she’d never told anyone, so had no one to console her. But Abra had listened. She always listened.
    And when Abra talked, it was never about herself. The fertility clinic was everything. Most of the women they saw there, Abra told her, either couldn’t