“Joseph, please, please listen to me. If this had happened in your apartment, we never would have gotten to you in time. We need you, Joseph. I need you. Sarah-nine needs you. The world needs you. We can’t have this happen again. Please, please consent to the transplant.”
Minutely at first, then with greater force, he squeezed her hand.
“Oh, Joseph,” she said, kissing him on the forehead, then on the cheek, “thank you, thank you. We’re going to move quickly. Do you understand? Whitestone has a jet to fly you to India. It’s waiting in Capetown right now. I will be with you all the way. We’ll keep you sedated and on the ventilator for the whole trip. Understand? Good. Please don’t be frightened. This is what is needed. Soon all your troubles will be over and you will be back here making all of mankind better. I ask you one last time, do you understand? All right, Joseph, I will make the call. Soon we will be on the way to Yaoundé Airport to meet our jet.”
St. Pierre mobilized the team who would be caring for Anson while she was off arranging the ambulance ride to Yaoundé Airport and the subsequent flight to Amritsar International. When Claudine moved in to take over the nursing, St. Pierre shook her head and motioned the woman outside.
“You almost killed him,” St. Pierre snapped before Claudine could get out a word.
The nurse’s eyes glossed over at the rebuke. Elizabeth St. Pierre was a person—a Yaoundé-born woman—whom she had respected for many years. Had she not thought so much of her, she would have never agreed to add the mixture of tranquilizers and respiratory depressants to Dr. Anson’s beer.
“I did nothing wrong,” she said. “You told me to add one-point-four cc’s to the bottle, and that is precisely what I did.”
St. Pierre was at once fire and ice.
“Nonsense,” she said. “All I wanted to do was force him into more difficulty so he would opt to go ahead with a transplant before it was too late, and while we had a perfect donor. I formulated that preparation based on his body mass and oxygen levels. If you had given the proper amount, he would never have stopped breathing.”
“But it is extremely hot and humid today and—”
“Just imagine if that had happened five minutes later in his quarters. If he was unable to call for help, then he would be dead right now, and we would have lost one of the greatest men who ever lived. Clearly you misread the dose. Admit it.”
“Dr. St. Pierre, I cannot admit to something I did not—”
“In that case, I want you packed and out of here by two. I’ll have one of the guards drive you back to Yaoundé. If you wish a positive recommendation from me, let there be no talk of what went on here today.”
Without waiting for a reply, St. Pierre whirled, stalked to her office, and placed a long-distance call. Again, the man who called himself Laertes answered.
“All right,” she said in English. “Set the team in motion. If this tissue match is all you say, A should be renewed and working for us for as long as is necessary. We have accomplished so much.”
“Agreed.”
“Has the donor been certified brain-dead?”
“Do you care, Aspasia?”
“No,” St. Pierre said without hesitation. “No, I don’t.”
Nine
And from being a keeper of the law, he is converted into a breaker of it.
—PLATO, The Republic, Book VII
“Let me get this straight, Mr. Callahan. Your source for this information about a recreational vehicle was an old man in an out-of-the-way garage, and you found him after being encouraged by a psychic not to quit your investigation.”
“Um…I suppose you could put it that way, yes.”
“You believe the old man?”
“I do. I think the RV he described is the one we’re looking for.”
“And the psychic with the zodiac tattooed on her head?”
“She knew my cat was missing, and I don’t remember telling her that.”
“But she didn’t tell you where to find him.”
“No, no she didn’t.”
“But you found him anyway?”
“He was in the bushes right in front of my building. I think he got enough mice and rats there without ever having to move.”
Gustafson suppressed a grin, but not before Ben saw it.
“So,” she said, “after a week of near futility in Florida, where we still don’t know who the man was you were investigating, or why he had a bone marrow done, you want me to pay you to go to Cincinnati.”
“It’s only three hundred or so miles.”
“Each way. I know that.”
Ben leaned toward her conspiratorially.
“Don’t tell anyone, Doc, but I’m going to Cincinnati whether you pay me or not.”
