The receipts for flights to North Dakota confirmed the trips. He’d gone where he’d said he had. Only Triple E was a hunt club, not some business venture he was looking to make a profit with. In fact, he had to have been spending some high dollars with the good folks at Triple E. The new rifle that came with the invitation confirmed that. Corporations didn’t send you expensive new toys unless you’d spent a lot of money with them, made them a lot of money or otherwise turned tricks for them.
Well, Sylvia thought, I have one last surprise for you, Charles dearest.
Chapter Sixteen
“GRIGOR, IT’S REFOLDED!” Srini Bhalerao rushed into the lab where Triple E’s lead geneticist was bent over a series of test tubes. With a practiced hand, Grigor Volkov was pipetting protease into the tubes in an attempt to separate out the suspected prion isomers they contained.
Dr. Volkov frowned briefly at the young woman’s lack of formality, but the news was much more important right now than a lesson in manners. “What does it look like?” he asked.
“Not PcPC unfortunately,” Srini said, her enthusiasm evident from the way she bounced as she spoke. “It’s different. But we can’t find anything like it. We think it might be a new prion.”
“New?”
Srini nodded. “And it’s consistent, like you predicted.”
“I predicted a reversal of the old one, not the creation of a new.”
“Whatever, we’ve tested it three times now, and each time the mutant prion has refolded and taken on the exact same characteristics of this new one. It’s not a slam dunk yet, but it’s refolding and it’s replicable.”
Replicable. The word all science lived and died by.
By this time, Srini had earned the privilege to address him however she wanted without repercussion. The news of the research was good, it was tantalizing—still, ultimately, it was only the beginning. He looked from his unfinished pipetting to Srini’s flushed and eager face. His work could wait, he decided. “Let’s see how it reacts in a live host.”
With a fair amount of skepticism coupled with anticipation, he followed Srini to the recently instated pathology lab to begin testing the best hope they’d yet created.
Fitting, he thought, if his team were to discover a cure. They were, after all, the ones whose research had inadvertently introduced a new disease into the world. It was, Dr. Volkov reflected, much as Darwin had imagined: To kill an error is as good a service as, and sometimes even better than, the establishing of a new truth or fact.
Of course, if they didn’t kill their error soon, there might well be no one left to care.
It was that thought, not the promise of bonuses or promotions, that drove the Russian to work 18-hour days and spend nights sleeping in a cot in the supply room. And it was that thought that made him question the motives of his boss, Walt Thurman. The man had changed in recent months, ever since the decision to take Triple E public. Almost overnight he had turned from scientist/philanthropist into the stereotypical capitalist CEO. And Volkov was not liking the man Thurman had become.
There were other companies, other opportunities for a talented geneticist instrumental in carrying out one of the biggest scientific coups in history. Once he could go public with his involvement, and once this disease was under control, he had made the decision he would break ties with Triple E and find another company that valued the effort of pure research as much as Thurman and the rest of Triple E had in its early years.
For now, though, he had months of continued research and testing ahead, even if this new prion was the answer, before he could even consider jumping ship for another opportunity.
As Srini slid her security badge through the reader to open the pathology lab door, she flashed Dr. Volkov a wide grin. This is really it, that grin assured him. Trying to hold his expectations in check but allowing himself a modicum of hope, Dr. Volkov stepped into the lab, ready to lead his team into the next phase of live testing.
Chapter Seventeen
SYLVIA LOVED MEETINGS. Not the actual agenda items, which usually bored her silly, but she loved the energy and the camaraderie and, especially, the little finger sandwiches. If there was one temptation to her perfectly maintained body, it was finger sandwiches.
Today, however, she was the agenda item. And she had soon-to-be-ex-husband Charles to thank.
Dressed in tight-fitting aqua Capri pants paired with a long sleeveless pink sweater jacket over a white camisole, which was this season’s fashion must, Sylvia clutched a long shipping box as she made her way to the pavilion in Fullerton Arboretum. The organizers had set up the snack area and draped a buffet table with the ASTEAM banner that proudly proclaimed this was an official meeting of the Animal Stewardship That’s Ethical and Moral organization, and bore the motto: We’re ASTEAM—Stop Animal Exploitation.
