by John Locke
“Beyond what it takes to run the world, yes.”
“Sounds like a zillion dollars to me,” I say.
“Are you done with me?” Sam says. “If we’re through, I’d like to go home now.”
“First, let’s figure out who would be in charge of creating the vaccine.”
“Some drug company. Or companies.”
“American, I presume, because of security issues. American companies that have experience creating large quantities of flu vaccine. That’s got to be a small number, wouldn’t you think?”
“Less than a half-dozen, probably.” He looks at me. “What are you planning to do?”
“Save Rachel’s children.”
“She doesn’t have any children, you idiot.”
“And I’m going to keep it that way.”
“You truly are insane.”
26.
It’s a lot easier to kill someone than kidnap them.
Especially if you’re working alone.
But what’s easier still is breaking into their home while they’re away, and waiting till they return.
Sam wants to hurry back to his strange life in Louisville, but I’m keeping him locked up at Sensory in case I want to test the accuracy of the comments I expect to get from the people I plan to visit. It’s good for Sam to stay there another night anyway, since he hasn’t fully recovered from the nip he got on the ass.
According to the information Lou dug up for me, Quentin Palmer heads the Flu Division of the Center for Disease Control. I don’t know if Quentin can help, but since he lives a scant hour from Sensory Resources, he’s a convenient place to start.
It’s 6:00 p.m., Sunday, and I’m in one of Sensory’s non-descript cars, driving through Quentin’s stately neighborhood. These aren’t multi-million dollar estates, but they’re expensive, sprawling, older homes with ancient oaks and mature pine. I stop a hundred feet from Quentin’s two-story, bleached stone home. The house itself looks sturdy, but the roof needs attention. The red shingles are faded and there’s evidence of dry rot. I stare at the roof a moment, searching for the word that best describes it. The one that comes to mind is tired. Quentin Palmer’s roof is tired. It’s done its job, but remains there stoically, unappreciated, fighting the elements bravely, like an old prize fighter who’d quit if he could, but he needs the money.
Quentin’s house sits on three unkempt acres. As I’m viewing it, the garage door suddenly starts to rise, and I see a navy Escalade backing out. I put my car in gear and drive past the house, make the block, and keep moving until I find a “For Sale” sign, which turns out to be a quarter mile from Quentin’s house. I turn into that driveway and stop in front of the garage doors. After verifying no one’s home, I walk to Quentin’s house.
I hadn’t been able to tell if the whole family—dad, mom, and Shelby—had been in Quentin’s Escalade, but it’s dinnertime, so it’s likely they were all heading out for a bite together. I didn’t have a formal plan, but figured to stage a home invasion, tie the wife and daughter up, and rapidly beat some information out of Quentin. After all the crap Sam put me through, I was looking forward to a more straight-forward method of getting answers.
I’m quite skilled at breaking and entering, but right now I don’t feel like being subtle. Like Quentin’s roof, I’m tired. Tired of dealing with Sam’s bullshit, tired of dealing with the government, tired of worrying about Rachel. I feel like kicking the door down. Since the Palmer’s back door is completely secluded from the neighbors, and since the closest neighbors are more than fifty yards away, I decide to kick it just right of the deadbolt, and take my chances the Palmers don’t have a burglar alarm. Or if they do, it’s not set. But then I remember reading somewhere that twelve percent of all families fail to check the doors and windows before going out to dinner. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s worth the effort to see. I try the door knob and—no big surprise—it’s locked. I go around to the side and find the sliding door unlocked. Score one for the article. And one for me as well, because the house is silent. Meaning, if they do have a burglar alarm, it wasn’t set.
A minute later, I learn why.
“Thought you were having dinner with your family,” I say, turning the corner and finding Quentin Palmer sitting at his desk.
Quentin jumps to his feet. “Wh-Who are you? What’s the meaning of this? What do you want?”
I enter his office. Quentin is very nervous.
“Please,” I say. “Have a seat.”
“I’m not a wealthy man,” he says. “Whatever you might think, we’re barely making ends meet.”
“Really?”
“It’s true. I swear.”
“Why’s that, do you think? I know you earn a good wage.”
He turns his palm up and gestures meekly, indicating not just the room we’re in, but his life in general. “My wife lost her job last year. The house is eating us alive. Private school tuition, car payments, college on the horizon…” Quentin shakes his head.
“How can I help?” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Sounds like you’re in crisis. How much cash would it take to get you through this tough time in your life?”
Quentin takes a seat at his desk. He’s still concerned, but now he’s confused, as well.
“Aren’t you here to rob me?” he says.
“Do I look like a thief?”
“A little.”
I frown, and point to one of the chairs facing his desk. “May I?”
He nods.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to slide this chair to the side. That way I can see if anyone tries to sneak up behind me.”
“There’s no one home but me,” he says.
“You were surprisingly quiet,” I say.