Alice Gustafson leaned back across her desk and mimicked his gesture.
“Well then,” she said, “in that case you’d better get a move on.”
Ben made the drive from Chicago to Cincinnati in a steady, raw drizzle. For much of the trip he listened to a John Prine CD with most of the songs dealing with imprisonment—either behind bars or within the walls of one’s life. When he wasn’t listening, he was singing the chorus of his favorite cut on the album, which he had decided would be his theme song until something better came along.
Father forgive us for what we must do
You forgive us, we’ll forgive you
We’ll forgive each other till we both turn blue
Then we’ll whistle and go fishing in heaven.
Using the information provided by Schyler Gaines, some software he had bought from a private detective catalogue (and could use only after paying off the overdue account with his Internet server), and a cop who owed him a favor, Ben had relatively little trouble pinpointing the location of the Winnebago Adventurer and its owner—Faulkner Associates, 4A Laurel Way, Cincinnati. There was no such business listed in the Cincinnati phone book, and none in any search engine online. Now, as he cruised around a curve on I-74 and saw the city stretched out ahead, Ben tried to make sense, any sense at all, of an RV that would scoop victims up, perform bone marrow aspirations on them against their will, and then release them. Nothing came to mind.
He knew that Alice Gustafson liked him and was going to pay him for his time no matter what, but he was relieved he hadn’t yet brought up the five hundred dollars he had paid Madame Sonja for the renderings of Glenn. In fact, rather than try to explain the variation between the two sets of drawings, he had only shown her the “real” one. Altogether, adding the five hundred to the cost of reactivating his browser, paying off a few people in Florida for what proved to be useless information, and assuming that he had lost at least some work while in the Sunshine State, he had probably not come close to breaking even on this gig.
If this six-hundred-mile junket to the Queen City and back proved to be a bust, he decided, he was through, finished. He would ignore the hideous photos of Glenn, and the tabloid-worthy account of Juanita Ramirez, and he would put the mystery of Madame Sonja behind him. Organ Guard could go back to guarding organs, and he would go back to stalking and gawking.
Father forgive us for what we must do
You forgive us and we’ll forgive you.
With its emerald necklace of parks, stunning concert hall, art galleries, universities, bohemian section, sporting venues, and zoo, Ben had always considered Cincinnati a little-known jewel among cities. After checking his MapQuest printout, he eased off the highway and toward the Ohio River. He had been driving most of eight hours, and his balky back was demanding some relief. Regardless of what happened on 4A Laurel Way, there was a motel and a hot shower in his near future.
The dense overcast, persistent rain, and Cincinnati’s place on the western edge of the eastern time zone made the early evening almost midnight dark. MapQuest took him east past the downtown area, and down into the flats by the Ohio River—an area of gnarled little streets, narrow alleys, and warehouses that was just begging for some sort of urban renewal.
<
br /> Unlike most of the truncated, dimly lit streets, Laurel Way had a sign. Ben parked just around the corner and then stared at his locked glove compartment, wondering if there was any sense in bringing along his Smith & Wesson .38. Except for a single session at a range a couple of years ago, he had never once fired the thing, and given his woeful aim, he hoped he would never have to. The vote was a decisive one-to-nil to leave it where it was. His soft leather bag was another story. A sale purchase at Marshall Field’s, it now contained a hooded flashlight, crowbar, skeleton keys, digital videocam, digital still camera, laser listening device, rope, string, duct tape, and as many varied tools as the zipper would allow.
Traffic in the area was extremely light. Aware of the pounding in his chest, Ben slipped the drawings of Glenn into the outside pocket of his bag and pulled on his Cubs cap, brim low. Then he turned off the interior light of his aging Range Rover and silently opened the door. For one of the rare times in his years as a private investigator, he was actually investigating.
Scattered cars were parked on the street in front of a featureless mélange of auto-body and welding shops, garages, and warehouses—some concrete, some corrugated metal, and some wood. The buildings themselves were separated from the road by narrow sidewalks in ill repair, and from one another by narrow alleyways. Potholes, most of them filled with muddy rainwater, were as much a part of the roadway as the pavement was.
