by Martin Clark
“Well, it’s not the end of the world, as long as we have the disease. What does it cure?”
“If they can trace it to me, it might be the end of my world,” Hansen complained. “This would be what you people call a criminal act. Let’s not forget about the hired help when, crappy possibility number one, Benecorp’s ninjas come hunting me with Tasers and garrotes or, crappy possibility number two, the feds show up at my apartment and the local news does the money shot of some mesomorph with a badge palming my head so I don’t bang the Crown Vic’s roof.”
“Oh, okay, right, I see your problem,” she said. “Sorry.”
“I’m extremely well hidden, and I don’t think they can pin me down, but these people aren’t stupid. I used proxy on top of proxy and worked from an Internet café—two different locations, actually—so I should be safe, but you never know. Or they might suspect me because I’m on your payroll.”
“We’ll do whatever we can,” Lisa promised.
“Which is basically nothing,” he replied.
“Well, we can help you legally. Or hook you up with the best lawyers in the business. We’d certainly pay any attorney’s fees.”
“So you’ll never believe what the VV 108 does.” Hansen emphasized the last word.
“I’m waiting,” she said.
“The project’s called Werewolf. Want to guess?”
“No. Cut it out, please, Derek. Just tell me.”
“Before Drew Carey dazzles you with the hot tub showcase, here’s the bonus news. I found Miss VanSandt’s dogs and cats. Well, I didn’t actually locate them, since your big-hearted nemesis Seth Garrison killed them all. Every single animal.”
“What? Why?”
“According to the file memo, Garrison at first thought the pets might have a genetic trait or something unique or some blood characteristic that was essential to the formula. He’s a methodical bastard. Early on, they hit a few bumps replicating the Wound Velvet. They took soil, plants, tree bark, you name it. Canned soup, frozen meat, water from every spigot.”
“How cruel,” Lisa said. “And how typical.”
“The guy who came for the animals is basically Garrison’s security goon. Not his top muscle, but sort of a lieutenant. They debated just swooping in and rolling it Entebbe style and rounding up the critters, but decided they might not be able to corral them all and were afraid a neighbor or your local busybody might interfere or notify the cops, so they sent their hoodlum in a fake uniform and prepped Neal with the cover story. Once they learned there was no connection or value, Don—whose real name is Donnie Antonelli—shot the animals. Or as they put it, ‘euthanized them with a sidearm.’ A loose thread clipped for Benecorp. They dumped the remains in a landfill.”
“We knew from the drop Beverly was crooked,” Lisa said.
“I’ve been as busy as Ryan Seacrest on this. So come on, humor me. One guess. Garrison named it himself. Werewolf. Think.”
—
Burnette finished touching up his tattoos before eight, and he shook Lisa’s hand and wished her all the luck in the world. She noticed he was wearing a silver skull ring above his wedding band and that his thumbnail was mangled. “You be careful, you hear?” he warned her. “I’d say to send my regards to ol’ Joe Stone, but I understand we ain’t operatin’ like that. Nope, I ain’t seen you in years.”
“We’re in your debt, Lloyd,” she told him.
M.J. arrived fifteen minutes later, behind the wheel of a rented Kia, and Lisa walked out and got in the car almost before it stopped moving. The Danville airport was a twenty-minute drive from the hotel. The flight to the Warrenton-Fauquier Airport in M.J.’s plane would burn an hour, longer than usual at 18,000 feet rather than 30,000, the ride at low altitude so there’d be no need for a flight plan, the airport selected because it was a few miles outside of Washington’s Air Defense Identification Zone. Then they’d catch a taxi for part of the drive to the lab, and there’d be no record of the trip, no communication with a control tower, no formalities or paperwork. When Lisa looked across the small interior at her, M.J. was dressed for the part, wearing a trench coat, a man’s fedora and black sunglasses.
“Wow,” Lisa said. “You look like Jack Abramoff. Or Boris Badenov.”