He looks at his computer. “I get wrapped up in my work.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here, Quentin. To discuss your work.”
“I don’t understand.”
I open his printer tray and remove a sheet of paper. “Got an ink pen?” I ask.
He starts to open his desk drawer. I say, “Freeze!”
He does.
“I doubt you have a gun in there, but I’d feel ridiculous if you shot me.”
I get up, push his chair back, and check the drawers. As I suspected, there’s no gun. No knives, either. Or throwing stars, nunchucks or water moccasins. I do find a pen, and hand it to him.
“What’s this about?” he says.
“I want you to write some names for me. Specifically, the name of each and every drug company that manufactures flu vaccine.”
“Are you serious?”
“Do I look serious?”
He looks at me. “Yes.”
“Then do it.”
“Well, I know many of them, of course, but not all. The big companies use subcontractors for some of the work. Knowing the names of these companies doesn’t fall under my job description. But none of this information is secret. It’s a matter of public record. Anyone with a computer can obtain it.”
“I know that, Quentin. I’m starting slowly, building a rapport. Trying to create a bond with you. Of sorts.”
“I appreciate that,” he says.
He writes down the names of seven companies before I stop him.
“That’s good enough.”
He hands me the sheet. I already know these names. “You’re doing fine,” I say. “Now I want you to answer six very important questions.”
Quentin can tell by my tone I’m expecting complete candor. He swallows. “I’ll be fully cooperative,” he says.
“Glad to hear it. Question number one: have you ever heard of the Spanish Flu of 1918?”
He looks at me curiously. “Yes, of course.”
“Good. That’s a throwaway question. Here’s number two: has a vaccine been invented that could prevent the Spanish Flu from coming back?”
“No.”
Quentin is relaxing a bit, though I have no idea why.
“Question three: look at me.” He does. “Look directly into my eyes, and do not look away when I ask you this next question. Do you understand?”
He looks into my eyes and holds my stare. Then says, “Yes, sir.”
27.
“Question number three is, what’s your wife’s bra size?”
“Excuse me?”
“That was another throw away question. It’s from a book I read. Question number four: how close is this country, or any country, to developing a vaccine for the Spanish Flu?”
“It can’t be done.”
“And why is that?”
“Such a vaccine would require a human genetic footprint that doesn’t exist.”
“Why not? –And by the way, these ancillary questions aren’t part of the six.”
“Do you know much about synthetic biology?”
“Pretend I don’t.”
“There is no known human genetic code that can re-create the virus that caused the pandemic, though some scientists are working with man-made cells that get genetic instructions from a synthetic DNA.”
I hold up my hand. “Call on me.”
Quentin furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”
“When I was a kid, in class, I’d raise my hand and the teacher would call on me. I’m raising my hand, Quentin.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Call on me.”
“I-I don’t know your name.”
“That’s right, you don’t. Just like I don’t know what the shit you’re talking about.”
“Perhaps if I—”
“Let me make this simple, Quentin. Suppose there was a human who had the proper genetic code. A lady. Where would you hide her?”
“Hide her?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“Why would I hide her?”
“Because you don’t want the bad guys to get her.”
Quentin looks concerned again. “Your questions are making me uncomfortable. I’m concerned you might be unstable.”
“Question number five, rephrased: if the government found this lady, where would they hide her?”
“I don’t know anything about a lady. What lady are you talking about?”
“Rachel Case.”
“I’ve never heard the name. I honestly know nothing about her.”
“Rachel is in her late twenties. She has thick, light brown, shoulder-length hair with blond highlights. Her lips aren’t full, but they aren’t thin, either. But when she smiles…No, strike that. Not when she smiles, but after.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“After Rachel rewards you with a smile, her lips curl up at the edges, turning her mouth into a little bow.”
“A bow?”
“It’s adorable.”
“I’m sure it is, but—”
“Her eyes.”
“Her…eyes?”
“Gold, like tupelo honey. And her breath?
“Yes?”
“I don’t care what she’s eaten, or how long it’s been since she brushed her teeth. Her breath is always fresh. Like the negative ions in the air after a spring storm washes over a field of honeysuckle. Have you ever known a woman to have that type of breath?”
“No.”
“Damn right you haven’t. And her perfect breath dances behind teeth as pure and white as the 3,617 words Melville used in Chapter 42 to describe how white the whale was. And Rachel’s body?”
“Yes?”
“Whippet thin. Willowy. With small, splendid breasts and nipples hard as cherry stones. A belly so firm and flat you could use it to crack walnuts.”
“Walnuts?”
“And legs that go on forever. Impossibly well-proportioned legs. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Quentin?”
“She has nice legs.”
“No. Super models have nice legs. Rachel’s alabaster thighs will send you howling through the night as you bound across the moors, seeking your very sanity. As for what beckons in the golden-tufted triangle atop those splendid thighs, well, that’s none of your business.”
“Of course not.”