Already, members were entering the pavilion and greeting each other with hugs and air kisses. Though legally open to everyone to retain their charitable organization status, the ASTEAM membership mainly tended to wives of well-to-do businessmen. Like Sylvia, their goals were more around catching up with old friends and being seen in the latest couture, preferably with someone available from the Society section to snap their photos and mention their presence at a charitable event.
Fellow members politely told her how much they were looking forward to her talk and wasn’t it nice to have one of their own saying something rather than some stranger as a guest speaker. She reveled in the attention and returned their comments with wit and laughter and just the right touch of practiced humility. More than anything, she loved the social dance.
Well, almost more than anything. Sylvia dropped her package on the speaker table then hurried to find a triangular bit of sandwich and a sip of wine before the meeting started.
*
A half hour later, Sylvia stood at the podium next to ASTEAM’s president and co-founder, Fiona Boyle. They posed and smiled for photos before Fiona officially opened the meeting with the group’s rallying cry. “We are ASTEAM and we’re here to stop animal exploitation!” She waited for the quick clapping of fingertips to palms to die down before continuing. “For our first agenda item today, I am pleased to present Sylvia Decker, who is here to share breaking news about a canned hunt and her daring plans for an expose. You go, girl!”
“Thank you, Fiona.” Sylvia looked out at the three dozen or so members to make sure she had their full attention. “My husband recently received an invitation to participate in a canned hunt the company in question is billing as Megahunt: The Last Shot.” Pleased by the murmur from the audience, Sylvia opened the package on the table and lifted out the engraved Sako rifle with its English walnut stock. The murmur around the tables turned into a collective gasp, which pleased Sylvia even more. “They sent this as an enticement.
“They also sent along three menus of options for hunting.” She pulled out the invitation. “Basically, the company, Triple E Enterprises, offers various big game on a sliding scale. You can choose to hunt in the most economic range, their A Sector, where you pay to kill an elephant, tiger, bear, wolf, or rhino and the company chooses what variety you get for your money, starting at one hundred thousand dollars. Or you could choose to hunt in Sector B, and while you have the same choice in species, the company makes sure you get to kill a rare or endangered animal. Like a Black Rhino or a White Tiger or an Andean Bear. Then there’s Sector C, where the varieties, though it doesn’t name them on the invitation, are apparently exclusive to Triple E. An exclusivity that comes with a very high price tag. Even at 25 percent off, it’s 750 thousand dollars for a single wolf up to a million two for a rhino.”
“Is that legal?” Fiona asked. “Killing endangered animals, even if you own them? For that matter, can you actually legally own them?”
A slightly uncomfortable rustling in the audience as the women unconsciously shrugged or frowned and shook their heads confirmed no one had the answer. Not that any of them had actually thought about it before, or had the legal
knowledge for any sort of informed opinion anyway.
“Well,” Sylvia continued, “as most of you know, due to unforeseen circumstances, Charles will not be able to attend the hunt.” She waited through the polite laughter. “I intend to go in his place and at least take some pictures. I’m thinking when I get back we can hire an attorney—or press Alysha’s husband into service if he’ll agree—to investigate further.”
“We could organize a protest once we have proof,” one woman proposed over her champagne flute.
“Maybe get some media coverage,” another suggested.
“Oh my, media. Mr. Spitzer,” Fiona found the society reporter at the edge of the pavilion taking a wide-angle shot of the attendees, “I think you understand this must remain strictly confidential information so we don’t compromise Sylvia’s success. You will only hint at our plans for now, won’t you?”
The overly lean but quite stylish Mr. Spitzer grinned. “Mystery. Intrigue. What daring plot is ASTEAM hatching to can a company the way the company cans hunts? The game is afoot. We’ll share all the intimate details with you in next week’s edition of Scene at Large.”
”You are a wizard with words, Mr. Spitzer, and a true gem.”
“When is the hunt?” he asked.
“It starts on July 11,” Sylvia said. “I’ll be flying out in ten days.”
“And where is it?”