Staying on the sidewalk and in the shadows of the buildings, Ben turned onto Laurel Way. Having visited an RV center just south of Chicago to get a look at a thirty-nine-foot Adventurer, Ben was relieved to find that the street was wider than most of the others in the area. He was still questioning whether or not a bus-sized vehicle could swing into any of the structures, when he noticed a vacant, trash-strewn lot across from a faded, peeling, wood-framed building. The place was two stories high, maybe even three, and somewhere in its history might have been a barn. Facing the road was a massive pair of sliders on a metal track, quite large enough to admit an RV. If there was a 4A on Laurel Way, and if it housed a thirty-nine-foot motor home, this really had to be the place. Also, he reasoned, someplace around the building there had to be a pedestrian door.
Ignoring the persistent drizzle, Ben cautiously made his way along the three-foot space between the building and the one to his left. There was a single, eye-level window midway, but a curtain of some kind was drawn. On the street parallel to Laurel Way, there were no doors or windows, just a broad, shingled façade, rising twenty-five feet to a sharply peaked roof. He checked the street, then started back toward Laurel Way on the other side of the building, using the hooded flashlight to illuminate the dark, narrow alleyway. Halfway along that wall he found the door he sensed had to exist. It was solid, paneled wood, with a lock and knob that had clearly been added recently.
Shortly after his decision to become a PI, Ben had attended a detectives-only class on identifying and negotiating locks of all kinds. Included in the pricey tuition was a syllabus, some credit card–like slabs of plastic cut in various shapes, and a ring of twenty heavy wires bent at odd angles and named Taggert Wires after the man who invented them. For a while after the course, he practiced on the locks of his apartment, as well as those on the doors of many of his friends and neighbors, and actually became quite proficient at selecting and manipulating the right wire. But that was it for the grand adventure. Over the ensuing years, he hadn’t had cause to use the wires even once, until now.
Virtually invisible in the dark passageway, he crouched by the door and listened with his stethoscope against it for several minutes. Not a sound. Finally, he set to work with the Taggert Wires. It took tries with three different wires before he felt the tip of one catch and hold. A turn to the right and the lock gave way. Even before his eyes adapted to the near-perfect darkness, Ben knew.
The thirty-nine-foot Adventurer was there, just ten feet away, stretching nearly from one end of the building to the other. He slipped inside, silently pulled the door shut behind him, and dropped to one knee on the concrete floor, trying to will his heart to beat slower and at least a little softer. When the din had finally lessened, he once again eased the flashlight from his bag and panned the beam around.
The gleaming RV, door closed, curtained windows dark, was in sharp contrast to the cluttered, rough-hewn space in which it was garaged. Ben noted that Schyler Gaines’s recollection about there being no windows in the back was accurate. The fifteen or twenty feet above the vehicle were open to the barn-board ceiling, save for several beams crossing just above its air-conditioning unit, antennae, and what looked like a satellite dish. To Ben’s left was a tall set of shelves packed with brushes, rags, and a dozen or more gallon and spray cans of paint. To his right were stacks of cleaning and automotive supplies. Beyond the supplies, though, was something much more interesting—a short staircase, which led up to what looked like a small, enclosed office with two large glass windows facing inward.
He headed for the office, trying to ignore the niggling thought that the more intelligent of his fictional role models probably wouldn’t have elected to be alone here in the first place. Clutching the leather case, he made his way quietly up the stairs, which felt surprisingly sturdy. Through the glass, he could see a desk and chair, two-drawer filing cabinet, fax machine, copier, and a computer. The two walls without windows were unadorned, and the office door was locked.
Ben shut off the flashlight and knelt in the darkness on the topmost step, waiting again for his pulse to slow and the paralysis of his limbs to let up. He had always wanted to view himself as adventurous, but he knew that compared to most of his friends over the years, he had really never been that much of a risk-taker.
So what in the hell was he doing here?