“I am so into this,” M.J. replied. “I know this is serious business and we’ve got your whole livelihood on the line, but this is beyond exciting. Who woulda thunk it? I bought the coat at a London Fog outlet for thirty-five dollars. I’ve got an Amelia Earhart hat, leather with the flaps and whatnot, for the next leg, and the classic bomber jacket. The cab’ll be waiting; it’s already booked like we discussed. My office is keeping tabs on it in real time so there’s no delay or hitch. We’re monitoring the roads and traffic for any wrecks and construction. Your wig is behind me in a bag. We’re off to the races.”
Lisa managed to grin through the stress. “I’m happy you could find something suitable to wear.”
“Clothes make the woman,” M.J. noted.
“I need to call Joe one more time, so keep quiet.” Lisa hit the preset, and he answered immediately. She wished him a good morning and told him she’d left her glasses on her desk, wondered if he’d noticed them.
“Yes,” he said, meaning he had confirmation and believed that Lettie and Trooper Wilkinson were en route to Manassas. “Found them.” The two words were buoyant.
When he came on the monitor set up in the Stone and Stone conference room, Judge Dennis Klein appeared professionally nonchalant, his expression dispassionate and dialed to zero, receptive to either side’s thoughtful persuasion, a fair arbiter, the irony and zingers and showboat scowls put aside for the day’s business. He was wearing his black robe, a red and blue rep tie visible at the opening near his neck where the robe’s zipper ended. “So good morning, and here we are,” he remarked and requested that the attorneys identify themselves again, a formality since they all could see one another on screen. Sarah Scales, a court reporter, was with Joe, Anderson and Williams, taking down what was said, mashing hushed keys on her stenographer’s equipment, creating a record of every word and sound, even the huhs, ummms, ers and ahs. Nicholson and MacDonald had hired their own court reporter, and the judge swore in both ladies at the same time, putting them under oath to transcribe the proceedings accurately.
Neal’s Richmond lawyer, Emmett Fulcher, had joined Nicholson and MacDonald in Norfolk. A week earlier, Fulcher had attempted to quash the Rule 4:10 subpoena requiring Neal to produce a DNA sample but lost the argument, barely made it to the courtroom podium before the judge stopped him and told him the law was against Mr. VanSandt. Fulcher had coattailed Benecorp’s positions and pleadings, not anxious for his client to forfeit the considerable payment he’d received, and he and Neal were utterly allied with Garrison. Fulcher had a habit of chewing on an unlit cigar, and he stopped unwrapping a Montecristo during the introductions and held it beneath the table, temporarily out of sight.
“I am in a conference room at the Commonwealth of Virginia’s regional forensic sciences lab in Manassas, Virginia,” Klein announced after everyone had spoken. “I’m here to judicially supervise Rule 4:10 and Rule 4:9A discovery, specifically the taking of buccal swabs for DNA analysis from Neal VanSandt, a party to this suit, and a subject who purports to be his mother, Lettie VanSandt, this pursuant to a motion and representations filed by Joe Stone in the action styled Joe NMN Stone v. Benecorp et als., Henry County civil docket number 11-1459. I am alone in the room save for my bailiff of seventeen years, Darrell Howell, and Julia Bard, a scientist with the state’s lab. I asked the director here to pick a qualified person at random to perform the swabbing and analysis. Ms. Bard was the lucky winner.” He smiled perfunctorily. “However, I’m informed that Director Harvey himself will keep a tight rein on this particular test.”
Williams blocked his mouth with his hand, whispered to Joe. “We have a list of every employee in the Manassas branch. She’s legit. She’s been there for over seven years. Best we can disco
ver, she’s a straight arrow. We’ve had private security researching them all—nothing unusual has cropped up.”
“Alas, we are the only three people in the room,” Klein stated. “It’s eleven-thirty-five, and the putative Lettie VanSandt hasn’t favored us with an appearance. Neal VanSandt is present and waiting in the adjacent room. We’ve alerted security at the front entrance to watch for the alleged Miss VanSandt and accompany her directly here. They will serve her with a subpoena for this discovery. What was your last report from her, Mr. Williams?” Klein was visible on one monitor, the Benecorp lawyers and Fulcher on another.
“As of this morning,” Williams answered, “we fully expect her to be there.”