”North Dakota. I’m not exactly sure where, but in the northwest-ish part of the state.” Sylvia waited for other questions.
“Do you know what you’ll be ‘hunting’?”
“I went with one of their exclusive elephants. It’s 1.1 million dollars with 20 percent in advance. But it’s Charles’ money, so why not?” The deep collective chuckle told Sylvia this audience approved.
“Are you going alone? What if the company finds out what you’re doing?”
That made Sylvia pause. What started out as a way to possibly destroy something Charles loved had turned into a way to gain prestige and media attention—commodities she would desperately need once she no longer had Charles’ name to give her social props. Any danger she might be placing herself in she had sublimated, refusing to acknowledge it. She didn’t intend to actually hunt, so she didn’t need to fear an animal attack. But she had given little thought to her ruse being discovered and what a company that invited firearms onto their premises might do to someone out to undermine them.
“I guess,” she said with a naive smile that Mr. Spitzer captured with perfect artistry, “I’d come home a little earlier than expected.”
Chapter Eighteen
THE SUNDAY NIGHT BEFORE THE Megahunt got officially underway, long tables draped with checkered red-and-white linens had been set up under the stars. Places for about 30 people—clients and employees both—had been readied for dinner. Barbecue was the featured entrée, with choices of ribs, chopped beef, chicken, shrimp or venison. Plain fare for the fourteen clients—thirteen men, one woman—representing over three billion dollars in net worth, but the implied theme was “roughing it.” The food went down readily enough, as did ample quantities of beer, and everyone seemed to be having a good time to Walt Thurman’s great relief as he mingled from table to table playing the genial host.
A distant trumpeting cut the night air. Forks paused as the guests all listened for an answering call that didn’t come.
“Sounds like a rather big elephant out there, Walt,” one of the clients called out. “I do hope it’s mine.”
“I’m sure it is, Tigh,” another patron answered. “It’s hollering because it’s afraid—of mine!”
The group laughed, a few imported beers each making the retort seem funnier than it was.
One particularly inebriated man who hadn’t been able to convince his wife to splurge even the sharply discounted prices for the elite hunt site, bemoaned his luck to the table he was sitting with in hopes someone would spill the secret as to what they’d be hunting in Sector C. “It’s albinos, isn’t it? I bet it’s albinos! Or is it those crosses? Those tigons or ligers or tigards. Or Indalayan elephants. Mulatto rhinos? Just a hint, guys. It’s not like I’m gonna be in there stealing your shot. I just wanna know what I’m missing out on. What’s worth a million bucks a pop? Damn, it’s gotta be those crosses.”
The CEO of a mid-sized retailer leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “Did you ever think maybe it’s albino crosses?”
“Jeez. Seriously? That’d sure be one in a billion, wouldn’t it? Sweet! Unless the genetics guys are slapping them out like dolls from a mold, you know. Then maybe they wouldn’t be worth anything. Not really. ‘Cause if just anybody can have one, then hell, why have one, huh? I mean, why pay for, like, the reproduction if it’s not the original? But an albino liger—those things can weigh up to … what? Fifteen, sixteen hundred pounds? Yeah, I’d like to see one of those up close in my scope. So you’d tell me if it’s really albino crosses, wouldn’t you? Because it just hurts knowing I’m missing something good but not knowing what it is. You know?”
*
After dinner, Helen Marsh cornered Walt Thurman outside the research center where starlight competed with the glare from a security light.
“Still worried about the Decker woman?” Thurman asked.
“She’s obviously no hunter. What’s she doing here?”
“Maybe just what she told us. Her husband is out of the country, she intercepted the invitation, and decided she’d bring home a trophy just to get his goat. It’s the last hunt; we’ll be out in the open in a just a few months. Another time I’d have been worried. Not now. Why does she bother you so much?”
“Just that we didn’t have time to check her out. If we’d known she was coming instead of her husband before she showed up at the gate…”
“We got her advance. The check cleared out of her account. She probably didn’t think it mattered which of them showed up as long as we got paid. Were we really going to turn away a million dollars? Now?”
