I knew the conversation was over, and if I wanted to know more, I’d have to Google him. “Have a good evening, Deacon.”
I did something I never did.
I Googled my client.
When I typed in Deacon Hamilton into Google, there were thousands of hits, tons of articles about his company and his research.
There was one article at the top with a headline that caught my attention. World-Renowned Researcher Deacon Hamilton Finds Effective Way to Slow Spread of Lung Cancer Without Surgical Intervention.
I clicked on the article and scanned it, but most of it was in language I couldn’t understand. I clicked on other things, finding YouTube videos of him on talk shows, giving speeches at the International Biotechnology Symposium, and a keynote speech he gave at a recent Harvard commencement ceremony.
People called him the most brilliant mind of the twenty-first century.
And he also won a Nobel Prize…at the age of twenty-nine.
I felt guilty for not recognizing his name, for not being more patient with him in our interactions.
Now I really had to help this man.
He was saving humanity.
Saving him was the least I could do.
Five
Deacon
Theresa came into my office and placed the stack of papers in front of me. “Dr. Gallagher just sent these over.”
I’d been waiting for these results, so I pulled them toward me, leaned farther over my desk, and started to analyze each number. My hand reached far to the right, feeling for my yellow highlighter. When I grasped it, I pulled it back and started to underline the numbers of significance, pleased by what I saw but not overly enthused.
Theresa continued to stand there. “Anything else I can do for you?”
I’d forgotten she was there. “No.” I propped my face against my closed knuckles and kept reading, double-checking his math because that was how I was. I didn’t trust humans, and sometimes, I didn’t even trust computers. They did what they were instructed, but if an idiot gave the wrong instructions, it would give the wrong answers. Patients would receive care based on misinformation—lethal misinformation.
“Dr. Gallagher wants you to call him—”
“I know.” I kept working, forgetting she was there again.
Her heels clapped against the hardwood floor as she walked away. Then the doors shut behind her.
It was easy for me to block out my surroundings and focus on a single task. I had an unusual amount of focus, the opposite of ADHD. I could work just as efficiently in a Starbucks with the blender going on and off, pointless chatter surrounding me, baristas yelling off the names listed on the coffee cups.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, but I ignored it.
I read through Gallagher’s work twice before I was finished.
My phone vibrated again.
I grabbed it and glanced at the screen.
Tucker’s name was on the screen. I’m in the city. Call me.
I read the message twice even though I’d understood it the first time. I made the call and put the phone to my ear, my brain split into two different topics, thinking about the data, which was more important, and thinking about the fact that my brother was in Manhattan.
He answered. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so quickly, Brainiac.”
I looked across my office, staring at the double gray doors. “Why are you here?”
“Yes, I’m well. Thank you for asking. And I’m so glad you’re enthused by my visit.”
I said nothing, not appreciating or really understanding his sarcasm.
He sighed into the phone. “Let’s get a beer later. I’m at the hotel.”
“Four Seasons?” That was where he worked, at the corporate level for the company.
“Yes. We’re neighbors.”
“Alright. I’ll be in the lab pretty late tonight.” Judging by the papers just put on my desk.
“Just give me a call.” He hung up.
I slid the phone into my pocket as I got to my feet then grabbed the papers. I exited my office, intending to move to the third floor where my primary labs were located. I opened the doors and passed Theresa’s desk.
She rose to her feet. “Dr. Hamilton, I have your lunch—”
“Not hungry.” I didn’t break my stride.
She watched me go, wearing the worried expression of a concerned mother. “I’ll save it for later, then.”
I sat on the stool in my white lab coat covering the front part of my suit, which I hated to wear. It was my company; I could wear whatever the fuck I wanted, but it didn’t seem professional to be the leader of this respected organization and wear a t-shirt and jeans, unless I was booked for the lab all day.
Dr. Gallagher sat beside me, scrolling through the data he’d collected with me to witness it. He’d joined me after leaving his position at Cambridge, making the move across the pond to be one of my best researchers. He was decades older than me, but he possessed the brilliance I needed for the project. “The fusion didn’t increase the effectiveness of the antibodies, and they were somewhat successful against the benign tumors, but there’s not enough data to declare a significant correlation.”