“Based on what?” the judge asked.
“My client, Mr. Stone, assures me that Miss—”
“Wait, never mind,” Klein interrupted, “the lab director just stuck his head in and said she’s cleared the entrance and is on the elevator. We expect her at any moment.” He leaned toward his bailiff and murmured something that the microphone in the room didn’t catch.
“Glad to hear it, sir,” Williams said.
None of them spoke. Klein bounced the eraser end of a yellow wooden pencil against the court file. Anderson exhaled, plopped his elbows on the table and turtled his neck toward the monitor that displayed Klein and the lab conference room. Williams rubbed his eyes. Joe stood, then almost immediately sat down again.
“Judge, seriously?” Nicholson was the first to speak when the door opened and a security guard escorted in the lady who claimed to be Lettie. “Seriously?”
The woman who appeared on the monitors was wearing a floppy hat and giant sunglasses, and the scarf around her neck was bunched under her chin. Long, straight black wig hair fell from beneath the hat to her shoulders, hugged close to her cheeks. She was dressed in Lee blue jeans and a buttoned cardigan Christmas sweater—candy canes and Santa’s sleigh—even though it was late September. Without direction, she immediately took a seat at the correct spot, in front of a camera and microphone.
“Judge, this is ridiculous,” Nicholson complained. “She might as well be covered in a burka—this could be anyone. She should be required to let us have a full look at her.”
“Judge, that isn’t the deal,” Williams said firmly. “That’s not why we’re doing this. We’re concerned with what the DNA looks like, and that alone will tell the story. We have explained to Mr. Nicholson at length that Miss VanSandt is fearful of Benecorp and has taken measures to conceal herself to the greatest extent possible. Reasonable or not, she’s afraid of Mr. Garrison. The DNA won’t lie, whether it’s collected from a buck-naked subject or a subject in a burka.”
Klein scrutinized the lady adjacent to him. “Are you Lettie Pauline VanSandt?”
“Who’re you?” The lady’s voice was muffled; she’d dipped her head and almost spoke into the scarf.
“I’m Judge Dennis Klein. I’m the judge presiding over a case involving what purports to be the last will of a lady named Lettie VanSandt.”
“Show me some ID,” the woman insisted.
“Yep,” Williams said spontaneously, “that’s our girl. Contrary as ever.”
“Judge,” Nicholson responded, “I’d ask that the Court disregard that and caution Mr. Williams not to editorialize any further for us. He knows better.”
“Noted,” Klein said. “Please don’t do it again.”
“My apologies,” Williams said. “It wasn’t calculated.”
Klein rocked sideways in his chair, pulled the robe up past his hip and took out his wallet. “Fair enough,” he said calmly. “Here’s my state-issued identification card.”
Phil Anderson covered his microphone with his hand and leaned away from the table. “Does that sound like her?” he asked Williams.
“Hell if I know,” Williams answered. “I’ve never heard her voice. Unless you’re at the 911 center or the sheriff’s office, she’s not real sociable. Is that her, Joe?”
“I’d say so,” Joe answered. “It’s impossible to be sure with the scarf trick and listening through a monitor. Plus, she’s not saying much yet.”
“Hand it to the Mountie,” the woman instructed Judge Klein. “Don’t try and touch me.”
“Pardon?”
She didn’t reply.
“I don’t understand,” Klein said.
“She means your bailiff,” Joe volunteered into his mike. “She wants you to give it to the officer and have him hand it to her.”
Klein shrugged. “Okay. Why the heck not?”
The bailiff passed her the laminated card and she inspected it for several minutes, front and back. She returned it to the cop. “Approved,” she said.
“I’m gratified,” Klein answered. “And now, ma’am, how about I take a peek at your credentials? Sauce for the gander is also sauce for the goose.”
The woman dug into her front pocket, retrieved a sheet of notebook paper folded in quarters and slid it across the table in the judge’s direction. Joe noticed she’d grasped it between her knuckles, didn’t touch it with her fingertips.
“Is this for me?” Klein asked.
She nodded.