“But I’ll say this much, Quentin: as a mysterious force of nature that will spin your compass, render all navigation useless, and swallow you whole, the Bermuda Triangle has nothing on Rachel’s triangle. Add to that a backside that would make even the most devoted husband in the world curse his wedding vows.”
“She sounds extraordinary.”
“Damn right, she is. And I want her back.”
Quentin’s cell phone buzzes on his desk. I pick it up and look at the caller ID.
“Who’s Ginger?”
“My wife. She’s calling from the restaurant. I’m supposed to join them for dinner.”
I set the phone back on his desk.
“Don’t answer it,” I say.
“If I don’t, she’ll worry.”
“She’ll worry more if you’re dead. And you will be, if you answer it.”
“She’ll keep calling.”
“How would you feel if someone kidnapped Ginger?”
“Sir…”
“Would you miss her?”
“Of course, but—”
“What would you do to get her back?”
“I’d do anything. But—”
I stand. “Where do you keep your tools? In the garage?”
“My tools?”
“Let’s go find them.”
“Wh-Why?”
“Because my last question might require some coaxing.”
28.
I was wrong.
My last question required practically no coaxing.
I’m glad, because the bottom line is Quentin’s a standup guy. A caring husband, good father, the sort of man you want looking after your nation when flu season strikes.
“You’re not going to leave me like this, are you?” he says, as I open the door that leads from his shop to the house proper.
“Ginger will let you out,” I say, as I start to leave. “By the way, where’s your checkbook?”
“I-I thought you weren’t going to rob me.”
“I need a deposit slip.”
“Why?”
“So I can wire you some money.”
“I’d rather you just left us alone.”
I look at Quentin, bent over his workbench, hands tied behind his back, his head stuck in the vice, and smile. “Don’t be a martyr. We all need help. By the way, I’m counting on you not to tell anyone about our visit. Not Ginger, and especially not Maggie Sullivan.”
“How will I explain having my head stuck in a vice?”
“To Ginger and Shelby?”
“Yes.”
“Tell them it was an accident.”
“An accident?”
“I’m really concerned that you’re going to report this to someone. Normally I’d kill you, and that would be that. But you seem a decent man. I’m hoping I can trust you to keep your word.”
“You can.”
“But now you’re making me wonder. If I leave you here, Ginger might demand to know how you got into this position. If I cut you loose, I’ll have to trust you not to call the police, or warn Maggie Sullivan’s office that I’m coming to call.”
“I give you my word.”
I sigh, walk back to Quentin, and untie his hands. “Don’t make me sorry I’m doing this,” I say. “Because the smart move is to kill you.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“I’m going to trust you. Against my better judgment. Knowing that if you tell anyone, I’m going to do something I really don’t want to do.”
“What’s that?”
I take out my cell phone, punch in some numbers, and set it on speaker.
“Yes?”
“Callie, I’ve got you on speaker phone.”
“Okay.”
“I’m with Quentin Palmer. He gave me a name. Maggie Sullivan.”
“World Health Organization Maggie Sullivan?”
/> “The same.”
“He’s going to call her in a few minutes and get me an appointment to see her tomorrow.”
“I’m what?” Quentin says. “I barely know her!”
Callie says, “Will Maggie know where Rachel is?”
“Probably not. But she’ll know the name of the scientist who gave the green light on Rachel’s blood work.”
To Quentin, I say, “I’ll need you to call Maggie before I leave.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“You’d prefer I spend the night with your family?”
“No!”
“Then you’ll have to make the call in a few minutes.”
“I don’t have her home phone number.”
“Try her cell.”
Quentin turns the palms of both hands upward in frustration. “She and I don’t have that type of relationship?”
“What type is that?”
“The type where I can call her on a Sunday evening and ask her to see someone the next day.”
“But that’s the very reason she’ll take it seriously, yes?”
“I’m not sure what I should say.”
“We can rehearse a bit, before you call.”
“You’re not planning to put her head in a vice, are you?”
“Not unless I have to.”
Callie is laughing on her end of the phone. “You put his head in a vice? That’s hilarious!”
“Sounds funnier than it is,” I say. “Callie, I’ve decided not to kill Quentin.”
She pauses before saying, “Loose ends, Donovan.”
“I know. But he’s a good man. God knows, the country needs some.”
“Still...”
“I know. Listen, do me a favor. Tell Quentin something to convince him we’re serious.”
“Shooting him would be more convincing.”
“Humor me,” I say.
“Quentin,” Callie says. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“36-C.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ginger’s bra size. Trust me, we know everything about her. And we know more about Shelby than you do.”
“Can you give him a for instance?” I say.
“Shelby’s dating Brad Ogilve, senior at Mid-Central High, but she’s crushing on Charlie Garber, a freshman at U.V.A. She started taking birth control pills two months ago and has three left, if she’s taken them according to the prescription. She bought two online tickets to the advance showing of Follow the Stone, which premiers next Friday.”
