Second Horseman Out of Eden m-7

by George C. Chesbro

  Patton snatched his hands off the top of the desk and stiffened in his chair. "You may carry out your threat, Dr. Frederickson, and it's possible that you could ruin my career-but it won't get you what you demand. It won't get you an appointment with Mr. Blaisdel, because he never sees anyone, and it won't get you the information you seek, since Nuvironment had nothing to do with any importation of soil. We've done nothing wrong, absolutely nothing, and if you try to make it appear that we have. . well, that will be on your conscience." He paused, touched the side of his nose. "Also, of course, there are libel laws."

  Peter Patton himself was nothing if not persistent-so persistent, and adamant in his denials, that I was almost tempted to believe him. But if I did believe him-if Nuvironment had nothing to do with the importation of the rain forest soil, and if Craig Valley really had called Patton just to vent his spleen hysterically before slitting his throat-it meant that Garth and I would have to start all over again, from scratch, without the vaguest notion where scratch might be. That being the case, naturally, I decided not to believe a word he was saying-although it wasn't clear where that was going to get me, either.

  "This business about the child bothers me a great deal, Frederickson," Patton continued.

  "Yeah; I can see that."

  "There could be one other explanation-and that bothers me a great deal, too."

  "What would that explanation be?"

  "The explanation would be that we have competition that I'm not aware of; such a competitor wouldn't be interested in long-range goals, but only in reaping the benefits of certain research findings. It now occurs to me that we may have a spy here, skimming off the cream of our research."

  "Oh," I said, unable to think of anything else to say. Suddenly I felt very depressed.

  "If that were the case," Patton said as he leaned forward slightly in his chair, "we would certainly want that person exposed." He paused for a few moments, continued carefully, "I certainly wish you were working for us, Dr. Frederickson."

  "Jesus Christ, Patton, are you offering me a job?"

  "Yes. And why not? I happen to know that you and your brother now deal almost exclusively with corporate clients. I understand that your fees are high, and Nuvironment would be more than willing to pay for the two of you to investigate the possibility of industrial espionage in our company. You could begin after New Year's."

  It was an interesting proposition, inasmuch as it seemed to imply that Peter Patton was willing to give us the run of the place to search records and investigate personnel as we saw fit; that wouldn't seem to make much sense for the head of a company that was trying to hide something in addition to a hundred tons of dirt. The problem, of course, was that it was Patton who had come up with the idea; if he thought it was a good one, then it was difficult to see what Garth and I would gain. And we weren't about to put off our search until after New Year's.

  "We already have a client who's taking up all our time," I said distantly, still pondering his offer and wondering why he had made it. "Vicky Brown; the child. Remember her?"

  "Yes," the pale-eyed man with the tic replied evenly. "But you believe that I'm denying to you information that could lead you to her; in effect, you're accusing me and my company of abetting the sexual abuse of this child. I deeply resent that, Dr. Frederickson. If allowing you to investigate our operations will assuage your suspicions, I'm willing to pay you to do it."

  "Then you really don't believe there's a competitor trying to steal your secrets?"

  "It's always good to have a thorough security check once in a while."

  "But you don't believe you have a spy."

  "No."

  "Then how would you explain the soil?"

  "I think you've made a mistake; the people who analyzed the soil for you made a mistake. Or, some other concern-perhaps an agricultural lab at some university-brought in a small sample of the soil for their own purposes. I happen to like children very much, Frederickson, and I would do nothing to cause one to be harmed. I'm as interested in the welfare of this Vicky Brown as you are."

  "And you're willing to give Garth and me complete access to all your operations here?"

  "Not only here, but at any of our research facilities around the world."

  "How many of those are there?"

  "Sixteen. You won't find any rain forest soil in any of them, I assure you. As I said, you can begin January second."

  "Why not right now?"

  Patton again glanced at his watch. "I'll be happy to give you a tour of our facilities right now, if you'd like, but it won't do you much good. So much of our work is highly technical that you'd really need the appropriate personnel here to explain to you what they're doing and give you access to their computer files."

