Fatal Reaction

what was happening to him.”
    “Are there other substances that could do the same thing besides PAF?”
    “Maybe some of the more conventional anticoagulant drugs at very high doses....”
    “How many people in the company have knowledge about this PAF stuff?”
    “I should think just about everybody, especially after what happened in the animal labs this summer.”
    “What happened?”
    “I can’t believe I didn’t tell you. You must have been out of town. One of our summer interns, a college kid from the University of Illinois who should have at least been able to read English, was supposed to mix twenty-five ccs of profluralkynase, an animal sedative commonly known as PFA, into the drinking water of the twenty-five rabbits about to be tested in the AZU-90 protocol. He was either dyslexic or in a hurry, because when he went into the supply room he grabbed the bottle of PAF off the shelf and mixed it with the water.”
    “What happened to the rabbits?” I asked.
    “They all bled to death.”
     
    When I got back to Danny’s office the phone was ringing. It was Cheryl, sounding uncharacteristically ruffled.
    “Who told your mother she could buy a fax machine?” she demanded without so much as a hello. “She keeps sending me these memos about things she wants me to do.”
    “Like what?”
    “This morning when I got in she faxed me a list of twenty-eight florists that she wants me to call. I’m not exaggerating. She wants to see if they can get some type of orchid whose name I can’t even pronounce. She claims it’s for these Japanese businessmen who are coming next week, but I’m beginning to think I’m in some kind of Martha Stewart nightmare and I just can’t Wake myself wake up.”
    “What can I say except that you’re going to go straight to heaven for this?” I replied. “What else is going on today?”
    “So far nothing urgent. I’m just about to fax you your phone messages and I have a messenger on his way with some things for you to sign. Oh, and someone named Mimi Sheraton just called. She’s got to be a friend of your mother’s. How come they all talk like that?”
    “I think they wire their jaws shut their last year of finishing school. Not only does it make them very thin, but it teaches them how to talk while clenching their teeth.”
    “Ms. Sheraton says to tell you she’s arranged for the structural engineers to come and look at the apartment this afternoon and she thinks it would be good if either you or Stephen would be there.”
    “Call her back and tell her she can either handle it herself or reschedule for after the Takisawa visit. You might also tactfully suggest that in the future she check with you before she schedules anything.”
    “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why do you need a structural engineer?”
    “Nothing really. It’s just that the ceilings are all falling down.”
    “You don’t think this is some kind of sign, do you?”
    “No, I do not,” I replied promptly. “Have I already asked you yet whether you want to work this weekend?”
    “No. Do I?”
    “I’m desperate.”
    “How desperate?”
    “Time and a half and as many suits as you need when you start interviewing.”
    “I guess if you twist my arm…” replied my secretary, sounding pleased. Clothes gave her a kind of pleasure I could never understand. “But you have to promise me one thing.”
    “What’s that.”
    “You’re not going to make me call florists or make up seating charts.”
     
    I hung up the phone and tried to settle down to work, but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was PAF. Stephen had said it was kept out in the open in the hematology labs upstairs, but there was also a quantity stored in the reagent room in the basement, which was adjacent to the animal labs. According to Stephen the reagent room was in such constant use that it was kept unlocked during the day.
    Too restless to settle down to the tasks before me I decided to pay a call on Carl Woodruff.
    I found the project coordinator in his office, sitting behind his desk and methodically working the length of white cord that hung from his Venetian blinds into a professional-looking noose.
    “Shall I call the local suicide prevention hot line?” I inquired.
    “Just practicing,” he replied brightly, and began unraveling it. “Besides, it’s not for me.”
    “So tell me,” I ventured, “who are you fitting for a noose?”
    “Michael Childress, who else?”
    “Who else,