Helen sighed, still not satisfied. “I’m still responsible for our list of clients. You do know I’m running a background check regardless?”
“I do. And your attention to detail is why I can sleep so well at night. The woman’s a ditz and a fashionista—we’ll put Lim Chiou in the pen with her, make sure she gets her kill, then send her home with a promise she can show off her trophy to her hubby in Orlando at Christmas. She’ll be gone. End of story.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Helen conceded. “Only she’s not scheduled to shoot for another four days. We’ll have to deal with her till then.”
“Correction,” Thurman said with a wink, “you’ll have to deal with her till then. I have real hunters to entertain.”
Helen didn’t take the bait. Her tone was serious. “You know that isn’t all. The other hunters, they’ve been here before. She hasn’t. You let her in, knowing what could happen. We agreed only to let in clients who have already been exposed.”
“We agreed to invite only clients who have been here before. It was her bad luck to circumvent that intent. Turning her away at the gate—who knows what would have happened? Her husband’s an attorney—corporate law. We couldn’t have her running home crying foul. Certainly not before she’s scheduled to leave. Capiche?”
”I only want what’s best for the company, too.” Damn. The words came out harsher, more defensive than Helen wanted them to. With everyone else, she was the one in control. Only Thurman, with nothing more than the logic of his thinking and the charisma of his job title, could put her off her game like this.
She scowled inwardly at his smooth, practiced smile and flung silent curses at his retreating back when he turned and headed for a last look into the animal compound before retiring for the night.
Chapter Nineteen
THE HOTEL ROOM MIKE SHAFER WOKE up in was nice in that nondescript, tasteful, chain-hotel signature way. The extra pillows and 400-threadcount sheets that were a definite upgrade from his apartment in Atlanta had made the
night pass comfortably. Still, they were not enough to keep him lingering in bed beyond 6:00 a.m., especially since he was still functioning an hour ahead on Eastern time.
Updates on ASS would be an hour away yet, so Mike took his Pad-L down to the hotel restaurant for a long breakfast while he waited for the next data feed from the central U.S. regions. Over an English muffin, eggs and coffee he plotted his route to the Rocking Sun Ranch just across the Missouri in McKenzie County. From there, it looked like he could hit three or four large dairy ranches also in the vicinity and conduct some preliminary interviews with the employees before the end of the day.
It didn’t escape the statistics analyst that he had avoided ordering any breakfast meats or milk this morning. The decision hadn’t necessarily been a conscious one, but it certainly had been a cautious—and predictable—one. At 35, Mike had long ago outgrown his wild oats days and had settled into an easy-fitting singles life. About the only thing he had retained from his 20s was his sense of humor. These days he stayed home on Saturday nights, downloaded his movies and books, and drove the speed limit. When he thought about it, which wasn’t often, he knew he was allowing his work to define him and to dictate his lifestyle. In the future, he realized that should maybe alarm him. For now, though, complacency seemed rather comfortable and treading the middle road appropriate.
Halfway through breakfast he received a text message from the nursing home where his mother now lived. The momentary alarm that gripped him when he saw who the message was from gave way to relief as he read the courtesy reminder that she had an appointment with her neurologist today. The staff would see her safely there and back.
Sixteen years ago, his mother, Tonya, had divorced his father, who had left for the West coast and obscurity. Two years ago, at 65, her memory started failing. With no one else to watch after her once she had started wandering the neighborhood and forgetting her way back to her house, Mike had little choice but to place her somewhere with skilled aides to help her when she couldn’t remember how to care for herself and security to alert them if she attempted to wander on her own. Tonya had been in the home nearly a year now, and Mike had watched the Alzheimer’s progress to the point she rarely remembered him when he visited. At first, Mike cringed in distress when his mother merely blinked at him, not recognizing the son she’d raised. To save himself the heartache, he began visiting less often; every other day soon turned into every other week. Guilt over how he was avoiding her was strong. But the anxiety he felt in her presence was stronger yet. He wanted to be a good son—and certainly he loved her still—but the distancing was necessary for his own sanity. And sadly, with every message about her he got now, he expected to hear the worst.
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