He unfolded the paper, pressed and smoothed it flat on the table with his palms. A driver’s license was inside, but he ignored the license, moved it to the side and studied the paper. Finished, he focused on the camera and straightened a robe sleeve that had hung and wadded at his elbow. “Since counsel aren’t in a position to see this, I’ll read the contents aloud and then place the original in the file. Obviously, I’m sharing it strictly for informational purposes and without prejudice or any kind of factual impact as to its allegations. I’m reciting this verbatim from a typewritten document; there are misspellings and errors that won’t be obvious when I read: ‘My name is Lettie Pauline VanSandt. I agree for my spit to be tested. I am hiding because Seth Garrison wants to kill me. Same as he done to Dr. Downs. I am positive without no doubt in my mind that he sent Babylon’s Whore to my trailer to kill me and steal my greatest invention. If he’s her boss, then we know who that makes him don’t we? I want this test to be over quick so they can’t stick a lock on me. And track me. I need to leave fast.’ Fast is entirely written in caps,” Klein said drily. He picked up the driver’s license. “Purports to belong to a Lettie Pauline VanSandt, date of birth August twenty-second, 1966. Customer number on the license is D88656021. We’ll have it copied for the file as well.”
“Judge,” Nicholson interjected, “it would certainly be helpful in terms of authentication if you could retain the license for a few days so we could verify it’s genuine.”
“Actually,” Klein said, “that’s Ms. Bard’s call. What’s your usual procedure?”
The camera angle didn’t completely encompass Bard. Half of her was cut off from the screen. “Normally I compare the ID to the person, and we make a copy, and that’s it. We file a copy of the ID. We don’t keep the original.”
“You ain’t stealin’ my license,” the lady exclaimed, her voice high. She pointed at the image of Nicholson on her screen. “Quit stallin’, you pitiful excuse for a lawyer.” She leaned toward Klein. She squirmed and twisted and wiggled her arms free and shed her sweater. A white, V-neck T-shirt was underneath. Tattoos lined each uncovered arm. She raised her chin, exposed her mouth, revealed her teeth. “Here’s your ID.” She pointed at the gold tooth, then held her arms high and displayed them for the judge. “I ain’t stayin’ here forever.”
“Judge, how about the rest of it?” Nicholson challenged. “I mean, she seems willing to show us her most obvious features. We don’t understand why she can’t take off the hat, wig and glasses.”
The woman looked away from the camera, addressed the judge. “Right there. Him askin’ proves my point.”
“Go ahead, Ms. Bard,” Klein said. “We don’t want to keep Miss VanSandt waiting. The Devil does indeed move swiftly, or so I understand.” His gaze bumped up and down, studying the tattoos.
“Ha
-ha-ha,” the woman grunted sarcastically. “Real funny.”
Bard tugged gloves from the opening in a cardboard container, worked them on, tore a paper package longwise and removed a cotton swab. “I’m required to check your mouth, Miss VanSandt,” she said nervously. “Okay? Do I have your consent?”
“Don’t you touch me,” she squawked. “I ain’t chancin’ you anthraxin’ me.” She opened her mouth.
The tech approached her and crouched, and as she was stooping down, the woman jerked the swab from her hand. Bard stepped back, startled.
“Pick another one,” the woman demanded. “From the spares. Let Klein pick.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that one,” Bard said.
“Let Klein pick.” The woman raised up from her chair but didn’t stand, and she pushed closer to Bard and opened her mouth again. She stuck out her tongue, wagged it around, set her head at several different positions in quick succession.
Flustered, Bard tracked the woman’s mouth as it moved, searched as best she could. “Please hold still,” she requested, irritation in her tone.
The woman complied, kept stationary, and Bard knelt and peered up and continued her inspection.
“Okay,” Bard said.
“By the way, that would be Judge Klein, please, when you refer to me in this judicial proceeding. Thank you.” He selected another wrapped swab from the three packages remaining on the table and handed it to Bard.
“Open it slow,” the woman demanded.
Bard made a point of positioning the package directly in front of the woman’s face and methodically tearing the paper. “Is it safe to remove it now?” she asked, still peeved.
