The door closes behind him and I breathe a sigh of relief. Now I can do it my way. I check to make sure Glen isn’t monitoring me at the door’s observation window, then I open the next cage and pick up the beagle inside, a white-pawed bundle of energy. The dog snuggles against me, nuzzling his nose into my neck.
I smile down at him. “You’re a real sweetheart.” I glance at his ear-tag: #675. No, I’m not calling him that. “From now on, your name is Turbo.”
I scratch his ear and receive a joyful bark in return. Justin’s warning not to get attached to any of the lab animals flashes through my mind, but I stroke Turbo and let the warning fade away.
I finally put Turbo back in his cage and pick up room 220’s study file. Each animal room at SolomiChem has its own study file, containing a detailed protocol on the experiment, as well as information relating to the health of the animals.
I open the file to read the experimental protocol from Thompson Pharmaceuticals. It’s a three-week toxicity study of a cancer chemopreventive agent, scheduled to begin tomorrow. The test agent will be given to the dogs via capsule dosing. For the study, the beagles are divided into four groups of six: a control group, low-dose, mid-dose, and a high-dose group. The high-dose group will receive a daily dose of 400mg of the test material.
I close my eyes.400mg. I can’t bear to even think about the toxicity of that dose. Then my stomach does an awful flip.
Turbo.
Please don’t let him be in the high-dose group. Please let him be one of the control dogs.
Control dogs receive only placebo capsules. Other than the usual boredom and loneliness experienced by lab animals, they’re fortunate not to suffer any of the side effects that come with ingestion of the test substance.
I scan the rest of the protocol. Turbo, #675, is in the mid-dose group. He’ll receive a daily dose of 80mg of the chemopreventive agent.
I remember overhearing talk in the tech room this morning about the study, how the test material is expected to make the dogs so sick they’re anticipating a loss of over fifty per cent of the high-dose group.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I close the file and wander over to Turbo’s cage, sticking my hand through the bars and stroking his soft head. As I gaze into his gentle brown eyes, I’m grateful he has no idea of what tomorrow will bring.
29
AMY
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Thursday, July 15
I’m trapped in that proverbial nightmare, the one where you’re running and running, but it’s like your legs are moving through molasses and no matter how desperately you pump them, you can’t escape the slow-motion feeling.
I stumble down the hallway, unable to stop myself from glancing back. Any second now I expect an enraged Kane to come charging after me. I pass the room with the cage inside, then I scramble down the stairs and glimpse the closed door of the entertainment room. Both places hold so many humiliating memories I shudder as I run past them.
There’s a niggling sense I should pause for a moment, plan my next move, but I can’t stop running. My only thought is to get as far away from Kane as I can.
Then I remember Jill. What if I encounter her? Or anyone else belonging to this deranged, animal-obsessed group?
The thought causes me to come to an abrupt stop in a large open-plan living area. Catching my breath, I listen for the sounds of anyone moving about. The house is too quiet.
Run,I tell myself urgently.Get out of here.
There’s a kitchen on my right. I dash into it, yanking open drawers, the uneasy feeling I’m wasting valuable seconds a rising tide in my chest. I find what I’m searching for in the third drawer. Grabbing the butcher knife, I turn around too sharply, my feet sliding out from under me on the tiled floor. It’s a hard fall. Tears fill my eyes. Just once, can’t something go right for me?
Trying to ignore the pain streaking down my back, I get to my feet and pick up the knife I dropped.
Where is the front door?
Holding onto the knife, I manage a kind of loping shuffle past the dining room, a playroom on the right, and an atrium bursting with plants.
And then I spot the front door.
With relief coursing through me, I hurry to the door, grab the handle, and tug.
It’s locked.
My throat closes over. I pull on the handle again, wrenching it up and down, unable to believe that after all this a locked door will be my undoing.