The lock on the office door was no match for the Taggert Wires, and in less than a minute he was inside, using the hooded flash in short bursts and trying to convince himself that the precaution of turning it off and on was unnecessary. Finally, he gave in and kept it lit, albeit below his waist. There were a few papers on the desk, but none was any more interesting or incriminating than a fantasy baseball league score sheet and a few bills related to the RV.
The file cabinet, standard OfficeMax or Staples, was locked. Rather than waste time with the wires, Ben took a heavy screwdriver and popped the drawers open. The top one of them was completely empty except for several old sports page sections from the Cincinnati Enquirer, and a dog-eared copy of Hustler. The bottom drawer was something else again. It was virtually filled with guns—revolvers, pistols, and one snub-nosed sub-machine gun, plus a dozen or more boxes of ammunition and three hand grenades. For a full minute, Ben stared down at the cache, his sensible self screaming that he was in well over his head and needed to get out of the place and far away as quickly as possible.
Perhaps some sort of anonymous tip to the police about guns and terrorists would get a response, or maybe one of his friends on the Chicago force would have an idea of what he should do next. But neither of those actions was likely to address the still-unanswered question of whether, in fact, this RV had something to do with illicit bone marrow theft or anything else in which Alice Gustafson might be interested.
Ben flicked off the light again and stared down through the window and the darkness at the silhouette of the massive Adventurer. Assuming the door to the RV was locked, was there any percentage in trying to get inside? There had to be a security device of some sort in play. Perhaps the best move was to leave and return with someone who could handle that. Offhand he could think of two men he knew who were skilled enough to fill the bill.
Having made his decision, he turned and was about to leave the office when, as almost an afterthought, he pulled the single wide desk drawer open and shined his flash inside. There were more invoices relative to the Winnebago, and some off-color printouts from the Internet. He was flipping through the invoices when he noticed, still in the drawer, a three-by-five file card clipped to a photo—a small, three-by-three c
olor headshot, slightly blurry, but totally distinguishable.
Ben caught his breath.
Although there was no need to confirm the identity of the man, he did so anyway. The likeness to the first of Madame Sonja’s renderings was remarkable. From a mass of shattered bone and torn flesh, she had reconstructed this man’s face almost perfectly. Written on the file card, in a heavy, masculine hand, was: Lonnie Durkin, Little Farm, Pugsley Hill Road, Conda, Idaho.
Ben’s tense smile was bittersweet. After so many days and so many miles, the man he had dubbed Glenn now had a real name and an address. But for a family in Idaho, there was great sadness in store.
Ben slipped the photo and card into his pocket and quietly exited the office. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated, then approached the motor home and stood in the silent darkness in front of the door, debating. He had what he had come for, his sensible self reasoned. Why push things? Even if there was a security system and he tripped the alarm, his suddenly emboldened self countered, he could race out to his car and be headed out of town before anyone responded to it.
He opened the door to the alley just a crack and set his tool bag beside it. Feeling vaguely detached from himself, he returned to the Adventurer and gently tried the handle. The door opened, but not in the way he expected. It was viciously kicked open from the inside, striking Ben square in the face and driving him back, dazed, onto his butt. Momentarily blinded by the interior light, all he could see was the silhouette, lit from behind, of a large, narrow-waisted man, whose shoulders virtually filled the doorway.
“You were right!” the man said to someone inside the RV. “There was someone out here!”
Laughing, the man leapt from the stairs, and in the same motion, though barefooted, kicked Ben viciously in the chest and up to his jaw, snapping his teeth together with the sound of a drummer’s rim shot. Ben, who had just made it to his knees, slammed back into the shelves of paint, scattering the cans noisily across the concrete. Stunned, he rolled to one side, catching enough of a look to see a man in shorts and a black tee, with shoulder-length blond hair. Before he could take in any more, he was kicked again, this time in the side of his chest. His breath burst out as pain exploded from his ribs. From within his body, he was certain he heard the snapping of bone.
The Fifth Vial Page 11