  "Why can't you do that?"

  "I'm a manager, Frederickson, not a scientist. Besides, I'm not sure you'd believe anything I told you, anyway. Just about everyone has gone home now, and the offices will be closed through New Year's. In fact, I'm scheduled to leave tomorrow morning for a European ski vacation. If you like, I'll postpone it."

  "I don't need your personnel to search your computer files. I'll bring in my own experts."

  Patton shook his head. "I'm afraid I couldn't authorize that; and, if I could, I doubt your people would be successful in interpreting all the data that's stored here. Please, Dr. Frederickson; I'm trying to be cooperative, and responsible."

  And he was certainly putting on a good show. On the other hand, I could search computer files for a year and still miss what I was looking for. Rummaging through the offices of Nuvironment-now or after New Year's-wasn't the answer to the problem of finding Vicky Brown. Somebody had to tell me what I needed to know. In effect, Patton was offering me nothing except a show.

  "I'd still like to talk to Blaisdel."

  Patton rested his hands in his lap, sighed deeply. "I will submit a memo to that effect, Dr. Frederickson; that's all I can do. The memo will be ignored."

  "Why don't you just pick up the telephone and call him?"

  "Because-"

  As if in response to my suggestion, the phone on his desk rang, startling both of us. Patton frowned and stared at the phone as it continued to ring-five, six times. He obviously hadn't been expecting any phone calls.

  On the seventh ring Patton grunted with annoyance, reached out and punched a button on a speaker-intercom console connected to the phone. "What is it?" he snapped. "I thought I left instructions that there were to be no-''

  "I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Patton," a strong, authoritative male voice said. It was a distinctive voice, vaguely familiar; I was certain I knew the voice, but couldn't recall where I had heard it. "If you're on the intercom, please pick up the telephone receiver."

  Patton punched another button, snatched the telephone receiver out of its cradle, and held it to his ear. "What's the problem?" he said curtly. He listened for a few moments, and his pale face darkened. "Just bring him in here," he said at last, and slammed down the phone.

  I had a pretty good idea who "him" was even before the office door opened and Garth, blood streaming from a gash on one cheek and the other cheek rapidly swelling, and with both arms twisted up behind his back, was roughly ushered into the room by two burly men whose suit jackets weren't sufficiently well tailored to hide the bulge of guns in shoulder holsters. It looked, not surprisingly, as if Garth had given as well as he'd got; the shirts of both men were ripped and spattered with blood, their hair was tousled, and the left eye of the man on Garth's right was almost swollen shut.

  Now I realized where I had heard the voice on the intercom before-on national television, broadcasting various baseball "games of the week" for a year or two. The name of the man twisting Garth's right arm was Hector Velazian, and he had once been a twenty-five-game winner in the majors before drugs and booze had melted the muscle in his mind and arm. He'd been rehabilitated, but had never gotten back his form. He'd retired, landed a job as a broadcaster, then lost that when his old d
emons had caught up with him. That had been at least five years before. The last I'd heard of him, he'd been identified by some stringer for UPI after languishing for a week in a Mexican drunk tank. He'd looked positively ghastly in the news photo that had appeared at the time, but now-except for the black eye Garth had given him-he appeared fit and trim. And mean, with his dark, Latin features twisted in frustration and anger.

  The man attending to Garth's left arm was Billy Dale Rokan, another retired major league baseball player who'd fallen afoul of various illegal substances, along with a well-publicized statutory rape charge. It appeared that Peter Patton was a baseball buff; but instead of collecting cards, he collected former players. However, the men's jobs certainly seemed to agree with them; Billy Dale Rokan, like Hector Velazian, looked fit enough to trot out on the field again.

  "Hello, brother," Garth said easily, with just the faintest trace of a smile. "How's your meeting going?"

  "I thought I told you to wait in the car."

  "We didn't bring the car."

  "I thought you were going to wait there anyway."

