Mortal Danger

better care of her health and feel as good as she possibly could. Always a swimmer, hiker, and exerciser, she had to admit that she was feeling run-down and somewhat weary. Where she had once been slender without effort, recently she had put on some excess pounds. She was subject to hives and had a dime-sized sore on her nose that would not heal; she was quite sure it was caused by the CMV virus and had something to do with her diet.
    Kate made an appointment at the Bayview Medical Group on Clairmont Drive in Mission Bay. Dr. John Branden’s background appeared to be outstanding. He had come with enthusiastic recommendations from her friends. The Bayview Clinic was modern and well appointed. She studied the diplomas on his office wall: Dr. Branden had a PhD in biochemistry from the University of Santa Fe College of Natural Medicine. He wasn’t an MD, but he certainly seemed to have had extensive education in nutrition and alternative medical treatments.
    “Hi,” he said, holding out his hand to cradle hers. “I’m Dr. John.”
    On first meeting, Dr. Branden was impressive, although he seemed as young as she was—if not younger. “I thought he was about thirty-five, but he was forty-four,”she recalled. “One thing I remember about that first meeting was that he had the most gorgeous—almost glowing—skin.”
    That in itself was a good advertisement for his expertise. She noted that he dressed impeccably: His jacket and slacks were obviously custom-made, as were his shirts and what had to be a $250 tie. She learned later that his expensive Ferragamo shoes and sweaters were from Nordstrom. He wasn’t a handsome man by ordinary standards, only about five foot ten, blond, and slightly balding, with eyebrows that sloped down and a nose that could be described as somewhere between patrician and knobby. Still, he had a definite presence—that of a man in charge of his practice and his life. It suited him. Kate was impressed.
    “He wasn’t my physical ‘type,’ though,” Kate said. Her preference had always been for the traditional “tall, dark, and handsome man,” she admitted, and then added wryly, “who [wasn’t] able to make a commitment.”
    Of course that didn’t matter with John Branden. She wasn’t in his office looking for someone to date; she just wanted to feel better. And he certainly couldn’t make a commitment: He was married. His wife worked at Bayview, too, handling the insurance and the billing with the help of an accountant who was on the payroll. His daughter Tamara scheduled appointments, greeted patients, and was the front-office manager. She was nineteen and obviously thought her father was perfect. Kate learned that his younger teenage daughter, Heather, worked at Sea World. “Both his girls were lovely,” Kate recalled. “They had that fabulous skin, too.”
    Tamara was attending the Pacific College of OrientalMedicine part-time to get degrees in acupuncture and Oriental medicine. When her classes interfered with her job, Dr. Branden’s wife, Sue, or his younger daughter manned the front desk. Somewhat jarringly for the wife of a nutrition expert, Sue Branden was quite overweight, and she had a rather glum personality. Or perhaps she was just having a bad day, Kate thought. She seemed very different from her husband and her daughters. They brimmed with enthusiasm and cheerfulness. Kate learned that Tamara would soon be the youngest licensed acupuncturist in California.
     
    The Bayview Medical Group offered an eight-week program, Branden explained to Kate. There would be weekly visits with him, three blood screens, menu plans, and supplements. They would begin with blood tests—titers—and whatever normal and abnormal readings resulted would indicate what her system lacked. He told her that he would personally work out a diet that would be tailored just for her, and he promised to prescribe the proper vitamins. He assured her she would be feeling well in no time, and when he spoke, he looked directly into her eyes.
    She believed him. She didn’t like the idea of needles in her arm, but she followed him across the hall to the blood-drawing room. At his direction, Kate rolled up her sleeves and lay back on the paper-covered exam table.
    Watching him prepare the syringe and vials, Kate said, “I’m warning you that I have deep, rolling veins that don’t like being poked or prodded.”
    He nodded calmly.
    “A few years ago,” she continued, “a doctor stabbed me a