  "I figured we'd better check with you before we called the police, Mr. Patton," Hector Velazian intoned in his deep, resonant, announcer's voice. "We checked his identification, and it turns out he's a private investigator with this outfit called Frederickson and Frederickson. I've heard of him; he's a heavy." The Latin paused, nodded in my direction. "Him, too. That's his brother."

  The lighter of the Fredericksons said, "Why don't you guys let go of my brother before I start throwing around office furniture?"

  "Mr. Patton?" Billy Dale Rokan said.

  "Let him go," Patton said tersely.

  "But Mr. Patton-!"

  "I told you to let him go!"

  The two ex-ballplayers released Garth's arms, but then moved in to flank him tightly, their shoulders between him and the slight man sitting behind the desk. Garth rubbed his shoulders, then shoved his hands into his pockets, looked up at the ceiling, and yawned.

  "We caught him down in the third-level basement, Mr. Patton," Rokan said as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "He tripped off a couple of alarms. When we found him, he was trying to pick the lock on the freight elevator. He had no business being down there."

  "Indeed," Patton replied mildly as he looked at my brother. "Just what is it you were doing down there, Mr. Frederickson?"

  "I was trying to find a way to get up to Blaisdel's penthouse," Garth replied matter-of-factly as he looked at me. "What the fuck do you think I was doing down there?"

  "Why would you want to do that?"

  "I just thought Henry might like some company. I hear he's a virtual shut-in."

  Patton pressed his fingers against his tic and rocked back and forth in his chair for a few moments. Finally he stopped rocking and nodded curtly to Velazian and Rokan. "Leave us."

  "But-"

  "It's all right, Hector. Both of you can leave. And close the door."

  The two guards looked at each other, shot hostile glances at Garth and me, then backed out of the office, with Rokan closing the door behind them.

  Garth, who looked-to me-dangerously calm and unperturbed by his tussle with the guards, didn't even glance at Patton. He asked me, "Did he tell you where we can find the girl?"

  "Uh, not exactly."

  "I told you nobody here would cooperate, Mongo. There's something very funny going on here, and it has to do with a lot more than a lousy load of dirt. I told you I could smell the evil here. You're trying to cut a deal with some very freaky people, and you're wasting your time."

  Peter Patton cleared his throat loudly. "Please sit down, Mr. Frederickson," he said evenly. "You seem overwrought. I'm sorry my people had to be so rough with you, but Nuvironment provides security for the entire building, and you were in an area that's closed to the public."

  Now Garth slowly turned to face the man behind the desk. "I'm not overwrought, pal," he said very quietly. "I just get more than a trifle impatient with anybody who'd protect a maniac who gets his rocks off by tearing up the vagina and rectum-and mind-of a child. You know what I mean?"

  Patton flushed and leaned forward in his chair. "That is an absolutely outrageous accusation, Frederickson. As I was saying to your brother, I'll sue you for everything you've got if you dare to repeat it to anyone."

  "Mr. Patton denies that he or his company had anything to do with bringing in the dirt, Garth," I said in a flat voice, watching Patton's tic-ravaged face. "Indeed, he's raised the possibility of a competitor stealing Nuvironment's research findings, and he's offered us a retainer to look into the matter. He claims to be as concerned about Vicky Brown's welfare as we are. He's even offered to open up the Nuvironment offices for our inspection. You should have been here during our discussion; he really seems quite sincere."

  "So?" my brother said without much apparent interest. He was staring hard at Patton. "Did you accept the retainer?"

  "I was about to tell him that I couldn't possibly commit to such an arrangement before consulting with my partner."

  "You know, this man's a liar. He's jerking you around."

  Patton started to rise out of his chair; he apparently had second thoughts, because he immediately sat back down. "You have no right to talk to me like that, Frederickson," he said tightly, in a dry voice that cracked. "I deeply resent it. I have a good mind to press charges for trespassing."

  "Mongo, listen to me," Garth said without taking his eyes off Patton's face. "If this joker really wants to hire us, it's only to put us off the track. This son-of-a-bitch really is ready to sacrifice the kid in order to protect Kenecky and cover up whatever it is they're really trying to do. I don't want to rush you through this important meeting, of course, but I thought you might like to join me for steaks and whiskey sours."

  "Yeah, you're right," I said with a sigh. "I am kind of hungry, and we're running into so much resistance trying to get certain people to give this kid a break that we have to take pains to keep our strength up." I got to my feet, smiled thinly at the ashen-faced executive sitting behind the glass and steel desk. "Well, Mr. Patton, what can I say? My brother informs me that you're a liar-which means that you prefer protecting a child molester to giving us just one simple piece of information. Frankly, I don't understand it. I just hope Henry Blaisdel and you people in Nuvironment don't have second thoughts about all of this when we do find your lousy pile of dirt-which we are most definitely going to do. You might even think about preparing a letter of resignation, because, as of now, all bets are off on Garth and me keeping whatever it is we find to ourselves."

  As I turned and started toward my brother and the door, Peter Patton, now red-faced, leaped up from his chair and came stalking around his desk. "Wait a minute!" he shouted in a squeaky voice. "Just who the hell do you two think you are?! One of you is a trespasser, and both of you are slanderers! I can bring charges! The Frederickson brothers aren't going to be so high and mighty if they get their private investigator licenses revoked, will they?! As a matter of fact, I think I definitely will-!"

  The executive director of Nuvironment abruptly stopped speaking when his air supply was cut off-the result of Garth's grabbing him by the tie and collar and lifting him up on his toes. Patton's eyes went wide, and his mouth opened and closed as he struggled to breathe.

  "You've got a lot more to worry about than causing trouble for the Fredericksons in various city agencies, Mr. Patton," Garth said in a perfectly mild, conversational tone of voice that somehow reminded me of the sound of a sharp knife cutting through silk. "We don't need licenses to search for the child. When we find her, and we most certainly will, I'm going to make a judgment about her condition. With your cooperation, Mongo and I could probably have found her this evening; now it's going to take longer. If I decide that this unnecessary delay has resulted in additional damage to her mind and body, more than she's already suffered, this Frederickson brother is going to come back here and kill you. Now, there's a very serious thre
at from one of us that you can add to your charges of slander and trespassing. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Patton?"

  Garth casually cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows slightly, as if waiting for a response from Patton, whose face was now turning a dark purple.

  I said, "Uh, Garth, I think it might be a good idea for you to set Mr. Patton back down on his feet. He seems to be having a bit of difficulty breathing, and it could be difficult for us to go on about our business if you're arrested on a murder charge."

  "You're a mealy-mouthed fuck," Garth said to Peter Patton in the same mild tone as he released his grip and the other man staggered backward, gasping for breath, and finally collapsed over the top of his desk.

  "Come on, Garth," I said tersely as I quickly opened the door and tugged at my brother's sleeve. "I think it's time we went back to corporate headquarters for a strategy conference."

  Garth stood staring at the gasping Patton for a few moments, then abruptly turned and stalked past me out the door. I left the office, slamming the door shut behind me, and hurried after Garth as he headed toward the private elevator.

  6

  If Garth was at all concerned about what had happened on the ninth floor of the Blaisdel Building, he certainly didn't show it as we walked back along Fifth Avenue through the wall-to-wall sound of Christmas music created by competing groups of Salvation Army bands, steel bands, all-purpose bands, and enterprising soloists tootling or sawing away on everything from tubas to double basses to kazoos. Rainbows of light splashed over the sidewalks, spilled by shop windows crammed full of Christmas displays of every description. Fuller-bodied music seeped out of the churches-the Messiah, the Brandenburg Concertos, choir-powered Christmas carols. .

  In a way, I wished it wasn't Christmas; it just made our job, our dilemma, more depressing.

  On the other hand, I reminded myself, if not for the fact that it was Christmas, we would never have learned of a little girl who was lost somewhere, hurt and in need. And taking care of such business was really what Christmas was supposed to be all about.